The remark made Pittman flinch, as if he’d been slapped. Although he heard children laughing on another trail, the trail he was on was suddenly very silent.
“You’re right,” he said. “I made a mistake.”
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
Pittman nodded. “I am, too.” He walked away. Draped over his left arm was his overcoat, heavy with his.45 and one of the gunmen’s pistols with ammunition magazines from the others in his pockets.
“Hey, where are you going?”
Pittman didn’t answer.
“Wait.”
But Pittman didn’t.
“Wait.” Jill caught up to him. “I said I was sorry.”
“Everything you said was true. The odds are that those men would have left you alone if I hadn’t shown up. For certain, Father Dandridge would still be alive if I hadn’t gone to see him. Millgate might still be alive, and my friend Burt would be alive, and…”
“No. Pay attention to me.” Jill grabbed his shoulders and turned him. “None of this is your fault. I apologize for blaming you for what happened at my apartment. You meant no harm. You only came there because you needed help.”
Pittman suddenly heard voices, rapid footsteps, what sounded like runners on the trail ahead. He stepped to the side, among bushes, his hand on the pistol in his overcoat pocket. Jill crowded next to him. Three joggers-two young men and a slender woman, all wearing brightly colored spandex outfits-hurried past, talking to one another.
Then the trail was quiet again.
“You’d be safer if you didn’t stay with me,” Pittman said. “Maybe you’re right. Phone the police. Tell them I forced you to go with me. Tell them you’re afraid to show yourself because you think the men who broke into your apartment have friends who’ll come after you. You might even tell them I’m innocent, not that they’ll believe you.”
“No.”
“You
“I won’t tell them anything. The more I think about it, the more I have to agree with you. The police would question me and let me go. But I’d still be in danger. Or maybe I could convince them to put me in protective custody. But for how long? Eventually I’d be on my own, in danger again.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“Stay with you.”
“
“Tell me how I can help.”
15
The bank Jill used, Citibank, had a branch south of Central Park, at Fifty-first and Fifth Avenue. As usual on a Sunday afternoon, the avenue wasn’t busy. Making sure that passersby didn’t overhear him, Pittman explained how the police had arranged for his bank’s automated teller machine to seize his card. “But they haven’t had time to do anything about
“I’m not sure. It could be as much as a thousand dollars.”
“That much?” Pittman shook his head. “Not that it does us any good. I doubt you’ve got it in your account.”
Jill assumed an odd expression. “I might have.”
“Well, I know it’s a lot, but this is an emergency. Please, get as much as you can.”
They entered the bank’s vestibule. Jill shoved her card into the machine and responded to the computer screen’s inquiries, pressing buttons. A minute and a half later, she was stuffing a wad of twenties and tens into her purse.
“Don’t forget your card,” Pittman said. “And here’s your transaction printout.”
He glanced down, wondering what information might be on it that someone could use if the printout had been left behind. The printout indicated the remaining funds in the account, and Pittman abruptly understood the odd expression on Jill’s face when he’d asked her about the size of her account.
“Eighty-seven thousand dollars and forty-three cents?”
Jill looked uncomfortable.
“You’ve got a fortune in this account.”
“That printout is confidential.” Her blue eyes flashed.
“I couldn’t help looking,” Pittman said.
“Surely it occurred to you that I couldn’t be living in a large Upper West Side apartment on a nurse’s salary.”
Pittman didn’t answer.
“You mean you had no idea I had money?”
“No. How did-?”
“My grandparents. A trust fund. Some bonds just came due. I’m deciding how to reinvest. That’s why there’s so much money in the account.”
Pittman studied her with wonder.
“Is this going to be a problem?”
“Hell no. If you’ve got that much money, how about treating a starving man to a decent meal?”
16
The restaurant-on East Seventy-ninth Street-was small and unassuming: a linoleum floor, plain booths, red plastic tablecloths. But the veal scallopini, which Pittman recommended, was excellent, and the modestly priced house Burgundy was delicious.
A few tables had been set out on the sidewalk, and Pittman sat in the sunlight with Jill, enjoying the last of his salad.
“That’s your second helping,” Jill said. “I didn’t think you’d ever get full.”
“I told you I was hungry. This is the first decent meal I’ve had in quite a while. Mostly I’ve been eating on the run. You didn’t like the food?”
“It’s wonderful. But the restaurant doesn’t exactly announce itself. How on earth did you ever find this place?”
Pittman bit into the final piece of garlic bread. “I used to live around here.” The memory made him solemn. “When I was married.”
“Past tense?” Jill set down her wineglass.
“Grief and connubial bliss don’t seem to go together.”
“Now I guess
“There isn’t much to tell. My wife was stronger than I was. That doesn’t mean she loved Jeremy less, but after he died, I fell apart. Ellen didn’t. I think she was afraid I was going to be like that for the rest of my life. She’d lost her son, and now she was losing… I scared her. One thing led to another. She divorced me. She’s married again.”
Jill almost touched his hand. “I’m sorry.”
Pittman shrugged. “She was smart to get out. I
