the Sporting Club. One of the lead actors was fooling around with a prop gun that an extra had given him. He'd put it in his mouth, laughing the whole time, and pulled the trigger. He wasn't laughing by the time McCoy got there. He was dead as could be, the blank cartridge having been strong enough to go in right where he'd fired it – the back of his throat – and come out on the other side of his head.
Well, this was right up there.
For one thing, she'd promised her husband a romantic dinner tonight, just the two of them. Elmore was in charge of grilling the steaks, she was in charge of the salad and dessert. She'd already made up her mind that dessert was going to be an apple pie – she made a major apple pie, a lot of cinnamon in the crust, and some crushed coffee beans; they really added flavor and no one ever recognized what they were – along with homemade chocolate ice cream. She'd just bought one of those fancy Italian ice cream makers; she decided she wanted it for the summer. It cost a fortune but what the hell, they didn't have a lot of expenses, they both made decent money, and they both really liked their ice cream. Well, no ice cream tonight. No pie or steak, for that matter, either. Elmore would not be happy, no, sir.
So there was that.
And, more to the point, there was the fact that at her feet was one big bloody fucking mess.
Sergeant Patience McCoy of the NYPD, Eighth Precinct, Tribeca, was standing on Greenwich Street, about fifteen feet south of Duane. She was in front of one of the few tall buildings in this part of town. An apartment building that had been converted about five years earlier. There were no doormen, but there was a live-in super. He hadn't seen a thing, naturally, just heard a noise. And then some more noises – people yelling, horns honking, things like that – so he'd come out to see what had happened. He told her the name of the person lying on the sidewalk, told her that he'd moved in pretty recently, a few months ago, maybe. Nice guy. Friendly. Young guy.
Young guy, McCoy thought. He wasn't a young guy anymore. He was as old as you could get.
She was staring up at the roof of the building. It wasn't for any particular reason, it was just a lot easier than looking down at the crushed and shattered body a foot away from her.
'I'm gonna go up to his apartment,' she told her partner, another goddamn rookie. She always got stuck with the white rookies.
'What do you want me to do?' he asked.
'Wait for the ambulance. Should be here any minute.' She couldn't help but notice that he looked a little green. 'And try not to puke, will you.'
The super took her up in the elevator to the penthouse apartment. She couldn't help herself, she whistled when she stepped inside. She was not a whistler, normally; usually she thought people whistled strictly for effect, but this was impressive. Quite a view, too. She stepped out onto the small balcony; room for maybe a tiny table and two midget chairs. The sliding door that led to it had been closed, she noticed. Well, that made sense. This boy hadn't planned on coming back in.
There was no sign of any disturbance. The apartment was neat and in order. A half-empty bottle of beer, Pete's Wicked Ale, on the kitchen counter. An empty Diet Coke can on the coffee table. She poked her head into the other rooms. The bed was unmade, sheets were rumpled. Other than that, neat as a pin.
On the round dining table was a cell phone. It was already on, so she pressed 'Menu' and clicked the arrow button forward until the word 'Messages,' followed by a question mark, showed up in the display window. She pressed 'Okay' and then saw a new line appear. It said: One message. Jack Keller. And it gave a phone number. After that, it said, Play?
Sergeant McCoy clicked the 'okay' button one more time and held the phone up to her ear. She heard: 'It's Jack, Kid, and you are in deep shit. You'd better have a damn good excuse for not showing up. Damn good… Great celebration. Thanks.'
Another line popped up on the screen. It said: Save message? Sergeant McCoy pressed 'okay' again. She put the phone back on the table, then pulled out her own cell phone and dialed. When the person on the other end answered, Sergeant McCoy identified herself, gave her badge number, and said, 'Yeah, you can help me. I need an address. Right away.'
Exactly thirty-seven minutes later, McCoy was in another part of town completely, East Seventy-seventh Street between Madison and Fifth. She was in another penthouse apartment, sitting in a leather swivel chair in an impeccably decorated living room, staring at an original Edward Hopper that adorned the wall.
She was in the midst of having to perform her least favorite part of her job.
She was telling Jack Keller that his young friend George 'Kid' Demeter had a very good reason for missing the basketball game that night. He was dead. He'd jumped off the roof of his eighteen-story apartment building.
A suicide.
THIRTY
It was 3 a.m. and the city was as dark as it can get. The moon was hidden behind mist and thick, swirling clouds and there was not a star to be seen in the sky. On the streets there were few cars; almost no illumination came from piercing headlights. Inside the buildings, inhabitants slept. Windows were covered with shades. Even the usual flickering light that came from televisions left on all night seemed nonexistent. The city was black. And quiet.
Jack slid open the glass door that led to his terrace. Naked save for a light blue-and-white cotton robe, a long- ago gift from Caroline, he hesitated before stepping outside. He knew that what he was about to do was crazy but he was compelled nonetheless to do it. The magnet was there and it was drawing him outside.
Sleep was impossible, and he felt he had to try to understand, to see for himself.
One foot inched out onto the terrace and, although this was usually no problem for him, this night – or morning – his stomach immediately drew itself into a tight knot and his throat went dry. Another step and then another and then he was maybe six feet from the end of the terrace. His legs were rapidly losing strength; they felt as if they would barely keep him erect. But two more steps and he was closer yet. He reached out for the wall, tried to force himself to touch it, and he thought, yes, I can do this, I can do this, but then he started to shake and he could feel the magnet draw him closer and closer. He could see the fall. He could see them all falling. His mother, her mouth twisted, her eyes pleading, disappearing. Caroline, limp and lifeless, dropping. Kid…
What did he see when he saw Kid fall? Anger. Desperation. Clawing and fighting and resistance against something that could not be resisted.
The terror swept over Jack and took his body, his mind, his soul, and as his fingers strained to touch the brick he stumbled. His body half turned and he could feel himself shivering uncontrollably. Disoriented now, he didn't know how close he was to the wall, then he felt his shoulder scrape against it and he screamed. The scream was strangled in his throat, it didn't last long, but now Jack felt himself going. His hand was on the top of the wall and he saw exactly what was going to happen. His other hand would touch there and he'd force himself closer, and then his leg would magically rise up, and then his other leg, and then he'd be gone. He'd be flying above the city. All- seeing and -powerful. But then he'd be falling, too. Just like all the others. It would come with no warning; his flight would just stop and there he'd be, out there – out there – with nothing to grab on to, nothing to save him. He'd be dropping. Faster. Faster still. And even faster. And there would be the city, rushing up to envelop him, swooping over him and through him. The blackness would take him and make him its own.
The pain. The noise. The roar and then the stillness.
And then it would be over…
When Jack's eyes opened, he was on the floor of his terrace. His right hand was stretched above his head, his left was resting tight against his body. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, didn't know it had been less than a minute. He got his bearings, saw the table and his usual chair, saw the barbell and the stack of weights. He shifted his head to look back through the glass door into his living room. All was still dark and silent.
Jack never turned back to look at the wall. He crawled the several feet he needed until his hand could touch the solid glass of the sliding door. When his palm was pressed against it, could feel its coolness soak into his hot flesh, his dizziness began to subside. His stomach slowly settled and his robe, damp from his sweat, began to drop away from his body and loosen. He took a deep breath and stood, slowly, in stages, as if unfurling himself from inside a trunk. Or a coffin.
