Gone Tomorrow

‘I guess.’

‘Did she enjoy her job?’

‘She seemed to. And it must have suited her. She had the right skills, for a records department. Great memory, meticulous, very organized. She was good with computers.’

The silence came back. I started to think about Annandale again. A pleasant but unremarkable community. A dormitory, basically. Under the present circumstances it had just one significant characteristic.

It was a very long way from New York City.

She wasn’t an unhappy person.

Jake said, ‘What?’

I said, ‘Nothing. None of my business.’

‘But what?’

‘Just thinking.’

‘About what?’

There’s more than meets the eye.

I asked, ‘How long have you been a cop?’

‘Eighteen years.’

‘All in the same place?’

‘I trained with the State Troopers. Then I moved over. Like a farm system.’

‘Have you seen many suicides in Jersey?’

‘One or two a year, maybe.’

‘Anyone see any of them coming?’

‘Not really. They’re usually a big surprise.’

‘Like this one.’

‘You got that right.’

‘But behind each one of them there must have been a reason.’

‘Always. Financial, sexual, some kind of shit about to hit the fan.’

‘So your sister must have had a reason.’

‘I don’t know what.’

I went quiet again. Jake said, ‘Just say it. Tell me.’

‘Not my place.’

‘You were a cop,’ he said. ‘You’re seeing something.’

I nodded. Said, ‘My guess is that out of the suicides you’ve seen, maybe seven out of ten happened at home, and three out of ten, they drove to some local lane and hitched up the hosepipe.’

‘More or less.’

‘But always somewhere familiar. Somewhere quiet and alone. Always at some kind of a destination. You get there, you compose yourself, you do it.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that I never heard of a suicide where the person travels hundreds of miles from home and does it while the journey is still in progress.’

‘I told you.’

‘You told me she didn’t kill herself. But she did. I saw her do it. But I’m saying she did it in a very unconventional manner. In fact I don’t think I ever heard of a suicide inside a subway car before. Under one, maybe, but not inside. Did you ever hear of a suicide on public transportation, during the ride?’

‘So?’

‘So nothing. I’m just asking, that’s all.’

‘Why?’

‘Because. Think like a cop, Jake. Not like a brother. What do you do when something is way out of line?’

‘You dig deeper.’

‘So do it.’

‘It won’t bring her back.’

‘But understanding a thing helps a lot.’ Which was also a concept they taught at Fort Rucker. But not in the psychology class.

* * *

I got a refill of coffee and Jacob Mark picked up a packet of sugar and turned it over and over in his fingers so that the powder fell from one end of the paper rectangle to the other, repeatedly, like in an hourglass. I could see his head working like a cop and his heart working like a brother. It was all right there in his face. Dig deeper. It won’t bring her back.

He asked, ‘What else?’

‘There was a passenger who took off before the NYPD got to him.’

‘Who?’

‘Just a guy. The cops figured he didn’t want his name in the system. They figured he was maybe cheating on his wife.’

‘Possible.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Possible.’

‘And?’

‘Both the feds and the private guys asked me if your sister had handed me anything.’

‘What kind of anything?’

‘They didn’t specify. I’m guessing something small.’

‘Who were the feds?’

‘They wouldn’t say.’

‘Who were the private guys?’

I hitched up off the bench and took the business card out my back pocket. Cheap stock, already creased, and already rubbed a little blue from my jeans. New pants, fresh dye. I put it on the table and reversed it and slid it across. Jake read it slowly, maybe twice. Sure and Certain, Inc. Protection, Investigation, Intervention. The telephone number. He took out a cell and dialled. I heard a delay and a chirpy little three-note ding-dong tone and a recorded message. Jake closed his phone and said, ‘Not in service. Phony number.’

THIRTEEN

I took a second refill of coffee. Jake just stared at the waitress like he had never heard of the concept. Eventually she lost interest and moved away. Jake slid the business back to me. I picked it up and put it in my pocket and he said, ‘I don’t like this.’

I said, ‘I wouldn’t like it, either.’

‘We should go back and talk to the NYPD.’

‘She killed herself, Jake. That’s the bottom line. That’s all they need to know. They don’t care how or where or why.’

‘They should.’

‘Maybe so. But they don’t. Would you?’

‘Probably not,’ he said. I saw his eyes go blank. Maybe he was re-running old cases in his head. Big houses, leafy roads, lawyers living the high life on their clients’ escrow money, unable to make good, ducking out ahead of shame and scandal and disbarment. Or teachers, with pregnant students. Or family men, with boyfriends in Chelsea or the West Village. The local cops, full of tact and rough sympathy, large and intrusive in the neat quiet dwelling, checking the scenes, establishing the facts, typing reports, closing files, forgetting, moving on to the next thing, not caring how or where or why.

He said, ‘You got a theory?’

I said, ‘It’s too early for a theory. All we got so far is facts.’