Aphrodite

32

According to the report Roger Mallone had provided, the address for the Lobster Corporation was 289 Park Avenue. Justin parked the stolen Toyota in a garage on Forty-seventh Street, half a block away.
By 5 p.m., Justin and Deena had been to a florist, a bookstore, a stationery store, and a Federal Express mailing office and returned to the shimmering glass Park Avenue office building, supplies in hand. Deena went in first, checked the directory on the large glass-enclosed case, then went back out to meet Justin on the sidewalk. She told him what she’d found, he nodded, then they went in together.
Justin held an enormous potted plant. Under one arm was an unfolded, flat Federal Express carton. Deena held an equally large and elaborate bouquet of flowers in a heavy glass vase. “For Carol Schloss-berg at Bailey and Potter,” Deena said to the security guard. She checked the envelope that held the gift card. “It’s room 2210. Must be her birthday.”
The guard called up, said that flowers were being delivered, and waved Deena and Justin on through to the proper elevator bank.
“Packages usually go through the mail room,” Justin said. “But flowers are almost always allowed to go straight up.”
“I’ll remember that,” Deena said, “next time I have to break into an office.”
They went up to the twenty-second floor, dropped off the plant and the flowers at the Bailey and Potter law offices, caught a glimpse of the very confused Ms. Schlossberg as she collected her gifts, then took the same elevator up to thirty-three. On that floor, Justin found the men’s room, went in, checked it out. Seconds later, he came out, told Deena it was empty. They went in together.
“How long are we going to have to wait?” she asked.
“Building probably closes at seven,” he told her. “I’d say eight, eight-thirty should be safe.”
They went into one toilet stall, the middle one of three, closed and locked the door, sat and got as comfortable as they could.
“If anyone comes in, pick your feet up and keep quiet,” he said.
She nodded and opened the book she’d bought. It was the true story of some guy who traveled around the world with his cat.
“I never would have thought of bringing this,” she said, tapping the cover of the book.
“I’ve been on stakeouts,” he said. “I know how boring it gets.”
“The glamorous criminal life,” she muttered, and started reading.
At ten-fifteen that night, the cleaning crew stepped out of office suite 3310 and made their way along the gray, tightly woven industrial carpet until they came to the next stop on their usual trek: the men’s room.
They did the toilet stalls first, from left to right. The middle door had swung shut. One of the crew members jabbed at it with his mop and the door opened. He stepped in, found nothing unusual, began to swab the floor. It didn’t take them long to clean the sinks and toilets and tiles. Neither the men’s room nor the women’s room, which they’d cleaned half an hour earlier, got much use on this floor. When they finished, their next stop was office 3325, the beveled door with the elegant gold lettering across it that read THE LOBSTER CORPORATION. In front of the door was a medium-size Federal Express carton.
“Mail room shouldn’ta left it here overnight,” one of the crew members, a black man in his early fifties, said, and the other two nodded their agreement.
“Careless,” the only woman in the crew said. “They’re gonna get in trouble.” And this time it was the two men who nodded.
The man who was the first to speak now took his skeleton key and opened the door to the office. The other two pushed the carton inside, into the reception area.
“Heavy,” the first man said.
“Bet it’s a computer,” the second man told him.
“Shouldn’t leave no computer in the hallway,” the woman said, still angry that the mail room had been so lax.
It took them fifteen minutes to clean the entire office space. They vacuumed the carpets, emptied every wastebasket, and swept off the tops of the ventilated air-conditioning ducts. They also dusted the doors that led to the two offices in the suite and cleaned the glass partition in the reception area as well as the top of the receptionist’s desk. Then they left to get to work in the next office on their route.
Fifteen minutes after the crew left the Lobster Corporation, Deena sliced her way out of the small cardboard box, using the box cutter they’d bought at the stationery store. She slithered out and took a couple of minutes to unfurl and stretch her legs, which had been tightly wrapped around her body so she could fit into the FedEx package. It had been Justin’s brainstorm to put her in there. “How long can you keep yourself that small?” he asked. When she told him she thought she could stay like that for two to three hours, he cackled and insisted she give him a high five.
While she stretched, Deena took in the entire office. There were two soft leather couches in the reception area. On the wall opposite the reception desk was a genuine Warhol Mickey Mouse. It was huge and dominated the space. There was a door that led past the waiting room and into a hallway. Off the hall was one small office, plain and impersonal, and at the end of the hall was an enormous office, decorated in chilly chrome and black steel. As soon as she felt limber, Deena went back to the phone on the receptionist’s desk and dialed.
“Come on up,” she said and waited, tapping her fingers on the desk.
Two minutes later the receptionist’s phone rang. It was the security guard in the lobby, saying that there was someone there to see Mr. Newberg. She told the guard to send the visitor up.
“Workin’ late,” the guard said.
“Always,” Deena told him, hanging up.
Several minutes later, Justin was in the office with her.
“The couches look a little more comfortable than the toilet stall,” he said.
“Why don’t we test them out,” she said.
“We can’t sleep later than seven-thirty,” he told her.
Deena took him by the hand and let him over to the first large couch. “As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “we don’t have to sleep at all.”
At three-thirty in the morning, they were wrapped around each other, arms and legs entwined. She could hear his rhythmic breathing, feel his chest rise and fall. The rhythm shifted, and Deena sensed that he was now awake. She put her hand over his heart, pressed down lightly, felt the pumping against her palm. His eyes opened and she could feel his lungs taking in a deeper supply of air.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” he said, his voice low and hoarse.
“For everything. For saving my life.”
“I think you’ve got that backwards,” he said.
She smiled, put her head on his chest.
They both stayed silent until Justin said, “It’s not over.”
“I know that.”
“No,” he said. “It’s going to be … different …from now on. The stakes are higher. The endgame is starting.”
“I understand,” she told him. Lifting her head, twisting it so she could see his eyes, she said, “I trust you.”
“I’m glad. And I want you to trust me. But it’s going to be different now.”
She nodded, put her head back down on his chest. “I understand,” she said.
He put one hand on the back of her head, drew her even closer to him. Justin closed his eyes and smiled sadly because he knew she didn’t understand at all.
She couldn’t possibly.
At nine forty-five in the morning, Al Newberg walked into the reception room of the Lobster Corporation. He started to walk past the reception desk, as he did every morning, with nothing more than a brusque nod. Today, he stopped midnod. Gloria, his regular receptionist, wasn’t there. Instead, there was a woman with streaked blond curly hair. Before Newberg could say anything, he felt another presence behind him. He turned, saw a man with a gun. The gun was pointed at Newberg’s chest. The man’s eyes told Newberg that this was someone who was more than capable of pulling the trigger.
He quickly ran the calculations through his mind. It was instinctual with Newberg. He was not a physical person. He never had been. At five foot two and a hundred and fifteen pounds, he was incapable of intimidating anyone on a physical level. Nor could he make himself appealing in any sort of visceral way. He was a ratlike man with thinning dark hair, a scratchy beard, thick horn-rimmed glasses, and a nose that was twice too big. He had two things that had carried him through life since he was quite young: money and intellect. Passion had never ruled his life. It was possible that he had never even experienced genuine passion other than his lust for the possessions he’d managed to acquire over the years and his desire to defeat anyone who could possibly interfere with his climb toward success and thus thwart his acquisitive nature. Newberg was, by necessity, a logical, practical man who saw all existence in terms of problems and solutions. Life was, for Al Newberg, one lengthy list of prioritized items waiting to be checked off. So that’s how he dealt with his current situation. He knew no other way. He shifted his gaze to take in the woman at the reception desk, then swung his eyes back to the man holding the gun. He mentally checked off item after item as he ran through his potential choices. There was no question who these two people were. He had no idea how they’d found him—he had felt very secure that he had insulated himself from those on the outside—but he absolutely knew who they were. Why they were here was another matter. The most logical possibility was to get information. Something specific, possibly. Or an attempt to get a general sense of what they’d stumbled into. It could go either way. The first question Newberg asked himself was: Could he bluff them? Could he feign ignorance, pretend to be what he was not? The answer was no. It was too late for that. The cop was no idiot. If they were here, they knew too much to be bluffed. Next attempt at a solution: Could they be bought off? Maybe. People’s responses to money were often amazing—they took enormous risks, they sacrificed lifelong ideals—but his instinct told him that in this instance such a solution was unlikely. What was left? Get them talking. Find out what they want. Then find out what they’d settle for. It was all about negotiation.
Everything was about negotiation.
“Congratulations,” Newberg said. “You’re obviously much cleverer than anyone gave you credit for.”
“Shut up,” Justin said.
“And much more dangerous.”
Justin didn’t speak again. He took one step forward and backhanded the grip of his pistol into Newberg’s mouth. Deena gasped as the man went down on one knee and blood began to gush from his lip and gums. The expression on Newberg’s face was one not just of pain but of shock and fear. Justin learned what he’d needed to know: This was someone who had other people commit violent acts. He was a stranger to real violence and to pain.
“There’s no need for—” Newberg began, but he didn’t get to finish the sentence because Justin hit him even harder. This time the little rodentlike man’s eyes rolled back in his forehead and the color in his face, a rich man’s smooth tan, drained and was replaced by a sickly green.
“Justin …” Deena said, but he turned on her, a ferocious expression on his face, and she cowered back from him. When he was satisfied that Deena was not going to say anything more, he turned back to Newberg, who was still crumpled on the floor, but his hand was groping at his side, trying to find a position to help support his weight as he tried to sit up.
“I’m sure you’re a smart guy,” Justin said to the little man on the floor, “so you should be able to absorb what I’m telling you. From this point on, I don’t want you to say one f*cking word unless it’s to tell me what I want to know. Don’t ask a question, don’t try to tell me anything you think might interest me, because it won’t. If you say anything that I don’t want to hear or if I think you’re lying to me, I will hurt you beyond anything you can possibly imagine. If you make too many mistakes, I’ll probably hurt you so badly you’ll die right here on this floor. If you wait too long before telling me what I want to know, my guess is you’ll wind up crippled for life. If you somehow think that the two women who work for you can possibly help you, they’re locked in the closet over there. They’re bound and gagged. They can do you no good. I hold you personally responsible for everything that’s happened to us. And for a lot of deaths. So I have no qualms whatsoever about reciprocating. Is that understood? You can answer me now.”
Newberg nodded, weakly.
“Okay,” Justin said. “This is going to be very simple. I only have one question. Give me the right answer and we’re out of here. Where is Douglas Kransten?”
Newberg did his best to lick his lips, to get some moisture in his throat so he could speak. He had no luck. All he could do was croak out the words “I can’t tell you that.”
“That’s the wrong answer.” Justin took a step forward, then he looked up at Deena. “I think you should leave,” he said to her.
“Jay, don’t.”
“The best thing is probably for you to go to the ladies’ room. I don’t think this will take very long. This guy uses other people’s balls—he doesn’t have any of his own. I’ll come knock on the door when I’m done.”
“Jay, please don’t do this.”
“Deena, I told you it was going to be different now. I’m doing what has to be done. Go to the ladies’ room and wait for me.” His tone was like ice. Cold and even and remote. “There’s no other alternative right now. If we don’t find Kransten we’re dead. And so are a lot of other people. So I’m going to find him. I’m not going to let what happened to Alicia happen to you. So go outside. Now.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t say another word. Deena nodded sadly. She didn’t look at Justin or the broken man on the floor. She stepped out of the office and went down the hall to the ladies’ room.
Justin stood over Alfred Newberg. “Where’s Douglas Kransten?” he asked again.
“I don’t know,” Newberg whispered.
And then he began to cry.
Twenty minutes later, Justin tapped on the ladies’ room door He heard Deena’s voice, quiet and faraway, say, “Come in.” He stepped inside.
She was crying too. Trying not to, but unable to stop. Looking in the mirror and using brown paper towels to soak up her silent tears.
“I’m sorry,” Justin said. He reached out to touch her shoulders, to pull her close to him, but she recoiled. He watched her shudder as if she was repulsed by his touch and he said, trying not to cry himself now, “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. But I didn’t have a choice.”
She nodded, still didn’t speak.
“Deena,” he continued softly. He started to reach for her again, stopped himself. He didn’t want to see the revulsion in her eyes. “I can’t let them hurt you. I can’t. You have to understand.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Did you find out what you needed to know?” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Yes.”
“About Kransten?”
“Yes. And other things.”
“If you didn’t kill him …Newberg …won’t he talk? Warn somebody?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he knows if he does, I will come back and kill him. Or worse, I’ll hurt him again the way I just hurt him now. People like Newberg, they understand one thing—fear. And he’s now much more afraid of me than anyone he might want to warn.”
“Where’s Kransten?” Deena asked, still speaking softly.
He didn’t answer. When he did, he first told her that he wanted her to come with him. One more time, so he could keep her safe. Then it would be all over.
Deena took a last sniffle, used a paper towel to wipe her nose. Then, the tears no longer in her eyes, she looked at him. “You have blood all over you,” she said.
“It’s not mine,” he told her.
She nodded. Turned on the hot-water tap for him. “You’d still better clean up,” she said.
As Justin washed his face and then used paper towels and soap to dab at the blood spots on his clothes, Deena said, “Jay?” When he turned toward her, she said, “When you have your nightmares, what is it that scares you? Is it only the things that happened? Is it only what they did to Alicia and Lili? Or is it something else? Is it more than that?”
He didn’t answer right away. It was a question he’d often asked himself but one he’d always refused to answer. “It’s mostly that,” Justin said. “It’s the loss and the waste and the guilt. But it’s also the things I feel now. It’s the things I want to do to them. The things I know that I could do. That I would do. It’s what you just saw,” he told her. “Or what I didn’t let you see. That’s what scares me more than anything.”
She took a damp towel and wiped it across his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know whether it’s what they turned me into or whether it’s what I always was. But I’m sorry.”
“I guess there’s no way of ever knowing the answer to that. But I’m sorry too.” She put her hands on his shoulders, stood on her toes, and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips. “So where’s Kransten?” Deena asked. “Where are we going?”
They were a few blocks away, on Park and Fifty-fourth, standing outside an office building in an alcove under a marble overhang. Deena was reading that morning’s New York Post, which had their photos on page three, with the headline bandits on the run. Underneath the photos was a caption: Renegade cop turned killer and sexy yoga moll are still eluding a nationwide dragnet. While Deena read and averted her face so passersby wouldn’t recognize her, Justin was using Roger Mallone’s phone to call Billy DiPezio.
“So how are your underworld connections these days?” Justin asked the Providence chief of police.
“You’ve been paying too much attention to the papers again, Jay. Goddamn scandalmongers. You know I don’t have any connections in that area.” Justin could hear Billy light a cigarette on the other end of the phone. “But if I did, what is it you might need?”
“Two passports.”
“That’s all? Two passports for people about to hit the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list? No counterfeit money? No bags of cocaine or semi-automatic weapons?”
“Two convincing passports. And driver’s licenses.”
“All done?”
“And a credit card.”
“Any particular kind?”
“I’m open to surprises.”
“Well, as I said, I don’t know anyone who does that sort of thing. But I’ll tell you what I’d like, just for my desk, you understand, a sentimental thing: four passport-size photos. Wait a second—you want a photo credit card? ’Cause then I’ll need five.”
“Not necessary. I’ll overnight them within an hour.”
“Good. I’ll add ’em to the little shrine I’ve got set up. And as long as we’re gabbin’, I got some other info for you, mi campagno,” Billy said. “You wanted a link between the geezers in the old-age homes? Well, my boys found one.”
“They all spent time in upstate New York, around Binghamton, in the early seventies.”
Billy sighed. “I forgot how annoying you can be.”
“Kransten owned a hospital there. It’s where the initial experiments were done.”
“But I can still top you. You wanted to know about Kransten and Marshall’s baby. Louise Marshall did give birth. They had a daughter. April ’seventy-four. April tenth, to be exact. There’s no record of the kid’s death, but you know that doesn’t always mean anything. But there is something you don’t know. Care to guess what the daughter’s name was?”
Justin held the phone away from his ear for a moment. He took a deep breath, brought the phone close again. “Yeah,” he said to Billy DiPezio. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“So I’m waiting. Let’s hear it.”
“Aphrodite,” Justin said. “The kid’s name was Aphrodite.”
By the silence at the other end, Justin knew he’d gotten it right. It was confirmed when Billy said, “Send the photos, you lucky f*ck. I’ll have the passports in forty-eight hours.”
Justin clicked the phone shut.
“Jay,” Deena said. “Even with fake passports, how are we going to get out of the country?” She held up the Post, then quickly pulled it down behind her back. “Somebody’s going to recognize us. We’ll never get to the gate.”
“We might not have to.”
“Now what do you have in mind?” she asked.
“One last favor,” he told her. “Remember the guy in the blue Jaguar?”
“Your college roommate. With the house in Southampton.”
“Yup. He also lives in the city. Or at least his office is here.”
“And he’s going to help us how?”
“He’s rich,” Justin said.
“Yeah?”
“He’s really rich.”
And as Deena stared at him, puzzled, he pulled out the phone again, dialed, and made yet another foray into his long-ago past.