“Yeah?”
“Two gunmen with semiautomatics and Officer R. on the asphalt hemorrhaging like a motherfucker. You take them on with just your sidearm, wound them both, cinch Paulo’s wounds, and make it home in time for supper.”
“And still they set me up like a goddamned tenpin.”
“Fuck them,” Glad said with barely a smile. “If you could stand up to armed gunmen, then why would you be afraid of five thousand miles?”
It was a good question.
4.
In my line of work you need a car; to follow people, yes, but also to get from place to place without having to wait for, and pay for, taxis and limos, Ubers and gypsy cabs. That is unless you like climbing down into subway tunnels like a rat or roach passing through some forgotten prisoner’s cell.
New York is not a car-friendly city and so I decided to buy the Italian-made Bianchina—a microcar that’s so small it almost brings its own parking place with it. It looks like a full-grown sedan that got shrunk down until almost a toy. I had mine painted dull brown to make it a little less likely to be noticed.
At 6:16 I parked down the block from the Montana Crest apartment building near Ninety-First Street and Third Avenue. While waiting for my quarry I intended to sift through the mail that Aja-Denise gave me.
Before I tore open the first envelope I thought of what life might be with no winter and a job as a cop again. I’d be so far away that no one would know my story. Maybe that was all I needed to break out of my ten-year funk.
That got me thinking about my daughter again.
Aja was not my daughter’s given name. When she was still small she learned how to spell the word for the continent in school and then saw the letters A-J-A graffiti-scrawled on a wall somewhere. The idea that two differently spelled words sounded exactly the same tickled the little girl and she took on the name because, she said, “Sometimes I’m happy and sometimes I’m sad but I’m still the same person anyway.”
I started with the package that Gladstone had dropped off.
Therein I found four NYPD-generated documents that followed the path of a file-based investigation.
These records told me that the fingerprints lifted from the discarded water bottle of the woman identifying herself as Cindy Acres actually belonged to someone named Alana Pollander. Ms. Pollander had been born Janine Overmeyer but changed her name after being convicted for check kiting in her home state—Ohio. Armed with this new name, she went to work for a man named Ossa James, a political “researcher” from Maryland.
With the use of the iPad my daughter made me buy I was able to see that Ossa James had recently signed an exclusive contract with Albert Stoneman—candidate for the congressional office in the same district where I was waiting for Representative Bob Acres. Bob Acres who was married to a Cynthia I’d never met.
Representative Acres, when he was in New York, was extremely punctual. He usually returned home between 6:30 and 7:05. So at 6:25 I put away the records and iPad and turned on my boom box because the Bianchina radio doesn’t have the best speakers.
That day I played a CD I’d burned featuring my favorite musician since getting out of Rikers—Thelonious Monk. Before my arrest I loved old jazz: Fats Waller and Louis Armstrong among many others. My father, Chief Oliver, wanted to name me King so that no one could denigrate me by using my first name as if I was some kind of servant or something. He also loved Louis Armstrong’s mentor, King Oliver, and wanted to make a memorial to him with my naming. But my poor, luckless mother, Tonya Falter, was raised in Chicago and thought the other schoolkids would make fun of a fancy name like King. Chief respected Tonya’s opinion and named me Joseph, King Oliver’s given name, and used King as the middle appellation.
My christening being so close to jazz, I naturally leaned in that direction. But once I got out of jail I no longer felt the smooth riffs of the earlier musicians. Monk always had a good group of talented musicians with him, but while they played deep melodies, he was the madman in the corner pounding out the truth between the fabrications of rhythm and blues.
“Round Midnight” was playing when Bob Acres got out of a cab in front of the Montana Crest. He was wearing a light brown suit, dark shoes, and no hat. He didn’t wear a tie either, his political career being based on brotherhood rather than superiority. He liked talking with his constituents and, if I was to believe the press, he represented their concerns as closely as any politician could.
For two hundred and fifteen dollars a day I shadowed Acres’s nighttime activities as the woman calling herself his wife had asked. She told me that she was sure he was having an affair and wanted proof so that she could force him into an amicable settlement for the divorce.
On the surface all this made sense. The New York Times had printed a small article on the separation of Cynthia and Robert Acres. She’d moved back to her home state, Tennessee. The one blurry picture of her looked enough like the woman who’d come to my office—if that woman had lost some weight and dyed her hair blond.
Before my frame and arrest I would have believed the woman calling herself Cindy Acres, but after my downfall I always questioned what I was told. Therefore I took the fingerprints from a water bottle she’d used and got Glad to run them.
This was only the second week that Bob was in town. He’d spent most of his time down in D.C. working on legislation and political strategies.
The first week I followed Bob he’d gone out three times: once to dinner with a young man who might have been his son; once to a fund-raiser at the Harvard Club; and lastly to what appeared to be an illegal card game on West Twenty-Seventh. But this last week all that changed. He came home every evening by 7:00, went to his fourth-floor apartment, and turned on the light. Then, each night, the light went off at 10:17 and came on again at 6:56 the next morning.
Four days in a row Bob’s light went on and off with military precision. I wondered who had tipped him off that he was being watched and where he was going that he needed an automatic system on his lights.
The night before, I waited in the alley near a doorway alcove at the side of the Montana. At 8:34 Bob Acres, dressed in a sweat suit, came out. He walked two blocks west, where he was met by a black Lincoln Town Car.
Twenty-four hours later I was ready.
The moment he walked through the front door of the Montana I drove to the block where he’d met the black car. There was another limo parked at the far corner.
There I waited.
Thelonious had moved on to “Bright Mississippi.” While he played that fairly traditional number I took out the pink envelope from Minnesota, sniffed its mild scent, and tore it open.
Dear Mr. Joseph K. Oliver,