The Caller jl-2 Page 3

  He got out of the van and let the cool breeze from the East River raise goosebumps on his bare arms. Where he stood – by the park, under the Triborough Bridge – was Astoria as it had always been to him. On the Shore Boulevard side, the luxury condos that looked over the tennis courts on one side and Manhattan on the other represented change. Like Brooklyn, Astoria had lured people out of the city and was going through the makeover to prove it. Stan liked it all. He was just happy to be anywhere he could feel the sun, look out over beautiful water, walk through the trees, sit on a bench. When it hit 8.50 a.m., he went back to his van.

  He drove down 19th Street and pulled into the small parking lot of the apartment building he had been working on for the previous two weeks. He unloaded his equipment and walked up the flagstone path. He stopped halfway and bent down, laying his gear beside him and pulling a penknife from his utility belt. He flipped it open and sliced at a weed that was pushing up through a gap in the cement. June, the receptionist, waved to him from behind the front desk as he walked towards her. He pushed through the front door into the lobby. The smell was lemon disinfectant, rising from the shiny floor tiles. June’s desk was on the left-hand side, a crescent moon that curved towards the door. The walls were pale gold with a cream dado rail that traced around the corner to the elevator bank. Behind the desk, free-standing plastic barriers closed off the corridor to everyone except the construction workers who were renovating that section of the building all the way up to the fourth floor.

  ‘Hey, Flat Stanley,’ said June, smiling up from her desk. Flat Stanley was a character from a children’s book who in a tragic accident got flattened to 2-D. The Stanley standing in front of June was not flat; he was Stanley with a belly inflated to bursting point. Stan grunted, shifting the utility belt that only ever came to rest under his gut, no matter how high he tried to move it.

  ‘Anything I need to know?’ he said.

  ‘Just that Mary Burig on the second floor is going to plant that little strip of flower-bed you’ve been kind enough to lend her.’

  ‘Mary?’ His face lit up. ‘Today?’

  June nodded. ‘Yup.’ She smiled. ‘I think someone has you wrapped around her little finger.’

  He frowned. ‘She likes flowers.’

  Mary Burig checked her smartphone. It held everything she needed to remember: phone numbers, addresses, bank account details, appointments, shopping lists, birthdays, anniversaries, maps and guides. She spent fifteen minutes tidying her living room, starting by the front door and working clockwise through each corner. She moved into the kitchen and wiped down the surfaces. She was about to unload the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. She jogged back to the front door and opened it.

  ‘Hi, Magda,’ she said. ‘Come in. I’m working hard here. Tea?’

  ‘Coffee,’ said Magda, hugging her. ‘Thank you. I can make it.’

  Magda Oleszak was in her early fifties, with a healthy glow from eating good food and walking everywhere. She came to New York from Poland with her two teenage children ten years earlier, learned perfect English, but never lost her accent.

  ‘The place looks great,’ said Magda, walking around as she took off her light vinyl jacket. Upside down and open beside Mary’s bed was Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier.

  ‘Are you reading Rebecca again?’ said Magda.

  ‘I know,’ said Mary. ‘It’s cheating because I know it inside out.’

  ‘It’s not cheating,’ said Magda, turning to her, holding her hands passionately. ‘Don’t ever let me hear you say that again, Mary. It’s beautiful what you and Rebecca have. You are friends for life. She’ll always be with you, won’t she? Or whatever that girl’s name is. Does she have a name? I don’t think she does, does she? I get confused myself, see? I get confused. You don’t. It’s wonderful, Mary. You hang on to that feeling. You remember what Rebecca brought you when you were lying on your bed as a young girl.’

  Mary smiled.

  ‘Now, because we are talking about books,’ said Magda, ‘I have some good news for you. Stan Frayte, you know Stan, is going to do your makeover on the library.

  Mary clapped. ‘Cool.’ Then she frowned. ‘So do you think it’ll wind up looking more like a library than a store window?’

  ‘Nothing is happening with the glass if that’s what you mean. We want to make sure no-one’s making trouble in there.’

  ‘No-one makes trouble in libraries.’

  ‘They do, going right to the dirty bits in all those romance novels. Hot throbbing whatever.’

  ‘Magda!’

  Magda laughed.

  ‘I wish they’d do something about the other windows,’ said Mary. ‘They’re too high up. You can’t see out if you sit down. You’re just staring at a blank wall.’

  ‘You know what?’ said Magda. ‘I like to think that the reader uses it as a blank screen and they project onto it the world of whatever book they’re reading at that time.’

  Mary thought about it. ‘I’ll go with that,’ she said. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Oh, you want to know how they got the money to do the library? Stan himself. He said he got a discount on some light fixtures for the hallway. I’m not so sure.’

  ‘That’s so kind,’ said Mary. She paused. ‘There’s something sad about Stan.’

  Magda went into the kitchen. ‘You’re out of coffee, Mary.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ She hit Tasks on her phone menu and added coffee to her grocery list.

  ‘So,’ said Mary, ‘what’s going on?’

  ‘David’s coming this morning, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘There’s cake in there. I’m not hungry, but you can help yourself.’

  Magda opened the bread bin and pulled out a cake wrapped in aluminium foil. It was covered in mould. She flipped the lid of the bin and threw it inside.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but I’ve eaten.’ She came back into the living room and sat down on the sofa. ‘Will I stay until David comes?’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Mary. ‘Today is ironing day, so I’m going to start now, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Magda.

  David Burig was thirty-four years old, looked younger, and spent most of his time dressed in a suit so his staff would take him seriously. He ran a successful catering business he bought after offloading an overvalued software firm nine years earlier.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said, hugging Mary and kissing her on the cheek.

  ‘David,’ she said. ‘Yaaay!’

  ‘If only everyone had that response when they saw me.’

  ‘Yaaay!’ said Magda.

  He laughed. ‘Why thank you, both. I feel very special. So,’ he said to Mary. ‘I believe it’s time for bed.’

  Mary frowned. She looked at the clock. ‘But it’s only 10 a.m.!’

  He smiled. ‘ Flower -beds.’

  She shook her head. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just because you say so, I’m still not sure that means it is.’

  He held his hands up. ‘It actually wasn’t funny at all.’

  ‘It was dumb,’ said Magda.

  ‘Worth a try, though,’ said David. ‘Let me go change. And can I ask? What are you wearing?’

  ‘Do I look nuts?’ said Mary.

  ‘You look… creative.’

  Mary smiled because David did. ‘I thought it was kind of cool.’ She was wearing a pair of orange baggy cotton pants that tapered at the ankle, a green vest and white sneakers.

  David laughed and disappeared into the bedroom with his sports bag.

  ‘OK,’ said Magda. ‘Have you got what you need for gardening?’

  Mary pointed to the tools lined up on the table: ‘Two trowels, mat to kneel on, watering can, fork thing… is that everything?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Magda. ‘There’s a faucet at the back of the building.’

  David appeared in a battered pair of jeans, a blue long-sleeved T-shirt and green retr
o Pumas. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I am ready to garden. I am proud – no, I’m shocked – to be assisting in such a noble endeavour. Come on, lady in scary pants, let’s go down and bring that dirty brown soil to life.’

  ‘I’ll take the elevator with you,’ said Magda.

  ***

  Mary laid down the mat in front of the flower-bed that ran along the edge of the property, fifty feet away from the back of the apartment block. A row of pots filled with chrysanthemums in bright shades of yellow, orange and magenta was lined up against the wall.

  ‘They’re so beautiful,’ said Mary.

  ‘They are,’ said David. ‘Stan always sticks with the same colour theme, doesn’t he? Just changes the flowers in fall.’

  She nodded.

  David turned to the bare flower-bed and laughed. ‘Look – he’s marked out where we can plant: the shadiest, quietest corner-’

  Mary smiled. ‘In case we do it wrong?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘But I’ve helped him before, he knows I’m good.’

  ‘You. But not me.’

  ‘OK,’ said Mary. ‘We need to take the flowers out of the pots, break up the roots gently and plant them here in a pattern.’ She handed him a piece of paper with a rough diagram.

  ‘That should be easy,’ said David.

  Mary knelt down on the mat and started to dig a hole. David tended to the pots, pushing a small trowel into the first one, working it around the roots, pulling the plant free and shaking off the excess soil.

  ‘Everyone I know is at the office right now,’ he said. ‘Do you know how good that makes me feel?’

  Mary smiled. ‘Thanks for helping me.’

  ‘Helping you? I’m helping myself, here,’ he said. ‘This is therapy. This is what life’s all about. Outdoors, fresh air, office avoidance.’

  He spotted a weed, growing by the grass at the edge of the flower-bed. He pulled it out and held it up. ‘Isn’t it funny?’ he said. ‘How easy it is for beauty to attract such ugly, clinging things.’

  ‘Like the garden in Manderley,’ said Mary.

  ‘Yes!’ said David. ‘Exactly.’

  They worked on, talking and laughing for over an hour. David stopped and watched his little sister, her concentration unwavering, stooped over the bright petals, holding them gently in her tiny hand, pouring her heart into the job.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he said.

  She looked up at him. ‘I guess I’m OK.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘That’s good. That’s good, Mare.’

  She smiled. They continued in silence until David stopped again. He looked at her and started a quote from Rebecca: ‘We all of us have our particular devil who rides us and torments us.’

  Mary smiled sadly and continued. ‘ And we must give battle in the end. We have conquered ours…’

  David let out a breath. ‘ Or so we believe.’

  FOUR

  The body of Ethan Lowry was laid out on the perforated surface of a stainless steel table in the basement of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. A body block lay under his back, forcing out his trunk that had been emptied of its organs. A handwritten, bloodstained list with their weights lay by the scales.

  Joe and Danny were dressed in scrubs, gowns and gloves, with face masks hanging around their necks. Joe’s digital camera and notebook were on the counter beside him. He had taken photos and notes and asked questions through every step of the three-hour autopsy.

  Dr Malcolm Hyland was young for an ME. Cops liked him because he didn’t expect them to be doctors, but he didn’t expect them to be stupid either. He was soft-spoken until he had to use the microphone – then he turned stilted and loud.

  ‘OK, doc,’ said Joe. He grabbed the notebook and flipped it open again.

  ‘OK,’ said Hyland. ‘Estimated time of death somewhere between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. Cause of death was a point-blank GSW to the head – you saw the small entry hole by his eye socket and the bruised and battered twenty-two caliber bullet taken from the skull cavity. The bullet’s trajectory was left to right, lodged in the temporal lobe. You remember the grazing around the wound margins as the bullet was spinning in. Because it was directly over bone, you got the radiating splits in the skin and the stellate effect – that star shape. Mechanism of death was an intracerebral bleed.

  ‘But before we even get to the gunshot, we had evidence of compressive asphyxia which is what I was saying about the diaphragm not being able to expand. I’d say the killer sat on the guy’s chest or pressed a knee down on it and the vic got the full force of his body bearing down on him. Subdued like that, the killer was able to assault him with what was probably a medium-sized hammer. With regard the facial injuries – you already saw that – extensive bruising and swelling, several irregular lacerations. The upper and lower lips showed external and internal lacerations… this is very common in homosexual killings.’

  ‘He was alive for all the facial injuries,’ said Danny.

  Hyland nodded. ‘He’d inhaled blood and teeth fragments.’

  ‘And what you’re saying is this guy was already dying when he was shot, he wasn’t able to breathe properly,’ said Danny.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hyland. ‘I guess I could understand if the killer bashed his head in, then asphyxiated him. But on top of that, he shoots him? It’s cruel stuff. You can imagine, the man’s fighting for his every breath, putting all his strength into that, then he’s slammed in the face with the hammer. He’s focused on that agonizing pain, then back to fighting for breath, then pain again, everything mounting right ‘til the end. Then a gunshot wound. And that’s it. He’s gone.’

  ‘These wackos always got their own screwed-up reasons,’ said Danny. ‘Some of it is looking familiar to me, I gotta say. You remember William Aneto?’

  Joe shook his head.

  ‘Oh yeah. You weren’t here. It was me and Martinez. This gay guy on the Upper West Side. It just… there’s something about it rings a bell.’

  ‘If we’re done here…’ said Hyland. He pointed to Joe’s notebook. ‘I’m sure you got it all there.’

  ‘Yeah, until I get back and I find one word I can’t make out and nothing else makes sense without it.’

  ‘Well, if you need anything else, call me.’

  Joe nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Hyland. ‘You know, I wish when I dissected a brain I could find a little reel, like a victim’s-eye movie, so we could just sit back and watch a replay of what happened. It’d be foolproof in court for you guys, wouldn’t it? Slam dunk. Wouldn’t that be great? Or if I could find, like, a mental black box that would log the minute-to-minute psychological impact of what the victim’s been through. Although I’d say with this guy, it was all so horrific, a circuit somewhere would have blown.’

  Anna Lucchesi lay on the sofa in her pyjamas with a light fleece blanket over her. She was watching the fourth episode in a row of Grand Designs. A couple had renovated a country estate somewhere in England and she was now watching the car wreck that was their 80s taste in interiors. When she first started watching the show in Ireland, it was from a different vantage point in a house that fit. She was a rising star at Vogue Living and had overseen the renovation of a lighthouse and the keeper’s home beside it outside a small village in Waterford. She was doing the job she loved in a beautiful location with her husband and son cheering her on. Watching Grand Designs now, she felt like a disconnected outsider, sitting in a grim two-storey brick frame house in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn – not Brooklyn Heights, not Williamsburg, not even DUMBO. It was older, it felt safe, the neighbors were nice, but it held no spark for Anna.

  She stared towards the window, missing the sea view and waves that could get so loud, you had to close the window to hear people talk. The house had been peaceful and comfortable, with simple furniture and neutral tones. Then everything it represented was gone, shattered by Duke Rawlins. He wanted to destroy Joe. But he had underestimated his resilience. And when Anna thou
ght of it now, she didn’t admire Joe for it, she resented him. Joe killed Donald Riggs and she paid the price. He was uninjured, back on the job. She was in her pyjamas in the afternoon.

  For two months after Ireland, she stayed with her parents in Paris. Joe and Shaun came for the first three weeks, but the tiny house started to close in on them. She felt like Joe was trying to rush her recovery and make things go back to a kind of normal she knew they never would. She eventually persuaded him to take Shaun back to New York.

  When she followed them over, she spent time adjusting to the new house in the new area she had been too depressed to take an interest in choosing. She would wake in the morning, wondering why she was there, but never able to figure out where she would really like to be. But she knew she wanted to avoid the outside world. And that meant embracing the four walls.

  Her boss, Chloe da Silva, had allowed her to work from home, but had made it clear that it was only a temporary arrangement – Anna was too good an interior designer to lose on the big jobs. That was fine at the start, but as the months went by, Anna felt a rising insecurity that any day she would be fired and the only thing keeping her sane would be taken away. She liked styling shoots from home, choosing products from catalogues or jpegs or from the packages that were sent nearly every day to the house. It was unorthodox, but it worked. She hoped.

  She dragged herself up off the sofa and was about to go into her makeshift office when the phone rang. She heard the harsh clatter of being punched off speaker phone in Chloe’s office.

  ‘It’s me again.’

  Anna held her breath.

  ‘I’m sorry to land this on you, but, Anna, I really am under serious pressure here. There’s a major shoot at W Union Square tomorrow morning and Leah has let me down big time. Anyway, the shoot is bedrooms – models in hotels slash extravagant homes, sleeping off all that hard work they do – walking and um, staring. A lot of our major advertisers are involved and, here’s what I’m hoping you’ll go for: the photographer is Marc Lunel. You can work with someone who doesn’t pronounce Moet wrong. Come on. Please. Please. Please.’