Текст книги "Missing You"

Автор книги: Harlan Coben

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter 21

Kat didn’t want to go.

Bork Investments was located in a sleek über-skyscraper on Vesey Street and the Hudson River in Manhattan’s Financial District, a stone’s throw away from the new World Trade Center. Kat had been a fairly young officer on that bright, sunny morning, but that wasn’t much of an excuse. When the first tower was hit at 8:46 A.M., she was sleeping one off only eight blocks away. By the time she woke up and fought through her hangover and got down there, both towers were down and it was too late to do anything about the dead, especially her fellow officers. Many who died had come down on their own from a lot farther away. She hadn’t made it in time.

Not that she could have done anything anyway.

No one could in the end. But the survivor’s guilt stayed with her. She attended every cop funeral she could, standing there in uniform, feeling like a complete fraud. There were nightmares—almost everyone who was there that day had them. In life, you can forgive yourself for a lot, but for reasons that made very little rational sense, it is very hard to forgive yourself for surviving.

It was a long time ago. She didn’t think about it much anymore, maybe around the anniversary. That outraged her on another level, the way time does indeed heal wounds. But since that day, Kat stayed away from this area, not that there was much reason for her to come down here anyway. This was the land of the dead, the ghosts, and the power suits with the big money. There was nothing here for her. Lots of the boys from her old neighborhood—yes, some girls too, but far fewer—had made their way here. As children, they had admired and feared their cop and firemen fathers and grew up wanting to be nothing like them. They went to St. Francis Prep and then to Notre Dame or Holy Cross, ended up selling junk bonds or derivatives, making a lot of money and getting as far away from their upbringing and roots as they could—just as their fathers had run from their fathers who had toiled in mills or starved in lands far away.

Progress.

We have this sense of continuity and nostalgia in America, but in truth, every generation runs away from the one before it. Oddly enough, most of the time, they run to someplace better.

Judging by his plush office, Martin Bork had run to someplace better. Kat and Brandon waited in a conference room with a mahogany table the size of a landing strip. There was a food spread waiting—muffins, donuts, fruit salad. Brandon was starving and started wolfing down the food.

“How do you know him again?” Kat asked.

“He’s our family financial adviser. He worked with my dad at a hedge fund.”

Kat didn’t know exactly what a hedge fund was, but the phrase never failed to make her cringe a little. She checked out the view of the Hudson River and New Jersey in the distance. One of those mega cruise ships floated north toward the piers off Twelfth Avenue, in the fifties. Passengers on deck waved. Even though there was no way they could see into this building, Kat waved back.

Martin Bork entered the room and gave a tight “Good afternoon.”

Kat had expected Bork to be some fat cat with plump fingers, a tight collar, and a stroke-red flush in his skin. Wrong. Bork was short and wiry, almost like a bantamweight boxer, with olive-toned skin. She guessed his age at a youthful fifty. He wore funky designer glasses that would probably have worked better on a younger guy. There was a smoothness to his face that indicated some kind of cosmetic treatment, and a diamond stud in his left ear that traveled quickly from hip to desperate.

Bork’s mouth dropped open when he saw Brandon. “My God, what happened to your face?”

“I’m fine,” Brandon said.

“You don’t look fine to me.” He started toward him. “Did someone hit you?”

“He’s fine,” Kat assured him, not wanting to get off track here. “Just a minor accident.”

Bork looked dubious, but there was nowhere else to go with this. “Let’s sit.”

He took the seat at the head of the table. Kat and Brandon grabbed the two chairs closest to him. It felt weird, three people at a table that could probably hold thirty.

Bork spoke to Kat first. “I’m not sure why you’re here, Miss . . . ?”

“Donovan. Detective Donovan. NYPD.”

“Yes, sorry about that. I don’t quite understand why you’re a part of this, though. Are you here in some official capacity?”

“Not yet,” she said. “This is more informal.”

“I see.” Bork put both hands together in a prayer gesture. He did not bother looking at Brandon. “And I assume that this has something to do with Brandon’s call to me earlier today.”

“We understand that a quarter of a million dollars had been removed from his mother’s account.”

“Do you have a warrant, Detective?”

“I do not.”

“Then not only am I under no obligation to talk to you, but it would be unethical to say more.”

Kat hadn’t really thought this through. She had come down here buoyed by Brandon’s enthusiasm for his money discovery. Since the ATM withdrawal, there had been no activity on her credit cards or checking accounts. But yesterday, Dana Phelps made a “wire transaction”—that was how it was listed on the online statement—for approximately $250,000.

“You know the Phelps family, correct?”

He still had the prayer position going. Now he leaned it against his nose as though this were a tough question. “Very well.”

“You were friends with Brandon’s father.”

A shadow crossed his face. His voice was suddenly soft: “Yes.”

“In fact,” Kat said, weighing her own words before letting them out, “of all the people the Phelpses could have trusted to handle their affairs, you were the one the family chose. That says a great deal not just for your business acumen—let’s face it, there is no shortage of supposed geniuses down here—but my guess is that they chose you because they trusted you. Because you cared about their well-being.”

Martin Bork let his eyes slide over to Brandon. Brandon just stared back at him. “I care about them very much.”

“And you know that Brandon and his mother are close.”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean that she shares all of her fiduciary matters with him.”

“Yes, she does,” Brandon said, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. “That’s why she gave me the passwords and account numbers. We don’t keep secrets like that.”

“He has a point,” Kat added. “If his mother wanted to transfer money without his knowledge, wouldn’t she have used another account?”

“I can’t say,” Bork said. “Perhaps Brandon should call her.”

“Did you?” Kat asked.

“Pardon?”

“Before you made the transaction. Did you call Mrs. Phelps?”

“She called me,” he said.

“When?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss—”

“Could you call her now?” Kat asked. “I mean, just to double-check.”

“What’s going on here?”

“Just call her, okay?”

“What will that prove?”

“Uncle Marty?” All eyes turned to Brandon. “I haven’t heard from her in five days. It’s like she just disappeared.”

Bork gave Brandon a look that aimed to be sympathetic but landed firmly in the patronizing camp. “Don’t you think it’s time to cut the apron strings, Brandon? Your mother has been lonely for a long time.”

“I know that,” Brandon snapped. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“I’m sorry.” Bork started to rise. “For reasons both legal and ethical, I can’t help you.”

So much for trying the nice route. “Sit down, Mr. Bork.”

He stopped mid-rise and looked at her, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“Brandon, wait out in the hall.”

“But—”

“Go,” Kat said.

She didn’t need to tell him twice. Brandon was out the door, leaving Kat alone with Martin Bork. Bork was still half standing, his mouth agape.

“I said sit down.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Bork asked. “I’ll have your badge.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one. The badge threat. Are you going to call the mayor or my immediate superior? I love both of those lines too.” She gestured to the phone. “Call Dana Phelps right now.”

“I’m not taking orders from you.”

“Do you really think I’m here as a favor to her kid? This is an ongoing investigation into a dangerous series of crimes.”

“Then show me a warrant.”

“You don’t want a warrant, believe me. You see, warrants require judges and then we have to go through everything, every file in your office, every account—”

“You can’t do that.”

True. It was a bluff, but what the hell. Better to come off a little crazy, a little unhinged. Kat lifted the receiver. “I’m asking you to make one call.”

Bork hesitated for a moment. Then he took out his smartphone, found Dana Phelps’s mobile number, and dialed it. Kat heard it ring once and then the voice mail picked up. Dana Phelps’s happy voice asked the caller to leave a brief message. Bork hung up.

“She’s probably on the beach,” he said.

“Where?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

“Your client transferred a quarter of a million dollars out of this country.”

“Which is her right.”

Realizing he said too much, Bork blanched as soon as the words came out of his mouth. Kat nodded at the mistake. So the money had been sent out of the country. She hadn’t known that.

“It was completely on the up-and-up,” Bork said, his explanation coming fast. “This company has a protocol with a transfer this substantial. Perhaps in the movies, it can be done with a just a few clicks on a computer. But not here. Dana Phelps made the request. I personally spoke to her on the phone about it.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Do you know where she called from?”

“No. But she called from her own cell phone. I don’t understand. What do you think happened here?”

Kat wasn’t sure how to answer. “I can’t reveal the full extent of my investigation.”

“And I can’t tell you anything without Dana’s permission. She gave me strict instructions to keep this confidential.”

Kat cocked her head. “Didn’t you find that odd?”

“What? Keeping things confidential?” Bork considered that. “Not in this case.”

“How so?”

“It isn’t my job to judge. It is my job to honor the request. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

But Kat still had one major card to play. “I assume you reported this transaction to FinCEN?”

Bork stiffened. Pay dirt, Kat thought. FinCEN stood for the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, a scary division of the Department of the Treasury. FinCEN looks at suspicious financial activity in the hopes of combating money laundering, terrorism, fraud, tax evasion, stuff like that.

“A transaction this big,” Kat said. “It has to send up a red flag, don’t you think?”

Bork tried to play it cool. “I have no reason to suspect that Dana Phelps has done anything illegal.”

“Okay, then you won’t mind me calling Max.”

“Max?”

“He’s my pal with FinCEN. I mean, if everything is on the up-and-up—”

“It is.”

“Cool.” She took out her cell phone. It was another bluff, but an effective one. There was no Max at FinCEN, but then, how hard would it be to report something like this to the Department of the Treasury? She smiled now, trying again to look a bit unhinged. “I got nothing else, so I might as well—”

“There’s no need for that.”

“Oh?”

“Dana . . .” He looked at the door. “I’m betraying a trust here.”

“You can explain it to me,” Kat said, “or you can explain it to Max and his team. Up to you.”

Bork started to bite on his manicured thumbnail. “Dana asked for confidentiality here.”

“To cover up a crime?”

“What? No.” Bork leaned forward and spoke softly. “Off the record?”

“Sure.”

Off the record. Did he think she was a reporter?

“Her transaction, I admit, is rather unconventional. We may indeed file an SAR, though I have thirty days to do it.”

SAR stood for Suspicious Activity Report. By law, a transaction of this size out of the country should require that the financial institution or individual notify the Department of the Treasury. It isn’t written in stone, but the large majority of honest institutions would do it.

“Dana asked for a little time first.”

“What do you mean?”

“Again nothing illegal.”

“Then?”

He looked toward the corridor. “You can’t tell Brandon this.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Dana Phelps specifically requested that no one, especially her son, know about her plans.”

Kat leaned in closer. “My lips are sealed.”

“I wouldn’t be telling you any of this—in fact, I shouldn’t be—but my job is also to protect my clients and my business. I don’t know what Dana would say, but my feeling is that she would not want her confidential wire transfer—one that her child should have never seen, by the way—scrutinized by the Department of the Treasury. Not because it is illegal. But because that could present a host of problems and attention.”

Kat waited. Bork wasn’t really talking to her right now. He was talking to himself, trying to find a justification to give her information.

“Dana Phelps is buying a house.”

Kat wasn’t sure what she was expecting him to say, but that wasn’t it. “What?”

“In Costa Rica. Five-bedroom beach villa on the Peninsula Papagayo. Stunning. Right on the Pacific Ocean. The man she’s traveling with? He proposed.”

Kat just sat there. The word proposed turned into a stone and dropped down some internal mine shaft. She could see it all—the gorgeous stretch of beach, the coconut trees (were there coconut trees in Costa Rica? Kat didn’t know), Jeff and Dana strolling hand in hand, a gentle kiss, lounging together on a hammock as the sun set in the distance.

“You have to understand,” Bork continued. “Dana has not had it easy since her husband’s death. She raised Brandon by herself. He wasn’t an easy kid. His father’s death . . . it really affected him. I won’t get into more details than that, but now that Brandon’s in college, well, Dana is ready for a life of her own. You can understand that, I’m sure.”

Kat head spun. She tried to push away thoughts of a life in a beach villa and concentrated on the task at hand. What had the last text Dana sent her son said again? Something about having a great time and a big surprise . . .

“Anyway, Dana is getting married. She and her new husband may even decide to move down there permanently. Naturally, this is not news she wants to break to Brandon over the phone. That’s why she’s been incommunicado.”

Kat said nothing, still trying to process. A proposal. A beach villa. Not wanting to tell her son on the phone. Did all that add up?

It did.

“So Dana Phelps, what, wired the money to the home owner?”

“No, she transferred the money to herself. The real estate transaction involves some complicated local issues that require a level of discretion. It isn’t my job to pry further than that. Dana opened a legal account in Switzerland and wired money from another account to fund it.”

“She opened a Swiss bank account in her name?”

“Which is perfectly legal.” Then: “But no, not in her name.”

“Whose name, then?”

Bork was working on that manicured thumbnail again. It was amazing how all men, no matter how successful, still have the little-boy insecurity in them. Finally, he said, “No name.”

She understood now. “A numbered account?”

“It isn’t as dramatic as it sounds. Most Swiss accounts are numbered. Are you at all familiar with them?”

She sat back. “Pretend I’m not.”

“Numbered accounts are pretty much just what you think—they have a number associated with the account instead of a name. This gives you a great deal of privacy—not just for criminals, but even the most honest people who don’t want their financial situations known. Your money is safe and secure.”

“And secret?”

“To some degree, yes. But not like it used to be. The United States government now can, and does, find out about the account. Everyone looks out for criminal wrongdoing and has to report it. And the secrecy only goes so far. Many people foolishly believe that no one knows whose numbered account belongs to whom. That’s ridiculous, of course. Select employees of the bank know.”

“Mr. Bork?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like the bank name and number.”

“It won’t do you any good. Even I can’t say for sure what name is associated with that number. If you somehow take out a warrant for information, the Swiss bank will tie you up for years. So if you want to prosecute Dana Phelps for some petty crime—”

“I have no interest in prosecuting Dana Phelps. You have my word on that.”

“Then what’s this all about?”

“Give me the number, Mr. Bork.”

“And if I don’t?”

She lifted her phone. “I can still call Max.”

Chapter 22

On the way out, Kat called Chaz and gave him the Swiss bank and account number. She could almost hear his frown over the phone.

“What the hell do you want me to do with it?” Chaz asked.

“I don’t know. It’s a new account. Maybe we can find out if there’s any new activity on it.”

“You’re joking, right? An NYPD cop asking for information from a major Swiss bank?”

He had a point. This was indeed the long shot of all long shots. “Just send the number to Treasury. I got a source named Ali Oscar. If anyone issues an SAR or whatever in the future, maybe it will get a hit.”

“Yeah, okay. Got it.”

Brandon was oddly quiet on the subway back uptown. Kat had expected him to be all over her, demanding to know why he had to leave and what Martin Bork had told her. He hadn’t. He sat in the subway car, deflated, shoulders slumped. He let his body sway and rock without putting up the least resistance.

Kat sat next to him. She imagined her own body language wasn’t much better. She let the truth sink in slowly. Jeff had proposed. Or should she call him Ron now? She hated the name Ron. Jeff was a Jeff. He wasn’t a Ron. Did people really call him that now? Like “Hey, Ron!” Or “Look, there goes Ronnie!” Or “Yo, It’s Ronald, the Ronster, Ronamama . . .”

Why the hell choose the name Ron?

Dumb thoughts, but there you go. It kept her mind off the obvious. Eighteen years was a long time. Old Jeff had been so antimaterialistic in the day, but New Ron was crazy in love with an über-rich widow who was buying him a house in Costa Rica. She made a face. Like he was her boy toy or something. Ugh.

When they first met, Jeff was renting this wonderful craphole overlooking Washington Square. His mattress had been on the floor. There was always noise. The pipes shrieked through the walls when they weren’t leaking. The place always looked like a bomb had just exploded in it. When Jeff was writing a story, he’d get every photograph he could on the subject and randomly thumbtack them to the walls. There was no organization to the process. The mess, he said, inspired him. It looked, Kat countered, like when the cops on TV break into the killer’s hidden room and find pictures of the victims everywhere.

But it felt so right with him. Everything—from the smallest, most mundane activity to the crescendo, if you will, of making love—felt true and perfect with him. She missed that wonderful craphole. She missed the mess and the photographs on the wall.

God, how she had loved him.

They got off on 66th Street near Lincoln Center. There was a chill in the night air. Brandon still seemed lost in his thoughts. She let him stay there. When they got back to Kat’s apartment—she really didn’t think it would be good for him to be on his own right now—she asked, “Are you hungry?”

Brandon shrugged. “Guess so.”

“I’ll order a pizza,” Kat said. “Pepperoni okay?”

Brandon nodded. He collapsed into a chair and stared at window. Kat called La Traviata Pizzeria and placed the order. She took the chair across from him.

“You’re awfully quiet, Brandon.”

“I was just thinking,” he said.

“About?”

“My dad’s funeral.”

Kat waited. When he didn’t say anything more, Kat prodded gently. “What about it?”

“I was thinking about Uncle Marty’s—that’s what I call Mr. Bork—I was thinking about his eulogy. Not so much what he said, though it was really nice, but what I remember most was when it was over, he kinda rushed out of the chapel or whatever you call it. So he finished and he hurried out. I followed him. I don’t know. I was still blocking on the whole thing. It was like I was just at some service and I was removed and it had nothing to do with me. Does that make any sense?”

Kat remembered the numbness at her own father’s funeral. “Sure.”

“Anyway, I found him in some back office. The lights were out. I could barely see him, but I could hear him. I guess he held it together for the eulogy but lost it after. Uncle Marty was on his knees and crying his eyes out. I just stood in the doorway. He didn’t know I was watching him. He thought he was alone.”

Brandon looked up at Kat.

“Uncle Marty told you that my mother called him, right?”

“Right.”

“He wouldn’t lie about that.”

Not sure what else to say, Kat went with “That’s good to know.”

“Did he tell you why she moved the money?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not going to tell me.”

“He said your mother asked for confidentiality.”

Brandon kept his eyes on the window.

“Brandon?”

“My mom dated another guy. Not someone she met online. He lived in Westport.”

“When was this?”

Brandon shrugged. “Maybe two years after my father died. His name was Charles Reed. He was divorced. He had two kids who lived with their mom in Stamford. He got them on the weekends and some night during the week, I don’t know.”

“So what happened?”

“Me,” Brandon said. “I happened.” A strange smile came to his face. “When you visited Detective Schwartz, did he tell you I’d been arrested?”

“He said there had been some incidents.”

“Yeah, well, they cut me a lot of slack, I guess. See, I didn’t want my mom dating anyone. I kept picturing, you know, this guy taking over for my dad—living in my dad’s house, sleeping on his side of the bed, using my dad’s closet and drawers, parking his car in my dad’s spot. You know what I mean?”

“Of course,” Kat said. “Those feelings are natural.”

“So that’s when I started ‘acting out’”—he made finger quotes—“as my therapist used to say. I got suspended from school. I slashed a neighbor’s tires. When the police would bring me home, I’d be smiling. I wanted her to suffer. I’d tell my mom it was all her fault. I’d tell her I was doing this because she was betraying my father.” He blinked hard and rubbed his chin. “One night, I called her a whore.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing,” Brandon said with a faraway chuckle. “She didn’t say a word. She just stood there and stared at me. I will never forget the look on her face. Never. But it didn’t stop me. I just kept at it until, well, Charles Reed was gone.”

Kat leaned toward him. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I blew that for her. He was a nice enough guy, I guess. Maybe he would have made her happy. So I’m asking you, Kat. Am I doing that to her again?” Brandon turned and met her gaze. “Am I screwing this up for my mom, like I did last time?”

Kat tried to step back and look at it like, well, a detective. What did they really have? A mother goes away and doesn’t contact her son. If that had been out of character or unusual, hadn’t Martin Bork clarified her reasons for that? As for the ATM transaction and surveillance tape, what had Kat really found? A black limousine and a driver waiting for her—which perfectly fit into the explanation Dana Phelps had given her regular limo company: Her boyfriend had sent the limousine for her.

Take another cold, hard step back: What evidence did they have that Dana Phelps was in trouble?

None.

Brandon was a scared kid. He had loved his father and felt that his mother dating other men was a betrayal. Naturally, he would twist what he saw into some kind of conspiracy.

So what was Kat’s excuse?

Sure, some of Jeff’s behavior might be considered bizarre. But so what? He had changed his name and was living his life. He had made it clear that he didn’t want to go back to the past. Kat had been hurt. So, naturally, she too saw conspiracy rather than rejection. The past—her father, her ex-fiancé—was all coming back at her in a rush.

There was nothing more to discuss. It was time to put this behind her. If the man Dana Phelps ran off with had been someone other than Jeff, she would have let this go a long time ago. The problem was—a problem she had really never wanted to face—she had never let Jeff go. Yes, this thought was a corny “ugh,” but in her heart (if not her mind) it had been because they were somehow destined to be together, that life would take some weird twists and turns, but somehow—and no, she never consciously thought this—she and Jeff would end up back together. But now, sitting on the floor, eating pizza with Brandon, Kat realized there was probably more to it. Yes, it had been a period of her life of so much upheaval, so much raw, concentrated emotion, but more than that, it had all been cut off before its time. It felt incomplete.

Falling in love, the murder of her father, the breakup, the capture of the murderer—all of it demanded some sort of closure, but she never got it. In her heart, when she looked past all the ridiculous lies she’d told herself, Kat had never really understood why Jeff ended it. She had never understood why her father was murdered or why she had never believed that Cozone ordered a hit carried out by Leburne. Her life hadn’t just taken detours or even gone off the rails. It was as though the rails had vanished beneath her.

A person needs answers. A person needs them to make some kind of sense.

They finished the pizza in record time. Brandon was still groggy from the earlier assault. She blew up the air mattress and gave him some pain meds she had picked up at the twenty-four-hour pharmacy. He fell asleep quickly. She watched him for a while, wondering how he would handle his mother’s upcoming big news.

Kat slipped under the covers of her bed. She tried to read, but it was pointless. The words on the page swam by in a meaningless haze. She put the book away and lay in the dark. Concentrate on the possible, she thought. Dana Phelps and “Ron Kochman” were beyond her reach.

The truth about her father’s murder, even after eighteen years, still needed to be unearthed. Focus on that.

Kat closed her eyes and fell into a deep, black sleep. When her phone rang, it took some time to swim back up to consciousness. She reached blindly for her phone and put it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Kat. It’s John Glass.”

She was still groggy. The digital clock read 3:18 A.M. “Who?”

“Officer Glass from the Central Park Precinct.”

“Oh, right, sorry. You know that it’s three in the morning, right?”

“Yeah, well, I’m an insomniac.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not,” Kat said.

“We caught the guy who assaulted Brandon Phelps. Just as we suspected. He’s homeless. No ID on him. He won’t talk.”

“I appreciate the update, but I’m thinking it could have waited until the morning.”

“Normally, I’d agree,” Glass said, “except for one weird thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The homeless guy.”

“What about him?” Kat asked.

“He’s asking for you.”

 • • •

Kat threw on workout clothes, wrote Brandon a note in case he woke up, and jogged north the twenty blocks to the Central Park Precinct. John Glass met her at the front door, still in uniform.

“You want to explain?” he said to her.

“Explain what?”

“Why he asked for you.”

“Maybe I should see who he is first?”

He spread his hand. “This way.”

Their footsteps echoed through the near-empty bulletproof glass atrium. From Glass’s brief description on the phone, Kat had some idea of who would be waiting for her in the holding cell. When they arrived, Aqua was doing his tight-formation pace. His fingers plucked at his lower lip. It was an odd thing. Kat tried to remember the last time she had seen him in something other than yoga pants or at least women’s clothes. She couldn’t. But right now, Aqua wore beltless jeans that sagged like an insecure teenager’s. His shirt was torn flannel. His once-white sneakers were a shade of brown you might achieve if you’d buried them in mud for a month.

“Do you know him?” Glass asked.

Kat nodded. “His real name is Dean Vanech, but everyone calls him Aqua.”

Aqua kept pacing, arguing under his breath with some unseen foe. There was no sign that he had heard them enter.

“Any clue why he’d attack your boy?”

“None.”

“Who’s Jeff?” Glass asked.

Kat’s head spun toward him. “What?”

“He keeps muttering about some guy named Jeff.”

Kat shook her head, swallowed. “Can I have a few minutes alone with him?”

“Like for an interrogation?”

“He’s an old friend.”

“So, like his attorney?”

“I’m asking a favor, Glass. We’ll do the right thing here, don’t worry.”

Glass shrugged a “suit-yourself” and left the room. The holding cells were made of Plexiglas rather than bars. The whole precinct was simply too sleek for her—more like a movie set than a real precinct. Kat took a step forward and knocked to get his attention. “Aqua?”

His pace picked up speed, as though he could outrun her.

She spoke a little louder. “Aqua?”

He stopped all at once and turned toward her. “I’m sorry, Kat.”

“What’s going on, Aqua?”

“You’re mad at me.”

He started to cry. She would have to take this slow or lose him completely.

“It’s okay. I’m not mad. I just want to understand.”

Aqua closed his eyes and sucked in a long deep breath. He released it and did it again. Breathing was, of course, a huge part of yoga. He seemed to be trying to center himself. Finally, he said, “I followed you.”

“When?”

“After we talked. Remember? You went to O’Malley’s. You wanted me to go too.”

“But you didn’t want to go in,” she said.

“Right.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “Too many old ghosts in there, Kat.”

“They were good times too, Aqua.”

“And now they’re dead and gone,” he said. “Now they haunt us.”

Kat needed him to stay on track here. “So you followed me.”

“Right. You left with Stacy.” He smiled for a moment. “I like Stacy. She’s a gifted student.”

Terrific, Kat thought. Even cross-dressing schizophrenic gay men found Stacy intoxicating. “You were following me?” she asked.

“Right. I changed and waited down the street. I wanted to talk to you some more or just, I don’t know, I just wanted to make sure you got out of that place okay.”

“Out of O’Malley’s?”

“Of course.”

“Aqua, I go to O’Malley’s five days a week.” She stopped herself. Track. Stay on track. “So you followed us.”

He smiled and sang in his beautiful falsetto, “I am the walrus, koo kook kachoo.”

Kat started putting some of it together. “You followed us into the park. To Strawberry Fields. You saw me talking to Brandon.”

“Did more than see,” he said.