“East.”
I glance down across the street in the direction where he’s pointing. “Into the park?”
“Yep.”
“Every time?”
“Every time. I figured he was taking a walk. Like I said. Strange time, and I know the park is a lot safer now than it used to be, but you wouldn’t see me strolling around in there at four in the morning.”
I think about this. Four a.m. I wonder whether that is a clue.
I think it is.
“When was the last time you saw him going out like that?” I ask.
“Recently. Last week maybe. Or the week before.”
I realize that would have been the day before he was murdered. Ry Strauss goes out for his usual Thursday morning four a.m. walk. On Friday he goes out again, for the first time in forever during the daytime, and comes back with in all likelihood his killer.
I have a plan.
* * *
I stand in the shadows across the street from Malachy’s.
The time is four a.m. By law, New York City bars must stop serving alcohol at four a.m. Coincidence? I, for one, hope not.
They say New York is the city that never sleeps. That may be true, but right about now, her eyes are blinking closed and her head is nodding in exhaustion. My lizard brain, that survival instinct, is wary of shutting itself down. It prefers preparedness. Even as I move about my day, the lizard brain seeks out potential (or erroneously perceived) enemies and threats.
I stay hidden and watch Malachy’s door. I have changed into jogging attire and a sweatshirt with a hood. No, it’s not a hoodie. It’s a sweatshirt with a hood. I would never wear a hoodie. I am patient. I wear earphones. I’m listening to a playlist Kabir created for me featuring Meek Mill, Big Sean, and 21 Savage. Somewhere in the past year or two, after initially scoffing at what I could not comprehend, I have to come to love what we call rap or hip-hop. I know that this music, like Malachy’s Pub, was not created for me, but the underlying anger appeals. I also enjoy the humanism in the desperate posturing and bravado; they want to appear tough but their neediness and insecurity shine through so brightly I assume they must know that we are in on the joke.
Right now, as Kathleen and a male bartender lock up for the night, Meek Mill is bemoaning the fact that he can’t trust women because he has issues.
I hear you, my troubled friend.
Kathleen waves goodbye to the bartender. He heads west toward Broadway, probably to the One train. Kathleen crosses Columbus Avenue and continues to walk with purpose east on Seventy-Second Street. She lives, I know from Kabir’s research, on Sixty-Eighth near West End Avenue.
In short, she is not going home.
I follow from across the street. Two minutes later, she walks past the Dakota and crosses into Central Park. At this hour, the park is pretty much abandoned. I see no one else. Trailing her will be more difficult. We all possess lizard brains, don’t we? And in a situation when you are a woman alone in a park and a man in a hooded sweatshirt, however tasteful that hooded sweatshirt may be, is following you, you take notice.
When she heads north on the sidewalk running along what is simply called the Lake, I take a parallel path west of her that goes through the brush. This path is dark and in some ways not the safest at night, but one, I am always armed, and two, if you are any sort of experienced mugger, you wouldn’t set to pounce in an area so remote that you’d have to wait days, weeks, or months for a profitable target to happen by, would you?
I lose sight of Kathleen for seconds at a time, but so far, this appears to be working. She is making her way north toward the entrance to the wildlife thicket known as the Ramble on the north shore of the Lake. The Ramble is a nearly forty-acre protected natural reserve with winding paths and old bridges and a tremendous variety of topography and fauna and the like. There is bird-watching, yes, but in a less enlightened day, the Ramble was best known for hosting homosexual encounters. It was a spot where gay men would “cruise,” as we used to say. It was supposedly the safest place to avoid being assaulted by those who meant them harm, which is to say, of course, it hadn’t been very safe at all.
Kathleen stops on the bridge that crosses over the Lake and into the heart of the Ramble. The moon glistens off the water, and I can see her silhouette. A minute passes. She doesn’t move. There is no reason to pretend anymore.
I come down the path. Kathleen hears my approach and turns expectantly.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say when she sees me.
Kathleen jolts back a little. “Wait, I know you.”
I don’t reply.
“What the hell, are you following me?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“Ry Strauss won’t be coming tonight.”
“Huh? Who?” But I can see the fear in her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I move closer, so she can see my disappointed frown. “You can do better than that.”
“What do you want?”
“I need your help.”
“With what?”
“Ry was murdered.”
I just say it like that, too matter-of-factly. Breaking bad news is not my forte.
“He was…?”
“Murdered, yes.”
Tears push into her eyes. Kathleen makes a fist and places the back of it against her mouth to stifle a cry. I wait, give her a moment or two. She puts the fist down and blinks into the moonlight.
“Did you kill him?” she asks me.
“No.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“If that were my plan, you’d be dead by now.”
That doesn’t seem to comfort her much.
“What do you want with me?”
“I need your help,” I repeat.
“With what?”
“With trying to catch his killer.”
CHAPTER 13
Kathleen doesn’t say a word as we head back down Central Park toward Seventy-Second Street and my abode. The gate over the arch entrance of the Dakota is locked for the night. I ring the bell. Tom comes out and unlocks it for me. He’s used to seeing me bring women back here at all hours, though not as many in recent years, but I think Kathleen’s advanced age surprises him.
We head through a courtyard with two fountains and take the elevator up to my apartment overlooking the park. Some people are intimidated by this place. She is not one of them. She used the walk over here to regain her bearings. She moves straight toward the window and looks out. Kathleen moves with confidence, head high, eyes dry. Her clothes are wrinkled from a long night, the blouse is still working-barmaid-one-button-too-low at the neckline. I bought this apartment fully furnished from a famed composer who lived here for thirty years. You may already be conjuring up the layout in your mind’s eyes—dark cherrywood, high ceilings, inlaid woodwork, antique armoires, crystal chandeliers, oversized fireplace with brass tools, ornate silk oriental carpets, red-maroon velvet chairs. If so, you are correct. Myron describes my abode as “Versailles redux,” which is both spot-on in terms of impression and technically incorrect in every way, since I own nothing from that particular geography or era.
I pour Kathleen a cognac and hand it to her.
“How did you know?” she asks.