Chapter 19

I was still directly across the street from the 14th Precinct’s door when Theresa Lee came out with two guys in blue suits and white button-down shirts. She looked tired. She had caught the call at two in the morning, which put her on the night watch, so she should have quit around seven and been home in bed by eight. She was way into overtime. Good for her bank balance, not so good for anything else. She stood in the sunlight and blinked and stretched and then she saw me on the far sidewalk and did a classic double take. She smacked the guy next to her on the elbow and said something and pointed straight at me. I was too far away to hear her words, but her body language screamed, Hey, that’s him right there, with a big exclamation point in the vehemence of her physical gesture.

The guys in the suits automatically checked left for traffic, which told me they were based in town. Odd-numbered streets run east to west, even numbers run west to east. They knew that, in their bones. Therefore they were local. But they were more used to driving than walking, because they didn’t check for bicycle messengers coming the wrong way. They just hustled across the street, dodging cars, scrambling, splitting up and coming at me from the left and the right simultaneously, which told me they were field-trained to some degree, and in a hurry. I guessed the Crown Vic with the needle antennas was theirs. I stood in the shade and waited for them. They had black shoes and blue ties and their undershirts showed through at the neck, white under white. The left sides of their suit coats bulged more than the right. Right-handed agents with shoulder holsters. They were late thirties, early forties. In their prime. Not rookies, not out to pasture.

They saw that I wasn’t going anywhere, so they slowed up a little and approached me at a fast walk. FBI, I thought, closer to cops than paramilitaries. They didn’t show me ID. They just assumed I knew what they were.

“We need to talk to you,” the left-hand guy said.

“I know,” I said.

“How?”

“Because you just ran through traffic to get here.”

“Do you know why?”

“No idea. Unless it’s to offer me counseling because of my traumatic experience.”

The guy’s mouth set in an impatient scowl, like he was ready to bawl me out for my sarcasm. Then his expression changed a little to a wry smile, and he said, “OK, here’s my counsel. Answer some questions and then forget you were ever on that train.”

“What train?”

The guy started to reply, and then stopped, late to catch on that I was yanking his chain, and embarrassed about looking slow.

I said, “What questions?”

He asked, “What’s your phone number?”

I said, “I don’t have a phone number.”

“Not even a cell?”

“Especially not even,” I said.

“Really?”

“I’m that guy,” I said. “Congratulations. You found me.”

“What guy?”

“The only guy in the world who doesn’t have a cell phone.”

“Are you Canadian?”

“Why would I be Canadian?”

“The detective told us you speak French.”

“Lots of people speak French. There’s a whole country in Europe.”

“Are you French?”

“My mother was.”

“When were you last in Canada?”

“I don’t recall. Years ago, probably.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty much.”

“You got any Canadian friends or associates?”

“No.”

The guy went quiet. Theresa Lee was still on the sidewalk outside the 14th Precinct’s door. She was standing in the sun and watching us from across the street. The other guy said, “It was just a suicide on a train. Upsetting, but no big deal. Shit happens. Are we clear?”

I said, “Are we done?”

“Did she give you anything?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely. Are we done?”

The guy asked, “You got plans?”

“I’m leaving town.”

“Heading where?”

“Someplace else.”

The guy nodded. “OK, we’re done. Now beat it.”

I stayed where I was. I let them walk away, back to their car. They got in and waited for a gap in the traffic and eased out and drove away. I guessed they would take the West Side Highway all the way downtown, back to their desks.

Theresa Lee was still on the sidewalk.

I crossed the street and threaded between two parked blue-and-white prowl cars and stepped up on the curb and stood near her, far enough away to be respectful, close enough to be heard, facing the building so I wouldn’t have the sun in my eyes. I asked, “What was that all about?”

She said, “They found Susan Mark’s car. It was parked way down in SoHo. It was towed this morning.”

“And?”

“They searched it, obviously.”

“Why obviously? They’re making a lot of fuss about something they claim is no big deal.”

“They don’t explain their thinking. Not to us, anyway.”

“What did they find?”

“A piece of paper, with what they think is a phone number on it. Like a scribbled note. Screwed up, like trash.”

“What was the number?”

“It had a 600 area code, which they say is a Canadian cellular service. Some special network. Then a number, then the letter D, like an initial.”

“Means nothing to me,” I said.

“Me either. Except I don’t think it’s a phone number at all. There’s no exchange number and then it has one too many digits.”

“If it’s a special network maybe it doesn’t need an exchange number.”

“It doesn’t look right.”

“So what was it?”

She answered me by reaching behind her and pulling a small notebook out of her back pocket. Not official police issue. It had a stiff black board cover and an elastic strap that held it closed. The whole book was slightly curled, like it spent a lot of time in her pocket. She slipped the strap and opened it up and showed me a fawn-colored page with 600-82219-D written on it in neat handwriting. Her handwriting, I guessed. Information only, not a facsimile. Not an exact reproduction of a scribbled note.

600-82219-D.

“See anything?” she asked.

I said, “Maybe Canadian cell phones have more numbers.” I knew that phone companies the world over were worried about running out. Adding an extra digit would increase an area code’s capacity by a factor of ten. Thirty million, not three. Although Canada had a small population. A big land mass, but most of it was empty. About thirty-three million people, I thought. Smaller than California. And California got by with regular phone numbers.

Lee said, “It’s not a phone number. It’s something else. Like a code or a serial number. Or a file number. Those guys are wasting their time.”

“Maybe it’s not connected. Trash in a car, it could be anything.”

“Not my problem.”

I asked, “Was there luggage in the car?”

“No. Nothing except the usual kind of crap that piles up in a car.”

“So it was supposed to be a quick trip. In and out.”

Lee didn’t answer. She yawned and said nothing. She was tired.

I asked, “Did those guys talk to Susan’s brother?”

“I don’t know.”

“He seems to want to sweep it all under the rug.”

“Understandable,” Lee said. “There’s always a reason, and it’s never very attractive. That’s been my experience, anyway.”

“Are you closing the file?”

“It’s already closed.”

“You happy with that?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Statistics,” I said. “Eighty percent of suicides are men. Suicide is much rarer in the East than the West. And where she did it was weird.”

“But she did it. You saw her. There’s no doubt about it. There’s no dispute. It wasn’t a homicide, cleverly disguised.”

“Maybe she was driven to it. Maybe it was a homicide by proxy.”

“Then all suicides are.”

She glanced up and down the street, wanting to go, too polite to say so. I said, “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

“You leaving town?”

I nodded. “I’m going to Washington, D.C.”