I walk home, tired, treading over the obliterated remains of a jack-o’-lantern left out on 57th Street. The crowds have thinned and the morning light is starting to reveal itself.
Bath.
Bed.
I wake at eleven and order room service. Canadian bacon, free-range eggs, La Colombe coffee, orange juice with ice. It’s nice that I can trust the ice. It’s one less thing to worry about.
The wrongs, I realise, in the most part have now been righted.
I take a bite of crispy bacon and dip it into an egg until the yolk bursts. It’s top quality. All the food here is top quality. It’s not going to be easy adapting back to powdered soups and microwave meals. But I’ll manage. There will be a period of post-Ritz adjustment and then I’ll be fine. The forty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars I’m still in possession of should cushion the blow.
Nothing relevant on the news channels.
Maybe the story will break after I’ve left, just as it did last time. There is no better alibi than being halfway across the world. Of course, my alibi is weaker this time as I’m known to have been in Manhattan recently. It’s not as perfect. But I have enough layers of subterfuge to hide what I did. I have layers within the layers. I was careful.
It was easier before because I wasn’t in the system. When the police checked where I was on KT’s death day, they would most probably, using their contacts and data, have seen that I’d never applied for, nor been issued, an ESTA visa waiver. They had no record of my fingerprints as I’d never travelled through US customs or immigration channels. They might, using their contacts in Europe, have ascertained that my passport had never once been used to cross an international border. I was one of many people who never leave their home country. I was in the UK on the day KT died. I didn’t fly to New York privately then fly back to London then fly on a commercial airline back to New York. Nobody would do a thing like that.
The world outside is preparing itself for the New York marathon. There are signs up all around New York explaining which roads will be closed and at what times. There are colour-coded routes for élite runners and standard runners. I’ve decided to fly back the day after the marathon. Part of me wanted to leave earlier, today, to simplify things, to mitigate risk, but the view from my suite window is too scintillating to resist. I’ll do what KT would have done. I’ll live life. The telescope on my window ledge, combined with minibar and room service, means I have the best view of the twenty-six-mile-mark finishing line in all of New York. That’s just too good a chance to give up.
Approximately one quarter of my cash is stashed behind a plug socket by my bed. I used my multi-tool to ease out the plug and then I inserted the roll of notes in the cavity before tightening it back up. One quarter is hidden beneath a piece of carpet, itself hidden and weighed down by my luxurious king-size bed. I sliced the carpet with a razor blade. It took considerable time and patience. The bump is almost imperceptible. You’d never notice it. One quarter is located inside a large torch I bought from Macy’s. The torch has no batteries, just a roll of twelve thousand dollars in used bills. And the other quarter is on my person right now as I wander down Park Avenue. Some in each sock. More in my bra. Some concealed in a zip pocket inside my coat. I have sixty bucks in my main pocket in case I get attacked. You must always have mugger money.
I find the corner store I’m looking for, but there are too many people and I get a bad vibe from the place. I walk on past Madison and head west.
Past St Patrick’s Cathedral, past Barnes & Noble, past Washington Square Park. This city has a grip on me. The next two years – my final two years, statistically speaking – living them out quietly but fruitfully, I’ll think of this place often.
My phone rings.
‘Molly Raven?’
‘Molly, it’s Detective Martinez. Listen, where are you right now?’
‘What? I’m in the Village, I think. Greenwich, maybe, I’m not sure of the areas just yet.’
‘I’m coming to pick you up.’
‘What?’ I start sweating, looking around for an exit. ‘Why?’
‘For your own protection, Molly, that’s all. There’s been an incident. I’ll explain when I see you. Can you get to the corner of Seventh and 33rd, Penn Station? Can you get there?’
‘Yeah, I can find it.’
I hear some banging. A door closing.
‘Be there in thirty minutes.’
Chapter 40
The unmarked car pulls up and the window winds down.