We head out, and the partner doesn’t say goodbye.
‘What happened to Scott?’ I ask. ‘You say you think he was murdered?’
‘Can’t tell you much, Molly,’ says Martinez. ‘Seemed like a nice kid, real future ahead of him. Varsity athlete, excellent grade average. Hell of a shame.’
‘I always heard stories about New York as a kid,’ I say, stepping out into the sunlight of the street with Martinez. ‘How dangerous it could be, gangs and drug dealers and organised crime. But I always thought they were exaggerations, you know? It really is dangerous here. It really is.’
‘It’s dangerous everywhere, Molly,’ he says. ‘It’s not New York, it’s people. Never underestimate the capabilities of a person, no matter how reasonable or normal they seem. It’s not any particular city that’s evil. It’s the people who live there.’
Chapter 41
Returning to my hotel room takes time because I have to check I’m not being followed. Every three or four blocks I take a walk into a fast food restaurant or a sunglasses shop, and leave via a different exit. I use ladies’ bathrooms so men aren’t able to follow me. If there are women following me then I’ll lose them in the labyrinthine clothes sections of mid-price department stores, walking behind racks and into changing rooms, joining lines to pay, then taking the back street exits.
The Ritz-Carlton is my sanctuary, real or perceived. It’s real in a way because nobody apart from James Kandee and his team, whose interests are almost completely aligned with my own, knows I’m staying here. I still pay for my single room at the Bedfordshire Midtown Hostel, and I still keep some of my belongings there. Each day I visit on my way to wherever I’m going and I make sure to move the sheets around. Sometimes I even dampen a towel and hang it on the rail next to my tourist poncho and my spare sweater.
When I get to my suite I feel hot. Not feverish, although this is similar. I’m hot because I’ve reached that mental tipping point where I’ve taken so many micro-steps to cover my tracks and throw people off the scent that it’s exhausting to remember all the details. The human brain wants to forget these things. Grey matter excels at retaining useful facts, skills, memories attached to feelings and pleasant recollections; but logistical details are there to be deleted after they’ve been utilised. I work to go back methodically over my tracks – all the steps I have taken, times and dates, lies, contingencies – to reassure myself that I haven’t made any errors, that I’m safe. Scott being found so quickly was not part of the plan. This will have consequences. So now I need to refocus. Redouble my attention. It’s a coping mechanism I use to cool back down. Work through exactly how all the risks were countered. And then, after some time has passed, after I have reassured myself with facts and mental timelines, I start to feel almost normal again.
The TV news stations periodically mention the body of a twenty-two-year-old Columbia student found unresponsive in the Sofitel hotel on West 44th Street. I want to watch each and every bulletin but I ration myself. I slog through other shows, one on gardening, another on cooking, then a documentary on the Appalachian trail, and then a news show. I want to know what the newsreaders know, or at least what they think they know. The details they are sharing. But I can’t simply listen to the news on a loop. Hotel rooms are well soundproofed, I know that now, but I’m still cautious of a maid or a neighbour listening in. Why does that woman watch back-to-back news shows about the man who died in the Sofitel? Is that level of interest normal? So I ration myself. It’s a risk factor, albeit a slight one, so I manage it best I can.
After a long, hot bath, and an hour of in-room stretching and exercises facing the kaleidoscopic tones of Central Park, I set out into the world.
My instinct is to only walk the streets I have walked before. To visit a Starbucks because I’ve already been there, and because it’s a chain that serves millions of customers each month so maybe it’s more likely to be safe. But today I choose to walk the other way. I head towards Roosevelt Island, that needle-thin strip of land separating Manhattan Island from Queens. I find an independent coffee shop adjacent to a synagogue and I order a toasted panini and a hot chocolate.
My seat choice is optimal. At the rear, by an emergency exit; solid planter close by that I could use for concealment in the event of a gunfight.
I lied to Martinez.
I told him my British Airways single ticket to London Heathrow was flexible but it is not. It’s the cheapest ticket available. Economy. I’m not sure why I lied. There was no upside to the lie, no plan. It isn’t like me. It was irrational.