I choose a walk in the Upper East Side.
It’s picturesque. The cool people might hang out in Williamsburg or East Harlem, they may favour some hip new place in Corona, Queens, but the streets above 59th, east of the park and west of Second Avenue, are a haven for the risk-averse. Quiet, clean blocks with not a single dangerous-looking tenement or street corner. Women in long coats and doormen with hats. It’s not cutting-edge here, it’s sterile and sanitised.
My phone rings.
‘Molly, I don’t know who to call. It’s the police, the cops.’
‘Slow down, Violet, I can’t hear you. What’s wrong?’
‘They want to talk to me. Oh, God, about Scottie; they want to interview me or something. Do I need a lawyer or will that look bad? Would you hire a lawyer? How do I do this?’
‘You don’t need to be afraid,’ I say. ‘They’ve already talked to me. They’re just trying to figure out who was where, who was doing what. They’re looking for clues is all.’
‘I have no alibi, Molly. I have nothing.’
‘You probably do, you just don’t know it. You go to a corner shop – sorry, a bodega? Did you leave to buy milk or something? You see a neighbour? A takeaway delivery driver?’
‘No.’ Her voice is strained. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Shit, I was home all night like I always am on Halloween. That shit freaks me out. I was home on my own. I ate frozen pizza and re-watched Gattaca. Read for an hour or so. They’re not going to believe me, are they? They’ll arrest me, right? Charge me?’
‘Calm down,’ I say. ‘Take a deep breath, I’m serious.’
‘I’m serious,’ she says. ‘The police sounded very fucking serious.’
‘If they thought you’d killed Scott they would have turned up in a car and arrested you. You’re a witness, someone with information, that’s all.’
‘You’re right!’ she says, her voice lifting. ‘Of course you’re right, Molly. I know you’re right. Jesus, they’d have cuffed me by now if they thought I’d murdered him. Yes? Of course, you’re right. What would I do without you? I’m such a dummy.’
‘You feel better now?’
I head north past 66th Street. The houses are grand up here.
‘A little,’ she says, sighing. ‘A little better. When’s your flight tomorrow, Molly? I want to come to the airport and say goodbye.’
‘Come out to JFK? You don’t have to do that. You’re sweet.’
‘I want to, really. If you don’t think I’ll ever see you again, well, I’d like to wave you goodbye is all.’
‘I’ll get there around six.’
‘What terminal?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll text you it . . . but you really don’t need to come.’
‘I know I don’t need to, I want to.’
‘That’s really nice. Oh, and Violet . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘If you feel uncomfortable when they’re questioning you, just ask for a lawyer. They’ll stop and appoint one for you. They have to, it’s the rules. You can do this.’
We say goodbye.
They might question her about Scott’s murder but they won’t charge her. There’s no risk she’ll be convicted. Beads of sweat run down my back. Maybe I did too much, too fast? I should have slowed down and been more methodical. I look up to the sky and take a deep breath. If I’d wanted her charged I’d have plucked a hair from her head when she was asleep in my Ritz-Carlton bed, root and all, and I’d have planted it in the Sofitel room. Or maybe I’d have offered her a bottle of water – she was hungover so she’d have taken it – and then placed that in the Sofitel. To be honest I considered both options. But then I decided it would be grossly disproportionate. The right must fit the wrong. Balance is necessary – nature abhors imbalances. Violet lost Scott, and that was sufficient. More than that would have been unconscionable.
I cross Park Avenue and on towards the children’s zoo in Central Park. I need to be careful. There are road barricades and volunteers everywhere, preparing for the first runners to come through.
A van drives ahead of me, then indicates and slowly pulls over.
The doors at the rear of the van push open.
It’s a man in a dark suit.
Inside his jacket I see his hand resting on a gun.
Chapter 45
I turn to run the other way and he says, ‘DeLuca sent me.’