Gone Tomorrow

‘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 kerb 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-coloured 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.

600-8221 9-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 ru

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 co

‘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 per cent 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.’

TWENTY

I TOOK THE TRAIN FROM PENN STATION. MORE PUBLIC transportation. Getting there was tense. Just a three-block walk through the crowds, but I was watching for people checking faces against their cell phone screens, and it seemed like the entire world had some kind of an electronic device out and open. But I arrived intact and bought a ticket with cash.

The train itself was full and very different from the subway. All the passengers faced forward, and they were all hidden behind high-backed chairs. The only people I could see were alongside me. A woman in the seat next to me, and two guys across the aisle. I figured all three of them for lawyers. Not major leaguers. Double- or Triple-A players, probably, senior associates with busy lives. Not suicide bombers, anyway. The two men had fresh shaves and all three of them were irritable, but apart from that nothing rang a bell. Not that the D.C. Amtrak would attract suicide bombers anyway. It was tailor-made for a suitcase bomb instead. At Pe

But we got there OK and I made it out to Delaware Avenue unharmed. D.C. was as hot as New York had been, and damper. The sidewalks ahead of me were dotted with knots of tourists. Family groups, mostly, from far and wide. Dutiful parents, sullen children, all dressed in gaudy shorts and T-shirts, maps in their hands, cameras at the ready. Not that I was either well dressed or a frequent visitor. I had worked in the area from time to time, but always on the left of the river. But I knew where I was going. My destination was unmistakable and right there in front of me. The U.S. Capitol. It had been built to impress. Foreign diplomats were supposed to visit during the fledgling days of the Republic and come away convinced that the new nation was a player. The design had succeeded. Beyond it across Independence Avenue were the House offices. At one time I had a rudimentary grasp of congressional politics. Investigations had sometimes led all the way to committees. I knew that the Rayburn Building was full of bloated old hacks who had been in Washington for ever. I figured a relatively new guy like Sansom would have been given space in the Ca

The Ca