Money to Burn

“If you go to the police,” he said, “we will find you. Talk to anyone, we will find you. The only exception is Vanessa. I want you to tell her exactly what you saw here tonight. Tell her you met Ian Burn, and that he has granted the two of you your final pass. Do you understand?”

I wasn’t sure why he kept using the name Vanessa, or what he meant by giving Ivy and me a pass, but I wasn’t going to push my luck by pressing for information. “I understand.”

Burn stepped away from me and gave a nod to one of his men. Before I could react, I felt the jab of a needle in my thigh and the cold pressure of an injection. The garage was starting to blur as the men walked me back to the van. The rear doors opened. Someone said something-he seemed to be talking to me-but my mind couldn’t process the words. I felt my feet leave the floor, but it was someone else’s doing. They shoved me into the back of the van like a dead animal. I lay there, motionless. I heard the engine start, and there was one more scream-far worse than the earlier ones. The doors closed, the van lurched forward, and then I heard nothing.

45

IT WAS STILL NIGHTTIME WHEN I WOKE ON THE SIDEWALK. MY T-shirt was ripped, but someone had cleaned the goo from my chest. Instinctively, I reached for my cell, but it was gone. I started to get up, then stopped.

Whoa, my head.

I moved slowly. Whatever Burn’s men had injected into my leg was still in my system, but I fought through it. I rose up on one knee, let my head adjust to going vertical, then climbed all the way to my feet. Slowly, things came into focus.

A quiet dead-end street. Red-brick apartment buildings rising up ten or twelve stories on either side. Tree roots pushing up slabs of the concrete sidewalk. Still in a fog, I walked toward the intersection, which was completely without traffic. I had no idea what time it was, but it had to be late. I looked up the street, and the familiar cantilever truss structure of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge told me where I was. A glance back at the green-and-white street sign at the intersection confirmed it: SUTTON PL. I was just a block from my apartment. Mallory’s apartment.

Then I heard that scream again-but only in my mind-and it hit me hard. The body count was now up to four: Rumsey, Bell, Girelli, and now this latest victim in the garage who had undoubtedly died a horrible death tonight. I had to call the police. There was a pay phone on the corner, and I could have just dialed 911 from there.

If you go to the police, we will find you.

The man who called himself Burn could not have made his warning any clearer. Even with the pending divorce, Mallory was still my wife, and I felt a sudden need to know that she was safe. And, admittedly, I was curious about Ivy’s warning-that she’d seen Mallory in a gay bar with another man-the operative word being gay.

Or were the operative words “another man”?

I ran up the street toward our apartment and breezed right past our night doorman in the lobby. He came after me. Mallory had obviously told him about the divorce.

“Where you headed, Mr. Cantella?”

I kept walking toward the elevator. “Personal emergency.”

“I’m going to have to call Mrs. Cantella.”

“You do that,” I said.

One of the elevator doors opened-the other one was still out of service from the flaming package-and I rode up to our apartment. I rang the bell, and the door opened about a foot, stopped by the chain.

“Go away, Michael.”

The voice startled me, and then I realized it was Mallory’s friend, Andrea.

“This is important,” I said.

“It’s one o’clock in the morning. Go away, or I will call the police.”

I realized how bad this looked-the husband on the receiving end of divorce papers showing up at the wife’s door in the middle of the night, just hours after the first court hearing. The ripped T-shirt probably didn’t help my case-powder blue at that, making me look like a cracked Easter egg.

“I got mugged,” I said. “They took my phone, my wallet, everything. I need to come in, call the police, and get some clothes-probably my passport, too, just so I have photo ID.”

The door closed, and I heard them talking inside, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. The chain rattled, and the door opened all the way this time. As I entered, Andrea stepped in front of me, cutting me off. Had the expression on her face been any tougher, she probably would have qualified for Secret Service detail.

She held her cell in hand and said, “If you make one false move toward Mallory, I’m dialing nine-one-one.”

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” I said. “I actually want to make sure she’s safe.”

“She’s fine. We’re watching a movie. Safe from what?”

“Give me your phone, and you’ll find out.”

She pulled back, clutching her phone, as if I’d just asked for her spleen.

Mallory emerged from the TV room with our cordless landline. “Use this one.”

It was the first time she’d made eye contact with me since filing for divorce. Maybe I was kidding myself, but I didn’t see contempt. I could tell she’d been drinking, however.

Andrea took the phone and handed it to me. I punched 9-1-1.

Mallory and her friend stood and listened as I told the dispatcher how the men had thrown me into a van, taken me to a garage that I believed was somewhere in New Jersey, and tortured another man before my eyes. I told her Tony Girelli was dead. I described Burn as best I could, and when I described the victim and what Burn had done to him, Mallory gasped and ran to the other room.

“I’m routing this to a detective,” said the operator. “Is this the best number to reach you at?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Give me a number to call, and I’ll let you know.”

She gave it to me along with an incident reference number. I hung up and gave the phone back to Andrea. She didn’t seem shocked by anything she’d just heard-definitely nowhere near as upset as Mallory.

“I need to talk with my wife,” I told her.

Andrea no longer had her finger on the domestic disturbance panic button, but she followed me into the TV room just in case. Mallory looked scared to death, seated on the couch, and part of me wanted to go to her and tell her that it would all be okay. Andrea sat beside her and squeezed her hand.

“Mallory, can I talk to you alone for a minute?” I asked.

She shook her head firmly. “No.”

We were back to no-eye-contact mode. “Do you mind if I get a few things to take with me?”

“Go ahead.”

I desperately wanted a shower, but I had to settle for a quick stop in the bathroom to sponge away the lingering smell of gasoline from my chest. In the adjoining master bedroom I changed clothes in record time, losing the Wall Street look entirely, just blue jeans and light sweater. I grabbed my passport and a few other essentials, then returned to the TV room.

“Mallory, there is something I have to say.”

She didn’t answer. Andrea was still at her side on the couch, and she shot me a look that said, Say it and go.

“I don’t blame you for wanting to leave me,” I said, trying my best to pretend that it was just me and Mallory in the room. “You deserve a man who loves you with all his heart. But your lawyer’s spin in the courtroom about those e-mails was completely wrong. I don’t have a lover, and I haven’t been plotting to hide any money from you.”

I wanted to ask her about the man Ivy had seen her with, but putting her on the defensive and sounding like the jealous husband wasn’t going to help my immediate cause.

“You came here to tell me that?” she said, her eyes cast downward.

“No,” I said. “I wanted to share some things that will probably make you think I’m crazy. But I’m going to tell you anyway, because I want you to be safe.”