Replay (8 page)

Andrew’s pencil snapped in the palm of his hand.

“Oh, you know, I just get lucky sometimes,” he said. “Let’s meet in an hour.” Then he asked her how the health inspector’s visit had gone, though he already knew the answer.

“It didn’t happen,” Valerie said. “The inspector was in a car crash on the way over. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”

Andrew hung up.

“You’re going to have to play it smart over the next two months if you don’t want anyone getting suspicious,” he told himself out loud.

“Suspicious about what?” Freddy Olson’s head popped up above the cubicle wall.

“Olson, didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s bad manners to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?”

“I don’t see any conversation here, Stilman; you’re just talking to yourself. And since you’re such an observant guy, haven’t you noticed we happen to work in an open space? You need to tone down that voice of yours. Think I enjoy having to listen to you?”

“I bet you do.”

“So? What was all that about, Mr. Soon-to-be-promoted?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on, Stilman. We all know you’re Stern’s protégé. I guess you can’t help being a brownnoser.”

“I know you’re so short on journalistic talent you can’t quite believe you’ve made it into the profession. I’m not casting stones, Olson. If I was as useless as you I’d have my doubts too.”

“Very funny. But that wasn’t what I meant, Stilman. Don’t act stupider than you are.”

“So what
did
you mean, Olson?”

“Think about it. Stilman, Stern . . . both Jewish?”

Andrew stared at Olson. He remembered that in his previous life—the idea was so absurd he was still having trouble getting his head around it—this argument with Olson had happened much earlier in the day; Olivia had still been in her office. But she wasn’t there this time around. Like most of his other colleagues, she had left at least half an hour ago, around 6
P.M
. Andrew’s actions seemed to be altering the order of things, and he decided he might as well take advantage of it. He gave Olson a resounding slap. Olson reeled back and stared at him, mouth agape.

“Shit, I could make a formal complaint, Stilman,” he threatened, rubbing his cheek. “There are security cameras all over this floor.”

“Go right ahead. I’d be happy to explain why you got slapped. I’m sure that particular video would go viral pretty fast.”

“You won’t get off that easy!”

“Try me. Anyway, I’m off—I’ve got to be somewhere else, and you’ve made me waste enough time as it is.”

Andrew grabbed his jacket and walked over to the elevator, giving Olson—who was still standing there holding a hand to his cheek—the finger as he went. He found himself swearing as the elevator descended to the ground floor, but told himself he’d better calm down before he met Valerie. He’d have a hard time explaining to her what had just happened.

* * *

Seated at the counter of the Japanese restaurant in SoHo, Andrew listened to Valerie’s chatter distractedly. Then again, he had the excuse of already knowing the content of her entire conversation. While she told him about her day, he was thinking hard about how he could make the most of the troubling situation he was in.

He bitterly regretted that he had always been so indifferent to the financial news. If he had shown even the slightest interest in it, he could have made a killing on the stock market right now. If only he had memorized a few stock prices for the next few weeks—or rather the past few weeks, as far as he was concerned—he could have invested his savings and made himself a tidy sum. But he had always found Wall Street and its excesses a total bore.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying,” said Valerie accusingly. “What are you thinking about?”

“You’ve just told me that Licorice, one of your favorite horses, has a bad case of tendinitis, and that you’re worried it’s the end of her career with the mounted police. You also said that Officer Thingy who rides her would never get over it if they declared his horse unfit for service.”

Valerie looked at Andrew, speechless.

“What?” he asked. “Isn’t that exactly what you’ve just been telling me?”

“No, it’s exactly what I was just about to tell you. What’s with you today? Did you swallow a crystal ball at breakfast or something?”

Andrew forced himself to smile.

“You might be more absentminded than you think, you know,” he said. “I’m just repeating what you told me. How could I have known all that stuff?”

“That’s exactly what I’m asking you!”

“Maybe you were thinking so loud I heard you even before you said it. Just goes to show how closely we’re connected,” he said, putting on his most disarming smile.

“You phoned the surgery and got Sam, and he told you everything,” she said.

“I don’t know any Sam, and I didn’t call your office.”

“Sam’s my assistant.”

“See, I don’t have a crystal ball. I was sure he was called John,” he said. “Can we change the subject?”

“How was
your
day?”

The question gave Andrew pause for thought. He had died when he was out running this morning; he had come to life again shortly afterwards around a mile away from where he’d been killed and then discovered, to his amazement, that it was two months before the attack. Apart from that, his day had been pretty much the same as when he’d lived it the first time around.

“Long,” he replied tersely. “I’ve had a really long day. So long I almost feel like I lived it twice.”

* * *

Next morning, Andrew found himself alone in the elevator with his editor Olivia. She was standing behind him, but he could make out from her reflection in the doors that she was looking at him strangely—the way people look at you when they’re about to give you bad news. He hesitated, and then smiled.

“Actually,” he said, as if he was picking up a conversation where they’d left off, “before Olson comes tattling to you, I might as well confess I slapped him on my way out yesterday.”

“You what?” Olivia exclaimed.

“That’s right. To be completely honest, I thought you already knew.”

“Why did you do it?”

“The newspaper won’t be involved, don’t worry. And if that moron files a complaint, I’ll take full responsibility.”

Olivia stopped the elevator, then pressed the button for the lobby.

“Where are we going?” Andrew asked.

“To get some coffee.”

“I’ll buy you coffee, but I’m not saying anything more,” Andrew said as the doors opened.

They settled down at a table in the cafeteria. Andrew went to order two mochaccinos and bought himself a ham croissant while he was at it.

“This is so unlike you,” Olivia said.

“It was just a slap. Nothing dramatic. And he deserved it.”

Olivia looked at him and started smiling.

“Did I say something funny?” Andrew asked.

“I should be lecturing you and telling you such behavior is unacceptable and could get you suspended or even cost you your job, but I’m totally incapable of it.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“I wish
I’d
given Olson that slap.”

Andrew refrained from comment, and Olivia changed the subject.

“I’ve read your notes. Good stuff. But it’s not good enough. If I’m going to publish your story, I’ll need concrete facts, irrefutable evidence. I suspect you’ve deliberately watered down your text.”

“Why would I have done that?”

“Because you’re on to something big, and you don’t want to disclose it all to me just yet.”

“That’s a funny thing to assume.”

“I’ve got to know you, Andrew. Let’s make this work for both of us. I agree to your request: you can go back to Argentina. But if you want the paper to cover your expenses, you’ll have to satisfy my curiosity. Have you picked up this man’s trail?”

Andrew looked at his boss for a moment. If there was one thing he had learned on this job, it was that you couldn’t trust anyone. But he knew that if he didn’t give her any information, Olivia wouldn’t let him go back to Buenos Aires. And she’d guessed right: it was only early May and he hadn’t wrapped up the investigation, not by a long shot.

“I think I’m on the right track,” he admitted grudgingly, setting his coffee mug down on the table.

“And, as your notes seem to imply, he was mixed up in this traffic?”

“Hard to say for sure. Several people were mixed up in that business, and folks down there are tight-lipped. It’s still a painful subject for most Argentinians. By the way, since we’re swapping confidences: why are you so hung up on this investigation?”

Olivia stared at him.

“You’ve already tracked him down, haven’t you? You’ve got hold of Ortiz.”

“Maybe. But you’re right—I need some more information before we can go to press with it. That’s why I need to go back there. You haven’t answered my question, by the way.”

Olivia got up, motioning for him to stay on and finish his croissant. “This is your number one priority, Andrew. I want you on this story full-time. I’m giving you exactly one month, and not a day more.”

Andrew watched his boss walking out of the cafeteria. Two thoughts occurred to him. He couldn’t care less about her threats; he knew perfectly well that he’d be leaving for Buenos Aires at the end of the month, and that he’d finish his investigation. But Olivia had caught him unawares during their conversation. He’d had to think twice before saying anything because he wasn’t sure what she was supposed to know and what she didn’t know yet. He had no recollection of giving her his notes, either in this life or his other life that had ended in Hudson River Park. On the other hand, he was pretty sure they hadn’t had this conversation before.

As he headed back to the office, Andrew told himself maybe he shouldn’t have slapped Freddy Olson. He’d have to be careful not to change the course of things from now on.

* * *

Andrew used his lunch break to go for a stroll along Madison Avenue and stopped in front of a jeweler’s window. He wasn’t particularly flush moneywise, but his marriage proposal had a lot more riding on it than the first time. He had felt sheepish about not having the customary ring box on him when he’d gone down on one knee to propose to Valerie at Maurizio’s.

He went into the shop and peered at the display cases. It wasn’t that easy to fool around with the past, to upend the order of events. He recognized the ring Valerie had chosen when they’d gone to buy one, glinting up at him from among ten other rings. And yet Andrew was absolutely certain they hadn’t come to this particular jeweler’s.

He knew exactly how much the ring had cost. So when the jeweler tried to convince him it was twice that price, Andrew said confidently: “This diamond weighs just under 0.95 carats, and though it has quite a sparkle, the cut is old-fashioned and there are several flaws, so I’d expect to pay half of what you’re asking for it.”

Andrew was only repeating what the previous jeweler had explained when he had bought this ring in Valerie’s company. He could remember being touched by his fiancée’s reaction. He had expected her to pick a better-quality stone, but Valerie had slipped the ring on her finger and told the jeweler it was good enough for her.

“So I see two possible explanations,” Andrew said. “Either you made a mistake when you checked the price tag—and I can’t say I blame you, it’s written quite small—or you’re trying to con me. I’d hate to have to write a piece about dishonest jewelers. Did I mention I’m with
The New York Times
?”

The jeweler took another look at the price tag and frowned. Looking very embarrassed, he admitted he had indeed made a mistake, and that the ring was worth exactly the amount Andrew had offered.

They sealed the deal in a most civil manner, and Andrew walked back out on Madison Avenue with a delightful little box nestling in his jacket pocket.

His second purchase of the day was a small combination lock for his desk drawer at the office.

The third was a faux leather notebook with an elastic band. It wasn’t notes about his article he wanted to jot down in there. He was going to find out who’d killed him, and stop them. He had less than fifty-nine days left to do it.

Andrew went into a Starbucks and grabbed a bite to eat. He settled down in a leather armchair and began to think about all the people who might want him dead. It made him very uncomfortable. Where had he gone so wrong that he now had to make up a list like this?

He jotted down Freddy Olson’s name. You could never tell what a colleague was really capable of, or how far jealousy might take them. But he dismissed the thought immediately. Olson didn’t have the balls for it. And anyway, they’d never actually come to blows in his previous life.

There were those threatening letters he had received shortly after the publication of his article about the child trafficking ring in China. His piece must have thrown into turmoil the lives of any number of American families who had adopted kids from China. Children are sacred; parents anywhere in the world can tell you that. They’d be prepared to go to any lengths to protect their children—maybe even murder.

Andrew wondered how he would react if he adopted a child and a journalist had turned him into an unwitting accomplice of a trafficking ring by revealing that his child might have been stolen from his birth parents.

I’d probably hate the guy who’d opened that Pandora’s Box for the rest of my life
, he muttered to himself.

But what would you do if you realized that your child was going to discover the truth sooner or later, now that it had been made public? Would you break his heart, and yours, by taking him back to his legitimate family? Or live out a lie and wait for him to grow up and accuse you of turning a blind eye to the worst kind of human trafficking?

When Andrew had written the piece, he had barely thought about the possible implications of his investigation. How many American mothers and fathers had he thrown into a heartbreaking dilemma? But only the facts had counted back then; his job was to get the truth out there.
Everyone’s looking out for numero uno
, as his old man used to say.