The Hard Way (21 page)

After waiting
across the street from Elizabeth Mindell's building for an hour, it occurred to me that she might not come out for days. I crossed the street, entered the lobby and rang her bell. Elizabeth was home and buzzed me in as soon as I said my name.

“Did you find him?” she asked, standing in the doorway, dressed as if she were about to leave for work.

“I was thinking about what you said,” I told her, ignoring her question.

“About the water bottle?”

“Yes,” I said, winging it, just wanting to get her talking. “Did you notice anyone carrying a water bottle before the…”

“Incident?”

“Yes, before the incident. Because it was so hot out, Elizabeth, so I was thinking maybe several people had water bottles and that you might have noticed that.”

Elizabeth stepped back and I followed her to the living room, taking the same place I had on the couch, waiting to see if she'd sit in the club chair again. But this time she stood, not taking any seat.

“I'm not keeping you, am I, showing up like this without calling? I'm not making you late for work, am I?”

“No. You're not.”

“Good. That's good. The reason I stopped by is that I keep trying to picture the platform, everyone who was there, every little detail.”

“But why?”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” I said, sitting forward, leaning toward her, “the descriptions of the homeless man?”

Elizabeth took a step toward the couch, sitting on the side opposite me. “Yes?”

“They were inconsistent.”

“What does that mean?”

I sighed, looking down, hands on my knees as if I was about to change my mind, get up and leave. “It means that in all the excitement, people got confused. They were scared. You were scared, right?”

She nodded, a little line between her eyes now, not understanding where I was going with this.

“So I was wondering if maybe it wasn't the homeless man, whatever he looked like, who pushed Gardner Redstone onto the tracks. Do you see what I mean?”

Elizabeth was shaking her head. “No, I don't see what you mean. He was the one standing behind that poor man. He was the only one who
could
have pushed him.”

I got up and walked over to the window but instead of looking at the view, I turned around and looked at Elizabeth. “Last time I was here…”

“Yes?”

“You said after Mr. Redstone fell, the homeless man knocked into you. Is that right?”

“Yes. He bumped into my shoulder and my purse fell onto the platform.”

“You said he spun you around and you were facing the other way, toward the local track?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“And that's when you saw the water bottle on the platform?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn't see the young boy, a kid wearing a baseball cap?”

“A boy?”

“He was standing on Mr. Redstone's other side, to his right.”

“Oh, the boy,” she said, getting up, one hand touching her lips.

“Yes. I remember now. He had a skateboard.”

“A skateboard?”

“It must have been, because it rolled toward the middle of the platform, you know, when he dropped it.”

“I see. And where was it when you noticed it? Where had it stopped?”

“Straight back.”

“Straight back? Straight back from what?”

“From where Mr. Redstone had been standing.”

“So you're saying the boy dropped it and it rolled back toward the middle of the platform?”

“Yes. That sounds about right.”

“Okay, Elizabeth, bear with me here. Mr. Redstone falls.”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“Then the homeless man starts to leave and bumps into me, knocking my purse…”

She stopped. I waited.

“No. That's wrong.” She came over to the window and stood next to me. “That's not how it happened. He grabbed the boy first. He took him by the shoulders and pulled him back. That must be when the boy dropped the skateboard.”

“Did you see that? Did you see it fall?” Wondering what she'd actually seen since Dustin hadn't been carrying a skateboard, wondering, too, if anybody remembered
anything
accurately.

“Well, no. Maybe he dropped it when Mr. Redstone fell. Yes, that must be it. And with all that noise, the train coming into the station, then all the screaming, that's why I didn't hear it fall.”

“And then?”

“The homeless man had the boy by the shoulders. I saw him bend toward him. I remember my heart was beating so fast, I couldn't hear anything else, as if it was beating right in my ears. I didn't know what he'd do—take him maybe.”

“You mean as a hostage?”

“Yes, yes. As a hostage. But then he took one step, maybe two, he was so tall, his legs so long, and he”—she touched her right shoulder—“bumped me here and the purse was gone and I was facing the other way.”

I reached for her other hand. “And what did you do?”

“I looked toward the stairs. That's what I did.”

“At the homeless man?”

She nodded. “To see if he had the purse.”

“Keep going. And then?”

“I looked down. No, not down. First I stepped back, not toward the tracks, toward where Mr. Redstone had been standing, and my foot touched something and I thought it was him, his body, you know how irrational you can get when you're so scared, when things are happening so fast? And
then
I looked down and there were two things on the platform, my purse, and a foot or so away, his attaché case.”

“Did you pick up the purse?”

“Of course.”

“And when you stood up, is that when you saw the water bottle?”

She was shaking her head. “No, that wouldn't make any sense. When I stood up, I was facing the train.”

“So you saw the water bottle in the instant after he bumped into you, before you turned your head toward the stairs?”

“I must have.”

“That means you had a clear view of the people behind the homeless man.”

She began to shake her head. “Everyone was moving. Everyone. I guess that's how the bottle dropped, unless it was there all along.”

“Can you remember how they were moving, in what direction?”

Elizabeth bit her lip.

“What? What are you remembering?”

“Out,” she said.

“Out? You mean out of the station? You mean they were moving toward the stairs?”

“No, I mean there might not have been a water
bottle
. The people were moving out, outward, the way water does when you spill it.” With both hands, she made a downward motion, water spilling down, then she moved her hands quickly in a circular motion, away from the center, indicating how the water would splash out to the sides.

“They were backing away from where it happened, from where the homeless man stood?”

“That's right. There was a little guy with a briefcase on, you know, the strap across his chest. He was backed against the wall. Trapped behind a trash can on one side and all the rest of the people on the other.”

“The ones who had backed away?”

She nodded. “Yes. Some of them, I think, had been on the other side of the platform, waiting for the local. They'd turned when everyone screamed, but no one was moving forward, toward the train, toward where Mr. Redstone…”

Her shoulders began to shake, just a slight trembling at first, then more, then tears, too.

I reached into my pocket for a tissue, handing it to her. “Elizabeth, when everyone moved outward, was the skateboard still there? It would have been in the middle of that circle, is that right?”

“No,” she said, “it wasn't there.”

“Had the boy picked it up?” I asked, thinking, first a water bottle then a skateboard that Dustin didn't yet have, wondering what was going on.

“I don't know. Maybe it got kicked away. Maybe it rolled…” And then she stopped, blew her nose, sighed. “It all happened so fast,” she said. “It's hard to…” Stopping again, this time looking exhausted.

“Why were you downtown that day?” I asked.

“I worked at a law firm on Eighth Avenue.”

“Worked? No longer?”

She shook her head. “I'm looking for another job,” she said, “closer to home.”

“Elizabeth, did one of the detectives call you sometime after that day, to see if you remembered anything else?”

She nodded.

“And did you?”

“No, I didn't. Not until you came today.”

“So it was a short conversation?”

“Well, no, he was very nice. He asked me how I was doing. He said it was very traumatic, seeing what I did, and he wondered if I was managing okay.”

“Did you mention that you quit your job?”

“I did. I asked him if anyone else had and he said, no, they hadn't, but he said that sometimes happened after a serious trauma. He asked if I was seeing anyone, you know, a therapist, and I told him I wasn't, but I was thinking about it. He said that was good, that it's good to talk about it and that it's good to do something new that would, you know, be a distraction from bad thoughts, flashbacks, he called them.” She stopped and took a breath. “He was very encouraging.”

“And did he mention any of the ways the other witnesses were coping?” Thinking he must have told her about Dustin getting a skateboard. But she only shrugged and said she didn't recall.

I reminded her to call if anything else came back to her and thanked her for her time, apologizing for getting her so upset.

Once outside, I walked for a while before taking the subway back downtown. The detective must have mentioned Dustin's therapeutic skateboard, I thought, and Elizabeth had appended it to her memory of that day. That happens, too, I thought, hoping the next witness would be more helpful than Elizabeth had been.

When I was back
in the Village, I remembered that Claire Ackerman had a visual memory, that she remembered Dustin's baseball cap, what color it was and that he'd worn it backward. I pulled out the notebook with my notes from the case and looked at what I'd written after seeing her. She said he'd taken the cap off, that he must have, and that he was holding it against his chest.

I dialed her at work. She answered on the first ring.

“Claire, it's Rachel Alexander.”

“Oh, yes, Rachel. Is there any news?”

“Not just yet, but I do have a few more questions. I can be there in a few minutes, if that's okay.”

“Yes. I can talk to you now.” She might have checked her watch then or slipped off her glasses. “Suzie's in the front and she won't be going out to lunch for another hour.”

I was only a few blocks away but I'd have to pass my own street to get there. I decided to stop at home for Dashiell and take him with me, not that I particularly needed him to talk to Claire, but I was hoping to catch Dustin afterward and that talk would go a lot better with Dash there.

The bell rang when I pushed open the door to Specs, and Suzie looked up. “Claire said you'd be coming. Go right back to the office,” she said.

I passed the long glass counter, designer frames on the enclosed shelf beneath it, more frames on shelves behind the counter and those mirrors you can tilt any which way sitting on the counter-top so that customers could admire themselves as they made their selection. They even had one of those magnifying mirrors so that people could see what the frames looked like without wearing their own corrective lenses.

I was forty. I probably ought to be checking out the lenses myself. There was a whole shelf of half glasses, for people my age who needed assistance reading, even folding glasses for people like me who never carried a purse, designer or otherwise, and wanted a pair of glasses they could slip into a pocket. I passed an eye chart on the way to the back, a little stool opposite it. E F D O R T I, I read silently, the line with the smallest type. I could save my money for a while longer.

Claire was on the phone. She held up one finger, ended the conversation and took the same chair she'd taken last time I was here, the one next to that tiny round table.

“I've been talking to the witnesses again,” I told her. “Sometimes things come back, memories, details, little pictures, as it were,” I went on, realizing I'd dumped my plan to see the witnesses as if by accident. I'm nothing if not flexible. “I was wondering if when you think about the incident…”

“I still do,” she said.

I nodded. “Of course you do. Is there anything else you see now when you picture the platform that afternoon?”

“No, not really. It's the same. That poor man. And the homeless man's eyes.”

“You said last time you remembered seeing the boy, the one in the baseball cap.”

“Yes. The boy. The one who was trying to look between the platform and the train.”

“Or perhaps he'd just been standing near the edge of the platform.”

“I suppose that could be so.”

“Someone told me he was carrying a skateboard.”

“I don't think so. No, because he would have had to have dropped it, when the man pulled him back. I mean, he didn't have one when I noticed him.”

“This witness said she thought it rolled back, to about where the homeless man had stood or even a little farther toward the local track. But I was told something different.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was told the boy was given a skateboard afterward, that it was something he really wanted and his father finally gave in to help him cope with what he'd seen.”

“You mean something positive to do and think about. That's what the detective told me to do, something new that I'd been postponing. I thought of it as a kind of compensation, a reward for what I'd been through.”

“The detective who interviewed you?”

“Yes. One of them. He called a few weeks later to ask if I remembered anything else. That's when he asked how I was doing. He said some people take medication to help them after a trauma but that he liked activity, going to the gym, biking, something physical.”

“And what did you decide on?”

“I've always wanted to ski.”

“You've got the weather for it,” I said. “So if there was no skateboard, do you recall seeing anything in the middle of the platform?”

“There was Mr. Redstone's attaché case. And the lady next to him dropped her purse. But that was right at the edge of the platform, not the middle. I remember that everyone was moving and there were so many people, I wouldn't have been able to see something on the ground. The only reason I saw the case and the purse is that everyone backed away from the train.”

I stood and thanked her. She got up to walk me out. As we were passing the eye chart, she touched my arm.

“I remember seeing the boy afterward, because we all stayed so that the detectives could find out what we knew. He had a book bag, one of those backpacks, but no skateboard.”

“Do you recall what the other witnesses were carrying? I'm wondering if something dropped there, not a skateboard, something else. It's just one of those dumb little details I need to be clear about.”

“Well, let's see. There was a messenger. So of course he had one of those big bags. Most everyone on the station platform had something, a briefcase, a tote bag, a shopping bag. It was that time of day. You'd finished work or shopping and you were headed home.”

“Anything more specific?”

“I suppose the homeless man might have been carrying something. So many of them do. They tote around everything they own. And he would have had to put it down before he pushed Mr. Redstone, wouldn't he? Maybe that's what that witness saw, something the homeless man dropped.”

“Anything else?”

“I'm afraid not.”

I thanked her and headed toward Chelsea next, Dash and I parking ourselves across the street from the Howe School, settling in to wait for Dustin. I didn't know if half a day meant the kids would be out at noon or at one, but a moment later, the door seemed to burst open, and this time, the kids were shouting, at least the first few who came out. From my spot across the street, I watched the kids emerging, some alone, some in groups of two or three or even four, things quieting down the longer we sat there and, finally, the last few kids trickling out but still no Dustin.

He might have been the last kid out. I couldn't be sure because once we saw him, we stopped watching the door. He didn't see us and he didn't cross the street this time. Shoulders hunched, his book bag bouncing against his oversize parka, he headed east this
time. No skateboard. No Chelsea Piers. Dustin, it seemed, was going home.

We followed along on the opposite side of the street until we got to the corner, and then we crossed over and I said his name. He turned, and for a split second, he looked confused, but then the smile came.

“Rachel,” he said. I was as surprised as he was, thinking he'd greet Dash first.

“Hey, Dustin, how are you?” As if we'd met by chance. Back on track.

“Good, I guess,” he said, hiking up one shoulder as he did.

It might be that Dustin went home to an empty house. It might be that this would be the first Christmas without his mother. Either way, “good” didn't seem to cover it.

I held out Dashiell's leash, and he took it as if we'd done this a hundred times. “Is anyone waiting for you at home?” I asked.

He shook his head. “My dad said he'd try to be home by four.”

“Then we have time for a hot chocolate?”

“I haven't had lunch,” he said.

“Me neither,” I told him, wondering where we could go with Dashiell, remembering the coffee shop where I'd talked to Willy the second time, the one across the street from the messenger service's office, the one with the great chocolate chip muffins. Maybe I could get Dash under the table again without Marge noticing. Maybe Marge, whose face was a road map of a very long journey, wouldn't give a shit, dog, no dog, as long as she got her tip. “I know just the place,” I said. “Come on.”

We headed west again, back toward Eighth Avenue, and in no time, we were at the coffee shop. I looked through the glass door and there was Marge, doing something with the coffeepot, her back turned.

“You go first,” I told Dustin, reaching for the leash. “Take the
closest booth to the door. I'll be right behind you. I have to sort of sneak Dashiell under the table.” This kid needed a good example of adult behavior. Unfortunately, that's not what he was getting from me.

“They're not allowed, right?”

“Right. But you haven't had lunch.”

We stood there a moment, each silently weighing the morality of what we were about to do.

“Dogs are allowed in restaurants in France,” I told him.

“Is that true?”

“
Oui.
The little ones sometimes sit on the chairs.”

He thought it over for another second and then reached for the door. Marge turned when she felt the cold air, then turned back to the coffee machine, as I thought she would. I held the door, not letting it close. I didn't have to say a word to Dashiell. He slipped under the table on his own. Perhaps he'd found some stray fries last time. Perhaps the idea of a nap, using Dustin's foot as a pillow, was just as appealing.

We ordered lunch. I told Dustin to be sure to leave room for a chocolate chip muffin, then noticed the size of him and told him, no sweat, we'd get it to go if he was full. He had braces now and his hair was shorter, but he still had that sad look in his eyes and I thought maybe he always would.

“Okay, the big news is that we're set for January the tenth at ten-thirty. The demo is going to be at the school instead of the precinct and it's going to be made clear that Detective Brody and I are there because you asked us to be.”

“Really?

I nodded.

Dustin beamed.

“Also, I've been talking to witnesses again.” I took a deep breath. He did, too. “So I have a couple of things I wanted to ask you about.”

He nodded. “Okay, Rachel.”

Marge brought two black cherry sodas, and we each stopped to take a sip.

“He's on my foot,” Dustin whispered.

“Is that okay with you?” I whispered back.

“It's perfect.”

“Good. I bet he knows that.” I figured he'd regrouped by now, however a twelve-year-old does that, so I got to the point.

“I talked to this one lady who was there on the platform and she remembered seeing you. She said she thought you had a skateboard with you.”

Dustin shook his head. “I didn't have one then,” he said. “My dad got it for me after.”

“Had you been wanting one for a long time?”

“Yeah. But my dad thought it was too dangerous.” He reached under the table. Perhaps Dashiell's head was up, leaning against Dustin's legs. He'd know the kid was hurting. He'd know what to do about it, too.

“And what changed his mind?”

Dustin looked down. “He said there was danger everywhere. He said after what happened on the platform, after what I saw, he thought the skateboard was pretty tame.”

I smiled and reached out to pat his hand. “You have a very smart dad,” I told him, pulling my hand back when Marge brought our hamburgers. “So, no skateboard that day?”

He shook his head and began making a pool of ketchup on his plate.

“Here's what she said—she thought you'd dropped a skateboard and that it had rolled back to the middle of the platform. She said everyone backed away from where Mr. Redstone and the homeless man had been standing, that there was an empty circle there, the people around it, everyone terrified,” adding the last piece of information myself to let Dustin know that everyone felt the way he had.

“That didn't happen.”

“Which?”

“The skateboard.” He took a big bite of his burger.

“But the people all moved the way she said?”

“More or less.” He frowned. “Everyone was moving around. It was…”

“Chaotic?”

“Yeah. People were still screaming. Some of them were crying. One lady fell to her knees. I don't know if she was scared or if it was something else, just dizzy maybe.”

“Any of those things can happen when you see something so awful. People remember things that aren't so because they're so freaked out.”

Dustin nodded.

“So maybe there was something there on the platform, but we know it wasn't a skateboard, right?”

“Right.”

“Do you remember seeing something there, something around the size of a skateboard?”

Dustin took another bite of his burger, so I picked up mine and took a bite, too.

“People were dropping everything, Rachel. You know how sometimes there's a fire in some club?”

“You read the papers?”

“I listen to the news with my dad.”

I nodded, thinking the news was too much for anyone to have taken in the last few years, let alone a troubled twelve-year-old kid.

“You know how they always say people stampeded, no one was thinking clearly, they just rushed around trying to get out?”

“Yeah. I've heard about that.”

“Well, that's more or less how it was at the subway station. Mr. Redstone's briefcase, one of those hard ones, was on the ground. Some lady's pocketbook was on the ground. And I think there was
a shopping bag on the ground, too. Maybe that's what the lady saw, a shopping bag. You go like this,” putting both hands on his cheeks, “and you're screaming and terrified, you're not worrying about your stuff.”

“Did you drop anything?”

He bit his lip, trying to recall. Then he shook his head.

“You know the story of the blind men and the elephant?” I asked him.