The Hard Way (9 page)

I touched her hand and told her I would. She said she'd stay and finish her coffee. I paid the check on the way out and decided to take the subway home. Standing on the platform, I made a count of how many people would fit between the express train on one track and the local across the platform. Depending on how close together people stood, and in rush hour they stood pretty close, I figured about ten people could fit across the width. Since Gardner Redstone had to be on one end, with Florida behind him, it was likely that the person behind Florida was also facing in the same
direction, and close enough to put his hands on Florida's back and push him hard.

Unless there had been a bigger crowd waiting for the local. In that case, the person standing behind Florida would have been facing the other way, with his back to Florida.

I made a note to ask the rest of the witnesses about this, hoping someone would remember if there were a lot of people waiting for the local as well.

When I heard the train coming, I stood back from the edge of the platform. There's a strong feeling of suction when the train pulls in, but it almost doesn't seem physical. It feels, instead, as if something more powerful than you are is inviting you onto the tracks, as if some invisible force is making you
want
to jump.

Claire Ackerman
had agreed to talk to me at work, a high-end, meaning overpriced, eyeglass place on Hudson Street called Specs. She looked over the top of her trendy glasses when I walked in, noticed I wasn't wearing glasses and raised her eyebrows, as if to suggest that perhaps I might need some sunglasses for my upcoming trip to Cancun or a week at my time share in Vail. I was sure she'd have the perfect glasses for either, something that had been in
W
or on the
Times
fashion pages within the last few hours.

“Claire?” I said. “It's Rachel Alexander. Thanks so much for agreeing to talk to me.”

Claire relaxed and took a deep breath. “Oh, yes,” she said. Then, “Just a moment.”

She walked to the rear of the shop and a moment later a tall, thin, very young woman with stylish glasses that probably didn't have corrective lenses in them took her place behind the counter and Claire, standing in the doorway that led to the back, motioned for me to follow her.

We sat on either side of the tiniest round table I'd ever seen.

“As I told you on the telephone,” she began, “I told the police whatever I remembered. It wasn't much. I'd been reading the paper while waiting for the train and didn't look up until I heard the train in the tunnel. And that's when it happened, that poor Mr.
Redstone, pushed right in front of the oncoming train. It's what we all fear, isn't it? That, and a leak when you're driving through a tunnel.” She shuddered. “I remember when I was a little girl and we'd drive to New Jersey to visit my grandmother and grandfather and there'd be those cracks—well, they looked like cracks. I'm sure they weren't really. And moisture. And I always thought the tunnel was starting to go, you know what I mean?”

“I do,” I told her.

“I always pictured the water rushing in, the car floating up toward the top of the tunnel, all of us, my father, my mother, my brother and me, running out of air. Sometimes I'd keep my eyes closed the whole way until we got out into the light on the other side.”

I listened without saying a word, thinking how strange it was that this very composed woman was coming apart in front of my eyes and that Florida, who looked as if he ought to be chained to a wall in some dungeon where the sun never shines, had been fairly lucid, considering.

“Once when I was driving along the Belt Parkway,” leaning slightly forward as she spoke, “I saw a place where the fence was broken, meaning a car had hit it and then gone into Gravesend Bay. I had trouble breathing just imagining what had happened to whoever was in it.” She looked at her hands, then back up at me.

“But that's neither here nor there, is it?”

“It's a scary world,” I said.

“More now than ever.”

“About that unfortunate day,” I said, pulling out the small pad where I had started a diagram of where the witnesses had been standing, “do you recall where you were in relation to the tall man?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, holding up one hand, the nails as red as blood, shaking her pointer as she continued. “I was between where he stood and the stairs. When he began to run, at first I thought he was looking for someone else to toss in front of the train. In retrospect, I see that that's ridiculous. For one thing, the train was
already in the station. For another, it was obvious and logical that given what he'd done, he'd head for the stairs and try to escape the consequences of his act.”

“So you got a good look at him?”

“I did. He looked like a bodybuilder. Or a weight lifter, though most of them aren't quite as tall as that.”

“Muscular?” I asked. “And tall?”

“Yes. Very strong looking. Well, wouldn't he have to be to have pushed that man the way he did?”

“No. I don't think it would take that much force. Mr. Redstone wasn't braced to resist a push. In fact, he may have been leaning forward, to see if the sound he heard was the express and not the local.”

“I see.”

“Was the platform very crowded that day?”

“Yes. It was.”

“And do you recall, by any chance, if there were people waiting for the local as well?”

“Yes, of course. There are always people waiting on both sides, unless perhaps you're there at three in the morning.”

“And were there more people facing the express side or the local side?”

Claire took off her glasses and put them down on the tiny table. So that's what it was for. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, eyes closed. “The express side was much more crowded. That's the way most of the people were facing. I'd just come down the stairs and I remember wondering if I'd even get on the first express that pulled in.”

“I thought you were reading the paper.”

“I was. I'd pulled it out of my tote as soon as I found a place to stand. I had no idea the train would be coming that soon.”

I made a little circle to the left of the ones I had and drew some lines behind it to indicate the stairs. I put Claire's initials, CA, in the circle.

“Did you notice who was standing near the tall man?”

“No. I was too far away. Probably four people away from him. I only noticed him because he came right at me. Afterward.”

“You must have been so frightened.”

“I was, yes. Especially when I saw his eyes.”

“Why is that?”

“They were so cold looking,” she said. “Without mercy. I guess that's why I thought…”

“Of course. Did other people run when he did? I imagine many of the people on the platform were afraid. Did any of the others try to run away?”

Claire picked up her glasses but didn't put them on.

“No, not exactly. They moved back from where the accident happened. It was difficult, because the station was so jammed, but they did their best to leave space around where Mr. Redstone had been. Except for this kid. He actually walked right up to the train and tried to peer down at the tracks, right where Mr. Redstone had fallen.”

She made an awful face, and who could blame her? I made some quick notes and looked back up at her. She was carefully wiping underneath her eyes with a tissue, the way people do when they're wearing mascara.

“Someone took the kid by the shoulders and yanked him back.”

“Who did that?” I asked.

Claire shrugged. “Some man. A bystander who was offended by the gawking.”

“Maybe he was trying to protect the boy.”

“From what?”

“From seeing more than he should have.”

Claire nodded. “We all did that, every last one of us. We all saw more than we should have.”

“Claire, are you sure you can't remember anyone who was standing near the tall man? I'm particularly interested in who was standing behind him.”

“Why is that?”

“It's possible that the tall man might have been pushed. It's possible that someone pushed
him
into Mr. Redstone.”

“I don't understand.”

“If you think about it,” I said, “it would almost be the perfect crime.” But then I changed my mind, because how could you plan for a crazy person to stand between you and the person you wanted to kill?

Unless for some reason you'd been following the person for a while. Unless you were very, very patient.

Claire was still thinking about what I'd said. She reached over to the counter just behind her and picked up one of those cloths you get with new glasses, wiping her immaculate glasses before putting them back on.

“You're saying someone might have pushed the tall man into Mr. Redstone on purpose?”

“It's possible.”

She began to shake her head. “You wouldn't say that if you'd been there, if you'd seen him. For one thing, he was too strong.”

“No one's too strong to be pushed if they're not expecting it.”

Claire sighed. “How do you expect to find out what really happened?”

“By asking questions,” I told her, “of witnesses, and of myself. The truth comes out in surprising ways. Sometimes the most insignificant detail leads the way.”

“Which is why you came to see me?”

“It is, Claire. And it's why I appreciate your patience with my questions and your thoughtfulness in answering them.” I took out my card and handed it to her. “If there's anything else you remember,” I said, “even the tiniest detail, I'd like to hear it. For instance, was the tall man wearing a hat? Or gloves? Do you recall?”

She shook her head. “I don't think he was wearing a hat, but I can't say for sure. But the kid was, the one who wanted to take a look. He had a baseball cap on and he was wearing it backward, the
strap to the front. When he looked down between the platform and the train, he took it off and must have been holding it in front of his chest because when the man pulled him back, the hand holding the hat flew out to the side, like this,” throwing her right hand out parallel to the floor, “and I saw the hat. It was navy blue.”

“That was after the tall man had fled, after he'd gone up the stairs?”

She nodded. “Yes, after.”

“Thank you,” I said, wishing she'd remembered who'd been behind Florida with that kind of detail.

Then again, maybe that didn't matter. Maybe no one had pushed Florida. Maybe he'd done the pushing after all.

Walking home along Hudson Street, I wondered where Eddie was. I wondered if I'd ever see him again. And I wondered, too, what there was about Florida or about what he'd told Eddie that let Eddie think it was safe to tell Florida about me. I stopped near my corner, in front of the Blind Tiger Ale House. Eddie had to have believed him. There was no way Eddie would have told Florida I was looking for him and where, in fact, he might find me if he hadn't been sure that Florida was innocent.

I checked my watch. I had time to get Dashiell and go for a long walk before my appointment with Missy Barnes. Maybe just walking around in the snow, I'd run into Eddie again. I wanted to ask him about Florida, about how he found him and about what he might have said that had convinced Eddie he hadn't pushed Redstone on purpose.

But I had something to tell him, too, his real name. And more than that. And I was wondering how he'd take the information I had to give him, if it would makes things better for him, or if it would make things worse.

There were only
a dozen or so people in the bar at Pastis, most alone, but I hadn't needed the description Missy Barnes had given me of herself, not once I saw the Sherpa Bag on her lap.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I said as I sat down opposite her at the small, square table nearest the door, telling Dashiell to lie down right next to my chair.

Even placing Dash as far away from Missy as possible, I expected to see the annoyed face of an Abyssinian visible behind the side netting, as if a Muslim woman was peering out from her burka. But I didn't. Bette must have had her back turned to the opening and if so, who could blame her? I'd naturally assumed, when Eleanor had given me information about the witnesses, that Missy had been taking her cat to the vet, or home from boarding, that there had been a purpose to the cat's being there. After all, why traumatize a house cat with a subway ride if you didn't have to? But here was Bette again, this time, perhaps, to contribute her own eyewitness account of that terrible day.

“I'm happy to help in any way I can,” Missy said, a woman in her late fifties with a heart-shaped face, big eyes, long, brown hair hanging straight down from a middle part, as if she were an aging
flower child. “I was nonplussed when I heard the police had given up,” she said. “I didn't know they did that.”

“How did you hear that?” I asked.

“From Eleanor.”

“Oh? You're in touch?”

“Once in a while. I sent her a note, afterward, telling her how sorry I was for her loss. She wrote back to thank me. After that, we switched to e-mail. I want to know that the person who did this is no longer free to do it again. Wouldn't you?” She bent and wiggled her fingers in front of the cat's window. “But that's not the case. He's still out there. I'm glad Eleanor hired you. I think it's time this got resolved, don't you?”

I wasn't sure if she'd addressed that last question to me or to the cat, because she was looking at the cat carrier.

“Of course. So will you tell me what you saw that day?”

“I noticed the man before the accident,” she began, unzipping the top of the Sherpa Bag and slipping one hand inside. “He'd apparently noticed Bette looking out of the carrier and he bent down and hissed at her. Can you imagine such a thing?”

This time it was the tone of her voice that made me suspect the question had been addressed to her cat, so I didn't bother to respond.

“You were carrying her on that side?” I asked. “In your right hand?”

She thought and then nodded. “You've seen some homeless people with pets, haven't you? But it's mostly older women. They have a shopping cart full of junk, but when you look again, there are two or three or four cats in it, too.” Nodding, agreeing with herself. “But not the men, though I once saw one with a dog on a rope. I don't know why that is. Do you think women like pets more than men do? Is it some nurturing thing we have that they don't? They say everything's genetics now, don't they? When I was young, it was all environment, it was nurture trumping nature.”

I was glad we were in a bar, because a drink was starting to seem like a good idea.

“Who knows how long he'd been homeless, living on his own without family, without a pet to love and care for?” she said. “Or where he'd come from? Some places, they just eat animals,” she whispered, presumably to avoid offending Bette and Dashiell, who had sneezed to clear his air passages and was now pulling in the scent of the cat, I figured, from his place on the floor. “Perhaps he was afraid, that's all. People lash out when they're afraid.”

“So did you move away from him?”

“I wanted to, but there was no place
to
move. It was so crowded. At first, I just switched the bag to my left hand, so that Bette wouldn't be next to him. But then when he bumped into me, I turned around and saw that there was a little space behind the woman who was next to me, so I stepped back, toward the stairs.” She indicated the diagonal move with a flick of her left hand. I noticed that she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. “Do you think he was drunk? I mean, staggering like that.” She shook her head. “Or maybe he was on drugs. The whole thing could have been an accident, couldn't it? Couldn't he have just stumbled into that poor Mr. Redstone?”

“I wouldn't know,” I told her.

Missy shrugged. “Of course you wouldn't,” she said.

“Did he bother Bette again?”

“Uh-uh, no. But anyway, that's when the sound started.”

“The train coming?”

“It was in the tunnel. People leaned forward. And then,” she leaned over the table, “it happened.”

A waiter came. Missy ordered a cosmo. I said I'd have the same.

“And were you watching him after he hissed at Bette? Did you keep an eye on him after that?”

“Of course.”

“So then you saw the push?”

“Not exactly. I was checking Bette, to make sure she was okay, and then everyone started screaming.”

“So you didn't see the homeless man push Mr. Redstone?”

She shook her head.

“Can you tell me what he looked like?” I took out the notepad and held it on my lap.

“African. He was more black than brown, you know? And he was wearing one of those brightly colored batik shirts.”

“Tall?”

“More big than tall.”

“Meaning?”

“Muscular. Strong. Like a boxer. Like the one who bit another boxer's ear during a fight.”

“Tyson?”

“Yes, like that.”

“And wearing a tribal cloth shirt?”

“Yes. Bright colors.”

“Hat, gloves?”

“Oh, no, not in all that heat. He was sweating a lot, did I mention that? Maybe he was on some sort of medication, something that made him violent,” finding yet another excuse for what she assumed was his behavior.

“So let me get this straight. First, you were standing next to him, to his left. Is that correct?”

The waiter brought two impossibly full cocktails and set them carefully down in front of us without spilling a drop.

“Yes,” she said. Then she lifted her glass for a toast, as if we were here to celebrate a raise or a birthday and not to nail down the description of a possible killer. “To finding him.”

I have, I thought, but just nodded and took a sip of the drink. It was deceptive, frothy and pink, but it packed a punch, enough I hoped that after a couple of sips, I wouldn't mind Missy talking to her cat in the middle of our conversation.

“Okay,” I said, glancing at my notes, “then after he hissed at Bette, you moved back a step, to protect her?”

“No, I moved back and to my left after he bumped into me.”

“So when you did, you were standing next to the person
behind
the black man, is that correct?”

“No. There was a man in between me and whoever was behind the black man. I'd moved back and to the left to get as far from him as I could get, you see? And that's when it happened.”

“Can you describe the man who was next to you?”

“No. I was only there briefly. Right after I moved, that's when the train came and the black man pushed Mr. Redstone onto the tracks.”

“And after that, did he run away immediately?”

“Yes. He did. He pushed several people aside as he went, heading for the closest staircase as fast as he could.”

“Did anyone else run?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was there any other person who headed for the stairs, or who headed down the opposite way?”

“Why, no,” she said. “We were all too shocked to move.”

“But some people did move, I was told.”

“Yes, that's right, of course. People backed away from where Mr. Redstone fell. But that's not the same as running away.”

“Except the boy. He didn't back away, is that right?”

“The boy?”

“He'd been standing to the right of Mr. Redstone, right next to him. Did you notice him?”

“No, I didn't. I may have been…” She looked down at the carrier and then back up at me, her face lined with concern. “All that screaming can terrify a cat.”

“Of course,” I said, picking up my drink and taking a sip.

Was she one of those people who talked
for
her cat as well? I remembered when Dashiell was a small pup and someone had
stopped to pet him and then begun to talk in a high, squeaky voice, saying, “I'm such a good puppy. My mommy
woves
me and gives me treats whenever I'm good,” speaking, or so she thought, for the dog at the end of my leash. What was with the human race?

“Is there anyone else you can remember from that day?” I asked.

“Particularly anyone else standing near the black man?”

Missy shook her head.

“Nothing else comes to mind?” I prodded.

She looked up at me, something vaguely familiar about her for the moment. “It's all a blur. It was such a traumatic experience, seeing him kill that poor man.”

“But I thought you didn't see—”

“Oh,” she said, one hand to her chest, “what do you think, that Mr. Redstone jumped?”

I didn't answer her. People did that, too, suicide by subway. Anything you could think of, no matter how sad, or bizarre, or crazy sounding, it had been done. But Florida hadn't claimed that Redstone had jumped. He claimed someone pushed him into the man, knocking him off the platform at the worst possible moment.

“If you think of anything else later today, or in the next week or so, would you call?”

“Of course,” she said. “I want to see him caught more than you do.”

Missy checked her watch. It was twenty to three and she said she was late but didn't say for what and I didn't ask. I stayed for a while, the conviviality and warmth of the large bar a welcoming change from the cold outside. And that's when I began to think about Eddie again. I couldn't look for him now, in the middle of the case. I had several more witnesses to interview, notes to take, plans to make. Because if Florida was telling the truth, I needed to find out more about Gardner Redstone, how he ran his business, whose nose he might have put out of joint in the process. If Florida was telling the truth.

And that's when I realized I was wrong. I needed to find Eddie
sooner rather than later. While what I wanted most was to tell him his real name, to give him the information I'd gotten from Brody, I also needed to talk to him about the case. I needed to find out what Eddie had been told to make him so sure it would be safe for me to talk to Florida.

I paid the check, and Dashiell and I headed back out into the snow.