searched for something else to say. “There was some kind of accident, and Jeff—well—” Suddenly, the flood of emotions he’d held in check since hanging up on Captain Ralston overwhelmed him. His voice cracked and his eyes blurred with tears. “Look, I gotta get going—I gotta find out what happened. I’ll call you later.”
He went back to the bathroom, toweled himself off, and got dressed. He was out of the house five minutes later, into the Ford pickup that served not only as transportation, but as his mobile office as well, and out the driveway. Halfway to the expressway he swung into a McDonald’s, ordered a McMuffin and coffee, then called his foreman while he inched the truck toward the pickup window. “I’m gonna be gone for the day. Anything you can’t take care of?”
“What’s going on?” Vic DiMarco asked. “You don’t sound right.”
“Not now,” Keith said. “Just take care of things, okay? And if Mary calls you, just tell her I’ll talk to her as soon as I know something.”
“Why wouldn’t she just call you?” DiMarco countered.
“Because I’m shutting this fucker off,” Keith growled. “No one’s going to be able to get hold of me for a while, so I just need you to take over for me.” His voice took on a harsh edge. “You can do that, can’t you? Isn’t that why I hired you?”
DiMarco ignored Keith’s angry tone. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when I know,” Keith snapped. Shutting the phone off as he finally came up to the window, he shoved some money at the gray-haired woman behind the counter and pulled the bag into the truck. Steering with one hand, he took the greasy sandwich out of the bag with the other. He was already chewing before he realized there was no way he could swallow even the first bite, let alone eat the whole thing. Dropping the sandwich back in the bag, he took a sip of the not quite hot enough coffee, washed down the bite of egg, sausage, and muffin, and had drained the cup by the time he steered the truck onto the expressway.
A now-familiar chill fell over Keith as he walked through the doors of Manhattan House.
Manhattan House,
he said silently to himself.
What were they trying to do, make people think it was a hotel instead of a jail?
The first time he’d come to the building nearly half a year ago—and the first time he’d felt the strange chill to which he’d never become inured—it seemed part of a world he could barely comprehend. Except for a smattering of well-dressed people he assumed were lawyers, the people milling in the lobby were the kind that he’d seen only on television.
People who would have been arrested in Bridgehampton for no other reason than the way they were dressed—if they’d ever appeared there at all.
The young ones all looked angry. Angry, and poor. The eyes that weren’t glazed with drugs smoldered with fury, and when they glanced at him—which they rarely did—Keith knew that he looked as foreign to them as they did to him.
The older people—those his own age who were coming to see their children, just as he was coming to see his—looked only defeated. Most of them seemed as familiar with the jail and its procedures as he was with the building permit process in Suffolk County.
By his third visit, Keith had paid as little attention to the people in the lobby as they paid to him.
Today he didn’t even have to think about the procedures—like any other habitué of the building, he automatically emptied his pockets, stepped through the metal detectors, and exchanged his driver’s license for a visitor’s badge. The officer who escorted him to Captain Mark Ralston’s tiny office wore an expression as studiedly calm as Ralston’s voice had been on the phone three hours ago. The office was painted the same sickly shade of greenish yellow that covered most of the walls in the building.
Ignoring the hand Ralston offered as he rose to his feet, Keith’s angry
He went back to the bathroom, toweled himself off, and got dressed. He was out of the house five minutes later, into the Ford pickup that served not only as transportation, but as his mobile office as well, and out the driveway. Halfway to the expressway he swung into a McDonald’s, ordered a McMuffin and coffee, then called his foreman while he inched the truck toward the pickup window. “I’m gonna be gone for the day. Anything you can’t take care of?”
“What’s going on?” Vic DiMarco asked. “You don’t sound right.”
“Not now,” Keith said. “Just take care of things, okay? And if Mary calls you, just tell her I’ll talk to her as soon as I know something.”
“Why wouldn’t she just call you?” DiMarco countered.
“Because I’m shutting this fucker off,” Keith growled. “No one’s going to be able to get hold of me for a while, so I just need you to take over for me.” His voice took on a harsh edge. “You can do that, can’t you? Isn’t that why I hired you?”
DiMarco ignored Keith’s angry tone. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when I know,” Keith snapped. Shutting the phone off as he finally came up to the window, he shoved some money at the gray-haired woman behind the counter and pulled the bag into the truck. Steering with one hand, he took the greasy sandwich out of the bag with the other. He was already chewing before he realized there was no way he could swallow even the first bite, let alone eat the whole thing. Dropping the sandwich back in the bag, he took a sip of the not quite hot enough coffee, washed down the bite of egg, sausage, and muffin, and had drained the cup by the time he steered the truck onto the expressway.
A now-familiar chill fell over Keith as he walked through the doors of Manhattan House.
Manhattan House,
he said silently to himself.
What were they trying to do, make people think it was a hotel instead of a jail?
The first time he’d come to the building nearly half a year ago—and the first time he’d felt the strange chill to which he’d never become inured—it seemed part of a world he could barely comprehend. Except for a smattering of well-dressed people he assumed were lawyers, the people milling in the lobby were the kind that he’d seen only on television.
People who would have been arrested in Bridgehampton for no other reason than the way they were dressed—if they’d ever appeared there at all.
The young ones all looked angry. Angry, and poor. The eyes that weren’t glazed with drugs smoldered with fury, and when they glanced at him—which they rarely did—Keith knew that he looked as foreign to them as they did to him.
The older people—those his own age who were coming to see their children, just as he was coming to see his—looked only defeated. Most of them seemed as familiar with the jail and its procedures as he was with the building permit process in Suffolk County.
By his third visit, Keith had paid as little attention to the people in the lobby as they paid to him.
Today he didn’t even have to think about the procedures—like any other habitué of the building, he automatically emptied his pockets, stepped through the metal detectors, and exchanged his driver’s license for a visitor’s badge. The officer who escorted him to Captain Mark Ralston’s tiny office wore an expression as studiedly calm as Ralston’s voice had been on the phone three hours ago. The office was painted the same sickly shade of greenish yellow that covered most of the walls in the building.
Ignoring the hand Ralston offered as he rose to his feet, Keith’s angry
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