asshole?’ Harper asked.
Duchaunak frowned, then started laughing. ‘Am I an asshole?’ he asked. ‘Sure I’m an asshole, a real professional asshole. I’m one of those assholes who isn’t only born an asshole, I get up early in the morning to practise.’
Harper smiled.
‘Who said that?’ Duchaunak asked. ‘Walt?’
‘Walt? You know Walt Freiberg?’
‘A little,’ Duchaunak said.
‘He didn’t want you here yesterday . . . and then when you went he called you an asshole cop.’
‘An asshole cop. . . that’s what he said? I’m not sure what one of those is, but hell, if that’s what Walt thinks then fair enough. Man has a right to an opinion.’
Harper didn’t reply. He wanted the man to go away.
‘So this is a real surprise for me, the fact that Edward Bernstein has a son.’ Duchaunak just looked at Harper for a few moments.
Harper wanted to tell Duchaunak that it had been a greater surprise for himself, but felt that such a comment would serve no purpose.
‘Did he speak?’ Duchaunak asked.
‘I think so.’
‘He said something?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Harper replied.
‘Did it seem like he said something?’
‘I think he told me to leave.’ Harper closed his eyes, ran his right hand through his hair. His hand stopped at the back of his neck and he appeared to massage the tense knot of muscles at the top of his spine. He wanted a drink, perhaps three, but he still felt no motivation to move.
‘To leave?’ Duchaunak asked.
‘I don’t know, Detective. I don’t know that he even spoke, to tell you the truth. It sounded like one word . . . one word from a dying man I’ve never met before, and I think I wanted it to be a real word, a word that had some meaning, a word that perhaps had some relevance to the fact that he’s about to die and I’m his son—’ Harper stopped and looked directly at Duchaunak. ‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t even know that I
am
his son. I’m going on the word of my crazy aunt and a guy called Walt Freiberg who I haven’t seen for the better part of thirty years.’
‘If he told you to leave . . . well, if he told you to leave, then I figure he gave you the best advice he could.’
Harper smiled and shook his head. ‘I only just arrived Detective.’
Duchaunak nodded. ‘Sure you did, sure you did. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s possibly the best advice you were ever given, regardless of who it came from.’
There was silence between them for a moment.
‘You look like him,’ Duchaunak said eventually.
‘So?’ Harper replied. ‘A lot of people look like a whole lot of other people, doesn’t mean they’re related.’
‘It wasn’t an accusation, Mr Harper.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harper said. ‘This has been a difficult couple of days, still is difficult. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.’
‘Who told you about this?’
‘You mean who told me that he was here in the hospital?’
‘Yes, who told you?’
‘My aunt. My mother’s sister. She raised me after my mother died.’
‘She lives here in New York?’
‘Yes, over on Carmine Street off of Seventh.’
‘And you live where?’ Duchaunak asked.
Harper shook his head. ‘Miami. I’m a reporter for the
Herald
.’
‘Long time away from New York?’
‘Left here when I was nineteen. Went to Florida to get away from all of this.’
‘All of what?’
‘New York, everything it represented for me.’
‘The death of your mother, right?’
‘That, and my uncle’s suicide.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes,’ Harper said. ‘My aunt’s husband, name was Garrett Sawyer. He killed himself when I was twelve.’
‘Difficult childhood.’
Harper smiled. ‘Difficult life, Detective.’
‘You married?’
‘No. No wife, no kids, crappy job . . . and now this.’
‘And your relationship with Walter Freiberg?’
‘Relationship?’ Harper asked. ‘What relationship would that be?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Walt . . . Uncle Walt. He used to be
Duchaunak frowned, then started laughing. ‘Am I an asshole?’ he asked. ‘Sure I’m an asshole, a real professional asshole. I’m one of those assholes who isn’t only born an asshole, I get up early in the morning to practise.’
Harper smiled.
‘Who said that?’ Duchaunak asked. ‘Walt?’
‘Walt? You know Walt Freiberg?’
‘A little,’ Duchaunak said.
‘He didn’t want you here yesterday . . . and then when you went he called you an asshole cop.’
‘An asshole cop. . . that’s what he said? I’m not sure what one of those is, but hell, if that’s what Walt thinks then fair enough. Man has a right to an opinion.’
Harper didn’t reply. He wanted the man to go away.
‘So this is a real surprise for me, the fact that Edward Bernstein has a son.’ Duchaunak just looked at Harper for a few moments.
Harper wanted to tell Duchaunak that it had been a greater surprise for himself, but felt that such a comment would serve no purpose.
‘Did he speak?’ Duchaunak asked.
‘I think so.’
‘He said something?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Harper replied.
‘Did it seem like he said something?’
‘I think he told me to leave.’ Harper closed his eyes, ran his right hand through his hair. His hand stopped at the back of his neck and he appeared to massage the tense knot of muscles at the top of his spine. He wanted a drink, perhaps three, but he still felt no motivation to move.
‘To leave?’ Duchaunak asked.
‘I don’t know, Detective. I don’t know that he even spoke, to tell you the truth. It sounded like one word . . . one word from a dying man I’ve never met before, and I think I wanted it to be a real word, a word that had some meaning, a word that perhaps had some relevance to the fact that he’s about to die and I’m his son—’ Harper stopped and looked directly at Duchaunak. ‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t even know that I
am
his son. I’m going on the word of my crazy aunt and a guy called Walt Freiberg who I haven’t seen for the better part of thirty years.’
‘If he told you to leave . . . well, if he told you to leave, then I figure he gave you the best advice he could.’
Harper smiled and shook his head. ‘I only just arrived Detective.’
Duchaunak nodded. ‘Sure you did, sure you did. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s possibly the best advice you were ever given, regardless of who it came from.’
There was silence between them for a moment.
‘You look like him,’ Duchaunak said eventually.
‘So?’ Harper replied. ‘A lot of people look like a whole lot of other people, doesn’t mean they’re related.’
‘It wasn’t an accusation, Mr Harper.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harper said. ‘This has been a difficult couple of days, still is difficult. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.’
‘Who told you about this?’
‘You mean who told me that he was here in the hospital?’
‘Yes, who told you?’
‘My aunt. My mother’s sister. She raised me after my mother died.’
‘She lives here in New York?’
‘Yes, over on Carmine Street off of Seventh.’
‘And you live where?’ Duchaunak asked.
Harper shook his head. ‘Miami. I’m a reporter for the
Herald
.’
‘Long time away from New York?’
‘Left here when I was nineteen. Went to Florida to get away from all of this.’
‘All of what?’
‘New York, everything it represented for me.’
‘The death of your mother, right?’
‘That, and my uncle’s suicide.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes,’ Harper said. ‘My aunt’s husband, name was Garrett Sawyer. He killed himself when I was twelve.’
‘Difficult childhood.’
Harper smiled. ‘Difficult life, Detective.’
‘You married?’
‘No. No wife, no kids, crappy job . . . and now this.’
‘And your relationship with Walter Freiberg?’
‘Relationship?’ Harper asked. ‘What relationship would that be?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Walt . . . Uncle Walt. He used to be
Similar Books
