John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

“No, Mother. Let me explain.”

“But what about her graduate studies?”

“Those can be put on hold.”

“Dear, this is very confusing. What is the problem?”

Hope took a deep breath and blurted out, “It’s a man.”

When Scott first tried Ashley’s cell phone that night, he got a No longer in service recording, which pitched him into a near panic as he dialed her landline. When she answered, he felt a surge of anxiety. As he greeted her, he concentrated on keeping fear out of his voice.

“Hey, Ash,” he said briskly, “how are you doing?”

Ashley, for her part, was unsure what the answer to that question might be. She could not shake the sensation that she was being watched, that she was being followed, or that every word she spoke was being listened to. She was tentative when she left her apartment, wary when she walked down the street, leery of every shadow, every corner, every blind alleyway. Ordinary city sounds that she was so familiar with now penetrated her ears like some high-pitched whistle, almost painful in intensity.

She decided that she should partly lie. She did not want to upset her father.

“I’m okay. Things are just a bit of a mess.”

“Have you heard from O’Connell again?”

She didn’t exactly reply, except to say, “Dad, I’ve got to take some steps.”

“Yes,” he said far too quickly. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“I’ve canceled the cell phone,” she said, which explained the recording.

“Yes, and cancel this line as well. In fact, I think you’re going to have to do far more than we ever anticipated.”

“I’ve got to move,” she said sullenly. “I like this place, but…”

“I think,” Scott began tentatively, “that you’re going to have to do more than just move.”

Ashley didn’t immediately respond.

“And there are some other steps-”

“What are you saying?” Ashley blurted out.

Scott took a deep breath and adopted his most reasoned, most flat and academic tone, as if he were discussing the flaws in a senior’s paper. “I’ve done some reading and research, and I don’t want to leap to conclusions here, but I’m thinking that there exists the potential for O’Connell to get, well, even more aggressive.”

“Aggressive. That’s a euphemism. You think he might hurt me?”

“Others, in similar circumstances, have been hurt. I’m just saying we should take some precautions.”

More silence, before she responded, “What are you suggesting?”

“I think you need to disappear. That is, exit Boston, go someplace safe, hide for a while, and then resume things when O’Connell has finally moved on.”

“What makes you so sure he will move on? Maybe he will just wait it out.”

“We have resources, Ashley. If you have to leave Boston behind for good, move to L.A. or Chicago or Miami, well, that can be done. You’re still young. Plenty of time to get where you want. I think we just need to take some significant steps, so that O’Connell can’t find you again.”

Ashley could feel anger surging within her. “He doesn’t have the right,” she began, raising her voice. “Why should it be me? What have I done wrong? Why does he get to screw up my life?”

Scott let his daughter fully vent before answering. This was a quality left over from her childhood, when early on he’d learned that letting Ashley bluster and complain would settle her down, and that ultimately she would listen if not to reason, then at least to something close to it. A father’s trick.

“He doesn’t have the right. He just has the ability. So, let’s try to make some moves that he won’t anticipate. And, first among these, is getting you away from him.”

Again, Scott could sense Ashley measuring things on the other end of the phone. He had little idea that much of what he’d said had already occurred to her. Still, what he was suggesting seemed to discourage her, and Ashley found her eyes welling with tears. Nothing was fair. When she did speak, it was with resignation.

“All right, Dad. Time for Ashley to vanish.”

“So, they hired a private investigator?”

“Yes. An extremely competent and well-trained fellow.”

“That makes sense. It also seems like the sort of reasonable thing that any modestly well-educated and financially sturdy couple would arrange. Like bringing in an expert. I should go speak with him. He must have prepared some sort of report for Sally. That’s what private investigators always end up doing. It must be available, somewhere.”

“Yes. You are correct about that,” she said. “There was a report. An initial one. I have the copy that was sent to Sally.”

“Well?”

“Why don’t you try to speak with Matthew Murphy first. And then, afterwards, I’ll give it to you, should you think you still need it.”

“You could save me some trouble here.”

“Perhaps,” she replied. “I’m not sure that saving you time and effort is precisely my task in this process. And, equally, I think visiting the private investigator will be…how shall I put it? An education.”

She smiled, but humorlessly, and I had the distinct impression that she was teasing me with something. I stood up to leave, shrugging my shoulders. She sighed, seeing the discouraged look I had on my face.

“Sometimes, it’s about impressions,” she said abruptly. “You learn something, you hear something, you see something, and it leaves an imprint on your imagination. Eventually, that is what happens to Scott and Sally and Hope and Ashley, as well. A series of events, or moments of time, all taken together accumulate into a fully formed vision of what their future might be. Go see the private detective,” she said with a brisk tone. “It will add immeasurably to your understanding. And then, if you think it necessary, I’ll give you his report.”

He reminded himself to remain calm.

This was difficult for Michael O’Connell. He generally functioned better on the edge of rage, where streaks of fury colored his judgment, reliably steering him into places where he was comfortable. A fight. An insult. An obscenity. These were all moments that he enjoyed almost as much as he did when he was making plans. There were few things, he thought, more satisfying than predicting what people would do, then watching them do it, just as he’d imagined they would.

He had observed Ashley’s furtive dash from her building to the taxi, noting the cab company and identifying number. He wasn’t surprised that she was going somewhere. Running came naturally to people like Ashley and her family, he had told himself. He considered them cowards.

He called the dispatcher for the cab service, gave the taxi’s ID number, and said he’d found some prescription glasses in a case that the young lady had apparently dropped on the sidewalk. Was there any way he could return them to her?

The dispatcher had hesitated for a moment while he went over his log of radio calls.

“Ah, I don’t think so, fella.”

“Why not?” O’Connell had asked.

“That trip was to the international departures terminal at Logan. You might as well just chuck ’em. Or drop ’em in one of those eyeglasses-for-charity boxes you see.”

“Well,” O’Connell said, trying to make a joke, “somebody’s not gonna see too many sights in wherever they’re going on vacation.”

“Tough luck for her.”

That was an understatement, Michael O’Connell thought, seething inwardly.

Now he was perched a half block from her apartment, watching three young men move boxes out of her apartment building. They had a midsize U-Haul truck double-parked in the street outside, and they seemed to be hustling to get the job done and get on their way. Once again, O’Connell told himself to remain calm. He shrugged his shoulders to try to loosen the tension that had built up in his neck, and he clenched and unclenched his fists a half dozen times, trying to relax himself. Then he slowly sauntered down the block toward where the three young men were working.