About Face by Adam Gittlin Page B

two yellow couches. The only light fell from a lamp on a white wooden desk. The desk had been positioned between the French doors leading to the terrace and the entrance to the bedroom. The suite was mellow, actually charming. The walls were the same yellow as the couches. The rug and curtains were the same orange hue I’d seen in the lobby. An antique-looking armoire I opened, white-painted wood like the desk, revealed an older, chunky TV. The coffee table matched those found in the lobby as well—iron-framed with a glass top.
    Neo immediately went to work sniffing out the entire suite. I zeroed in on the television. I powered it on and went straight toCNN’s international channel, the only station I had ever really watched outside of the United States. Charles Hodson was in the middle of a financial report, first discussing the results for the day on the American stock exchanges followed by those of exchanges around the globe. I sat on the end of the bed, my eyes glued. After a couple of minutes he seemed to be nearing the end of his report. I literally inched forward, only to have him flow right into a story about banking powerhouse J. P. Morgan’s impending merger with Bank One.
    Dejected, antsy, I stood up and walked over to the French doors leading out to the terrace. I went out. The whispers of the Riviera, the gentle crash of the surf below, softened the sound of the reporter’s voice. Fragrance from the fruits and flowers of the Maures Mountains, hovering behind, rolled downhill and filled my nose, my every pore. I stepped outside, right up to the ledge of the waist-high, top-floor terrace. I looked out over the dark, moonlit waters of the Gulf of St. Tropez. Taking a deep breath, I wondered if Perry was going to follow me.
    â€œAn unbelievable situation is taking shape in New York City—”
    I ran back inside. International correspondent Becky Anderson was reporting from London. As always, her angular jaw was perfectly framed by her cropped brown hair. Her thick British accent that could make the weather sound dire added to the intensity of her words.
    â€œIn a storyline seemingly ripped from the world of fiction, two headline news stories seem to be crashing into one another. Just last Saturday morning, prominent Manhattan real estate figure Stan Gray was gunned down on the stoop of his townhouse on the Upper East Side—one of the city’s most posh neighborhoods. Thus far, there have been no arrests.”
    And there wouldn’t be anytime soon, I thought, exterior footage of my childhood home filling the international airwaves. Lloyd Murdoch had covered his tracks well. The only reason the prick is still breathing, after taking my father down like a dog as amessage to me over a deal that was all bullshit, was because I hadn’t killed him—though I certainly came close. The only reason I hadn’t turned him in was because I hadn’t had time.
    â€œMeanwhile, in what seemed like a completely unrelated matter, approximately forty-eight hours ago a New York City police officer was pulled out of Manhattan’s East River. He had sustained a single gunshot to the head and his body had been stuffed postmortem in a duffel bag. Few details are being released at this time, the one individual the authorities are seeking in relation to this crime is…”
    A photograph of me—taken from my father’s house—filled the screen. The picture was snapped at his sixtieth birthday party.
    â€œJonah Gray. Mr. Gray is a successful commercial real estate broker in New York City and the son of Stan Gray. That’s right—the same Stan Gray whom we just mentioned gruesomely murdered on—”
    I grabbed the remote and clicked it off. I decided right then and there to never look again. It simply didn’t matter anymore. Everything had gotten so fucked up. Now I was running for my life. Unknown to the rest of the world, the cop whom I had killed