Page 117 of Witness 8

Kate’s phone had been buzzing in her pocket.

There was a group chat now, for Lake and Bloch to keep Kate and Eddie updated on the whereabouts of the players in this game.

Bloch was parked on West 74thStreet, focused on Bale.

Todd Ellis was on the move.

Bloch wanted to keep an eye on Bale, so she let Ellis go.

53

Mr. Christmas

The sleek, black Lincoln circled Norfolk Street for the second time. It was almost seven thirty.

As Mr. Christmas rolled around the block, he thought about his day and, in particular, his visit with Ruby Johnson. There was a young woman who was full of surprises.

He had expected she would not open the door to her apartment. She would not call the police, given the large bag of cash she had in the place, but he had thought she would resist. If she was anything, she was a fighter.

Except she didn’t resist. She opened the door and invited him inside.

‘I’ve got the money,’ she said.

‘I’m aware. Perhaps I could see it, please.’

She disappeared into her bedroom as Mr. Christmas waited in the kitchen, his right hand inside his jacket, ready to draw his pistol. Ruby came out of the bedroom with the blue gym bag, set it on the counter and opened it. Then stood back. Mr. Christmas brought the bag toward him, so he could look inside and keep Ruby in his eyeline. He didn’t want to turn his back on this one.

He fanned the bound stacks of cash, making sure they were all hundreds and fifties, and no one-dollar bills had been slipped in. It came to two hundred and fifty. Neat.

‘Do you want coffee?’ asked Ruby.

‘If you are attempting to delay the inevitable conclusion of our business, there is no need. I will not harm you today, Ruby.’

She nodded, said, ‘There’s still coffee, if you want some.’

‘Why not?’ said Mr. Christmas.

She poured two cups. Mr. Christmas asked for half and half and sugar, and they took their coffee to the small living room, Ruby in her chair, while Mr. Christmas occupied her mother’s old seat.

‘How does it feel having your mom in a retirement home?’ asked Mr. Christmas.

‘It’s part nursing care too. For her illness. It’s a relief,’ said Ruby. ‘She deserved to have people take care of her properly. She’s been through so much. She had a terrible time with my father. He beat her, for years. Then, when he ran out on us and took whatever money we had left – that was hard too. She still loves him. And she hates him. But she got us through it. And I wanted to be able to give her something back.’

‘Have you ever tried looking for him?’

‘No. She tried, about a year after he took off. Last trace of him – he was working in a bar in Topeka, Kansas. He’d stolen the weekend’s takings and run off with a waitress. The trail went cold after that. I pity the waitress. I bet she was afraid of him too. What about you? Are your parents still around?’

Mr. Christmas felt something in his gut, a warmth. He’d not had a conversation like this in a very long time.

‘My father left us when I was five years old. He went out for a gallon of milk, never saw him again,’ said Mr. Christmas. ‘I have no idea where he is now. Probably dead. My mother couldn’t cope. She called the police, reported him missing. She didn’t tell them he was the type of man who would disappear for days on end, and come home with no shoes and a torn shirt. For the rest of her life, she spent her evenings staring at the front door.Waiting for him. She died when I was fifteen. Car wreck on the way to pick me up from school. She’d been drinking.’

‘That must’ve been very difficult for you,’ said Ruby.

‘Not really, my dear. I knew from a young age that I was quite different from my peers. I knew right from wrong, of course. But I refused to see the appliance of that general societal norm to me. I didn’tfeellike other people do. I have a short temper, especially if people are rude. That is the extent of my emotive range. Other emotions rarely surface. When they do, I am invariably in the dark of a movie theatre. That’s where my feelings lie, and I don’t take them with me when I leave. They remain on the floor, like nuggets of spilt popcorn.’

‘Is that why you are . . .’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Yes, in this profession my ability to kill people without a second thought is a positive boon. I do have principles, and my own morals, after a fashion. Strange as they may seem, to some. Everyone needs guidelines. You are polite and wise enough not to try to kill me. That is, in part, why you are still alive. What are your guidelines, Ruby?’