The Anonymous Man Read online

  Fox waited a few minutes after Flaherty’s departure to make sure he had gone for the night and wasn’t returning after a trip to the store. Finally, at around eleven forty-five, convinced that Flaherty would not be back, Fox drove back to the hotel.

  After a couple shots of bourbon over ice in a plastic hotel cup, Fox nodded off on top of the bed still fully dressed, his head cranked awkwardly on a couple of too small and too fluffy hotel pillows with the TV turned down to a mere thump in the background. He woke up half an hour later with a splitting headache and an aching neck and pushed himself off the bed to get an aspirin out of the bottle of the bottle he had brought with him. After swallowing a couple pills, he took his final leak of the day.

  As the trail of his piss crackled into the toilet, Fox wondered what the fuck he was doing sequestered here in some lonely hotel room in Buffalo and cursed himself for not having retired to Florida long ago. He was sixty-five years old and had spent thirty-two of them investigating human dishonesty and greed and violence as a member of the Philadelphia Police Department.

  Years ago, he had grown tired of observing the transgressions of his fellow man while powerless to do much of anything about it. Most of the thousands of investigations he had worked up over those many years had failed to result in meaningful justice. Criminals got light sentences or nothing at all because of overcrowded jails, incompetent prosecutors, and crooked or stupid juries and judges. His part-time work as a private investigator while a full-time cop had done little to resolve problems among people—in fact, what he found usually exacerbated them. Wives confirmed that their husbands had grown tired of them, or vice versa; employers found out that even their most trusted employees were thieves and cheats or malingerers. And now, at the end of his career, the only justice derived from his work on behalf of this life insurance company over the past two years was to save a rich conglomerate from paying out claims to unworthy, and sometimes, cheating or murderous beneficiaries. Who won in that? Where was the honor in what he had done, and what he was doing?

  What had resonated in Fox’s mind after all the years in the investigation business was that people were selfish bastards, and would do just about anything to gratify themselves, whether it be for love or money or lust or just plain cruelty. They would lie and cheat and commit murder for an extra few bucks or a piece of ass. The more bucks that were involved, or the sweeter the ass, the more likely that murder and deceit would follow. Still, the idea of letting the crime go undetected and walking away from it without at least attempting to procure a measure of justice seemed a far worse thing. Fox had not yet grown so discouraged that he had completely lost all hope that earthly justice was possible.

  Not yet.

  After another bad night’s sleep, Fox got a red-eye out of Buffalo and arrived back at Global’s main office in downtown Philly shortly before noon after being stuck in another seemingly endless series of traffic jams from the airport to downtown. Chief Reynolds was waiting for him, his office looking especially cramped and glum that morning, reflecting his dour mood.

  Fox made his report, quick and to the point.

  “That’s it?” the Chief said. “She’s screwing some guy three days after the insured’s funeral?” He shrugged. “Hardly enough to recommend a denial, let alone demonstrate a murder plot.”

  “We need more time,” said Fox.

  “More time?” The Chief had opened a folder and started reading a new report. After a few moments, he looked up. “To find what? You got nothing, no witnesses. Only the wife of the insured screwing around.”

  There was no answer to that. That’s all Fox had. All he knew was that it didn’t feel right. Jerry Shaw had not accidentally burned to death. The claim should not be paid. That would be unjust. And justice would be a denied. Again.

  “More time?” Chief Reynolds was chuckling to himself now. “I don’t know what to tell ya, Chief.”

  “You’ve been watching too many movies, Jack, like the one I watched last night. But life isn’t like the movies. And it certainly isn’t like Double Indemnity. The crimes we investigate usually go unsolved and the crooks remain free.

  “And anyway,” the Chief continued, “the arson guys really killed this one for us.”

  “The arson guys are full of crap. And they didn’t know about the affair, a motive.”

  The Chief leaned forward and scribbled something on the inside flap of the Shaw case folder.

  “It’s a moot point,” the Chief said. “Kline doesn’t want to do battle on this one. Even for four mil. I told him yesterday afternoon what you found, and he told me this morning unless you found something else, he was going to authorize payment.” The Chief shrugged. “Says the unit’s got cases up the ying-yang. Its resources can be spent on better places.”

  “Better places? Four million bucks isn’t a good enough place?”

  Chief Reynolds shrugged. “Easy come, easy go. Lucky for you and me, it’s not our money.”

  Fox brooded for a time. What it all ever came down to for him, what had always motivated him to action all these years in law enforcement, was what was right. But his resolve, like that of most men, though he was more stubborn than most, had been sanded down to a nub. And more and more lately, as the hours grew short, he was coming to the awful realization once and for all that right didn’t matter in the real world, only in the schlock detective movies that he and Chief Reynolds liked to watch.

  When Fox looked up, he saw that the Chief was grinning. “What’s so funny, Chief?”

  “You,” he said. “So honest. So efficient. You do remind me of that insurance adjuster in Double Indemnity.”

  “Yeah,” said Fox, though without much interest.

  “You know,” the Chief continued, “the guy played by Edward G. Robinson?”

  “And I was thinking exactly the same thing about you, Dick,” said Fox, and now he broke into a smile. “Edward G. Complete with the cigar.”

  But then his smile faded, as did the Chief’s, as they both pondered the sorry state of justice in the world.

  Chapter Sixteen

  So this is what it feels like to be anonymous, Jerry thought.

  Invisible.

  He had rented the old black and white version of H. G. Wells’, The Invisible Man, the one made in the thirties with fairly non-existent special effects, and was quickly able to relate to the feelings of the main character, played by Claude Rains.

  Like the invisible man from the movie, Jerry soon realized that this sense of anonymity was both a blessing and a curse. In one sense, it made him nearly invincible, daring; but in another, he felt incredibly vulnerable, isolated and alone, dependent upon and yearning for human connection that came only when Jade was writhing in his arms. But now Jade was gone, off to Albany doing more tricks, sleeping with various men, all strangers, and then she was going down to Florida with her girlfriend, Faith, on vacation and probably doing more tricks down there. She would not be back in town, Jade had told him, for at least three weeks, depending how far her money went. She loved the sun and warmth and detested the cold, damp winters of Binghamton.

  Jade offered to give him a name and number of a “friend” who might help relieve his needs in her absence, but Jerry declined, telling her that he wanted to wait, that only she could satisfy him. That earned him a weak smile and off she went.

  His second day in Binghamton, with Jade long gone, Jerry bought a barbell set at a Dick’s Sporting Goods store for a couple hundred dollars. He was going to take Jeff’s advice and change his looks, starting with his physique. Get rid once and for all of his flab and rotundity and set out to look like somebody else. Losing weight and sculpting his frame was not only healthy, it might keep him, and them, out of jail. And it might even impress Holly.

  He set up the barbell set in the small, empty bedroom and after a sigh, started using it. He put on one hundred twenty-five pounds and grunted out three sets. Then, remembering back from his freshman year in college when he worked out for a few weeks
with Dan Cormack at the gym, he did some curls and squats with just enough weight that he could feel a twinge of painful resistance. He finished off with sit-ups and push-ups. The next day he added to the mix a half mile jog around a local park along the Susquehanna River. He filled the fridge with some oranges and grapes and apples, as well as yogurt, and swore off McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy’s, and KFC. He also vowed to stay away from donuts and cupcakes and ice cream. After mulling it over for a time, he set a goal of losing fifty pounds in six months.

  Following more of Jeff’s advice, Jerry stopped shaving and watched the stubble on his chin and face blossom into a decent, full-fledged jet black beard that made him look ten years older and profoundly masculine. Wearing a flannel shirt, Jerry looked more like an outdoorsman than a soft-bellied computer software salesman. He also let his hair grow out. In addition to his eyes, Holly always said he had a good head of thick black hair that made even girls envious. In a week, he impressed himself how remarkably different he already looked, almost unrecognizable. In another month, if he continued slimming down and growing his beard and hair, he doubted if even Jeff and Holly could recognize him.

  Still, the nights remained unbearably lonely. There was nothing from Jeff, and Holly, of course. It was driving him nuts not knowing what was going on back home. What, for example, was the status of the insurance claim. If it wasn’t paid right away, what did that signify? Mistrust? A full-blown investigation? Four million dollars was a lot of money to hand over.

  During the planning stages for the scam, Jeff had no clue how long it would take. No doubt the size of the policy would give the insurance company a reason to doubt and launch an investigation. Jerry cursed Holly for being so goddamn greedy and cursed himself for not paying better attention, for not being in better control of her. His lack of assertiveness, his lack of confidence, could cost them everything.

  What was now equally maddening for Jerry was that no provision had been made for a direct and immediate line of communication between himself and Jeff and Holly as the need arose. How could they not see that was a problem? Being in the dark like this only made his mind race, imagining all kinds of problems. And on top of that, he started imagining that Holly had become unfaithful to him. After all, hadn’t he become unfaithful to her in short order, only a day out of town?

  But there was nothing that could be done about these concerns except to fret and wait, and toss and turn in bed during his often sleepless nights waiting for something to break.

  Ten long days passed like this without news from Jeff. The silence was killing Jerry. But Jeff had cautioned him that it could be weeks, even months before the claim was paid. And for most of that time, they would not be able to connect.

  Each one of those ten days, around noon, Jerry got out of the house and jogged at least a couple miles. After eating a salad or a bowl of soup for lunch, he’d take a drive to the local mall and simply walk around, stare at people, the women especially. Upon his return to the house by mid to late afternoon, he’d slink off to the bedroom, turn on his laptop and masturbate to free porn. And that was pretty much his day. He’d also worry about his relationship with Holly. It had taken this separation for Jerry to fully realize what a woman she was, that she was irreplaceable. It also made him furious that he has let his insecurity come between what should have blossomed into a legendary love affair.

  It was seven o’clock on the morning of the fourteenth day after his fake funeral, while standing in the kitchen sipping strong, dark coffee, when Jerry decided, to hell with all the mind-numbing waiting that was literally killing him. It was time to be daring. It was time to act like the Anonymous Man, to throw caution to the wind. It was time to be the superhero that he meant the Anonymous Man to be.

  Jerry decided right then and there that he was going home. He took another long sip of coffee to solidify his resolve. He would sneak into his own home, barge in on Holly, then fuck her in the silent darkness of his own bed. He was still grossly overweight, even after losing ten pounds, but she would notice a profound change in him beyond that. She would notice the change of attitude, a renewal of confidence and purpose. A resurrection of his masculinity.

  Yes, that was it. He needed to go home and put on a reckless display for the benefit of the woman he still loved.

  This would be the year of the Anonymous Man.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jerry decided he would surprise Holly that very night. If he didn’t do it right away, he might lose his resolve and slip into a kind of numb brooding, a bad habit he had developed over the years.

  It would be easy. The worst part would be the three-hour drive. Once there, he could use his key to sneak into the house then jump her in bed. Initially, she’d likely be pissed. But, he hoped, after a time in the secure and private darkness of their bedroom, she’d relent, deciding that what he had done was gallant and brave and romantic—and that doing so represented a significant positive change in him. This was what a man should be, like Jeff, someone who took initiative, who took risks in order to live life to the fullest, not the dull couch potato he had become in the seven years of their marriage. And then she’d lay back and let him have his way with her.

  All the rest of that long afternoon, Jerry mentally prepared for the trip. At around three, he gave in to exhaustion after last night’s insomnia and took a nap. He woke up at around six, treated himself to a low calorie, low cholesterol, low salt microwave dinner and a cup of yogurt. By the time he had showered and dressed and gassed up the car, it was already almost eight-thirty. If he kept to the speed limit, he’d manage to make it back to his house by around midnight.

  And it was exactly midnight, to the minute, when he pulled onto Northview Lane. The street was dark and silent, as was expected for that hour on a weeknight. Every single house was dark, still, asleep. Except for his, no car came or went.

  Jerry parked along the curb a few houses down from what had once been his official residence the last seven years. Outside, he drew in a deep drag of crisp, autumn air. It was mid-November, and around these parts, snow could come at any time. All that was needed for a big snowstorm was a cold front from northern Canada to cross Lake Erie to produce two or three feet of snow. In that event, he might be really fucked, holed up where he shouldn’t be.

  But this night, no cold front had moved in, just the normal chill of winter coming on. Still, it was damp and cold enough for each of his exhalations to produce tiny puffs of gray, smoky mist.

  Jerry hurried past the vinyl siding of the garage’s outer wall and edged his way to the backyard. He stopped for a time, hidden in the complete black shadow of the house directly under the master bedroom where he imagined Holly was at this hour of night fast asleep. He missed the nights sleeping next to her, listening to her quiet breathing and wondered why he had failed to appreciate her being there, next to him all those many nights. Why such a simple thing as being privy to someone’s sleeping habits was so easily taken for granted.

  In the next moment, Jerry started shivering, a mixture of nerves and the chilly air. The previous owner had attached a decent sized deck to the back door leading directly out from the kitchen. As he stood there shivering, Jerry again began to wonder whether he should turn around, abandon this reckless plan, and find some cheap motel for the night, then slink back to Binghamton in the morning, leaving Jeff and Holly none the wiser.

  But that was the old Jerry, he told himself. He narrowed his eyes and re-affirmed that it was time to live recklessly; that he needed to be with Holly, his wife, smell her, taste her; that this was the year of the Anonymous Man. What the fuck, he told himself, then took a deep breath and stepped onto the bottom rung of the short staircase leading onto the deck.

  At the back door, he nervously sucked in another crisp mouthful of air before taking out his key. But as he was about to insert it into the lock, it slipped from his fingers, clanged on the deck and fell through a crack onto the gravel below.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.


  It took Jerry ten frantic minutes crawling along the slimy gravel in utter darkness beneath the deck to find the key. Returning to the back door, he didn’t waste another moment thinking over things. He firmly inserted the key into the lock and turned the knob, but when he pushed open the door, the aggravating low whistle of an alarm greeted him. The fucking alarm! He had completely forgotten about it because, for some reason, over the years, he and Holly had stopped arming it whenever they went out. But now, for whatever reason, with him gone, Holly had done just that, armed it.

  Jerry hustled to the small keypad on the wall just inside the back door entrance and quickly punched in the code. The alarm let out two short beeps then went silent. Jerry stood motionless for a time staring at the code box, hoping and praying that, having sounded so briefly, the alarm had not awakened Holly and caused her, in a panic, to dial 911, and turn his impulsive trip home into a disaster dooming them.

  Jerry waited, churning inside, his heart beating fast, waiting, for what seemed forever. But no one and nothing stirred. Finally, after about a minute, he began to relax as it appeared that the alarm had not awakened Holly. By then Jerry’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he began to creep forward through the spacious kitchen, avoiding the center island, then passed through a doorway into a wide living room. He lingered there a moment, inspecting the shadows of familiar furniture: the thick couch with the flowery pattern, the loveseat where night after night having coming home from work he had planted his ass and read The Buffalo News cover to cover; the brand new fifty-five inch HDVD flat screen television they had charged fifteen hundred dollars for on their credit card six months ago.