Chapter 38
As we exit onto Roosevelt Island, I feel like I’m in a Hallmark Christmas movie.
Big-city working gal goes back to her small hometown and finds out the true meaning of Christmas.
Roosevelt Island does feel like a place where I could fall in love with a man trying to save his Christmas tree farm.
Roosevelt Island is not easily accessible by car, and no passengers ever request to come here; most people take the tram and subway.
It is considered part of Manhattan, even as an island in the East River.
The strip of land is narrow and only about forty blocks long.
The skyscrapers filling the horizon bring me back to reality, reminding me we’re still in the city—no handsome lumberjack in sight.
“Odd place for the Mouse to live,” Alex remarks as he zips through the barely present traffic.
“Odd that a guy who has degrees from Yale is a hit man too,” I say. I wonder what happened in his life that made him veer off the path of the typical Ivy League graduate. No tech bro startup wannabe here.
We don’t know for sure that Magnus Mouse is Harvey, but the Mouse nickname is hard to abandon.
It’s a little harder to be scared of a grown man who voluntarily wore a costume that is mostly a black jumpsuit and red shorts.
The more I appreciate my situation and the looming jail time, the more I realize I need to channel my inner…
Who’s a modern-day detective? Benoit Blanc from Knives Out?
I could never pull him off, but he’s a little more chic than Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Holmes.
As we drive past average-looking apartment buildings and houses, I wonder what a normal place would be for a hit man to live.
In the new Brooklyn high-rise that everyone compares to the evil tower in The Lord of the Rings?
I guess a house on Roosevelt Island seems just as likely a place as any other for a hit man to live in.
I just wish we were in a less conspicuous car.
We stand out like those Tesla trucks that seem better suited for warfare than driving to the store for some milk.
“I’m getting family-friendly vibes here, not ‘let me stab you in a crowd of people’ vibes,” I say.
“I doubt he’d wanna call attention to his off-the-books job,” Alex says. “He’s not fitting any professional hit man stereotypes, which is probably his goal.”
If there’s anything my true crime podcasts taught me, it’s that evil can hide in plain sight.
Soon we pull up to a quaint house, with a literal white picket fence. Toys are scattered in the yard. The house seems to be pulled out of a Norman Rockwell painting. All that’s missing is an adorable pup running around.
“So now what do we do?” I ask uncertainly.
“We wait. Good ol’ fashioned stakeout,” Alex says as he pulls a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, a top-tier snack choice, from the back seat.
“We can eat in your car now?” I ask. Alex is fastidious about keeping his car and his home spotless. He has a strict no-eating rule in the car, which makes me a little sad, as I’m frequently tempted by roadside bodegas. I can’t resist a good snack. I wish I had some Takis right now.
“Special occasion, this one time. Plus, I’m starving,” Alex says, his mouth already half-full of Cheetos.
“Cheetos…they’re not your normal fare of protein shakes and egg white omelets.
” Alex normally only eats junk food when he’s feeling very stressed.
My arrest has taken a bigger toll on him than I realized.
I should feel bad about this. Instead, I happily crunch on the delicious treat and feel grateful that Alex isn’t forcing a chalky protein bar on me.
Alex and I have made it about halfway through the bag when I see something.
“It’s him! He’s wearing the same watch.” I gasp, impressed with my ability to recognize something so small from a dozen or so feet away.
Looking at my outfits of late, you wouldn’t be faulted for saying that I have no eye for details.
The dawn is just breaking. My one and only foray into understanding luxury goods is working.
“Oh shit. Okay. So we know it’s him,” Alex whispers. “The Mouse is Harvey.”
“He’s coming to the sidewalk. Does he recognize us?”
Alex carefully cleans his orange fingers on a wet wipe before placing his hand on the ignition, ready to speed away at a moment’s notice. I stop licking the orange dust on my fingers and use a wet wipe like a civilized person too.
Magnus Mouse has a black bag in his hand, which he dumps in the trash can on the curb. Seeing him in the daylight, taking out his trash like the rest of us, demystifies him ever so slightly. He’s muscular, but not overly so, and balding. Not quite the secret assassin I was expecting.
“Seemingly normal,” Alex comments as Magnus Mouse shuffles back into his house. I bet Alex is wondering how he got outrun by this guy.
Suddenly, Bella jumps out the open window of the car.
“Oh no,” I say, immediately running out after her, images of her alone on the street and getting hit by a car flashing through my brain. I couldn’t care less if Magnus Mouse sees me. Instead of running far, Bella makes a mad dash to the trash, grabbing the bag.
This is pretty typical behavior for Bella, who was very defiant of all her doggy training classes.
I’m able to separate Bella from the bag on the street, but I realize that maybe there could be something useful in the trash beyond some food scraps that Bella was probably trying to eat.
I guide Bella and the trash bag into the back seat and trunk of the car respectively before scrambling into the passenger seat, out of breath.
I look back to the house, fully expecting Magnus Mouse to be charging after us, but we’ve miraculously managed to escape detection.
“Why did Bella do that?” I wonder aloud, envisioning a dead body in the bag, which actually happened in one of my true crime podcasts.
“Maybe she smelled chicken?” Alex offers. Or a dead body…
Like me, Bella does love to eat.
We both turn around and stare in the direction of the trash expectantly as if waiting for something to jump out. It does smell. Not as bad as a random body part might, so I try to reassure myself it’s just normal, innocuous trash with some potentially valuable clues.
“There might be something in there…” I trail off.
“It’s probably going to stink up my car soon,” Alex says with a wince. He unbuckles his seat belt as if to get out and throw out the bag.
“Just keep it for now. I think tha—” I’m interrupted by Alex.
“Wait, the Mouse is out again.” I’m glad the tint on these windows is dark. “He’s getting onto a motorcycle,” Alex whispers.
Where have I seen that motorcycle before? I rack my brain.
“Let’s follow him,” I say. Something in my gut, an overwhelming pull, is telling me I need to follow the man. I know that Alex won’t take much convincing to go on a probably reckless car chase.
“Sure,” Alex says, “but I think the better driver of the two of us should do it.”
“Me? You want me to drive your car?” I say, incredulous. Never in the four years that Alex has had this car has he ever offered it up for a drive.
“Yes, hurry up and switch with me! You’re the better driver and you know the streets better than me; you drive a taxi for a living. And with a motorcycle like that, he is gonna be weaving in and out of traffic.”
Yes, I’m a good city driver, but not in cars like this.
Magnus Mouse is already on his bike. Before I can think, I jump out and Alex does the same.
Once in the driver’s seat, I buckle in and adjust it.
The wheel feels soft and sleek under my hands.
As soon as I start the car, the engine purrs just slightly.
Bella barks as if cheering me on. I love my taxi, I remind myself, but this car is a thing of beauty.
I grip the wheel tightly, keenly aware of how much this car costs and how much horsepower I command under my foot.
While I think dudes’ obsession with their cars is a little weird, driving this car, I sorta get it.
“I wonder where he’s going,” Alex wonders aloud.
“Clearly back into Manhattan or to the Bronx. Maybe to see Charlie?”
“That would be helpful. We might catch them together. I could take photos,” Alex says, hand on his phone, ready to use it at any moment.
I continue to follow two cars behind, inching closer if it looks like Magnus Mouse may shoot ahead at a red light. We pass the exit to go to the Bronx.
“I guess he’s not seeing Charlie, at least not at his house or business or whatever that place is…Maybe he’s just running an errand?” I offer, thinking about the kids the Mouse may or may not have living in his house, which looks like it’s made for a big family.
We continue to drive, unclear of where we’re going.
We pass some of the spots Alex and I frequent together.
Were I not so focused on driving, I’d take a minute to revel in the nostalgia.
I’d remind Alex that we should go back to our favorite Japanese restaurant and finally finish that sushi boat we’ve always wanted to conquer.
As we continue on, weaving in and out of traffic, I realize that I’ve been in this neighborhood recently. In fact, I was in this neighborhood two days ago.
“It sort of looks like we’re headed to the hospital,” Alex offers, his voice a little shaky.
It is something I know too, but I’m hoping at the last minute the car will veer off in a different direction.
Turn onto another street. The car continues to make its way toward the hospital situated on the west side of Manhattan.
There isn’t too much else out here so close to the water.
Finally, after some careful maneuvering, our car is alongside his bike.
Harvey looks over, and a shot of recognition seems to run through his body as he looks at our car, because suddenly, just a few blocks away from the hospital, he speeds away, accelerating on the yellow light so quickly even I can’t follow.
The implication is clear.
“Call Amaya NOW!” I demand, revving the engine.