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  “Yes. Absolutely.” Rogan nods vigorously.

  Blanford does likewise. “Friday.”

  Sweeney turns and leaves.

  * * *

  Although the official announcement will come later, it’s generally understood around the office now that Sweeney will take Matt’s place. One or two of his clients call and he deals with them as best he can. There’s also a ripple of discord he picks up on—it’s between the secretaries, it’s about who’ll be doing what and for whom, but he avoids getting involved.

  At home, Laura is still really puzzled about why Sweeney seems to have stopped smoking. It bugs her in a way she can’t bring herself to express. She knows she should be jumping for joy at his salary increase and flicking through catalogs to decide which drapes to get for the new house they’ll be able to move into … but no, he sees it in her eyes every time she looks at him. Something is different. But since she doesn’t bring up the issue, he doesn’t either. His not smoking is a big deal, however. He’s always been a smoker, a heavy one, and, quite frankly, he’s puzzled about this, too. It’s connected to the MDT, he knows that much, but he can’t explain how or why.

  The funeral is a nightmare, as most funerals are. It rains incessantly and the small chapel in Brooklyn is packed. Everywhere he turns, Sweeney sees faces he recognizes, mostly from the office, or from the wider world of advertising. Matt’s family is understandably paralyzed with grief, and there’s nothing anyone can say or do that will ease their pain. Behind a mourning veil, Laura is stifling tears, and every few seconds she reaches over and squeezes Sweeney’s hand. It’s the seeming randomness of Matt’s death that has floored everyone.

  Apart from Sweeney, that is.

  Because he’s the only person here who knows what really happened. Unless, of course, Mike Sutton shows up.

  The possibility has crossed Sweeney’s mind several times since Monday. In fact, as he sits here, facing Matt Drake’s open casket, not paying attention to the service, not listening to the eulogies, it’s entirely possible that Mike Sutton is sitting directly behind him, or two or three rows behind him, or that he’s standing in the doorway of the chapel—or hunched at the wheel of his car outside, watching, waiting.

  Sweeney is actually surprised Sutton didn’t show up at the office on Tuesday morning. It couldn’t have taken him long to notice that one of the vials was missing from his freezer, and since it was obviously Sweeney who took it, why would he even think twice about heading up to where he knew Matt and Sweeney worked?

  But he didn’t, and there was no sign of him here this morning, either, when Sweeney arrived at the funeral home with Laura, or later, when they were all filing into the chapel. Maybe Sutton hasn’t looked in his fridge yet. Or maybe he thought better of attending the funeral of someone whose death he actually caused. Sweeney has tried imagining what he’d say to him if he were to show up, but it’s complicated—guilt and indignation don’t go well together.

  The cemetery is a choppy sea of raincoats and umbrellas. Sweeney is standing a few feet away from Laura, who is talking to Jack Rogan’s wife, when it happens. Seemingly out of nowhere, Sutton materializes.

  “You’re some prick, you know that?”

  “Jesus.” Sweeney flinches. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Don’t raise your voice.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make a scene.”

  “I’m not going to unless you make me,” Sweeney says, turning to look at Sutton. He’s wearing an open trench coat and a homburg. His complexion is gray and pasty, and the beads of sweat from the other day have been replaced by raindrops. “You know, there are plenty of people here who’d be very interested to talk to you. Matt’s widow, for one.” Sweeney’s insides constrict as he says this.

  “Oh, think you’re a tough guy? Think you can threaten me?” Sutton laughs. “What are you going to do, scratch my face?”

  Shit.

  “Listen,” he says, his voice quiet but controlled. “You took something that belongs to me, and I want it back.”

  Sweeney squirms. What is he going to tell him? “I … I don’t have it anymore.”

  “What do you mean? Where the fuck is it?”

  “Look, I dropped it,” he says. “The damn thing was so small. When I opened it, the bottle just slipped out of my hand. It fell on the kitchen floor and cracked. The stuff spilled out.” He swallows. “So I mopped it up and threw everything away.”

  Sutton sighs. “Jesus H. Christ, you’re shitting me, right?”

  “No.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve got a dilemma here. Either I choose to believe you.” He turns to look at Sweeney. “Or I don’t. For your sake, my friend, you’d better hope it’s the first.”

  Sweeney holds his gaze. “Who are you? We’re at a funeral here, of a man you helped to kill.”

  Sutton looks away. “Oh, please.”

  “What was that stuff you put in his drink, then? It wasn’t the same as what you put in mine, that’s for sure.”

  Sutton takes ahold of Sweeney’s arm suddenly, grips it. “How do you know that?”

  “Hey.”

  “Describe it to me,” he says, tightening his grip for a second, then loosening it, a new urgency in his voice. “The stuff in your drink. The effect of it. What did it make you feel?”

  Looking out over the rainswept cemetery, at the rolling hillside, at the rows and rows of gravestones, Sweeney remembers the entry in Sutton’s diary: No apparent effect, disappointing. But Sweeney left early, so can’t be sure.

  Sutton doesn’t know. He’s conducting experiments with these different substances and recording the results, but he doesn’t even know what he’s dealing with.

  “I felt dizzy at first,” Sweeney says, as an idea forms in his head. “Then just a little nauseous. That’s why I left when I did. A weird thing, though…”

  “What?”

  “It appeared to kill any desire I have to smoke.”

  “To smoke?”

  “Yes, I used to smoke a pack a day, at least.”

  Sutton seems puzzled, waits for more, then looks at Sweeney impatiently. “And?”

  Sweeney shrugs. “I haven’t smoked since last Friday. In your apartment.”

  “So what? I don’t understand.”

  “That stuff, whatever the hell it is, it had the effect of making me not want to smoke.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you felt?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not nothing. I mean, I’m happy to stop smoking. I saw this thing recently in the Journal of the American Medical Association that said men with a history of regular cigarette smoking have higher death rates from lung can—”

  “Shut up.” Sutton exhales loudly.

  “I was just saying.”

  “You felt nauseous, you didn’t want to smoke. Great. Then why did you come back for more?”

  “I don’t know. In case it wore off? In case I wanted to start smoking again?”

  Sutton stares at him.

  “Look, I didn’t know what you’d done. I was guessing. If that martini hadn’t tasted so weird, I probably wouldn’t have made the connection. But with Matt dead and all, and then you leaving me in your goddamned apartment, alone, just sitting there, what did you expect?”

  “Yeah, well.”

  Sutton takes something out of his coat pocket. It’s a small notebook and pencil. He huddles forward a bit to get more cover from the rain. Sweeney glances sideways and down. Sutton flicks the notebook open to a page with a column on it of what look like letters and numbers. Some of these are crossed out. With the stubby pencil, he draws a straight line through another one. Sweeney only catches a glimpse of it, but he’s fairly certain it says “MDT-48.”

  Sutton puts the notebook and pencil away. Then he takes a handkerchief out of his other pocket and blows his nose.

  Sweeney guesses he’s made his choice.

  But he doesn’t feel like leaving it there.

  “So, I was just lucky?” he say
s. “Is that it? Matt drew the short straw?”

  “Watch it, buddy.”

  “Watch it? We’re at his funeral, for Chrissake. You slipped something into his drink that made him go crazy and he ended up dead. What gives you the right—”

  “Put a sock in it, okay? Otherwise I’ll break your fucking jaw. Now, you want to know who I am? I’ll tell you. I’m a federal narcotics agent and that means I’ve got jurisdiction over your skinny ass. Because you know what? That little bottle you stole? It was government property, and believe me when I tell you, taking it was a very serious offense. I could have you arrested and charged. In fact, I could do it myself, right here, right now.” He clicks his tongue. “And think about this—when you’re sharing a cell up in Attica with some three-hundred-pound hophead from Harlem, who’s going to be taking care of that pretty little wife of yours over there?”

  How does Sutton know who his wife is? Has he been watching him? Or did he just see them coming out of the chapel together? Sweeney’s stomach turns.

  “Not such a tough guy now, eh?”

  No, not so much, and as a result his mind starts racing, looking for a way out of this, a route back. But then Sutton turns and says, “Relax, you dope. We’re at a funeral. Besides, maybe you caught a break.”

  What does he mean by that? Sweeney stares at the ground and waits for Sutton to explain.

  “Well, well, what have we here?”

  Sweeney looks up. Laura has turned away from Jack Rogan’s wife and is walking toward them, holding up her umbrella.

  “Ned?”

  Before Sweeney can say anything, Sutton extends his hand. “Mike Sutton.”

  They shake.

  “Laura, Mike here is an old friend of Matt’s.” Sweeney can barely believe this is happening. “Mike, this is my wife, Laura.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Charmed? Sweeney can see from the way Sutton is looking at her that he’s more than charmed. Laura is pretty, and she looks particularly good today, in her camel-hair coat, her black chiffon dress and high heels. She smiles politely at Sutton and then turns to Sweeney. “Ned, are you coming? I think Jack and Susie are ready.”

  They came with the Rogans in their car and are going with them to the post-funeral reception at the Grenada Hotel.

  “Honey, I’ll be with you in a minute, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  As she’s walking away, Sutton looks down at her bare legs, and then catches Sweeney watching him. “Oh, keep your hair on.”

  There’s nothing Sweeney would like more right now than to break Sutton’s jaw, but he can’t see it working out. He’s not really the fighting type. Anyway, Sutton says he’s a federal agent, and even if Sweeney is not sure he believes him, he wants as little to do with the guy as possible.

  “What did you mean before,” he says, “when you said I maybe caught a break?”

  “Ha.” Sutton glances at his watch, then adjusts his hat. “I’m not going to be here for much longer, that’s what I meant. I’m being transferred to San Francisco. I’m taking over the Bureau’s office there next month, so as much as I might have enjoyed having you around to torment, it looks like you might be off the hook.”

  “Off the hook?”

  “Well, it depends.”

  Sweeney waits for more. Is he supposed to guess?

  “It depends on you keeping your trap shut about anything you think you saw in my apartment, or anything you think might have happened there. It’s that simple.” He clicks his tongue again. “Don’t be a pain-in-the-ass concerned citizen, Ned. Don’t be a loose end I have to come back and tie up.”

  Sutton starts buttoning his coat. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to Matt. I really am. I liked him, he actually was a friend of mine, but the amount of liquor the guy had in his system, it could have stopped an elephant in its tracks.”

  “It wasn’t just liquor.”

  “You see? There you go.” Sutton turns quickly and stands in front of Sweeney, his face too close for comfort now, his rank breath almost overpowering. “You keep on with these unfounded claims of yours, these ridiculous allegations, and I’ll come down on you like a ton of fucking bricks. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sweeney hesitates, but there’s no point in pushing him. If he really is a federal narc, then Sweeney is way out of his depth here. And the shoe box is still at home on top of his wardrobe. “Yes, crystal clear.”

  “Good.” Looking around, Suttons straightens his hat. “Rain is easing off.”

  Sweeney rolls his eyes. “Looks like it.”

  “I’m going to leave now,” Sutton says, but then remains standing there. He reaches into his coat pocket and takes out his cigarettes—du Mauriers, the distinctive red box—and a lighter. Smiling, he extends the box and offers Sweeney one.

  Sweeney shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

  “Really? That’s something else.” He lights one up himself and takes a deep drag from it. “That’s really something else.” He looks at Sweeney. “And all it took was one dose?”

  8

  On my way over to Beekman Place, I try to work out a strategy. I should simply ask Proctor to explain what he meant last night. Let him do all the talking.

  But at what point, if answers aren’t forthcoming, do I intervene? At what point do I mention the CIA? Or even MK-Ultra?

  That connection still seems unreal to me.

  It sounds ludicrous now, but during the early days of the Cold War—from what I remember reading—the CIA actually believed they could harness the power of a drug like LSD and use it as a truth serum, or as a method for reprogramming the brain, or for wiping memories, or … they didn’t know what. But things certainly got out of hand, because over a twenty-year period the program ballooned into a vast, drug-fueled apparatus of mind control and behavior modification. It also pretty blatantly crossed every known ethical boundary. Because the fact is, operatives recklessly and surreptitiously administered doses of LSD—an unknown substance at the time—to unsuspecting victims who then had no idea what was happening to them. It must have been devastating, an eruption of unimaginable chaos and disorder into their lives. Some of these people became psychotic and died in “accidents.” Others never recovered from the psychological trauma of the experience.

  And the worst part is, there was no real accountability. Many of these victims, along with their families, remained in the dark for the rest of their lives. And so, a couple of blocks from Beekman Place now, I have to wonder—was Ned Sweeney one of them? Is that what happened to him? And was Clay Proctor actually involved in some way?

  I must be out of my mind to even be thinking this. At the same time, I can’t ignore it as a possibility. Because the damage caused by my grandfather’s suicide was incalculable. It seeped down through two generations, into my DNA, into Jill’s. And as for our drunk, shouty, sweary, frequently teary dad—well, in his case, the damage probably was calculable. It’s just that no one ever bothered to stop and add it all up. Jill and I certainly never did, and for good reason—we were too busy either deflecting or absorbing our own share of it.

  Nestled between First Avenue and the East River, Beekman Place is an unspoiled two-block oasis of prewar co-op buildings. It’s like a mirage of old Manhattan, and as I walk along Fiftieth Street, I feel as if I could indeed be in another era. I’ve never had a taste for nostalgia, or been intrigued by the notion of time travel, but right now I’d like nothing more than to be able to turn around and have it be 1954, have it be that other Manhattan, the city in soft pastel greens and yellows, all laid out before me, Saul Leiter–style, so I could pound its sidewalks, ride its checkered cabs, drink coffee in its chrome luncheonettes, and then burrow into it, to look for and find Ned Sweeney, before his fall.

  With my luck, I’d probably run into Clay Proctor instead, the dapper young thirtysomething RAND Corporation whiz kid, fresh in for the weekend from Santa Monica, who’d spin me a line of beautiful bullshit—all the bright angles, all the prot
o–New Frontier gobbledygook. It would be a trip, no doubt about that, but it’d also be a distraction, and frustrating, like in a dream where you keep moving but never quite get to where you want to be.

  Knowing I’ll have to settle for this Manhattan, and for Clay Proctor six decades on, I don’t even bother to turn around. Besides, not even Beekman Place can hide from the passing helicopters and the jagged skyline across the river. I locate the address and decide to just waltz into the lobby and take my chances.

  “Mr. Sweeney here to see Mr. Proctor.”

  The doorman reaches for his phone.

  I look around. The spacious, polished lobby has a marble floor and wood-paneled walls, gilt-framed mirrors and leather couches. It’s that kind of building. I fully expect that the ninety-two-year-old, up on whatever floor he’s on, will have no recollection whatsoever of any conversation he had last night with a Mr. Sweeney.

  I will be asked, politely, to leave.

  The doorman turns, holding the phone against his chest. “Mr. Proctor needs ten minutes, sir, and then he’ll be down to see you.”

  I’m surprised by this, but I nod. “Of course. Thank you.”

  The doorman says something into the phone and hangs up. He extends an arm, indicating the area with the leather couches. “Please, have a seat.”

  I wander over and sit down, choosing a spot facing the elevator. I take out my phone to check email and Twitter. Work is piling up, but I can’t concentrate on any of it. Why is Proctor coming down to the lobby to see me? Why not have me go up to the apartment? That’s about my current bandwidth in terms of what I can pay attention to.

  The elevator has an old-style semicircular floor indicator and its dial kicks to life now, scaling down slowly from seven to one. I stand up.

  The door opens and Clay Proctor emerges. He’s holding a dog leash. On the other end of it is a pudgy King Charles Spaniel. Behind him is a thickset guy wearing a black trench coat and shades.

  Proctor has a security detail?

  “Ray Sweeney!” he declares, as though introducing a guest on a game show. He holds out his free hand. “Thanks. I’m glad you could come.”