by Robert Pobi
Whitaker’s cell phone rang over the Bluetooth system. She hit the hands-free button. “Whitaker.”
“Yeah, Special Agent Whitaker, this is Calvin-Wade Curtis.”
By the way Curtis’s voice unfolded from the speaker, Lucas could tell the guy was smiling. Which with him could mean good news, bad news, or neutral news.
“Hey, Curtis. What can I do for you?”
“You with Dr. Page?”
“I’m here.”
“Okay. First off, the C-4 used to murder Jonathan Makepeace and to kill Dr. Saarinen’s wife and housekeeper matched the batch used at the internet hub on Hudson Street and the undetonated bomb we found on Eighth. Same manufacturer—ENF in Sweden; same batch—which was apparently sold to a mining company in Brazil.” Curtis rustled some papers at the other end of the line. “I had our financial people look into ENF, and I just got a call back. ENF is a publicly traded company, but it took our guys a day and a half to track this down because it’s hidden behind a mile of paperwork, three dozen shell corporations, and a whole lot of dead end conversations—but guess who the majority stockholders are?”
Lucas leaned into the mic. “The Hockney brothers.”
There was silence at the other end of the line for a few seconds before Curtis came back on with “How did you know?”
Lucas let Whitaker say it.
“Lucky guess.” She hit the asshole lights and flipped on the siren, then pulled the big SUV around in a tight arc of smoking rubber that left a phalanx of honking cars in their wake.
38
57th Street
William Hockney looked up from his desk with an expression that could loosely be described as amused irritation. He took off his glasses, folded them up, and slowly placed them down on the leather surface. “Ah, Dr. Page and Special Agent Whitaker. What a lovely surprise.” Evidently, old William’s sarcasm wasn’t too rusty.
Mr. Frosst stepped away from Whitaker and Lucas. “They insisted on seeing you, sir.”
William waved him away with a flutter of his fingers. “Of course they did.” The old man stood up and steadied himself on the corner of his desk as he stepped out from behind it. “So what can I do for you two this time?” The amused irritation was back, but Lucas knew it wouldn’t last long—people like William Hockney valued their time.
Whitaker stepped forward. “Someone just blew up Dr. Timo Saarinen’s house.”
“His wife, housekeeper, dog, and miniature tree collection were killed,” Lucas added.
William stared at him and all the emotion drained from his face. “And Timo?”
“He’s banged up. And none too happy. But he’s alive.”
Whitaker pulled out her notebook. “He sustained minor injuries. He’s down at Federal Plaza, giving us a statement.”
William nodded as if that were the appropriate action and walked over to the Art Deco cabinetry that filled out one wall of the office. He pushed a button beneath one of the moldings and a pair of floor-to-ceiling doors slid back, exposing a selection of scotches and whiskeys that rivaled the Imelda Marcos shoe collection. Hockey cracked a bottle of whiskey with a Japanese label and poured three fingers into a silver-rimmed highball.
He walked over to the seating area around the fireplace and lowered himself into one of the club chairs. After putting a belt of booze away, he waved at one of the sofas. “Sit.” He stared at the whiskey in his hand. “Please.”
The ease and polish had worn off a bit and he didn’t bother with his poker face as he mulled things over.
Whitaker looked at Lucas and he shrugged. So they sat down facing Hockney.
“I assume that there is more bad news,” the old man said as he stared intently at Lucas.
“The explosives came from a company that you own.”
Hockney nodded as if he had expected that. “Of course it did.”
Whitaker tapped her notebook. “It was an explosive putty—C-4. The same batch was used at the bombing of the internet hub on Hudson Street last night and at Jonathan Makepeace’s apartment this morning. We haven’t released this to the press yet, but another device was found at the internet hub at 111 Eighth Avenue. It failed to detonate, but it contained the same C-4.”
Frosst came back in, accompanying Seth Hockney and another, younger man who looked like he had been built out of William’s genetic building blocks—no doubt William Junior.
“Why are they back?” Seth barked.
William said, “Someone tried to kill Timo,” into his highball. Then he pointed at the other man with Seth. “Dr. Page, Special Agent Whitaker, this is my son, William.” He didn’t look up with the introduction.
Junior nodded twice and Lucas half expected him to click his heels as he did so.
William held up his glass, and without being told, it was Junior who went to the bar instead of Frosst, which surprised Lucas. The younger Hockney poured another three fingers into the highball and returned it to his father’s still-upheld hand; evidently the old man’s drinking habits were routine.
William took another sip of whiskey, then looked over at Seth. “It was an explosion. Timo’s wife and housekeeper are dead.”
“Don’t forget his dog.” Lucas wanted to pry a few seams open to see how these people reacted, because the only certainty up to this point was that the Hockneys were somehow in the mix.
At that, William Hockney gave him the same look that Erin gave him when he was prickly out in public, and it had only one meaning—shut the fuck up.
Hockney put the glass down on the table. “Apparently the explosives used in the attempt on Timo’s life are identical to the ones used to kill Makepeace this morning and in the attack on the internet hub on Hudson Street last night.” He didn’t mention the undetonated device found in the building on Eighth.
“So you’re looking for one suspect? One group? These aren’t coincidences?” Seth asked.
William Hockney let the irritation come out when he said, “Dr. Page, would you please explain the statistical probability of these attacks being coincidences to my brother.”
But Lucas kept quiet and tried to absorb the dynamic. Whitaker was no doubt doing the same.
“There’s more.” William’s focus was still on his drink, but there was a lot going on behind his now-sullen expression. “The explosives were manufactured by a company that we own.”
At that, Seth came over and dropped into the other club chair.
Junior leaned against the mantel. He had his father’s looks and fashion sense, but the command was somehow missing from his movements as if he had been pulled out of the oven before he had finished baking. But it had to be tough being the only son of a man like William Hockney—who had nine daughters from his five different marriages—after all, character is built on personal accomplishments, not inheritance.
“Which company?” Junior asked.
William gave him the same shut up look that he had given Lucas earlier.
Whitaker tapped her notebook again. “ENF.”
At that, the elder William looked over at his son for a long hard moment. “That is a company that we bought on Mr. Makepeace’s say-so when we were still doing business with him.”
Lucas decided on one last kick at the tires. “Apparently you’re still doing business with him. Or at least Junior here is.”
William looked up at his son for one angry moment before turning his attention back to the drink. “If you have any more questions, Dr. Page, please direct them to our lawyers. Mr. Frosst will now walk you and your partner out.” And with a flutter of his fingers, they were dismissed.
39
The Upper East Side
Whitaker stopped in front of the market on the corner of Madison. Lucas sat there for a moment, his aluminum fingers wrapped around the polished handle.
“You really think that Randolph and Mortimer will turn out to be our supervillains?”
Lucas smiled at that. “In today’s world, with twenty-four-hour surveillance, the only people who c
an be bad guys are ancient billionaires.” There were so many moving parts to the equation that he didn’t see a through line in the narrative. “The only thing I do know is that their friends are really unlucky.”
“What are the possibilities?”
“It’s certainly not a revolution—I don’t even know why anyone is still entertaining that idea.” He thought things out for a few quiet seconds. “But if I wanted to blow a bunch of shit up, Frosst is exactly the kind of guy to do it.”
“What are the odds that Frosst killed Makepeace?”
“I don’t know. He was one of the last people to see Makepeace alive. And that UPS guy certainly didn’t kill him. Maybe William Senior found out that the sprog was working with Makepeace and he didn’t like it. But that doesn’t fit in with the Guggenheim bombing. At least going with what we know.”
“Such as?”
Lucas shrugged. “How do the Hockneys profit in a situation where a company they’re about to take public goes up in smoke? I’m not an accountant, but I don’t see an upside. And the internet hub bombing? If they have to cut a check for $4.5 billion, it’s a kick in the balls, not a boost to the bank account. And if Frosst killed Makepeace, he’s the same guy who tried to blow up Saarinen.”
Lucas went to open the door but paused again. “That Frosst guy scares me. If he did punch Makepeace’s clock, he’d know that he’d get picked up by the surveillance camera—and he doesn’t strike me as the careless type.” Lucas stepped out and saluted with his aluminum hand. “Now if you will excuse me, I am going to scrounge up something to eat, then take a nap.”
Whitaker stifled a yawn. “Don’t rub it in.”
Lucas closed the door and she pulled out into traffic, heading up Madison to turn east two blocks up, where she’d head over to Fifth.
He walked into the market on the corner. He had been shopping here for four years now, and the place felt like his. The prices were creeping up by increments, but in a neighborhood where the rental fees per square foot were some of the most expensive in the world, he didn’t begrudge the owner trying to pay his bills.
Oscar was in today. He had emigrated from Italy twenty years ago and had gone from the fashion business of Milan to a market on Madison—a lane change that he attacked with panache. He was always perfectly dressed, and today was no exception. He wore slim jeans, red Prada flip-flops with a matching belt, and a blue linen shirt—the cuffs rolled up precisely one turn, exposing a gold Rolex. Lucas saw him around the neighborhood after hours with various women, and Erin joked that he had more sex than all of One Direction put together—which Lucas couldn’t argue because he had no idea who (or what) One Direction was.
“And what will it be today, Dr. Page?” Oscar asked in a stageworthy Italian accent.
“A couple of sandwiches. Any suggestions?” Which was a rhetorical question; Oscar loved making recommendations about everything, from the precise temperature at which to store fruit to which mascara held up in the rain. The kids called him Mr. Wikipedia, because he always sounded so convincing. The kids humored Oscar by asking his opinion on everything—a habit that many of his other customers went to great lengths to avoid. Even basic research revealed that most of the time he was full of shit.
“No-brainer today—chicken cutlet with Muenster and grainy mustard on ciabatta, or the croque monsieur.” He added an extra syllable to the word monsieur, almost managing to make it sound Italian.
“One of each, then. To go, please.” Maybe Dingo was hungry—he still owed him dinner from last night when he had abandoned him at Gray’s Papaya.
As Oscar slid the sandwiches into the press, Lucas thought about the Hockneys and the sibling rivalry that was visible within the bespoke exterior. As has been true of firstborn children since time immemorial, William obviously thought of himself as the boss. And there was certainly tension between William and his son—Lucas would have to look into that. The only certainty was that William was no dummy. Seth was the unknown. Along with Frosst—just how did that guy fit into the little mélange?
Guys like Frosst got things done for the people around them. And the one characteristic that unified them on every permutation of a Venn diagram was their loyalty; they did things for the people they worked for with a fealty that often went beyond reason.
Lucas thought back to Mr. Teach, Mrs. Page’s valet. She had met him at a golf club in Jamaica. He was young then, in his mid-twenties, working as a caddie. One day he was assigned to her, and by the seventh hole she had offered him a position as her valet—a post he would occupy for almost four decades. And in that time, Mr. Teach had done things for Mrs. Page that could be explained only through the prism of love. Of course it was in no way a romantic version of the emotion. But what else could you really call it? Loyalty? Responsibility? It was both those things, but it was also kind and protective. And although Mrs. Page never would have asked, Lucas had no doubt that Mr. Teach would have killed for her.
Did the Hockneys foster that kind of loyalty?
Lucas paid for the sandwiches, wished Oscar a pleasant evening, and headed out after being told that it would no doubt rain.
It was early in the week, and Madison was customarily quiet in the hours after dinner. He walked by the belt store (the kids always got a kick that there was a store that sold only belts—no buckles), and the saleslady tinkering with the window display looked away as he nodded a hello. It no longer upset him, but sometimes it pissed off Erin. The new improved version of Dr. Lucas Page was hard for some people to put into context—they simply saw him as broken.
He passed the Apple store, and Lucas had come to the firm conclusion that there would indeed be a revolution over technology. But in the end people would not abandon their apps—they would abandon their humanity.
He turned down his street and there were limousines stacked up the block, all the way to Fifth—no doubt another party at the French embassy. Americans could bitch all they wanted about the French, but they knew how to enjoy themselves. Lucas had been invited to a few functions, but he had never taken them up on the offer and eventually they stopped asking.
He threaded through a few young people on the sidewalk in expensive evening wear—black cap-toe shoes and dinner jackets offset by little black dresses and patent leather clutches. They were staring into their phones.
He keyed in the front door and was immediately hit by the sound of music somewhere in the house—it sounded like ABBA. Lemmy came ripping over from the kitchen in his trademark off-balance gallop.
Lucas dropped the sandwiches down on the Art Deco console and Lemmy poked him in the stomach, leaving a big wet slobber mark on his shirt. He scratched Lemmy behind the ears for a few seconds, then hollered a Hello? into the void. The kids all hollered back and feet pounded across the floor upstairs.
Erin was on her laptop at the island in the kitchen, beside a big vase of fresh-cut tulips. She took off her glasses—were those new frames?—and came over, sinking into his hug. Lemmy did circles, his tail whacking against Lucas’s aluminum leg with each rotation. Then the kids blew into the kitchen.
And the past two days disappeared.
40
The Upper East Side
The crew was in particularly fine form tonight, and no one was bitching. Maude cleared the table; Lucas rinsed the dishes (he had modified a dish brush to attach to two of his fingers); Hector loaded the dishwasher; Laurie cleaned the table; and Damien put leftovers into Tupperware—which was unusual in that the kids usually ate everything put out. Even Alisha was contributing, sitting in her chair happily singing about an ant moving a rubber tree plant with the kind of vigor only a three-and-a-half-year-old can muster. Erin leaned against the island, going over files regarding the new office she was opening with Shapiro, oblivious to all the moving parts in the space around her.
While Lucas rinsed bits of noodle salad down the drain, he realized that as happy as he was to have them here, he would have been more at peace if they were still out at the beach house.
“Can we walk over to the park after supper?” Damien asked, forcing a blue plastic lid down onto a tub with a pop.
With one of the few words he understood still hanging in the air, Lemmy got up from his place on the small prayer rug by the back door. His head seesawed back and forth as he listened with the concentration of a safecracker to hear his favorite word again.
Maude, who was putting plates down on the marble beside Lucas, said, “Well?”
Lucas knew that staying inside, afraid of the world, wasn’t going to give them any exercise. Or teach them to deal with life. “Anyone have any homework that can’t wait?”
Damien raised his hand. “Apparently I always have homework that can’t wait.”
Maude punched him in the arm—she struggled to maintain a C average and took any flaunting of his natural talents as a personal snub. Damien never did any homework, yet he brought home solid As in pretty much everything—the one exception being an F in phys ed last semester after an archery mishap on Roosevelt Island resulted in the school’s bus needing four new tires.
Damien held his arm, feigning injury. “Now I can’t finish cleaning up.”
Maude said, “Use your teeth.”
“I’m not kidding. Look, my bone’s sticking out.”
Maude held up a ladle. “If you don’t quit it, this will be sticking out of your head. Hashtag stop being a baby.”
Lucas didn’t bother getting in between them—they were just goofing around and he liked to let them work out their own shit. He watched how some of the kids who came through his classes dealt with conflict, and it bordered on psychotic.
Without looking up from the files she was immersed in, Erin said, “Hector has to finish his model rocket for physics and Laurie has to read a story.”
Hector held up a hand like it was all a big misunderstanding. “All I gotta do is glue some fins on. Give me ten minutes with the super glue and I’m golden.”