“That would be a crime,” Orfeo said, as if to himself. But they both heard.
Something akin to an eclipse, silent but powerful, passed across Dey’s face. “Sit back down,” he said.
“The food is delicious here. But I can’t eat with a gun on the table.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the ghost of a smile on Orfeo’s face. She had phrased it just right. If instead she had said, First, take the gun off the table, it would have been a challenge, and at that moment a further challenge would have been a mistake.
Without taking his eyes from hers, Dey swept the .22 off the table and back into its hidden shoulder holster. Laurel sat down. Orfeo released the breath he had been holding.
“What, I can’t crack a joke now?” Dey lifted an arm, calling for the antipasti to be removed, the pasta course to be served.
“So,” he said, after the plates of strozzapreti al lardo had been cleared, “what can you do for me?”
He spoke softly, normally, as if they were a pair of friends doing business. It was as if the recent unpleasantness had never occurred. This was Laurel’s introduction to Dey’s ability to instantly reset his emotions, concentrate on the moment at hand.
“Your electronic books are woefully out of date,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Rudimentary, actually. They’re so inefficient you need three people to do the work of one.”
Dey sat back. “Ah, I see it now. You want more than you deserve. You’ve overstepped.” He shook his head. “I should fire you, but you’re Orfeo’s reclamation project. I won’t disrespect him. Return to your filing.” All at once, he launched his torso forward so he was looming over the table, the water glasses shivering, the oversize cutlery chiming. “If you pull a stunt like that again, I guarantee it will be the last thing you do.”
And for the next two months and three days, that was how things stood between them, which was to say a kind of cold war, a master who barely took notice of his young, upstart servant. Then, late one Thursday, Silvio, the man who passed for Dey’s head of IT, came rushing into his boss’s office.
“We’re under attack,” he cried.
Dey was on his cell, speaking to one of his people in Hong Kong. Putting the call on hold, he said, “What? What are you talking about?”
“Someone’s trying to hack into our system.”
Dey jumped up. “Well, what the fuck’re you doing here? Stop it, shit-for-brains.”
Silvio’s hands spread, palms up. “I don’t know how. The attack is something I haven’t heard of, let alone seen before.”
Dey spoke a few words into his cell, cutting the call short; came around from behind his desk; and grabbed Silvio by his shirtfront. Then, half frog-marching, half dragging him, he approached the small bank of computer terminals, Orfeo quietly close behind him—only to find Laurel hunched over Silvio’s terminal, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
“What the fuck?” Dey bellowed. “Get away from there!”
“Do you want to keep your information safe, or don’t you?” Laurel said without turning around or stopping what she was doing.
“Fuck,” Dey said to no one in particular. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. What is happening?” But he stood there, the impotent Silvio at his side, openmouthed because whatever was happening on the screen was happening so fast it was impossible to follow, and even if it had been slowed down, it was all Greek to him anyway.
Tense minutes later, with Laurel’s hands finally at rest on the edges of the keyboard, Dey said, “What happened?”
“Someone broke through your insecure firewall.”
He sucked in a breath. “What did they get?”
“Three or four files of no real import. Garbage in, garbage out.” Laurel chuckled. “Then a whole slew of bogus batch files I created, in among which is an executable file that will crash their system.”
Dey wiped his mouth and chin. He would have said, Good work, but at the moment he was too distracted. “And who exactly are they?”
“That,” she said, starting to work again, “will take a bit more time.”
Orfeo stirred after a long silence. “Why don’t we leave her to it?”
Dey, engrossed in the figures on the terminal screen, nodded almost absently. He didn’t know what he was looking at and didn’t care either. No matter how much he pretended otherwise, he was old-school. Then, in his mercurial way, he spun around, said to Orfeo, “Get this moron out of here.” Meaning Silvio, who was never seen or heard from again.
From that day on, Laurel became the head of IT. After several years of impeccable work bringing Dey’s system into the world of impenetrability, he made her his business manager.
But along the way, something dreadful happened. For Laurel, it was childhood’s end; for Dey, it would prove the end, period.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Nestors—the old-school neon sign should have read “Nestor’s,” but it seemed no one knew how to use an apostrophe—was a homely place, but then Dearborn seemed a homely town, at least on this dreary, misty morning. A chill was in the air and a dankness that went bone-deep, like the inside of an abandoned house or a dungeon.
Laurel found it a relief to come out of the purling gray morning into the buttery warmth, the small clinks of cutlery against plates, the whistle of water boiling in Pyrex pots, the smells of eggs frying, bread toasting, coffee brewing, bacon and breakfast sausages sizzling on the grill. Nestors was filled with the normalcy of small talk, gossip, and friendly conversation among regulars who had known each other for years, if not decades.
She slid into a red vinyl booth overlooking the row of parked cars out front. A small chromium box with a clear face allowed her to pick jukebox songs for a quarter apiece, five for a buck. Sliding in a quarter, she selected “Tears on My Pillow” and immediately felt a pain in her heart start to throb. A waitress in a pink-and-white uniform arrived.
“Such a sad song, hon.” She handed Laurel a well-used plastic-coated menu. “But then today’s a sad day, isn’t it?” Poured her a mug of coffee without asking if Laurel wanted any. Laurel thanked her, identified herself as a reporter, and asked her to point out Rosie Menkins.
“Oh, Rosie’s not here today, hon,” the waitress said. She had a slab face and hair styled in a manner decades old. “On account of the funeral.”
“What funeral?”
“Richard Mathis’s funeral’s this morning, over at Riverside Church at eleven. Rosie’s representing the family.” She shook her head, stuck one fist on a sprung hip. “Such a double tragedy. I mean what with Mrs. Mathis killing herself and all.” She sighed theatrically. “But, you know, I suppose that’s what you get for making friends with those people.”
“What people?” Laurel asked.
“Those Islamics,” the waitress said, screwing up her face. “Who else?” She pointed to the top of the menu, where a small card had been affixed with a paper clip. “Take the eggs Benny special, hon. That’s my advice.”
The interior of the church was cool and dim. Somewhere funereal organ music was playing softly; people in somber suits and dresses milled about in that slow way people adopted at tragic occasions. Judging by their clothes, makeup, and hairstyles, people had come not just from Michigan but from all over the world. Laurel was abruptly terrified that Kieros would be there, but, craning her neck, she didn’t see him. Richard’s coffin was up front, pale wood and brass fittings gleaming like satin. As she made her way down the central aisle, Laurel felt the eggs Benny fermenting in her stomach. She touched her fingertips to her forehead, which felt sweaty, feverish. For a moment, she had to stop, hold on to the back of a wooden pew to keep herself from falling over. There seemed to be no air for her lungs to pull in and push out. She might have been standing on the moon, watching herself slowly fold from high above the tops of the stained glass windows. Jesus looked down at her with the sad eyes of a mendicant, and for a moment she thought she heard his voice, whispering in her ear. But it was only air briefly stirred by the passage of three wome
n with stern faces and severely tailored skirt suits. She overheard one of their names—Janet—as a man with deep-set eyes like poached eggs came up to the woman, and the two exchanged a meaningful glance.
The service began before she could approach the coffin, which, in retrospect, was a blessing. She wanted to remember Richard so alive with her on Crete, not as a waxwork dummy, drained of blood and painted with the undertaker’s overly rouged makeup. She had made that mistake with her father, had had nightmares for weeks afterward, had wished fervently for the image to be wiped from her memory.
The service was long, made even longer by the number of people who rose to the podium to eulogize Richard. One of them was Janet, last name Margolies. She had been one of Richard’s professors at Georgetown when he’d been an undergraduate.
“We come here today to praise Richard Mathis, not to bury him,” she began, cleverly reversing the words Shakespeare had put into Mark Antony’s mouth, though Laurel was dubious about whether this was a time for cleverness. “For the work Richard was so passionate about will continue, his major contributions to the field already bearing fruit. And those who worked with him, who have come after, will take up his mantle and march forward into the brave new world he was exploring.”
She went on in this vein for some minutes more, giving Laurel time to scan the assembled mourners. She had deliberately taken a seat that afforded her a view of the first row on the right, where tradition had it the deceased’s family members sat. Bella was missing, and as her taxi driver had said, Maggie had OD’d, vanished down the fatal rabbit hole. That left Rosie Menkins, the woman sitting in the front row, her back straight, her eyes vigilantly, almost fixedly on Janet Margolies.
Rosie Menkins was a heavyset woman with faded blonde hair. But then everything about her was faded, like an old photo exposed to the sun for too long. Her features had settled deeply, sorrowfully into middle age. Her eyes had retreated beneath her wide brow, furrowed now so that she seemed to present a permanent scowl. It was clear she had seen more than her fair share of disease and dying.
At last, Janet was finished. She stepped down off the podium and returned to her place in the second row beside the man with the poached-egg eyes, who seemed to Laurel to be in attendance out of a kind of pained protocol. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world but here. Fuck him and the attitude he flew in on, she thought.
The minister had regained the podium. He was a mousy man with skin as gray as the morning. His smile looked more like a grimace as he thanked Janet. Then he started in on the prayers again.
“Immortal God, Holy Lord, Father and protector of everything thou hast created, we raise our hearts to thee today for Richard Mathis, who has passed out of this mortal life. In thy loving mercy, Father of men, be pleased to receive him into thy heavenly company, and forgive him the failings and faults of human frailty.”
There was more, of course, but Laurel had tuned out again. Instead, she thought of her father, of the night she had awoken to discover him about to untie his shoelaces, as he had done every day of his life since he’d been five. For the last time—not even, since the deed had been left undone. She thought of his love for her; she thought of him carrying her in his arms, raising her up from her curled position on the stairs. Had he kissed her cheek as he laid her under the bedcovers? She was sure he had. Wrapped her in the warmth of his love, flickering like a candle’s flame.
But then her house is invaded by spinning lights, strange men clomping up the stairs, through the rooms, shooing her away, coming between her and her father, when all she wants is to be alone with him. She could have been alone with him if she hadn’t gone to church, if she’d left Orfeo’s earlier. At this moment forgiveness is not a word she recognizes.
They try to be gentle with her, these men—and then, because they called for one, a female police officer takes her down the hallway, asks her questions about her mom, about where she is. Laurel, lying through her teeth, says she has already called her mom, that she is away on a trip, that she’ll be home soon enough. In the bedroom, flashbulbs are exploding, lightning shooting out into the hallway, bleaching out all color and definition. A man in latex gloves crawls all over her father, or so it seems. She dekes the female cop, runs full tilt down the hall, into the bedroom, bowling two men aside as she throws herself at her father. They do their best to be gentle with her, but she won’t let them. She fights to be with him, fights them all. In this moment, she wants to be punished, needs to be punished.
That night and for six nights thereafter, she sleeps on Orfeo’s sofa, while Nonna fusses over her as if she has a fever, which, in a way, she does. She lies curled on the sofa as, years ago, she had curled on the stairs of her house, waiting, falling asleep, being lifted up in strong arms, snuggled under warm covers. And now again under bedcovers for most of that time, dreaming about her father, his eyes burning like coals within sunken pits, his cheeks blotchy with stubble. Making her breakfast. Hey, Rabbit. Hey! Her making him dinner. At least, that’s her recollection. But over the years that week has receded, hazy as life in a vintage film. On the seventh day she returns home, and no more is said about her father. But for the time of mourning he is all she thinks about.
Hey, Rabbit. Hey!
And that house—that damn house—the place of her childhood. She had told the cops that her mother was coming back from a trip, so they’d never checked. Why would they? Her father hadn’t filed a missing person report; she hadn’t been missing, at least not in that sense. So she had stayed on in the house—that damn house—until the day she’d fled, tasking Gael with the sale. That damn house, that damn anchor.
Now, in another place, she found herself scrutinizing the man with the poached-egg eyes, who was whispering in Janet Margolies’s ear. She had the distinct feeling that if he could, he’d get up and walk out. Clearly, he had more important things to do.
At length, the service over, the mourners stood to watch the coffin being carried out through the central aisle. They followed, spreading out across the top steps like a wave rolling into shore, watching in grim silence as the coffin was slid into the rear of the hearse. The moment the door swung down, it was if the assembleds’ last connection with Richard Mathis had been severed. A kind of communal shiver passed through the crowd, and then it began to break up into ones, twos, and, in some cases, small groups.
Laurel found Poached-Egg Eyes, his arm through Janet Margolies’s as he led her down the steps. They waited as the hearse drove slowly and solemnly away, followed by several cars, then stepped to the curb. A black SUV rolled to a stop in front of them. The driver emerged. He wore a dark-colored suit, sunglasses when there was no need of sunglasses. As his forefinger rose to his ear, Laurel glimpsed the gleam of what she was certain Jimmy Self would call an electronic earwig. Leaning over, Poached-Egg Eyes opened the rear door. Janet climbed in, and he followed. The driver ducked back into the SUV, and it quickly drove off. It took a route opposite to that of the hearse carrying the last remains of Richard Mathis.
On either end of the steps, bees investigated the colorful arrangements of red and white roses. Laurel felt as if she had been stung all over.
TWENTY-NINE
Jimmy Self, sitting beside Laurel on the quiet train, passengers around them swaying gently, nodding off or reading, lost in private thoughts, smiled his wily smile. “What a career you could have had.”
She frowned. “What are you talking about? Dey’s dead.”
“My business, not his.”
A lump came into her throat. “Listen, Jimmy. I have a confession to make.”
“Just one?” He grinned at her.
“My real name is Laurel Springfield.”
“Well, to be honest, you never looked like a Helene Messer.”
“Really? What would she look like?”
Jimmy laughed. “Not like you—that’s for sure.” He shook his head. “Anyway, a rose by any other name is, what, still as sweet. Have I got that right?”
> Her heart nearly broke. “You have, indeed.” She felt the urge to hug him, but she sensed the gesture would only embarrass him.
Jimmy Self’s eyes were clearing. “You know, I never could figure out why you went to work for him. You don’t strike me as the criminal type.”
“I don’t think I’m a type, Jimmy.”
“Then what the hell did you think you were you doing?”
“I had a plan.”
Jimmy sighed, his eyes alight. “I’ll just bet you did.”
“It is time, Ishmael thinks, to get to sea before he steps into the street, and deliberately knocks people’s hats off.” Leaving the library, Laurel walks east and enters Washington Square Park. It’s a damp and overcast day in late May, the sky low and flannel gray. The plane trees are fully budded out, the ground covered with an undulation of newspaper pages crackling in the wind like sails. She sits on a wood-slatted bench, watching with critical alertness the men play chess on the park’s inlaid concrete-aggregate tables. On the other side of her, a junkie, no more than seventeen or eighteen, lies half-sprawled, mouth open, closed eyelids fluttering with dreams of a better life. One of the chess players, an Italian with a natty panama and neat salt-and-pepper goatee, glances up. He has a wandering eye that makes it seem as if he can see everything at once.
“What’re you doing here all by your lonesome?” he says, not unkindly.
“Hanging,” she says.
“On a school day, huh.” He grunts, lifts his hirsute chin toward the junkie. “That there could be you, piccola,” he says, again not unkindly, “you don’t watch yourself.”
She grins. “I’m too smart for that.”
He eyes her for a moment. “I’ll just bet you are.” He shoos away his playing partner with a practiced flip of his hand. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you here. You know how to play chess, piccola?”
She knows how to play chess, all right. From the instant she recognized him six months ago as the man who had driven her mother away that rainy October night, she has planned for this. She knows he’s not the one who lured her mother away, but she is sure he will lead her to him.
The Girl at the Border Page 20