by Ian Truman
“Missing their daddy.”
“If they’re still awake, can you give them a big kiss for me?”
“Can I have one, too?”
“Of course. I miss you.”
“Are you okay? You sound upset.”
“I’m fine. This negotiation is a tough one. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Get some sleep. Let me know what plane you’re on before you leave LA tomorrow.”
After the call, Michael sat in the car, thinking about his girls. He hated having to lie to his wife. When he’d set off from home this morning, he’d told her he had some business to take care of on the west coast. There was no way he could tell her the truth—that he’d just been to see his murdered mother in Chicago—at least, not without destroying their marriage. She could never find out about this trip.
Michael spent the night at the Marriott Hotel downtown, watching television and ordering room service. It was unlikely anyone would recognize him after a quarter of a century away, but leaving his room was an unnecessary risk.
By nine thirty the following morning, he was back on the road, making his way to the crematorium. He wasn’t going for his mother’s sake; she meant nothing to him. If he was lucky, he’d get to see his brother and sister, albeit from a safe distance.
The crematorium sat on the corner of East 47th and South King Drive. Michael drove into the open-air parking lot across the intersection and found a spot where he could wait for the hearse to arrive. When it did, he retrieved a pair of binoculars from his briefcase and focused on the mourners filing into the building.
A frail, gray-haired woman stepped out of the car behind the hearse. There was something familiar about the way she walked. She looked like his mother. Michael increased the focus, and his throat tightened when he recognized her; it was his sister. He was now thirty-six, which meant she’d only be forty. How could she look so old? What kind of life had his family lived? What horrors had they been put through after he was taken away? And where was his younger brother? Was he still alive? He longed to go over to his sister and ask all the questions filling his head, but that was impossible.
The last car to pull up was a black Mercedes. It had been a little behind the main convoy of vehicles and looked out of place somehow; it was too new and expensive. Two men stepped out of the car, but they didn’t follow the others into the crematorium. Instead, they stood outside, chatting and smoking on the corner. They appeared to be looking for somebody. Each time someone walked by, they’d stop talking, stare, and then shake their heads. Who were they?
A few moments later, after everyone had filed into the building, the two men walked up East 47th, away from where Michael was parked. Then they headed across the lights and back toward the parking lot. Michael lowered the binoculars and picked up his newspaper, careful to shield most of his face as the men drew close. They walked by and then stopped some twenty yards away, turned, and pointed to Michael. Panic gripped him when he realized they must be looking for him.
Throwing the newspaper over his shoulder, he turned on the ignition and watched as the men started running his way. They were blocking the exit, so Michael slid the gear lever into reverse and forced the car over the sidewalk. His open briefcase slid off the passenger seat and crashed to the floor, spilling its contents. The vehicle dropped some nine inches off the curb, bouncing metal sparks across the highway. An old Toyota Camry careened around the corner and then braked hard, its tires screeching, before almost T-boning Michael’s car in the middle of the road. As the two men approached, he rammed the lever into drive, looked long enough to make sure the woman in the Camry was okay, and then stood on the accelerator.
Chapter 2
Making it to Westport Community College twice a week for a seven-p.m. start had become impossible. The one-hour train ride meant Michael had to leave his Manhattan office at five forty at the latest on college nights. As a young partner, expected to set an example to his team, leaving that early created the wrong impression. During the week, partners weren’t allowed a personal life—period.
It was all Caroline’s fault. She’d taught economics at the college for years. When she learned they were looking for fresh volunteers to teach the adult literacy evening class, she knew her husband would be ideal, so she put his name forward. She was right, of course. Michael had taught the class for three years now and had loved every minute of it. But with the mounting pressure from work, something had to give, so this year, he’d reduced his commitment to one night a week. Even that raised a few eyebrows at work.
On the Tuesday evening he turned up for the first class of the new semester, eight students were waiting for him, two more than he’d expected. A couple of them had brought friends along, hoping he wouldn’t mind. Michael didn’t argue. Knowing how difficult a step it was for adults to admit they struggled to read and write, why would he want to make it any harder for them?
“I like to go ’round the room first off,” said Michael after everyone had settled in. “It would be great if you could introduce yourselves so we can get to know each other.”
The first three students were recent Somali immigrants in their mid-thirties. English was their second language, and they were there to improve their skills, something Michael had seen many times before. Next up was a man in his early twenties, sitting on his own a couple of rows behind the others. He avoided all eye contact as Michael turned to him.
Michael smiled. “Please tell us something about you.”
“There ain’t much to tell, really.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jordy.”
“Well, Jordy, what do you hope to get out of the class this year?”
Jordy continued looking at the floor. “Simple. I can’t read or write.” He shook his head. “I’m not proud of it.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. You’re in the right place. I know we can help you put that right.”
“I didn’t get much schooling. Soon as I could, I started working. My mom, she was on her own and needed the money.”
Michael took a seat next to Jordy. “I want you to know something.”
Jordy looked up and stared at Michael. His eyes were shiny, like those of a scared animal.
Michael hesitated, wondering whether to continue. “I was taken away from my family when I was ten. That hit me hard, and I struggled at school, too. Made me a late developer.”
Jordy’s shoulders relaxed a little. “And you said you’re now a lawyer?”
“That’s right. It doesn’t matter how late you start learning. The fact that you’re here tonight is all that matters. I promise you, Jordy, if you stick with these classes, you will transform your life.”
The other students applauded, and an embarrassed-looking Jordy managed a thin smile. “I sure hope so.”
An hour into the class, Michael suggested a break and showed his students where they could buy a drink in the college restaurant before he visited the men’s room. He switched on the lights and walked to the middle of the bank of urinals along the right side of the room. The place smelled like it had been used all day and needed a good clean. Looking up at the wall in front of him, he read the sign: NOW WASH YOUR HANDS. It reminded him how most people took for granted the ability to read. As he began to unzip his fly, the door behind him swung open and there were footsteps on the polished hardwood floor. One man stood immediately to Michael’s left and then another to his right. That was strange. Why stand right next to him when there were plenty of empty spaces farther along the wall?
“You’re a hard man to find, Michael,” said the man on the left, his breathing labored.
Michael turned his head to see who it was. His stomach tightened when he recognized them as the same two men who had pursued him two weeks ago at his mother’s funeral. What the hell were they doing here in Connecticut?
“I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.” Michael backed away from the wall.
T
he bull-necked man who’d been standing on Michael’s right grabbed his shoulder and blocked the exit.
“What is this?” Michael said, pushing the man’s hand away.
“We want a word with you,” said the other man, wheezing with each breath.
Michael turned to face him. This one was a lot older—maybe in his sixties—and much thinner. While his right eye was looking directly at Michael, his left eye, partly obscured by a loose flap of skin, seemed angled away and didn’t move. It looked artificial, maybe glass.
“But we can’t do it here.”
“I don’t know who you think I am. You must be mistaking me for someone else.”
Glass Eye leaned into Michael’s face, his breath reeking of tobacco. “There’s no mistake. We saw you in Chicago. Remember?”
“Chicago? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right.” Glass Eye thrust a scrap of paper into Michael’s hand. “We can’t talk here. Meet us there in an hour.”
He pushed past Michael, and both men walked out of the restroom. Michael propped his back against the white tiled wall next to the hand dryers, his head spinning. Exactly what did these men know about him, and how long had they been following him? Were they police officers of some kind? They couldn’t be. If they were, they would have said so. Besides, they looked like a couple of thugs in cheap suits.
The door swung open, and Michael recoiled.
“Are you okay?” asked Jordy, entering the room.
Michael nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You don’t look it.”
“Honest. I’m fine. I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.” Michael patted his stomach. “I’ll see you back in the classroom.”
Michael’s Lexus was parked in the college car park, and he sat inside, staring at the piece of paper Glass Eye had rammed into his hand an hour earlier. The restaurant name scribbled on it was a well-known pizza joint only a couple of miles away in a Westport suburb. Why should he go? He owed them nothing. He started the car, pulled out into the road, and headed toward home. He’d be there in ten minutes. With a bit of luck, his daughters would still be awake, and he’d be able to read to them before they fell asleep.
A mile down the road, he swung the vehicle around and headed in the direction of the restaurant. If the two men had managed to trace him to Chicago and now to his hometown, they must have been following him for some time. In that case, in all likelihood, they knew where he lived, and he couldn’t take the risk of them turning up there. Not when he didn’t know who they were or what they might have on him. While he didn’t like it, it made sense to meet them now on neutral ground, where he’d have more control of the situation.
He called Caroline on the hands-free. “I’m going to be delayed a few minutes,” he said when she picked up the phone.
“Okay. Have you eaten?”
“No, but don’t worry about me. I’m not that hungry.”
“I’ll make some pasta when you get home.”
“Thanks. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
When Michael pulled up outside Papa Gino’s pizza restaurant, he tried to spot the men inside, but they were nowhere near the misted-up front window. Twice he walked by the building, but still he couldn’t see them. If they weren’t police officers, then who were they? Were they dangerous? At least the place was busy so he’d have plenty of witnesses if things got heavy. As he walked in, the men were sitting at the back of the dining room. They saw him first and waved to attract his attention.
“Where the fuck have you been?” asked Glass Eye when Michael slid into the booth next to Bull Neck. It was a tight squeeze, and the moron made no attempt to move over to make room. When he grabbed his half-empty glass of beer, he revealed a Tag Heuer sports wristwatch with a faux crocodile strap. There were faded letters tattooed on his knuckles, but Michael struggled to read them upside down.
“You’re lucky I came at all.” Michael was now almost certain these guys were not cops or FBI. “This had better be good.”
Glass Eye took a large bite out of his pepperoni pizza and pointed to the menu. “You eaten?”
“I’m not hungry. It’s not like we’re friends or anything. Just tell me what you want.”
“We’d have told you in Chicago if you’d stayed around long enough.”
“I haven’t been to that city in years.”
“Cut the bullshit. We know it was you.”
Michael glanced at his watch. “I’ll give you two minutes before I’m out of here.”
Bull Neck chortled and then finished his beer in one swallow.
Glass Eye put his pizza down. “We’re in the market for a good lawyer, and we hear you’re one of the best.”
Michael stopped himself from blurting out the first words that sprang to mind and inhaled a deep draw of air. It was clear these men were a couple of crooks. What was this charade about looking for a lawyer?
“I have a full client list.” He stood up. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“Sit down,” Bull Neck said, grabbing Michael’s arm with his left hand.
A woman at the table of four opposite looked at them and frowned. Michael sat down. The last thing he wanted was to create a scene in a crowded restaurant in the town where he lived; someone in here might recognize him. He’d have to find another way to brush these guys off.
“You’re well-known to our employer,” said Glass Eye. “He needs you to do some work for him.”
“I know a lot of people, but I can’t work with all of them. There are plenty of other lawyers out there.”
Glass Eye grimaced. “He wants you.”
The woman opposite was still watching them and now looked as if she suspected something was going on. If he was going to avoid this situation turning nasty, Michael figured he’d need to humor the men, at least for a few moments. “Who is it you work for?”
“James Grannis.”
Michael thought about the name. “Doesn’t mean anything to me. As I told you earlier, I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”
“He runs Grannis Hedge Fund in New York City.”
Michael shook his head no. “Still doesn’t help. I don’t know him.”
“Well, he knows you, for sure. He says you and he go back a very long way.”
“I don’t know him. Okay?”
“He’s not a man to make mistakes.”
“Well, he’s wrong this time. I don’t know what else to say.”
Glass Eye leaned over the table as far as he could and lowered his voice. “He said he was real sorry to hear about your mother.”
A chill cut through Michael’s veins. What did this have to do with his mother? “Who are you people?”
“Look, Mr. Grannis wants a meeting to discuss some business. I’m sure he’ll clear up any confusion when you meet.”
Every instinct Michael had was telling him to get out of here and have nothing to do with these men, whoever they were. But if he walked out now, there was no doubt they would track him down again. After all, if they’d already followed him to Chicago, they weren’t going to give up that easily. And he couldn’t afford to have them turn up at his home and start mentioning Chicago and his mother to Caroline. Sooner or later, he’d have to deal with them and their boss, James Grannis.
“Okay.” Michael raised his right palm. “I’ll agree to a short meeting with him.”
“That’s the right answer.”
“It’s just a meeting. You can tell him I’m not looking for any new clients.”
“We hear you.”
“Where do I meet him?”
“We’ll let you know. We know where to find you.”
“Are we done?”
“For now.”
Michael stood up, half-smiled at the woman on the next table, and walked out.
When he arrived home late, Caroline’s face was a mixture
of concern and irritation.
“Where did you get to?” she said.
“I’m sorry.” Michael dropped his briefcase in the hallway. “A couple of people wanted a quiet word after class.” That was accurate, but not the whole truth.
“You have to know where to draw the line with your students.”
“I know. Are the girls still awake?”
“They tried but fell asleep half an hour ago.” Caroline smiled. “You look tired.”
“It’s been a tough day,” he said, following her into the kitchen. The air was filled with the aroma of pasta sauce.
“I’ll get the penne on.”
“Actually, I’m not that hungry. Can we keep the sauce until tomorrow?”
Caroline hugged him. “Sure. Go and get changed and sit down for half an hour. You don’t look very well.”
Michael rubbed his eyes. “I’ll be okay.”
“You need some rest. Big day tomorrow, remember?”
“I guess I’ve been worried about that, too.”
“Worried?” Caroline cocked her head. “I know my man. He’s going to get it.”
“Yeah.” He kissed her. “But you’re biased.”
With the events of the past two hours, Michael had forgotten he had an important meeting with his senior partner tomorrow. His mind had been occupied by the two men he’d just met and working out what exactly they wanted from him.
Later, as he lay in bed struggling to sleep, he kept playing over what happened on the day of his mother’s funeral. How had those men known to look for him there? Had they actually followed him to Chicago? That wouldn’t have been easy. No one knew he was going to be there, not even Caroline. And how did this man, James Grannis, claim to know so much about him when they’d never even met? The name meant nothing.
Turning onto his side, sheer terror consumed him, and he stopped breathing.
It has to be him.
There was only one explanation: Grannis had to be Rondell. Who else would know to look for him in Chicago? Who else would mention his mother?
Christ!