by Matt Richtel
Copyright © 2007 by Matt Richtel
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Twelve
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
The Twelve name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: June 2007
ISBN: 978-0-446-19643-7
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About TWELVE
For My Parents
1
I ’m guessing that the moment that your life begins to unravel is often unceremonious—heralded by a whimper. The bang should have told me something.
I remember mostly details.
The extra foam sliding down the side of the mocha. A couple arguing over whether to put the “Mighty OJ” juicer on their bridal registry. The rottweiler tied outside the café, standing on hind legs, paws pressed urgently against the window.
When she walked by, I was reading a languid description of a Boston river, somewhat guiltily speeding through the imagery to get back to the book’s action. I wouldn’t have noticed her at all had she not put a small, folded square of paper on the corner of my table. I registered graceful hands, and a ring on the index finger. Then I focused on the piece of paper. Was I being picked up?
When I looked up again, she was nearly out the screen door, purposeful, and not stopping to look back. I dog-eared a page in my book, picked up the folded note, and followed her.
I scanned the street. The young transplants who call San Francisco’s Marina District home meandered with designer sunglasses and designer baby strollers, enjoying a fogless July afternoon. Through the crowd, I could see she was halfway into a red Saab parked in front of the Pita Parlor.
Something kept me from calling out. I figured I’d wave her down, but she was in the car and pulling away before I could get close enough to yell without making a scene. I looked at the textured beige stationery in my palm. I unfolded the corners, and saw words like a bullhorn:
“Get out of the café—NOW!”
The café exploded.
Smoke. Car alarms. Glass, ashes, a cloud of dust. A sound inside my head like a hangover delivered via freight train. I don’t think I ever lost consciousness. The blast took me three feet through the air, dropped me on the pavement, but seemed to leave me intact.
I’ve seen footage of war zones, where the world seems to be coming undone. This was nothing like that—just a single moment of extraordinary violence, followed by haze. Like a bloody version of the time my father slammed a stainless steel pot on the kitchen floor to get my brother’s attention.
The front window of the café was blown out, and a side wall was ripped, though not torn down, exposing metal and concrete innards. A couple wandered out from the screen door; he held an arm limply at his side, her bloody legs churned between step and stumble. The owner of the rottweiler checked his pet for wounds.
These days, you imagine the first thought at such a moment would be of terrorism.
My first thought was of Annie.
She was rarely far from my mind, even four years after the accident that took her life at the age of twenty-eight. Mostly, I’d thought of her at moments of transition—when I got up, climbed into bed, or on a long drive between interviews. It said as much about me as us; it was in those moments, the quiet instances when life lacked structure, that I most needed a place to focus.
I wouldn’t defend my relationship with Annie as perfect, but it defined love for me, and endured. She was always chewing strong breath mints, causing our kisses to taste spicy, and I got sad when I smelled cinnamon. Sometimes at night, I told an imaginary Annie stories aloud and tried to guess at which point she would have sleepily asked me to wrap it up.
But it was more than longing that made me think of her as a thin layer of dust settled over me. It was the note I’d been handed. I’d know Annie’s handwriting anywhere.
“Can you move your legs?”
The words came through my fog from a police officer, kneeling beside me. I waved my hand to say, “I’m fine.” I started to stand, and he helped guide me up by the elbow.
“We need to get you out of this area.”
As my awareness returned, so did the sounds and colors, and the chaos. Police and firefighters, the sound of radio chatter, helicopters. I was embedded in the evening news.
The officer led me toward an area apparently being set up for the wounded. Was I hurt worse than I thought?
“Mystic River,” the police officer said.
I looked at him with confusion.
“Good book,” he added. “But you really should invest in the hardback. It’s a sign of a fully committed person.”
I looked down and saw I still had the novel I’d been reading in the café. My white knuckles told me I’d been clutching it like a life preserver. The note. Where was it? I fished in my pockets, but came up empty. I turned around and headed back to where I’d been lifted off the ground.
“Hold on, pardner. We can’t have you going back there. Too dangerous.”
“I lost someone,” I said.
“You lost someone?”
“Something. I lost something. Please.”
“Well, you’re not going back to get it now.”
With a powerful hand on my shoulder, he turned me around, walked me down the block to a concrete patch cordoned off by yellow tape, and set me on the ground with the others.
The cop’s name was Danny Weller, and he was a chatterer. He told me about growing up in Oakland, and learning to fish in waders in the Sacramento River with his father. His dad, he said, was a fierce wordsmith, the outer casing of a union man covering a dictionary. Danny stayed nearby—my personal caseworker.
He kept my state of mind numb, but his friendly rambling didn’t slow the backgrou
nd din of questions. Who would do such a thing? Did someone try to save my life? Was that person connected to Annie?
And what happened to everyone else in the café? How many hurt? How many dead? Those questions I asked aloud.
“We have three fatalities and a couple people in critical,” Danny said. “Not as miraculous as it first appeared.”
“What do you mean?” I looked at a half dozen people sitting on the street around me, nursing various wounds. Each was attended by police and emergency medical personnel. The idea that anyone survived seemed miraculous.
“The explosion was confined to one area of the café—it’s not as bad as we first thought,” Danny said. “At this point, we don’t know if it was intentional or an industrial accident.”
“You mean it might not have been a bomb?”
“What makes you think it was a bomb?” Danny looked at me intently, with curiosity but not accusation.
I took him in for the first time. I noticed hair and gut; he had a lot of both. I figured him at around forty-five years old. Worn, blue-collar hands, no wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything anymore. He had soft, droopy eyes that reminded me somehow of the black and chocolate-brown-colored glass polar bear eyes from the taxidermist’s office where I interned the summer before my senior year in college.
Before I could get out an answer to Danny’s question, a paramedic knelt beside me.
“He seems okay,” Danny said. “He was outside when it happened.”
“Let’s have a look,” the paramedic said, tilting my chin up so I could look him in the eye. “I’m going to ask you some basic questions. Indulge me. What’s your name?”
“Nathaniel. Nathaniel Idle.”
“Nat Idle,” Danny the cop said. I’d told him my first name earlier, but not my last.
The paramedic and I turned our heads to look. Danny turned his eyes to the side, the way a bad poker player fails to mask emotion, and I can’t say I was surprised.
A year earlier, when I was researching an article about the HIV epidemic faced by the city’s immigrant prostitution rings, I’d come across a disturbing tip. Several officers assigned to crack down on the residential brothels were sampling the fare rather than bringing the violators to justice. One of the cops, upon learning he might have contracted HIV himself, beat a twenty-year-old Malaysian prostitute with the battle end of a flashlight. The cop—Timothy Aravelo—and two colleagues were convicted.
Publicly, a number of police officers lauded my efforts. It was politically correct to do so. Privately, they said I had exaggerated the problems of one bad cop and his own domestic dispute and turned it into a crusade. I was viewed as a member of the corner-cutting sensationalist media.
“No obvious broken bones, a laceration on the forehead, scrapes to knees, elbows, and hands. Consistent with a forceful fall,” the paramedic said.
“You did the right thing,” Danny said.
The paramedic thought Danny was talking to him. I knew what he really meant.
“Thanks,” I said. “Danny, look, something’s not right. Something is very strange, and—”
Danny cut me off. “We’re doing preliminary interviews with everyone who was in the area. We like to get impressions while they’re fresh. You’re our next contestant.”
He pulled me up by the hand and bent in close. “Ordinarily, Lieutenant Aravelo would ask you a few gentle questions and then give you a pat on the back. But you might get slightly rougher treatment.”
2
The cops had constructed a makeshift command center under a temporary open-air tent in front of the Kuma Sushi.
Law enforcement, especially the branches of the military, get a reputation for the ability to destroy—houses, front doors, villages. I’m equally impressed by their ability to construct things. Give a galvanized troop of men in uniform shovels, poles, and canvas for roofing and flaps, and within an hour you’ll have a tent city complete with his and hers field toilets and showers.
Danny had walked me over to the command center. “Perch,” he said. He left me outside the yellow police tape that surrounded the tent and wandered in, presumably to let them know their next interview candidate had arrived. I flashed on a memory of my barber analyzing the 1996 presidential election based entirely on Dole’s and Clinton’s respective haircuts. We can’t help but see the world through the eyes of our daily pursuits, and sitting there, even having been nearly blown up and saved, I couldn’t help but see the scene as a journalist. Stories everywhere, blossoming narratives, a boy wearing a too-long tattered shirt, with an image on the back of a frog playing drums, comforting his mother while she cried.
“Let’s go,” Danny said, guiding me through an opening in the police tape. “The lieutenant’s ready.”
Under the tent, a half dozen cops whirred with various tasks. Several barked commands into walkie-talkies, one typed into a laptop, another set up what looked like an industrial-strength radio, but they all shared an intensity. This was the moment these men and women had trained for and they met it with a palpable feeling of authority and purpose.
Danny steered me by the elbow to the corner of the tent and whispered, “I told him who you are, and that you’re pretty shaken. I tried to warm him up, but he can be a bit unforgiving.”
And, as it turned out, a lot large.
The Aravelos seemed to have been conceived after their mother mated with the side of a mountain. Big bones holding big chests, and the strong, meaty hands that make politicians. Maybe that’s why I fixated on the one small thing—the lieutenant’s disproportionately small Adam’s apple. It looked like a genetic hiccup.
“Dodo,” he said. I found him staring intently at me.
I turned to Danny.
“The lieutenant’s a habitual nicknamer,” Danny said. “It suggests intimacy but he’s really letting you know who’s in control.”
“That’ll be all, Danny boy. Beat it,” the lieutenant said without a hint of self-awareness. “We can do without the surveillance.”
Danny’s jaw tightened. He turned around and walked away, and Aravelo pulled his chair nearer.
“The dodo bird—extinct. Like print journalists. You’ll be killed off by the Internet and its much more efficient means of distribution.”
In San Francisco, even the cops were fixated on business models, to say nothing of the double meaning of “dodo.”
“The first thing is this: I’m not going to get screwed on this investigation,” the lieutenant continued. “Within hours we’ll have feds, and state investigators, and probably the goddamn Marines turning this place upside down. But I’m the point guy on this for the SFPD, and I do not intend to lose this assignment, however small our role may wind up being.”
I must have squinted, indicating my confusion.
“I’m going to treat you like any other person in that café—not like the guy whose fancy prose took down my brother. As far as I’m concerned, that’s in the past—or the future. Not now.”
He figured if he had some conflict of interest, he’d be tossed off potentially the biggest case of his career. “You’re the one who brought up my job,” I said quietly.
Aravelo ignored me and turned to his underling note taker. “Start scribbling,” he said, then turned to me. “What were you doing in the café today?”
The question was innocuous enough, but it had an unpleasant whiff.
“I was hanging out and reading a book.”
“So that’s why you came into the café?”
“Yep, like I just said.”
Aravelo studied me. “No, you said that’s what you were doing. You didn’t say why you came into the café in the first place.”
“Yes, I came in to read, drink coffee, and hang around other people doing the same thing.”
“Do you often read in public?” The way he said it made me feel like I was an exhibitionist.
I shrugged.
Aravelo glanced at the note taker, then locked into my gaze. “Look, I’ve g
ot more than fifteen people injured by a totally bizarre incident. This type of thing doesn’t happen. So there are no dumb questions. Now, where were you when the explosion happened?”
I sighed. Much as I didn’t like his style, he was right. “I was actually at the front door. I was . . . heading outside for a minute.”
“You were leaving the café just when it exploded,” he said, pausing momentarily. “Any reason you decided to leave just then?”
I’d known this was coming, but I wasn’t sure what I’d say. If I didn’t come clean, I could hurt the investigation. But I’d be implicated if I told everything precisely as it happened. I split the difference.
“I saw a woman,” I said. “She walked by my table. She struck me as . . . ”
I searched for the word. All that surfaced was an emotion, a worthless one, the simultaneous feeling of hope and intense loneliness.
“As what?” the lieutenant said. “Describe her.”
“Graceful.”
“So you followed this random stranger out into the street?”
Maybe it sounded a little odd, but not really. Every guy has been struck by a woman, then followed her for a block, or sat beside her at a bar, hoping for an opening. I explained what happened—mostly. I told the lieutenant that I never got to talk to the woman, or even close to it, because she walked out, seemingly in a hurry, and jumped into a late-model red Saab.
Aravelo jumped on it. “All points search for a red late-model Saab driven by an attractive . . . ”
He looked at me for help finishing his sentence. Without being sure of it, I said, “She had light brown hair.”
“Brunette,” Aravelo parroted forcefully to his note taker. “Now, go!” He looked at me. “One more question. What stories are you blowing out of proportion these days?”
I shrugged. Aravelo dismissed me and told me he’d be in touch.
I assessed my surroundings: countless emergency vehicles; high-tech law enforcement equipment; onlookers and media held back by blue barricades at the far end of the block; nearby, several lightly injured café patrons waiting for Aravelo’s inquiries; and, across the street from the police tent, a blonde woman. She was pointing a telephoto lens at my head. Was she taking my picture?
I walked hurriedly in her direction. She stood behind yellow police tape, still shooting the scene. A scar that looked faintly like the coastline of California marked the tip of her chin. When I got close, I was struck by her camera. It was old, not digital, held in a leather case with a soft maroon lining, and, while it had a telephoto lens, not particularly sophisticated by professional journalist standards. I asked the woman if she was taking my picture, and why.