“And her parents? Do they approve?”
“She hasn’t told them yet, but they’ll be happy for her.”
“What about school?”
“I’ll finish the semester.”
“Finish the semester?”
“Yes, it’s paid for. But then I’m going to work for Shell or PetroCanada. In Lebanon. Yasmine wants to return home.”
“Lebanon?”
“Yes. It won’t be forever.”
“You’ve spoken to Basil?”
“No, but he’s said many times that when I’m ready he would place me.”
“You know nothing about petro-chemistry or petro-engineering.”
“There are other career paths. Marketing, public relations. The master’s I’m getting is in communications. I can finish it there. B.U. has a relationship with the American University in Beirut. You seem distressed, Mother.”
“I’m not distressed, but I’m against this marriage. It can wait Michael.”
“No it can’t. You’ve been running my life for too long. I’m getting married in June. I hope you’ll be there.”
Cut to her bedroom:
He is not my son, Basil says. I will not interfere. Talk to his father. It is for the two of you to guide him. If he asks me to find him work, I will, as I have promised.
How she had looked forward to the reception at the Lebanese consulate last fall. Her new Dior gown, a chance to wear her diamonds. Michael flying down from Boston. How handsome he looked in his tuxedo talking to the beautiful Yasmine Hayek, the center of much attention, her father, Pierre, the recently named Justice Minister in Lebanon, a women’s rights advocate, an international celebrity. And what bitter fruit.
After his announcement, she could not corner Michael, who was either with Yasmine or Adnan and Ali for the rest of his semester break. Avoiding her. He’ll come to his senses, she had thought, when he returns to school, but she was wrong. On the last weekend in January, back in Boston only ten days, Michael hurried home to see Yasmine. It had been her idea to lock the penthouse, not Basil’s. Why let the newly betrothed—another word she hated—couple enjoy the luxury of Park Avenue? Have sex in any room they chose to? But her son had done something he hadn’t done in years; he had gone to his father’s in Westchester. And been arrested for raping and killing Yasmine. And now, the real killers, Adnan and Ali, were also dead.
Mustafa, she thought, you have to be the key.
Her skin crawled and she felt slightly nauseous—the Adderall, taken on an empty stomach, had quickly kicked in—at the thought of her husband’s stocky, never-smiling servant padding, silently alert, like a panther, around her apartment, around her life, these past six years.
Debra followed the Chevrolet as it took the Glen Cove Road exit off the Long Island Expressway, staying discreetly behind as it turned into a maze-like neighborhood of narrow streets lined with small but solid, muscular looking brick homes. When it stopped in front of one of these, she drove past, turning left at the next corner. After a K turn in a dark driveway, her headlights off, she went back and parked under a street sign that said Frost Pond Road. As her eyes adjusted to the moonless night, she spotted a man in a long black coat emerge from the now darkened Chevrolet, which was parked at the curb in the middle of the block. She watched as he moved in a crouch toward a car in a nearby driveway and then disappeared. Into the car or under it, she could not be sure which. A few minutes passed, perhaps five or six at the most, before the man reappeared, noiselessly got back into the Chevrolet, started it and pulled away, his headlights off. Debra ducked as the car approached, but not before getting a quick glimpse of the man’s inverted-spade beard and something that looked like euphoria in his gleaming, black eyes.
Matt and Jade arrived early to the rooftop of the five story-parking garage that serviced downtown Glen Cove. They had seen a few cars parked on the lower levels as they wound their way up, but the top level was empty and silent, with piles of dirty snow pushed into the four corners. Matt backed his Ford SUV against a concrete wall, facing the up ramp. As he backed up, he caught a glimpse of Main Street, its storefronts dark, its street lights standing lonely in the winter cold.
“I’ll keep the car running, it’s cold out there,” Matt said, looking at his watch. “We’re right on time.”
“It’s a nice night, really,” Jade replied, “except for the cold of course.”
They scanned the empty rooftop and the lights of the small city of Glen Cove and its suburbs, sparkling in the clear night air. Above, a nearly full moon dominated a cloudless black sky.
“You’ve been quiet, Matt,” Jade said, breaking the silence.
Matt did not reply immediately. He had been quiet on the ride to Long Island. The downed security system, the Diaz murder, these things spoke loudly of reasonable doubt. And now a new development, the U.N. surveillance log. A good lawyer would find a way to use it. It was not unreasonable to start thinking that the indictment against Michael would be dismissed. Then what? Everett Stryker would be a hero. Basil al-Hassan would be a hero. And Michael would be as arrogant and as dismissive of him as ever, probably even more so. Where would that leave Matt?
“I have to ask you,” Matt said, finally. “Why… did you break up with me? I mean really why?”
“It took you a long time to ask that question.”
Matt had been looking at Jade’s hands this while, which were clad in red woolen gloves with soft leather palms and finger fronts. Now he looked up.
“I did ask. You said you couldn’t do it.”
“Which you accepted. As if you were relieved. ‘Are you sure?’ you said, and that was it.”
Matt said nothing, thinking of the implications of this statement.
“That hurt,” Jade said. “I figured it was my two divorces.”
“It wasn’t. I’m sorry.”
Jade looked down now, and took Matt’s hands in hers. The car was steadily idling, the windows beginning to fog, but there was something in the way Jade tilted her head that drove the world away, something that heightened his senses—to the scent of her, to the touch of her fingers lightly caressing his.
“It was Michael, he was part of it,” Jade said, looking up, her eyes finding Matt’s in the car’s darkened interior.
“Michael?”
“I thought you were punishing yourself. That you were enjoying it somehow.”
Matt watched Jade’s face as she said this, saw the stricken look in her eyes, and was struck himself by how hard a thing this must have been for her to say, five years ago, when she couldn’t, and now, when somehow she could. He knew she was right. He had become a beggar for his son’s love. Who wanted someone with no self-respect for a lover? A mate?
“Do you still feel the same way?” he asked.
“No,” Jade said. “I was too harsh. I’m afraid now that Antonio will go with his father. I’m scared to death, actually, and I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Ashamed of yourself?”
“Yes. For judging you so harshly.”
Jade squeezed Matt’s hands tightly, then took off one of her gloves to wipe at the tears that were beginning to well in her eyes. Taking her arm, Matt pulled her gently toward him.
“There’s something else,” Jade said. That stricken look was still in her eyes. She was still silently crying, tears running down her face.
“No, Jade,” Matt said, “It doesn’t matter.” He was about to kiss her tears away, when an explosion in the distance lit the night sky, the large kaboom reaching them a split second later.
“Jesus,” Jade said. “What was that?” Smoke was now trailing upwards from the tree line of a neighborhood that appeared to be about a half mile away. Matt looked at his watch again.
“He’s ten minutes late,” he said.
“Bobby?”
Matt
did not answer. He still had his police scanner in his car, mounted on the dashboard. In his prior life he had been to dozens of crime scenes, to breathe the air, he used to say, where a murder had been done. He turned it on. After some intermittent crackling and static, they heard the staccato voices of first fire, and then police dispatches to an address on Frost Pond Road. Within only a minute or two, arrivals on the scene were relaying information to headquarters and to other responders.
“Did you hear them say Frost Pond Road?” Jade asked.
“Yes, and car bomb,” Matt replied.
“That’s where Bob Davila lives.”
“Shit,” was all Matt could say, shaking his head, hearing the multiple sirens converging on Frost Pond Road.
“Can we go over there?”
“We’ll never get close,” Matt answered. “Try calling Bobby.”
Jade found her cell phone in her shoulder bag, and, after scrolling quickly, pushed her send button. She held the phone to her ear for ten seconds or so before snapping it shut.
“Nothing,” she said. “No ringing, no message. Nothing.”
“I’ll try Clarke,” Matt said, bringing out his cell phone. “He lives nearby.” He pushed the speed dial button for Clarke Goode’s cell phone, hoping his old friend would pick up, but dreading what he would find out once he made a couple of calls of his own. As he put the phone to his ear, he looked down and saw that he was holding Jade’s hand in his.
“Matt, is that you?” Matt heard through his receiver.
“Clarke, yes,” Matt replied.
“This can’t be good.”
“It’s not. There was an explosion a few minutes ago on Frost Pond Road in Glen Cove. I heard it on my scanner. That’s the street Bob Davila lives on.”
Goode was silent for a second. Then he said, “I’ll call you back.”
“He’ll call me back,” Matt said after pushing the end button on his phone. In the distance they could see the billows of smoke above the explosion site lessen as the firefighters did their work. Dozens of blue and red police and fire strobes lit up the night sky. Two helicopters appeared, searchlights shooting from each as they swept the neighborhood.
“Too late,” Matt murmured.
“Too late?” Jade asked.
“Whoever wired that car is long gone.”
“Matt,” Jade said, increasing her grip pressure, “don’t leave me tonight. If Bobby’s been killed…”
“I won’t,” Matt answered. “And by the way, you were right.”
“No, Matt, I wasn’t.”
Before Matt could answer, his cell phone rang. He saw on its small front screen that it was Clarke Goode. He put it to his ear, knowing in his bones that the news was bad.
Chapter 15
Manhattan,
Sunday, March 1, 2009,
1:00AM
Matt sat at his desk in his apartment looking down at Lincoln Center below and to his left. People were fanning out along the Center’s main plaza, emerging from an event that had just ended. Bundled against the cold, the breath streamed from their mouths as they talked about what they had seen, or what time they had to get up in the morning, or the price of gold in Timbuktu. Not about the death of a beautiful young Lebanese girl, or of a second detective friend in less than ten days, or of a son falsely accused of murder. An angry son, filled with hatred for his father. How could those innocent-looking people be talking about such terrible things?
Jade Lee was asleep in his bed, the bedroom’s door slightly ajar at her request. He had made her one of his faux cappuccinos, this one laced heavily with whiskey, and put her to bed. On the couch in his pre-war sunken living room was the pile of bedding he would unravel and use when he felt like sleeping. But he didn’t feel like sleeping. Too much was on his mind: Nick Loh dead; Bob Davila dead; Jade, wearing one of his shirts and not much else, asleep in his bed; the look in her eyes when she told him about Antonio going off to see his father, to meet him for the first time; the tone in his own son’s voice when they last spoke, over three weeks ago.
I’m glad you’re out.
No answer.
How much was the bail?
Two million.
Basil put it up?
Who do you think?
We need to talk.
About what?
Your case.
My lawyer said not to talk to anyone.
That doesn’t include me.
I’m fucked.
We’ll beat it. It’ll turn out fine.
It’s all bullshit.
I want to talk about Adnan and Ali.
What about them?
They obviously planted the gun.
Mr. Stryker is looking for them.
Did you handle the gun, Michael?
You’re talking to me like I’m six years old.
Did you?
I’m not supposed to talk about the case.
Let’s have dinner tonight. I can help.
You want to help? You work for the office that’s prosecuting me. Go look up what their case is all about.
That would be illegal.
Then what can you do? I’ve got a good lawyer.
Where are you now?
Park Avenue.
We have to talk. Get settled, then call me.
Pause.
Sure.
Click.
Matt went into the kitchen, found his good bourbon and poured some over ice. He returned to his desk, bringing the bottle with him. Below, the Center’s concourse was now empty. One last couple, arms entwined, was hailing a cab, in tandem, with their free arms. They might have been laughing. The moonlight that had bathed the sky over Glen Cove was not quite penetrating to the streets of the city, but above the buildings the night was very clear, with stars scattered among a few wispy clouds.
Sipping his drink, Matt turned on his computer and went to the Regis High School web site. A few more clicks and he came across the one-paragraph announcement of Regis’ two-point win earlier that night over Miami’s Bishop Shelby High. He printed the page and, using a yellow marker, highlighted a line in the box score indicating that Antonio Lee had scored 10 points and fouled out at 2:11 of the fourth quarter. Slipping quietly into his bedroom, he put the printout on his dresser, where Jade, sleeping the sleep of the dead, had left her wallet and jewelry.
Matt had hoped that Michael would go to Regis, and play basketball. The summer after Michael graduated from eighth grade, Matt surprised him with a professional hoop, glass backboard and all, in the driveway in Pound Ridge. He had marked off and painted the lane and three point lines himself, and put a new Wilson basketball on the free-throw line. This ball, still brand new, was on a shelf in the garage. It had never been used, never even been bounced except by Matt when he was arranging the surprise.
Take the first shot, he had said to Michael.
I suck at basketball, Michael had replied, after glancing at the set-up, then heading casually toward the house, his knapsack over his shoulder. Oh, by the way, he had said, turning around at the front door to face Matt, I can’t sleep over tonight.
Why not? That’s three in a row.
I’m sleeping at Jake’s. His father’s taking us to the Yankee game tomorrow.
By the time Matt learned the rules of soccer, a game he had neither played nor watched growing up, Michael’s career at Parnell—a career he seemed to take only a half-hearted interest in—was over. At graduation, Debra showed up with her new husband, who took them afterwards in a limousine to a fancy Tribeca restaurant to celebrate. Matt tried to pay, but Basil had given his credit card to the maitre’d on the way in. His son barely acknowledged him as they ate an absurdly overpriced meal and talked about the opportunities Michael would have at NYU, where he would be a c
ommunications major in the fall.
Matt, sipping his bourbon, looking down at the traffic on Columbus Avenue, remembered thinking at the time, maybe college will be better. But it wasn’t. It just got worse. Now there was a hole in him where his relationship with his son should have been, his healthy relationship with his son. She could fill it, he thought, thinking of Jade sleeping in his bed. Would that be love, or need? There was his pride again, always stopping him. Maybe that’s all he’d have left in the end, his pride. And his anger.
Leaning back, he noticed the books on the shelf above his desk. One of them was Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, given to him by his father the day he left for Parris Island. You are angry, Matteo, Sr. had said, handing the book to him as they sat in the bowels of the dank and cavernous Port Authority Bus Terminal in mid-town. You lost your mother. I do not say much. The neighborhood is bad. You lose your temper. You fight. I do not put my hand up to stop you.
“Tell me about the war,” Matt had asked, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice, but not succeeding. “Your Navy Cross.”
“I did not win it,” his father had answered. “A boy named Matteo DeMarco did. He died in the war.”
“Dad…”
“Here’s your bus.”
Somewhere along the way on that twenty hour bus ride to South Carolina, Matt had flipped through Meditations. He remembered now that Matteo had highlighted a few passages in yellow marker. He pulled the book from the shelf and, thinking of the spackle-covered black guy feeding the pigeons in Union Square Park, he found the one he was looking for: How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it.
Chapter 16
Manhattan,
Monday, March 2, 2009,
1:00PM
Born and raised in Amsterdam, Erhard Fuchs was used to cold weather in winter, but not the continuous snow that seemed to fall in New York. A woolen cap on his head, his bulky coat’s collar turned up, he walked next to Bill Crow on Bryant Park’s perimeter path, trying to ignore the heavy wet flakes that were, according to reports, the beginning of another storm. He usually met his grisly-looking CIA contact at the Starbucks on the corner, but today they were having their chat as they walked. I need the exercise, Crow had said, the scarred stumps of his missing left pinky and ring fingers on display for a moment as he handed Fuchs a container of hot coffee.
Gods and Fathers Page 10