by Allen Wyler
He waited two minutes, whispered, “Karim!” Then his brother was at his side.
Slowly he opened the door, only a crack at first to listen to the hollow sounds of an empty building. Then a bit more. No one around. Quickly they slipped into the building and shut the door.
18.
Davidson stood at the front door to his office suite watching Fisher walk toward the elevator bank, making sure he didn’t stop outside, perhaps try to eavesdrop on any subsequent conversation. Arnold heard the elevator ding and, moments later, the door rattle shut. With a nod of approval, Davidson shut his door, turned to study Arnold a few beats. He was pacing again.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t agree to simply give him the statement. You sat here and admitted Karim shot Howard. Why not put it on record?” Davidson’s tone was simultaneously questioning and accusatory. Arnold watched him prop his butt on the corner of his desk with arms across his chest, obviously unhappy with him.
If he knew the answer for sure, he’d certainly explain. “It’s a couple of things. Mostly, I’m afraid of them. Firouz more than the FBI. You know that. We discussed it. If I agree to testify you might as well paint a bull’s-eye on my chest. Besides, if you get right down to it, which any good defense lawyer will, I didn’t actually see who pulled the trigger. I heard the gun go off. Period.”
Davidson scoffed at that. “That’s one of the lamest excuses I’ve heard, Arnold. You just told Fisher you walked in your house, heard Howard yell, heard the gunshot, and then Karim came at you with a gun. Seems pretty damn obvious to me.” Davidson pushed off the desk, dropped into one of the two leather couches in his office reception area. “Besides, if I were you, given your choices, I’d rather have the FBI be on my side than against me. You heard what Fisher said: they’re going to investigate you. Which begs the question one more time: there anything, anything at all, you wouldn’t want them digging up? Think carefully before you answer.”
Arnold stopped at the corner of the desk Davidson had just vacated and leaned forward, hands flat on the top. “You don’t understand because you’ve never been face to face with Firouz. If you had you’d know why he scares hell out of me. There’s something pure evil in that man. Shit!” Another spasm of gut pain cut him off in mid breath.
“I understand all that. You’ve made that point repeatedly. But the thing is, if he’s that much of a threat, why not at least attempt to put him behind bars?” Davidson’s hand shot up before Arnold could answer. “Yes, I know what you’ve said, you’re worried that even from prison he can reach out to you. I understand all that, but I also have to tell you, if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t go down so easily, at least not without a fight. Granted, you’re up to your neck in some serious issues, but at least fight to crawl out of it. Make sure the Jahandars feel the pain, too.”
Arnold was leaning on his hands, his mind working on two issues simultaneously: a response to Davidson as well as a new idea, one that just popped up in consciousness. “No, it’s not enough to tell Fisher what he’s after. That won’t be the end of it. I have to find a way to finish this with the Jahandars completely, and I mean end it. I have to find a way he’s never ever going to be a threat to me again.”
Arnold’s vehemence and tone seemed to catch his lawyer’s attention. Tense and concerned, he sat up and snapped. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Arnold started pacing again, the gut pain less now that his mind was mulling over the idea. He repeated, “What did it sound like? I got myself into this mess. I need to find my own way out.”
“Oh, very illuminating.” Davidson sighed, stifled a yawn, knuckled his eyes. “Look, let’s take a step back and a deep breath. Obviously we’re at a standstill—at least it is for me—for the night.” He decked his watch and amended that. “Correction. Change that to morning. We both need some rest. But one more thing before we pack it in: I need to ask you—and think carefully before you answer—is there any further connection between you and Firouz or his organization you haven’t mentioned? Anything at all the FBI might uncover that they can use against you?”
With a dismissive wave, Arnold said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, not at all. Just doing my job.” Davidson pushed up off the couch. “I believe you. Now let’s get out of here, go get some sleep.”
This time Arnold gave a sarcastic snort. “No way I can sleep now. Not with this memory of Howie…” He suspected that even when he could finally sleep he would suffer nightmares, probably for a long time. This what PTSD’s like?
Davidson reached behind the door separating the reception room from his office and came away with a rain coat. “Need a coat? I have an extra one if you do.”
A coat? What for? He had no idea where he was going or if he was going anywhere. If Davidson was shutting down his office for the night, maybe he should just wander the streets and ponder a way out of this mess, to imagine what Howie felt in those seconds before dying. And if it was cold outside, maybe he should embrace the discomfort until he became hypothermic and numb. Maybe he’d stumble across a group of homeless huddled under an overpass, stay there long enough to drop off the face of the earth. He suddenly craved the idea of physical suffering as a way to assuage the guilt of responsibility for last night’s senseless carnage.
He ignored Davidson’s question, now preferring to remain alone to think and suffer. And the more he considered it, what he really wanted was for God to suddenly strike him dead because that seemed the only way to rid himself of his terrible guilt. Please God, strike me dead right now. No fuss, no muss, just zap, lights out.
Davidson patted his shoulder then held out his hand, offering him something. “Come on. Believe me, things always seem better in the morning, no matter how dismal they may seem at the moment.” Davidson’s palm offered a small, salmon-colored pill.
“What is it?”
“Xanax. Go ahead, take it.” Davidson dropped the pill in Arnold’s hand before opening the hall door.
“This way,” Davidson pointed the opposite direction from the elevators. “We’ll take the stairs. Just in case.”
Just in case? Of what? Was this what his life was becoming? A hunted man in constant fear of discovery?
He examined the pill in hand. He’d never taken Xanax but believed it was used to treat anxiety. Might not be such a bad idea. Tossed it into his mouth and dry-swallowed as he hurried to keep up with Davidson, who by now was almost to the end of the hall where the green EXIT sign glowed above the door.
No sooner had the exit door shut than the second west elevator dinged and the light above lit up. Firouz stepped into the hall, looked right, then left, right, saw the frosted glass pane of the office door with Palmer Davidson, JD painted on it. No light shone through the glass. To be certain there wasn’t another office in use in another portion of the office, Firouz put his ear to the glass and listened. Nothing. He stood in front of the elevators, working through their next move.
The streets, deserted this time of morning, would soon accommodate a trickle of commuters as the flow would rapidly grow into Seattle’s notorious morning rush-hour congestion. With the car radio off and Davidson not talking, Arnold heard only the soft thrum of road noise. The quiet in the car interior amplified his thoughts, a series of disjointed snippets, all fighting for dominance. Things like: if I was stupid enough to allow Breeze to learn my identity, what other stupid things have I done? What else did the Jahandars know about his personal life? Martini-lubricated lips greased his willingness to satisfy her rapt interest in him, never once suspecting she might be obtaining intelligence for a terrorist cell. Jesus, how nuts is that? Never in a million years…
He thought of Howie’s parents and of Rachael, and was overcome with more guilt. Did they know yet? If so, how had they learned? He should’ve been the one to break the news, not a detached, unfamiliar face or an expeditious late-night phone call.
Pain gut-punched him again. “Aw, Jesus, I need to call them.” He began
searching his pocket for his cell and realized he was sitting in Davidson’s car and it was still back on the kitchen table.
Davidson grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, calm down. We’re not calling anyone this morning.”
He tried to shrug free, but his lawyer’s grip was strong. “No, you don’t understand. It’s my fault. I need to apologize, tell them how sorry I am.” He grabbed the door handle, but Davidson remained a step ahead of him by punching the kiddie lock.
Davidson curbed the car but left it idling. “Settle down, Arnold. You don’t need to do a goddamn thing right now but get your act together. Certainly, you’re not going to telephone a soul until you’re safe and this mess is completely finished. Think about it. Time to let the dust settle. Understand?”
Another wave of anxiety rolled over the effects of the Xanax. He wanted to throw open the door and run with no specific direction or destination, just run as far from all this insanity as humanly possible. “But what if Firouz targets them as a way to get to me? No, I need to warn them.”
Davidson was almost shouting now. “No, Arnold, listen to me… You listening?”
His mind was racing back through his conversations with Breeze, trying to remember every fact about his personal life he’d mentioned, wondering if he’d said Howard’s last name? If Firouz were trying to find ways…
Davidson physically shook his shoulder hard. “Listen to me, goddamnit!”
The physical movement jerked Arnold’s attention back to the car and he realized they were illegally parked in the bus zone across the street from Macy’s, the engine idling, Davidson sitting half-turned in his seat, hand out, offering something. “Come on, Arnold, here, take another one of these puppies. Think you need it.”
For a moment Arnold stared at the open palm and oblong salmon pill, thinking, maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Maybe he does need to get his act together before he stumbles through more stupid mistakes. As if he hadn’t fucked up enough for one day. He accepted the second Xanax.
Before he had it to his mouth, Davidson said, “Chew this one, it’ll absorb faster that way.”
He did as instructed, the pill tasting dry and slightly bitter, then rubbed the tip of his tongue across his gums and roof of his mouth, making sure to catch all the crumbs. He swallowed. “Why do you have these with you? Have some sort of problem?”
Davidson laughed at that and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to start driving again. But on the other hand, probably not too many busses were running this time of morning. Soon, though. “For exactly this situation,” Davidson answered. “You’re not the only client who’s had an emotional meltdown on me.”
“Now listen to me,” Davidson continued after a momentary pause. “You’re not calling anyone tonight, especially not in the shape you’re in.”
It dawned on Arnold that they were heading someplace. Where? He had no idea. “Where we going?”
Davidson checked the rearview mirror for oncoming traffic before pulling away from the curb. “To my place. Make sure you get some sleep so we can map out a strategy to deal with the situation. The Xanax will help you calm down. Later today, once you’re in better mental shape, we can start figuring out your best course of action. I think you mentioned you don’t have family. That true?”
“Yes.” And the admission made him feel sadly alone and isolated, especially now with Howard gone.
As if reading his thought, Davidson said, “Point is, if you don’t have strong connections to staying in Seattle, we might be wise to consider exploring a possible deal with the FBI: your sworn testimony for a spot in the witness protection program. See, we have options available you haven’t considered yet. Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of this. Trust me. It’ll all work out. But for right now, you need to calm down and take a deep breath before doing anything.”
Easy for him to say. He’d never been face to face with Firouz. But Davidson’s words did trigger a new idea.
The double dose of tranquilizer was really doing a number on his brain by the time Davidson took the Mercedes through a left turn off of Queen Anne Avenue onto a tree-lined residential street on the south side of Queen Anne Hill. The street, narrow to begin with, was further constricted by cars parked to either side, leaving barely enough room for one vehicle to navigate safely. Now slumped against the soft leather bucket seat, head lolling side to side, Arnold blankly watched vehicles slide past, wondering what it might be like to live in a neighborhood like this featuring such incredible panoramic downtown views. Expensive, for sure. Not that his neighborhood, Greenlake, was considered low-rent by any stretch of the imagination, but you paid more when views—especially like these—were involved. Money. That’s what life is all about. Money: the root cause of this disaster.
To his surprise, his gut pain was gone now and his mind felt like it had been flattened by a steamroller, leaving him emotionally drained and unimaginably sad, resigned to a new life that would never again be as carefree and innocent as 24 hours ago. Nothing would ever be the same. Even if he was, by some miracle, able to survive and rid himself of Firouz and this God-awful mess, life as he knew it was over. This saddened him.
The car turned left again, nosing into a short, downward-sloping driveway to a large stucco cube with unlit windows and a garage door the same beige as the house, leaving an initial impression that the concrete driveway dead-ended at the house. Davidson pressed a button at the base of the rearview mirror and the garage door began slowly rising, exposing a one-car garage illuminated by harsh overhead lights. Soon as Davidson set the parking brake Arnold could hear the groan as the heavy door began lowering behind them. The garage walls were painted off-white, the floor finished in a shiny epoxy made to resemble gray granite and clean enough to worry Arnold about dirtying them. He’d never seen such an immaculate shiny garage.
They opened their doors almost simultaneously, and as Arnold stepped out, he noticed the back-lit Mercedes Benz name along the bottom door sill. Cool. Nice touch.
Shutting his door, Arnold asked, “What about your wife? Will my being here disturb her?” What made me assume he’s married?
Davidson came round the front fender. “I’m divorced, so I live here alone. Long story not worth the time to tell.” He approached Arnold. “Excuse me.”
Arnold realized he was blocking access to what looked like a shoulder-height intercom grill with a keypad and blinking red LED. He stepped aside to give Davidson access.
Davidson pressed the single button just below the grill. A synthesized voice responded with, “State your name, please.”
Davidson leaned forward a bit. “Palmer Davidson.”
A brief pause was followed by a metallic click from the door. Davidson pushed it open, the door movement automatically turning on interior lights. The lawyer stood aside for Arnold to enter.
“Voice recognition controlled access,” he said as Arnold passed, but Arnold had that already figured out. Arnold stopped short, thought: what if Firouz knows I’m here and they’re waiting? Part of him realized this thought was over-the-top-paranoid. Still…
Sensing his wariness, Davidson said, “It’s safe. Believe me. As a criminal defense lawyer I’m hyper-concerned about some wacko gunning for me. As a result, I’ve become an expert on home security. No one but my closest friends know where I live. My property records are even under an assumed name, so see, we have a few things in common, Mr. Taylor.”
The interior was as minimalist contemporary as the outside. The garage access entered into a kitchen of stainless steel appliances, slate-gray granite counters with a matching island, soft white walls, handle-less European-style cabinets, and a slate gray polished concrete floor. The kitchen flowed into the living room area, providing an expansive feel. The far—south—wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling glass with two sets of sliders to a balcony with a million-dollar view of downtown Seattle, the harbor, and the Space Needle. Arnold stood in the kitchen, gobsmacked by the view, thinking, Wow, wouldn’t be hard to fall in love with a place l
ike this. Someday…
Davidson draped his suit coat over the back of a bar stool, unbuttoned his cuffs, loosened his tie, palm-wiped his face, and uttered a soft sigh while taking in the view. “Much as I see this, I never tire of it. Makes the long hours worth it.”
He pointed, said, “You’ll take my office. It’s this way.” Davidson disappeared into another room. Arnold followed. This one featured the same killer view of downtown. Arnold suspected the kitchen and this small study formed the entire width of the house. Wood walls, same polished concrete floor flowing in from the kitchen, a small desk with a white Mac. Davidson hit a button and down came a Murphy bed craftily hidden behind wall panels, so well disguised you wouldn’t realize its existence unless you were shown.
“There’s a guest bathroom just off the hall you can use to wash up. I’ll put out towels for you.”
Arnold couldn’t take his eyes off a vertically arching tube of about nine inches extending from an egg-shaped base. “What is it?”
Davidson chuckled. “A phone.” He picked it up and handed it to him. “It’s a Bang & Olufson Beocom 2. The design’s now considered old, but I love their work.”
After taking a moment to admire the craftsmanship, Arnold returned the phone, then stood in the hall admiring the interior. This was the kind of house he wanted to own someday, but he hadn’t realized it until now. Then Davidson was handing him some towels, saying, “Better try to get some sleep now. The Xanax should help. I suspect we’ll have a lot of work to do later today. A lot of work.”