* * *
Mike Carp’s real-estate headquarters was in a lush office park that bore no resemblance to the drab building that housed the county government. The rolling fields surrounding it looked perfectly manicured, even in winter. Huge metal sculptures and weeping willows dotted the grounds. The lobby was all glass and bright chrome. A fountain burbled in the middle. All the secretaries appeared to be natural blondes under thirty.
The reporter from CNN was there. A woman in red with a hypercaffeinated attention span and a sharklike smile that only worked when the cameras were rolling. Her name was Lucy Park. Her ethnicity looked to be everything: Asian eyes, caramel skin, dark kinky hair with highlights. She and the news crew seemed to really like that Vega was one of Carp’s “aides.” Carp’s word. Vega wanted to correct the impression. But he couldn’t very well do it in front of a reporter.
Vega followed Carp’s entourage and the camera crew as Carp walked Lucy Park around his headquarters and showed off shelves of awards he’d won and an entire wall of framed photographs of various buildings he owned. Office complexes. Hotels. Sports clubs. Resorts. In the middle of the wall was a full-color rendering of an eighteen-hole golf course with a stone clubhouse, a dozen cottages, indoor and outdoor pools, and tennis courts. Two hundred and fifty acres on the shores of Lake Holly.
“When this project is done, it will be the premier golf destination in the country!” Carp told the reporter.
Vega stared at the color rendering. It took up a huge center section of the wall. Vega had no idea Crystal Springs was so big.
“You’ve had quite a bit of opposition to this project,” Lucy Park said. “Almost as much as you’ve had with your stance on immigration.”
“And just like my immigration stance,” said Carp, “people come around. You’ve just got to know the right buttons to push. The environmentalists dropped their suit a few days ago. The judge lifted the injunction this morning. Ground breaking’s in April. See? That’s how you get things done!”
Vega was taken aback. Joy was so passionate about stopping Crystal Springs. About how the project was going to carve up the wetlands and destroy Lake Holly’s drinking water. She made it seem as if Langstrom was determined to stop the project at all costs. What happened?
Vega thought about that package he’d delivered to Sarah Kenner’s office. Sarah Langstrom Kenner’s office. All this time, he’d assumed that Carp had no idea of their connection. But what if he was wrong? What if there was some kind of deal?
Compromise is good, Vega told himself. Then again, nothing about Carp suggested restraint. He seemed to be the sort of man who did what he had to do to get his way.
If that was the case here, what had he done?
The rest of the day felt like one long infomercial. Lucy Park and her camera crew trailed Carp to meetings. They filmed him in his county office and at his estate in Wickford. They took footage of him before two large blowup portraits—one of Catherine Archer and the other, that mug shot of Rolando Benitez. Carp got teary-eyed when he spoke of the brave Archer family, how close he was to them, and how fond he was of their Inn, which had been in the family for generations.
“Catherine was like my own daughter,” he told Lucy Park. “And John—let me tell you—a stand-up guy! The best! He died of a broken heart, plain and simple.”
In the Suburban, while Vega was driving Carp to his next photo op with CNN, Vega overheard Carp on his cell phone setting up a meeting with someone for ten the next morning.
“Uh, sir?” said Vega when Carp hung up. “Ten a.m. is Catherine and John Archer’s funeral. Don’t you want to be there?”
“Why? You think CNN will film it?”
“I don’t know,” said Vega. “But seeing as you’re so close to the family . . .”
Carp made a sound, halfway between a throat clearing and a laugh. “Yeah, right? The son of a bitch thought he could hang on until the ink was dry.”
Vega couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Oh, come on, Jimmy. You saw it yourself at the vigil. The guy was a walking pharmacy.”
“I’d probably be doped up like that if my daughter was murdered,” said Vega.
“He wasn’t doped up,” said Carp. “He was hiding his illness. Taking it straight to the grave. Whole family’s nothing but smoke and mirrors.”
“John Archer was sick?”
“John Archer had ALS,” said Carp. “Lou Gehrig’s disease. You know the one? Your mind stays sharp, but your body goes into revolt? You die in, like, two years, gasping for breath. Hell of an end. It’s probably better the drugs got him.”
“Does the family know he had ALS?” asked Vega.
“Of course they know!” said Carp. “Just like they knew their daughter was this little tramp, sleeping around.” Carp saw Vega’s shocked expression in the visor mirror. “Don’t look so surprised, Jimmy. I go into business with someone, I make it my business to know them. Archer didn’t want me or anyone else to know he had ALS because he figured I’d pull out of our deal to connect the Magnolia Inn to my new golf resort.”
“But you wouldn’t do that.”
“And that’s why you’re driving me.” He smiled. “Not the other way around. Archer got it. He knew his illness was a deal breaker. Doctors won’t tell you shit these days, HIPAA regs and all that. But you pull some little chippy aside who’s working for minimum wage at a pharmacy, slip her a couple of bucks, and ask her what’s behind her drug shelf? You can find out anybody’s medical history. Riluzole is a medicine used for only one thing—ALS.” Carp shrugged. “As for his tramp daughter—I didn’t know until the police gave me an update on the case. But looking at her—jeez. She was a Playboy centerfold—am I right? Girl like that’s not going to stay a virgin for long.”
Vega drove in silence after that. Carp seemed to sense his coolness. “Aw, for chrissakes, Jimmy. Don’t get all priggish and PC on me. Everything I’m saying—you know it’s the truth.”
Carp leaned over the front seat. “Look. If you’re going to drive me, you need a crash course in business and politics. The Archers understood it. It goes like this. Not every fact is a truth. And not every truth is a fact. That’s what you didn’t seem to get earlier today when you tried to lecture me on what the raccoon patrol up in Lake Holly considers important and not important about that beating of a cop’s son.”
Vega said nothing. There were so many different things he wanted to fight back on, he didn’t know where to begin. But he didn’t want to get into a pissing match. It served no purpose. Not with this man. Carp would always win.
“So . . . you still think truth and fact are the same,” said Carp.
“To me, they are,” Vega said.
“Someone told me you’re a musician, am I right?”
Vega nodded. He was uncomfortable with Carp knowing anything about his personal life.
“Okay,” said Carp. “Notes and beats—those are facts. But how you play them? That’s truth. Two musicians have the same facts. They don’t have the same truth. Now do you get what I’m saying?”
“Sort of,” said Vega.
“People invent their own realities, Jimmy. You can give them all the notes and beats you want. But when the music starts, they’re going to play what they hear in their heads. And that’s what I do. That’s my talent. I hear what they’re singing and then I turn it into a tune and hum right along with them.”
Chapter 33
A dele had a couple of hours before Sophia got home from school. The deadline for Wil’s release weighed heavy on her. If she couldn’t provide Judge Keppel with a plan by the end of today, Wil would remain in jail.
Max Zimmerman was her last hope.
She opened her refrigerator and unearthed a container of chicken and rice soup, which she’d made the other night. She’d been meaning to drop some by for him anyway. She heated it up on the stove and then trekked the container over to Zimmerman’s front door.
She knocked. She waited in the cold. It always took
the old man a while to answer. He opened the door a crack. Adele held out the soup.
“Jimmy told me what happened this morning.”
Zimmerman leaned on his cane and studied the big, covered aluminum pot Adele held out to him between two oven mitts.
“What is this?”
“Chicken soup with rice. I made it myself.”
“You don’t have to feed me. I keep telling everyone, I can take care of myself.”
“Of course you can,” said Adele. “But it’s customary to bring a gift when you want to ask someone for a favor.”
“A favor?”
“May I come in?”
He opened the door wider. “Why not? Everyone else has.”
Adele stepped inside. She carried the pot into the kitchen and set it on the stove. Zimmerman followed behind her. His kitchen was straight out of the 1980s. Adele had a sense that was the last time he and his wife redid it. Beige appliances. Dark brown cabinets. Avocado-colored wallpaper, with some sort of fern design across it. It was old enough to be vintage at this point.
“I don’t know what you heard from Jimmy or the police,” Zimmerman began. “But I’m not a pervert. Those officers—they listened to that crazy Mrs. Morrison. She’s got nothing better to do all day than spy on me and throw her dog’s business on my lawn.”
“I know that,” said Adele. “She and those kids are a terror. Jimmy or I can speak to them for you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“But they’ll just keep throwing dog doo on your lawn if you don’t say something.”
“Let them.” He shrugged. “You get to my age, you learn what matters and what doesn’t. A little fertilizer doesn’t.”
Adele turned a light on under the pot. She unearthed a spoon from a drawer and stirred. The kitchen filled with the warm scent of chicken soup. Zimmerman eased himself into a chair. “I know why you’re really here,” Zimmerman said. “Jimmy thinks I’m depressed. Maybe even suicidal. He’s a good man. But he’s wrong. There’s a Yiddish expression—a man should stay alive, if only out of curiosity. I’m not going to do anything to change that. You don’t have to worry.”
“Mr. Zimmerman?” Adele turned from the stove. “I really am here to ask a favor.”
“Huh.” He studied her. “For you, anything.”
“You may change your mind when you hear my request.”
“I have no money,” said Zimmerman. “I’m too old to marry. Eliminate those two and there’s not much left to worry about.”
Adele grinned. He had a way of putting things into perspective. She pulled two bowls from a cabinet and filled them with soup. She set them on the table, along with two spoons from a drawer. Zimmerman ate as soon as the food was in front of him. Adele had a sense that even with the Meals on Wheels van coming by, he wasn’t eating enough.
“There’s this boy,” she began.
“Boy?”
“Well, not boy. Teenager. He’s nineteen.”
“Your family?”
“No,” said Adele. “He’s originally from Guatemala, but he grew up here. I met him through a legal matter.”
“He commit a crime?”
“His brother did. Or was alleged to have anyway. A very bad crime.” Adele took Zimmerman through the basics.
“I saw,” he said, “on TV. That politician, Mike Carp, is always talking about it. You know? The one who looks like his name?” Zimmerman puffed out his cheeks and stuck his hands at his side like fins. Adele had never really thought about it, but it was true. “I look at him,” said Zimmerman, “I see gefilte fish that’s sat around in a jar too long.”
Adele laughed. “Yes. That’s our county executive. And this teenager I’m telling you about? He was the one who arranged his brother’s surrender. But instead of arresting him, the police ended up killing him. Right in front of this boy. And now he’s in jail.”
“Why would they put him in jail for that?” asked Zimmerman.
“Technically, they put him in jail for lying to the police about his brother’s whereabouts. That’s a crime, of course. But if he were an American citizen with family ties in the area, they would’ve just released him on his own recognizance while they investigated the murder. The problem is, Wil only has temporary legal status. Something known as DACA. He has no family in the area. His mother was deported back to Guatemala three years ago and is dying of cancer. His father is dead. His brother was all the family he had left and now he’s gone.”
“Huh.” Zimmerman put down his spoon. “Your soup is delicious. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“His name is Will? Like William?”
“Wilfredo Martinez,” said Adele. “But everyone calls him Wil.”
“So . . . you’re saying that the police put Wil in jail to make sure he doesn’t run away?”
“Pretty much,” said Adele. “Wil had a bail hearing the other day. I went to it and asked the judge to release him. I offered to take legal responsibility to ensure he stays in the area. The judge agreed, but only if he is under my direct supervision, either living with me or living near me with someone the court considers to be an upstanding member of the community.”
“I see,” said Zimmerman.
“Before this, Wil was working as a busboy at the Lake Holly Grill and going to college.”
“College?” The old man’s eyes brightened.
“He wants to be a doctor. An oncologist—a cancer specialist—to help people like his mother. His legal status is so complicated, no one knows if that can ever be. But he’s a bright young man with no criminal record. No misdemeanors. Nothing. If he stays in jail over the months it will take to clear up this case, he’ll lose everything. His legal status. His college prospects. Any hope of carving out a real life in this country.”
“And you are telling me this . . . ?”
“Because I can’t let him live with me,” Adele explained. “Peter, my ex-husband, would have my head if I let a stranger live under the same roof as Sophia.”
“So you’re here to ask if he can live with me.”
Adele took a deep breath. “I totally understand if you say no, Mr. Zimmerman. Jimmy already told me I was crazy. He said it was a terrible idea to ask you to take the teenager in. It was too dangerous, given how upset many people in Lake Holly are over Catherine’s murder. I don’t think Wil had any part in that. I don’t even know if his brother did. But people are angry. You don’t know him. You don’t owe him.”
“And why do you think that you do?” Zimmerman peered at her over the tops of his black frames. He was a perceptive man.
“Because his brother . . . If I hadn’t . . .” Her words trailed off. She couldn’t get herself to admit what was in her heart. His brother died because of me. All the hate and heartbreak that’s happening in Lake Holly is because of me.
Adele felt like she was walking around with a set of scales on her shoulders. On the one side were all the people she’d tried to help in her ten years at La Casa. On the other sat a man’s life. Nothing could ever—ever—balance out those scales. The only thing that could begin to mitigate the burden would be helping his brother.
She took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts. “Have you ever wished you could do something over in your life?”
“Many times,” said Zimmerman. “If only life were that simple. We would all sleep more soundly, wouldn’t we?”
She pushed her soup to one side and met his gaze. “Trying to help Wil Martinez is the one thing keeping me sane right now, Mr. Zimmerman. I realize that to you, he’s just some teenager from another culture with no family or roots in this country. But he’s important to me. He needs a place to live where I can keep an eye on him. And it might be good for you to have a pair of strong, young hands around the house.”
Zimmerman sat very still. Adele could hear the second hand of his big rooster clock as it rotated from the bird’s feathers to its comb and back again.
“There is a story a rabbi onc
e told me about Abraham,” he began. “I would like to share it with you. May I?”
“Of course,” said Adele. “You mean, the biblical Abraham?”
“Yes,” said Zimmerman. “Abraham was a great man. A generous and faithful man who showed his love of God in many ways. One was welcoming strangers into his home. A practice we call hachnasat orchim.”
Zimmerman tented his arthritic fingers in front of him. His face was flushed with the thrill of telling a good story.
“One day,” he continued, “an old man came to Abraham and Sarah’s tent. Abraham gave him food and drink, a place to bathe and rest. The old man was so grateful that he took out his collection of idols and began to pray to them. Abraham saw this and became enraged.”
Zimmerman’s voice dropped an octave. He pointed an index finger at the ceiling.
“Abraham said, ‘My God—the one true God—fed you. He is the only one you should offer your prayers to.’ The old man disagreed. He told Abraham, ‘I prayed to my gods to send someone like you and they did. So I’m thanking them.’ Abraham couldn’t believe that this man had accepted his generosity and then uttered such blasphemy. So”—Zimmerman clapped his hands together—“Abraham kicked the old man out of his tent!”
Zimmerman leaned in close and smiled. “Do you know what God did?”
“No,” said Adele. She was caught up in the story now too. Zimmerman sat back in his chair.
“He berated Abraham,” said Zimmerman. “God said, ‘For all these years, I have taken care of that old man. I made sure he had food and drink, a place to bathe and rest. And now? I send him to you? And you throw him out? If his idol worship hasn’t offended me all these years, why should it offend you?’ So Abraham rushed down the road and found the old man and apologized.”
“That’s a great story,” said Adele.
“Do you know why I’m telling it to you?”
A Place in the Wind Page 24