Craig says with deadpan delivery, “Didn’t I always tell you our boy would make a difference in the world?”
“Enough, Craig,” Rosie says.
Naomi is subdued, the excitement and activity that ran the entirety of the night ebbing at last. She cannot sleep, but she lies on the bed, her face and body slack, her eyes dull, transfixed by the screen. It appears she has done all she can for the time being; Craig has continued to stonewall her attempts to get at the truth. But at least she tried. Tried and failed. Some way to end her marriage to Keenan — fail him in a moment of crisis.
What good is trying if it’s not enough? she asks herself. Wake up, woman. Your work isn’t finished.
“Craig,” she says, without moving.
He twists around in his seated position at the front of his bed.
“Did you work for Norman Bashinsky?”
“Jesus Christ!” He vaults to his feet. “I’ve had enough of this shit.”
He marches to the door but Naomi has sprung up to intercept him. She realizes, in her brief flight to the door, that she needs a new tactic, and as Craig advances on her, looking as though he’d like to hit her, she steps forward with open arms and wraps them around his shoulders. She hugs him close, and whispers into his ear, “I’m sorry. But please tell me. Just me. No one has to know. It’s our secret.”
His body is tense. She waits, holding her breath, refusing to let go until she has an answer. Just get the truth, she thinks. For Keenan.
Craig’s arms close around her back, and she lets her breath out, breathing into his embrace, hoping this weakness for her he has always hinted at is truly there. She hears his slow exhale in her ear.
“Tell me. Did you work for him?”
“Yes,” he hisses. “Yesss.”
He tears himself away and glares at both women.
9:32 a.m.
In a mass of people moving as one, Tyron feels that he is part of a larger whole. A similar feeling to being in the Corps. This connection to something bigger than himself is less defined, less tangible than the one he experienced as a Marine, and yet it is also more liberating, more open, more accepting, and in some ways even more inspiring. Walking among the people of his community, he is swept up in a sense of belonging he hadn’t foreseen when he returned to Vegas. He believes in the mission of this cause. He couldn’t say that by the end of his term with the Marines, when he feared that he was inadvertently bringing about destruction in the world.
He looks at the monolithic casinos on either side of them, a march through a valley of man-made mountains. Flashy mimicry of landmark architecture: there is a pyramid, there is the Eiffel Tower, there is the Brooklyn Bridge; and the others, those less gaudy, are nevertheless so shimmering they appear as mirages in the hazy desert heat.
Antoine almost told me about my parents, he suddenly realizes. The thought sneaks up on him. He acknowledges to himself that he does not have as much closure as he thought over his parents’ deaths, so long ago now. He thinks back to yesterday in the hotel room, when Antoine asked him if he wondered what really happened to his parents. I stopped thinking about that a long time ago, Tyron had said, and Antoine almost said something. Tyron could see it.
He almost told me. What does this mean? My parents were assassinated, why? Antoine would know. It seems he’s the only one who knows anything these days. But he must be long gone by now.
Tyron looks about him and sees that it is common practice for people in the march to use their phones, not just for taking pictures and videos but for texting and talking as well. Expecting the number to be dead but hoping anyway, he calls Antoine’s right-hand man, Carlos. The number goes to voicemail immediately. He doesn’t leave a message. Only one other person he can try.
Tyron hesitates before tapping the screen on his phone to call Keenan. His thumb hovers, poised. He stares at Keenan’s name, brightly displayed on the small device. He touches the screen. Makes the call. Keenan picks up on the third ring.
“Hey man.”
“Hey,” Tyron says.
Someone near him shouts, “Hands up!” and a swath of people surrounding Tyron shout back, “Don’t shoot!”
“Are you in the march?” Keenan asks.
“Yeah,” Tyron says. “But to support the movement, not to protest y—”
“Don’t worry about it. I mean it. I got more pressing things. You’ll be coming by me actually. I’m in the Reef right now.”
Tyron sees the titanic structure in the distance. “You’re there right now?”
“Yeah. Looking for answers. Did Naomi speak to you?”
“She did. You saw him after he did it?”
“I saw him. He’s nuts, Ty. A psychopath.”
“So what he said about my parents, you think that’s part of him being crazy?”
“No. No, he’s not crazy like that. I actually believe everything he says.”
“So my parents . . . you think they were . . .”
“Yeah. I do. You — can you ditch the march? Come into the Reef when it comes by. There’s a lot I’d like to tell you, and I can’t say it over the phone.”
Tyron looks at those around him, at Auntie Trudy and Tara and Ricky, and he reflects that Marlon is still missing. There is no chance he would skip this unless something had gone horribly wrong. Keenan was a cop until recently. Maybe he can help.
“I’ll be there,” Tyron says. “See you soon.”
“Sounds good. Call me when you’re inside.”
9:38 a.m.
Things are moving. His parents are safe with Naomi, Fitz is getting somewhere with the hotel desk manager, and Tyron is on his way. His old life won’t return to him just because a couple of things are falling into place. But for the moment, maybe he’s getting somewhere. Of course, the closer he gets to answers, the faster he hastens toward a conclusion. Toward an end. But maybe. Maybe he could turn this thing around.
He puts his phone away and returns to the front desk, where Fitz is engaged in a discussion with the manager, having already argued his way up the chain of command from the desk clerks.
“Boys, boys, boys,” says a dry voice from behind Keenan and Fitz. “What are you doing here?”
They turn around.
“Detective Miles,” Fitz says with a nod.
“Detective Miles,” Keenan says.
The rangy detective looks like he just walked out of a sandstorm: hollows in his stubbled cheeks, coarse bronzed skin gashed by the wind, and green eyes, almost colourless as if faded by the sun, as desiccated and impenetrable as the desert itself. “What are you doing here?” he says again.
“Just trying to get some dates straight on some paperwork,” Fitz says jovially.
Detective Miles stares at Fitz, while the manager waits on the other side of the long check-in desk. Miles looks past Fitz to motion with his eyes for the manager to get moving. The man complies. Miles says to Fitz, “You need Quinn with you to do that?”
“No, but coming down here on my day off, figured I might as well make the most of it. We’re going to hit the tables after this.”
Miles waits for Fitz to say more, then, when Fitz doesn’t, appears surprised that this is the best lie Fitz can come up with.
He turns his attention to Keenan, who thinks that if Miles were a dog he’d be sniffing him right now. As it is, the detective seems to have caught the scent of every move Keenan has made. “I won’t tell Fischer about you snooping around, Quinn, but you stay the fuck away from my crime scene. I won’t warn you again. As for you, Fitzgerald: I’m watching you now.”
Both men are struck dumb. They can do nothing but stare back at the detective like admonished children.
“Now get going, boys. I don’t want you here.”
They open their mouths but no words come out. So they nod their apologies as they back away. Keenan feels those arid e
yes on his back, hot like the desert sun, and he quells the urge to turn around and face the searing gaze. Far down the massive hall, heading in the direction of the parking lot, Fitz says out the side of his mouth, “Miles is one tough son of a bitch. Jesus, he makes me feel like a kid.”
Keenan can stand it no longer: he glances back to see if the detective is still watching them. But he is nowhere to be seen.
Keenan’s phone rings. Naomi.
“Yeah?”
“Keenan, I’m sorry, okay, I’m really, really sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Your dad’s gone.”
“What!”
“I’m so sorry.”
“What do you mean, he’s gone?”
“He left. I couldn’t keep him here. He was —”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know! He’s turned off his phone.”
“What the fuck?”
“I’m sorry.”
“How did you let this happen?”
“He wasn’t going to be stopped. I mean it. And he wasn’t going to have us go with him. I would’ve had to stop him by force.”
“So you should’ve, then. You could take him.”
“There are limits to what I can do in this situation, Keenan. He’s a grown man. I can’t imprison him. And definitely not the way he was. I’ve never seen him so mad.”
“Ah, fuck!” Keenan grits his teeth and bends over. “Fuck.”
He raises up and ignores Fitz’s perplexed, inquiring look.
“You assured me you could keep him safe. I wouldn’t be on this fucking goose chase if I hadn’t thought that you had it covered.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I tried, Keenan. I don’t know what else I could’ve —”
“You should’ve tried harder, then. You should’ve chased after him. Ah, fuck. Fuck!”
“You do know that we’re both carrying guns, right? Getting in that man’s way when he was like that would not have been safe. Not for him and not for me. Believe me, I did what I could.”
The blast of shock and anger that cracked through him like a shotgun slug has now exited out his back, leaving him drained of strength and blood. He continues to hold the phone to his ear but he doesn’t speak. He breathes slowly, trying to think. Recalls through it all that he has to tell Tyron not to meet him here anymore.
“You want me to go look for him? Tell me where he could be and I’ll find him. He should be calmer by the time I get to him. Key? Key, you still there?”
“No. Stay with my mom. I’ll find him.”
“I really am sorry.”
“I know. It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I was just surprised. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“Thank you.”
“How’s my mom doing?”
“She’s stressed but I don’t think she’s worried about Antoine doing anything. Key, there’s something else I have to tell you.”
“Something else? Should I get the defibrillators ready?”
“Your dad worked for Bashinsky. He told your mom and me.”
“Did he commit the murders?”
“I don’t know. He went nuts after admitting to working for Bashinsky. That’s when he left. I pressed him too hard, Key. I’m sorry. Everything was okay until I tried to pry the truth out of him. I’m the reason he left.”
He knows that he should try to assuage her guilt, so thick and sad in his ear, but he cannot bring himself to do it. For the first time he wants their marriage to end. “I have to go. I’ll let you know if I find him.”
Fitz asks him if he’s okay. He doesn’t bother giving an answer. Instead he says, “I have to find my father. He ran off.”
“I’ll help you look,” Fitz says.
Keenan pauses and stares at Fitz, undone by his friendship. To think that he could so fundamentally betray a man as decent and loyal as this repulses him. He cannot fathom how he has repeatedly put himself in such situations, how he has made so many mistakes and hurt so many people.
“Thanks, but I’ll look alone. You’ve helped me enough already.”
“You sure? I’m happy to do it.”
“No. It has to be me who finds him.”
He feels like there is a vice around his throat, time twisting the screws with every hour until breathing proves impossible. And yet, with circumstances so pressing, he cannot decide what to do next. He tries to think of the best path forward but knows instinctively they will all lead off a cliff. He is doomed. His father is doomed. Both of them cursed, fated to pay for their sins.
Self-pity rears up in him so strong he thinks he will break down in tears. He swallows and clenches his teeth in an effort to keep himself composed. His eyes flit from Fitz to the sea-coloured walls to the fake coral to the strangers passing by — so many of them, wandering around like the world isn’t ending, their lives not completely fucked. We all screwed up so bad, he thinks. My father, me, Naomi, we all made the wrong call at every turn. Nothing ever goes right. Nothing will ever go right again. I’ve been cursed ever since I pulled that trigger.
The faces, the walls, the coral, all of it starts to swirl in his head. He teeters on his heels, feeling like he might faint or throw up. His tongue is thick in his mouth. Fitz is holding on to him, steadying him, but even his bearded face blends into the whirlpool. Keenan thinks he will do it. He will cry or throw up or collapse, or do all three, at last as wretched on the outside as he has been during these past months, and that is when one face sharpens out of the mash of colours.
Keenan blinks his eyes and narrows his gaze. Tries to stay centred.
Cutting across the lobby is a tall, barrel-chested man with thinning brown hair. He wears a brown suit and his eyes are down on his phone as he marches purposefully to wherever it is he’s going. Undersheriff Fischer. Keenan’s legs steady. Undersheriff Fischer, the only other person in all this who can give him some answers.
“I’ll be back,” he says to Fitz.
Fitz has caught his line of vision. “Whoa, dude, this isn’t a good idea.”
But Keenan is already on the move. He shifts between people in a brisk walk, and then he breaks into a jog. Fischer. If anyone can help me it’s him. He could also fuck me up worse than I am right now, but seriously, what do I have to lose? Naomi’s out. I’m a waste of space. And we’ll see if my father makes it through the day.
He dashes around crowds of people, almost catching up to the undersheriff, the man’s eyes still on his phone. Keenan sees that Fischer is heading for the same set of elevators he used yesterday to go to Monk’s office. Feels like a lifetime ago. The glossy doors slide open and a small crowd piles in with Fischer at their centre. Keenan sprints the last of the way and springs through the closing doors, nearly barrelling over a middle-aged couple.
Fischer’s eyes pop at the sight of Keenan. He heaves a sigh of exasperation, then shoves through those in front of him to press a button. The doors slide open again. “Get the —” Eyeing the people around him, Fischer turns red holding his curses in. “Get out of my sight, Quinn.”
“Sir, two minutes.”
“Two minutes? Two seconds is too long, you’ve wasted enough of my time already.”
“I have new information, sir.”
Fischer doesn’t relent. He keeps his finger on the button, his face mottled, his eyes seething. Keenan doesn’t give in either. He is sure he would’ve yesterday.
“Please,” says Keenan. “I’m trying.”
The elevator passengers look back and forth between the two large men, half disgruntled by the holdup, half entertained by their charged moment. Fischer breaks eye contact to take note of their interest, seeming more aggravated by their eavesdropping than he is by Keenan’s intrusion. “That’s it, everybody out.” He waves his badge. “Police business, get another elevator.”
The couple Keenan almost bowled over stay rooted to the spot.
“Everybody out! Police business!”
The couple scamper away. Fischer releases the button and the doors slide closed.
“You’re like a fucking cockroach, Quinn.”
“My father worked for Bashinsky. He told my wife. This thing is real. Deco didn’t make it up.”
Fischer glumly stares at Keenan. “So? And before you say anything, you’ve got till the seventeenth floor, so be quick.”
Keenan sees that the departed passengers had hit the buttons for several floors before the seventeenth. A little extra time.
“Sir, you must know something. You were partners with Monk, just like my dad. You got called down to the Reef all the time.”
“How do you know that?”
“Antoine’s out there killing people because of shit that went down in this building. You know something, sir.”
The doors open on a floor and Fischer jabs the button to close them.
“First, I don’t have to answer to you. Second, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know about the Shaws. I know they were assassinated. I know my father knew about the hit beforehand. Did you know about it too?”
“Who?”
“Terrence and Viola Shaw. They were Black activists who were murdered sixteen years ago.”
Fischer squints, then gives a grunt of recollection. “Them? That was a gang killing.”
“A cover-up. The order came from Bashinsky. Monk and someone else pulled the trigger.”
“Bullshit.”
“Antoine’s going to come after my dad. Or he’s coming after someone else. I know it. What can I do? Except try to find out the truth. It’s the only thing that could stop this. Please. Do you know something?”
The undersheriff stares back at him. The elevator stops and the doors slide open. “Seventeenth floor,” he says, walking out and looking at his phone.
Keenan goes after him. Puts his hand on the man’s shoulder. Fischer turns with a fist curled.
Undercard Page 19
