Give Us This Day

by Tom Avitabile

  “Very well. May I reserve the right to come back to you with a final offer? It may well be substantial enough to make your decision simple.”

  “Knock yourself out, but for now, we are set to move in two days from now.”

  Mr. Paul relaxed his posture in the chair and struck a different tone. “May I ask you something a little off topic?”

  “Sure.”

  “I have always been fascinated with funeral homes and mortuaries. Truth be told, in my younger days I envisioned myself possibly becoming a mortician. But as so often happens, life has other plans.”

  “That is the truth; actually, I thought I’d be an engineer, but my older brother, who was into this business, died in Iraq, so it fell to me. I’m afraid I made a small mess of things. We’ve had to downsize and cut some staff.”

  “Since it’s early, would you mind showing me around?”

  “No, not at all.”

  They walked through the home. Downstairs, he showed him the embalming room and the crematorium.

  “Wow. So this is where you cremate the bodies?”

  “Yes, we do it all here. The process is mechanized and the casket and all goes in this end and the ashes are sifted and ready for internment in the urn that we place on the other side of the wall.”

  “So it all works with just this switch?”

  “Yes.”

  .G.

  By Monday afternoon, Brooke was seething. Cynthia Davidson had disappeared. She wanted her shyster lawyer, Wasserman’s ass in a sling for letting her out of the country.

  “The Caymans no less! What a schmuck,” she vented to George. “Didn’t he know that if you were ripping off a company or the government, the Caymans ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ banking laws were the perfect first stop on your way to living out your days in plush comfort in a country where they only know you as Mrs. Smith?”

  As mad as she was at the attorney, it was also her screwup. She had given Cynthia a pass by not locking her up, or putting a bracelet on her, or hell, posting armed guards in her garden. Maybe because she’d seemed so innocent in all of this, or because she had been so forthcoming about her involvement in the “one for the good guys” slush fund . . . or was it something else? She hated her next thought, that somehow she’d cut Cynthia slack because she was connected to her boss in all this, Secretary of the Treasury, Warren Cass.

  Brooke had a thought as she picked up the phone. “Nigel, what was the name of the art house out of the Caymans? Shipsen-Deloitte . . . right! Thanks.

  “George, pack a bag and suntan lotion. Get down to the Caymans today and see if you can pick up Cynthia’s trail. She’s either there under another name or she’s left under one. Find out which, ASAP. And start at Shipsen-Deloitte. She may be hiding her assets as art purchases!”

  “Right, boss.” And he was out of her office like a shot.

  His eagerness made her smile against her mood. She swiveled her chair around and looked out at Manhattan. The PCM executive corner office she had commandeered looked north, where the Empire State building loomed six blocks away.

  She remembered as a little girl she and her brother Harley had gone to the top. She’d been nine, and her older brother had started doing his King Kong impersonation. She’d laughed so hard she nearly wet herself. He was her joy. He always made her laugh. Even after he died in Iraq, she would smile and sometimes laugh out loud remembering his antics and the things . . .

  “Secretary Cass on line one.”

  “I’ll take it.” Brooke lifted the phone. “Good morning, sir.”

  “I was wondering if you got any further with your science guys.”

  “Sir, where are you today?”

  “This morning I am in Detroit at the launch of a new car parts factory then heading into New York for a reception of the Saudi Ambassador. Why?

  “Can you give me five minutes before the dinner?”

  “I’m sorry, Brooke, schedule’s tighter than a gnats . . .”

  “Gnats ass. I had brothers, sir.”

  “Sorry. Can’t we discuss this over a secure line?”

  Brooke thought about it. “Are you staying over?”

  “No, I am out of there at 10:30. Got a cabinet meeting at eight tomorrow in the big house.”

  “How are you getting to the airport, sir?”

  “Nice try. I already have that ride filled by a reporter from the Wall Street Journal who’s been hounding me for a story for two months.”

  “Well, sir, I will fly down tomorrow and catch you after your cabinet meeting.” Then Brooke did something she immediately knew she might live to regret. “Safe travels, Mr. Secretary. Bye.” She hung up without giving him a chance to say no.

  She sat there for a second, her hand still on the phone. She reasoned that Cynthia’s disappearance was not good for him in light of his past relationship with her. The woman was acting guilty, probably evading US law. She couldn’t tell the man something so fundamental over a phone call. I did the right thing, she thought.

  “Director, your one p.m. is waiting in the conference room,” Jeannine said over the intercom.

  Brooke got up and walked down the hall to the conference room. Her secretary met her midway.

  “What do we got, Jeannine?”

  “Inspector Johnson from New York transit, he was . . .”

  “On scene commander in the subway; I remember him.”

  “You got Harrelson out of FBI, New York, and Damon Edwards from us. Here’s your summary.”

  Brooke entered the room, shook hands all around and exchanged pleasantries, then sat at the head of the table. “Excuse me for minute while I catch up.” She looked down and opened the file. The executive summary was on top and she made everyone in the room wait until she’d read it. Someone said something and she held up her hand while she neared the end.

  Whoever it was stopped.

  A few moments later, she closed the folder. “Sorry, I hadn’t had the chance to read that before the meeting. Thank you for your patience. Now who was it that wanted to say something?”

  “I was going to inform you that DNA and other factors confirmed that Joe Garrison was the subway victim. We didn’t know that at the time that report you just read was printed last night.”

  “Thank you, Inspector Johnson. Okay, Harrelson, don’t make my old office look bad here. Does the FBI have a lead on the Hispanic man last seen detaining or speaking with Mr. Garrison?”

  “I’m afraid it’s thin. Various cameras on the platform and on the street are sketchy. Though we now have reason to believe he may not be Hispanic but possibly dark-skinned Middle Eastern.”

  “On what are you basing that?” Brooke asked.

  “Based on one ear witness who overheard them—definite Arab accent or at least regional.”

  “Damon, let’s share the visa violations we got from State with these agencies and see if it clicks with our now Middle Eastern man.”

  “Why didn’t we know of these violators before?” the inspector asked.

  “These are all Middle Eastern men. Who may or may not be involved in any criminal or suspicious behavior. Until a second ago, we . . . you, were searching for a Hispanic.”

  “I see.”

  “Brooke, is there anything further on the means used to destroy all the data at Prescott?” Harrelson asked.

  “Nothing yet, but my people are now leaning towards a fifth-generation computer virus; very cutting edge, possibly. Their initial thought of some kind of electrical impulse frying the memory didn’t pan out because the damage would have not been limited to the data, but to the circuitry as well, and that all tested fine in the lab.”

  “Meaning?” Harrelson pushed.

  “Meaning it wasn’t a shotgun of electrical impulse that would have fried everything but, rather, a surgical strike. Using something they call a
logic bomb. I expect we’ll know something more shortly.”

  “Anything else you could tell us?” the inspector asked.

  “We can possibly rule out a major attack by thermonuclear device from this particular group, based on what we believe to be their core competencies.”

  “Comforting notion.” The inspector leaned back from the table.

  “You asked. That’s what I got. Anything else?” She looked around for someone to say something. “Okay then, we’ll meet as the facts and situation warrant. Keep those daily briefs coming. I guess that’s all.” Brooke got up to leave. “Oh, one more thing. One of our key witnesses, Cynthia Davidson, disappeared down in the Cayman Islands. Kick the tires men; see if you can shake anything loose. Her sheet was in yesterday’s file. And Inspector, if I thought it wouldn’t result in me getting fired, I’d ask that you ticket and tow her attorney, Josh Wasserman’s Mercedes, just to give the jerk a little taste of the grief he’s put me through—letting her up and leave like that.”

  Brooke left.

  “Harrelson, she’s kidding, right?” the inspector said.

  .G.

  Jessica Goldstein had one more call to make tonight. She rifled through the files and came up with the form she was looking for. She dialed the number. As it rang she stapled a cancelation form to another form and placed it in her out basket. “Hello, Mr. Fareed? Jessica Goldstein from Yonkers Reality . . . How are you doing tonight? . . . That’s good. Well, I am calling with some good news. The house you were interested in, the one at Hillview Lane in Yonkers, has come back on the market. Yes . . . I know . . . You are still interested I assume . . .” She let out a deep breath. “Excellent. Can you stop by our office tomorrow and bring a check for the 10% deposit and the filing fee? . . . That’s super! . . . And I am really happy you got the house. I know how disappointed you were when it went into contract . . . Yes, well, not to tell tales out of school, but it looks like the previous buyers had a domestic falling out . . . Her husband—he was a mortician—just up and disappeared. He drove to work one morning and vanished without saying a word. She’s devastated, the poor thing. But you know what they say, one person’s loss . . . Okay then, see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 20

  Dressed to Kill

  Brooke was curled up in her dad’s old recliner, her feet up on the worn cushion. She was deeply ensconced in the latest John Lescroart thriller. It was the only guilty pleasure she allowed herself, especially now, in the middle of the expanded Prescott investigation. Although she lived a life of a character right out of one of the author’s thrillers, most of the other books she’d read didn’t capture the life as spot on as Lescroart.

  At first she thought it was the neighbor’s TV. Then a loud thump followed by yelling drew Brooke’s attention to her apartment’s front door. She put down the book, got up, and looked through the peephole. She couldn’t believe what she thought she was seeing. She unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. Brooke yelled, “Hey, break it up!”

  Out in the hall, on the staircase, was a priest struggling with a young man. The startled kid stopped pummeling the priest, jumped up and fled down the stairs two at a time.

  Brooke ran to the priest. “Are you okay?”

  The priest turned and wiped blood away from his lip. His collar was torn and twisted. He gulped for air. “Yes. I’m okay.”

  “Good. I’ll go chase down that son of a bitch.” She started down the steps.

  The priest’s hand shot up and grabbed her arm. “No. Let him go.”

  “Why? He attacked you!”

  “He’s in enough trouble. He’s really a good boy; it’s just, there is this girl, see, and he is not welcome by her family. I am afraid he was here to borrow money from a friend so they could elope.”

  “So he attacked you?”

  “I was trying to stop him. I guess it got a little heated.”

  Brooke got a good look. He was a handsome man. There was something captivating about his eyes. Must have broke a lot of hearts when he went into the priesthood, she thought.

  “Would you like to come in and get some ice on that lip?”

  “I couldn’t impose.”

  “Nonsense. Here, let me help you up.” She reached down to grab him by the waist but he waved her off and instead took her hand.

  She led the injured priest into her apartment.

  “You are so very kind. I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening like this.”

  “Sit here, at the table. I’ll get some ice from the fridge.”

  “I’d like to stand for a minute if you don’t mind.”

  “Suit yourself,” Brooke said as she turned her back on him to open the freezer door.

  The priest reached under his jacket . . .

  “Freeze!”

  Brooke turned to the open doorway to see Nigel in a sideways crouch, with his service piece fully extended.

  “It’s okay, Nigel, the priest was attacked in the hall.”

  The priest adjusted his jacket covering the handle of the knife and held his side. “Yes, and the dear boy really had a solid punch to the ribs.”

  Nigel relaxed his stance and re-holstered his gun. “I saw the blood in the hallway and the woman downstairs said there was a scuffle. Sorry, Father.”

  “That is quite alright, my son.”

  “Nigel, this is father . . . ?”

  “Paul. Father Paul.” He smiled. “Well, Nigel, if you were a few minutes earlier”—he dabbed his bloody lip with the paper towel the ice was wrapped in—“you could have maybe helped me persuade Manuel to abandon his crazy notion of eloping with a very powerful man’s daughter.”

  “Sounds like an urban drama set in the fifties. Like the old American black and whites we’d watch down on the West End.”

  “Nigel, what brings you here?” Brooke said.

  “I have some late word from the office. You didn’t respond to my voicemails, so I’d thought I’d drop by.”

  “Sorry, I’m not so much a voicemail person. Well, let’s not talk shop in front of the father.”

  “Actually, I should be getting along,” the priest said, taking his cue.

  “Would you like me to call an ambulance?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I grew up around here. I’ve been in my share of fights. I’ll be fine. Thanks for the ice, and for coming to my aid. God bless you.” He got up and shook Brooke’s hand, then Nigel’s. “Well, I’ll leave you two to talk your business. Have a good night.”

  “Good night,” Brooke said as she closed her front door.

  “Well, that was rather exciting,” Nigel said.

  “First time anything like that has ever happened in this building. It’s usually so quiet.”

  “Something is bothering me.”

  “What is it, Nigel?”

  “He never asked why I had a gun.”

  “You’re right. That is odd. Maybe this is a rougher neighborhood than I thought.”

  “Still, don’t you think a chap that just had a gun drawn down on him would be curious?”

  “God works in strange ways . . .” was all Brooke could think to say with an apologetic shrug.

  .G.

  8 days until the attack

  George was commiserating with Martadi, the front desk manager at the Marriot on Seven Mile Beach.

  “He was very insistent, that New York lawyer,” she said.

  “Yes. He was very concerned for Ms. Davidson. So she never came back to the hotel?”

  “No. She has the room for a week and she hasn’t returned yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “She is scheduled for checkout today.”

  “So she may be back to checkout?”

  “I would hope so.”

  He turned to the local constable who was his Caymans police liaison. “Officer
, I’d like to look in her room.”

  The local cop nodded to Martadi and she grabbed her passkey and led them to the elevators.

  Up in Cynthia’s room they found all her clothes and bags. There was an opened FedEx box and some tissue paper made neat by the stream of housekeepers who’d entered the room every day since she had gone missing. George took out his phone and snapped pics of the FedEx box, its address label and the brightly colored tissue paper. He also snapped the clothes in the closet, on the stand, and on the bed, and in her luggage. He shot the bathroom and her toiletries, hair products, and travel cases. He also found and snapped a card that read, “For the sun and sands as we hold hands, Paul.” Then he tagged and bagged it.

  “Officer, as soon as the one o’clock checkout passes, if she has not returned, I want you to have this room sealed and its contents impounded, then dusted for recent prints. Now I would like to see the hotel’s security footage.”

  George was impressed; the hotel had just upgraded their system and was using high-definition cameras. The lighting in the lobby made for excellent clear, crisp pictures and an easy positive ID of Cynthia. “Please put all the footage of that woman, time stamped every time she comes and goes, on a thumb drive for me and send it to the US Consulate under my name.”

  He turned to his liaison officer. “I’d like to go to the customs house, now.”

  At the customs office, George met with Officer Efrain Castro. He was the local wiz with the video surveillance cams that were at all the island’s ports of embarkation and transportation.

  “Good day, Mr. Stover. How may I be of assistance to you?”

  He held up his phone with a photo of Cynthia on it. “Officer Castro, can you search your airport and passenger ship tapes of the last seven days for this woman?”

  “May I have your phone?” He took the phone from George and with fast thumbs sent the picture to his email.

  He sat behind his two-screen computer and opened the email. He dragged the pic into a new program that read twenty-seven points or features of Cynthia’s face. Then he put in a SIM card from a plastic box that was entitled GCM. “This chip was last updated at ten this morning and goes back eight days at Grand Cayman Airport.”