by Curt Weeden
Back at the Wayside, I found the Kyzwoski room vacant. Seemed my least favorite neighbors had checked out. I had parked the Mitsubishi in the spot previously occupied by Conway Kyzwoski’s truck-log cabin combo, gave my crew a ten-minute bathroom break, and then marched them two blocks away to one of Florida’s five million Waffle House restaurants.
Over dinner, Doc asked to see the Quia Vita emblem we found earlier in the day.
Doc pointed to a dark smudge on one side of the medallion after I removed it from my handkerchief. “Looks like blood.”
Assuming Doc was right, Maurice’s discovery could be more than just a lucky find. If the blood belonged to someone other than Zeus or Kurios, it could support the defendant’s claim that there was someone else on the scene the night Benjamin died. Although reluctant to call Yigal Rosenblatt, I needed information only he could give me. The lawyer picked up after the first ring.
“Is there a way we can find out if the cops took any blood samples after they found Kurios’s body?”
“Already know the answer. They sent blood to the lab.”
“You’re certain?”
“They took blood off my client’s wooden cross to match it with Kurios’s blood. Part of the prosecution’s evidence. I know that for a fact.”
I didn’t hide my skepticism. “You know this for a fact?”
“Yes. And you want to know why?”
I took the bait. “Why?”
“My cousin, Binyamin Saperstein, works at the lab that’s doing the blood analysis. In Tampa.”
I blinked in disbelief. “Your cousin’s doing the lab work for the prosecutor?”
“Some of the work. Binyamin is a chemist.”
I could have asked what might happen if Zeus were miraculously handed a not guilty verdict—wouldn’t this incestuous family connection spell mistrial? Instead, I gave in to a more pressing question. “Doesn’t anyone in your family have a regular Jewish name? You know, like Irving or Mo?”
“My cousins, Yehuda and Zelig live in Miami. My sister’s name is Hava.”
Question answered.
“Could you ask your cousin, Bin Yahoo, for a favor—”
“Binyamin. It means son of the south.”
“Could you ask Binyamin if he could run a test on the medallion we found earlier today?”
“Test?” Yigal’s voice took on a seriousness I hadn’t heard before. “What kind of test?”
“Doc Waters thinks there’s a blood stain on the medallion. If it matches up with Kurios or Zeus—”
“I see where you’re going. Yes, Binyamin might do it. It’s possible. But—”
Uh-oh. “But what?”
“That kind of test costs money,” Yigal said in an uncharacteristically reserved way. “Done this before. Something like four hundred dollars. And if it’s done in a day, it could be thirteen hundred. Maybe more.”
The mere idea that Yigal’s law firm might have to shell out cash on behalf of Miklos Zeusenoerdorf calmed the attorney down faster than a triple dose of Ritalin.
“Can’t you fold the cost in with your other legal expenses?” I asked.
“The case is all pro bono,” said Yigal. “Good PR, though. But expenses have to be kept low.”
I wondered how much “good PR” would come from losing a case that led to a trip to death row for Gafstein and Rosenblatt’s most celebrated client.
“What if I get the lab costs covered?” I asked. Whether I could actually deliver the money was as iffy as Twyla’s staying celibate for another twenty-four hours. I avoided letting Yigal know that my offer to come through with a bag of cash was a little on the soft side.
“Oh, that would be good.”
“I’ll work on getting the money,” I said. “You pick up the medallion at the motel before we leave for the airport tomorrow morning. Get cousin Bin to start working on this fast. And tell him to do this on the sly.”
I closed out my phone call and finished my Waffle House dinner. A few minutes later, Twyla, Doc, Maurice, and I were back in our respective Wayside rooms. I tried watching a Seinfeld rerun, but it gave me a headache. Around midnight, I heard a car roll into the Wayside parking lot. If it weren’t for my insomnia, I probably wouldn’t have looked outside. But since sleep wasn’t an option, I had nothing better to do.
The car was in an unlit parking area maybe two football fields from my room. Even at that distance, there was something familiar about the vehicle. I pulled on a pair of jeans and stepped outside to get a closer look. When I cruised by Twyla’s room, I learned everything I needed to know about the mystery car and its driver.
“You okay?” I asked Manny Maglio’s niece after she answered the door.
“Oh, yeah, Bullet,” Twyla said. “I’m super.”
Twyla was wrapped in a sheet and her hair was so disheveled that she looked like a blonde Chia Pet. Sitting atop her head as proudly as a Miss Universe crown was a black yarmulke.
“You want to be careful, Twyla,” I said. Whatever the hell that meant.
“Oh, I will. I will.”
“Okay then,” I gave her a wave.
Twyla shut the door and I headed toward my room warning my mind not to broadcast pictures of Yigal cross-examining Maglio’s niece. I opened my door, but before stepping inside, I heard the drone of a car engine. A black Toyota, headlights off, had its nose pointed directly at me. It was too dark to see who was inside, but a visual wasn’t necessary. The Camry turned and pulled away, the light from the Wayside’s neon road sign catching the rear license plate: 489.
Chapter 7
Dawn arrived without the sun. If the thick cloud cover over Orlando wasn’t depressing enough for the surly manager of the Wayside Motel, I did nothing to brighten his day.
“We’re checking out,” I announced.
“None too soon.” The manager scooped up the four room keys I slapped on the counter.
“By the way, what happened to the family in the room next to mine?”
The manager scowled. “Kyzwoski. Freakin’ rednecks. Got into such a screamin’ domestic I nearly had to call the cops.”
Tell me about it.
“Had them idiots to deal with and you four freeloaders as well. Don’t want to find no damage to any of them rooms you’ve been usin’!”
“No damage,” I assured him.
“Damn Doug Kool,” he muttered. “Him and his smart charity means more business bullshit. Cost me four rentable rooms. Next time, I’ll know better.”
“You’re supposed to give ’til it hurts.”
“Let me give you some news, my friend. I’m through helpin’ lowlifes and anybody and any organization that deals with ’em. Goddamned charity isn’t worth shit!”
“That’s the spirit.”
I walked out the Wayside office door and into Yigal Rosenblatt. For the sake of appearances, he had vacated Twyla’s room sometime before dawn and was now back on the premises looking a little less animated than usual.
“Don’t lose it,” I said after handing him the Quia Vita medallion.
“I won’t,” the lawyer promised. “Bringing it to Binyamin this morning.”
“Good.”
With a long separation from Twyla imminent, Yigal hopped in half circles while I loaded the Mitsubishi. A minute later, we were battling Orlando’s morning traffic on the way to the National rental car return lot. At the Continental ticket counter, I put a little distance between my traveling companions and me and dialed Doug on my cell.
“Remember I said I owed you one?” he opened. I told the Harris & Gilbarton golden boy to speak up. A thousand screaming, mouse-eared kids made phone talk nearly impossible. “I want you to know I’m delivering!” he yelled.
“Delivering what?”
“Not what—who. Ever hear of Arthur Silverstein?”
“The billionaire?”
“One and the same.”
“What about him?”
“He and Benjamin Kurios were close.”
“Kurios
?” I asked. Something didn’t make sense. “Silverstein’s Jewish, right? Why would he have anything to do with a Christian evangelist?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Look, I know Silverstein. Know him well enough to have turned him into one of United Way’s top contributors.”
“So?”
“So I talked to him yesterday and told him about your conversation with Zeus.”
How could I not be impressed? In some ways, Doug was one of the most superficial people I knew. He had always been a fund-raising gun who would hire out to the highest bidder. Still, his ability to connect with some of the most affluent people in the country was mind boggling.
“Silverstein invested in a lot of Kurios’s operations,” Doug continued. “He’s interested in helping you figure out if Zeumanikof—or whatever the hell his name is—actually murdered the preacher.”
This was sounding too good to be true. “You’re talking about the Arthur Silverstein?”
“Yeah, the investment banker Silverstein. He’s thinking about bankrolling you.”
“Bankrolling me?” I felt a shred of suspicion, but it was wiped away by the thought of how my Zeus campaign could use more cash. “Why?”
“I didn’t read his mind. He wants to lend a hand, which in Silverstein language means cutting you a check.”
“Are there strings attached?”
“You know everything I know.”
“You’re a lucky man, Doug,” I said. “I was going to put the arm on you to hit Manny Maglio up to cover a few of my expenses.”
“What expenses?”
I didn’t have to tell Doug about the bloodstained medallion and Yigal’s cousin Binyamin. But I did. Seemed to be the right thing to do since he was opening the door to a billionaire.
“The kind of money you need is chump change for Silverstein,” said Doug and he went on to drop the other shoe. “Listen, there’s a little something extra we need you to do.”
I should have hung up and run. Instead, I stood still.
“Manny Maglio wants Twyla in safe hands for another few days. For a week, actually—until she can make the move to Orlando, and start her job. He doesn’t think she should go back to her apartment. Too many temptations and whatnot.”
If shock and awe hadn’t overwhelmed me, I might have taken some pleasure in picturing Twyla performing a whatnot or two. “You’re not telling me—”
“Look, Bullet, I’m out there working for you. I got you money. I threw you a few bones all free of charge. The only thing you have to do is keep an eye on Twyla for what—maybe five or six days.”
“Five or six— How am I supposed to do that when I’m in New Brunswick, and she’s God knows where?”
“That’s the thing,” Doug practically sang. “She’s going to be in New Brunswick with you!”
Last night’s meal danced in my intestines. “Absolutely not!”
“Manny’s got her a room at the New Brunswick Hyatt, which, if I recall, is only a few blocks from your Get-Away. All you have to do is check on her once and a while.”
“Doug, apparently you don’t know Manny’s niece. Think nymphomaniac who charges by the hour.”
“That’s the point. She needs to go into withdrawal before she heads south. This is all about salvaging a life, Bullet. That’s what you do.”
That’s what I tried to do. I had my successes, but my best intentions and skills sometimes didn’t fit with the person who needed salvaging.
“Even if I went along with this, Twyla isn’t going to trade her apartment for a hotel room,” I said, hoping Doug wouldn’t remind me she made that kind of trade every time she took on a client.
“She’s already out—she just doesn’t know it. As we speak, she’s probably getting a phone call and a lot of bad news.”
Curiosity got the best of me. “How’d you pull that off?”
“Not me. Manny. He owns the property management company that handles the house she rents. It’s being fumigated. For real, I mean. The damn thing is wrapped up in plastic and they’re pumping it full of poison.”
I wondered if there was any politician in the country who could make things happen like Manny Maglio. Or Arthur Silverstein.
“Twyla won’t be able to get her stuff out of the house for days. She’ll be getting a ‘so sorry’ and an all-expense-paid vacation at the Hyatt plus money for a new wardrobe. Jesus, Rick. She just won the lottery!”
I stayed on the phone a couple of minutes more, but whatever else Doug said never made it past my left ear. I hung up and walked back to the seating area where Doc and Maurice were looking wide-eyed at Twyla.
“Fleas!” she screamed. “Oh, my God! Fleas!”
The hysterics went on for five more minutes until we boarded our flight.
“Bullet, this is terrible,” Twyla sobbed. “I hate fleas. And the whole friggin’ house is infatuated with them things.”
I sighed. “Infested.”
“That too,” she went on crying. “They’re in my clothes, my shoes, and my makeup. God—they’re in everything!”
I gritted my teeth. What I wanted to do was to untie the truth and let it fill the Continental terminal. “It’s temporary, Twyla. By next week, you’ll be back in Florida.”
“That’s true,” Doc chimed in. “And while you’re in New Brunswick, we can take very good care of you.”
There was a subliminal message weaving its way through the professor’s comment, and I didn’t like it.
“Thanks for being such a friend, Doc,” Twyla said. She ran her hand up and down the professor’s forearm the same way I used to tickle my poodle’s belly to make its back legs twitch. Then she turned and stroked Tyson’s cheek. “And you, Maurice.” Then it was my turn. She looked me right in my lying, no-good eyes.
“And you, Bullet. Especially you.”
My smile disappeared when I saw the two Hispanics who had been on my tail for the past twenty-four hours. Their dress was business casual but the cleaned-up look didn’t fool me. I locked eyes with one of the men and that sent them scurrying away from the ticket area and out the main terminal doors. Left behind was a Nike sports bag resting against a self-serve ticket kiosk. When the second Hispanic pulled a cell phone from his belt holster and began punching the dial pad, my instincts took over.
“Run!” I screamed.
I bulldozed Twyla, Doc, and Maurice away from the kiosk. Five seconds later, a blast ripped apart fifty feet of Continental Airlines’s ticket counter.
Part II
Chapter 8
Thirty minutes after three pounds of C-4 plastique exploded inside Florida’s busiest airport, the FBI and Homeland Security ordered an immediate lock down. For the next four hours, teams of investigators interviewed over two hundred passengers and workers who were in the terminal at the time of the explosion. Twyla, Doc, Maurice, and I were among the first to be hauled into a makeshift interrogation room. Five hours later, we were given the okay to board a Newark-bound Delta MD-88—one of the first flights to leave the just reopened airport.
“You sure you seen those two guys?” Maurice asked. He was seated next to Twyla one row behind the professor and me.
“I saw them.” Not that it mattered. My story about two Hispanics and a Nike bag didn’t stack up with what thirty other witnesses saw—a man in his late twenties of “Middle Eastern descent” who bolted just before Continental’s ticketing operations were blown apart. The feds wasted no time in issuing a warrant for the suspect.
“There were a lot of Latinos in the terminal when the bomb went off,” Doc reminded me. “Maybe what you saw was—coincidental.”
“It wasn’t a coincidence.”
“But how do you know?” Twyla asked.
Twelve years of working with men who were never far from trouble taught me the body language of guilt. I knew who was responsible for the disaster, and it wasn’t difficult to figure out how he did it. Eleven percent
of America’s homeless are ex-military, and more than a few spent time at the Gateway. I couldn’t remember how often I had played posttraumatic stress counselor—how many hours I had spent listening to a soldier or Marine describe what happened to his leg or arm after a run-in with a roadside bomb. Most of them had an expert knowledge of IED technology. Disassemble a cell phone, attach one of its wires to a detonator, and when you’re ready, dial the cell number and close the electrical circuit. Not hard to do, and the results were usually catastrophic.
“No matter who blew the place up, the fact is you saved our collective asses,” the professor said to me. “If you hadn’t told us to run, they’d be scraping us off the floor.”
I ignored the compliment. “I’m stepping on somebody’s toes, Doc, and that somebody wants me out of the picture.”
“Why?” Doc asked. “I don’t mean to insult you, Bullet, but what makes you think you’re that important or dangerous?”
“Best guess is Zeus. If I find out he’s innocent, that means someone else gets nailed for Benjamin Kurios’s murder. Somebody wants Zeus convicted and me off the case.”
Sheer exhaustion and the lingering shock effect of what had happened at the Continental terminal stifled conversation. Not much was said during the remainder of the flight or the drive from Newark Airport to New Brunswick.
Then more bad news. The Hyatt Regency, which Doug Kool told me would be Twyla’s home away from home for the next week, was booked solid when I showed up at one thirty a.m. It took another half hour to find Manny’s niece a room at a Route 18 motel about seven miles from downtown.
At eight thirty the next morning, I picked up Doc and Maurice and drove north toward Arthur Silverstein’s estate. A headache and a high-pitched ringing in my ears were reminders of last night’s close call. About an hour later, my Buick Century’s eight-year-old, 110,000-mile engine was wheezing and bucking along a two-lane road more suited to chauffeur-driven limos that hauled the likes of Jacqueline Mars, Steve Forbes, and Diamond Jim Brady. Bad as the car’s internal combustion troubles were, Maurice’s internal problems were worse. He had picked the backseat for our trip to Silverstein’s mansion, which put the professor in front with me. Estimated time of arrival was ten minutes when Maurice stuck his head out the rear window and spewed the half-digested remains of a McDonald’s breakfast over a lot of expensive landscaping.
