by Tod Goldberg
As Matthew drove the five miles to the Walmart Supercenter, he tried to picture Sal Cupertine living in a place like this. Had he spent the night in the Back on Track Inn, with its free HBO and continental breakfast? Or was he renting an apartment now? Did he walk into Carson City Mattress and buy himself a queen-size Sealy Serta pillow top? Did he stop in at the Bike Smith to get his ten-speed tuned up? Did he wander over to the psychic shop next door to the Bike Smith and ask when the law was going to catch up to him?
Nevada, Matthew was quickly learning, was filled with psychics and tarot card readers and quack religions—in Las Vegas, he saw storefronts for Kabbalah, Scientology, even a Zoroastrian bookshop, and bumped into an Ayn Rand Metaphysical Clarity workshop taking place inside the Frontier when he walked through that busted old dump—which he supposed made some crooked sense. There was a psychic only a few miles from the Chuyalla Casino, too, open all day, every day, so you could find out if your luck was about to show up. That more psychics didn’t end up getting murdered was, in Matthew’s view, the only sign that they might know the future.
Nevertheless, when Matthew got out of his car in the Walmart Supercenter parking lot, he was surprised to find yet another psychic shop located across the street, maybe a hundred yards away, and already open for business, the blinking neon moon, stars, and open palms drawing his attention, even from that distance. He watched it for a full thirty seconds, thinking maybe it was a sign.
“Can I give you this?”
Matthew turned and saw a man and a young girl, maybe seven, come around the front of the Jeep he’d parked beside. The girl held a stack of orange flyers and the man, who was maybe forty, had extended one toward Matthew. The man was wearing a dark green jacket, collar up, a scarf, and his skin was so pale, he looked sick. He needed to be somewhere warmer.
“I’m good,” Matthew said. He zipped up his jacket, aware that he didn’t want the kid to see the butt of his nine sticking out, and started to walk off, when the man called after him.
“Will you just take a look at it?”
Matthew stopped. Every car in the lot had an orange flyer on it, he saw now. Some had two or three or four or six—both sides of the front windshield, side windows, back window, wherever a flyer would stick, even in the crack of the doors—and the pavement was littered with them, too. How hadn’t he noticed them when he pulled in? There were cameras mounted on light poles throughout the lot, everything being tracked and recorded. Matthew wondered if somewhere, someone was looking at him, capturing his face, running it through a database, checking off a box marked safe. How wrong they were.
“Sure,” Matthew said.
“Annie,” the man said, “why don’t you give that nice man a flyer.”
Annie had on a blue puffy jacket, hood up, even though it wasn’t raining, and Matthew could make out strands of red hair peeking out, along with freckles on her nose and cheeks. She had green eyes, which up against her freckles and hair gave her a kind of haunted look. She’d grow up to be pretty, he could see that already, and despite the fact that Matthew hulked over her, didn’t seem to be the least bit put off by him when she approached. That would change, he knew, and that was for the best. Guys like Matthew Drew? They were the people you avoided.
“This is my mother,” Annie said, and she handed Matthew the piece of paper.
On the paper was a woman, mid-thirties, pretty. He looked at the details:
MISSING
MELANIE MOSS
Age: 35 Height: 5'9" Weight: 138 lbs
Hair: Red, long Eyes: Brown Race: White
Identifying Characteristics: C-section scar, acne scarring on cheeks, known to wear toe rings.
Hometown: Carson City, NV
Last Seen: September 11, 2001, Kales Mortuary and Home of Peace, Las Vegas, Nevada
Circumstances: Melanie Moss was last seen departing the Kales Mortuary and Home of Peace, 8719 Hillpointe Road, Las Vegas, Nevada, on September 11, 2001, at approximately 7:00 a.m. in a 1996 Cutlass (black), government license #FA34119. She was last seen wearing black pants, a blue shirt, and black jacket. Her whereabouts remain unknown, though she is believed to have traveled from Las Vegas back to the greater Carson City/Reno region on or about September 11 as well. If you have any information concerning Melanie’s whereabouts, or if you should encounter her, please contact the Carson City Police 775-887-2500.
“I’ve seen her,” Matthew said, before he could stop himself.
“What?” the man said. He rushed toward him. “When?”
“I mean, I got a flyer for her, yesterday. In Las Vegas.” Matthew went back to his car, unlocked it, fished through the papers in the backseat, found the missing posters of the cat, the dog, and then Melanie. He handed it to the man. It was a different picture—she was younger in it, Matthew guessed—and the flyer was yellow, not orange.
“Oh,” the man said. “Yeah.” He creased the flyer in half and then in half again, then put it into his pocket. “Her mother is passing them out down there.”
“I understand,” Matthew said. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He began to walk off again.
“We’re not calling it that,” the man said, which stopped Matthew.
Three months gone? Real people didn’t disappear themselves for three months at a time unless they’d committed a crime. And if Melanie Moss had committed a crime, her family wouldn’t be handing out missing flyers for her in two parts of the state, and certainly not on a cold December morning, in a Walmart parking lot. That was the thing about people who disappeared because they wanted to. The families were smart enough not to look for them.
“She’s out there somewhere,” the man said, as if he’d read Matthew’s thoughts. “We just have to find her.”
“I understand,” Matthew said.
“It’s okay,” the man said. He put his arm around Annie, started to move away. “We appreciate you taking the time.”
Matthew watched the man and the little girl as they blanketed another three cars. He looked back at the flyer Annie had given him, read through the details again, felt he owed that to the man, to that little girl.
Disappeared on September 11.
In a way, this flyer was no different from the ones he saw on the news, lining the streets of New York following the attacks. When a loved one was lost, or missing, most people didn’t know what else to do. Matthew knew that all too well. Her last known location was . . . a mortuary? In Las Vegas? What was she doing at a mortuary? And then he saw the address: 8719 Hillpointe Road. The Kales Mortuary and Home of Peace. He’d been over there yesterday, on Hillpointe, hadn’t he? He didn’t remember seeing a mortuary, but then . . .
No, not a mortuary, but he remembered the cemetery, how it spread away from the street into a low, rolling green, so that it looked like just another golf course. If there was a cemetery, it wouldn’t be unusual that there would be a mortuary next door. If it was a private concern, it would be more than normal. It would be smart.
Matthew popped his trunk, rooted around in his suitcase for his files, took them out. What was the place Jeff had visited? The Tikvah Preschool and Barer Academy at Temple Beth Israel. There it was: 8900 Hillpointe Road. That would be right across the street. Jeff had gone there, or at least checked it off his list. Or, well, no. The Barer Academy hadn’t been fully built out yet, not according to the records Matthew had in front of him. At the time, there was just the Tikvah Preschool. How much meat could a preschool possibly need that they’d buy it from a distributor all the way out in Illinois?
He flipped the pages, tried to find something he knew he was missing, some little detail that was urging him forward. And there it was: The Tikvah Preschool, managed by Temple Beth Israel, was founded in 1996 by Rabbi Cy Kales. The Barer Academy, founded in 1999, also by Rabbi Cy Kales.
Kales. Same as the mortuary. So the rabbi from Temple Beth Israel also owned the mortuary?
That was a business model that seemed surprisingly sustainable.
He looked back at the flyer. Melanie Moss had been driving a black Cutlass with government-issued plates. What kind of government agent was she? And what was she doing at a mortuary at 7 a.m.? If you were serving a warrant or picking up a suspect, sure, get someone while they were still in bed. But at a place of business? If she was missing, that meant she was alone.
So.
Not a cop.
Not a marshal.
If she were either of those, her disappearance would be a thing. Even after 9/11. Cops and marshals didn’t just disappear. People got worried when those licensed to carry firearms were suddenly unaccounted for.
Same with the car. If she were a cop, the car would be outfitted with GPS. Must be a civil servant, then. If she was last seen at the mortuary, who saw her? This didn’t make sense. Who would have seen her there that early in the morning? Maybe someone at the school across the way.
Or the temple.
Matthew tried to piece together three disparate threads in his mind. Jeff Hopper had come out to Las Vegas to look for Sal Cupertine. He’d gone to visit the preschool at Temple Beth Israel and then, that night, he contacted the Chicago Tribune from out of the blue with his story. His car had been found in Reno weeks later, which was only about twenty minutes from where Matthew stood. Jeff himself was never seen or heard from again . . . until his severed head showed up in a Dumpster in Chicago.
His embalmed severed head.
Melanie Moss, who lived in Carson City, was last seen at the Kales Mortuary in Las Vegas on September 11. But authorities had reason to believe she turned up back in Carson City at some later point that same day. And then she disappeared, never to be seen again. Same as Jeff Hopper.
And on September 11, someone placed five calls to Jennifer Cupertine from this Walmart, at 7:40 p.m., Chicago time. Which would be about 5:40, Nevada time. More than ten hours after Melanie Moss was last seen at the mortuary. Enough time to drive from Las Vegas to Carson City, even in a storm. What time had the paper in Chicago been called? How long after Jeff Hopper had been spotted in Las Vegas? He didn’t know. Maybe Poremba did. But it was the same day. He knew that.
It was too similar.
Matthew slammed his trunk closed. He scanned the parking lot, found the man and his kid three rows away, putting flyers on a Ford Fiesta.
“Excuse me?” Matthew shouted. He jogged toward them. “Mr. Moss? Annie?”
The little girl turned at her name, then tapped the man, pointed at Matthew.
“Yes?” Mr. Moss said.
“What was she doing at a mortuary?” Matthew asked.
“Pardon me?” Mr. Moss said. He took a step back.
Matthew took out his wallet, found the last remaining remnant of his old life, his business card from the FBI, and extended it to the man. “I’m Agent Matthew Drew, from the FBI.”
Mr. Moss looked at the card like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Finally,” he said. “She’s a state employee, not federal, so they keep kicking it back to the local police, who are useless. They can’t stop graffiti.”
“I understand,” Matthew said. “Maybe I can help?”
“Thank you,” the man said. “Thank you. Yes. Please. Whatever you can do.”
Matthew took a pen from his pocket, flipped over the flyer. He had to concentrate. Make sure he got his tenses right. Not offend this poor man and his kid. He had one shot at this. “Melanie. She is your . . . wife?”
“Ex-wife.”
“And your name?”
“Trevor Moss.” He gave Matthew his phone number and e-mail address, too. Told him he was on leave from his job at the Nugget, where Matthew had spent the night, that he dealt craps. “The cops have all of this.”
“I know,” Matthew said. “This is for me. So I can run it up the chain. Get you and your daughter out of this parking lot. It’s cold as hell here.”
“I’ll come here every day,” Trevor said. “This was the last place she was. Maybe she got hit on the head or something, is lost, only remembers this place. If that’s the case, I’ll be here.”
“She was here? In this place?”
“Cops said they had her cell phone tracked right here,” he said. “She only lived six blocks over, so I thought maybe they had it wrong, but no, they said the GPS tracker on her phone ended right in this parking lot.”
“On September 11?”
“Yeah,” Trevor said. “Worst fucking day of my life.”
“What time did the GPS cut off?”
“Around five,” he said.
“Did they look for her on the Walmart cameras?”
“Nothing,” he said. “They don’t think she ever walked into the store. They didn’t see her on the parking lot cams.” He looked down at his daughter. He reached into his pocket, took out a ring of keys. “Honey, why don’t you go sit in the car for a minute. And then we’ll go get some pancakes. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said. She took the keys from him, and Matthew saw that she had an antique ring on her thumb. A ruby inset in diamonds. Too nice and valuable for a kid to be wearing.
“That’s a pretty ring,” Matthew said.
“It’s my mommy’s,” she said, and then skipped off, chirped the alarm on a black minivan, and climbed inside, Matthew and Trevor watching her the whole way.
“Was your ex-wife a coroner?”
“No,” Trevor said. “Funeral home investigator.”
Matthew didn’t even know that was a job. He flipped the flyer back over, tried to be as casual as possible. “So, the Kales Mortuary? That was what? A client visit?” Even as he said the words out loud, pieces began to fall into place in his mind, the connective tissue that pulled Sal Cupertine, Jeff Hopper, and this woman together.
“Yeah,” Trevor said. “She was making her Vegas run. Then the planes hit, she turned around and came home. Except she never showed up.” He pointed at the minivan. “Annie doesn’t know this, but that ring? A couple weeks ago, a real estate agent found Melanie’s purse in the bushes at a country club in Dayton. The ring was inside it, along with Melanie’s wallet, nothing missing.”
There was something going on with this funeral home, with this temple, with all of these players. Two fucked-up things could be a coincidence. But this was four, five, maybe six things that shared a piece of DNA . . . and all of it was on that street in Summerlin. That much coincidence required planning.
“Let me see what I can do to help you,” Matthew said. He circled Trevor’s number on the flyer, held it up. “This the best number to call?”
“Yeah.” He’d give it to Poremba next week if all of this turned out to be nothing. But he couldn’t imagine that would be the case.
“Okay,” Matthew said. He shook the man’s hand. “Someone will follow up with you, I promise.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Trevor said. “Something like this? Do people ever get found alive?”
Never, Matthew thought. Only bodies get found. “All the time,” he said. “Every day.”
18
Rabbi David Cohen couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when Sal Cupertine became a man. Was it when he watched his father pinwheel to his death off the IBM Building? Was it when he did his first sanctioned hit, Rolf Huber, outside the Lamplighter, side of the head, brains all over the pavement, picking skin out of his hair for what felt like three days? Was it when he crawled into that fucking meat truck and ran away from his wife, his kid, his entire life?
What he was sure of, as he stood atop the steps of the Performing Arts Center waiting to greet the bar mitzvah guests to the after-party, was that it wasn’t when anyone ever told him he was a man. Because wasn’t that what he’d heard his entire life?
Little man, watch this door for a couple minutes.
You want a sip of this, my ma
n?
You’re the man, Sal. For real.
Oh, you’re a bad man, now?
Here comes the Rain Man.
And yet, there he stood not twenty minutes ago, in front of the bimah, the Torah ark a few feet away, ensconced behind ornate (and fortified, so if the place burned down, the ark would be safe) doors, and pronounced OG Sean B’s ascent into manhood a success, his position among the people of Israel affirmed once Sean’s father, Casey, had released him with the ceremonial blessing: Blessed be He who has released me from being punishable for this boy.
As if it were so simple. You turn thirteen, memorize a bit of the Torah, and all of a sudden, your family isn’t responsible for your fuckups?
And who released the children from being responsible for their parents’ mistakes? When did that happen?
Maybe that’s when Sal Cupertine would become a man, David thought. When he owned his mistakes and didn’t pass them on to his kid. His own father hadn’t managed to do that. His father before him hadn’t either. Hell, Sal was paying for mistakes that had been made by those with his name since the 1870s, the Cupertines running grifts in Chicago since the Great Fire. Maybe disappearing into this new life had been the way to stop that particular strain. Maybe William, wherever he was, would be released from his name; he would certainly never shoot anyone in the back of the head.
That didn’t mean David didn’t want to find him.
He had to.
And then he’d prove Rabbi Kales wrong, that there was a postwar for him. That postwar would include William living in peace, even if Sal Cupertine had to die to get there. Maybe that was the only way out for William. For Sal Cupertine to finally die, not just disappear. What was left for Sal Cupertine, really? The Family? If David wanted to have a life—a real life—he’d need to give that up. Be content with what he was building here, protect this new empire. If that meant going to Israel, then he would go to Israel. Be in a position where what the cameras saw wouldn’t matter. Bennie needed to make that happen. This would mean a real birth certificate. A real driver’s license. A real social security number. If that meant someone else named David Cohen needed to die, then someone else named David Cohen would die. Bennie could farm that out to the Triads. Let them find a Jew with a clean name. Maybe they’d only need to buy the man’s life. Everyone had a price. But it needed to be done. David would tell Bennie this in January. Give him a deadline. He would have Harvey B. Curran get a story in the newspaper about a birthright trip for all local Jews. He would make it a goodwill mission. He would get the mayor involved. The governor. He would even let his picture appear in the paper. He would be Rabbi David Cohen forever.
