Emanuel's last thought before he drifted off to sleep was that whoever had deemed women the weaker sex had never done battle with them.
***
Barry Shin rose from his warm bed and walked through his very large home to his well-appointed den. He woke up his computer, located the number he wanted and picked up his phone. Across the country another phone was answered on the second ring.
"Martha? Barry Shin. Yes, I know what time it is in Washington, but I just got a call from Abu. He needs a favor."
***
While Emanuel slept and Barry Shin tried to get back to it, while Martha Runion sat up sipping tea and weighing her options, Finn O'Brien slept with his head resting on Cori Anderson's mattress. He slept deeply because he was tired, because worry had exhausted him, because he needed his strength for the next day and the day after that if he were to get justice for Takrit and now for Cori.
It was three in the morning when he was disturbed by a touch so soft he thought that he was dreaming. But it was not a dream; it was Cori, half awake, needing him to be awake with her. He took her hand and rose from his chair. Finn put his face close to hers and whispered:
"I'm here, Cori. I'm here."
She tried to smile but she was too hurt and too weak to make it right. She opened her lips only to close them again. She swallowed hard and her eyes searched Finn's. He let go of her and got the water glass. He held the straw to her lips and when she was done drinking, he took her hand again. For a moment Finn thought she slept but she had only closed her eyes.
"So afraid," she said.
"I know. I know. I'm sorry. I should have been with you."
"Amber?"
"Fine. She and Tucker are home."
He pressed her hand to his heart and kissed her forehead. When he looked at her again, he saw the tears squeezing from beneath her lashes and his heart broke. Without thinking, Finn lowered the side of her bed and, careful not to hurt her, took her in his arms lightly and lay beside her as best he could.
"Sleep now," he said. "I'll find whoever did this. I promise."
Cori turned her head so that it rested against his shoulder. Finn murmured and whispered to her and knew that soon she would sleep again. In the morning she would remember nothing of this, but morning was hours away and before the drugs took her away again there was something Cori wanted him to know.
"It was the Australian."
CHAPTER 30
DAY 3
Rada was parked on the street at the end of the bridge where Takrit died. He did not like to follow in the footsteps of the dead but Emanuel wished it, so here he was.
It was so early in the morning that no one worked in the buildings. It was so early there were only a few cars on the freeway. It was so early the sky was still grey and, in the distance, it was tinged pink. It was so early that, when Rada got out of the car, he shivered at the chill in the air.
He walked to the head of the bridge, but paused before he went among the people who were beginning to stir. He saw a man rise from a pile of rags, stand near the railing and relieve himself upon the freeway below. Another was already folding the big box that was his shelter. These would wake the others and soon they would all be gone. Rada was thinking about all these people living on a bridge when a woman looked his way. He caught her eye, but she had no interest in him. Rada twisted his neck, uncomfortable to be dressed like a person who might live in this place.
He looked back at the car, only a half a block away. He had been wrong to drive it. Then again, who would see? There was no one in these buildings with their dark corners and no one walking the stretches of crumbling sidewalks. This, Rada felt, was a very lonely place as well as an unlucky one. Not even the poor in his own country lived like this: people huddled together, clinging to a blanket, hoarding a scrap of food. For what, Rada wondered, did they want to live? In his country they lived because they had family; these people had no one. He shook his head, thinking it would have been better had Takrit died in prison or been shot down in the street or hung beside Aman for all to see. That would have befitted her courage. Here she was just a dead woman who everyone wanted forgotten; everyone except the policeman and Aman.
Not wishing to stay longer than necessary, Rada walked down the middle of the bridge. Eyes opened as he passed. People sat up to watch. Rada looked back. He nodded. He wanted to take care when deciding who he would speak with. Finally he stopped in front of a woman dressed in many layers of clothing. She had slept under newspaper that she was now putting into her great basket. She stopped folding the papers, squatted down and put her arms out to protect what was hers when Rada stood in front of her.
Keeping some distance between them, Rada bent his knees and steadied himself with his fingers pressed to the concrete. He looked her in the eyes and saw that she was neither sad nor was she happy. He took money from the pocket on his sweatshirt and held it out to her. She eyed it warily, as if expecting some trick. He spoke in a voice that was very low and kind. His wife believed when people heard his voice they would know he was a good man.
"Mother," Rada said. "I wish you to have something to eat."
He raised the bills so that she could look and see that they were real. When her eyes were locked upon them, Rada lay them on the ground. She snatched them up. When he had her attention again – for surely she understood he wanted something – Rada spoke.
"I am looking for something lost. It is a very small thing: plastic, with metal on the end. It is so small the woman who carried it put it in an envelope or a bag I think. She would have kept it safe. I am told it belonged to the woman who fell off the bridge. Do you remember the woman who fell off the bridge? Did you see such an envelope or, perhaps, a bag in which she kept her things? Did you find a bag? Did you pick up an envelope with this small thing in it?"
The woman shook her head with every question. With the last shake a strand of hair escaped from the cap she had pulled low to her eyes. He saw that her hair was yellow and that she was not an old woman as he thought. Her lips were cracked and lined, though, and she was missing a tooth. When she spoke it sounded as if she had not used her voice in a long time.
"I have her shoe. How much for the shoe?"
"No, mother," Rada said. "An envelope. Perhaps she carried a woman's bag. Perhaps the envelope was in that. Inside the envelope or wrapping would be a small thing made of plastic. Perhaps so big."
Rada held his fingers apart an inch or so. The woman shook her head.
"I have her shoe. That's all I got. Do you want the shoe to bury her proper? Be nice to have two shoes. I'll sell you that shoe."
Rada said no and went to another person and another. Slowly he walked the length of the bridge. He looked at each basket trying to see something that might have belonged to a woman of Takrit's standing. Sometimes he took his phone and used the flashlight to look better at the carts and bags. When one man said he would call the police, Rada turned off his light.
When he had walked the length of the bridge twice, when the grey of the early morning had gone away and the sky was white/blue, Rada stopped at the place where Takrit died. Here, high above the freeway he was free to think and feel and breathe.
He had known Takrit a little in Eritrea. He had read the words she wrote about what happened in their country. He had been with Emanuel when he ordered her imprisoned, when he ordered the deaths of her parents and when he ordered her circumcision. Rada thought nothing of it at the time because he had long ago made his choice to remove himself from such things. He was not a coward; he simply would not fight for those who were not his. He had, after all, no choice when Emanuel took him as a guard, but he could choose to step carefully through life and protect his joys, small as they were. But now Rada saw the policeman fighting for Takrit like she was his own. He had wanted such a small thing from Rada – just a word – and Rada had stayed silent.
No, he was not a brave man but Rada was thinking there might be time for him to become one. While his thoughts were free,
Rada made a decision to do what was right if he found the thumb drive. And then he smiled and thought of his wife. Perhaps he would not be that brave, but the only way to know what he would do was to find that small thing. It wasn't on this bridge. If it were, money would have been enough to get it.
Rada walked back across the bridge once more and as he drew close to the end, a bearded man looked out from a small tent and then crawled out from it. Rada was surprised that such a tall man could get into such a small shelter. He thought to ask the old man about a bag or an envelope, but he did not. That man kept his eyes on Rada, falling in step as soon as the black man passed his tent. The man stayed with him, following him paces behind all the way off the bridge.
Rada did not turn even though he was bothered by the man's attention. It frightened him to be noticed because he had always been invisible. He hurried on, but the old man went with him all the way to the street and watched as Rada got in the car. The bearded man came close as Rada fumbled with his keys. He danced and touched his ears, but Rada pretended not to see him.
Rada started the engine and drove away. Looking into the mirror, he saw that the old man was trotting behind him, waving his arms and his fists and calling out to him. Rada turned down the first street he came to. He did not want to see the crazy man. Rada drove on, shivering a little because he felt as if something bad had happened even though nothing had. When he looked again, the man had not reappeared but that did not make him feel better. He felt nothing would ever be better, he would never choose anything and neither would his child. That thought made Rada heartsick. But when he looked at the people driving the cars next to him and behind him and in front of him, Rada thought differently. In this country everyone had a choice and was he not in this country? Perhaps, for this small time, he could choose.
And so he did.
He turned and drove in a different direction. He did not think of consequences when he parked the car in front of the small blue house; he did not think of all he had to lose when he stood in front of the door.
Rada knocked before he lost his nerve. Just when he thought no one would come, maybe when he hoped no one would come, the door opened and there stood the grandmother still dressed in her weeds.
"Will you kill us?" she asked, unafraid and accepting of what he would say.
"No, mother," Rada answered. "It is Aman I wish to speak with."
The grandmother hesitated, but she could not protect Aman anymore than Aman could have protected Takrit. She opened her door wide enough for Rada to come in and no wider. When the door closed behind him Rada saw Aman was there, his knife in hand. The two men looked at one another. The grandmother watched them both. Finally, Rada said:
"Hello, my brother."
***
Number Four sighed.
He squinted into the sky and pulled on his beard.
He looked at Taylor and wondered if the man was dead or just sleepin' in. Either way, it would be a good thing for poor old Taylor, bastard that he was. Dead would put him out of his misery; asleep he wouldn't know he was miserable.
Number Four never had no misery. He lived a fine and good life, making his contribution to society in too many ways to count. Without him all those fools working their butts off wouldn't realize how lucky they were. He was sort of a spiritual counselor that way, if one wanted to put an actual label on his position in this world. And he was a keeper of the peace, he was. Everyone on his bridge slept easy. Yes, he was that and more. He was a mayor of sorts.
He had planned to take a day off from this important work and pass the hours lolling about in the park, but responsibility reared its majestic head and the call of civic duty was as sweet as a siren song. Homeless he may be, a bit off his rocker perhaps, but by God he was still a citizen.
After a chat with Marie, Number Four bid her good day, stepped over Taylor – accidentally giving him the boot as he did so – and began to pack his tent. It appeared that Taylor had not died in the night by the way he cursed at Number Four for kickin' him in the ribs. That was a good thing. Number Four would have surely missed Taylor if he had gone stiff. By the time the old man left the bridge almost everyone was gone, striking out to tackle the day, doin' what they could to keep on keepin' on.
Number Four had his tent slung over his back, and his pack with the rope strap cross-bodied. He had on his shoes and carried a song in his heart. He went east, giving his best to the man with the dog who had staked his place on the city side of the bridge border and was, therefore, in neutral territory.
Number Four walked down one street and then another, whistling as he went, delighted to be useful in this goddamn friggin'-messed-up-world. Cars were everywhere but no matter. When Number Four stepped in the street the people driving was polite enough to stop so that he could make his way. They even honked a little how-de-do at him and he could see their lips moving fast, probably to wish him a good day.
Number Four made his way to the corner of Grand and Temple, a place where the city's heart beat. That was where you'd be in the thick of things if you wanted to get noticed in La La Land.
By nine o'clock he was standing on the magic spot. Lawyers and secretaries, clerks and cops were all walkin' around in their important way. Number Four had never seen so many friggin' dark suits, and the suits looked like they'd never seen so swell a figure of a man in a pink shirt and green jacket carryin' a fine tent all wrapped up nice and neat. He stopped one or two of them, askin' just to borrow a phone. A quick call of the utmost importance, Number Four assured those he asked. When they didn't seem to want to part with them fancy little things even for a minute, Number Four then requested a dime for the pay phone. Those suits looked at him like he was daft – and perhaps he was. He truly couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a pay phone. Lord how he missed those booths. He used to live in one on Alameda Street; a fine piece of real estate it was. When he was done with his chore, he might mosey over there to see if it was still standin'.
Since no one appeared interested in either sayin' hello or offerin' the use of a phone as he so politely requested, and since Number Four didn't have all the time in the world as the day was gettin' on, he decided to execute plan B.
He set his bag down next to the street light post. He spit on his hands and rubbed 'em together for good measure. He did his chicken dance to loosen up his limbs and then picked up his little tent. Holding it close to his body like a lance, Number Four took one last look around and chose his target. On the other side of the wide street, a horde of folks waited to cross, all stacked up together polite like.
Bein' a law abiding man himself, Number Four also waited for the little green walking man to light up. When the signal changed, when all the guys and gals with their little cases full of papers started walkin', Number Four went ahead too. When he calculated he was close enough, he let loose with a war whoop and charged the folks. Screaming and hollering and swinging that tent of his around, Number Four attacked. He made more noise than anything because his intent was surely not to hurt anyone. He kept it up until traffic stopped, pedestrians scattered and the cops came to corral him for bein' slightly crazy in public.
When three boys in blue had Number Four face-planted on the asphalt, the old man smiled. When they cuffed him, yanked him to his feet and carted him off to the hoosegow Number Four congratulated himself on being one smart cookie.
CHAPTER 31
Finn's office felt odd, like a sweater knitted from poor wool. It was itchy and he wanted to be out of it into something more comfortable. The only thing that would make it comfortable, though, was Cori coming back.
Her desk was clean because she'd taken her work home the night before. Her chair was pushed tight to the table making it look as if she would never return. Finn had two cups of coffee and no one to share with. Before he could add to his list of woes, Finn laughed. Maudlin he was getting, as his mother would say. Cori would only be MIA for a few weeks and until she was back he would do the work for both of them. Before he could st
art the day, though, he had a visitor.
"Detective O'Brien?"
Finn looked up to see a slight man of medium height standing in the doorway; a man he did not recognize but was curious about on first look and second. The poor soul's choice of clothing was unfortunate: a short-sleeved shirt the color of gutter water, a muddy hued tie and pants of a deep green that surely could never be found in forest or jungle. On his feet were heavy-soled, putty-colored, lace up shoes that had the look of orthopedic wear. His hair was sparse and combed neatly to the side but did nothing to enhance his narrow features. He was not gaunt in the strict sense of the word, but Finn had an overwhelming desire to feed him. Instead, he said:
"You've found him."
The man's measured step brought him close enough that he needn't bend and Finn needn't rise to shake hands. The man's grasp was as feeble as his appearance was fragile so Finn took care with that handshake.
"Detective Morrow, here. May I?"
He indicated Cori's chair. When Finn nodded, the detective pulled it away from the table, turned it precisely and sat squarely in the seat. He kept his feet flat on the floor and his back straight.
"Can I offer you coffee? I have an extra." Finn nudged a cup his way.
"No, thank you," he answered and spent no more time on socializing. "I'm the investigating officer on The Mercato murder and assault in which your partner was injured. I understand she has already left the hospital."
"She has." Finn smiled. "I'm grateful that you stopped in. I was going to be seeking you out, so you saved me a trip."
"I know you're anxious about Detective Anderson, but I think we can all be proud of the fine job she did."
"Sure, I wouldn't have expected less from her."
Foreign Relations: A Finn O'Brien Thriller (Finn O'Brien Thriller Series Book 2) Page 22
