by Lisa Hughey
“Are you sorry you got the antidote?”
Zeke shifted his gaze back to Jordan, as if becoming aware of his surroundings and their conversation again.
“My grandfather was a little bit crazy,” he said abruptly. “Mostly OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. You know. Little nightly rituals, lock the door three times, check that the stove is off four times, wash your hands five.”
Jordan nodded, not wanting to interrupt.
“Sounds fairly harmless...until you’re living with it,” Zeke said wryly.
He slouched against the wood paneled booth. “And the drug Susan Chen gave me, without my permission,” his mouth tightened belying his relaxed posture, “It made my slight tendencies extreme. So no, I wasn’t sorry.”
Jordan shifted, uncomfortable with having a glimpse into Zeke’s private life. He liked the guy. Even though normally he took a while to warm up to people, he and Zeke had hit it off right away.
Probing Zeke for intimate details made Jordan feel as if he were asking too much, delving too deeply into Zeke’s feelings without the requisite lapse of time while they got to know each other.
At the same time, he needed this information.
“Staci is alive.”
“Based on Johnny’s account, she is definitely alive,” Zeke said slowly. “What you need to do is focus on how she acted after she had the drug. Go back and try to remember everything that happened right before she left for Afghanistan. Because whatever she was working on then, is most likely what she’ll be concentrating on now.”
“You’re a genius.”
“Why yes, yes, I am.” Zeke smiled, baring his white, perfectly straight teeth. “Sometimes I forget.”
“She was obsessing about her grandparents' death. And about something at work. She had a spreadsheet, but she didn’t tell me what it was for and I didn’t ask.”
Zeke leaned in close and glanced around to make sure they were isolated enough. “Fifty four ninety one,” Zeke murmured. “Her grandparents' death was part of that. That’s where you need to start.”
5491? He had no idea what that meant. But her grandparents' death. Rightness settled in Jordan. Her grandparents mugging and murder was the key. He knew, he knew. “That’s it.”
“What?”
“It’s almost October nineteenth.”
A pained look crossed Zeke’s face.
Jordan asked. “What about that date?”
“My grandfather died in a climbing accident.” Zeke blinked. Once. Twice. “Patterns. Shit.”
“That’s when Staci’s grandparents died. In a mugging.”
Zeke tapped his fingers on the tabletop again, a faraway look in his eyes. “Yeah. I remember the information from my look at the file.” So the file had something to do with both Staci and Zeke's grandparents' death. Jordan turned over the information, thinking and analyzing. “There’s only one logical conclusion.”
“You’ve got to go to New York.”
“You’re a genius.”
“I thought we already established that.” Zeke was starting to sound like his old self.
Jordan still needed more to go on. “If I gave you access to all of Staci’s known accounts, could you possibly find an unregistered account?”
“I might be able to.” Zeke pursed his lips. “If she set it up in the last few years and if I could access her travel records. Forensic accounting isn’t exactly my thing but I know enough to start.”
Jordan thought about travel records. Thought about the number of times they went to the Bahamas in the six months they were together. “Focus on the Bahamas.”
Zeke tapped the tabletop. “She’s got a house there, right?”
“Yeah. What’s the maximum wire transfer that doesn’t have to be reported to the Treasury Department?”
“Under the Bank Secrecy Act, under $10,000 and the transaction is exempt. Although if you have a steady stream of them, the bank has to report them.” Zeke smiled. “If I can find that account, and get into her spending records, then you can find Staci.”
“I still think New York is where she’ll be.”
“Probably right, but Manhattan is a fairly large borough.” Zeke rubbed his hands together. “If she's there, maybe I’ll be able to narrow it down to a few blocks based on her transactions.”
“There’s one catch.”
“What’s that?”
“When you find her, you have to let me know first.”
“Done.” Zeke thought about the request, then slumped back. “You know, I’m not supposed to have any contact with the NSA until they can verify I haven’t given away state secrets.”
“She’s CIA, not NSA.”
“Semantics,” Zeke said.
“She was investigating her grandparents’ deaths before she was imprisoned. Your grandfather is in that 5491 file too? What if her file on 5491 is what got her into trouble?”
“5491.” Zeke said reverently, “Wish I had access to that file. I’d really like to analyze the data, understand what happened.”
Jordan hesitated. “I can get you a copy.”
“Are you shitting me?” Zeke pushed the half-finished Guinness away.
Jordan wanted to make sure Staci wasn’t penalized if the contents were discovered. “You have to promise to be discreet.”
“My middle name, dude.” Zeke’s eyes lit up. “You really have access to that file?”
“Yeah.”
“The whole thing?” As if Zeke still couldn’t believe it.
“Yeah.”
“The patterns in that file are just waiting to be discovered.” Zeke said, “I only got a small glimpse of the contents. There were what, eleven people and their parents' or grandparents' deaths, right?”
“Twelve.”
Jordan looked at Zeke and realized he couldn’t hold the file hostage. Zeke had a right to the answers about his grandfather’s death.
“I’ll get the file for you.”
“Do you know how incredible it will be to finally figure out the truth behind my grandpy’s death?” Zeke put his palms flat on the table, spreading his fingers, staring at the white of his hand against the scarred wood. “I’ve been haunted by that accident for fifteen years.”
“Why?”
“He was an expert climber. Taught me everything. He expounded on safety, so much so I could recite the rules in my sleep. Some people get comfortable with rules, get lax, but my grandfather didn’t.”
He paused, swallowed. “He was...obsessive. Compulsive. He checked his ropes, his carabineers, his equipment all the time.”
Zeke’s intensity finally clicked with Jordan.
That was how Staci felt. She had an overwhelming need to understand every aspect, review every detail to make sense of her grandparents’ deaths.
He should have tried harder to understand.
He needed to go to New York, follow her thought processes, if he could.
And fuck....
He needed to find her.
FOURTEEN
October 18
4:00 pm
New York City, Broadway and 51st
I was at the end of my options.
I have been investigating and running for five weeks, and I’m still no freaking closer to figuring out why I was arrested and tortured in Afghanistan or who was behind it.
After researching every other person in the 5491 file, except for the one identified only by the initials ADA, I wasn't any closer to understanding why my family and eleven others were torn apart by death in October of 1995.
No one from the CIA had attempted to contact me.
Finally, I figured I had to go back to the very beginning. That’s why I tucked the USA Today under my arm, entered Ellen’s Stardust Diner, and prepared to open up the painful subject of my grandparents’ death.
The diner was in a fifties time warp. Black and white linoleum tiles. Formica tables and leather booths. A counter with the requisite soda fountain. Every few booths, shiny metal poles extended
upward, complete with coat hooks.
I sauntered over to a cherry-red booth then slid onto the worn, slick seat and slipped the gently-used cardigan, a vintage twinset sweater embellished with tulle flowers, off my shoulders.
The air in the diner felt close, or maybe it was me. A slight sweat sheened my skin, highlighting the blotchy areas on my forearms where the bruises lingered.
The between hour, too late for lunch and too early for dinner, guaranteed the diner was only minimally occupied.
A few minutes later, Sergeant Emilio Ravini plopped down across from me. “Staci Grant, right?”
I’d had no choice but to use my real name. Ravini wouldn’t have spoken with me otherwise.
He had thick, black hair curling down to his shoulders, eyes the color of dark cocoa nibs, and a remote expression on his face. He’d just come off duty, dressed in a wool sport coat, the shoulder holster beneath curled around a wrinkled, white button-down shirt.
I nodded. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.” Especially away from the precinct. I couldn’t be sure whoever was after me hadn’t put out a BOLO, or worse, on me.
If any kind of official bulletin existed, this detective would know. I’d spoken to him on the phone a few times, couldn’t get him to release the case file on my grandparents’ death. The only way to get answers was in person.
Though the diner was mostly empty, the sidewalks and streets were crowded. I’d already scoped out the back exit if I needed a quick getaway.
So far, I’d seen no evidence anyone other than Sergeant Ravini had come to this meeting, but a girl couldn’t be too prepared.
“No problem, Miss Grant.”
Ravini shifted slightly in the booth, his discomfort only slightly discernible. The sergeant was only a few years older than my thirty-two. If I wasn’t mistaken, his gaze held a sense of pity. Look at the crazy woman, she couldn’t forget a fifteen-year-old murder.
Didn’t help that I looked, and felt, like hell. My skin was nearly back to normal, the limp was gone, and my arm was mostly healed. But my complexion was sallow and drawn from the sickness that still plagued me.
He ordered coffee, I ordered tea, and we pretended to peruse the menu. I’d guess he was avoiding the conversation to come and I, I was trying not to heave.
The waitress popped back over to the table, all perky and young, in her Pepto Bismol pink fifties-style uniform and bright, shiny blond hair wrapped in a matching pink-sequined band.
“Piece of cherry pie, whip cream, no ice cream,” he requested.
Her cotton candy, painted lips smiled encouragingly as I waited for my stomach to calm before ordering.
“Wheat toast, no butter. A hard boiled egg if you’ve got it.” I smiled wanly. “Getting over the flu.”
Her abnormally blue eyes, encased in sparkly false eyelashes, widened. She took an instinctive step back before scurrying away in her black and white saddle shoes and rolled bobby socks. Probably to put our ticket in and wash her hands, not necessarily in that order.
Ravini snickered. “You certainly have a way with people.”
“It’s a gift.” I shrugged, then leaned my bony arms on the silver-speckled Formica table, startled by how thin and fragile they looked. “You said on the phone you remembered my grandparents’ case.”
“Uh, yeah.” He rubbed at a thick, dark mustache over his lips.
“Why do you still remember?”
“First week as a detective.” His chocolate brown eyes held regret. “This is...off the record, right?”
“I’m just trying to understand about their deaths.” I clasped my hands together, as if in prayer, and injected the most earnest tone into my voice I could muster. “I don’t care about anything but figuring out what really happened to my grandparents.”
“Okay. Sorry, it’s just....”
Yeah. I’d dealt with enough political and legal issues to understand where he was coming from. “You don’t need to worry about any repercussions.”
I must have been convincing, because he started talking.
“Right.” He closed his eyes, as if mentally reviewing the case file. “They were mugged, but seemed to me it was a little too professional of a stick. Perfect single stab wound on both victims. What are the odds?”
I clenched my fingers convulsively around the ceramic cup, trying to disassociate from the image. I’d seen enough death in my job. Even dissected and discussed the methodology and psychology behind the act. But disconnecting from something so personal was harder.
“Oh, hey. Sorry.” His blunt fingers patted my wrist in comfort, then slid away as I didn’t respond.
“No. It’s okay. I asked.” I deliberately loosened my fingers on the cup. “What about the perpetrator?”
“That was the other thing. Maybe even more than the manner of the stabbing.” His gaze quartered the room subtly. “Two days later, we found a homeless guy, dead of a heart attack, with their wallets, jewelry, and the murder weapon.”
“How was that odd?”
“Guy like that, he would have spent some of the money and pawned the jewelry right off. Not waited a few days.”
“How did you know he hadn’t spent any of the money?”
“His prints were only on the outside of the wallet. He hadn’t even opened it to see how much money was inside.” Ravini shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“How’d you know about the prints?”
“One of my first cases. I did a lot of extras just to get a feel for things.” He sipped at his coffee, a tired look in his eyes. “Took time to really understand everyone’s job. Thought it would make me a better cop. One of the steps was brushing for prints even when the case seemed like a no-brainer.”
“So why’d you close it?”
“My partner insisted. The case was cut and dried. We found the wallets, murder weapon, and the only person with a clear gain,” he hesitated.
“Me.” I willed the tears back into their ducts.
He nodded. “You had a rock solid alibi for the time of death.”
I’d been in the hospital. I’d just gotten my tonsils out. “They’d had the tickets for months,” I murmured. “After all, it was just one night. No big deal.”
I’d told them to go. Insisted almost.
I knew why I remembered every detail about their deaths, but I had to double check his recollections.
“You seem pretty sure of all of this.” I circled the lip of my tea cup with a bony finger. “How come you still remember?”
“It never felt right. I re-read that file a coupla times a year.”
“Anything new pop out at you?”
“Look. I was young then. Green. Unsure of my instincts. Now,” he paused then said grimly, “Now I would keep digging. The more I learned the more I thought we’d closed the case too soon.”
The waitress set down our food. “Hope you enjoy the show.”
The jukebox started, far louder than before, and two servers, a guy with hair slicked back and a girl dressed similarly to our waitress, began to sing. The music stopped the few patrons there, most people putting down their silverware.
I just wanted them to shut up.
A sultry lament from the latest Broadway show filled the diner as they sang for their keep and the potential of a professional gig.
Their expressions were full of hope, kept alive by a job that might be a stepping stone to their dreams. As the last note died out, I tried to ignore that hope.
For me, hope was all but dead. And watching them made me feel lost, sad and just the slightest bit lonely. “What else can you tell me?”
“You may not want to hear what I think.” He bit into the cherry pie and waited.
“I need to know.”
Ravini said, “It was a hit. I’ve always thought so.”
“A hit?”
“Pretty complicated for one lone guy to manage. Although not impossible for a pro,” Sergeant Ravini said matter-of-factly. “Take out two people without
a sound. Even if you take out the bigger threat first, the second target is going to make some noise.”
I saw his point. I could feel my skin go white. A professional.
The connection between everyone receiving funds from Department 5491 was the death of either their parents or grandparents. Theoretically most of the deaths were accidents.
If they weren’t connected by 5491 I would have assumed the conclusion was correct. But they’d all been on or about October Nineteenth.
Tomorrow.
“Anything else?” I asked through lips that suddenly felt bloodless.
“No one saw anything.” He jabbed his fork at me. “They left the theatre the same time as everyone else, walked along a sidewalk easily half the theatre district uses to exit the area and no one saw a thing.”
“I thought the Times Square area was pretty safe.”
“You ever seen a show on Broadway?”
“Yeah.” I’d gone with my grandparents many times. I hadn’t been back since their deaths.
“It’s packed. All the shows get out about the same time. Pedestrians, cabs, limos everywhere. Great time to get your pocket picked."
The detective added, "How the hell does this homeless guy, who would be noticed among all the suits, high heels and fancy dresses, manage to stab two people with single perfect aim and no one notices?”
He shook his head again, his mouth pursed in disbelief. “It just doesn’t play for me.”
I bit tentatively into the toast and chewed slowly, ever hopeful I could keep the bread down. “So it was a hit, but why?”
“We never looked into the vics' background.” He slurped at his coffee. “That would be where you come in. You really want to know, you’ve got to look at your grandparents’ background. Who would want them dead and why and how did they profit from it?”
“That’s where I’m stuck,” I whispered. “I’m the only one and I sure didn’t profit from it. I lost my whole family in one night.”
He looked me over, sizing up my slightly worn twinset tank and faded jeans, the split ends and damaged condition of my hair pulled into a haphazard pony, the bruises and mottled discoloration of my skin, leftover from the remnants of the drug still leaving my system.
