Saboteur: A Novel

by J. Travis Phelps

  “So, I wanted to tell you I talked to Nazim, well sort of.”

  She leaned forward with a serious look on her face.

  “And?”

  “I’m deeply concerned about his well-being to be honest. He refused to acknowledge that he and I knew each other at all, though very strangely, he claims to know your dad still.”

  “What, what do you mean?”

  “I don’t know quite how to explain it, but he seems to believe your dad is still alive, though he claims he doesn’t know you either, so I think everything he’s saying has to be put in context. And well, he seems very ill or perhaps under some sort of pressure to lie.”

  Samara’s face drew back in a daze. She had been holding her coffee cup and her hand began to shake uncontrollably.

  “Just wait, ok?” he said trying to keep her calm. “I know what you must be thinking, but I’m afraid there may actually be a dementia of some kind, or even something else, I’m not sure what yet. It would explain almost everything.”

  Samara’s eyes watered. “You don’t think this, coupled with the note I found, means anything?” she said incredulously.

  “The note, I can’t explain. Not yet. It’s way too soon to know anything until I speak to Diba Jan.”

  “She ignored me, Noah. You’re wasting your time. I’m telling you, all of them did. What are we going to do?” she said looking at him imploringly.

  “We’ are going to keep our heads. I need to contact my publisher. He has known Nazim’s family forever. He grew up in Cairo. He knew your dad well too. I think it’s safest if we let him reach out to them first.”

  He wanted to tell her that Nazim had also said he would conference call with Charlie, but he felt it would upset her too much. Sadly, he knew he was never going to answer that call anyway. He looked up at the second floor to he and Charlie’s old booth. He had the strangest sensation, like Charlie was back somehow. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed the sound of his old friend’s voice. It had been the first thing between them, his matter of fact manner of speech; how he made you feel you deserved the world and everything in it and that it was only as easy as reaching out to take it. He had treated Downy like he was a genius and so he had always tried his best to act like one. Charlie was of course the fiercely intelligent one, but like Downy, he had an edge to him. In truth, it was probably why they became such fast friends. The almost twenty-year age difference hadn’t mattered at all. Charlie was wise old owl and Downy the young prodigy. Both seemed to love the roles they’d cast themselves in.

  Samara’s head was down. She stared into her coffee blankly. “Have you ever

  heard of a place called the pond?” she said suddenly, looking up at him.

  “No, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “I looked through my dad’s travel logs and every year he went there it says, with friends, but he never says which pond or where. You guys ever travel to a place to fish or something, part of a dig? My mother wasn’t very suspicious about it either when I told her. He traveled so much after all.”

  “Seems perfectly explainable. I’m sure if you ask around with some of his other friends.”

  “He had none Noah, none except for you.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, you were enough for him. He could be a deeply solitary person you know, almost secretive. That’s why it doesn’t seem like a thing he would do, not without you along, or somebody he liked at least. Who would he have gone with?”

  He couldn’t believe it. Charlie was instantly the life of any room he walked into. Downy had always assumed he had a wide group of friends.

  “I never thought--I mean--I always figured there were lots of other friends.”

  “His work, really. Sometimes my mom. That’s why having you around was so nice. He really came out of his shell, but then you always left. My mother and I felt sort of second rate. It sounds awful, I know. It sounds like I’m being critical, but I just mean that you brought out something special in him.”

  “It must have been doubly hard when I moved, huh, for such a young girl, I mean?”

  “Yeah, it was.” Tears streaked down her cheeks uncontrollably. She seemed even more beautiful, fragile. He wanted to touch her face, but dared not.

  He saw the waiter coming and he handed her a tissue quickly. It was too late. The waiter poured more coffee silently. “I’ll come back and check on you soon,”

  he said sympathetically, turning quickly to avoid eye contact with them and speaking in almost a whisper.

  “They’ll think you’re breaking my heart,” Samara said laughing through her tears. “How much power there is in a woman’s tears,” she said wiping her face with the tissue. “Grown men flee like frightened children.”

  “We’re gonna get through this, ok?” he said, trying to sound confident, but Samara looked unconvinced.

  “I’m gonna need a drink before your wife gets here, ok? That scotch from the other night would be just perfect.”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll switch back to coffee when she gets here, ok, just for the sake of appearances.”

  Downy laughed, but his heart was troubled. He looked up to the booth over her shoulder. The framed picture of Freud was still there along with their plaque for being “The World Champions of Scotch.”

  Samara stood up. “I have to go fix myself; Naomi can’t see me like this. I’ll be right back.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  The waiter came over immediately.

  “Could we have two MaCallums if a bottle is open?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “Excuse me, could you do me a favor? Deliver a third glass to the booth upstairs, the one with Mr. Freud presiding.”

  “Of course I will, sir. For Mr. Patterson, then?”

  “Yes, that’s right. You remember him?”

  “I’d been working here a few months when he passed away. I was still a busboy. It would be my pleasure sir and it’s on the house.”

  “Thank you,” Downy said. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 27

  Sullivan could see the blinking neon sign of the Aero club all the way from the interstate. In spite of it being a major So Cal city, San Diego had somehow managed to avoid the urban sprawl of cities like LA. The Aero Club was tucked right beneath the overpass, but still near enough to the airport to have earned the name. Inside though it was simply a square bar in the middle of an old room. It reminded him of a thousand bars in the South, minus the rednecks of course. He scanned as he walked in. Tackett raised a hand from the back booth next to the jukebox.

  “I already ordered two more Jack and cokes, one for me and another for me,” he said yelling above the music.

  It was a little too early for “Don’t Sop Believin,” but already there were small groups of people getting rowdy together. The after work crowd trying to shake off the day.

  “You’re early. What are you a cop or something?” Sullivan said over the roar. Tackett seemed a bit unsteady on his feet. “Are you drunk already?” he said accusingly. “Goddamn, let me catch up.”

  “I lost my job. It’s a moral fucking imperative that I get drunk.” Tackett suddenly became sober sounding, though clearly he had been at it for a while.

  “You just got suspended, you didn’t get fired.”

  “Never mind Robby fucking Tierney’s sorry ass, what did you find out?”

  “Well, the kid gave us---”

  “Not about that, about 1032? You said you needed to chat, so chat.”

  The waitress came by with two cups of coffee.

  “Hey, where’s my Jack and coke?”

  “You drink too much kid and my tank is already full, sorry.”

  “Ok, coffee it is,” he said disappointedly.

  “Now tell me what the hell you’ve found out already.”

  “A couple of very interesting things. Each on their own maybe seems like nuthin, but--”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I was reading Detective
Jensen’s notes on the case. He was a very organized guy it turns out. He seemed to have reason to think this professor Noah Downy, who is a bigshot over at the university, might be connected to the case, which at first made no sense to me.”

  “Yeah, I remember the name, we ruled him out, right?”

  “Yeah, he was the guy who bought the house after the crime. Weird right, but Jensen’s notes on the case ended officially in May of 2006, with an entry where he seemed at least to be considering getting a blood sample from Downy. I have to believe there was a specific reason he wanted it, which leads me to the second thing. I met with Downy this morning and he wasn’t entirely telling the truth in our interview.”

  “About what? How do you know?”

  He leaned back flashing a wide-toothy grin. “I just know.”

  “Oh shit, are you kidding me? Look man, you can’t ever pull that telepathy shit out here, not with real suspects, especially not with a goddamn college professor.”

  “I figured you would say that. My superpowers are so rarely appreciated. That’s why I saved the best for last. Get this, your friend Danny Fleming was a terrible note taker and he wrote almost everything on scraps of paper. His case files looked like a fucking third grader’s Trapper Keeper. But that’s good news for us because on September 5th he visited Downy, or was planning to at the college. I know because he wrote the address and directions to Downy’s school office on this.” He reached into his pocket producing a tiny piece of weathered newspaper. “Top right corner, look at the date. Probably he picked it up on his way.”

  “Jesus, the day he--”

  “Yep, the day Fleming went missing. Everybody else who looked at the case assumed he was just taking down info, name, address probably, but this proves it was after he had been to the house already to meet Downy and look at the crime scene again. It was his last chance before the Downy’s moved in. This would have been their second meeting then, but Downy says they never discussed the case and never mentioned a second meeting, which means either Fleming never made it or that Downy was his last meeting.” He paused.

  Tackett had his hands on his head trying to fully absorb what had been said.

  “If I tell you one more cool thing will you buy me the Jack and coke you promised?”

  “There’s more?”

  “Of course there’s more. You think I’d call you with only that? I asked the good professor about the house, how he and his wife had acquired it and it turns out it came as a referral from a friend, a friend now deceased. The widow is out of state he claims. I asked his secretary before I left, a real cutey by the way, and she says he died in a boating accident a few years back and that they were super close friends. If you count our missing detectives, that’s four people who have gone missing or died around the professor in a pretty short time. The friend’s name is Patterson, Charles Patterson, though I haven’t had a chance yet to run a background on him.”

  “Shit.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Shhhh--” Tackett said, “it’s not that loud in here.”

  Sullivan pushed his finger against his ear grimacing.

  “So you think Jensen knew something more on our professor?” Tackett asked, looking into his drink with a scowl.

  “Well he probably never connected the date on the newspaper. I can’t say for sure. It was thrown in with some other notes, kind of randomly. Then again, none of our detectives knew they were working for posterity’s sake, did they? As you said, everybody and their mother has looked at that file. I don’t think anyone else caught it, which means Jensen was probably operating on a different hunch, something more concrete, the same one Fleming must have uncovered. I mean why would Fleming want to talk to Professor Downy twice if he hadn’t found something? He’d already been to the house. That Monday morning, when he disappeared, he wanted to talk to Downy again. There had to be another reason. I’m hoping Jensen found the same thing. Something led them both to him. It best explains why he would want the blood sample.”

  “But why would he want the professor’s blood, unless he believed it was his at the scene?

  “I know, I know. It’s a problem. I’m still working on that.”

  “Maybe asking for blood was a bluff on Jensen’s part, trying to flush him out.”

  “Maybe it worked a little too well.”

  The waitress arrived with more coffee.

  “Thank you, finally” he said rolling his eyes at Tackett. “Downright uncivilized to sit in a bar and drink coffee, wouldn’t you say?”

  The waitress was pretty, young, and her tiny shirt was clearly struggling under the weight of her chest. She smiled a beaming smile at Sullivan.

  “I agree completely,” she said. Tackett groaned.

  “Seriously though, any guesses on who would want to blow up the house?”

  Tackett looked across the bar outside to where the planes passed over on their way to landing. “It’s this case,” he said putting his finger on the scrap of newspaper.

  “But why take the trouble and then warn us?”

  “Bomb squad results will help. If it was set to a timer it was probably dumb luck. Maybe he wanted someone else dead. Maybe he wanted to get rid of something in the house, what, I have no idea. Either way my cheese is gone.”

  “Yeah and my hearing,” Sullivan said grimacing again. Tackett smiled.

  “Come to my place tonight. You can sleep in the garage, there’s a pullout from my divorce. I’ll set you up at El Cortez later. It’s an old joint, but it’s pretty cheap and rents by the month, cuts a special deal for cops.”

  “I need some new clothes--in the house--all my clothes blew up.”

  “Sorry.”

  “They were shitty clothes. Can she stay in the garage too?” he said pointing at the waitress as she walked back toward them.

  “Eh?”

  “Hey, I’m Nick, Nick Sullivan and I’m new in town,” he said extending his hand and then holding on for a bit too long. “You know any good places to shop around here? I need a whole new wardrobe.”

  “What for?” the girl said smiling.

  “For dancing.”

  “What?”

  “Tonight, with you. You’re going to take me dancing.”

  “Where you wanna go?” she said playfully.

  “Take me somewhere really loud and sweaty with stupidly expensive drinks.”

  The girl laughed out loud.

  “Ok. I’m off at 8.”

  Tackett shook his head in disbelief.

  “Do me one more favor,” Sullivan said. “Make sure when we leave they take good care of my dear old dad here. He doesn’t get to leave the home very often and I want him to have some fun, you know before--well--you know.”

  Tackett grabbed his jacket, yelling “I’m outta here.”

  “Hey wait! He shouted, “How do I find your house?”

  “I’m texting it to you right now. Keys under the front mat.”

  “That’s really your dad?”

  “Nah,” he said, “my uncle.”

  “Yeah?” she said grinning.

  “Make the next one a Jack and coke ok, a double. I like to be nice and tight when I’m tryin on clothes.”

  “Coming up.” The girl twirled herself flirtatiously back toward the bar.

  He stared off into the distance at the planes landing overhead. He raised his glass. “To San Diego!” he said. But he was really thinking about the guy in the hat. He could almost see his face if he had just known to pay closer attention. Whoever he was he was bold and dangerous. He was going to catch the son of a bitch one way or another.

  Chapter 28

  Downy awakened startled and looked across at Naomi while she slept. Her leg was twisted around the blanket. It was all he could do not to wake her and demand more of what she’d given him last night. Their evening had turned into quite a party. Everyone had had a little too much to drink. Of course he and Samara had quite a head start, which probably helped set the tone. He marveled at h
ow well the two girls had gotten along. It had been too much though when Naomi had insisted on showing Samara the vintage phone booth in the back. They were like two long lost college girlfriends, giggling and laughing their way through the night. It was nice not to have to think about the situation with Nazim for a change.

  Naomi’s job was sometimes a stressful one and in the end corporate, so it was always a fun release for her to get out. She had missed out on college unfortunately and seemed fascinated by Samara’s life. Downy had decided to keep the situation under wraps about Nazim for at least another day or two. He hoped he could simply resolve it before he had to tell her, but more and more he feared that was wishful thinking. And what had the strange old Dr. Tannehill meant when he said, “dear friends now ghosts?” Why was he so concerned about Samara?

  Samara was now downstairs in their guest room asleep. Naomi had absolutely insisted that she not try to drive home, both of them had. The two girls had ended up in the backseat singing along together like teenagers, while he drove. Gratefully he had drunk only coffee for the last two hours of dinner and was buzzed by caffeine much more than scotch. To say that his position as Samara’s professor was seriously compromised was an understatement; but that was already true wasn’t it?

  He had been surprised when they arrived home how insistent Naomi had been that they make love. Usually when a guest was in the house sex was strictly off limits, but the scotch had undoubtedly fixed that. Samara was a safe distance away in any case, downstairs, and undoubtedly exhausted herself. In her drunkenness Naomi was in the mood and as usual when she drank, loose of tongue.

  “Professah Noah Downy,” she had said in her hilarious mock southern accent, “who is always surrounded by tha’ most beautiful gurls, always right at the pretty lil’ center of everyone’s tenshun--attention.”

  “I’ll give you some attention boy,” she had said loquaciously.