Local gay activists had raised hell as time went on, and the murder went unsolved, citing it as on obvious case of “gay bashing,” a hate crime given lowest priority by law enforcement.
Jake didn’t stop his search there, but kept scrolling backward through the timeline and found that several months before his death, Queely had posted the highest-profile feature story of his career, which the Metro submitted for a Pulitzer. It was a story detailing a rise in illegal arms shipments headed overseas from the eastern United States. For the first time in years, according to Queely’s “inside” sources, American black-market arms dealers were going head-to-head with the more recent leaders in that market, including Eastern European and Russian crime organizations.
The mention of Russian organized crime caught Wally’s attention. Both Tiger and Klesko had deep roots in that world, but she felt obligated to call “bullshit” on Jake.
“So just like that, we go from my volleyballing party-girl neighbor to a bogus bank account in Tampa to international arms dealers,” Wally said. “Paranoid, much?”
“It’s not such a leap,” Jake insisted. “Break it down: some very heavy guys—well-financed and vicious—have been coming after you. We don’t know what they want yet, but we know it has something to do with your brother Tiger, because his picture was stored in one of their phones. The hitter used that same phone to call January, who we find out has been on someone’s payroll—for what? Watching you, probably. That still doesn’t tell us what they’re up to, but it confirms that they are well-financed and determined. So the stakes are very high for them. Follow me so far?”
Neither Wally nor Ella could dispute his reasoning.
“Good. So we’re still in the dark about what exactly this is all about, except for one thing: the alias used for the payments to January is the same as the name of a reporter who did a deep-background exposé on competition among American and foreign arms dealers, and the reporter was killed soon after that story ran. Arms dealing is a high-stakes business. I’m not a big conspiracy guy, but these goons coming after you, Wally—they’ve gotta have something to do with black-market arms dealing. I’d bet on it.”
“But even if it’s true, what does all of this have to do with Tiger?” Ella asked.
“He grew up inside the Vory,” Wally said. “The Russian mob. Arms sales are a huge part of what they do, especially over the last few years. He’s on the run and probably doesn’t have a lot of options, so he might somehow have gotten himself into that world again.”
Wally felt a terrible sinking feeling as she considered this. The only conclusion she could arrive at was that Tiger was in very deep trouble, and she was probably powerless to help him.
23.
WALLY, JAKE, AND ELLA STAYED UP FOR HOURS—
they were waiting for January and Bea to come crawling back home, but they hadn’t completely decided what they would do when that moment came. It didn’t matter—when two o’clock in the morning rolled around and the two girls were still missing in action, Wally realized that it was pointless to wait. With the schedule the girls kept, they might not come home at all.
“What are you going to do?” Ella asked.
“Don’t know, but it can wait until morning. You guys go to bed.”
Both Jake and Ella eyed Wally skeptically. “You’re going to sleep too, right?” Ella wanted to know.
“I swear,” Wally said.
Jake raised one eyebrow—but didn’t argue. They were right, of course—Wally’s head was full of puzzles that needed unraveling, and in the quiet and dark of her living room they haunted her more than ever. She brainstormed ways that she might manipulate January and Bea into contacting whoever it was that was paying them—a way that Wally might follow them to a meeting—but she never settled on a plan that would work without alerting the girls that their secret connection had been discovered.
The more she thought the situation through, the more Wally felt a sense of foreboding. The list of actions that had been taken against her—and Tiger?—was growing by the hour: from the attack on her outside Harmony House to the attack at the lodge and now the conspiracy involving the only two friends she had made since starting over in Greenpoint.
It seemed obvious that January and Bea had been employed for two basic reasons: to monitor Wally’s activity and lure her into a vulnerable situation, where Alabama and the others would finally be successful in grabbing her. Wally thought back to the night at Cielo, when January had offered her the tab of Ecstasy—or whatever that pill was—and now it seemed like an incredibly transparent attempt to drug her. She had finally left the club when she sensed she was being watched, and now she figured that it was her refusal of the drug and her sudden exit that had ruined their plan.
Wally heard distant thunder at around four o’clock in the morning, and soon a spring storm arrived overhead, with rain pouring down and lightning illuminating the sky. It was a full-on storm: loud and violent to match the dark thoughts consuming her heart and mind, and she didn’t know what she would do to survive it all. Even with her best friends sleeping just a few feet away, she felt deeply alone.
She tossed restlessly on the couch, too hot and stuffy under her blanket and never quite finding a comfortable place among the cushions. Her mind was as restless as her body—her thoughts went from Kyle to January and Bea to the Get Money Bitches and, of course, to Tiger. She remembered that her face-to-face online encounter with Tiger had taken place late at night and decided it might be worth trying to connect with him again. She sat up and grabbed her laptop, but was immediately distracted by a blinking green light on the kitchen counter—it was the notification light on her smartphone.
Wally’s notifications were set on vibrate only—if she was distracted with something else, she often missed the notification entirely. She turned on her screen and saw that there were seven new text messages waiting for her, with a phone number she didn’t recognize listed as the source.
R U there? the first message read, and had been repeated two more times, a half hour apart. The time code showed that the first message had come in about four hours earlier—probably right about the time she and Jake and Ella had been downstairs, riffling through Bea and January’s apartment. Wally had no idea who had sent the messages—the only thing she could tell was that they had been sent from a cheap phone—another burner, no doubt—since its messaging program didn’t autocomplete the words like Wally’s smartphone did.
Messages four, five, and six had come in a cluster, just seconds apart:
Dont blame U
Srry for everything
Gbye
And the final text, sent a few minutes after the others:
I lkd swimming w u ... Never again I guess
It was Kyle. Wally felt a sudden rush of—something. Excitement? Anxiety? Since she’d made the call to 911, Wally had basically written Kyle off as a lost cause. The possibility that the connection between them might return left her confused but exhilarated. What was the right thing to do? For a brief moment she considered not replying to his messages at all but dismissed that idea. According to Greer, the police had found out that Kyle and his father had left their city apartment days earlier and never returned. Since she’d heard that, Wally had been wondering and worrying about what had happened to him. She hoped he was still reachable.
I’m here, she typed.
Nearly a minute passed, during which she kept her eyes glued to the screen, waiting. Finally, the phone vibrated in her hand and a new message popped up.
Sorry I left u, the message said. So sorry.
Wally smiled, relieved.
No matter, she typed. You okay?
Almost another minute passed before the next message arrived.
Afraid, the message said.
I know, she typed, and without hesitation added, I can
help. Where are you? Can you meet me?
She immediately wondered if her offer to help had been a mistake—considering her history with Kyle, it probably was. But Wally also knew herself, and realized that until she had a clear idea about what had happened to Kyle—and whether or not he was safe—she would never be able to keep him out of her thoughts.
There was a long pause then—at least three or four minutes. She was just beginning to believe that something had gone wrong when the phone finally vibrated again.
Come to eagle rock res, the message read. I can get there.
The name sounded familiar to Wally but she didn’t immediately know why. She opened her laptop and checked Google Maps. Eagle Rock Reservation was near Montclair, New Jersey: it was a fairly large block of green with only a few roads along its perimeter. Not a long trip from Greenpoint as the crow flew, and traffic in the middle of the night would be almost zero.
Wally paused before sending her reply. Was this even a good idea? She debated the issue in her head for a moment, but it was no use trying to be overly rational. Kyle was asking for her help and she would go to him. That was it.
Will take me some time, she replied.
Fllw gates ave to end, the reply came back.
I’ll be there, Wally typed.
24.
WALLY SLUNG HER MESSENGER BAG OVER HER
shoulder, struggling with a brief internal debate: to go armed or not? The SIG SAUER she had taken away from the lodge upstate was hidden behind the bureau in her room with two loaded clips. She would be happy if she never had to hold that weapon again, but if things got to a place where she needed to defend herself or Kyle, wouldn’t she rather have it? The violent clashes she’d experienced over the past several days turned out to be unrelated to Richard Townsend, but the man still loomed in Wally’s imagination as someone who was capable of violence.
Wally had seen the results of the beating he had given his own son.
Wally found the SIG and the clips in her room and slipped them into a snug inner pocket of her messenger bag. It would give her fast access to the weapon if necessary. She snuck into her bedroom very quietly—careful not to wake Jake and Ella. The couple was blissfully asleep in a spooning embrace with Jake on the outside, his powerful arms delicately cradling Ella. From her closet, Wally grabbed a fresh set of clothes and a black raincoat. She was out the front door less than two minutes later.
Outside, Wally managed to flag down a cab. The sleepy Palestinian driver was happy to grab such a hefty fare in the waning hours of a quiet, rainy night. It was a forty-minute ride at least, and Wally was glad she’d gotten a driver who wasn’t feeling chatty. She mentally rehearsed the steps she would take to make Kyle safe that night—provided he was finally willing to follow her direction. She was determined not to argue with him.
The possibility of helping Kyle—really helping him, this time—teased Wally. It promised to deliver a feeling of success that had eluded her for the past few days. This time, help would only be offered under her own terms. If Kyle was ready to accept some sort of rescue, then fine. If not, she would turn straight around and head home.
It had to be tough love this time.
Once they’d exited the interstate into the quiet, suburban enclave of Montclair, New Jersey, Wally used the map on her cell phone to give the cabbie an indirect route. They stopped two blocks away from the end of Gates Avenue, the location Kyle named as their meeting place. Arriving on foot—and from an unexpected direction—would allow Wally to approach the spot with some stealth, just in case there were any surprises waiting.
Rain was still coming down hard as Wally climbed out of the cab. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, and the cold predawn air gave Wally a chill. She pulled the hood of her jacket over her head and started walking at a quick pace. Because of the clouds there was no sign of light to the east, but it was now approaching six o’clock and some early-morning commuter activity had begun: expensive cars pulling out of driveways and heading toward the train station or the interstate.
As Wally approached Eagle Rock Reservation, she immediately remembered why the name had sounded familiar, even though she had never actually been there. The most obvious feature of the park was a densely wooded ridge that rose several hundred feet above the surrounding area. At some point up along the ridge—Wally couldn’t see it from where she was—a lookout spot gave visitors a clear and dramatic view of lower Manhattan. During the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, many people had come to the park to watch the horrific events unfold. Photographs from that day still appeared in stories about the tragedy. The meeting site Kyle had chosen would be at the foot of that hill, with the reservation’s forest rising up beyond.
A vehicle rounded a corner a block or so behind her, in enough of a hurry that its tires squealed on the turn. Acting purely on instinct, Wally quickstepped off the sidewalk and ducked behind the cover of a hedge that divided two of the large front yards that stretched out toward the street. She could hear the roar of a powerful engine making its way up the street in her direction.
She peered through the hedge in time to see a silver Humvee approaching along the route she had just walked. The massive vehicle moved slowly along the street as if on a search, but its windows were tinted too dark for Wally to see who was inside. Had she been followed there? Or could the occupants of the Humvee be there in search of Kyle?
The Hummer drove on to the base of the hill—Undercliff Road—and turned right, headed for the place where Gates Avenue came to an end. It was moving directly toward her planned meeting place with Kyle. Wally’s instincts told her that the spot was no longer safe. Wally pulled out her phone and texted to the number of the burner phone Kyle had used to contact her.
Get away from Gates Ave., she typed as fast as she could.
She waited, but there was no response. Was her warning already too late? Wally hurried to the corner of Undercliff Road and looked to the right. She could barely make out the silver Humvee through the rain: it was parked one block up, the exhaust from its idling engine steaming in the cold air. The rain began to fall more heavily now, and Wally hoped that Kyle had sought out a place where he was sheltered from the weather—that action might have taken him far enough from the street that he wouldn’t be spotted by whoever was in the Hummer.
Wally crouched low and dashed across Undercliff and into the woods of Eagle Rock Reservation. Once under the cover of the trees, she climbed the hill for thirty or forty yards and then moved north, toward a place where she would hopefully be able to peer down onto the intersection of Gates and Undercliff.
Soon she was above the site and sheltered from view by the trees. The silver Humvee was still parked at the intersection, but Kyle was nowhere in sight. If Kyle had not been snatched up already, he was probably safe for now. Finally his answer came.
I C, Kyle texted. Slvr hummer.
WRU?
Up the hill, he answered.
Wally figured he must be higher up the slope than she was—he had probably been hiding out of sight already, waiting for her to appear before he showed himself.
50 yrds up slope.
Come 2 me, he typed.
The woods were dark under the cloud cover—Wally wasn’t sure how she would find Kyle in the woods without calling out to him, which would be dangerous. She began climbing the hill, scanning the trees along the way for any sign of him. She climbed for over a minute, but instead of spotting him she came across a paved road that wound up the hill in easy switchbacks.
Wally rushed across the road, nearly reaching the woods on the other side when a set of powerful headlights flashed on and shined down on her from just up the way, the beams catching her before she could get into the trees. She hurried into the shelter of the woods, but the car sped down the road to the spot where she had crossed. The vehicle was a shiny black SUV, a Cadillac
Escalade. Wally stopped briefly to rest as the vehicle skidded to a stop. Every door except the driver’s opened up—three men climbed out and began to advance in her direction.
Wally caught a glimpse of the man in the driver’s seat, his face illuminated clearly by the interior lights of the vehicle when the doors swung open. It was Richard Townsend, Kyle’s father. Wally recognized him from the single photograph she had found in her initial background search of his son Kyle. He was a broadly built man in his early fifties, his mostly gray hair combed neatly back.
Wally raced on up the hill, her lungs and thighs burning from the effort as she dodged around the trees and undergrowth of the slope. She started to feel desperate, not believing for a moment that she would be able to outrun all of the men. She could hear them crashing through the dense, wet brush behind her, getting closer with every step.
Wally could see the lights of traffic further up the slope—it appeared to be the same paved road on another switchback. She headed straight for it, hoping she could reach that open space and flag down some traffic, but she smelled something familiar wafting through the air: the unmistakable aroma of weed. According to the direction of the wind moving across the slope, the source of the weed had to be to her right. Wally turned in that direction and headed straight for the smell. Her legs immediately felt stronger now that she was no longer running uphill.
She could hear some quiet voices ahead, followed by a high-pitched, giddy peal of laughter. Within forty or fifty yards, Wally burst through a patch of dense growth and startled a group of young, homeless-looking men hanging out around a small fire. All their heads turned in surprise toward Wally. She had stumbled upon some sort of encampment, a tarp strung up for cover over a fire pit with all kinds of garbage—beer cans, Doritos wrappers, and empty whippet dispensers—strewn about.
Tiger Page 17
