by D. F. Bailey
In the corner of the video, a digital timer clicked through the passing seconds and minutes. Two minutes, ten seconds later, Raymond Guzman emerged from the washroom with a desperate look riveted to his face. He held a hand to his jaw, and Finch recalled the bruise under Guzman’s right eye. Standing at the doorway, Guzman turned from side to side as if couldn’t decide which way to run. After a beat he marched off in the direction opposite to Squire’s retreat.
Another two minutes and forty-three seconds scrolled by and then John Doe appeared at the door. He stood at an angle, his tall, lean body teetering slightly to one side. His shirt was torn at the collar and he held a wad of paper towels to his left cheek. His right hand was pressed against his belly. After a moment he turned to the right, the same route Toby had taken. As he approached the camera Finch felt a moment of anticipation, then delight. Just as Toby had done, John Doe looked directly into the camera. His narrow, worried face held a cringing expression. Finch had seen him before—but where?
※
To jog his memory, Finch decided to take a long walk. He made his way south on Second Avenue and west on Ninety-second Street to Fifth Avenue. The heat and humidity felt very hot, almost unbearable. He decided to cross into Central Park and take cover under the shade of the trees. He walked along the east side of the lake and then ambled mindlessly through the labyrinth of paved pathways, essentially following his nose. He’d forgotten how the urban humidity could sap your energy and stamina and when he reached the Loeb Boathouse, he sat on a bench under the shade of a massive maple tree and watched the stream of tourists and day trippers slip past him.
He tried to fit the image of the face he’d seen on the CCTV clip onto the passing strangers. A few men had the same lean body of John Doe, but none resembled the man he’d seen. Where? After ten minutes, the scents emanating from of the Boathouse grill stirred his appetite. He remembered a restaurant on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen that he used to enjoy during his last year as a journalism undergrad at NYU—the year before he’d enlisted in the army.
His mother had died during his final term in high school. Four years later his father passed on. When the weight of his losses seemed most unbearable he’d made the decision to enlist on a whim, at a time when he knew his life needed a sharp course-correction. For better or for worse, he mused. He got both, as it turned out.
When the name of the restaurant came to him—Hummus Kitchen—he felt a measure of relief. At least he was able to dredge up one distinct memory, and buoyed with a hopeful feeling he exited the park at Columbus Circle and strolled down Ninth Avenue to Fifty-second, keeping under the shelter of the store-front awnings whenever he could.
The restaurant was just as he remembered it. A long narrow space with a bare, red brick wall opposite an equally spare wall of bone-white plaster. The sturdy wooden tables and chairs that lined the long aisle were the same as they were in his student days. Nothing had been altered. Even the cutlery, beaten by decades of daily abuse in the dishwasher, retained their flat, iron patina. He sat at the far table next to the brick wall and faced the door—better to see anyone coming at him.
He studied the menu and realized that the selection remained unchanged. Perhaps he was now holding the actual menu that he’d used to choose his meals so many years before. The idea appealed to him, the thought of a physical connection that linked the past to the present. One life to another.
He ordered his old favorite, chicken shawarma, and a pot of mint tea. While he waited for the server—an older, mid-eastern gentleman with steel-gray hair and a cranky demeanor—to deliver his meal, he opened his laptop and re-played the CCTV video. Maybe he could jog his memory by watching the video another ten or twenty times. However long it took, he decided. Let the dull repetition simply pound the recollection from his subconscious mind into tangible reality.
When his meal arrived, he put the laptop away. He spent the next twenty minutes enjoying the food and the nostalgia that if offered. In 2001 he’d sat here maybe a half-dozen times with his girlfriend, Lydia Bronfman, a self-described Jewish princess whose mother had barred Finch from setting foot inside their Westchester mansion. What had become of Lydia? So many people, once intimate, had moved on to another place, another time. Grains of sand slipping through a bottomless hourglass. He shook his head, worried that this kind of thinking could lead to a bout of depression. If Eve were here with him now, any sort of despair would be impossible. He decided to call her—after he dredged up John Doe’s name.
When the time came to collect his bill, he waved a hand at the waiter. The old man approached him with a scowl on his face. “No more work. I’m off,” he snarled. He shot a hand at a lanky young man leaning on the banister next to the till. “Get the bill from my assistant.”
Then it hit him. The round, polished pebble of a distant memory dropped into his open palm. Finch smiled at the old man’s assistant and pulled his billfold into his hand. He had the name now. Jacob Bell. Assistant.
※
After he paid for his meal Will leaned across the front counter toward the cashier and asked if he could use the restaurant phone.
“You have no cell phone?” He curled his lips with a look of surprise.
Finch shook his head. “Forgot to charge it.”
He glanced away as he worked through a moment of indecision. “Local call only?”
“Of course.” Finch smiled. “You can watch me dial.”
The man waved a hand dismissively and Finch reached into his pocket for Simon Waterston’s business card. Waterston answered on the third ring.
“Simon, it’s Will Finch here.” When there was no response he added, “We met at your sister’s apartment this morning.”
“Yes.” His voice was hesitant, wary. “How can I help you, Mr. Finch?”
Will knew he had to play this carefully, but he hadn’t thought out the specifics. Experience told him to fall back on what had worked in the past. Straight ahead, fact-based truth-telling.
“Look, I know you have no reason to trust me. In fact, because of your sister’s murder, you might think I’m part of what happened. But I promise you, I’m not. You saw the list I sent her. My name is one of twenty-three others who are either dead or are targeted by the same assassin who killed Jayne.”
He paused to see if Simon would respond. When he didn’t, Finch continued.
“I told you that if I found any information I would share it with you. That’s why I’m calling you now.”
He paused again. Finally Simon picked up the thread.
“So what do you have?”
“A name. Jacob Bell.”
“Who’s he?”
Finch took the time to describe the video of Bell emerging from the City Hall men’s room. Then he described the circumstances surrounding his mugging, and the murder of Martin Fast, the first victim of Jayne’s killer.
“So you’re saying this Jacob Bell murdered Martin Fast and then Jayne?”
Finch knew it was a minor leap of faith, but one with compelling logic. “Maybe.”
“And how did you know him?”
“He’s the personal assistant to someone I interviewed after Martin Fast died. And someone Jayne profiled in The Village Voice last fall. Kali Rood.”
“Kali Rood?” After a moment Simon continued, “I found a file on Kali Rood in Jayne’s apartment when I tried to sort out her stuff. The file was sitting on the floor next to her desk. I guess the FBI didn’t think it was worth taking. Now you’re telling me it is?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Finch felt his pulse quicken. “And Simon, that file could be very important.” He paused. “Could I have a look at it? I don’t need to take it. In fact, if I could meet with you for coffee somewhere—just let me look through her notes. It won’t be out of your sight for a second.”
When Simon failed to respond, Finch thought he might have overreached. “Look, I’m offering to work with you to solve this. But I need you to help me, too. I’ve given you the name of Martin Fast
’s killer. But—”
“Have you told the FBI?”
“Not yet. I told you that you’d be the first to know. And you are.”
After another weighty pause, Simon agreed. “Meet me at three o’clock at Lenox Coffee shop on One-twenty-ninth near Malcolm X. And Finch, don’t call my office again. If you need to reach me, call my cell.” He passed on his cell phone number and hung up.
As Will ended the call another thought struck him. He sensed that he was making good progress for the first time since he’d landed in New York. Which meant that a surprise could lie ahead. He knew that whenever the way forward seemed clear and unobstructed, ghosts would often arise from the shadows. He smiled at the cashier.
“Can I make one more call?”
The man took a long breath and pointed to the phone. “Is for business.”
“I’ll pay you.” He drew ten dollars from his billfold.
“All right. One call only.”
“This one is long distance. San Francisco. Just two minutes.”
The cashier shook his head with a look that revealed he’d been duped—and that he wanted further compensation. “Five dollar more.”
Finch put a fiver on the counter.
“Go.” He checked his watch. “Two minutes only.”
Will dialed Eve’s cell phone but he was greeted by her voice mail message. As he waited for it to play out, he tried to think of an unambiguous statement to pass on.
“Eve, I looked at the CCTV. John Doe is Jacob Bell. Kali Rood’s personal assistant. Ask Finkleman to profile the guy and send me whatever he’s got. I haven’t talked to the FBI yet, but I will whenever they track me down.”
He paused to consider the FBI’s game plan and realized that they might be tapping her calls. And his. They probably had enough information to spin the murders into a terrorism theory and present their evidence to a federal judge to invoke the provisions of the Patriot Act. That would give them access to all the tools—including a roving wiretap—they needed to track Finch’s and Eve’s every move via their cellphones.
“Look, I can’t say anything more right now. Just focus on Jacob Bell and get back to me ASAP. All right. Love you,” he added and then wished he’d left that off. No need to let the feds in on anything personal. The FBI had a hundred ways to break your heart and throw away all the pieces.
※
The entrance to the Lenox Coffee shop was distinguished by a colonnade of four Greek columns. It provided a marked contrast to the tidy but pedestrian atmosphere of Harlem. The up-scale, genteel interior was furnished with puffed leather sofas and rows of tables and comfortable looking chairs. More important, an air conditioner with the control knob set to deep chill.
Finch picked up an iced coffee from the barista and found Simon sitting at a round table near the back of the room. Simon wore a suit and tie. Finch sat beside him and scanned the room. Had anyone followed him to the coffee shop?
“I’ve got no more than ten minutes,” Simon said and pushed a legal-size folder across the table. “Here’s the file.”
“Thanks.” Finch opened the file cover and skimmed the contents. Inside were some materials Jayne had photocopied from a public source, some printed email, and three pages of handwritten notes. Beneath these documents lay a series of corporate brochures—the headline on the topmost read, “Making Things Right.”
“This is her handwriting?”
He nodded. “But there’s nothing in there that I can see of any value. Obviously the FBI didn’t either.”
“No?” Finch took a few minutes to read Jayne’s notes. At first glance they seemed to contain nothing extraordinary. On the other hand, he knew they deserved closer attention. He closed the folder and studied Simon for a moment. A look of resignation had settled on his face. Perhaps he was coming to terms with his sister’s death.
“Can I borrow this for a while?”
Simon tilted his head from side to side, weighing the decision. “You asked to see it, not to take it.”
Will decided to let the objection stand without argument. “Have you heard any more from the feds?”
He shook his head. “You?”
“No, but I expect to. They’ll want me to go on record identifying Jacob Bell in the CCTV video.”
Finch realized that he had an opportunity to strengthen his tenuous bond with Simon. He decided to bring him into his confidence. He took a sip from his coffee and leaned forward.
“As it turns out I’m the only person who can identify all three men in the washroom. Toby Squire, who killed himself within two hours of Martin Fast’s murder, Raymond Guzman—Squire’s partner—who told me how the two of them ran their mugging operation. And now, Jacob Bell.”
“I don’t see how all this ties into Jayne.”
“I’m getting there. The list of names that Jayne had—the list with her name and mine—we found the link to it in the jacket that Squire stole from Jacob Bell.”
“What jacket?”
Will spent the next ten minutes relating the story that had brought him to New York. From time to time Simon shook his head with an expression of disbelief, but as Finch carried on with the tale Simon appeared more convinced. When he finished, Will leaned back a moment to consider Simon’s perspective.
As he took another moment to digest the story Simon shifted his lower jaw from side to side. He seemed to be debating something new. “You know, there’s more to this than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
Simon’s eyes shifted away. He seemed to be scrutinizing someone near the cashier. Finch turned to look at a couple talking discretely to the barista. Cops? They were big enough. Simon looked back at Finch and replied in a quiet voice.
“All right, look. I’ve checked you out. I know what you’ve done in the past, and I know that Jayne respected you. And I agree with your assessment. The FBI is too secretive. Jayne was my twin, for God sakes!” His voice rose with a burst of emotion. He took a breath then seemed to bring himself under control. “Besides, something else has come up.”
Finch scanned his face as Simon continued.
“Jayne and I shared one another’s computer passwords. It’s a twin thing.” He struggled to get these last words out, then managed to press on. “Anyhow after I left her apartment, I logged onto her Google account from my machine. She kept everything in the cloud. Files, email, work projects, proposals. Everything.”
“And?”
“And her photos. She once had career opportunities as a photojournalist. Then let it go. I think she just lost interest. In the past two or three years, all she took was shots for her Facebook page. Except for her very last picture. Just two hours before her death.”
Finch narrowed his eyes. “What’s in the picture?”
“A license plate.”
“From a car?” Play it slowly, he told himself. Reel this in very gently.
“Looks like a late model Cadillac. It was parked across the street from her apartment. You can tell the location because the door to the Bohemian National Hall is in the background.”
“Can you read the plate number?”
Simon reached into his pocket and passed a folded slip of paper to Finch. He glanced at the note. The plate ID was typed in a generic font.
“New York?”
Simon nodded again.
“Can you send me the picture?”
“Look, I’m not doing that.” He laughed with a cynical smirk. “You may think I’m helping you, but all this is deniable.” He waved a hand to suggest everything they’d discussed so far was about the scorching temperature and more bad weather to come.
Finch put the paper in his pocket and leaned back in the chair again.
“Are you giving the plate number up to the feds?”
“Withholding evidence—are you kidding me?” Simon closed his eyes as if he were trying to shake off a bad dream. “I’m calling them right after I leave here.”
Finch thought for a moment. “Look, this is dan
gerous for both of us. But I’m going to write a profile of Jayne. Of what happened to her,” he added. “I don’t need your permission. I just want you to know what I’m doing, so you don’t think I’m blind-siding you when it’s published.” He pulled his courier bag onto his lap. “Are you okay with that?”
“Do what you like. You’re right, I can’t stop you.” Simon paused to consider their situation. “As far as I’m concerned, we’ve just had a talk. If you want anything more from me, it’s going to be one step at a time. I’m not giving you a blank check. In fact, I doubt there’s anything more I can help you with.”
“All right. But if I learn something I think you should know, I want to bring you in on it, Simon.”
“I don’t know.” He turned his head away, then shifted his attention back to Will. The drawn look on his face suggested that he’d been thinking of his sister again. Finch could see that his ambivalence was tearing him apart one heartbeat at a time. “All right. But only if you think it’s necessary.”
Finch thought Simon looked as if he’d made bargain with the devil. As if he knew some future torment awaited him. What it would be and when it might strike, no one knew. But for now, he would accept the risks. For his sister.
※ — FIFTEEN — ※
BEFORE HE RETURNED to the Hotel Penn, Will offered the barista five dollars and called Eve from the desk phone of the Lenox Coffee Shop. Once again her line branched into her voice mailbox. He took a few seconds to compose himself and then recited the letters and numbers on the Cadillac’s license plate and asked Eve to do what she could to tap into the New York State vehicle registry.
“If we can get the name of the owner and driver,” he whispered into the phone, “maybe we can sew this thing up.”
He took the subway down to Penn Station. As he crossed through the thousands of people funneling toward Madison Square Gardens he glanced up at the event banner: “Bad Boy Family Reunion Tour.”
