Detour

by James Siegel

  Who’s going to kidnap them?

  Those Marxists in the hills, the ones who’ve helped kidnapping surpass soccer as the Colombian national pastime.

  And what was FARC going to do with these kidnapped couples? Easy. Everyone knew that FARC made their money the old-fashioned way—they earned it. How they earned it was through the sale and smuggling of pure, uncut Colombian cocaine.

  Mules were their method of choice, but they fit a prototype that must have been summarized in every U.S. Customs training film. Colombian, poor, and disreputable. For every two mules who got through, one was snagged, vacuum-cleaned, and exported back home.

  What if these mules could be middle-class, American, and thoroughly respectable? What then? What if the unfortunate husbands could be sent through customs packing millions of dollars of cocaine in order to rescue their wives and babies?

  The baby nurse simply had to take this idea, this piece of pure brilliance, to FARC. Oh yes, and assist here and there in the kidnappings. There was that.

  Everyone would get their heart’s fondest wish. The nurse would get her granddaughter to safety. FARC would get a foolproof, surefire pipeline to New York. And the adoption lawyer? He’d get the money to keep the Russians off his back and bet the over-unders and the points.

  He who saves one child saves his ass.

  And for a time it worked. A long time, if you judged by the age of the letters.

  Something happened.

  Paul. The actuary’s actuary, who always figured the odds, but never considered the odds of his nurse leaving the hotel with one baby and returning with another. The last round-tripper on the Goldstein Express.

  Suitably duped, doped, and dumped in front of a burned-out safe house. And then almost slow-roasted to a crisp in the New Jersey swamps.

  How did that happen?

  Remember what the lawyer told him before extinguishing his own life?

  It’s those assholes with Uzis and kerosene I’m worried about.

  They’re starting to put it together. They’re closing in.

  And earlier, after they’d driven back from the swamp, when Paul asked him who their near murderers were?

  Those right-wing paramilitary nuts. Manuel Riojas, he said. He’s in jail. They’re not.

  And remember what the nurse wrote in that letter?

  He won’t stop looking till he finds her. R has the power and means to do so.

  They seemed to be talking about two different people.

  Unless, of course, they weren’t.

  Miles was scared enough to put a gun to his head and blow his brains out.

  Galina was scared enough to send her granddaughter off to another country and to never see her again.

  One scared of R. One scared of Riojas.

  Think of this R carved not into the desk of a defunct taxi garage, but right into the trunk of the fault tree. And then you understand.

  R is for Riojas.

  He had the power and means to find her, and slowly and surely, that’s what he did. Those men in the swamp weren’t looking for drugs or money—not simply drugs and money. They were looking for someone’s daughter. They were putting it together. They were closing in.

  There it was in all its awful glory, the fault tree.

  But when Paul looked at it, he thought he just might be able to use it to find shelter from the storm. Shelter for all of them—Joanna and Joelle and himself.

  Just one question.

  The girl the lawyer promised to adopt as his very own. Galina’s granddaughter.

  Where was she?

  THIRTY-NINE

  The bird-watcher bit.

  Paul was offering a look at a rare bird. At least the elusive progeny of one. He was offering to lead him to the nest.

  “That’s an interesting story,” the bird-watcher said. “How would you catalog it? Fiction or nonfiction? Maybe science fiction.” Paul could tell he was more interested than he was letting on. For one thing he slipped the cigarette he was just about to light back into its crumpled pack. He straightened up and peered at Paul as if he were finally worth looking at.

  “On the other hand, I’ll admit you’ve created a willing suspension of disbelief, Paul,” he said. “Of course Manuel Riojas isn’t my case. He’s case-closed. He’s sitting in a federal prison on twenty-four-hour butt-bandit alert. So I ask you, why should I give a shit?”

  “Because Riojas might be in prison, but his men aren’t.” He was echoing a certain lawyer, now deceased. “They killed two men in New Jersey.”

  “Colombian shitbags like themselves. So I ask again, why should I care?”

  “Because if he’s still sending men to kill people, he’s still smuggling drugs. His men are. Isn’t your job to stop it?” He was practicing a dangerous kind of role reversal—lecturing his jailer on the right and proper path. Any minute he expected his head to be driven back into the table. Only Tom was still absent, and his back was clear.

  “Well, that’s a matter of debate, Paul. What my job is. It’s usually what the U.S. government says it is. Right now it says my case is Miles Goldstein, which means my case, what’s left of it, is you. Not Manuel Riojas. I’ll admit he’s a lot sexier than you are. But that doesn’t mean I can turn cowboy and go riding off in a posse of one. Think what that would do to internal structure—if we all decided to do what we wanted. Think of the paperwork involved.”

  “Riojas is still awaiting trial. His daughter would be valuable to you.”

  “Maybe. If there is a daughter. Which, let’s face it, Paul, is kind of debatable. I’ll admit it, though—I’m intrigued. I am. Riojas’ bandidos aren’t my area of investigation, but if you’re telling the truth, they interfered with my money trail. They gummed up the works—which, one could interpret, has placed them into my area of investigation. So maybe I have quasi license to widen the net. Maybe. I’m still not sure how this impacts on your general welfare.”

  “I can help you.”

  “So you say. How?”

  “I was the last person to see Miles alive.”

  “Congratulations. Who cares?”

  “Rachel. His wife seems like a very decent person. I don’t believe she knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “What he did. The deal he struck with Galina. The drugs, the kidnappings. The girl.”

  “Okay, then. If she doesn’t know . . . ?”

  “She knows something. She probably doesn’t know what it means. She’ll talk to me. She’ll want to know what Miles said before he killed himself.”

  “While we’re on the subject, what did Miles say before he killed himself?”

  “Whatever I say he did. Whatever will get her to lead me in the right direction. To the girl. To whatever money Miles managed to stow away.”

  “Paul, you have the perfidious heart of a DEA agent. Who would’ve thunk? Let’s review. You want me to let you loose to probe and pry the poor widow. And in return for your government’s generosity?”

  “No charges. And you help me get my wife and child back.” There. This was his chance, this was his last best hope.

  “Sorry. I think you’re forgetting your current status as a stateless person. Let’s say, however, that charges will be reviewed. Let’s say that any said help provided by said defendant being held under the Patriot Act will be taken into utmost consideration. That any possible help within the normal channels to extricate defendant’s wife and baby will be extended.”

  It was the best Paul could get.

  Yes, he said.

  SHIVAH.

  The Jewish version of a wake.

  Various members of the Orthodox community were entering Miles’ house in a steady stream of black, like ants bringing crumbs back to the queen. Crumbs of respect, condolences, and coffee cake.

  The bird-watcher had rummaged through Paul’s closets and brought him back a suitably dark suit. He looked like just another mourner.

  The first thing he noticed when he walked through the door was the odor.
The smell of too many people packed too tightly together in a too-little room. There was no air-conditioning—perhaps it was considered disrespectful to the dead. There was enough disrespect already. Paul sensed a glowering uneasiness in the room, as palpable and uncomfortable as the heat. Know what’s the worst sin in Orthodox Judaism, Paul?

  Yes, Miles, now I do.

  Paul felt himself being prodded forward, slowly being sucked into a suffocating sea of black.

  He found himself standing in front of three backless wooden chairs, containing the remains of Miles’ family. His two sons in black suits and even blacker yarmulkes, sitting rigid and tight-lipped as if they wanted to be anywhere but there. And Rachel, accepting whispered condolences with bowed head, as if they were unwanted flattery.

  The older boy listened to Paul’s I’m sorry for your loss with silent resignation. Despite his father’s sins, Paul felt only compassion. Maybe because if you threw out the yarmulkes, it could have been his house when he was eleven years old. Numbly welcoming a parade of strangers who kept asking him if there was anything they could do for him, when all he wanted them to do was to give him his mother back. He knew Miles’ sons would spend the next few years wondering if God was an underachiever.

  When Rachel saw him, it seemed to take her a long while to place him. She looked up, down, then slowly back up again, squinting at him as if trying to focus.

  Then she pretty much fainted.

  A GENERAL GASP WENT UP WHEN RACHEL FELL.

  Poor thing, Paul heard someone murmur. It’s the stress.

  Both boys jumped from their seats as if ejected, clearly fearful that they were going to be made full orphans today.

  Rachel was carried to another room by committee, Paul tentatively following in their wake.

  When her eyes fluttered open, when she made it back to a sitting position, she saw Paul standing there.

  The bird-watcher had made some calls. The story—there had to be a story—was that Paul had left Miles alive. That he’d finished his business with him—this unfortunate visa screwup—shook Miles’ hand, and went on his way. That all this had already been related to the police.

  Paul, in other words, was in the clear.

  Still, the sight of him had proved too much for her.

  “The last time I saw my husband, you were standing there,” she said. “I half expected Miles to come walking out of his office. I’m sorry.” They were sitting more or less alone now.

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Paul said. “I didn’t consider what it might do to you—seeing me here. I just wanted to pay my respects.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for coming.”

  He wondered how long it would take her to begin asking questions. Knowing that she might’ve been the second-to-last person to see her husband alive, but that Paul was the last.

  Not long.

  “You have to understand this came as a complete shock,” Rachel said. Her wig had been knocked slightly off-kilter. It gave her the look of someone who’d been blindsided, not just by life.

  “I imagine every wife feels the same way. Every widow.” She looked down, as if mentioning that word for the first time had made it real. “Really . . . he didn’t seem depressed, or angry, or desperate. He seemed . . . like Miles. Maybe a little more harried the last few days. I assumed it had to do with helping you. He said the Colombian government had screwed up royally this time, that your wife and baby were stuck in Bogotá.”

  “Yes, it’s a big mess,” Paul said.

  “Did you sense anything? Did you see something I didn’t?” She’d dropped the Paul, opting for more formality. But then, what was more formal than death? “That day when you talked to him, when we left you alone? Did he seem unhappy, upset about something, suicidal?” Her eyes were moist, red-rimmed—she probably hadn’t slept much lately. She must’ve lain in bed staring at the same question until it imprinted itself on her eyelids: What had she missed?

  “He mentioned something about gambling debts,” Paul said.

  True enough.

  “Gambling? Betting?” Using a different word didn’t seem to make it any more comprehensible to her. “He’d bet ten dollars. He’d look at the sports pages in the morning and say there goes my allowance. Ten dollars. How big a debt could that have been?”

  “Gamblers lie, Rachel. It’s an illness, like alcoholism. He might’ve told you it was only ten dollars. It’s more likely it was ten thousand.”

  “Ten thousand? It can’t be. I would’ve known. We weren’t in debt. I would’ve seen it.”

  No. You didn’t know about Miles’ other little business. You didn’t see the money going out because you didn’t see it coming in.

  “Maybe he had more money than you knew about. Who did the finances, wrote the checks? You or him?”

  “Miles did.”

  “See. If he wanted to hide money from you, he could’ve.”

  Rachel seemed to contemplate this notion for real. A new mourner stepped into the room, reached down to take her hand, and whispered something in her ear.

  “Thank you,” Rachel whispered back.

  The man nodded solemnly and retreated from the room backward, as if it would have been disrespectful to turn around. Paul remembered: the uncomfortable awkwardness displayed in front of family survivors. What to say to a kid whose mother’s died of cancer? What to say to a wife whose husband has just shot himself?

  Rachel looked up at him. “I can’t comprehend it. I would’ve understood. It’s just money. I would’ve said okay, we’ll get you help, we’ll deal with it. He would’ve had the support of the entire community. It would’ve been okay.”

  No, Paul felt like saying. It wouldn’t have been okay. The community might’ve rallied around a gambler, not a drug smuggler. Or a kidnapper.

  “To kill himself because he owed some money. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Again, Paul felt like setting her straight. It wasn’t money, it was fear. Not just for himself—for them. In the end a selfish person had committed a selfless act. He must’ve believed if he wasn’t around anymore, his family would be out of harm’s way. But Riojas wasn’t someone who’d shrink from ordering the murder of a woman and children.

  “A lot of people kill themselves over money,” Paul said. “Themselves or other people. I know. I work in insurance.”

  Rachel looked down at her hands. She still wore her wedding ring, Paul noticed. He wondered how long it would be before she took it off and relegated it to the bureau drawer.

  “What else did he tell you? He seems to have chosen you to tell all his secrets to,” she said with just a trace of bitterness.

  No, Paul thought, not all.

  “He talked about his family. How important you were to him.”

  “Not important enough. I think you’re telling me what you think I want to hear. Don’t.”

  Paul shook his head. “I got the distinct feeling family was it with him. It made me wonder why you never adopted a child yourselves. Being that it was his life’s calling.”

  Rachel hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure a Colombian child would be welcome in this community. We’re an insular bunch, Mr. Breidbart. That’s an understatement. It’s not a particularly flattering thing to say. It’s true.”

  “Miles had a kind of love-hate relationship with his community and religion, didn’t he?”

  “It’s not a religion. It’s a way of life.”

  “I know. I’m not sure Miles felt entirely comfortable with that way of life.”

  “You’re not supposed to feel comfortable. You’re supposed to please God. It’s a hard thing to do.”

  Someone peeked in, saw the two of them talking, withdrew.

  “Did you ever meet any of them?”

  “Meet any of who?”

  “The babies. The adopted children. Did Miles ever bring any of them home?”

  “No.”

  Then someone did come into the room. An older woman, who leaned down and
said something in Yiddish. Rachel nodded, stood up. Paul reached out to steady her, but she waved him away. Paul got the feeling she was stronger than first impressions might lead one to think—strong enough to weather her husband’s suicide and the long, lonely nights sure to follow.

  She wouldn’t be fainting again anytime soon.

  PAUL HUNG AROUND FOR A BIT.

  He became increasingly uncomfortable. The heat, sure, but more than that, the sideways glances, the whispered conversations in Yiddish, the islands of mourners that seemed to offer him no harbor.

  Then, much to his relief, someone as out of place as him.

  An honest-to-goodness black man walked in.

  For a moment Paul assumed he was there to clean up. To gather the empty platters, the crumb-filled cake boxes and squashed and lipstick-stained paper cups, and cart them out to the curb.

  The black man was wearing a suit—ill-fitting, not very expensive, but nonetheless a suit. He was a bona fide mourner.

  One thing was painfully obvious. If the Orthodox crowd had considered Paul an interloper, they stared at the black man as if he were an intruder.

  The black man seemed immune to the reaction he’d caused. He went up to Rachel, sitting again on one of the uncomfortable backless chairs—Paul supposed discomfort was the point—reached down, and shook her hand. He said something to her. She looked slightly dazed, no doubt still digesting everything Paul had just told her. Still, she managed to find the energy to nod and say something in return.

  When he moved off into the room, staring down at the last cracker topped with chopped liver, no doubt wondering what it was, Paul walked over and told him.

  “Liver, huh?” the man said. “Hate liver.”

  “It’s chopped liver. It tastes different . . . It’s pretty good.”

  “Still don’t think so. Not a liver guy,” he said. “My name’s Julius.”

  Paul shook his hand. “Paul Breidbart.”

  “Well, hey, Paul, looks like you and me are the only people here not wearing beanies.”

  “Yarmulkes,” Paul said, unable to resist the temptation to correct him.