Silence Her

by Douglas Fetterly

  As he baked, the features on his face relaxed, giving him the look of someone’s grandfather, the kind everybody loved.

  An hour after the cake had baked and cooled, he was ready to add his secret ingredient—A bit more than last time, he said to himself. He found it was best disguised when added to the cooled cake, then topped with an abundance of frosting.

  He continued whistling while he scraped the bowls of delicious remnants of batter and frosting. Lowering the cake into the boulangerie box, he smiled. Yes, this will be a memorable cake.

  35

  Lishan perused the small stack of papers from Fatima, curious how she could best use the information. There was the public’s health, and her own life to worry about. She sat back, contemplating whether leaking any of it to the media would help.

  “Howard, hi. This is Lishan.”

  “Lishan! How very nice to hear from you. I’m glad to hear you’re still alive.” Howard chuckled.

  “Yes, I am, too. I’m lying quite low.”

  “A proper maneuver,” he said in an upper-crust voice he often employed. “By the way, I quite savored our rendezvous the other night.”

  “So did I. I felt honored. Thank you, too.” Lishan paused to separate the somewhat disparate subjects. “The reason I called is that I’ve been thinking about another exposé, giving more exposure to the ties between Conner and the FDA commissioner. But I can’t write it, at least not now. If I remember correctly, you have ties with The People’s Advocate. Could your write it? I can’t just sit by and watch the shenanigans. What do you think?”

  Howard paused, considering the weight of it. “You know, I would enjoy it. I’ll get in touch with them and see if we can rattle Conner soon. What’d you have in mind?”

  Lishan shared her thoughts. Howard said he liked her ideas, added a few of his own, and then wove in a comment about “great minds.”

  After talking with Howard, Lishan revisited Fatima’s papers and the Mazzini emails from the night before.

  The payoffs, and the Conner-Mazzini willingness to include death as a substitute for good will and responsibility, corroborated with Lishan’s earlier findings. And now she had it in writing, at least to the extent that the courts would accept email and a signed letter as uncompromised evidence. The revelations also clarified why Fatima was still alive. I nearly forgot—Fatima said her chemist friend would testify.

  Lishan stopped, sitting still. She wasn’t sure of her next step. She wasn’t likely to have any grandchildren unless she had the right kind of dirt on Conner and found an authority who would listen. After all, she was just a reporter, and Conner spoke to the dreams and aspirations of many upward-seeking officials. Lishan couldn’t afford to mistakenly enlist a Conner advocate. No, that would be her last mistake.

  Contemplating her options included making a detailed list—a list of possible next steps and contacts. Initially, though, she needed to finally put in an appearance at the paper. She assumed her disguise, which took her nearly fifteen minutes. I’ll just change back to normal before going into the paper. Let’s see, what will I do with all the garb and the makeup kit? Finding a suitable cloth bag to put her disguise gear in, she headed out into the daylight to catch a taxi.

  Arriving at her desk, undisguised, she was rewarded with a sinking in her gut. Her desk had been cleared. Her previous neighbors were all on the phone, so she turned toward Jerry’s office. He motioned her to come in. He had been watching her entrance.

  “What is it, Jerry? You can’t just let me be?”

  Jerry offered the pretense of not understanding, finally saying, “Ah. Your desk.”

  “Yes, Jerry, my desk. I feel like we’re two students in junior high, don’t you?”

  Jerry replaced his smile with a smirk, making no attempt to hide it. “Ms. Amir. I have needed to do some reorganization. Starting with you. It was convenient that you were out for a couple of days. You see, I intend to improve upon the newsroom’s throughput, and you are a star candidate.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You know how much I value your work.” Jerry barely managed to suppress the extremities of his grin. “Lifestyles needs you. They have a long-term engagement writing features about the National Zoo. If you are lucky, you can write about your favorite orangutan and your favorite bunny ‘til your heart’s content.”

  “Jerry, you know damn well it’s of no interest to me. The monotony would kill me. Or is that your intention—to drive me out of here?” Lishan’s voice began to carry deeper into the newsroom. “Dammit, Jerry.”

  Jerry stood up. Lishan was playing into his game better than expected. “Are you questioning my authority, Ms. Amir?”

  “You know I never question your authority. But I can and do disagree with you at times.” Lishan chose her word and her tone carefully, getting a sense of where the editor would love to go with this. “Isn’t that part of the newsroom creed?”

  Beads of sweat formed on Jerry’s forehead. “You, young lady, have missed the point. The creed—authoritative or otherwise—does not support insubordination. Now find your new home, settle in, and spend the afternoon at the zoo with your relatives.”

  “My relatives. My relatives, Jerry? Speaking of disparaging remarks, and coming from a supervisor, too. As a matter of fact, I would much prefer to align myself with my relatives than… Skip it. A waste of my breath.”

  “You, Ms. Amir, are on report. Strike two. You should know better than to trifle with me. Now, get out. You’re done for the day. Maybe more.”

  Lishan felt the storm within her, but decided to present a calm exterior. She knew this would undermine his confidence. Heading toward her new location—not surprisingly in a corner near the library, one with no view out a window—she promptly fired off an email to Elizabeth Walker, detailing the interaction with the editor. She wouldn’t color it one way or another, letting the publisher draw her own conclusions. Lishan said as much in the email. Afterward, Lishan headed home.

  In a nearby restaurant restroom, she reapplied the disguise. Looking much older and thirty pounds heavier took some doing. Tired of sitting, she finished her latte then proceeded to take a bus to where she thought Niesha might be. A consultation was in order.

  Over the next hour, she replayed, time and time again, the sequence of events and the situation she was in. She thought back to one month ago, when life seemed carefree. Realizing this line of thinking was not productive, she finally let go and came back to the moment at hand.

  Lishan got off the bus, thinking she might catch Niesha at the non-profit where she volunteered part-time each week. She asked for her auntie, and she was in luck.

  “Do I know you?” Niesha said with an air of caution when she arrived at the front counter. Then her face softened with recognition. “Aw, you didn’t have to get all dressed up just for me. I still prefer men, you know.”

  “Funny, Auntie. Can we go somewhere? Lunch, maybe? I need to run a few things by you.”

  “Sure, cute girl.”

  Lishan frowned, but Niesha knew it was fake. Ten minutes later, they were seated in an old diner neither of them frequented.

  “I’m just being a bit paranoid,” Lishan said, nearly in a whisper.

  Niesha leaned in across the table, toward her beautiful niece.

  “I’ve stumbled, more or less, across some information about Conner Foods that could help to put him away. And something else, though that isn’t why I wanted to talk with you. Jerry, the editor, is trying to bump me out again. But he’s losing ground, I believe. He just can’t see it. But, about Conner…” Lishan paused, feeling a slight ache in her temples.

  Niesha didn’t waste time with hyperbole or motherly advice. She knew this was serious. And she knew the editor issue would resolve in Lishan’s favor. “Okay. Talk to me.”

  “You’ve always had the right answers when I was growing up.” Lishan ordered coffee and sourdough toast when the waitress returned with her pad in hand.

  “And you, miss?” Th
e waitress looked at Niesha, who was clearly somewhere else.

  “I’ll have some apple pie, if you have any. Thank you.”

  Niesha returned her focus. “Conner. Has something else happened?”

  Lishan sat back, taking a sip of her coffee, taking in the sum of Auntie as she knew her. Her intuition was always right-on. Well, mostly.

  “Okay, number one. I met a man when I was in Albany. He was a P.I. He shared some information with me about Conner. Now’s he dead. Murdered.”

  Lishan stopped, for she could see the pain in her auntie’s face. She palmed Niesha’s hands. “You probably heard about his case. Upstate New York.”

  She had read about it. “I’m sorry, Lishan. Truly. Had you gotten to know him a little?”

  Lishan hesitated, then said, “Well, yes. He was a nice guy.”

  Niesha filtered out any questions about sex. It just wasn’t appropriate.

  Lishan spent the next half an hour outlining the events that her auntie didn’t already know about. Niesha took copious notes, including how to access Mazzini’s email. Her notebook was never far from reach.

  “Would it help if I get into Conner’s email as well? Our hacker friend should be able to help.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Lishan, I’m sorry about your friend’s death. What was his name?”

  “Beck.”

  “Last name?”

  “Conner.”

  “Hmm. All in the family.” Niesha looked up at Lishan to see how her niece was doing. “You know, I bristle at the thought of you getting hurt.”

  “Auntie, I’m mostly concerned about you. They won’t care that you’re a woman, an auntie—not in this part of the world.”

  “Elders aren’t respected in the U.S. like they are in most other countries.” Niesha stood. “I’ll call Joshua. I hope to have something of substance to you within twenty-four hours, if not before.”

  Niesha gave Lishan a kiss on the cheek. “Lishan, be careful. Really careful. You are important to me, and to many others as well.”

  “Thanks, Auntie. You, too. Love you.”

  36

  A black Ford Crown Victoria pulled up in front of the apartment complex where Lishan lived. Double-parking for just a few minutes, the driver opened the trunk and removed a bright boulangerie box. Taking it inside the lobby, he set it on a table near an array of couches. He neatly put a stack of small plates—not plastic, but simple china—along with stainless forks and folded cotton napkins next to the box. Opening it to reveal the cake, he ensured that the note on the inside of the cover was readily visible. It read, “From Lishan. Just because. Have fun, everyone!”

  Smiling to a few of the students who came to investigate, he left the way he came. As he pulled away, Mazzini knew Conner would be pleased.

  - - -

  Erik was busy in his office on the other side of the lobby. He looked up to see students gathered around the coffee table. He just smiled, happy for them.

  A couple of hours later, a young woman came into his office, carrying her piece of cake and one for Erik.

  “Hey, Erik. Some nice man brought in a cake. A note says it’s from Lishan.”

  Erik started to make a pleasant remark as to people’s kindness when his eyes suddenly grew enormous with fear. He jumped up and ran toward the cake, purposely knocking both pieces from the student’s hand as he passed by her.

  “Stop. Don’t eat that cake. Stop,” he yelled at everyone. “How long has it been here?”

  One of the students, with a half-eaten piece, said, “I don’t know. Maybe two hours ago?”

  “This cake might be poisoned,” Erik shouted. He looked around at the handful of students hovering. “Is there anyone who ate some cake, or took some, who isn’t here now? Hurry, this is important.”

  “Mannie took one to her room.”

  “Someone who hasn’t had cake, go get her. Now! Everyone else, stay here.”

  Erik called 911, saying they would need ambulances for possibly six poison victims.

  All hope of an error on his part vanished as one of the students vomited and had a seizure. A second student followed suit a few minutes later.

  Sirens blared in the distance. It sounded like a fleet.

  37

  As Niesha walked the four blocks back to the nonprofit and thought about Lishan’s well-being, she found herself reviewing their years together. She wondered if she could, or should, have done anything differently. Should she have guided Lishan in a manner that was less provocative toward the world?

  The answer came easily. She knew that sheltering her, the family, from the world’s problems wouldn’t solve anything. She couldn’t perpetuate the lesser role of women that most cultures had dictated for so many centuries. And in order to combat that lesser standing, Lishan needed to be strong in the world’s face. Her charge—her niece—had picked up on this. In truth, Niesha knew she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  As she walked, several times she quickly turned around as though she had forgotten something. There was no obvious tail, but criminals could be smart, and they played their hunches, including having photos of parents, aunties, siblings.

  After finishing at the non-profit, she headed home and immediately got to work on what she and Lishan had talked about. Fortunately, her home Internet connection was still deftly buried under so many layers of incorporation and DBAs as to render it undetectable by most anyone, including those of criminal intent. Then again, if someone were to use a data sniffer to monitor her connection, her privacy would be compromised.

  Settling in at her desk, she had to wait too long for her computer’s operating system to come alive. She decided it was finally time to buy that Mac. Time was precious.

  Niesha pondered the situation—her good life, good health, wonderful relationships. Was she putting it all on the line? But the question was rhetorical. It didn’t matter. Her niece mattered.

  Spreading her notes out on her desk, she planned her approach. Number one was digging through Mazzini’s email, for this would give her some insight into character. She did this for the first hour, making a few scribbled notes on scratch paper.

  Next was Conner’s email. She called Joshua. He answered on the first ring, as he always seemed to, causing Niesha to poke fun about his being a nerd without a life. They both laughed. Two hours elapsed before she heard from him. Because of his earlier success with Mazzini’s email, it cut the time a little for getting into Conner’s.

  Over the next two hours, Niesha amassed a list of mail related to her niece’s investigation and plight. One of the emails caused her to nearly choke on confirmation of her fear: Conner had contacted Rudy—Rudy Conner, a hit man separate from Mazzini—and her niece was the target.

  It was no surprise, but it did validate her fear. At least now she knew what she was up against. Then, halfway into this particular email, she was hit with an eye-opener. Conner had written to Rudy: “And Mazzini. It’s time to take him out as well. He let that Fatima woman and two others off the hook for not making their payments on time. His conscience is getting to him. He has served his purpose but he’s weakening and is no longer reliable. No hurry on Mazzini, but the reporter can’t wait. J”

  The email was written this morning at 3:30 a.m. She printed out the email, along with Rudy’s email address, curious why a hit man would be so imprudent as to transact business via electronic communications. Perhaps Rudy was enthralled by the latest technologies, wanting to appear modern. Perhaps he just didn’t have any savvy when it came to confidentiality. Niesha had read of old-time mafia members who still lived in the pre-World War II style of the twenties.

  Then it struck her. Mazzini could become an ally if he knew of the double-cross. She had to get to him as soon as she could. She also had to slow down this Rudy fellow. If she could track him down, a well-placed phone call might just do the trick. Perhaps she could pit Mazzini and Rudy against one another. No, she needed Mazzini. He would be a star witness, if they got tha
t far. Not if. They had to.

  R.C.@goon.biz. This guy was ego, all the way. A domain search through Network Solutions uncovered the domain’s owner and webmaster Paul Rollins, including Rollins’ contact info. Using a calling card, providing a barrier behind her real number, she placed the call.

  “Mr. Rollins. This is the Internal Revenue Service. I’m agent number 743552. I need a minute of your time.” Intimidation was the root of Niesha’s usual success with this line.

  “Ye-e-s. How can I help you? Am I in trouble?”

  Paul Rollins was a recluse, hidden behind his computers in a small, damp apartment. The recently delivered groceries were still on the counter. Rollins’ fear of the world kept him inside. What he feared most, though, was the government.

  “Not yet, Mr. Rollins. But there’s a client of yours whose contact number I need from you. His evasiveness will only prove judicially disastrous for him. We know you have means of contacting him. Rudy Conner. I need his email address and phone numbers. And, Mr. Rollins, you must not divulge our conversation. By the way, we haven’t audited you in a few years. We do hope you are staying on track this time. About that information…”

  “Just a minute, Miss...? That information is private, you must know. I can’t…”

  “You have my agent number,” Niesha interrupted. “Feel free to use it. File a complaint if you must. On a side note, do you have all your records in order toward your declared expenses for your two past tax seasons? It shows here that if we need to, we can…”

  “I have it right here,” Rollins blurted out. “It’s Rudy Conner. 525 Bishop Place, D.C.”

  “And?”

  “Uh, yes. Email is r.c@goon.biz.”

  “One more.”

  Niesha could hear the hesitation. “Mr. Rollins?”