Killer, Come Hither

by Louis Begley

  Goodness, I said. An Orthodox—super-Orthodox—trusts and estates lawyer? I didn’t know that such a species existed. Kerry, this is a stupid question, but here it goes: are you by any chance Jewish?

  You mean you’ve swallowed the Abner Brown shit I told you about? No, I’m not, though sometimes I wish I were. The Blacks—Schwartzes—came from Yarkshire in the mid–nineteenth century. My mother’s family came from Ireland. My hair came from God.

  I thank him for it, I said, and kissed the inside of her elbow. And do you think that Moses is up to squaring off against his super-Aryan former employers?

  Nothing could give him greater pleasure, she answered, though I’m not sure it will come to that.

  —

  It’s my turn, I said the next morning when Kerry’s alarm clock rang at six-thirty. My turn to show you I’m a pro at squeezing oranges, making coffee, and cooking four-minute soft-boiled eggs. You take a shower and get dressed. She didn’t protest. I was proud of her when she appeared at the breakfast table looking surprisingly rested—we’d made love twice after we went to bed so that in the end it wasn’t an early evening—and every inch an ace lawyer ready for battle. I told her I was hoping to complete the move into the Fifth Avenue apartment by noon and asked whether she was free for lunch. She wasn’t; it was the litigation partners’ weekly lunch, and she’d be expected to report on the argument before Judge Fiori, but we’d see each other in the evening. As she’d said: she’d take a long bath and wait for me.

  And I’ll take you to a very good dinner, I said. Eight o’clock?

  Earlier, if you like, she said. Seven-thirty?

  I nodded and decided that this was as good a moment as any to ask whether she wouldn’t like to move in with me. You’d see whether I’m a good roommate, I added. If I get on your nerves at any time, you can take a break from me over here.

  Jack, she said, let’s talk this evening. Of course, I want to live with you. There is nothing I want more. But I have a suspicion that the invitation is part of your Jack-the-nanny program. You want me in that building with doormen and elevator men, not to speak of Jack himself. Isn’t that true?

  She’d seen through me, and I wasn’t going to lie.

  That would be an added benefit, I answered.

  I don’t disagree, she said, but I assure you it’s my habit to be careful, and from now on I’m going to be even more careful. Down to using the firm’s car service if I go home after dark and asking the driver to stay at the curbside until I’m in the building. I know, I know, someone may be lurking in the building, and that is a risk. But there is another aspect to the situation: this is the wrong time for me to move to Fifth Avenue, even unofficially. Hobson’s attitude toward you is hostile. It isn’t likely to improve after you’ve retained Moses, and after you’ve taken whatever steps you’re going to take to find the monster.

  I call him the Voice, I interjected.

  All right, the Voice. The point is that for the moment it is unwise for me, if I’m going to stay at Jones—and I’ve no other place to go—to become linked with you in the mind of Hobson. It’s enough that every time he thinks of Harry I must pop into his mind as the lawyer who worked most closely with him. Let’s not aggravate my case by linking me with you, Harry’s nephew, heir, and champion, as your girlfriend.

  What would you like to do about it, I asked.

  Not much beyond not moving in with you just now. Avoid having lunch with you in restaurants where we’d be most likely to run into other J & W partners, take calls from you on my cell phone so my secretary won’t necessarily know I’m speaking to you, attend the firm cocktail party next week alone, instead of asking you to be my date.

  IX

  The Law Office of Moses Cohen, Esq., was situated on Park Avenue, four blocks south of the offices of Jones & Whetstone, and was furnished in the same faux-minimalist style. Black-and-white photographs of old New York and Jerusalem hung on the walls. The latter, it must be said, were not to be seen at Jones. I called him from Kerry’s apartment, and he agreed to see me that very morning. Moses, whom I had expected to be small and pudgy, turned out to be tall, with an athletic build and a handsome and open face. He wore a kippah fastened with a bobby pin to his full head of well-cut blond hair.

  He heard me out—shaking his head in disbelief at the story of the codicil Minot had claimed to have forgotten or misfiled—and advised me not to answer Hobson’s letter.

  It’s enough if I write to him stating that you’ve retained me, he said, and ask that he send over ASAP Harry’s last will and testament, trust, and whatever else there is in his will file, everything relating to Minot’s appointment as preliminary executor, as well as any papers they’ve submitted to get you qualified. I bet they’ve done next to nothing in that regard. You tell me they’ve shredded Harry’s personal papers. That’s cute. Once you become the executor you will have official standing. Depending on developments, and how much fighting spirit you have, we may want to commence a litigation to inquire into the shredding.

  Although I was favorably impressed by Moses, I stopped short of telling him about Harry’s having been pushed out of the firm or mentioning my belief that he had been murdered. It seemed better to let him operate, at least for the time being, unencumbered by that knowledge. Instead, I said I agreed with his plan of action and that Minot also had my own will, which Hobson or he should be asked to turn over to him together with Harry’s file.

  Do you have to have my existing will in your possession in order to prepare a new one? I asked. I’m really changing everything, so from my layman’s point of view a codicil doesn’t seem appropriate.

  You’re probably right about that, Moses said. Anyway, there’s no need to wait for your existing will. Your new will, which I’ll be happy to draft, will simply revoke all wills, codicils, and so forth. When we do get the old will we’ll write on it “revoked,” just as a matter of good housekeeping.

  I’m relieved to hear this, I told him. My ideas are very simple. Do you think you could have such a document ready for me tomorrow, say by lunchtime, before I take the plane for D.C.?

  According to Moses, nothing could be easier, a welcome change from Minot who had taken three weeks and the assistance of an associate and a paralegal to produce my will.

  That’s great, I said. Here’s the scheme.

  I told him that I wanted to leave to Jeanette an amount equal to that which Harry had bequeathed to her in his will, the copyright to my first book to Yale, the copyright to my second to my prep school, to Mary an amount to be increased by taking into account the number of years she would have worked for me prior to my death, to Scott such items of my personal property as my executor might select, and to Kerry the balance of all I had, real estate included. I wished her to be my executor.

  Moses nodded, a gesture that I thought was intended to express admiration. Does Kerry know about this?

  No, I said, she doesn’t. Nor do I want her to know it at this point. The fact is that I love her and want to marry her as soon as she’ll have me. My health is excellent, but I engage in some dangerous pursuits and can’t help realizing that I may not live to see that happy day. If something happens to me, I want her to be almost as well off as she would be if she were already my wife.

  Understood, Moses said. I think I should get a rough idea of your assets, as well as, of course, the correct titles of your books.

  It was clear he hadn’t read them. Most likely he hadn’t been aware of their existence. I forgave him and went over what I owned.

  Moses nodded again. Kerry is a lucky lady, he said, I hope you do get married and live very happily ever after. If you stop by tomorrow at noon, your will shall be awaiting your review and, if you approve, your signature.

  I thanked him, and went to “my” Fifth Avenue apartment.

  Jeanette had a sandwich and a salad ready for me and shook her head disapprovingly when I declined the offer of seconds. I’ve got to work, I told her. That was the truth. I’d just arr
anged to give away copyrights to two works. The third one was waiting to be created and copyrighted in its turn. You’d think that it would be impossible, or at any rate extremely difficult, to pick up the thread of a book if you’ve been under as much stress as I and were subject to as many interruptions. Luckily, writing is a magic activity. Once a book is anchored in its placenta, wherever that is located, it remains viable, because all the while, whether he’s conscious of it or not, the story that the writer wants to tell never stops maturing. His characters surround him and clamor for his attention. Minutes after I had opened my computer I was typing away. By the time I stopped in order to get ready for dinner with Kerry, I had more than fulfilled my usual quota. Fourteen hundred twenty-two words. I read over what I had written, revised it, and gave the text another reading. It wasn’t half bad.

  —

  As a student, I’d been accustomed to relying almost entirely on my memory, to the point of not taking notes in class or on what I’d read, or making outlines before writing a term paper. I’d get the structure of an essay fixed in my mind and plunge in. Making checklists compulsively was different—a habit I formed at OCS. Speak to Sgt. A about X; have men review procedures B and C; verify ammo counts. Those lists held anxiety at bay. No wonder, therefore, that when the shuttle to D.C. was delayed, and the plane, with passengers on board, was held first at the gate and then on the runway, I pulled out of my computer case one of Harry’s legal pads and began to tick off tasks completed and those demanding attention.

  Dinner with Kerry had hardly been a task. I didn’t write it down on the pad. I luxuriated in the memory. She had told me of her courtroom triumph: before the conclusion of the hearing, the judge had as much as ruled from the bench in favor of her motion, congratulating her on the persuasiveness of her presentation. His opinion would be issued before the end of the week.

  The client is thrilled, she said. If the judge comes through it will be a real shot in the arm; my position in the firm will be one hundred percent stronger. Hobson would have to be nuts, which he may be, considering what he did to Harry, to fuck with someone who’s doing work that Western really appreciates. Western Industries doesn’t bring in as much in billings as Brown, but it’s in that league.

  That was good, even if—but she didn’t know it—Hobson’s machinations could no longer imperil her ability to support her parents or pay off her student loans. My visit to Moses didn’t make the checklist either, but it had been everything I’d hoped for. He had drafted my will in clear language and gotten the bequests exactly right. There was something to be said for note taking by lawyers as well as by combat infantry squad and platoon leaders. Moses had scribbled every time I opened my mouth. We were all set. So long as I was alive, I’d make sure Kerry and her parents lacked for nothing. And she’d be well provided for if I disappeared.

  Now came the hard part. I wanted Scott in my corner because of the steadfastness of our friendship and his loyalty and because I valued his brains and experience. There was also the agency connection, from which I expected miracles, against my better judgment. At the same time, I recognized that I didn’t have a clear idea of what I could expect from him, what the miracles might be. Help from his colleagues at the agency and perhaps at the FBI? A way to involve the agency officially? The meagerness of my own experience—when you came right down to it, I had none—and the difficulty of the task I’d set for myself, to find the Voice and kill him, were disheartening. And beyond lay a task of even-greater difficulty: finding and punishing whoever had sent him. The plane finally lifted off. I shrugged my shoulders and started the checklist:

  1. Identify the Voice’s accent.

  2. Are there fingerprints other than Harry’s, Mary’s, Kerry’s, or mine on Harry’s letter or the envelope?

  3. Sweep the house in Sag Harbor for fingerprints and DNA.

  4. Harry’s clothes and the rope are in Suffolk County police custody—get hold of them (how?) and subject them to a similar sweep?

  5. The Voice’s question in answer to Harry’s about who had sent him—think about who’d want you dead. How to go from there to validating my suspicion that it was Abner Brown who’d wanted Harry and perhaps Barbara Diamond dead and had sent the Voice to kill them?

  6. Why was Minot hell-bent on getting hold of Harry’s papers? Answer: Hobson told him to do it. Was Hobson following Brown’s orders? If he was, did he know Brown’s reasons? If they weren’t Brown’s orders, what was Hobson’s reason?

  I stopped, not knowing what the next step should be, and told myself that what I’d been able to figure out didn’t amount to a pile of beans. Since I was through as a Marine Infantry officer, perhaps I had better stick to writing books. How low would I sink in Scott’s estimation once he’d heard me out? I’d find out soon. The die was cast. I paid for a bourbon on the rocks, drank it, and fell asleep.

  —

  Scott had told me to go to Alexandria directly from National Airport. He’d be waiting for me at home. Where he lived, a flounder house, turned out to be an architectural gem. As soon as I’d washed up, he gave me a tour, pointing out the original paneling, cabinets, and floors, all of which he had lovingly restored. When we sat down for drinks, he looked at his watch and said that since the dinner reservation was for nine we could talk without feeling rushed and continue once we got to the restaurant. He’d chosen it because it was very quiet.

  After I’d given him a summary of the events and the conclusions I’d drawn, he asked for the iPhone and Harry’s letter. I gave him both.

  Let’s see if I can enhance the sound, Scott said after we’d begun to listen, and connected the phone to a device on his desk.

  Suddenly, the voices were loud, multiplying the horror.

  You poor bastard, said Scott. I hate to think of you listening to this alone. I think you’re right. The guy is very likely from the Balkans. We have specialists in recognition of accents and speech patterns at the agency. There’s a man like that on my team. He’s a regular Professor Higgins. I’ll get him to zero in on it.

  I don’t know whether you realize, he continued, that there are criminal gangs crawling over the Balkans like lice. Real dregs of society: career criminals and thousands of demobilized soldiers who’d learned during the war not just to kill but to rape and torture. Every kind of crime against humanity. Those gangs are equal-opportunity employers. You’ll find Christians and Muslims, Serbs, Bosniaks, Croats, Montenegrins. They’re not interested in internecine wars. It’s only about money, nothing else. There’s even a mostly Kosovar gang, an offshoot of KLA—the former Kosovo Liberation Army—a terrorist organization if there ever was one that had managed to pull the wool over many people’s eyes. All those bums are in the same businesses: drugs, principally Afghanistan-sourced heroin transiting through Turkey into the Balkans, arms, trafficking in women and children, yes, children sold into slavery, money laundering, and fielding hit men. They’ve spread into Central and Western Europe, and they’re beginning to be seriously active in Latin America and lately the U.S.

  Why do you know so much about them? I asked.

  They’re something I’m looking at, he told me, because of current terrorist links and even greater terrorist potential. It ties in with my work in Afghanistan. We’ll get this fellow’s national origin narrowed down, and we’ll search our database for likely candidates. You know: a hit man, probably early middle age, probably physically imposing, speaks English, works for an outfit that would be hired by a high-class employer. That last factor may be key. If I accept for the time being your Brown hypothesis, his bosses have to be of a type that people working for Brown would trust with a delicate job. Don’t get your hopes up, though. If something turns up it will probably be pure serendipity.

  What about my idea of a fingerprint and DNA sweep? I asked.

  That’s easy and will be done. I have friends with the right skills who wouldn’t mind moonlighting over a weekend in Sag Harbor—for instance, if you graciously lend the house to a small group rec
ommended by me. Since it’s your house, and you give permission, there are no legal complications. We don’t need to go before a judge for a search warrant! The one thing I must ask you almost goes without saying: not a word about that to anyone. We’re not supposed to ply our trade at home. Let’s set this up when I visit you this coming weekend. By the way, will Kerry be there?

  I said I hoped so.

  From my selfish point of view, I couldn’t ask for better, but please be careful. The more she gets involved, the more she will be exposed.

  But Scott, she is involved. She couldn’t be more involved. There is no one who knows more about Harry’s work. Putting that aside, I love her, she loves me, and I want to marry her. With you as my best man!

  That was the first time I’d said out loud that she loved me. Of course, to whom except Scott, and perhaps Jeanette, could I have said it?

  Congratulations, old friend! I very much want to be your best man, so I want you both to stay alive. Now listen to me, Scott continued. That you are having an affair, that you’re in love—all right, it’s a given. Try to be discreet about it. The next point is more important. Don’t ask me how I know it or why, but I do know that somehow knowledge attracts danger. Especially in a case like this. Already she knows too much. So think carefully about how much you tell her of what you discover, and when.

  I nodded and said I understood.

  Good! By the way, I’ve talked to my pal Martin Sweeney, the retired FBI agent, about protecting someone who doesn’t want to be protected. He says it’s awkward, but it can be done. Essentially, it’s no different from putting a discreet tail on someone, and he’d be willing to do it. What do you think? I have a feeling it would be money well spent, even though, thank God, the chances of our ever finding out whether he was useful are close to zero. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee with him? You’ll see what kind of impression he makes on you.

  That struck me as a sensible idea, and we agreed that I’d call Martin as soon as I returned to the city.