by J. B. Turner
“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She never said that.”
“So, what did she say?”
“She wanted to meet up in Rockland, get to know each other better. That kind of thing.”
“That’s really fantastic news.”
“I tried calling her back, but she’s not answering.”
“She will, believe me.”
Reznick looked into his daughter’s eyes as she took a large gulp of the wine. “What about you?” he said. “You’re all grown up and back in the big city.”
“FBI field office, lower Manhattan. Only a few months in. But I’m loving it.”
Reznick leaned forward, grinning. “I know you are. I can tell just by looking at you. So, how does New York compare to Quantico?”
Lauren looked thoughtful. “Quantico was the basics. Twenty tough weeks. New York is . . . It never stops moving. And there’s so much to learn. It’s fantastic.”
“You’ve got to work hard to get the rewards.”
She raised her glass and clinked it with his. “To family. And hard work. And love.”
“Gimme a break, will you? It could be nothing.”
“It could be everything.”
Just after midnight, Reznick hailed a passing taxi to take his daughter back to her Midtown apartment. He kissed her on the cheek. “Take care, honey.”
“So good to see you, Dad.”
Reznick shut the cab door, rapped on the window. Lauren smiled and waved back. He felt much better after seeing his daughter. He headed inside for a nightcap before bed.
The barman poured him a Talisker single malt, neat. He took a sip as his stomach warmed. He checked his messages again. No message or voice mail from Martha. He called her number again. But it just rang and rang.
He wondered if poor cell phone reception at sea was affecting things. He figured it probably was. Perhaps she had access to a satellite phone on the yacht. But he knew her FBI-encrypted cell phone was typically all she would use.
He thought back to the evening with Lauren. She looked great. And her career was taking off. Most of all, she was happy.
He felt at peace. There had been times when he’d wondered if he’d ever feel like that again. But his daughter was in a good place. She was thriving. And Martha wanted to talk about them. Together. About spending time with him.
The more he thought about it, the more he considered that it was the sort of future he could embrace. He began to imagine a life with Martha. He had cut himself off emotionally for too long. It was like he had endured an endless night since his wife’s shocking death. The pain of the past was always going to be there. But he needed to heal. And to be healed.
Reznick got up from his barstool. He left a generous tip and headed up to his room. He watched The Late Late Show—a clip of a Hollywood celebrity who appeared in musicals, a guy he had never heard of, singing a Beatles song in a car with the English host.
He flipped between the cable news stations, which were focusing on the President’s upcoming speech at the United Nations.
Reznick felt his eyes getting heavier as the anchor droned on. He felt himself falling deeper into a bottomless pit. He sensed he was swimming in darkness.
His cell phone buzzed, rousing him from sleep.
Reznick squinted at the TV. The news was still on. It was the dead of night. Who the hell was calling? He wondered for a split second if it was Martha. But when he checked his cell phone, he didn’t recognize the caller ID.
“Jon, is that you?” The man’s voice was shaking with emotion.
Reznick sat upright, picked up the remote, and turned off the TV. He switched on a bedside lamp. “Who’s this?”
“Is this Jon Reznick?”
The voice sounded familiar.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Jerry Meyerstein. Martha’s father.”
“Jerry? What’s going on? It’s real late. Are you OK?”
“No, I’m not OK. I’m sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour. It’s just that I don’t know who to talk to. I don’t know who to turn to.”
“Jerry, what’s happened?”
“You’re the only person I thought of to call. I don’t know what else to do.”
“Jerry, tell me, what’s wrong?”
“There’s been an explosion. Martha’s dead.”
Five
The sky was slate gray on a sultry Chicago day. Reznick’s plane touched down at O’Hare, and he took a half-hour cab ride to the affluent North Shore suburb of Winnetka. The Meyerstein family home was situated on a quiet, tree-lined street.
Jerry Meyerstein was standing at the front door of the beautiful colonial. He wore a maroon wool sweater, plaid shirt underneath, navy cords, and brown brogues. His eyes were bloodshot as if he had been crying. “Good of you to come, Jon,” he said. “My wife is in bed; her doctor prescribed her some medication. She collapsed shortly after being told the news.”
Reznick nodded as he took Jerry’s firm grip. “I’m so very, very sorry for your loss. It’s devastating news.”
Jerry wiped the tears from his eyes. “Goddamn.” He stepped forward and hugged Reznick tight. “She talked fondly of you, Jon. Trusted you. As do I.”
Reznick was shocked at the display of raw emotion. He knew Jerry Meyerstein as a tough, uncompromising figure. One of the most feared litigators in the city. A man who put the fear of God into opposing law teams. The guy was a bruiser. Old school. But here he was, as if his soul had been ripped out.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“Of course.”
Reznick shut the front door behind him and followed Jerry across the highly polished hardwood floors into a living room that overlooked a sprawling manicured garden.
Tears filled Jerry’s eyes. “I don’t know where to start. I would never have imagined this happening.” He pointed to the sofa. “Take the weight off, Jon. Can I get you anything? Sandwich. Coffee?”
“I’m good.”
Jerry slumped down in a brown leather armchair and shook his head. “You’re a father, aren’t you? A child should never go before a father. It’s unbearable.”
Reznick’s stomach tightened. He knew only too well the fear of losing his child. It didn’t bear thinking about.
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to goddamn do! I’ve usually got answers. The truth is, I don’t know how to deal with all this. I feel like I’m drowning.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I will. But first I need you to know something.” Jerry glanced toward the ceiling, no doubt thinking about his wife lying upstairs. “My wife doesn’t know this yet, but I’m sick. The doctors don’t think I’ll see out the year.”
Reznick felt as if he’d been hit hard in the guts. The wind was knocked out of him. “Christ, I’m so sorry.”
“It comes to us all, Jon. I hope you don’t mind. Maybe this is presumptuous on my part. But I want to ask a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I knew from the moment I met you that you were a man of integrity. I don’t know much about what you do or have done. But I know enough about people to know that you’re someone I can trust. A man of character.”
“Tell me about this favor.”
“I knew my daughter’s mind. She confided in me. I know she was very fond of you. She valued your judgment. That’s why I’m going to tell you what I know.”
Reznick nodded.
“I got a call from the State Department.”
“Interesting.”
“I didn’t catch the man’s name. I think I went into shock or something. Anyway, he said there had been a gas explosion on a yacht. That Martha and her friend Ann had been on board. He expressed his condolences. It was all very flat. Strange.” He tilted his head. “Almost . . . rehearsed.”
“Why didn’t this call come from the FBI?”
Jerry snapped his fingers, and Reznick could see the legendary prosecutor in front of him. “Why indeed?�
��
“But they specifically said an explosion? A gas explosion on board?”
Jerry nodded.
Reznick felt an emptiness open up inside him. He imagined Martha’s final few moments. Consumed by flames. Thousands of miles from home.
“I said I wanted to fly out.”
“What did they say?”
“Not an option. And that was that.”
Reznick frowned. “How do they know for sure?” he said. “That it was a gas explosion? An accident? It must’ve only just happened.”
The sharpness in Jerry’s rheumy eyes said he wondered how Reznick knew that he had been asking the exact same questions. “They just know. The guy said they were presumed dead.”
“And you’re sure it was the State Department that called you?”
Jerry nodded slowly, head bowed. “You know, I never in my darkest days imagined my beautiful daughter ever going before me. And in such awful circumstances. Never. That’s the thing that’s eating me up. But to be told I can’t even travel to see her final resting place?”
Reznick stared at the feared Chicago lawyer. He had read his profile in the New York Times. About his tough upbringing on the South Side. Going up against corrupt city hall politicians. And then heading into private practice, setting up one of the city’s most respected law firms. “I don’t know what to say. Martha meant a lot to me.”
“I know she did. Jon, you’re probably wondering why I invited you here. I could’ve told you all this on the phone.”
“It crossed my mind.”
“I needed to speak to you face-to-face. I know what Martha thought of you. What she talked to me about. Private talks. You were more than a colleague to her.”
“Jerry, I got a short voice mail message from her.”
“You did? From Europe?”
“She was on the yacht in Spain at the time.”
“Do you mind if I listen?”
“Not at all.” Reznick took out his cell phone and placed it on the coffee table. The message began to play.
Jerry listened, tears streaming down his face, to his daughter talking about the future, unaware of what was about to happen.
“I was on a plane and didn’t pick up until I landed in New York yesterday morning. The message was probably left very shortly before the explosion.”
“She had the most beautiful voice. Just like her mother’s. Can you give me a copy of that?”
Reznick sent the voice mail attached to an email. “It’s yours. Jerry, it goes without saying that I’ll do anything I can to help. So tell me why you called me out here?”
Jerry nodded. “The State Department guy told me, in no uncertain terms, that the media couldn’t know about this—that it was a national security issue. They said the information was classified. And they couldn’t allow me to fly out there. That’s the rationale.”
“I understand that rationale.”
“So do I. The problem is, I asked them why the FBI hadn’t contacted me, and he said as far as he was aware, the State Department was leading on this.”
Reznick kept silent, content to listen.
“Here’s the kicker. I asked him if the FBI had been informed of what had happened, and he said, ‘I don’t believe so.’”
“‘I don’t believe so’? What a strange thing to say.”
“That’s what he said. He said something along the lines of ‘We believe it’s best that this information is not shared with them at this stage, as this accident is outside their jurisdiction. I hope you understand and respect that, Mr. Meyerstein.’”
“Now, that is strange.”
“It’s more than strange. It’s an insult to my intelligence. An accidental explosion, and the FBI, at least according to this guy, should not have this information, at least at this stage? It’s bizarre. And I’m not buying it.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Did they say what exactly caused the gas explosion?”
“They say it’s too early to say, but they pointed to a maintenance issue with the yacht, an electrical wire linked to the gas canisters, which may have been responsible. But it was all very vague.”
Reznick sat in silent contemplation. He thought again of Martha’s voice on the message.
“They say she’s dead. But I don’t have a body. Nothing. I can’t grieve for her—we don’t have a goddamn body. We can’t lay her to rest.”
“What about the body of her friend?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you want me to do, Jerry?”
Jerry stared at him long and hard. “I believe the State Department knows more than they’re letting on. A helluva lot more. If it was a terrible accident, why shouldn’t the FBI know this? And why not the goddamn public? What is there to hide?”
Reznick said nothing.
“They’re being economical with the truth. I know, I’m a lawyer. I can spot liars a mile off.”
“You don’t believe this was an accident, do you?”
“No, I do not.”
“That’s why you asked me to come, isn’t it? You want me to find out how she died.”
Jerry’s gaze burrowed into him as if delving into his soul. “I believe she was murdered. And the State Department is covering it up.”
“You know as well as I do, Jerry, there is no evidence pointing to that scenario.”
“I have reasonable suspicion, a legal standard of proof under US law. This was murder, not some goddamn accident.”
“You seem very sure.”
“What they’re telling me is a crock of shit. You know it, I know it. And I’m not going to sit around waiting until I die. I want answers.”
Jerry sat forward in his chair. “I want you to head over there. I’m not physically strong enough. And my wife needs me. Besides, it’s likely that the State Department has flagged my passport. If I were to be pulled aside and stopped at the airport, it would make things even harder. So I want you to find out what really happened.”
“You really believe Martha was murdered?”
“I believe she was assassinated.”
Reznick said nothing. He didn’t know enough at this stage to come to such a conclusion. He wondered if Jerry’s emotions were overshadowing his rational thoughts. “You want me to find the person responsible?”
Jerry nodded. “That’s why I had to speak to you face-to-face, and not on the phone. Do you understand? I know what you can do. I know I can trust you. And I know Martha loved you.”
Reznick nodded. “Are you sure this is what you want? What you really want?”
“More than anything. Kill the son of a bitch who killed my daughter. Can you do that for a dying man?”
Six
A cotton candy dawn greeted Reznick when he finally arrived in Mallorca, the largest of the Balearic Islands. It had been another long, arduous flight. First, a layover in New York. Then Madrid, before the final leg of the journey to the capital of the island, Palma. He had wondered if he should tell Lauren before he headed out of the country. But since she worked for the FBI now, he didn’t think it was wise to tell her—either about Martha or about his trip. At least not for the time being.
Reznick rented a car, then drove north to the town nearest to where the accident happened, Cala Sant Vicenç, or Cala San Vicente, as it was known to tourists. He felt drained as he checked into an attractive beachfront hotel. He unpacked his belongings, then charged up his cell phone.
He located the smoke detector on the ceiling, removed it, and replaced it with his own—a surveillance device hidden inside a fake smoke detector.
Reznick often did that when he was checking into a strange hotel abroad. He took a long shower, which felt good, helping to revive him. He pulled on a fresh navy shirt over dark jeans with black sneakers.
He opened the gun case he had kept in his checked luggage during the flight. He took out a 9mm Beretta and tucked the gun into the back of his waistband, putting the spare one in the room safe. The cold steel felt good on his skin. He picked up
his backpack with his military-grade binoculars and ammo inside. He always came prepared. He didn’t know who or what he’d encounter. But it was always best to be ready for anything.
That was his motto.
He headed out of the hotel and into the dazzling, broiling sunshine. The nearest bar was just across the street from the beach. It was populated by a few Mallorcan locals, a sprinkling of British and German tourists drinking coffee and beer, and a couple of sweat-drenched cyclists enjoying a refreshing drink.
Reznick ordered a coffee, a glass of sparkling water, and an omelet and toast. He sipped his coffee as he pondered what the hell he was doing there. He had flown all the way across the Atlantic. And for what? Was he letting his emotions cloud his judgment? He wondered if he had been hasty in agreeing to what Jerry Meyerstein had asked of him.
It was a gut reaction to the tragedy of losing Martha. He felt obligated. He needed to be here. If not here, where? Was he going to just cut himself off from the outside world again because he’d lost her? Just like he had when Elisabeth died? Numb his senses with booze until he couldn’t think? That wasn’t an option. Not again. It was better to be here, doing something, even if it was only to quiet the rage that would surely consume him if he sat in isolation. Better to use his skills to find out the full story of what had happened on that yacht than spiral into an inevitable depression. He needed to keep the demons at bay.
Reznick knew all about lows. Bad, bad lows. Unable-to-get-out-of-bed lows. And he knew, just knew, that a black-dog depression would engulf him if he didn’t keep busy.
Jerry Meyerstein might have done him a favor. Now he had a purpose. Sure, Jerry had crossed the line with what he’d said. Maybe he had made those comments in the heat of the moment. When his blood was up. Surely he didn’t want Reznick to kill the person who was behind this? Jerry would have known Reznick was ex-Delta. He also, Reznick suspected, knew something about the black ops and assassinations he had been involved in. Perhaps Martha had told Jerry that he had avenged his ex-Delta buddy Charles “Tiny” Burns, after a Quds assassination team tracked down and targeted the American Special Forces team involved in taking out a group of Iranian nuclear scientists. He had to assume Jerry knew all that.
