Book of Nathan (11 page)

“That’s the spirit.”

I walked out the Wayside office door and into Yigal
Rosenblatt. For the sake of appearances, he had vacated Twyla’s room sometime
before dawn and was now back on the premises looking a little less animated
than usual.

“Don’t lose it,” I said after handing him the
Quia Vita
medallion.

“I won’t,” the lawyer promised. “Bringing it to Binyamin
this morning.”

“Good.”

With a long separation from Twyla imminent, Yigal hopped in
half circles while I loaded the Mitsubishi. A minute later, we were battling
Orlando’s morning traffic on the way to the National rental car return lot. At
the Continental ticket counter, I put a little distance between my traveling
companions and me and dialed Doug on my cell.

“Remember I said I owed you one?” he opened. I told the
Harris & Gilbarton golden boy to speak up. A thousand screaming,
mouse-eared kids made phone talk nearly impossible. “I want you to know I’m
delivering!” he yelled.

“Delivering what?”

“Not what—who. Ever hear of Arthur Silverstein?”

“The billionaire?”

“One and the same.”

“What about him?”

“He and Benjamin Kurios were close.”

“Kurios?” I asked. Something didn’t make sense. “Silverstein’s
Jewish, right? Why would he have anything to do with a Christian evangelist?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”
 

“Look, I know Silverstein. Know him well enough to have
turned him into one of United Way’s top contributors.”
 

“So?”

“So I talked to him yesterday and told him about your
conversation with Zeus.”

How could I not be impressed? In some ways, Doug was one of
the most superficial people I knew. He had always been a fund-raising gun who
would hire out to the highest bidder. Still, his ability to connect with some
of the most affluent people in the country was mind boggling.
 

“Silverstein invested in a lot of Kurios’s operations,” Doug
continued. “He’s interested in helping you figure out if Zeumanikof—or whatever
the hell his name is—actually murdered the preacher.”

This was sounding too good to be true. “You’re talking about
the
Arthur Silverstein?”

“Yeah, the investment banker Silverstein. He’s thinking
about bankrolling you.”

“Bankrolling me?” I felt a shred of suspicion, but it was
wiped away by the thought of how my Zeus campaign could use more cash. “Why?”

“I didn’t read his mind. He wants to lend a hand, which in
Silverstein language means cutting you a check.”

“Are there strings attached?”

“You know everything I know.”

“You’re a lucky man, Doug,” I said. “I was going to put the
arm on you to hit Manny Maglio up to cover a few of my expenses.”

“What expenses?”

I didn’t have to tell Doug about the bloodstained medallion
and Yigal’s cousin Binyamin. But I did. Seemed to be the right thing to do
since he was opening the door to a billionaire.

“The kind of money you need is chump change for
Silverstein,” said Doug and he went on to drop the other shoe. “Listen, there’s
a little something extra we need you to do.”

I should have hung up and run. Instead, I stood still.

“Manny Maglio wants Twyla in safe hands for another few
days. For a week, actually—until she can make the move to Orlando, and start
her job. He doesn’t think she should go back to her apartment. Too many
temptations and whatnot.”

If shock and awe hadn’t overwhelmed me, I might have taken
some pleasure in picturing Twyla performing a whatnot or two. “You’re not
telling me—”

“Look, Bullet, I’m out there working for you. I got you
money. I threw you a few bones all free of charge. The only thing you have to
do is keep an eye on Twyla for what—maybe five or six days.”

“Five or six—
How
am I supposed to do that when I’m in New Brunswick, and she’s God knows where?”

“That’s the thing,” Doug practically sang. “She’s going to
be in New Brunswick with you!”

Last night’s meal danced in my intestines. “Absolutely not!”

“Manny’s got her a room at the New Brunswick Hyatt, which,
if I recall, is only a few blocks from your Get-Away. All you have to do is
check on her once and a while.”

“Doug, apparently you don’t know Manny’s niece. Think
nymphomaniac who charges by the hour.”

“That’s the point. She needs to go into withdrawal before
she heads south. This is all about salvaging a life, Bullet. That’s what you
do.”

That’s what I tried
to
do. I had my successes, but my best intentions and skills sometimes didn’t fit
with the person who needed salvaging.

“Even if I went along with this, Twyla isn’t going to trade
her apartment for a hotel room,” I said, hoping Doug wouldn’t remind me she
made that kind of trade every time she took on a client.

“She’s already out—she just doesn’t know it. As we speak,
she’s probably getting a phone call and a lot of bad news.”

Curiosity got the best of me. “How’d you pull that off?”

“Not me. Manny. He owns the property management company that
handles the house she rents. It’s being fumigated. For real, I mean. The damn
thing is wrapped up in plastic and they’re pumping it full of poison.”

I wondered if there was any politician in the country who
could make things happen like Manny Maglio. Or Arthur Silverstein.

“Twyla won’t be able to get her stuff out of the house for
days. She’ll be getting a ‘so sorry’ and an all-expense-paid vacation at the
Hyatt plus money for a new wardrobe. Jesus, Rick. She just won the lottery!”

I stayed on the phone a couple of minutes more, but whatever
else Doug said never made it past my left ear. I hung up and walked back to the
seating area where Doc and Maurice were looking wide-eyed at Twyla.

“Fleas!” she screamed. “Oh, my God! Fleas!”

The hysterics went on for five more minutes until we boarded
our flight.

“Bullet, this is terrible,” Twyla sobbed. “I hate
fleas. And the whole friggin’ house is
infatuated with them things.”

I sighed. “Infested.”

“That too,” she went on crying. “They’re in my clothes, my
shoes, and my makeup. God—they’re in everything
!
”

I gritted my teeth. What I wanted to do was to untie the
truth and let it fill the Continental terminal. “It’s temporary, Twyla. By next
week, you’ll be back in Florida.”

“That’s true,” Doc chimed in. “And while you’re in New
Brunswick, we can take very good care of you.”

There was a subliminal message weaving its way through the
professor’s comment, and I didn’t like it.
 

“Thanks for being such a friend, Doc,” Twyla said. She ran
her hand up and down the professor’s forearm the same way I used to tickle my
poodle’s belly to make its back legs twitch. Then she turned and stroked
Tyson’s cheek. “And you, Maurice.”
Then
it was my turn. She looked me right in my lying, no-good eyes.

“And you, Bullet. Especially you.”

My smile disappeared when I saw the two Hispanics who had
been on my tail for the past twenty-four hours. Their dress was business casual
but the cleaned-up look didn’t fool me. I locked eyes with one of the men and
that sent them scurrying away from the ticket area and out the main terminal
doors. Left behind was a Nike sports bag resting against a self-serve ticket
kiosk. When the second Hispanic pulled a cell phone from his belt holster and
began punching the dial pad, my instincts took over.

“Run!”
I
screamed.

I bulldozed Twyla, Doc, and Maurice away from the kiosk.
Five seconds later, a blast ripped apart fifty feet of Continental Airlines’s
ticket counter.
 

Part II

Chapter 8

Thirty
minutes after three pounds of C-4 plastique exploded inside Florida’s busiest
airport, the FBI and Homeland Security ordered an immediate lock down. For the
next four hours, teams of investigators interviewed over two hundred passengers
and workers who were in the terminal at the time of the explosion. Twyla, Doc,
Maurice, and I were among the first to be hauled into a makeshift interrogation
room. Five hours later, we were given the okay to board a Newark-bound Delta
MD-88—one of the first flights to leave the just reopened airport.

“You sure you seen those two guys?” Maurice asked. He was
seated next to Twyla one row behind the professor and me.

“I saw them.” Not that it mattered. My story about two
Hispanics and a Nike bag didn’t stack up with what thirty other witnesses saw—a
man in his late twenties of “Middle Eastern descent” who bolted just before
Continental’s ticketing operations were blown apart. The feds wasted no time in
issuing a warrant for the suspect.

“There were a lot of Latinos in the terminal when the bomb
went off,” Doc reminded me. “Maybe what you saw was—coincidental.”

“It wasn’t a coincidence.”

“But how do you know?” Twyla asked.

Twelve years of working with men who were never far from
trouble taught me the body language of guilt. I knew who was responsible for
the disaster, and it wasn’t difficult to figure out how he did it. Eleven
percent of America’s homeless are ex-military, and more than a few spent time
at the Gateway. I couldn’t remember how often I had played posttraumatic stress
counselor—how many hours I had spent listening to a soldier or Marine describe
what happened to his leg or arm after a run-in with a roadside bomb. Most of
them had an expert knowledge of IED technology. Disassemble a cell phone,
attach one of its wires to a detonator, and when you’re ready, dial the cell
number and close the electrical circuit. Not hard to do, and the results were
usually catastrophic.

“No matter who blew the place up, the fact is you saved our
collective asses,” the professor said to me. “If you hadn’t told us to run,
they’d be scraping us off the floor.”

I ignored the compliment. “I’m stepping on somebody’s toes,
Doc, and that somebody wants me out of the picture.”

“Why?” Doc asked. “I don’t mean to insult you, Bullet, but
what makes you think you’re that important or dangerous?”

“Best guess is Zeus. If I find out he’s innocent, that means
someone else gets nailed for Benjamin Kurios’s murder. Somebody wants Zeus
convicted and me off the case.”

Sheer exhaustion and the lingering shock effect of what had
happened at the Continental terminal stifled conversation. Not much was said
during the remainder of the flight or the drive from Newark Airport to New
Brunswick.

Then more bad news. The Hyatt Regency, which Doug Kool told
me would be Twyla’s home away from home for the next week, was booked solid
when I showed up at one thirty a.m. It took another half hour to find Manny’s
niece a room at a Route 18 motel about seven miles from downtown.

At
eight thirty the next morning, I picked up Doc and Maurice and drove north
toward Arthur Silverstein’s estate. A headache and a high-pitched ringing in my
ears were reminders of last night’s close call. About an hour later, my Buick
Century’s eight-year-old, 110,000-mile engine was wheezing and bucking along a
two-lane road more suited to chauffeur-driven limos that hauled the likes of
Jacqueline Mars, Steve Forbes, and Diamond Jim Brady. Bad as the car’s internal
combustion troubles were, Maurice’s internal problems were worse. He had picked
the backseat for our trip to Silverstein’s mansion, which put the professor in
front with me. Estimated time of arrival was ten minutes when Maurice stuck his
head out the rear window and spewed the half-digested remains of a McDonald’s
breakfast over a lot of expensive landscaping.

“Damnit, Maurice!” I swore.

“The fun’s just starting,” Doc predicted. “Know anything
about the brain’s vomit center?”

“This isn’t the time, Doc,” I growled.

“Once the center clicks into gear, it’s stays on. At least
for a while. You might want to pull over.”

I navigated my Buick on to the shoulder of the tree-lined
road. Maurice scrambled out of the car just as my cell phone went off.

“Yigal?” I asked, trying to decipher the voice coming
through the static.

“Just calling about last night. Wanted to make sure Twyla is
all right. And the rest of you too.”

“We’re fine. What about the blood test? Did you hear from
your cousin?”

“Binyamin just called me.”

“And?”

“He knows whose blood is on the medallion.”

“Whose blood is it? Zeusenoerdorf’s?”

“No. Not my client.”

I wasn’t in the mood to play twenty questions—not with
Maurice continuing to heave into a neatly trimmed hedge and Doc deciding to
play mechanic with the engine of my already-distressed Buick. “Then whose,
Yigal!”

“Juan Perez. That’s whose blood it is.”

“Who’s Juan Perez?”

“The dead man the police found in Kissimmee.”

I drew a long breath. “Yigal, help me out here.”

“My cousin Binyamin was working on the medallion. That’s
when another blood sample showed up at the lab.”

“And the second sample belonged to Juan Perez?” I
interjected just to be sure I was traveling in the same direction as Yigal.

“Yes. An accident victim. Real bad accident. Needed a DNA
test to prove it was Perez, and the lab asked Binyamin to do the analysis.”

“So Benny Yomin happened to be working on the
Quia Vita
medallion and noticed that the blood sample matched the one taken from Perez?”
I wanted absolute confirmation.

“Yes. That’s what Binyamin said.”

I tried to understand what Yigal was telling me. I was close
to certain the medallion was the same silver disk Zeus had seen the night
Kurios died. But what was the connection to a dead man named Perez? “Yigal,
where did they find Perez’s body?”

“Near Lake Tohopekaliga in Kissimmee. The car he was driving
caught fire. He was inside.”

I took a wild stab. “A blue car?”

“Yes. That’s what my connections said.”

“Paint!” I said, my excitement mounting. By sheer luck, we
might have just discovered who was behind the wheel of the sedan that had
forced the white van off the road. “Is there any paint left on the outside of
the car?”

“Yes there is,” replied Yigal. “Not all of it burned off.
Saw pictures. One door still had paint. Blue paint.”

“Listen to me.” I wanted the lawyer’s full attention if that
were possible. “Is there a way you could get one of your connections to scrape
some that paint off the door?”

“I can try. I know a few people in Kissimmee.”

“A few chips of paint,” I cut in. “See if you can make that
happen.”

“I can do that,” Yigal said, then picked up an old refrain.
“But we owe Binyamin his money. Thirteen hundred dollars.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I said. “I’m good for it.” At least I
thought I was, thanks to my questionable decision to give insider information
to Arthur Silverstein. “Let’s get back to Juan Perez. If you can deliver paint
samples from Perez’s car, I’ll try to find somebody who can tell us if the
paint matches the chips we scraped off the underpass piling where Kurios was
killed.”

“Morty Margolis can do that.”

“What?”

“He’s my partner’s brother-in-law. Does that kind of lab
work for the FBI.”

Astounding, I thought. For all his weirdness, Yigal
Rosenblatt did have important connections. “Let me get this straight. This guy,
Margolis—he could tell us if the two paint samples came from the same
van?”
 

Yigal paused. I could feel him about to lay an egg that
could mean nothing but trouble. “Yes, he could. But I would have to talk to
him. Face-to-face would probably work.”

“Face-to-face,” I mumbled and then gritted my teeth. “And
where does Morty do business?”

“Weehawken.”
 

“Weehawken? Like Weehawken, New Jersey?”

“That’s where he works.”

“So. You want to come all the way from Florida to New Jersey
just to talk to Margolis?”

Pause. “That would be good. I don’t mind driving. Cheaper
than flying. At Gafstein and Rosenblatt, we keep expenses down.”

I knew Yigal had a two-word ulterior motive for making the
trip: Twyla Tharp
.
Even
so, I decided not to bury the suggestion. “If you get paint off Juan Perez’s
car, then we’ll talk.”

I ended the phone call about the same time Doc closed the
hood of my Century. “Besides a filthy air filter, looks like a tip-in problem,”
he said. I was only half paying attention, partly because I have little
interest in cars, but mostly because I was still sorting through what I had
just heard from Yigal. The possibility that Juan Perez could be connected to
the Benjamin Kurios murder, not to mention the two Hispanics who bombed the
Continental terminal, made my Buick’s engine malfunction seem insignificant.

“You got a 3.1 liter engine in this thing,” Doc went on.
“Time for a new vacuum hose elbow for your PCV system. I gave it a temporary
fix, but you’re going to be bucking and stalling again in no time, unless you
get this thing to a mechanic.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Want to know how I figured out what was wrong?”

It was pointless to say “not really”
because nothing was going to stop Doc.
He held up a rag. “You use this to wipe your windshield?”