Gods and Fathers (6 page)

“You didn’t go right home last night, did you, Bob?”

“No? Where did I go?”

Bob Davila sat at a table at Henry’s Diner in downtown Glen Cove, across from Bill Crow, an F.B.I. Agent who claimed he had traveled overnight from Washington just to see him. Bob had arrived early,
Newsday
under his arm, and picked a booth along the wall, where he could watch the front door and see passers-by through the luncheonette’s old-fashioned plate glass windows. He lived in Glen Cove, a run down town on Long Island’s north shore, as did Nick Loh. Around the corner, on School Street, was the apartment above a storefront where Fuchs had set up his command post three weeks ago. Piping Rock Road in Locust Valley was five minutes away.

“You went to the command post,” Crow replied. “We have you on tape going in.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot something.”

“What was that?”

“I bought my kid a flash drive across the street at Staples. I left it in the squad when we turned out.”

“A flash drive?”

“He needed it for school this morning.”

“I assume you have a receipt.”

“I do. At home.”

“The copy machine was turned on.”

Crow’s face was pitted and rough looking, like someone had tried without much success to sand over smallpox scars. His eyes were dark and quietly penetrating.

“I confess.”

“What did you copy?”

“My time sheets. I don’t trust the U.N.”

“That’s all?”

“Hey Bill… Can I call you Bill?”

“Sure. First name basis.”

“Is something missing? Am I being charged with something?”

Davila’s tone was not disrespectful. He knew that he, himself, at five-six, one-sixty, with his scrawny goatee, did not look very tough. Not like Crow, who looked like he had survived Custer’s Last Stand. He was as tough as Crow, though, this he knew.
But not now,
he thought,
stay cool.
What you copied last night could get you killed.

“What happened last night?” Crow asked, ignoring Davila’s question.

“The guy came out with his cannon and sprayed the car.”

“How did he know you were there?”

“The guy in the Hummer must have called him, or maybe he looked out the window.”
Or maybe they knew in advance we’d be there, ‘observing and communicating.’ That Mach .45 Ingram came out awful fast.

“Fuchs has some questions,” Crow said. “A couple of things don’t line up.”

“Like what?”

“Like there’s no blood in the car, no other forensics. Like Loh was shot outside.”

“Did you see the windshield?” Davila replied. “I got lucky, Nick didn’t.”

“Fuchs is on his high horse,” Crow said. “But to me, what difference does it make if Loh was shot inside the car or outside?”

“We followed orders,” Davila said. “The guy just came out and started blasting. No warning.”

“Did he step over the dead body?” Crow asked.

“He knelt behind it.”

Davila had had no qualms about lying to Fuchs last night, and none about lying to Crow. He was not going to let Nick Loh’s death in the line of duty be blemished in any way. Nick did what a cop should do, try to save lives.

“When’s Loh’s funeral?” the agent asked.

“Saturday.”

“That’s a rough thing that happened.”

“Let me ask you something?” Davila said.

“Sure.”

“Why do you think they left the third guy in the Hummer?”

“I have no idea.”

“I feel like they knew we were there, that he was a lookout.”
Like they knew about ‘observe and communicate.’

Crow took a sip of his coffee, put the chipped china mug down and took a pack of Camels out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“You want one?” he said to Bob, shaking a cigarette free and pointing the pack across the table. Davila was sorely tempted. He loved to smoke, but his father and older brother, heavy smokers, had both died young of lung cancer. He had quit a hundred times in the last few years, the last time only a week ago.
He knows I want one, the fuck,
Bob thought, seeing the brief flicker of light in the F.B.I. agent’s eyes.

“No thanks.”

Crow lit his cigarette, and took a deep drag. “You think there’s a rat on the team?” he asked, exhaling a long stream of white smoke up into the air.

Davila did not answer immediately. He was ready to leave. He had not spoken to Nick’s wife, Patti, and was heading to her house right after this meeting with Crow. He knew there was a security camera at the School Street building’s front entrance, but if there had been one in the small apartment they had been using as a command post, he’d have been arrested by now.

“Why not?” Davila replied, finally. “The U.N. goes by quotas, doesn’t it? So there has to be at least one rat on every team. By the way,” he continued, after a short pause. ”Did you read the paper? They’re saying it was a robbery.”

Crow stubbed his cigarette out and leaned closer to Davila, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. “Let me tell you why I came up here, Bob,” he said. “Fuchs’ operation is something we support very much. By
we
I mean the justice department, your government. An F.B.I. team has gone over your car. There was no way your buddy was shot in it. We’ll keep that our secret. We don’t want to hurt Loh’s reputation. More important, we want you to understand that your role is over. If you start asking questions, if you stick your nose in this thing, you’ll be very sorry. Your life will change in the worst possible way. Am I clear? Tell me I didn’t waste a trip up here.”

“You didn’t,” Davila said. “It’s not my business. Whatever Fuchs is working on, I wish him luck.”

“I know you mean that,” Crow said, getting up to leave, “but you know what Ronald Reagan said.
Trust but verify
.”

Davila watched Crow walk away, take his overcoat and scarf from the line of hooks near the front door, put them on and leave, turning his collar up as he stepped out into the freezing weather. Bob had kept his brown leather jacket on while they had their talk. He reached to its inside pocket and patted the papers he had put there last night.
Trust but verify
, he thought.
That motherfucker’s gonna be up my ass.

Matt DeMarco sat across from Manhattan District Attorney Jonathan Healy in Healy’s low key but well-appointed office on the eighth floor of One Hogan Place, the building in the downtown courthouse complex that Matt and Healy had worked out of for the past twenty-plus years. The law books that lined the room’s four walls were interrupted only by three tall windows, the two on Matt’s right covered by heavy velour drapes, the one behind Healy admitting the weak mid-morning sunlight. This was, Matt knew, the four-time elected D.A.’s way of forcing all supplicants to squint as they asked him, the sun king, for favors.

“How are you holding up?” Healy asked.

“Fine. I just watched Andy Siegal open to the jury in an armed robbery case.”

“How’d he do?”

“He did well.”

Matt had agreed that, though not bound to do so by any hard and fast ethics rule, it would be best if he stopped handling cases while Michael’s case was pending. He had been trying to keep busy advising Healy’s young trial attorneys, especially those, like Andy Siegal, who were transitioning from misdemeanors to felonies, where the stakes were much higher. Healy’s Chief Assistant, Nancy Coyne, had worked out a plea in the Morales case—she took the death penalty off the table—and Matt had not been on his feet, as trial lawyers put it, since.

“Good,” Healy replied. “Nancy’s got a good bunch of young Turks.”

“I see the governor passed you over,” Matt said. “Was there ever a chance?”

Matt was referring to the recent naming by New York’s governor of Kirsten Gillibrand, an upstate congresswoman, to fill the senate seat vacated by Hillary Clinton on her swearing in as Secretary of State. The papers had been filled with rumors that Healy was in the running.

“Just rumors,” Healy replied. He smiled when he said this, and Matt could tell, having worked with him for eighteen years, that the handsome and photogenic District Attorney had other irons in the political fire. Better irons, Matt thought, not surprised.

“But you didn’t ask to see me to talk politics,” Healy continued.

“No,” Matt answered.

“We can’t talk about Michael,” Healy said. “You know that.”

“I’m here to talk about Felix Diaz,” Matt replied, “the doorman at Yasmine Hayek’s building.”

“Felix Diaz?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

“He was killed last night. Executed.”

“Executed? Where’d you get that?”

Matt, his face neutral, had been watching Healy carefully since he first sat down, maintaining eye contact as much as possible with the man, only ten years his senior, who outranked him by light years and who was never shy about putting Matt—his star prosecutor and thus, in Healy’s eyes, a competitor for newspaper space—in his place.

“The Post,” Matt replied.

“There was nothing about an execution in any paper.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Come on, Jon.”

“Where did you hear it, Matt?” Healy asked again.

“I read between the lines,” Matt answered.

“Bullshit. You must have talked to McCann or Goode.”

“Why? Did they say it was an execution in their report?”

“You’re heading for trouble, Matt,” Healy said, ignoring Matt’s question.

Matt did not respond immediately. He had steered clear of Healy over the last three weeks, knowing that it would not look good for the D.A. if they were seen, or worse, photographed, together. This was their first meeting of any kind since the night of Michael’s arrest. The handsome Irishman had very little trial experience, but his political skills were many and diverse. Still, Matt was surprised at how much Healy knew about the murder of a lowly Mexican doorman a short ten hours ago. Unless there were politics involved. But surely Healy knew what the circumstances surrounding the Diaz murder meant for Michael.
Someone else went into Yasmine’s building.
So why the bullshit?

“Not me,
you
,” Matt said, finally. “You have to tell Everett Stryker about this. If you don’t, I will.”

“Then you’ll go before the Ethics Committee.”

“You will too. Michael can get the death penalty, and you’re withholding exculpatory evidence.”

“I’ll get your friends McCann and Goode fired.”

“They did what good cops do. You’ll get crucified if you go after them.”

“Stay out of this, Matt.” Healy said, getting to his feet. “I have my reasons. If you talk to Stryker or the papers or anyone outside the office, you’ll be immediately fired.”

“What reasons are those, Jon?” Matt asked, also getting to his feet. “I heard that our new Secretary of State called to congratulate you on solving the Hayek case so quickly.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Are you denying it?”

Matt stared at his former friend for a second. “Don’t bother answering,” he said, looking at his watch. “It’s 10:15, February 25. Mark it down. I resign. I’ll confirm it in writing when I get home.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re working here or not,” Healy said. “You still have a conflict. The people are your client, remember that. The ethics rules still apply.”

Matt walked to the door, but turned and looked back before pulling it open. “What is it, Jon? Governor? Attorney General? Is that what you’re selling Michael out for?”

“He raped his girlfriend and then killed her because she was breaking up with him,” Healy replied, his face hot and red. “Does that sound familiar? He’s
your
son.”

Matt took this in. Since he had been completely cleared in the Johnny Taylor case, he had not revealed the incident to Healy when he applied for an assistant D.A. job years ago. But the politically cunning Healy had somehow found out about it, and occasionally let Matt know that he knew—whenever a veiled threat was needed to keep the wild-man Matt in his place. This would be the last time.

“Fuck you, Jon,” Matt said, finally.

“Yes, the feeling’s mutual.”

From the floor-to-ceiling window in the study of his Park Avenue penthouse, Basil al-Hassan could see down the famous boulevard to the statue of Mercury, waving his serpent-entwined wand, atop Grand Central Station. Mercury, the Roman god of commerce, whose son was thought, in the mists of history, to be one of the founders of Damascus, the longest continuously inhabited city in the world. The same Damascus that at one time, also in the mists of history, was the center of Islam, but that was now a backwater, on the verge of irrelevance. On al-Hassan’s desk behind him were copies of
Newsday
and
The New York Times,
and next to them the current edition of the
Cambridge Business Report.
All three contained news of Syria, or Syrians, that was of interest to him. His valet, Mustafa, had left a whiskey and soda on a silver tray and would buzz him when his stepson, Michael, appeared.

Hassan was not sorry to see that the house at 221 Piping Rock Road in Locust Valley had been so prominently mentioned in
Newsday
, though he was certain that it would be impossible to discover the identity of its true owner, the Assad family in Syria. The Assads owned many properties around the world, all purchased by intermediaries with the help of high-priced local lawyers, reputable cutouts who were well beyond the jurisdiction or subpoena power of any western country. Also on his desk was a list of calls that Mustafa had taken for him during the day. They included Everett Stryker, Michael’s lawyer, and Khalif Wahim, the Syrian diplomat who owned, on paper, 221 Piping Rock Road. Anticipating the conversations he would have with these two men, he sipped the last of his drink and watched the lights of the city blink on as dusk turned to night.

In the window he could see his reflection and was pleased that at fifty-three his angular face was unlined, and that his hazel eyes, recessed beneath light brown brows, spoke of an inner softness that did not exist, had indeed never existed. His appearance was one deceit among the many he had learned to use in the several lives he had led since his impoverished childhood in his hometown on Syria’s Mediterranean coast.

Stryker first, of course,
he said to himself as he heard the muted buzz of his intercom and turned to sit in his plush leather chair.

“Sit,” he said, as his stepson entered, nodding toward one of the two armchairs that faced his desk.

“Basil,” Michael said, after taking the seat, “you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, Michael. How are you?” Al-Hassan’s tone was formal, as it always was when he spoke to Michael. This was another man’s son, not his. He had had a son of his own once, a son whom the world knew nothing of, a son whose death had, by the grace of Allah, been avenged.

“I’m surviving.”

“Sometimes that’s all one can do, like the prisoners in Guantanamo Bay.” Al-Hassan winced inwardly as he said this. The terms of Michael’s bail were extremely liberal. He could not leave the state of New York or the country. He had to show up for all court proceedings. That was it. He was living in a two-story wrap-around penthouse with views of Manhattan in every direction. He had the exclusive use of a new BMW and gold-plated credit cards in his wallet. And then of course there was Debra, in agony since her son’s arrest, desperate to comfort him in any way possible.

“If anyone can get me out of this, it’s you,” Michael said.

“Did you read the paper today?” the Syrian businessman asked, thinking of the two million dollar check he had written to post bond, and the things that money could, and could not, buy.

“No, why?”

“There was a robbery in Locust Valley last night, at the house where Adnan and Ali were living. Four people were killed, one of them a police officer.”

“I thought Adnan and Ali absconded.”

“No names were given,” Basil replied. “I called my friend, Khalif. No one else had been given the keys. They may have returned, perhaps thinking it was safe.”

“Have you spoken to Everett Stryker?”

“I have a call into him.”

“This is not good news,” Michael said. “If they’re both dead…”

“If it was them, and if they’re both dead, yes, it would be very bad luck. That’s why I asked you to come see me. I wanted to tell you myself.”

“I don’t understand how no one had any contact with them. No one knew them.”

“Except you and Yasmine.”

“And you.”

“Yes, I’m sorry I agreed to help them.”

“What about Mustafa? He sponsored them. Has he heard from them?”

“No, nothing.”

“What’s to be done?”

“I don’t know why the identities have not been released. I assume they will be. Then, we’ll at least know if they’re alive or dead.” Al-Hassan watched as Michael shook his head and looked past him out the window. “This is depressing news, Michael,” he said. “But you understand your mother and I are doing everything we can. We
do
believe you are innocent.”

“I understand,” Michael replied.

“Speaking of your mother. I am not going to tell her about this situation in Locust Valley until I speak to Stryker. Perhaps it was not Adnan and Ali. I do not want her any more depressed and anxious than she is. So we’ll keep this to ourselves for the time being, shall we?”

“Yes, Basil, I agree. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Please tell Mustafa that I’ll be down to dinner in thirty minutes.”

After dinner, Hassan and Debra sat in stuffed chairs before the fireplace in the penthouse’s large formal living room and sipped vintage port. Mustafa had built the fire earlier, and was now kneeling to light it. Bearded, muscular beneath his dark brown working abaya, his face expressionless, Hassan’s manservant for the past six years rose and returned the enameled box of matches to its place on the mantel. Turning, he nodded, first to Debra and then to Hassan, and said, “Will you be returning to your office, sire?”

“Yes, I have more calls to make.”

Mustafa, his hands folded at his chest, nodded and left the room.

Hassan sipped his drink and watched his wife’s profile for a moment or two as she gazed at the fire. After several futile attempts early in their marriage, Debra had given up trying to engage Mustafa. When she asked Hassan why his valet was so bloodless, his response—still a joke between them—was that Mustafa, a descendant of Salah ad-Din, did not want to get close to someone he might have to kill some day to protect his master. Hassan was sure that his wife was not thinking of Mustafa or her husband’s sense of humor tonight, or any night for the past three weeks.

“I have some news,” he said.

“Is it good or bad?” Debra replied, turning to face him. She had kicked off her high heels and curled her stockinged legs under her.

“I don’t know. Everett Stryker is looking into it.”

“What is it?”

“There was an robbery at the house in Locust Valley last night. Four people were killed.”

Hassan, still impeccable in the navy blue blazer, flannel slacks and Italian loafers he had worn all day, watched his wife slump in her seat, then reach to the bottle of Dow 1963 on the end table next to her and refill her empty glass. This morning a package had arrived from Stryker containing police reports, photographs, forensics and other material, what the defense lawyer referred to in his cover letter as the
discovery
in Michael’s case. Debra had spent the day poring over it in her room, her face ashen when she emerged for cocktails at six. Now it was more ashen.

“A robbery?” she said. “How can that be?”

“It was in the paper this morning. It’s very sketchy, but it appears it was what the Americans call a home invasion.”

“Are they dead, Adnan and Ali?”

“As I say, the news report is vague. Stryker has many contacts. He will get the full story. He knows how important they are to Michael’s defense.” Hassan had in fact spoken before dinner to Stryker, who, after a day of trying, could gather nothing further than what had been skimpily revealed in the press: four men dead by gunfire, one a cop, the local police involved, the mansion owned by Khalif Wahim, a high ranking Syrian diplomat, signs of a home invasion.

“How do we know it was them?”

“We don’t, but who else would be there? I spoke to Khalif. The place was locked tight. He had authorized no one to use it.”

“Four men dead… ,” Debra said. “What paper was it in?”

“
Newsday
. I will have Mustafa bring it to you.”

“The identities have to be revealed eventually, don’t they?”

“Not necessarily. According to Stryker, information concerning an ongoing investigation can be withheld.”

“He’s being paid a lot of money.”

“We must trust him.”

“Are there other ways to find out? I know you have other… other resources.”

“Other resources? Debra…”

“I am not as blind as you think, Basil. You go off to secret meetings without telling me details. You take phone calls in the middle of the night. You used to tell me everything. Something has changed in your life, and between us.”

“Do you think I am having an affair?”

“No, worse.”

“Worse? What could be worse?”

His wife of six years, who had been staring passively at the fire this whole time, now turned to face Basil, whose heartbeat quickened when he saw the whites of her once clear and beautiful eyes shot through with webs of blood, and the puffiness and rawness in the flesh around them.

“When this is over, Basil, can we go some place alone together? You are gone so often now…”

“There is an energy crisis at home. You know that is why I travel so much, why I must talk on the phone on a moment’s notice.”

“No, Basil, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“No more lies.”

Basil stood, reached down, took his wife’s hands in his and pulled her gently but firmly to her feet. Facing her, he drew her closer and put his arms around her.

“Do you love me, Basil?” Debra said, before he could speak. Taken aback by the urgency, the near desperation in her voice, he held her tighter.

“Yes, I love you, Debra,” he replied. “As I always have.”

“I have never interfered with your business.”

“I know.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t mean to accuse you. I apologize. I am…”

“You are what?”

“Nothing. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. When Michael is free, we will go away, just the two of us.”

“Thank you, Basil.”

“Debra.”

“Yes?”

Hassan hesitated for a second. His wife’s mental health was not good, and he did not want to make it worse. He was still holding her gently in his arms. Before he could speak Mustafa appeared at the room’s arched doorway, with his right fist to his ear.
Telephone
. Over Debra’s shoulder Basil nodded to his servant, and then, separating from her slightly, he extracted the silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his blazer and handed it to his wife.

“I must take a call,” he said.

“Forgive me, Basil. Michael did not do this.”

“I know. You should rest.”

Debra returned to her chair. Basil turned to leave the room, but then turned back and put his hand on her shoulder. He had been about to suggest that perhaps it would be a good thing if Adnan and Ali were dead. Perhaps they could prove that they were elsewhere at the time of Yasmine’s murder. Feeling the trembling in her body, looking at her pressing her hand to her eyes, trying to hold back her tears, he was glad he had been interrupted by Mustafa. If Michael had indeed killed Yasmine Hayek, then he would soon enough lose his wife.