Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator (19 page)

“You promise?”

“Promise,” I say.

“High five,” he says. High five. “Okay, dude, this is going to be awesome. We can catch the early bus. It leaves from that limo place near the mall. I’ll pick you up bright and early.”

“Those are my two least favorite things: brightness and
earliness. And wait, what? The bus? What are we, twelve? Why aren’t we driving into the city like men?”

“Possibly because some of us don’t know how to drive, like children,” he says, none too kindly.

“Okay, yeah, but what about you?”

“My mom will kill me if I take the car into the city. She’ll know too because of the E-ZPass. She studies that thing like a hawk.”

“Is she afraid you’re taking secret late-night trips to the Meatpacking District?”

“Very funny,” he says. He’s right. I am very funny.

“Also: very manly of you to not be allowed to drive somewhere because your mom says. You could totally take down the E-ZPass and pay cash. But no, your mommy says you have to take the bus. Awww.”

“Didn’t you take the bus to school the other day, Guy?”

“Shut up, Anoop.”

“Ha-ha. You rode the bus with Penis-Head.”

“Rub it in, jerk.”

“That’s what your mother said.”

“Nice.”

“Now get some rest. I really hate driving in the city and, fine, that’s why we’re taking the bus.”

Yes, it seems as though one should always be well rested when meeting a killer. I want to die like I live. Actually, I don’t want to die at all.

The early bus to New York is always crowded. Always tons of people from the Jerz heading into the NYC. They call Berry Ridge a bedroom community, which means that a lot of people who live here actually pretty much just sleep here. They spend the rest of their time working in New York City. Or, presumably, they actually spend most of their time getting to New York City. It’s a long ride.

“How long is this going to take?” I ask Anoop, getting bored even though we’re barely out of town. “And why do you get the window seat?”

“Well, it is only twenty-six-point-two miles to the Port Authority,” he says, checking his phone, ignoring my second question. “So about an hour if we’re lucky. But we probably won’t be lucky. I’m seeing a lot of traffic.”

“Hey,” I say. “I never realized that Berry Ridge is twenty-six-point-two miles from the city. Isn’t that how long a marathon is? We could just run it.”

“Have you been secretly training for a marathon in between naps and video games, Guy?”

“No, but man, it is pretty amazing that it takes us longer by bus to go twenty-six miles than it does for some people to run it.”

“Just think if we had a horse.”

“Progress is pretty weird,” I say.

“Yeah, but it does have its perks,” he says, shaking his phone.

“If somehow we could live in a world without traffic, but
with
smartphones,” I say.

“Well, let’s make the most of our time here,” he says. Man, I think, Anoop is deep. We only have so much time in life. Our days are a finite resource. Then I realize that he’s not being philosophical, he just means we should use our time on the bus wisely. “We should be talking about plans, anyway,” he says. “What are we going to do when we find Jacques? Are we even going to recognize him?”

It takes me a second to snap out of my thoughts, to deal with the pressing issue of finding Jacques and hopefully staying alive in the process. “We’ll recognize him,” I say. “He looks a lot like my dad, uh, did.” That comment sits quietly for a moment.

“I still can’t believe Fran is gone,” Anoop says. The bus bounces over a pothole. “Sucks.”

And this, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, is why I love Anoop. When you lose a parent, people don’t know what to say. They’re afraid of saying the wrong thing. So often they don’t say anything at all. Which, weirdly enough, is the wrong thing. Say something. Say anything. Just “Dude, I’m sorry that happened” or one of the canned lines like “I’m so sorry for your loss,” even though there is no reason to apologize. Or just say “Sucks.” Just say that. Just say one word. “Sucks.” It’s better than saying nothing. Side note: What’s up with saying that you “lost” a parent? He’s not a sock. He’s not a mitten. He’s not a lucky baseball card. I didn’t
misplace
him. I know right where he is. The problem is that he’s dead.

“Yeah,” I mumble. (What, you thought I was going to say that out loud to Anoop about how I love him?) “Sucks.”

The bus rumbles along slowly, lurching, then stopping;
lurching, then stopping. Good old Interstate 80. Good old New Jersey Transit. Signs for Clifton, Fair Lawn, Passaic, East Rutherford. “Do you think Fair Lawn has a complex about only being fair?” I ask Anoop. “Wouldn’t they rather be Great Lawn? Why don’t they let me name towns?”

“Good question, Guy,” he says. “And it’s very interesting to think about what Fair Lawn thinks about being only a fair lawn, but we need to formulate a plan here. I brought the fingerprinting kit, of course—”

“Of course,” I say, like it would be ludicrous to ever leave the house without it.

“Because why force a confrontation if you don’t have to, right?” he says. “All we really have to do is get one of his prints and we can compare it to the—”

“Exemplar,” I say.

“Exemplar,” he says, smiling. “And we can know if he’s the one who was on your roof without ever having to confront him. If we go to the police with that, they’ll have to do something, right?”

“One would think,” I say.

The traffic gets thicker. The bus goes slower. The tunnel is up ahead. For long periods of time we’re just sitting, vibrating in the bus. I want to puke. Before long we are descending into the tunnel’s mouth, inching along in menacing darkness. Every time I’m in the tunnel, I can’t help but think how amazing it is that humans built this. This entire tunnel, big enough and strong enough to withstand millions of cars. Under water. You can’t help but think that nerds built this tunnel. What would the world be like without our nerds?

And before too long, the tunnel barfs us back into daylight, into the bustle of the Port Authority. It’s hard to believe how many people are going in all directions at once. I’m sort of in awe every time I come here, stopping to stare at the diverse millions—a Hasidic Jew in a Yankees cap, an African woman in a bright orange head wrap and matching flowered dress. A homeless guy peeing in a trash can. Ah, New York.

“Hey, watch it, buddy,” a New Yorker says behind me, shoving me out of the way.

Anoop is off and running, not quite literally, but almost. He’s moving quickly, on a mission. His long legs are a blur as his thin form darts through the human traffic. “Come on,” he says. “This is getting exciting.”

“Can’t we take a cab?” I say.

“What am I, made of money?” he asks. He does it in an impression of an old Jewish man, and it makes me smile. “It’s only a mile to his place. Follow me!” He’s off through the doors of the bus station into the street, eyes darting between reading directions on his phone and the street signs. As always, I’m tagging along, trying to keep up.

Anoop strides through the traffic like a pro while I cower on the curb, waiting to make sure every car is going to stop. He’s confident that they will. He’s confident that the world will treat him well. And it does.

After twenty minutes of brisk walking, we’re in the part of the city known as Chelsea. Jacques’s address is on Twenty-first Street. It’s a nice enough neighborhood. Crowded, but peaceful. The street is lined with trees and there is a nearby park. But it’s not like home. The buildings are huge. You get a weird sort of vertigo
staring up into the giant buildings. You also get people who push past you, annoyed by the gawking tourist. Everyone in New York seems very annoyed all the time. The horns honk endlessly, like the squawk of irritated birds. Why would you want to live here? Those are my thoughts. Also: We’re screwed.

Anoop is standing, staring at the building that must match the address of where Jacques lives. It’s an
enormous
high-rise, with what must be hundreds if not thousands of apartments in it. I look at the much-handled doorknob, the people coming and going, and I realize that there is no way we can lift a print off of anything. How in the world are we going to find him?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Anoop says. “I have to admit that I didn’t quite see this coming.”

“There must be a million people who live in that building,” I say. “This is totally impossible.” We’re standing there looking at this enormous building and I feel incredibly small. I feel like curling up in a ball on the sidewalk and weeping. Only, you know, the sidewalk is kinda gross.

“Maybe not
totally
impossible,” Anoop says. “We just have to get into the lobby. Take this one step at a time. Of course—there is a slight impediment to that first step.” He points to the building’s doorman, a dude the size of a large refrigerator looming near the entrance. He’s wearing a red velvet uniform and has on a hat that should belong to a boat captain or an officer in the Marines.

“Hey, why do doormen wear those stupid hats?” I ask, mainly because I can’t think of anything resembling a plan to get past him.

“Those hats aren’t stupid, Guy. They are … wait for it … adorable. Get it? Like a-door-able?” Anoop says.

“Yeah, got it,” I say. “Hilarious.”

“Adorable,” he repeats, cracking himself up. He slaps his knee.

“Are you stalling because you have no idea what to do next?” I ask.

“No!” he says. “I’m … I’m … well, yeah, that’s what I’m doing.” At least he’s being honest. And then I have a brainstorm!

“Got it!” I say. “You run up to him and start cursing in Arabic. He’ll think you’re a terrorist and chase you down the street. I’ll sneak in while he’s away from his post.”

Anoop doesn’t seem to love this idea. He shoots me with eye bullets. “I don’t speak Arabic, Guy.”

“I know that,” I say. “But I bet Captain Doorman doesn’t either. Just yell something that sounds Arabic. It’s bound to succeed!”

“Succeed at what, getting me arrested?” he asks.

“Hey, you don’t hear me complaining,” I say. “And I’m probably going to end up getting killed here.”

“Um, I
do
hear you complaining, Guy,” he says. “It’s essentially all I’ve heard every moment of this trip.”

“Pardon me for not wanting to die.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, rubbing his fingers into his temples, like he’s trying to stimulate his brain. “I think I might have a plan. It hopefully won’t land me in Guantánamo or you in a coffin. Follow my lead.”

“Wait,” I say. “Are you going to pretend to have diarrhea and ask to use the bathroom?”

“No,” he says. “Maybe. Yes. So what? You have a better plan?”

I find myself thinking:
What would Dad do?
He was the master
at winning people over, usually just by charming the crap out of them. Do I have that in me? Could I ever be the man he was? I start to think of what to say when I see the doorman distracted, chatting with one of the beautiful women who seem to be in such large abundance.

“Screw charm, let’s run!” I whisper-scream, grabbing Anoop by the backpack and stealthily sprinting past the doorman. He barely turns his head as we slip through the door into the lobby. Thank you, the power of the New York hottie.

“We’re in!” Anoop says. “I can’t believe it!”

I can’t believe it either. The first thing I see is a sign. It reads:
ENTERING THIS BUILDING WITHOUT PERMISSION OF A TENANT IS CONSIDERED BREAKING AND ENTERING UNDER CITY LAW
.

“Oops,” Anoop says.

“Hey, sometimes you have to break the laws to catch the bad guys,” I say.

“Is that something Mr. Zant taught us on a day I wasn’t there?” Anoop asks.

“That’s all me,” I say.

“I had no idea you were such a badass, Langman,” he says.

“Pay attention, AC,” I say. “You’ll learn something.”

The lobby of the apartment building has a high ceiling and luxurious furniture. Even the plants seem expensive. Everyone is well dressed and this is clearly a nice part of town. “I don’t get why Jacques stole the coins,” I say. “He obviously has his own money.”

“I don’t think it’s about money for him,” Anoop says. “I don’t think it ever was. I think it’s just about revenge. Like how Fran snubbed him his whole life to live with you, his second family.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” I say. “I was just a baby!”

“Well, also, he’s crazy,” Anoop says. “So there’s that.”

“Okay, sure, there’s that,” I say. “To tell you the truth, I don’t even care about his motives. I just want to prove that he’s the one who broke into my house and killed Toby, and then it’s the police’s problem or the jury’s problem or whatever to figure out why he did it and what it means. I just want him behind bars so I can get some rest.”

“Right on,” Anoop says. “Any brilliant ideas about how we find his fingerprint?” Anoop says. “I wish these mailboxes had names instead of just apartment numbers. If there was one that said Langman, we could—”

“Dude, shut up!” I hiss.

“What?” Anoop says. I grab him by the arm and pull him behind a large potted plant.

“Dude,” I say in a whisper, trying to point without looking obvious. “That’s him!”

It’s hard to believe, yet undeniable. The guy striding out the door of this New York apartment building is my brother, my would-be murderer: none other than Jacques Langman. I recognize the beard from the funeral and I recognize everything else from my DNA. It’s not a perfect match, of course, but he has the same big eyes, the same quick walk, the same busy hands, and the same bushy hair as my father. As me.

“That’s totally him!” Anoop says. “I’d recognize that Langman nose anywhere.” So, yeah, okay, there’s also that. “Follow him!” Anoop barks. “Quick!”

We learned a lot in forensics about how to catch someone
after
a crime was committed. We learned a lot about investigating the scene of a crime. But we didn’t exactly learn a lot about surveillance. Zant never taught us that. Let’s hope I do have some good hunches and we can come up with something on the fly.