Hostage Taker (7 page)

H
angovers are a bitch.
Eli Cohen staggered through the door of his fifth-floor apartment at 123 Orchard Street, downed three Tylenol with a bottle of Power-C Vitamin Water, yanked the shades down, and collapsed onto his unmade bed. The mattress creaked in protest under his weight—at least sixty pounds more than his doctor preferred.

He wanted to fall asleep. Or at least to lie in peace. Instead, he felt like a knife was slicing into his brain.

Eli closed his eyes—and groaned.

While he waited for the Tylenol and Vitamin Water to work their magic, he found himself replaying the events of last night. The party was like a bad movie he couldn’t bring himself to shut off.

There he was
again: watching nervously as a woman wearing a black-and-gold sequined dress and bright red lipstick swayed straight toward him, armed with a pink fizzy drink and a wide smile.

There went his stupid idea that this holiday party might go okay.

He could have said it wasn’t his kind of party. Or that these people weren’t his usual kind of friends. But to tell the truth, he just wasn’t a party kind of guy. He never had been. He had simply grown from an overweight, socially awkward kid into an overweight, socially awkward forty-something. It had been a natural progression.

“Are you Eli?” the woman had asked.

“That’s me,” he answered bravely.

“My name is Barbara. John has told us so much about you, I feel I know you already.” She reached out and enveloped him in a perfumed one-armed hug. Miraculously, her drink did not spill. “You looked so lonely over here. Hasn’t John introduced you around?”

Eli’s eyes had drifted over to where John was drinking eggnog and singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” with his two brothers.
Like three Long Island tenors,
Eli thought. The crazy thing was: They actually seemed to get along. No sign of petty jealousies or long-held resentments. Maybe that was because the liquor was flowing nonstop, lubricating relations among a large Irish Catholic family that was twenty times the size of his Jewish clan. He’d met more of John’s cousins and aunts and uncles and family friends than he could possibly remember. Their names were one long, mindless blur.

He plastered a smile on his face and tried to look happy. That was what everybody expected, and this party—well, all parties, really—were about trying to live up to what people expected. Surely he could fake it for a couple hours. “Yeah, John introduced me.”

The woman didn’t seem to be listening. “I want you to meet my daughter.” She gripped his right arm. “She’s divorced,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

Eli wasn’t sure why that was relevant. Then again, most things people gossiped about weren’t relevant.

Spotting no good exit strategy, he had no choice but to follow. Her fingers were tight on his arm. He noticed bloodred fingernails and a multi-carat diamond ring. He also saw the large mustard stain on his tie—probably from those mini–hot dogs. How had he already managed to ruin the sky blue Hermès tie John had picked out for him? They hadn’t even sat down to dinner yet.
No way am I going to get through this without embarrassing myself,
he decided.

Of course, if John was going to be scared away by Eli’s abysmal lack of social skills, better to know sooner than later. It had been three whirlwind weeks since Eli had gone to The Taste of New York and sat next to the good-looking tax attorney with thin-wire spectacles who appreciated fine food and wine. Eli couldn’t tell a chardonnay from a sauvignon blanc, never mind whether the flavor was oaky or had hints of vanilla. He just liked to eat.

Amazingly, John hadn’t cared. They’d hit it off—and by the end of Bobby Flay’s gourmet meal, Eli had fallen hard.

Now here he was, meeting John’s family already, trying to fit in—or at least trying not to stand out like a mustard-stained sore thumb.

Barbara steered him ruthlessly toward the drink station, where a rail-thin woman was nursing her champagne. She wore a green dress and a distracted expression. Eli immediately pictured a fragile glass teetering at the edge of a table, on the verge of losing its balance and falling off.

“This is my Meaghan,” Barbara explained. “She’ll be wonderful company for you.” Then she waved to someone who had just entered the room and left.

Eli extended his hand. “Nice meeting you. John is your…?”

Meaghan stared at him curiously. Either he’d met her before and had already forgotten—or she was someone John probably told him about. Who was he kidding? He was doomed.

“Cousin. Same age. Grew up next door.” Meaghan tilted her half-empty champagne flute toward him. “Want a drink?”

He looked around. Everyone else had a drink.
Just try to fit in,
he reminded himself. Plus, maybe a drink or two would loosen him up. Help with the small talk.

He was desperate for a beer, but he settled for vodka with soda. That way, when he spilled it on himself—or, God forbid, somebody else—it wouldn’t show or stink too bad.

“How long have you been seeing John?”

“A few weeks.”

Meaghan smiled indulgently. “You’re in the honeymoon period. I remember the night I met my ex. I was an undergrad at Saint John’s, and I’d gone out with a friend to celebrate her birthday. He was there, drinking with his police buddies, and he asked me to dance. He was a lot older than me, but the band played a slow song and he put his hand on the small of my back and I knew: We belonged together.” Another gulp of champagne. “You know how at every wedding, people say the couple is so great together? Half the time, it’s just empty words. But when it’s real, it means that you’re actually better and stronger with this other person than you are alone.”

Eli wasn’t sure about that. But he’d once experienced its opposite: a bad relationship in which he only became an uglier and more despicable version of himself.

Eli wracked his brain for what to say next. He’d never been any good at making small talk. “You still live around here?” he managed.

“Long Island born, bred, and stuck in my parents’ house.” She took a noisy gulp of champagne.

He’d pegged her all wrong. Forget
distracted.
Make that
intoxicated.

“I’ve got you beat. I’m Lower East Side born, bred, and I’ve lived my whole life in my grandma’s apartment,” Eli offered.

Meaghan raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“It’s rent-controlled. Crazy cheap. And I’m unemployed.” The instant he said the words, he wished he could take them back. Why did he always talk too much when he was nervous? He loosened his tie.

“How long have you been out of work?” Another gulp of champagne.

There were a couple different ways Eli could answer that question.
Since I was arrested for insider trading eight years ago. Since the only job that would have me disappeared three months ago.
He had nothing good to say. He wished John would stop singing those silly Christmas carols and come rescue him. “Sorry, I’m bad at parties.”

A faint smile. “But you’re good with ordinary social interactions?”

“No,” he admitted right away.

That generated a laugh. “Didn’t think so. That’s okay. What do you do?”

“Told you: nothing right now.”

“So what
did
you do? Let me guess—law, like John?”

Eli shook his head.

“Accountant?”

Suddenly, Eli was seized by the desire to feel important. Just for a moment, even if only in the eyes of John’s lush of a cousin. “I actually worked for the FBI. A secret division.”

That got her attention. She stood up a little straighter. Opened her eyes a little wider.

She waited for Eli to say more, but he was done. In two sentences, he’d broken every confidentiality agreement he’d ever signed. Though, come to think of it, did those rules even apply, now he had been fired?

“Let me get you another drink,” he said.

He expected her to pass him the now-empty champagne glass she held. Instead, Meaghan leaned in so close he worried she was going to kiss him. Her lips mercifully stopped within inches of his ear. “Tell me the juiciest case you ever investigated.”

Eli allowed himself another desperate glance in John’s direction. Opposite the piano, where John was still singing with his brothers—the tune had changed to
Deck the Halls
—there was a small seating area. It had chocolate leather sofas and was near a massive flat-screen TV that made Eli wish he could just settle in with a beer to watch the Knicks game. And ignore all these people. “I don’t think you’d find anything I did very interesting.”

“Try me.” She waved to a woman teetering across the room in silver sandals with stiletto heels. They looked hard to handle sober, much less after a couple drinks. “Hey, Lori—come over here.

“Meet John’s new boyfriend.” Meaghan slurred the words, but managed the introductions. “He was a secret agent with the FBI, and he’s about to tell me all about his favorite case.”

“I really can’t do that.” Eli slid off his tie and stuffed it into his pocket. Lori had steely blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through him, and he didn’t want to advertise that mustard stain.

“We’re all friends here,” Lori purred. “I’d love to know what a secret agent does.”

Two other women heard the word
secret,
and suddenly four women were watching Eli expectantly.

Eli thought that they were all missing the concept of the word
secret.
He answered, “By
secret,
I really mean under-the-radar. We were guys who got the job done without attracting attention.”

“You don’t
look
like an FBI agent,” a woman with curly brown hair and a nasal voice pointed out. “What did you do?”

“Boring stuff. My expertise was money. Unraveling complex financial schemes.”

“I thought agents had to pass fitness tests every year.” Lori gave Eli’s beer belly a pointed look. “Like firefighters.”

“Not for my job,” Eli said.

“Sounds like it wasn’t regular FBI, then.” Lori’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

That was true. Eli wouldn’t have lasted a month in a regular Bureau job—even if anybody was willing to give him one. The bureaucratic machine at 26 Federal Plaza would almost certainly have chewed him up and spit him out. He needed the freedom—what fancier people called carte blanche—that the Vidocq Unit had given him.

“Good thing the NYPD doesn’t require annual requalifications,” Meaghan remarked, “or my ex would be screwed. Is that why you got fired?”

“I never said I was fired,” he protested stiffly.

His eyes scanned the room.
Where is John?

“But you’re unemployed. Is it some kind of suspension?”

Meaghan meant it as a challenge to Eli, but she hadn’t counted on Lori’s interest. “Like your ex?” Lori placed a sympathetic arm around Meaghan’s shoulder. The blast of jasmine perfume nearly made Eli sneeze.

“Internal Affairs is still investigating.” For Eli’s benefit, Meaghan added, “They think he stole from the evidence locker.”

“What do
you
think?” Lori demanded.

Eli watched Meaghan take a moment to answer. When she did, she stumbled. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Maybe the secret agent here could help,” Lori said sarcastically.

All eyes turned to Eli.

He was used to being made fun of, so he struck a reasonable tone. “Not like that. I told you my job: I tracked down money. Unraveled finances.”

Meaghan shook her head. “Internal Affairs can take their time. I can’t. For God’s sake, he has my daughter every week.”

“Does
she
think her father did it?” the curly-haired woman asked.

“I won’t poison her relationship with him by asking that. But I need to know, all the same. I don’t know who he is—not anymore.” She drained her glass, then explained. “Last year, he was coming off a double shift. Tired and distracted. His car struck a pedestrian crossing the street. He wasn’t charged with a crime. He was sober and she was crossing against the light. But the man who left me to go to work and the man who came home that night weren’t the same.”

No one said anything. There was nothing to say.

Meaghan wanted someone to tell her whether her ex-husband was still a responsible father. The problem was: Nobody was in a position to do that.

Eli could sense the sadness as Meaghan stared off into some place he couldn’t see.

“Don’t you at least have a contact who might help?” Lori asked Eli.

Eli shook his head. He was disappointing all of them.

Lori jumped in. “I know you!” Her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide.

Eli put down his drink. It was time to leave.

“I recognize you,” she insisted. “From the papers. White-collar crime. Money laundering. Tax evasion.”

They were all staring at him with a mix of holier-than-thou attitudes and pity.

“I remember now,” the brunette piped up. “They covered your trial on the front page of
Newsday
for weeks!”

The crowd around him was growing. “Deck the Halls” had finished. John was rushing toward him from the other side of the room.

“The headlines said they’d locked you up and thrown away the key,” someone contributed. “How the hell did you get out?”

Eli just stood there, clutching his chest. A worthless schmuck. “You’re right. I was in jail. But I
did
work for the FBI.”

Then John reached him and hustled him away.

That morning, lying
in bed, Eli was still running through all the things he wished he’d said. Different choices that might have led to a less disastrous night.

He had nothing: No job. No self-respect. And after last night, probably no boyfriend.

That’s when his phone rang and everything changed all over again.