Play Dead (18 page)

E
VEN THOUGH
I’
M
anxious to get to the hospital, my first stop in the morning is the prison. I don’t want Richard hearing about his sister’s shooting from his radio or a guard. I want him to hear it from me.

On the way there I get a phone call from Kevin, who has gone to the hospital to check on Karen’s condition. She is weak but doing well, and her wound is not considered life threatening. She is very lucky, or as lucky as a completely innocent person who is suddenly shot by a high-powered rifle can be.

I spend most of the drive trying to deal with my guilt. I’m aware that it’s illogical; I did little to involve Karen in the case or expose her to danger. She constantly begged to be included, and most of the time I resisted. Nor did I send her to the school; I didn’t know about it until it was too late, and my arrival probably saved her life.

Yet the feeling of guilt is so heavy it feels crushing. I started a series of events that led to Karen Evans getting shot. If there were no Andy Carpenter, she would not be in a hospital, hooked up to IVs.

I get to the prison at 7:45, fifteen minutes before the prisoners can have visitors, even from their lawyers. By the time Richard is brought into the room, I can see by the look on his face that he already knows what happened.

“Please tell me she’s all right,” he says. “Please.”

“She’s going to be fine. She took the bullet in the shoulder, but she’s conscious and doing well. She’s not in danger.”

Richard closes his eyes for maybe twenty seconds without saying anything, probably giving thanks to whoever it is he gives thanks to. Then he looks up and says, “Please tell me everything you know about what happened.”

I take him through all of it, starting with Franklin showing us the crates of money at the port, right through to finding him shot to death at his house.

“Why would Franklin have showed you the money if he was part of the conspiracy to sneak it out of the country?” he asks.

“I don’t think this has anything to do with that money. Maybe Franklin discovered it and used it to throw us off the track. Or maybe he was an innocent victim and was coerced into calling Karen.”

“But how could anyone have anything to gain by killing Karen? Who the hell did she ever hurt? What the hell did she know that could hurt someone?”

These are questions I can’t begin to answer, and my fear is that Karen won’t be able to answer them, either. First Richard was gotten out of the way, and now an attempt has been made to permanently remove Karen. They apparently posed a mortal threat to someone, without knowing who or how.

Before leaving, I question Richard extensively about his relationship with Franklin. He’s answered the questions before, though now they have gained far more importance.

“We met through work,” Richard says, “but we became friends. Richard and his girlfriend would go out on the boat with Stacy and me pretty often, maybe ten or twelve times.”

“Could he have had a relationship with Stacy that you didn’t know about?”

He shakes his head. “Not possible.” He considers this a moment. “Sorry, I answered too fast. Anything’s possible, but I saw absolutely no evidence of that, and I can’t imagine that it could have happened. But even if it did, what would that have to do with Karen?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just grasping at straws here. Was there anything about Franklin’s work that might be viewed as unusual in the light of what has happened?”

“Not that I can think of. We each handled our own area, so we didn’t interact at work that often.”

“And he came to see you for a while after you were convicted?”

Richard nods. “For about a year.” He starts to say something else, then hesitates.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Well, when Keith would come see me here, he’d talk about the job a lot. He’d tell me what was happening down at the port, what people were doing, and he’d ask me questions. I didn’t want to hear about it. I mean, I was never going back, but he kept talking about it. I figured my being in here made him uncomfortable, so that gave him something to talk about. But it was strange.”

“What kind of questions did he ask you?”

“Procedural things, how to handle certain situations. I had more seniority than him and knew more than he did.”

“So he was pumping you for information?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think of it that way at the time, but I guess you could say that.”

I leave Richard and head to the hospital to see Karen. She is already sitting up in bed and laughing with the nurses. Her upbeat attitude is truly amazing; by tonight she’ll be leading the entire hospital in a rendition of “If I Had a Hammer.”

She looks a little weak but far better than I expected. It’s hard to believe that it was just last night that I saw her lying bleeding and unconscious on the ground. I look worse than this if I stay up late to watch a West Coast baseball game.

“Andy!” she yells when she sees me in the doorway. “I was hoping you’d come by. Are you okay?”

It’s been twelve hours since someone fired a bullet into her body, and she’s asking how
I’m
doing. “Well, I might be coming down with a cold,” I say, and then smile so she’ll know I’m kidding. Otherwise she’ll jump up and offer me the bed.

She laughs and starts introducing me to the nurses. “Andy, this is Denise, and Charlotte, and that’s Robbie. This is Andy Carpenter, a really good friend of mine.”

We say our hellos, and then I prevail on them to give me a few minutes alone with Karen. I notice two books on the side table:
Jane Eyre,
by Charlotte Brontë, and
Wuthering Heights,
by Emily Brontë. Richard had told me she majored in English literature at Yale.

“You’re reading those?” I ask.

She nods. “Many times. They make me feel better.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure. Just knowing that people wrote things like this, so many years ago, and that they could feel what I feel. I guess it makes me understand that life goes on and that what happens in the moment is not everything.”

“I understand,” I lie.

“Have you ever read them?”

“The Brontë sisters? No, but I dated them in high school. They were really hot.”

She laughs, which I cut short by saying, “Karen, Franklin is dead. He was shot in his living room about an hour before they shot you.”

Karen doesn’t say a word; she just starts to sob. It’s amazing to watch her navigate 180-degree emotional turns at warp speed.

I give her a minute and then push on. “When he called you, was there anything unusual in what he said, how he sounded?”

“He sounded nervous, but I thought it was because of whatever it was he had found. The thing that he was going to tell me.”

“And he didn’t give a hint as to what that was?”

“No. All he said was that I shouldn’t tell you he had called. God, he seemed like such a good guy—how could anyone do that to him?”

“Karen, whether or not he was a good guy, the purpose of that call was to put you in a place where you could be killed. Now, Franklin may have been forced to make that call, or he may have made it willingly. The point is—and you have to face it—somebody wants you dead.”

She looks devastated, shattered, as the truth of this sinks in. “But why? I’ve never tried to hurt anybody.”

“You represent a danger to someone.”

“How? If I knew anything important, I would have told you already.”

I nod. “I know that. But you have to think about it.”

She is frustrated, a completely understandable reaction. “I will, Andy. But it just doesn’t make sense.”

“I know. And until we can make sense out of it, I’m going to arrange for you to be protected. Both in here and outside when you’re ready to leave.”

“So they might come after me again?”

She knows the answer to this as well as I do. “They might,” I say.

She thinks about this for a few moments, then nods. “So we need to get them first.”

I
F POVERTY IS
your thing, you probably don’t live in Short Hills, New Jersey.

The town projects a serene, upscale elegance, and as I drive through it I find it amazing that I am rich enough to live here, should I so choose.

I’ve tried twice without success to reach Yasir Hamadi at his Montclair office, so rather than alert him further, I’ve decided to visit him at his home. Hopefully he’ll be home, but if not, I’ve lost nothing and had a nice drive.

When feasible, I like to interview potential witnesses where they live. People in their offices are more inclined to be brusque and uncooperative, while being at home seems to activate their hospitality genes.

There is no wrong side of the tracks in Short Hills; in fact, I don’t see any tracks at all. The homes seem to divide into two camps, luxurious and spectacular, and Hamadi’s is in the latter category.

I say this even though I can barely see it from the street. It is up a long driveway from the curb, and the well-treed property blocks the view of most of the house. What I can see, however, is enough to convince me that Hamadi is not anxiously awaiting his monthly food stamps.

There are at least six trucks parked along the road, all with side panels indicating they are affiliated with a local construction company. They must be working on Hamadi’s house, since the nearest neighbor is probably a quarter mile away.

One of those workmen is standing next to the truck, looking intently at a large piece of paper, which seems to be a construction plan of some sort. “You working on the Hamadi house?” I ask.

He nods. “Yup.”

“Building an addition?”

He nods. “And repairing damage from the storm. Tree crashed through the back of the house.”

He’s probably referring to a major storm that went through North Jersey about three months ago, sending trees and power lines toppling.

I nod and walk toward the driveway. I’m trying to decide whether to drive up or park down here at the curb, when a BMW comes around the corner and turns into the Hamadi driveway. The driver of the car is a woman, mid-thirties, and the quick glimpse I get of her says that she is quite attractive. She notices me as she pulls in, but doesn’t stop. Since I’m driving an ordinary American car, she probably thinks I’m one of the workmen, or somebody here to case the joint for a future robbery.

I decide to leave the car on the street and walk up the driveway. Before I do so, I open the mailbox at the curb and see three pieces of mail. Two are addressed to Hamadi, and one to Jeannette Nelson.

The driveway turns out to be quite steep, and by the time I get to the house I’m hoping that the woman knows CPR. If not, there are plenty of other people who might. The large reconstruction operation is going on near the back of the house, and at least fifteen workmen are back there hammering away.

She has parked her car under the carport, making a total of three cars now positioned there, and is walking toward the front door, when she sees me near the top of the hill. She eyes me warily, and I’ve got a feeling that any moment she’s going to have a mace dispenser in her hand. She also looks vaguely familiar to me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a model and I’ve seen her in magazines or television commercials.

“Hi,” I say. I find that clever conversational gambits like that have a tendency to relax people.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a tone that indicates she doesn’t want to be particularly helpful at all.

I nod agreeably, granting her request. “I’m here to see Yasir Hamadi. My name is Andy Carpenter.”

“Is he expecting you?” she asks, not bothering to tell me her own name.

“Could be. We could ask him and find out.”

“He’s not at home,” she says, and I confess I am doubting her veracity. It was something about the way she said it, and the fact that there are three cars in the carport. Somebody else must be home, and Sam said that Hamadi is not married and has no children.

“Oh,” I say. “Then I’ll wait for him. Are you Jeannette Nelson?”

She reacts with some surprise that I know her name, and seems a little uncomfortable with it. I can’t say I blame her; as strangers go, I’m a little weird. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to come in,” she says without confirming the name.

I nod agreeably. “No problem. But in case you find out that he is home, could you give him this?” I take out a sealed envelope that I brought for this situation if it arose. Inside is a note that says, “I’m going to be talking about you and Donna Banks on
Larry King
on Wednesday night.”

She takes the envelope and goes in the house. I decide not to trudge down the hill, in case I’m summoned within the next few minutes. It’s better than walking up the hill again, especially since none of the vehicles in the carport is an ambulance.

Within three minutes, Jeannette Nelson, if that’s who she is, comes back out. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me standing there. “Mr. Hamadi will see you,” she says, apparently feeling no obligation to explain how he will do that if he’s not home.

I follow her inside, closing the door behind me. The interior of the house is even nicer than I expected. I’m not a good judge of the value of paintings and furnishings, but it’s a safe bet that none of what is here has ever been in a flea market.

She leads me through the house, toward the back, then ushers me into a large den, which seems to function as a private office. “He’ll be down in a moment,” she says, then turns and leaves.

Her prediction is accurate, as Hamadi soon enters the room, closing the door behind him. He is about forty, at least six feet and in excellent shape, with a demeanor that can best be described as polished. He fits in this house.

“Mr. Carpenter, I did not expect to see you here.”

“I tried calling you at your office.”

“As do many people. But few come unannounced to my home”—he holds up the note that I wrote—“with so cryptic a message.”

“I hoped it would get you to see me, and in fact, it did.”

He nods and says, “State your business.”

“I’m a criminal defense attorney representing a client in an upcoming trial, and Donna Banks has emerged during my investigation as a person of some interest. In checking into her background, I’ve learned that she receives a very substantial monthly stipend from you.” I say this even though I don’t know this to be true; all I know is that she receives money from a company in Switzerland called Carlyle Trading, and that she called Hamadi after I left her apartment.

My hunch pays off. “And you are wondering why?” he asks.

“Correct.”

“Ms. Banks is an old, very close friend of mine. She was in dire financial straits when her husband passed away. As you can see, I have been blessed with considerable success. So I have made her life easier without causing any hardship to my own.”

“That’s quite generous of you,” I say.

“I am a strong believer in friendship.”

“Does your wife share that belief?”

He smiles patronizingly. “Jeannette is not my wife; she is an employee of my company. She’s here to deliver some documents for my signature.”

He’s lying. She may not be his wife, but she’s a hell of a lot more than an employee. Employees don’t get their mail delivered at their boss’s house.

“So you have no desire to keep your relationship with Ms. Banks secret?”

“There is no relationship, not the way you envision it. But if you feel the need to go on television and tell your suspicions to the world, that is your prerogative.”

“Did you know Donna Banks’s husband?”

He shakes his head. “I did not. I believe he was killed while in the service. Very tragic.”

“What kind of business are you in?” I ask.

“Is that important to your investigation as well?”

“I like to collect information and figure out how it can be helpful later. Is yours a secret business?”

He smiles, though without much amusement. “I am what could best be described as a facilitator. If your business needs something that is difficult to find, perhaps produced in an obscure part of the world, I find it for you and arrange for you to receive it. For that my company receives a fee. Or I purchase it and resell it to you.”

“What kinds of things?”

He shrugs. “Could be anything. An unusual fabric, metal alloy, high-speed computer chips, whatever is needed.”

“And it all passes through U.S. Customs?”

“Everything that enters this country passes through U.S. Customs.”

I ask a few more questions, and he deflects them with ease. If he’s worried that I’m uncovering some significant secret, he’s hiding it well. Ever agreeable, he tells me that if I think of any more questions, I should call him at the office.

I head back to the city, having learned very little. Hamadi is either a very accomplished liar and villain, or a rich guy taking care of a woman with whom he had an affair. I’m suspicious, especially since his work involves U.S. Customs, but I have nothing concrete on which to base those suspicions.

I call Sam and tell him that I want him to learn everything he can about Interpublic Trading, Hamadi’s business. I want to know who he does business with and just how lucrative that business is. He promises to get right on it.

Before heading home I stop off at the hospital to see Karen again. She’s not in her room, having gone next door and made friends with her neighbor. If she stays in here much longer, she’s going to organize a block party.

The doctors have told Karen that they want her to stay three more days for observation, but she has negotiated that down to two. I’m going to have to make arrangements to protect her, and since Marcus is already covering my ass, I’ll need to recruit someone else.

“Do you like all dogs?” I ask. “Or just Reggie?”

“Are you kidding? I love them all.”

I’m thinking Willie Miller would be a perfect choice to watch out for her, and since he spends his time at the foundation, maybe she can help out down there.

“I’d really like that,” she says when I broach the idea. “Taking care of dogs, finding them homes—I can definitely get into that.”

“But you’ll need to listen to Willie and do whatever he says. It will be his responsibility to make sure that you’re safe.”

“Is he cool?” she asks.

“He’s even cooler than me,” I say.

“Andy, nobody’s cooler than you.”

Aw, shucks.