Gods and Fathers (17 page)

The first person Matt saw at the funeral home was his ex-brother-in-law, Tommy Rusillo. He was standing in the entry foyer talking to the doorman, a fat guy in a black suit who Matt vaguely remembered as one of Tommy’s gambling buddies. Matt shook his hand and said he was sorry, not responding to or acknowledging the
what are you doing here?
look on Tommy’s face.

The large, windowless room that held Debra’s body in an imposing bronze open casket surrounded by extravagant stands of flowers, many with inscriptions like
Dearest Daughter
and
Loving Sister
, was as crowded as he expected it to be. Italian clans, Matt knew, though they may fight among themselves, stuck together when things got rough, and there was not much rougher than a daughter, sister, niece, taking her own life.

As he joined the line of people to the right who were waiting to kneel and say a prayer at the casket, the buzz in the room subsided as Debra’s family and friends turned to stare at him. One of them was Michael, who left his post to the left of the casket and headed over to him.

“Thank you for coming,” Michael said, joining his father in the line. Matt had watched Michael approach him from across the room, the low-key light from the sconces on the walls softening his features, which were somber, his mouth grim, his dark eyes more thoughtful than sad. “She’s your mother,” he answered.

“You’re not too popular here,” Michael said.

Matt shrugged. He was wearing one of his charcoal gray trial suits, the first time he’d been in a suit and tie since the morning he quit the Manhattan DA’s office. He surveyed the crowd, the old faces, remembering, with a surprising stab of emotion, the girl he had fallen in love with on his last leave home from the Marines and the whirlwind, disastrous marriage that followed.

“They’ll get used to it. I’m coming to the funeral, too.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Is Basil here?”

“He’s here someplace. He doesn’t think it’s his place to greet people.”

They both looked over to the line of chairs to the left of the casket where Debra’s mother, Lucille, her daughter, Linda and her two spinster sisters, all four in black from head to toe, were sitting and accepting condolences from the guests who had finished their prayer. The rest of the crowd had lost interest in Matt, the murmur volume going up accordingly.

“You look good,” Matt said.

“The suit, you mean?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen you in one.”

“I wore one for my First Communion and for my Confirmation.” Michael smiled as he said this, his eyes brightening.

“As a grown-up,” Matt said, the images of Michael in a white suit, at age six, his unruly hair combed seriously for the first time, and of him as a gawky thirteen-year-old in a blue blazer and khakis, appearing vividly in his mind, as if these events, which he had not thought of in years, had occurred yesterday.

“What’s up, Dad?”

“What’s up?”

“Yes, you look deep in thought,” Michael replied.

“What about Mustafa?” Matt asked. “Is he here?”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“Syria. His brother’s dying.”

Matt shook his head.

“What?” said Michael.

“Nothing, Michael. It’s just being here.”

“That’s not it.”

The line had come to one of its frequent full stops. No one was rushing through the rituals connected to a woman who seemed to have it all and then took her life at the age of forty six. Matt turned and looked his son fully in the eye.
Maybe this is my son after all.

“Yes it is,” he said.

“You’re keyed up,” Michael said. “Something’s going on, I can tell.”

“Okay,” Matt replied, thinking
here goes
. “It looks like Mustafa ordered Adnan and Ali to kill Yasmine. That’s why I need to talk to Basil.”

Silence. Matt followed his son’s gaze over to the open casket, to Debra, her long, dark brown hair framing her once beautiful face, now a waxy, surreal facsimile.

“Are you sure?” Michael said.

“Yes.”

“How did you find this out?”

“I can’t tell you, but trust me, it’s true.”

“He was drugging her, Dad,” Michael said, finally, turning back to face Matt, “I know it.”

“Why?”

“She must have known something.”

Matt looked at Michael, expecting more.

“Not the videos,” Michael said. “That would have been enough to keep her quiet forever.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll ask Basil.”

“No,” Michael replied, his voice emphatic, a voice Matt had never quite heard before.

“Why not?”

“Mustafa takes orders from Basil,” Michael replied. “Why was Yasmine killed?”

“Her father is anti-Syria, anti-Hezbollah,” Matt said. “He’s pro-women’s rights. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Despite the change in his son since Debra’s suicide, Matt reflexively prepared for the sneer that historically accompanied one of Michael’s sarcastic or disdainful replies to questions like this, but it didn’t appear. “I do,” was his answer. “I’ve had a lot of time to read lately. The Syrian regime is worse than Saddam Hussein’s was in Iraq. Torture, murder, no dissent is allowed. No free speech rights. In bed with Iran.”

“Yes, and Hezbollah does their bidding in Lebanon.”

“Basil and Yasmine’s father were in the Lebanese civil war together,” said Michael. “They were like brothers, then something happened.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Yasmine told me this. She didn’t know either.”

“Did they become enemies?”

“I think so.”

Matt nodded. “I’ll be careful with Basil.”

“I’ll talk to him with you.”

“No, Michael. Meet me at home later. Clarke and Jack have some pictures they want me to look at. Some of them were taken at Lucky’s. You may recognize someone.”

As he made his way out of the viewing room through its arched, open doorway, Matt saw Basil shaking hands with Everett Stryker, bidding him goodbye in the funeral home’s entry foyer. When Stryker was gone, Matt approached Hassan.

“Basil,” he said, when he reached him, “I’m sorry about this, about Debra.”

“Matt—may I call you Matt?—thank you.”

“We haven’t talked much.”

“No.”

“Can we talk now for a few minutes?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. There’s a small alcove just there, if you like.” Basil nodded toward the end of the long, wide hallway that ran along the front of the mortuary’s three viewing rooms.

“That’s fine.”

In the alcove, quiet and thickly carpeted, they settled into plush armchairs facing each other across a small inlaid coffee table. The only light was from sconces on the walls behind each chair, casting mellow halos over their heads.

“How can I help you?” said Basil, crossing his legs and brushing a manicured hand along the expensively clad thigh of the leg on top.

“I know this isn’t a good time,” Matt replied, “but it’s about Michael. It’s important.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you know a man named Haq, Basil? A Syrian colonel?”

Matt had been watching Hassan’s face carefully. Jack and Clarke had told him that it was Mustafa who ordered Yasmine’s killing, that Hassan was an unwitting front, a cover for Mustafa and his boss, a Syrian colonel named Haq. There had been no light in Basil’s eyes. They were lifeless, inward-looking, just like any husband who had suddenly lost a wife he loved. Until now, at the mention of Colonel Haq.

“Yes,” Hassan said, “I do. What about him?”

“I believe your servant, Mustafa, is working for him,” Matt replied. “I believe Haq ordered Mustafa to have Yasmine Hayek killed, and to frame Michael for it.”

“You
believe
…”

“I have proof.”

“What kind of proof?”

“I have one of the killers, Adnan Farah, in custody.”

“
You
have him in custody?”

“Yes.”

“
You
have him in custody?” Hassan repeated himself. “What about the authorities? Your Justice Department, the New York police?” The elegant Syrian was shaking his head, fully engaged now, which was not surprising to Matt. This was pretty potent information.
Betrayed
and
used by Mustafa; Adnan alive; the involvement of his government’s secret services in a murder on American soil.
Plenty to make him shake his handsomely groomed and charming head.

“Yes, I’m dealing with this privately,” Matt replied.

“I don’t understand.”

“I also have Adnan’s confession, so if anything were to happen to me…”

“Yes,” said Basil, “
that
I understand. What is it you want of me?”

“I saw you with Everett Stryker just now,” said Matt. “Can you tell me how you came to hire him?”

“Why? I mean, why do you ask this?”

“Because I think he’s sabotaging Michael’s case.”

“Sabotaging? In what way?”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“No.”

“Have you used him before?”

“No. He came recommended by Mustafa.”

“How did Mustafa come to recommend Stryker?”

“He spoke to Syrian friends, who spoke highly of him.”

“Did Stryker tell you he represents the owners of Yasmine’s building?”

“No.”

“That the building’s security cameras were tampered with after Yasmine’s murder?”

“He said there was no proof of this.”

“The New York police think there is.”

After saying this, Matt watched as Michael’s stepfather’s eyes brightened a bit more and narrowed in thought.

“You believe Stryker is involved in this frame-up?” Hassan asked. “Is that possible?”

“Michael did not handle the murder weapon,” Matt answered. “The lawyer I hired, Jade Lee, ordered a gun residue test. Do you know what that is?”

“Yes.”

“Stryker cancelled it, the one thing that would have immediately pointed to Michael’s innocence. Did he tell you that?”

“He said it would be devastating if it were positive.”

“He didn’t believe Michael.”

“No.”

“No criminal defense lawyer would have passed up this test under these circumstances,” Matt said. “Michael could have handled the gun in the room, he could have even fired it out the window at Ali or Adnan’s urging, as if they were playing around. A positive result could have been explained away. A negative result would have freed Michael.”

“This was not explained to me.”

“Tell me about Haq?”

“He is an SMI agent—Syrian Military Intelligence. It is headed by Assad’s uncle.”

“Haq takes his orders from Assad’s uncle?”

“It’s not as simple as that. Syria is a puppet of Iran. An operation like this would have to either originate in Iran or receive their approval.”

“An operation like
what
? Why kill Yasmine?”

“Her father is anti-Syria, anti-Iran, anti-Hezbollah. Very popular. Syria wants Beirut, they claim it is part of Syria, going back centuries.”

Matt shook his head.
This is what Michael got himself involved in, this insanity.
“Did you know,” he said, “that Mustafa was videotaping everything that went on in your Park Avenue apartment?”

“Excuse me?”

Matt nodded. He had assessed the credibility of hundreds of witnesses, both in and out of the courtroom. Listening to Hassan’s answer, hearing the surprise in his voice, seeing the squint of disbelief in his eyes, he thought, either this guy’s innocent or he’s a highly trained actor.

“Videotape?” said Basil.

“Yes,” Matt replied. “He was blackmailing Michael with a tape of him sleeping with Debra, at age sixteen—I take it you have separate bedrooms.
Had
separate bedrooms. I believe Stryker was in on it.”

Silence. Matt could see the shock on Hassan’s face. His wife kills herself, now this. “Blackmail?” the Syrian finally said.

“Yes,” Matt replied. “Stryker was urging him to plead guilty to the rape. They were lovers, Michael and Yasmine, consent is an obvious defense.”

“Why?”

“To protect his real clients: Haq, Syria, Iran, Hezbollah. They killed Yasmine.”

“Did you see the pictures?” Basil asked.

“Of Yasmine, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I did. It was Adnan and Ali who raped her, violently, wearing condoms.”

Basil remained silent.

“It’s a defense lawyer’s dream,” Matt said. “The security system tampered with, the doorman killed—did you know the doorman was killed?”

“No.”

“He told the police that only Michael entered the building. Then he was killed, the same way Yasmine was killed. The same weapon. I told Stryker. He refused to use it.”

“Videotapes? Hidden cameras? In my apartment?”

“Yes, Basil. When you go home, check the place out.”

“Have you seen the one… the one with Michael and Debra?”

“No, but Michael has. Mustafa showed it to him.”

“Shall I fire Stryker?”

“Yes, re-hire Jade Lee.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you. One more thing.”

“Yes.”

“Mustafa was doubling and tripling Debra’s drug dosages.”

“Why?”

“That’s one of the questions I’d like to ask him.”

“He’s gone,” Basil said. “He went back to Syria. His brother is dying, or so he claimed.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He is Lebanese, a Shi’ite. He was orphaned in the war and made his way to Syria, where he served in the army. I needed an assistant some years ago. He was recommended by people close to the president.”

“How would an orphan, not Syrian, a regular army serviceman, have such connections?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you accepted him.”

“In Syria, it is not wise to reject a recommendation from the President’s inner circle.”

“Are you in that circle?”

“I am a petrochemical engineer, from a poor family. I discovered the only commercially viable oil field in Syria. That was thirty years ago. I was a national hero. But the field is running dry. Along with any influence, or government friends, I may have had.”

“Can you tell me anything else about Mustafa? How old is he?”

“He’s fifty-five.”