The Anonymous Source (12 page)

THE DOOR
TO THE
APARTMENT
building was closing slowly, but Alex reached out to grab it before it latched. It was quiet in the stairwell as they climbed to the third floor.

“It feels like no one lives here,” Camila said. “There are no smells.”

“Probably a gentrification building. They’re trying to clear them out so the owners can renovate and attract people like us to live here. You know, ‘young professionals.’“

“In my building,” Camila said, “each floor is a unique olfactory experience. You might get the smell of chicken on one floor, Indian spices on another, and, when you get to my neighbor Charlie’s floor, it’s always cakes and cookies. Sometimes all the smells waft together and I feel like I’ve discovered some new dish from a fantasy land—like curried chicken cookies.”

Alex chuckled as they came to the landing and knocked on a red door marked “3-A.”

“Let me ask the questions,” Alex said. “And tap your feet if you think she’s lying.”

“A signal? Are you serious?”

The door cracked and they saw a woman’s bright green eyes peering out over a silver chain. “Who are you?” the woman asked.

It sounded more like an accusation than a question. “Alex Vane from
The New York Standard
. This is my assistant, Camila Gray.”

The door slammed. “Wait,” Alex said, “I’m not here to do a story about your son.”

“He’s moved on,” the woman said from behind the door.

“We know. That’s why we’re here,” Alex said, directing his voice toward the crack between the door and its frame.

Even through the old, solid wood, the woman’s voice was stern. “I do not wish to speak to a reporter.”

Camila tapped on the door. “Alex was with your son the day before he died,” she said.

The door reopened a crack.

“Your son told me about your husband,” Alex said. “About the basketball he gave Demarcus for his birthday. He may have left something here he wanted us to have.”

The door closed and they heard the chain slide against it. As it opened, the woman blocked the doorway and Alex thought he could see a bit of Demarcus in her. Her skin was lighter than her son’s and her black hair reached all the way down her back, but she was tall and lean and had the same long, narrow nose. She was draped in a long white sari. “Malina Downton,” she said.

“We’re sorry to show up so late and to interrupt your mourning,” Camila said.

“And we are so sorry about Demarcus,” Alex added.

Malina stared at Alex and, after a moment, led them into a large living room with clean, worn-out carpeting and bright walls. “Thank you, but we do not mourn,” she said. “He will be cremated tomorrow and will be back again soon enough.”

As they sat on the couch, Camila nodded at a silver statue on a small table against the wall. “Are you Tamil?” she asked. The statue was about twelve inches high—a man with thick shoulders sitting cross-legged, holding a trident.

Malina sat in a chair across from them. “Yes, we are. You are not Hindu are you?”

“No, but it’s beautiful,” Camila replied. “It’s Shiva,” she said to Alex.

They heard a clicking sound and saw a child playing behind a stack of wooden blocks near the kitchen.

“That is my great-grandson, little Tyree,” Malina said. “Demarcus’s grandson.”

“Demarcus never mentioned a grandson,” Alex said.

“Well, that is just like him. Demarcus never valued family.”

“The way he spoke about you,” Alex said. “I could tell he loved you and his father.”

“But he never learned responsibility. This one will be different.” She smiled at the boy, then turned to Alex and Camila and folded her hands in her lap. “So, why are you here?”

“Are you familiar with Eric Santiago?” Alex asked.

Malina nodded.

Alex told her about his meeting with Demarcus and how he had planned to meet him the day after he was killed. “He said he had a video,” he concluded. “A video of the night John Martin was murdered.”

“I do not know anything about a video.”

“Did he come by in the last week or two?” Alex asked.

Malina turned to watch Tyree in the corner. “No.”

Camila tapped her foot and looked at Alex. Then she leaned over and tried to catch the woman’s eyes. “Malina,” she said, “I knew the man who died in the park. I did not know your son but I know that he was trying to help a boy who might spend the rest of his life in jail for something he didn’t do.”

Malina looked up. “I know what Demarcus was doing in the park that night, and I do not want any part of it. He has not been around here.”

Tyree came from the corner and curled up on Malina’s lap.

“How old is he?” Camila asked, smiling.

“I’m two and three-quarters,” he said.

“And precocious,” Malina added.

Camila smiled at him as Malina stroked Tyree’s hair. He looked up at her. “
Muppā
ṭṭ
i
, you said not to lie. Grandpa
was
here.”

“I said never to lie to a friend, to an honest man. This is a reporter.”

Alex laughed loudly, but when Malina shot an icy look at him, he realized she hadn’t been joking.

“But the lady is nice,” Tyree said.

Malina smiled at the boy and spoke to Camila. “Demarcus came by last Thursday.”

“That’s the day I first noticed him following me,” Alex said.

“He stayed for about an hour. He walked from room to room talking about basketball. The times he had played with his dad in the park. He even asked if I remembered particular games from high school. Honestly, all those games are the same to me, but he was talking about them like they had just happened.”

“Did he take anything with him?” Camila asked. “A bag? A package?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Mrs. Downton, that video
has
to be here,” Alex said.

“What he means to say, Malina, is that Demarcus intended for us to have this video. Do you know where he might have put it?”

“No, but you are welcome to look through his memory box. It’s on the top shelf in my
peyara
ṉ
’s
room now.”

Malina led them into a small bedroom furnished with only a twin bed and a few plastic buckets filled with toys and stuffed animals. She opened the sliding door of a wide closet and pointed at the top shelf. “Up there.”

Alex took down a box and placed it on the bed.

“Please be brief,” Malina said from the doorway.

Alex rummaged through the materials until Camila pushed him out of the way. “Have some respect,” she said.

Alex sat on the bed and folded his arms. Camila took items out one by one, scanning them and placing them in a neat pile. “Mostly old photos and news clippings,” she said. “Yearbook. Old report cards. Some finger paintings and old assignments from school. No video.”

“He said it was a little black thing. A tiny box or something.” Alex thumbed through the papers and photos, hoping to find the video stuck between the pages.

“Come here,” Camila said. She was inside the closet, pointing at its ceiling.

Alex got a chair and climbed up, running his fingers along a crease in the ceiling. “It’s a storage space,” he said.

He pried it open from the corners, revealing a small compartment. Reaching in, he felt plastic and pulled out a thick garbage bag. When he looked down to hand it to Camila, she was no longer there. He stepped down and saw that she’d left the room. He opened the bag and pulled out another bag from inside it, then another. By the time he got to the fourth bag, Alex smelled the sweet, rich aroma of high-end marijuana. He sifted through dozens of small baggies before pulling out a small piece of rag.

Wrapped in the rag was a black box, about one by two inches, with what looked like a black jacket button attached to the front and a tiny silver wire on the back.

Alex smelled food. He put the baggies back in the plastic bags and returned them to the storage space. He walked down the hall but paused in the doorway when he saw Camila playing with Tyree on the floor of the kitchen. She stacked blocks up to the level of his head, then sat back as Tyree slapped them down, a huge smile spreading across his face.

As the blocks scattered across the kitchen, Camila laughed. “Hey, I was building that,” she said in a deep, booming voice. Tyree laughed and gathered the blocks.

Camila started building again as Alex stepped into the kitchen. “Found it,” he said.

From the floor, Camila said, “Is that turmeric, Malina?”

“Yes,” Malina replied, “I try to feed this one a little more traditionally. Sometimes I think Demarcus went bad because of all the food in this country. The only connection he had with Sri Lanka was that silly tattoo. Do you cook?”

“Not much, but I do eat,” Camila said.

“What tattoo?” Alex asked.

“That tattoo on his neck was a jungle fowl. National bird of Sri Lanka. Instead of living the values of his culture, he got a tattoo to represent them. That was when I knew he had become an American.” She looked into the simmering pot, then at Camila. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

The tower was a foot above Tyree’s head when he knocked it down with both arms, cackling as blocks flew across the kitchen.

“Hey. I. Was. Building. That.” Camila’s laughter cut through her mock angry voice.

“Looks like you’re part of the family already,” Alex said.

Camila hugged Tyree, stood up, and walked to the stove. “You asked if we wanted to stay for dinner?”

“We really ought to be going,” Alex said.

Malina turned toward Alex but did not look at him. “You found what you came for?”

“I did. I found—”

She held up her hand. “I do not wish to know anything about it.”

“Thank you so much for the dinner offer,” Camila said.

“Yeah,” Alex added as Malina led them into the hallway, “and thanks for your help. Really.”

”You’re welcome,” Malina said, “I hope you two find whatever you’re looking for. Good-bye.”

When she had closed the door behind them, Alex handed Camila the recorder. “How do we watch it?” Camila asked, burying it in her purse.

Alex smiled. “Ever been inside a real newsroom, or do you just critique them for a living?”

Camila punched his shoulder. Alex faked a wince. They both smiled.

ALEX AND
CAMILA
scanned the dark, quiet newsroom. A fluorescent light flickered above them. “The layout and design people are finalizing the paper,” Alex said. “Most everyone else has gone home. I hope our researcher slash tech-guy is still here.”

They found James Stacy at his desk in the corner, staring at spreadsheets on both of his giant screens. “I figured you’d still be here,” Alex said. He pointed at the screens. “What’s that?”

“Web traffic l-l-logs. They’re having me keep track of site visits, ads served, that kind of thing.”

James turned toward them, then lurched back in his chair. He stared at Camila with his mouth open, then turned quickly back to the screens.

“Don’t worry,” Alex said. “It’s just a woman. She’s not here to eat your soul or anything.”

James took a long swig of soda as he handed Alex a manila folder. “Your l-l-l-list,” he said. “It’s l-l-long. Seventy-five p-people. It’s a b-b-big case.“

Alex opened the folder and looked over the three printed pages, stapled in the corner. James had organized the list alphabetically, by last name, with a separate column explaining each person’s connection to the case. “Nothing about their religions?” Alex asked.

“Didn’t think you were s-serious about that.”

Camila pointed at the soda can on James’s desk. “You drink Jolt?” she asked. “I used to love Jolt. I thought they’d stopped making it.”

James looked at her timidly. “You can still get the original cans on-on-on.” He cleared his throat with a giant cough. “Get them online.”

“That’s awesome,” Camila said. “All the sugar, twice the caffeine.”

James smiled and turned back to the screen. “What do you need, Alex? I thought you turned into a p-pumpkin if you stayed past four-thirty.”

Camila retrieved the recorder from her purse and dangled it in front of James’s face.

“Do you know how to watch whatever is on there?” Alex asked.

James studied it. “Why? What’s on it? Anything to do with the Santiago c-case? Things were weird around here today. The Colonel was in his office all day and a couple suits came down.”

“Nothing’s going on,” Alex said.

“Then why do you have a thousand dollar surveillance camera and why are you bringing it to me at ten on a Monday n-night?”

“Can you help me or not?” Alex asked.

James opened a desk drawer and pulled out a box of wires and connectors. He tossed cable after cable onto his desk before finding a thin white wire. He connected it to the silver wire on the recorder, then connected the other end of the white wire to his computer. He opened a program called “Video Codec 5” on the large screen on the left side of his desk. He stood up. “I suppose you want me to l-leave?”

“I promise I’ll explain at some point,” Alex said.

“I n-need to get another s-s-soda anyway,” James said, walking away.

Camila sat in James’s chair. Alex leaned over her and pressed play. The video was dark and grainy and showed the fountain in the center of Washington Square Park.

“Damn, no audio,” Alex said. “But there’s a time stamp. Scroll forward.”

Camila scrolled until the time stamp read 1 a.m. The video now showed trees and a garbage can, but was panning slowly across the park.

“It’s weird to think that that’s Downton moving the camera,” Alex said. “Looking for customers.”

“There,” Camila said. The shot had steadied, though the camera still wobbled.

It was a wide-angle shot about fifty feet from the bronze statue of Garibaldi. On the left side of the frame there was darkness and a few trees. On the right, just the towering statue lit by a streetlight. The fountain sat between them. Alex leaned over Camila’s shoulder and squinted. Just under the statue, at the bottom-right of the frame, a man moved. He was medium-height and wore a white longshoreman’s cap. He rocked back and forth from leg to leg.

Alex touched the screen with a finger. “That’s Martin.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know.”

Alex pointed at the darkness on the left side of the picture. “That’s the path that leads in and out of the park.”

After a few minutes, a figure appeared and walked past the statue and toward the camera. Alex recognized Santiago right away. He was short, and as he got closer to the camera, Alex could make out his brown hair and expressionless face.

When Santiago was about twenty-five feet from the camera, in between the statue and the fountain, he stopped and turned around. He appeared to be staring straight at Martin.

Under the statue, Martin rocked back and forth, his white hat now lower in the frame.

“What’s Martin doing?” Alex asked.

Camila tapped on the screen. “Looks like he’s sick or something. Was he drunk?”

“I don’t think so. People I’ve talked to say that witnesses from the bar are going to say he’d only had one glass of wine.”

They watched in silence. Santiago stood motionless and Martin rocked back and forth in a doubled-over curl. The camera shook slightly, then Martin fell over.

His hat hit the ground and landed about a foot from his head. Santiago took two quick steps toward him, then stopped. He stood for a few seconds, turned, and walked away from Martin, toward the center of the park. As Santiago neared the edge of the frame, the camera caught his face.

Alex thought he saw a smile spread between the young man’s pockmarked cheeks. He turned to Camila. “What the hell?”