The Anonymous Source (16 page)

RAK SAT
AT THE COUNTER
, staring at the phone next to the cash register. When it rang, he glanced at the old man. “Beef and peas. Four.” The man disappeared into the kitchen.

Rak picked up the phone. “Mr. Bice?”

“When we spoke two days ago, you assured me that you would find them.”

“They did not go home all night.”

“We have the video now. It will never come out.”

“How do you know that they do not make a copy?”

“We can’t be sure until you find them. They are in Hawaii. Kona. Maybe I don’t need to tell you, but you have a personal stake in this as well. We were fortunate that the police found the kid and the charges stuck, but now that this case has gotten so big, if that video comes out, the pressure to find the real killer will be huge.”

Rak glanced toward the kitchen, where the old man was standing at the stove. “But you have not yet tell me what it is, exactly.”

“I’m not going to talk about the video. The less you know, the better. It doesn’t implicate you, but it could get the kid off. You need to track them down and make sure they do not have that recording.”

“When I track them down, I will kill them both.”

“No, you won’t. Like I said before, do what you want with the girl. Leave Alex Vane alive. As long as he doesn’t have a copy of that video, he can’t hurt you. Without that video, Santiago will be convicted.”

“Mr. Bice, I took the job on the professor as a courtesy to Smedveb. He says you are okay. Now, you will tell me how this happened, or I will hang up, kill them both, and disappear.”

The old man slid a paper plate down the counter and set a small bowl of yogurt next to it. Rak dunked a whole pierogi in the yogurt and popped it into his mouth.

“If I tell you what happened,” Bice said, “will you do what I’ve asked?”

Rak licked tiny drops of grease off his pasty lips. “You have no choice but to tell me and find out.”

Bice spoke in a steady monotone as Rak chewed pierogies. “After 9/11, two cops approached Downton, the black man—the drug dealer—in Washington Square Park. They were young, dumb cops trying to make names for themselves by looking into local kids who might have Al Qaeda ties. They wired him with a video camera. A week or two before you took out the professor, they were put on leave for brutality.”

“What did they do?”

“Roughed up an Arab, but the department covered it up. Never came out in the papers. After nine months, they came back to the police force with a demotion. Went looking for the recorder. They found Downton and he told them he got rid of it after they disappeared. They asked him about the night the professor was killed and he said he didn’t see anything. But they thought he was lying. Thought he knew something about the murder.”

“And when was this?” Rak asked.

“End of August. They were angry because it was an expensive camera. Real stupid guys.”

“And how are
you
connecting to these ‘real stupid guys?’ How did you come to know all this?”

“Before they went on leave, the two cops used to help me out. Kept an eye on certain reporters for me. Did odd jobs.”

Rak smiled and sucked the filling out of a pierogi. “‘Odd jobs.’ Yes.”

“One of the cops came to me two weeks ago and told me the story. Said that one of my reporters, Alex Vane, had a meeting with this dealer. He brought it to me because he was worried that Downton might be telling the reporter about
them
, about their attempts to get information illegally. Like I said, these are real stupid guys. The cop that came to me, this Irish piece of shit, had roughed Downton up a bit when he couldn’t produce the recorder. He thought maybe Downton had turned on him. Wondered if I could do anything to get the reporter off the story.”

“You sure the black man didn’t tell the police anything about what happened in the park that night? About the professor?”

“Yes.”

“And the police—this ‘Irish piece of shit’—thinks you make Downton disappear to help him?”

“Yes, and now he owes me.”

“Okay, I will finish the job. But, Mr. Bice, there is no reason to keep anyone alive. If the girl and the reporter saw this video, they both have to go.”

“No.”

Rak nibbled the doughy edges of a pierogi. “Mr. Bice, this is not about you anymore. I do not understand your business. I do not know why you want what you want. But I am not in the business of keeping people alive.”

“I’m paying you to do as I say. I am in control.”

Rak laughed. “No, Mr. Bice, no one controls Rak. Keep the money. I’m going to finish this.” Before Bice could answer, Rak hung up, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and walked to the door.

AT THE
KONA AIRPORT
, Alex and Camila stepped out of the plane into sweltering, wet air. They took the rolling staircase down to the tarmac where a young woman with curly brown hair was draping orchid leis over the heads of some of the passengers.

“How come we don’t get one?” Alex asked Camila.

“I think you have to be with a tour group.”

“That orchid scent is like a shot of caffeine. I think I slept hard the last few hours.” He flipped open his phone. “It’s past midnight back home. One-year anniversary of 9/11. And we are definitely not in New York City anymore.”

Ten minutes later, they were sitting on a slatted bench under a wooden canopy, waiting for a taxi. Alex got up to stretch and do jumping jacks as Camila munched chocolate covered macadamia nuts. When he saw that she was watching him with a wry smile, he closed his eyes.

She laughed. “You know I can still see you when you close your eyes, right?”

He opened his eyes and bent at the waist, touching his hands flat to the ground. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.” He slowly arched up and smiled at her. “I’m fairly certain that when I close my eyes, the world stops existing.”

“Remember what I said about you being a decent guy pretending to be an asshole?”

“Yeah.”

“I take back the ‘pretending’ part.”

Alex’s phone beeped. He had a message from a man named Damian Bale, who worked at the Old Rhino Bar in the Village. He called him back as Camila watched from the bench.

“Damian Bale? This is Alex Vane. What’s this about?”

“Are you the Alex Vane who’s covering the Santiago trial for
The Standard
?” Bale spoke quickly and sounded young.

“That’s me.”

“I was working the bar last New Year’s Eve, the night the professor was killed in the park.”

Alex could hear clinking and music in the background. “Did you know him?”

“No, but I saw him that night. He was a regular. Always came in, ate alone, seemed kind of sad and uptight. Wasn’t a big drinker or a big tipper. Always had wine, usually two glasses, but that night he ordered a bottle and only drank a glass. Kinda sad to be drinking a hundred-dollar bottle alone on New Year’s.”

“What kind of wine did he order?”

“Hellooo? You must already know the answer to that. Is this a test?”

“Yes, it is,” Alex said.

“Châteauneuf-du-Pape, 1992. He was a Rhône guy. Liked the big, bold reds. I’m studying to be a sommelier so I watch what kind of people order what kind of wine. He was a small, weak guy. Maybe the big hearty reds made him, you know, feel like something.”

“So what are you calling to tell me?” Alex asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“You heard of Demarcus Downton? Some random guy who got killed in Brooklyn Heights a couple days ago?”

Alex coughed into the phone. “Yes.”

“Well,
The Post
ran a sketch of the guy who killed him. Now, I
do not
read
The Post
, but meathead guys leave it on the bar all the time. I was thumbing through it today and I recognized the guy who killed this Downton guy. He was in the bar New Year’s Eve.”

“Wait,” Alex said, “the guy from the sketch in
The Post
was in your bar? White guy, mustache, real small?”

“I’m sure of it. Real funny looking. Strange accent. I spent a summer in the south of France and one traveling though Eastern Europe for my thesis on dessert wines. Anyhoo, this guy sounded European, but the accent was all jumbled together.”

“And you think he was in your bar New Year’s Eve?”

“I don’t think, okay? I know. Look, I want to own my own place someday, a wine bar down here in the Village. I’m gonna specialize in wines that go with chocolate. Gonna call it Chocolate Bar. Clever, right?”

“So what?”

“So what I’m saying is, I notice what goes on in a bar. Hellooo? It’s my job. And this guy
did not
belong. Was here maybe an hour. Drank a glass of krupnik. I mean, who
orders
that? Made me think he was Polish or maybe Lithuanian. And, other than Professor Martin, he was the only guy here by himself that night.”

“Why not call the police about this?” Alex asked.

“I did. Called them right when I saw the sketch in
The Post
. They took my statement and told me not to talk to any reporters. There’s one other thing, too. Guy was eyeing the professor. At first I took him for gay with how much he was looking over at him. But I know gay. I
am
gay. I threw some gay at him and it didn’t stick, if you know what I mean. When the professor went to the bathroom, the guy paid for the krupnik and walked out right past his table.”

“Did you get his name?” Alex asked.

“No.”

“And I’m guessing he didn’t pay with a card?”

“No, he left cash. A twenty for an eight-dollar drink. Seemed in a hurry to leave. Didn’t seem that weird at the time, but when I saw his picture in
The Post
, it all kinda came back to me.”

“If the police said not to talk to reporters, why did you call me?” Alex asked.

“I don’t know, I figure, you get me in the paper, I can start building my brand.”

“Your brand?”

“You run this in
The Standard
, mention my name, maybe people will drop by and see me at the bar. I’m looking for investors.”

“And you think this will help you find them?”

“Hellooooo? You’re a journalist, you know there’s no bad PR.”

Alex thanked him and said good-bye, then sat down next to Camila and filled her in on the conversation.

When he had finished, she said, “Well, if Santiago didn’t do it, I guess we know who did.” She stood. “I’m hungry.”

Alex laughed. “Makes sense. It’s dinner time here and you’ve only eaten four or five meals today, plus two-thousand calories worth of peanuts. You wanna get a taxi into town?”

“Yes, and I could use a cocktail.”

* * *

They watched the orange sky darken to a rusty brown as they passed miles of black lava rock on the long, flat stretch of highway into Kailua-Kona. Neither spoke during the ride. As they pulled into town, Camila said to the driver, “Just drop us anywhere. We don’t know where we’re going.”

They walked down Alii Drive, poking their heads into gift shops full of t-shirts and postcards as the last light faded from the sky. A reggae band on the sidewalk a block away started playing steel drums.

“I thought reggae was supposed to be Jamaican,” Alex said.

Camila waved her hand at a throng of tourists blocking a storefront. “Do you think most of these people know the difference?”

“Is it possible for you to stop being cynical for a minute? We’re not in the city anymore—you don’t get points for being an elitist smart ass here.”

She smiled. “It’s two a.m. in the city and I’m too tired not to be a smart ass.”

They settled into dinner at a small café on a side street. Alex ate oysters on the half shell and a tuna steak with sesame slaw. Camila had macadamia-crusted tilapia with lobster mashed potatoes and lime beurre blanc. Camila sipped a French 75 as Alex drank glass after glass of sparkling water.

When they had finished eating, Camila ordered another drink. As the waiter left, she reached out and took Alex’s hand. “I feel . . .”

“Feel what?” he asked.

“I feel better around you.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“You’re better than you think you are.”

“That’s nice to hear, too.”

She leaned across the table, her face lit by a low candle. “I feel, I don’t know. Like I want to kiss you.” She leaned in more and Alex leaned toward her. They both closed their eyes.

“You here for the triathlon?” The waiter was beside their table, delivering Camila’s drink.

Alex flushed red and sipped his water.

“Yes, he came in second last year,” Camila said, laughing. “He’s been training hard and is definitely gonna take it this time.”

Alex rubbed his cheeks with both hands and glanced down at the table, then looked back up and smiled.

After dinner, Camila reserved a room at the King Kamehameha Inn.

Within minutes of checking in, they were asleep in separate beds.

SONIA HOLLINGER
was in the back of her limo when the office of the chief medical examiner called to tell her that a team sifting through the rubble of the Marriott had found her husband’s desiccated body. After she hung up, she told her driver to head downtown to the morgue. She slumped down in the seat, but she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried once since her husband had disappeared.

In the days after the attacks, Sonia had plastered pictures of Mac all over the city. She had questioned hundreds of people and had even found a few who thought they might have recognized him. One firefighter thought he remembered seeing Mac leave the south tower. But he had seen hundreds of people coming and going and couldn’t be sure.

Each morning since the attacks she had risen early, done her hair and makeup, and gone from hospital to hospital, shelter to shelter. “Maybe he forgot his name,” she’d told herself, “or was injured and can’t speak and is lying in a room somewhere.” Some days she’d wanted to quit her search, collapse onto the bed, and cry for hours. But each time she’d felt like this she’d forced herself to be strong, sit up straighter, and fix her makeup.

Sonia held her face tight as she walked into the white tent serving as a makeshift coroner’s office. She had never seen a body so withered, a face so deformed. She only recognized Mac by the gold band on his left ring finger, which gleamed on his decaying hand. She stared at the ring, fighting tears, and pressed her hands into her thighs as hard as she could.

“Why was he in the rubble of the Marriott?” she asked the assistant, a young man with bright red acne on his pale cheeks.

“Well, since he was on a high floor, he could have fallen out in that direction—or, I’m sorry to say this, he could have jumped. We’ll probably never know.”

“So you don’t think he made it out alive?”

“It’s possible, but if he did, he would have been exhausted, disoriented. His lungs were badly damaged before he died. That we know for sure. The only unusual thing we found was a bit of black fuzz lodged in his throat. Velvet, or some similar material.”

Sonia looked up and the young man met her eyes.

“But, honestly,” he continued, “and I don’t know how to say this without being insensitive, so I’ll just say it. We found detached limbs and bone fragments everywhere. We found steel beams through skulls, keyboards lodged in ribcages. I’ve looked at over a thousand bodies and parts of bodies in the last forty-five days. This attack was a horror on a scale I didn’t think possible. Nothing surprises me anymore.”

* * *

Sonia was home by noon and slept hard for three hours.

When she awoke, she felt only a dull sadness. She got out of bed and locked the door to her bedroom, then lay back down, covered herself in a thick comforter, and wept quietly for two hours. At 5 p.m., she walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. “That’s enough of that,” she said, critiquing herself in the mirror. She brushed her hair, put on makeup, and walked downstairs to her husband’s home office off the kitchen.

On his desk lay a list of names handwritten in her neat script. She rubbed her eyes and looked down at the list, then called Mayor Giuliani and told his secretary that Mac’s body had been found. She knew it would spread through the city quickly now. She called her husband’s two children, both in California, and made them promise to call his ex-wife, grandchildren, and cousins. Then she called his former business partners and a few personal friends. She put a neat check mark next to each name.

At 8 p.m., she walked to the kitchen. Juan sat on a stool, his head resting on his arms on the vast, granite island. “I’m ready for dinner,” she said.

Juan sat up. “
Es verdad?
”

She nodded. “How did you hear?”

“I thought something was going on when I arrived and you were sleeping.”

She smacked the counter with an open hand. “I was sleeping, Juan. I have the right to do that!”

“I know. I mean . . . I looked around the computer.
The New York Times
had it up a few hours ago.”

She stood up straighter, dreading the wave of phone calls she was about to receive. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.

Juan stood, walked to her, and placed his hand on her chest above her breasts. “
Lo siento
. Sonia, are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

“I need to eat.”

Half an hour later she was back at the desk, full of oysters. She emptied the last drops of a bottle of Dom Pérignon into a paper-thin champagne flute. She studied the names on the list that remained unchecked—mostly friends, clients, and vague acquaintances. She did not want to make the calls, but knew that she would.

Just as she was about to pick it up, the phone on the desk rang. She sipped the champagne and answered with the sweetest voice she could muster. “Hello?”

“Sonia, it’s Denver Bice. I’ve just heard about Mac and I’m calling to offer my deepest condolences. I am so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she managed.

“Just know,” he continued, “we’re gonna get these guys. We’re only two weeks into the bombing and we’ve taken out half of Afghanistan. I’m in touch with people in the White House—people Mac knew as well—and they assure me that we’re not going to stop until we get them all.”

She ran her finger around the top of the champagne flute and tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“Sonia, listen,” he continued, “we’ll be executing Bin Laden at this year’s Super Bowl Halftime Show. I promise.”

She laughed softly. “Thank you, Mr. Bice. I hope you are right.”

“Call me Denver, or Den. Mac used to call me Den.”

“Thank you, Denver.” She emptied the glass and slumped down in her chair, then caught herself and sat up straight.

“You know,” Bice said, “your husband taught the last class I took at Tulane.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I owe him a lot.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Well I, I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She hung up, looked down at the list, and put a check mark next to “Denver Bice.” She walked to her bedroom, took a sleeping pill, and read a romance novel for fifteen minutes before falling into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Bice hung up and walked to the conference room on the thirty-third floor of the Standard Media building in midtown. The twelve men and two women of the board of directors sat around a giant oval table, bathed in gray, early-winter light.

After the secretary called the meeting to order, Bice stood up. “Before we get started,” he said, “I’d like to acknowledge what some of you have already heard. Macintosh Hollinger’s body was found today. It is as we thought.” He lowered his head. “Besides being a mentor and friend, he was this company’s largest investor, one of its earliest investors. We owe him a debt of gratitude.”

After a few seconds of silence, he said, “On the topic of the merger, a few rumors have leaked out, but we will make the official announcement on Monday, after the Thanksgiving holiday.”

A small woman in a blue two-piece skirt suit said, “And how long do we expect it to take for the merger to go final. A year?”

“If things go well, six to eight months,” Bice said. “It depends on how much of a show the FTC, FCC, and the anti-trust people want to put on. And that depends on how much pressure they get from the administration.”

“How much pressure do you expect them to get?” she asked.

Bice smiled. “Not much. People I’m talking to say approval should be easy.”

The woman nodded and took notes, then looked up. “Did you solve the issue of how to present the acquisition?”

Bice walked around the table. “Technically, Nation Corp. will be acquiring us because they have the larger market cap, but we are going to sell it to the public as an even merger creating a new entity: Standard Media/Nation Corp.”

The woman nodded her approval. “What about Europe? Will there be regulatory issues over there?”

“They’ll just follow the wind over here,” Bice said. “It won’t be a problem.” He stopped pacing and looked around the room. “Well then, if there aren’t any further—”

“Just a second.” Laurence Stevens, a stocky black man in a brown suit raised his hand. “Are we sure that the Nation Corp. board will approve you as CEO of the joint entity?”

“We’re confident, Laurence,” Bice said, sitting down. “But I’ll defer to Chairman Gathert on this.”

At the far end of the table, Chairman Gathert put on his round glasses and stood up. “I met with Nation Corp. last week and presented our case for Denver. They know he has spearheaded our growth over the last eight years, and—”

Laurence held up his hand. “If I may, Chairman Gathert. I’m sorry, but is now really the time to announce? Since the attacks we’ve seen a seven percent drop in the Dow, then an eight percent rise. We’re ten weeks removed from the most devastating attack ever on American soil. We’re at war already and who knows where
that
will lead us? I want to go on record and say that I think we need to put more consideration into how this will appear.”

Gathert and Bice exchanged glances. Bice looked down and jotted notes on a yellow legal pad as Gathert spoke slowly, with warmth. “Laurence, we’ve been over this. We’re not going to derail this deal because of nineteen terrorists or a dip in the market. Our stock is already up one percent from September tenth. This deal is meant to happen. This new company is meant to happen. And we’re going to make everyone in this room a lot of money.”

Laurence looked across the table at Bice. “What about the dot coms? Those of us who deal with finances actually have to face the fact that they’re pariahs right now. Forget 9/11, this deal could backfire for a lot of reasons.”

Bice capped his pen, then held it in his fist and squeezed hard as he looked around the table. “It’s a blip,” he said. “The Internet is not going away. And Nation Corp. is more than just an Internet company. They’re our access to every mode of distribution.” Bice’s hand was turning red. He loosened his grip on the pen. “This is the deal, people. It’s going to be hard. There
will
be some bumps in the road. But in the end, we’ll be in charge of the information and entertainment that half the people in the world consume,
and
we’ll be in charge of how they consume it.”

Laurence stood up and glared across the table at Bice. “And you’ll be king of the media?”

Bice put the pen down and took a few breaths. “Someone has to do it,” he said quietly.

Gathert put his hands out over the table. “Gentlemen, please. This is a stressful time. The city is on edge. A lot is at stake. Let’s all calm down.”

“Fine, fine,” Laurence said, sitting down. “But one last thing. We all know this deal is precarious. If the market falters, or our stock drops and theirs doesn’t, the whole deal shifts. Down in finance, we’ve heard grumblings that Mac Hollinger intended to divest before he died. Have you heard anything about that?”

Bice swept his hand through the air. “I’ve heard the rumors. They are absolutely untrue.”

“We don’t need to tell you what a blow that would be, do we?” Laurence asked. “One big loss like that and we’ll be buying tickets to the Nation Corp. board meetings.”

A young woman next to Stevens said, “I’ve heard the rumors too, Denver. I guess it’s a moot point—no offense to Mr. Hollinger’s memory. But now’s not the time to have people thinking our single biggest investor was going to pull out. Just the rumor could hit our stock hard.”

Bice walked around the table and stood behind the young woman. He placed a hand on her shoulder and another on Stevens’s shoulder. “Laurence, Sarah. It’s just one girl spreading a rumor because she’s pissed about the deal—Sadie Green from the Media Protection Organization.” He took his hands off their shoulders and began pacing. “She’s some radical media nut. I spoke with Hollinger’s widow just today. I know her personally. If he even considered selling his stock, she didn’t know about it and she has no plans to do so now. His will does not call for any change in his holdings. Plus, the rumor is already out there and our stock is fine.”

Bice stopped pacing just behind Stevens, who looked up at him and asked, “Can you guarantee that nothing is going to come of this?”

“Absolutely,” Bice said, smiling.