Book of Nathan (10 page)

Universal
:
Convictions?

Tharp
:
Always use a condom.

Universal
:
No, I mean were you ever arrested?

Tharp
:
Only for soliciting, which doesn’t really count in Jersey.

And so it would go until the HR specialist happened upon the
note clipped to Twyla’s file folder:
Applicant
preapproved. Recommend placement in back office. No exposure to park guests.
 

Since we were free for the next two hours, I told Doc and
Maurice that it was time to scout out the spot where Zeus allegedly bludgeoned
Benjamin Kurios to death. Yigal thought this was a brilliant idea.

“Wait a minute,” I said to Zeusenoerdorf’s lawyer. “You
haven’t been to the crime scene yet?”

“Right now is when we should do it.”

I was still shaking my head when Yigal boarded my Mitsubishi
and began rattling off directions. A few minutes later, Doc, Maurice,
Rosenblatt, and I stepped onto what was an innocuous stretch of roadway that
had now become a street of fame. Hundreds of people crowded the strip of
asphalt where the most influential evangelist since Jesus had been murdered.

I pointed to the stanchions that supported the multibeam
overpass that loomed above us. “Zeus said the white van was driven into one of
those poles. The blue car chasing the van supposedly hit another. Look for
streaks of paint and check the ground for metal or glass.”

We split up.

“Could be something,” Doc said, calling me to the street
side of a steel column. The metal had been marked with a wide blue swath. The
line of paint looked fresh so I used my nail clippers to scrape a few chips
into a tissue.
 

“Keep looking.”
 

For the next few minutes, we worked our way through the
flowers and cards piled on the side of the road. When Maurice pulled a
half-dollar-sized silver medallion from a crack in the pavement near the steel
column, my adrenaline spiked.

“
Quia Vita
?”
Doc asked.

“Bingo.” It was identical to the emblem I had seen Ida
Kyzwoski wearing at the Wayside Motel and the medallion Zeus described during
his prison interview.

The professor studied Tyson’s discovery. “A lot of people
have tramped through this place since Kurios was killed.”

The inference went over Yigal’s head, but I understood what
Doc was saying. The medallion might not belong to the driver of the blue sedan,
which meant it didn’t necessarily validate Zeus’s story.

“The cops had to have searched every inch of this street,” Waters
added. “If the medallion had been here then—”

“Got jammed in that crack,” Maurice explained. “Had to jimmy
it out with my pocket knife.”

I carefully wrapped the medallion in my handkerchief and put
it in my pocket. “I think we have the real thing here, Doc,” I said, trying to
keep my excitement over Maurice’s discovery in check. Whether the medallion
would prove to be the first turn of the key in Zeus’s jail cell door was
unclear.

We took another half hour looking for anything else that
might be connected to Kurios’s murder, but came up empty. When it was time to
head back to Universal, I herded the team toward my rental car. Halfway to the
Mitsubishi, a wave of prickly heat rolled up my back. I spotted two Hispanic
men who stood out from the somber crowd that had come to pay their respects to
Benjamin Kurios. I had a dozen years of watching predators stalk their quarry
in the inner city and these men moved like hunters. Maybe it was my
imagination, but I had an uncanny feeling I was their prey. The pair got into a
nondescript black Toyota Camry. I could only see the three numbers on the car’s
Florida license plate: 489.
 

A
while later, when we pulled into the Universal parking lot, Twyla came
barreling out of the Human Resources office. “Bullet, I got the job! I got the
job! Yiggy. Doc.
Can
you believe it?
”

“That’s wonderful,” I replied, trying to act surprised.

“I start in two weeks!” Twyla cried. “Can you imagine me
working right here in Florida? And they said someday I might even get to sew
things. Imagine that!”

Yigal wasn’t imagining Twyla working a needle and thread,
that was for sure. The lawyer was all teeth. He sputtered an offer to help
Twyla find a place to stay.

“Oh, thank you, Yiggy.”

With Twyla now gainfully employed, I was one night and an
early morning flight away from fulfilling my obligations to Doug Kool and the
mob. I told my crew to climb into the Mitsubishi because we were heading back
to the Wayside for a quick pit stop, and later, a cheap dinner. If Yigal was
expecting an invitation to tag along, he didn’t get it. There was a limit to
how much hyperactivity I could handle in a day. We left the forlorn lawyer
vibrating in the parking lot and headed to our motel.

Back at the Wayside, I found the Kyzwoski room vacant.
Seemed my least favorite neighbors had checked out. I had parked the Mitsubishi
in the spot previously occupied by Conway Kyzwoski’s truck-log cabin combo,
gave my crew a ten-minute bathroom break, and then marched them two blocks away
to one of Florida’s five million Waffle House restaurants.

Over dinner, Doc asked to see the
Quia Vita
emblem we found earlier in the day.
 

Doc pointed to a dark smudge on one side of the medallion
after I removed it from my handkerchief. “Looks like blood.”

Assuming Doc was right, Maurice’s discovery could be more
than just a lucky find. If the blood belonged to someone other than Zeus or
Kurios, it could support the defendant’s claim that there was someone else on
the scene the night Benjamin died. Although reluctant to call Yigal Rosenblatt,
I needed information only he could give me. The lawyer picked up after the
first ring.
 

“Is there a way we can find out if the cops took any blood
samples after they found Kurios’s body?”

“Already know the answer. They sent blood to the lab.”

“You’re certain?”

“They took blood off my client’s wooden cross to match it
with Kurios’s blood. Part of the prosecution’s evidence. I know that for a
fact.”

I didn’t hide my skepticism. “You know this for a fact?”

“Yes. And you want to know why?”

I took the bait. “Why?”

“My cousin, Binyamin Saperstein, works at the lab that’s
doing the blood analysis. In Tampa.”

I blinked in disbelief. “Your cousin’s
doing the lab work for the prosecutor?”

“Some of the work. Binyamin is a chemist.”
 

I could have asked what might happen if Zeus were
miraculously handed a not guilty
verdict—wouldn’t
this incestuous family connection spell mistrial? Instead, I gave in to a more
pressing question. “Doesn’t anyone in your family have a regular Jewish name?
You know, like Irving or Mo?”

“My cousins, Yehuda and Zelig live in Miami. My sister’s
name is Hava.”

Question answered.

“Could you ask your cousin, Bin Yahoo, for a favor—”

“Binyamin. It means son of the south.”

“Could you ask Binyamin if he could run a test on the
medallion we found earlier today?”

“Test?” Yigal’s voice took on a seriousness I hadn’t heard
before. “What kind of test?”

“Doc Waters thinks there’s a blood stain on the medallion.
If it matches up with Kurios or Zeus—”

“I see where you’re going. Yes, Binyamin might do it. It’s
possible. But—”

Uh-oh. “But what?”

“That kind of test costs money,” Yigal said in an
uncharacteristically reserved way. “Done this before. Something like four
hundred dollars. And if it’s done in a day, it could be thirteen hundred. Maybe
more.”

The mere idea that Yigal’s law firm might have to shell out
cash on behalf of Miklos Zeusenoerdorf calmed the attorney down faster than a
triple dose of Ritalin.
 

“Can’t you fold the cost in with your other legal expenses?”
I asked.

“The case is all pro bono,” said Yigal. “Good PR, though.
But expenses have to be kept low.”

I wondered how much “good PR” would come from losing a case
that led to a trip to death row for Gafstein and Rosenblatt’s most celebrated
client.

“What if I get the lab costs covered?” I asked. Whether I
could actually deliver the money was as iffy as Twyla’s staying celibate for
another twenty-four hours. I avoided letting Yigal know that my offer to come
through with a bag of cash was a little on the soft side.
   

“Oh, that would be good.”

“I’ll work on getting the money,” I said. “You pick up the
medallion at the motel before we leave for the airport tomorrow morning. Get
cousin Bin to start working on this fast. And tell him to do this on the sly.”

I closed out my phone call and finished my Waffle House
dinner. A few minutes later, Twyla, Doc, Maurice, and I were back in our
respective Wayside rooms. I tried watching a
Seinfeld
rerun, but it gave me a headache. Around midnight, I heard a car roll into the
Wayside parking lot. If it weren’t for my insomnia, I probably wouldn’t have
looked outside. But since sleep wasn’t an option, I had nothing better to do.

The car was in an unlit parking area maybe two football
fields from my room. Even at that distance, there was something familiar about
the vehicle. I pulled on a pair of jeans and stepped outside to get a closer
look. When I cruised by Twyla’s room, I learned everything I needed to know
about the mystery car and its driver.
 

“You okay?” I asked Manny Maglio’s niece after she answered
the door.

“Oh, yeah, Bullet,” Twyla said. “I’m super.”

Twyla was wrapped in a sheet and her hair was so disheveled
that she looked like a blonde Chia Pet. Sitting atop her head as proudly as a
Miss Universe crown was a black yarmulke.

“You want to be careful, Twyla,” I said. Whatever the hell
that
meant.
 

“Oh, I will. I will.”

“Okay then,” I gave her a wave.

Twyla shut the door and I headed toward my room warning my
mind not to broadcast pictures of Yigal cross-examining Maglio’s niece. I
opened my door, but before stepping inside, I heard the drone of a car engine.
A black Toyota, headlights off, had its nose pointed directly at me. It was too
dark to see who was inside, but a visual wasn’t necessary. The Camry turned and
pulled away, the light from the Wayside’s neon road sign catching the rear
license plate: 489.

Chapter 7

Dawn
arrived without the sun. If the thick cloud cover over Orlando wasn’t
depressing enough for the surly manager of the Wayside Motel, I did nothing to
brighten his day.

“We’re checking out,” I announced.

“None too soon.” The manager scooped up the four room keys I
slapped on the counter.

“By the way, what happened to the family in the room next to
mine?”

The manager scowled. “Kyzwoski. Freakin’ rednecks. Got into
such a screamin’ domestic I nearly had to call the cops.”

Tell me about it
.
 

“Had them idiots to deal with and you four freeloaders as
well. Don’t want to find no damage to any of them rooms you’ve been usin’!”

“No damage,” I assured him.

“Damn Doug Kool,” he muttered. “Him and his smart charity
means more business bullshit. Cost me four rentable rooms. Next time, I’ll know
better.”

“You’re supposed to give ’til it hurts.”

“Let me give you some news, my friend. I’m through helpin’
lowlifes and anybody and any organization that deals with ’em. Goddamned
charity isn’t worth shit!”