Authors: Faye Kellerman
He regarded his wife.
“Still, if we had evidence, she wouldn’t be impenetrable. Trouble is, we have nothing. We can’t even figure out the basics. Like how she could have bought a hit man. We’ve surreptitiously examined Jeanine’s accounts. No big transfers of money either before or after Estelle’s. She doesn’t even show little transfers that could add up to big transfers. Of course, she could be hiding it.”
Rina paused. “She will inherit a great deal of money from her parents’ trust, correct?”
“Yes. We thought about that. We didn’t spot any cash transfers from the trust, either.”
“You know, Peter, I’m sure her parents didn’t keep all their assets in cash. Vis-à-vis our discussion about the yeshiva’s finances and its charity donations, people pay using all sorts of assets—”
Decker slapped his hands over his face. “How could I be so
dense
! She made the payoff with stock certificates—”
“Or maybe with bearer bonds inherited from her parents’ trust—”
“Jesus! Of course!” He leaped to his feet. “The Garrisons had to have had coupon bonds. They fit the profile to a T. Middle-aged to elderly and
rich
. Furthermore, munis would be perfect contract money because they’re untraceable.”
“Not the new ones,” Rina said. “They’re all registered. To prevent capital gains tax evasion as well as state tax evasion. Instead of coupons, owners get the bond’s interest in an annual or semi-annual check.”
Decker said, “But there are still plenty of coupon bonds on the secondary market. The Garrisons have been rich for a while, probably purchased bearer bonds years ago. And
those
would be untraceable.”
“At least very hard to trace.”
Decker sat up. “You
can
trace them?”
“In theory, I suppose you could trace them via the coupon. You’d have to wangle a heap of private information from a broker or from the paying agency. I’m sure it’s illegal.” Rina looked at him. “Did you have something specific in mind?”
“Not really. We’re sadly lacking in concrete evidence.”
“What do you have?”
“Not much.” Decker raised his brows. “We have Jeanine, who has been playing tennis with a seventeen-year-old male partner for the last six, seven months.”
“And?”
“And that’s about it.”
“You think her tennis partner has something to do with the shootings at Estelle’s?”
“Maybe.”
“Why? Because he’s Jeanine’s tennis partner?”
“Yes.”
Rina shrugged. “Thank God for due process.”
Decker smiled.
“And you think Jeanine manipulated this boy into killing…” Rina squinted. “Who did he kill?”
“Harlan Manz.”
“And how did Jeanine know that Harlan was about to shoot up an entire restaurant?”
“Two theories,” Decker said. “Either she was manipulating Harlan as well, and knew he was about to explode.
Or
. The whole thing was a planned hit masked to look like…I don’t know…a random act of violence. Ostensibly, Jeanine used two hit men. But then she did a double-cross. She got the second hit man to take out Harlan…and that made the whole thing look like a mass murder by one insane man.”
“This is
very
far-fetched.”
“No, I haven’t gotten to the far-fetched part. At least
that
part of my theory is backed up by evidence that points to more than a lone gunman.”
“Okay.”
“The far-fetched part is the second hit man,” Decker said. “We were looking at Jeanine’s tennis partner. His name is Sean Amos—a snotty rich kid. Webster doesn’t think he has the ba—the nerve to pull it off. So we were thinking that maybe Sean contracted the assignment out.”
“With or without Jeanine’s permission?”
“Don’t know.”
“And do you have any theories about whom he contracted with?”
“There’s a kid in Westbridge Prep—”
“That’s where Sean goes to school?”
“Yes. You know the place?”
“By reputation. It’s a West Coast prep school. A pressure cooker for the kids of the country club.”
“You got it.” Decker sipped tea. “There’s a senior there named Joaquim Rush. He’s on scholarship…kind of a loner kid who keeps to himself. He’s also a Scrabble fanatic.”
“So what? I like Scrabble.”
“No, Rina. A real fanatic. Like in tournaments.”
“It’s still harmless.”
“The Scrabble isn’t the interesting part,” Decker stated. “This kid, Joachim Rush, he and Sean Amos had made some sort of deal together. Martinez saw an envelope exchange hands—”
“Ah, now
that
sounds interesting!”
“Indeed. We were looking into him as a candidate when Strapp pulled the rug out.”
Rina sighed, said, “Stonewalled by the good captain. I’m sorry.”
Decker laughed. “Maybe it’s good he eighty-sixed it. Going undercover to Scrabble tournaments, tailing some cipher whose nickname is Cyberword. Not exactly a righteous allocation of department time.”
“Maybe not.” Rina smiled. “But heck, it could do wonders for the vocabulary.”
In the darkened room, Sammy stared at the ceiling, listened to the medley of the mockingbird. The critter wouldn’t shut up, just kept going from trill to tweet to cheep to caw. Yet there was something comforting about it…like a lullaby from nature.
Overhearing his parents talking…arguing…then talking again.
Because although the lot was acres, Peter’s house was real small.
Once the arguing had bothered him. Now he shrugged it off and his indifference puzzled him. He thought about the change. Probably had something to do with the fact that now he could drive.
Joachim Rush.
A Scrabble fanatic.
Like Yermie Cohen.
He had once attended a Scrabble tournament with a friend. Didn’t place but he did okay. So what would it hurt if he attended another?
And if he found this Joachim dude…then what?
And what if Peter was right? What if Cyberword was a hit man?
Frustrating. To have ideas and not be able to use them. Because he couldn’t tell his mother. Not just yet. And he didn’t
dare
tell Dad. Because…well, you just didn’t tell Peter things like that. Things that he wouldn’t approve of. He loved Peter, but the man was sometimes too much for him to handle.
So different from Abba.
Abba.
The memories kept getting dimmer and dimmer and dimmer…except for the few clear ones. The ones that had been played out so many times that they’d taken on legendary proportions.
Abba.
The move to the new house meant a final break from the yeshiva, the padlock that would seal that childhood phase of his life forever.
Time to move on.
Still, Sammy felt his throat clog.
Move on. To current things.
Like Joachim Rush. Simpler to think about him.
No harm in going to a tournament.
Still, he didn’t want to do this alone. He felt he should tell someone first. Jacob came to mind. But he didn’t want to get his brother involved.
Maybe he
should
tell Eema?
No, that wouldn’t work. Sammy realized that he would be putting her on the spot by telling her and not Peter. Getting between them.
So Eema was out.
So who could he tell?
Who would understand?
Nestled in his bed, he thought a while, cooed into near slumber by avian songs and a comforter of night. Then his eyes suddenly snapped open.
As plain as the nose on his face.
He’d make the call as soon as Shabbos was over.
In the meantime, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Cindy picked up
her latte, sipped foamy milk. “It’s all interesting…what you’ve told me. Still, I’m not sure what you have in mind.”
“I don’t know myself,” Sam said. “That’s why I’m talking to you.” He took another bite of his bagel sandwich. “I was figuring you for a game plan.”
Cindy picked at her cinnamon bagel baked on the premises of Harold’s East. A retro New York dairy-only deli. One of the few places where Sam would eat because it was kosher.
She said, “I have no game plan, Sam. Because there’s no game. If you have inside information, you should talk to Dad.”
“I
can’t
talk to Dad, Cindy.” Sam grew frustrated. “First of all, I have nothing significant to tell him. Second, I don’t want him to know I overheard my mom and him talking. Third, he knows about the Scabble tournaments and he’s choosing not to go to them. Or rather Strapp’s not letting him go. I thought that maybe we could have a look around—”
“I’ll bring the wiretaps and you bring the hidden cameras?”
“Will you just hear me out?” Sam snapped.
“Sorry. Go on.”
Sam thought a moment “I don’t know. I thought…well, since no one under Dad’s command can touch this
Joachim guy…that maybe you could follow him for a couple of days—”
“Well, I’ve always admired Nancy Drew—”
“Forget it!” Sammy’s jaw tightened “It was a dumb idea. Sorry to bother you. You can go whenever you want. I’ll pay.”
Cindy sighed. “God, I sound just like him. Negative, sarcastic, sharp-tongued.” She licked milk off her lips. “Terrible to be shut down. I’m sorry, Sam.”
“You’re just being honest.” He adjusted his glasses. “You’re right. It is ridiculous. But I’m not sorry I tried.”
Cindy was quiet, observed her stepbrother. A quiet kid dressed neatly in jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt. He had a lean build, a head of sandy hair partially covered by a knitted yarmulke. Dark, intelligent eyes. He was turning into a very handsome kid.
Sam leaned on his elbows. “It’s just that you don’t know what’s going on. You don’t live with him every day. He’s very frustrated.”
Cindy grew annoyed. “I’ve seen him frustrated more times than you can count.”
“Look, I’m not pulling filial rank or anything.” Sam looked down. “I mean, biology is biology. I know you’re the real kid—”
“Oh,
please!
” Again, Cindy caught harshness in her voice, reflective of her father’s cynicism. Biology was biology and more insidious than she had thought. She softened her tone. “Sam, ranking my father’s…
our
father’s affections is silly. He loves
all
his kids. And yes, I know he’s very frustrated. And I’m sure if he knew of our meeting, he’d appreciate the concern. But I don’t see how we can help.”
The boy blurted out, “What would it hurt if we showed up at one of the tournaments?”
Cindy said, “Say we show up. Say we see this Joachim guy. Say we even
talk
to him. Then what? Do you even know what Joachim Rush looks like?”
“Not a clue. But I’m sure we wouldn’t have any trouble
identifying him. According to Dad, he’s well known in Scrabble circles.”
“Yes, I suppose finding the sucker would classify as the easy part.” Cindy’s mind was racing. “Suppose we get a best case thing here, Sam. Suppose I go to the tournament and wind up talking to him. Suppose I can get him alone…invite him out for coffee. What then? I can’t just drop names like Sean Amos or Jeanine Garrison into his lap. You just told me that this Joachim Rush was accepted on early admission to Yale. The guy isn’t a moron.”
“This is all true.”
“Even if I could get him to talk to me…to get him into my confidence…Sam, that step could take weeks,
months
. I’m starting the Academy soon. I’m going to run out of time.”
“Move quickly.”
“Then what if I get him talking and find out he’s completely innocent. Not only did I chance exposing confidential information crucial to Dad’s case, but also I toyed with a kid whose sole crime is being a little nerdy.”
Sammy drank club soda from a bottle. “Hate to say it but you are making sense.”
Cindy finished her coffee. “I suppose I could tail him. See if he does anything weird. But let’s face it. If he has anything to do with Sean, he’s going to talk to him either over the phone or at school. Chances of me catching him doing something naughty are extremely remote.”
“That’s why I wanted to show up at the tournament. At least that way, we’d get a chance to observe him in the flesh.”
“And…”
Sam smiled. “Never underestimate the powers of simple observation.”
Cindy shook her head. “This is against my better judgment.” She sighed. “When is this shindig?”
“Next Thursday.”
It was Saturday night. Cindy had less than a week to hone her skills at the word game. She said, “We’re also ignoring an essential fact. I’m not a good Scrabble player.”
“I know someone who could help you—”
“Nuh-uh. We’re
not
bringing a third party into this mess. Really blow Dad’s case to smithereens. You can’t talk about this with anyone else but me. That’s a given.”
Sammy waited a beat. “I could show you a few tricks. Nothing fancy, but hey, you’re smart. You should pick the game up pretty easily.”
“I know how to play. I just don’t play well.”
“It’s a matter of practice,” Sam said. “And memory. You’re gonna have to learn all these oddball two-and three-letter words. Plus all these screwy words that start with K and Q and X—”
“This really isn’t my forte—”
“Plus, competitive tournaments are timed.”
“
Timed?
”
“Usually like fifteen or twenty minutes per person per game. Both you and your opponent punch a clock. They’re obviously connected to each other. You finish your word, you punch your clock, it starts
his
seconds ticking away—”
“I’m terrible at timed tests. I hate pressure.”
Sammy looked at her. “Then why in the world are you becoming a cop?”
Cindy opened her mouth, then closed it. Quietly, she said, “Touché.”
The boy said, “I’m not trying to score points. Just asking a question.”
“I have my reasons.”
Sam looked away. Her tone of voice told him not to pursue the topic. So he ate his sandwich and drank club soda.
Cindy nibbled on her food, her face hot with embarrassment and truth. The kid had scored very valid points. She might have furthered the conversation, but Sam seemed so oblivious to her mental anguish.
Sam finished his sandwich. “Cindy, you’ll ace the game once you get the hang of it. Look, you’re a Columbia grad—”
“That proves nothing.”
“Well you took the SAT. That was timed.”
“I had more than fifteen minutes.”
“It’s the same thing…only sped up. Trick is, do your thinking on your opponent’s time. It’s not hard once you get into the rhythm. You’ll do great.”
Cindy regarded the boy’s earnest face. “Okay. I’ll give it a whirl. Just to see if I can do it, if for no other reason.”
“Besides, what could possibly happen at a Scrabble tournament? The contestants aren’t the rowdy type.” He checked his watch. “It’s after eleven. I have to be home by midnight or else Eema will send out the National Guard. Worse, she’ll send out
Dad
.” A pause. “How about if I drop by your house tomorrow at ten?”
“Don’t
drop
by the house. Don’t go
near
my house. Don’t even
call
. We’ve never been best friends—”
“We’re not enemies, Cin—”
“No, of course not. But we haven’t had much to do with each other except for the obligatory family affairs.”
“True.”
“If my mother sees us together for no visible reason, she’s going to start asking me questions. That’s all we’d need. For Dad to hear about this little escapade from my mother.”
“Where then?”
Cindy said, “McGregor Park. Eleven o’clock. You, me, and all the old Russian people. Be there or be square. Call it a night, Sam?”
“Sure. You go on. I still have to
bench
…to say grace.” Sammy’s hand reached for the bill, but Cindy was too quick.
“A division of labor,” she said. “You thank God for the meal; I’ll pay for it.”