Watch You Die (4 page)

“So?” she began, picking up wherever we’d left off last time we cyber-talked.

“Yes?”

“Did you see him again?”

“See who?”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Dating your kid’s teacher is unprofessional.”

“Motherhood isn’t a profession, it’s an art!
”

“LOL. If you keep seeing him I’m going to have to come down there and meet him to make sure he’s right for you.”

“Come soon. I miss you. Kids OK?”

“Great. Sleeping. Miss you too. So that guy is working at the
Times
? I couldn’t believe your email … you sure it’s him? … he was kind of strange.”

“Kind of.”

“Nice lunch date?
”

“Stop!”

“Can’t say I’ll miss him. Gave me the creeps kind of.”

“Yeah, kind of, I know what you mean.”

“Hmm. Exhausted. Goodnight, sweetie.”

“Goodnight. Love you, Sara.”

“xoxoxoxoxo”

After closing the IM box I ran email one last time. Speak of the devil: Joe had sent his writing sample. The file attachment looked small so I opened it, figuring I’d get it out of the way. It was a 750-word essay called “The Wild Life of Martha’s Vineyard” which made me laugh. While the island was home to wildlife galore there was no place less wild than Martha’s Vineyard, where our largest town Oak Bluffs was known locally as “sin city” but would qualify as a tame village anywhere else in the
country
. Nice double entendre in the title to set the tone right away. I read with high hopes.

Hopes which were quickly dashed. His writing was flat and meandering. Without irony or insight, he covered the various wildlife refuges around the island, where they were, their acreage, inhabitants, funding and so on and on and on that by the time I reached the end my brain felt anesthetized. Wildlife could be a most interesting subject and he had killed it. I wouldn’t be able to recommend him for an internship based on this sample.

I wrote him back with what I thought was a fairly neutral email, thanking him for showing me his piece and saying that I’d enjoyed it but felt he should work on his writing some more before applying to the internship program because he’d probably only have one shot. I thought it was a sensitive note and that he would humbly accept my seasoned advice. Within moments I learned how wrong that assumption was.

“I thought you cared about me,” he wrote in an email that arrived in my mailbox almost instantly.

Cared about him? I hardly knew him. A loud bell went off in the back of my mind:
Do not answer this, shut down your computer, go to sleep
. But I ignored it.

“I do care,” I wrote back, not adding how annoyed I was to be lying in bed at night having this email
conversation
when I had to be up at 5 a.m. “Every writer has a learning curve and all I’m suggesting is that you take some more time with it so you can really perfect your craft.” Which was bullshit. He was a terrible writer and if I were honest I’d tell him to find a new aspiration. “Please don’t take my comments personally, Joe. And don’t worry; you are going to be a great writer!”

“I don’t think you mean it,” he wrote back right away, “but thanks for saying so. Lies can be a kind of grease that’s OK so long as it keeps the cogs and wheels spinning. Right?”

“I don’t like lying,” I lied. I
didn’t
like it and yet I was doing it right now. “I think it’s time to sign off for the night. I’ll see you at the office.”

“Maybe I should send you another writing sample, something you’d like better?”

“No, it’s OK. See you at work.”

“Here’s one I think you’ll like.” A very large attachment came along with that email. I didn’t answer. Shut down my laptop and turned off the light, hoping to get enough sleep before my alarm went off.

Moments later the phone rang. Caller ID on my bedside table listed his name, Joe Coffin, and my heart leaped.

I got up and opened my bedroom door. Nat’s door was still shut.

“Don’t answer that,” I said across the dark hall.

“Why would I?”

It was true: Nat always answered his cell phone when it was one of his friends calling but rarely the home phone unless he saw that it was for him.

“Goodnight, honey. Sweet dreams.”

It rang ten times before voicemail picked up. And then the ringing started up again.

CHAPTER 2

IT WAS STILL
dark out when I arrived on foot at a grouping of empty lots on Pacific Street near Flatbush Avenue, about ten blocks from my house. The edge of this nineteenth-century neighborhood, with its tangle of brownstones and stores, had been diagnosed with “urban blight” by the city and defended by a hearty opposition to the wrecking balls of eminent domain as a thriving mixed-use district. I stood in front of an open space that wasn’t here last week, proof that the city had won the argument. Nine buildings had been demolished all at once, creating a toothless space that made you wish they could leave it empty as it had been hundreds of years ago before civilization came along to improve on nature. It always surprised me when I remembered that the islands of New York City had
once
been as pristine as Martha’s Vineyard, the protection of which had been one long civic battle.

I stood there waiting in the darkness, hugging myself for warmth and craving coffee. I had planned on getting a cup of takeout along the way but nothing was open. I was exhausted in that brain-buzzy way, that I-might-lose-my-balance way, having been unable to get to sleep for hours after Joe finally stopped calling. He had called six full sets of ten rings each, each set truncated by voicemail, before finally giving up. Six sets, sixty rings. By the time my alarm clock turned on the radio at five o’clock I’d slept maybe two hours.

Quick, echoing footsteps drew my attention toward Flatbush, a normally hellacious avenue which at this hour was calm, with only the occasional car or truck rumbling by. A very tall man in a suit and tie walked in my direction. White guy, wearing a black backpack and a bright yellow bike helmet, which he removed as he came closer. He had sandy, thinning hair and wore rimless rectangular glasses. His hand was sweaty as he reached out to shake mine.

“Everything I say is off the record,” he said.

“Then how can I help you?”

“I’m an ‘anonymous source’. That’s how you’ll refer to me.”

“And if I need to find you?”

He smiled. His teeth were straight as soldiers and tea-yellowed. Up close, in the waning moonlight, his skin had a papery glow.

“Abe Starkman. Project Manager, Department of Buildings. That’s for your information only.”

“OK. It’s off the record. Why am I here?”

“Come.”

He led me partway down the block to the empty lot where the chemical factory had stood. Orange lines had been spray-painted to mark out individual lots. At the front of the factory lot, my lot, was an uneven blue X.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“All work’s been halted.”

“Just here?”

“Yes. Just this lot.”

“Since when?”

“Yesterday.”

In the passing light of a truck I saw that despite the chilly air a sweat had gathered on Abe’s forehead. He drew a tissue out of his pants pocket to wipe it off. Glanced at the lot and the blue X as if to remind himself that he had made a decision to talk to me. And continued.

“Someone from Buildings is going to call you later.”

“To say they filed a stop work order?”

“Yes, and to tell you why.”

I took a small pad and pen out of my bag and flipped it open. He stopped talking. Through his glasses I saw that his eyes were a milky blue. Not a muscle moved on his face yet the sweat had regathered like a storm. I had a feeling that this was a man of rules, a bureaucrat. Talking out of school, watching me note his every word, clearly made him uncomfortable. I put my pad away.

“The person who calls you will tell you that toxic chemicals were found buried in sealed drums. He’ll tell you that the contents of the drums are unknown and the department hasn’t determined yet whether it’s seeped into the earth. He’ll tell you they halted work at this lot until a determination can been made. He’ll tell you they’re acting on our behalf, for our safety. You’ll be referred to Russet Cleanup to answer more questions. Russet will tell you more lies.”

Two cars sped past on Flatbush, racing each other, trailing harmonizing notes of blowing horns.

“The truth is that the work was stopped because one of the workers found bones.”

“Bones?”

“Human bones.”

“I see.” Though I didn’t, not fully. “Why can’t they just tell the truth?”

“Because the truth scares them. It could expose more truth that could devastate the Buildings
Department
and even City Hall.”

I glanced at the lot, delineated in the darkness by bright orange lines, and saw now that the dirt had been raked smooth.

“How many bones?”

“Seventeen. All we know now is that they come from at least three different people.”

“Did they make any identification?”

“No, not yet. The bones are old though they’re not sure how old.”

“Months? Years?”

“Decades. Possibly older.”

“As in it could be remains from an early settlement? That old?” Though even as I suggested this, it seemed unlikely. How could historical artifacts possibly threaten today’s City Hall?

“Unlikely, but anything’s possible. The factory’s been there since nineteen seventy-eight so the bones have been there at least that long.”

“In your opinion, Abe, what are some other possibilities?”

“It’s just an opinion, you understand that.”

“Yes.”

“Nineteen lots in this project, including this one, were sold to the developer, Livingston & Sons, by a company called Metro Partners. But Metro’s a dummy company – it’s a front for Tony Tarentino.”

Tony T, as he was known, was a local mob boss.
One
of his lieutenants had been arrested on racketeering charges last year and his trial was about to begin in downtown Brooklyn’s federal court. For a few minutes last week it was the talk of the newsroom until we moved on to something else.

“But it wasn’t an easy deal. The city had to intervene – help negotiate.”

“Eminent domain battles are never easy.”

“We expect that. But when Tony finally sold, it was at a considerable market value loss.”

“Why?”

A half-grin crooked Abe’s mouth and the sudden muscular shift cast his face in cynicism. Maybe not cynicism, exactly. Resignation. His was the disappointment of a public servant whose conscience was forcing him to discredit his own agency. At least that was how it seemed on the surface. I had never heard of Abe Starkman until today and couldn’t know if anything he was telling me was even plausible.

“What was the deal?” I asked.

“I don’t have any details right now, but I’m looking. Meanwhile it’s no secret that the mayor has encouraged his people to do everything possible to push forward redevelopment of the Atlantic Yards – it’s to be one of his signature legacies. And remember, he was a businessman before he got into politics; he doesn’t mind hopping into bed with a
developer
if it helps him get what he wants, better yet if no traces of the encounter are left behind. But helping to broker a deal with Tony T, well, that was bound to leave a mess, sooner or later – and here it is.”

“Where are the bones now?”

“Forensics storage. Shelved. Queens Property Clerk, voucher 12-84992.”

I was meant to remember that but never would so I took out my pad and quickly noted it.

“If they’re cold-casing it why stop work and why concoct a story?”

“To make sure they’ve got all the bones. They’ll finish excavating so if they ever need the bones for future reference, they won’t have to tear down the building.”

“Like for a RICO investigation that reaches past Tony T.”

“Et cetera.”

“But they’re not going to make it a priority to ID the bones now?”

Abe shook his head. “The bones could point back to the Tarentinos. If there was something untoward about the deal for the land, and if the city tries to backpedal now, in light of these bones, on some presumed promise of leniency in the racketeering trial, then Tony T would be … unhappy.”