Saboteur: A Novel (9 page)

Chapter 18

Downy had almost forgotten about his appointment until
Janine buzzed him. “Should I bring in any refreshments, boss?” She said.

“No, it’s a not a social visit.”

He had been awake since early morning staring at his cell.
Nothing still from Nazim. It was getting very worrisome. His class would begin
in ten minutes. He thought of his grad student up there nervously walking
everyone through the discussion. He felt a little disgusted with himself for
not being there. It would have been nice to see Samara again too. He thought of
texting to warn her, but that seemed too—well--too something. Downy needed to
keep what happened at school and outside of school separate. Why in hell did
the cop need to speak to him anyway? You had to give credit to the police
though, for their commitment. The first time had been many years ago now. How
long, almost ten? His cell started buzzing on the desk. It was a 202 area code.
Thank God it was Nazim. Then his secretary buzzed.

“Professor, there is a Detective
Sullivan here to see you.”

He looked at the phone with dismay.
He would let Nazim talk to his answering machine then. Why did everything have
to happen at once? It was one of life’s great questions. Still he was relieved
to know he was calling.

“Send him right in, Janine.”

Sullivan walked in the office with
a big grin.

 
“Hello Professor, thank you so much for
your time today. I’m Detective Nick Sullivan.”

Downy rose for a handshake and the two men sat back down
quickly.

Sullivan surveyed the room looking at the pictures on the
wall. He rose again and walked to a picture of Downy with his wife on set.

“Wow man, this is some picture! Is
that your wife?”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod, “it
is.”

“So, she’s like a princess or
something?”

“It was for a mini-series; she had
a small role.”

“She makes Elizabeth Taylor look
like a dog. Cleopatra, right?”

“Right, well her sister actually,
the one Cleopatra executed.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Downy said smiling wide.

“Congratulations. I should get
married someday, probably,” he said with an emotionless laugh.

“I’ll spare you the pep talk, but
it’s pretty great. Marry the right person though.”

“Good advice, thanks.” Sullivan
continued to stand and looked at all the pictures in the room with a sense of
genuine marvel. “Man, it’s some life you got here. Egypt, Rome, I had
you
professor types pegged as a bunch of goateed hippies,
but you got the world by the
cajones
.”

He laughed. It always made him
uncomfortable when people flattered him so completely. Sullivan finally
returned to his chair and opened a folder in his lap.

“Hey, could I get you a coffee or
tea, water?” Downy said.

“A coffee would be just great.”

“Janine, could you bring coffee for
two please?”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Black is fine.”

“Two black coffees, please Janine.
It’s Greek boiled coffee, imported from one of my favorite restaurant’s right
here in town.

“Nice.”

“Yeah, really good stuff. If you like
it’s from a place called Woody’s over on Third. Nice place to drink it too.”

“I’ll check it out.” Sullivan said
gratefully.

“So what part of the South are you
from, Detective?” Downy knew accents almost instantly. He wanted to guess South
Carolina, but the cadence was too flat.

“All over really. I spent most of
my time in Charleston, but ended up in Richmond.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About a year” he said, lying. He
couldn’t bear the thought of a whole ‘welcome to town’ discussion.’

“I grew up in the South as well,
Kentucky actually.”

“No shit,” Sullivan said looking
genuinely surprised.

“I went to college in England for a
while and lost most of my accent.”

Janine tiptoed into the room and
offered each man his coffee.

Janine looked back at Downy on her
way out the door and fluttered her hand in front of her face like she might
faint. It took Downy a second to catch her meaning.

He smiled at her. He had to admit the guy was awfully good
looking.

“This is really great” Sullivan
said putting his cup back to the plate. “Let me get down to tacks here,” he
said returning to his folder with a smile. “Could you remind me when it was
that you moved into the house on 381 Latimer Street?

“Oh man, that was in 2005, I think.
Maybe 2006.”

“How did you guys find out about
the property?”

“Well it was empty when we bought
it, but it was a friend of mine who lived nearby that told me about it
originally.”

“And what was the friend’s name?”

“It was Charlie Patterson and his
wife Sarah who told us about it.”

“Would you mind if I contacted
them?”

“I’m sorry, but Charlie is
deceased.”

“Oh, gosh. I’m very sorry.”

“And his wife, Sarah?”

“She lives out of state now, but it
was just a house near them is all. That’s how they knew about it.”

“Oh, ok. I know we’ve just about pestered
the hell out of you guys with this investigation.” Sullivan said changing his
demeanor. “Let me level with you that this case is about as cold as they get.
I’m grasping at straws to say the very least. I’m still kind of the new guy and
my boss is taking it out on me.”

Downy laughed. “My first classes
when I became a professor were Saturday mornings at 7 am.

“Ouch.” Sullivan said laughing.

“Hey as long as you’re here, could
I ask you what it was that happened at our place? I never had the nerve to ask
the other detectives, but I’d like to know, my wife too.”

“Fair enough. Thing is, it’s a bit
of a mystery even to us, obviously. There was an assault there we believe,
probably a fatal one. There was blood, mountains of it actually, but there was never
a body. Two blood types at the scene. Sorry I hope this isn’t too shocking to
hear,” Sullivan said catching himself, “I know you live there.”

“No, No,” Downy answered, “I asked.
Go on please.”

“We might have a missing person who
could be connected, but that’s about it. I’m just being asked to reexamine the
case with fresh eyes.”

“The house is available during the
day, so feel free to come by. It’s been redone for a long time now though,
painted.”

“Sure I understand. We so
appreciate your patience, really. The first detective you met with, Fleming was
his name. Do you remember anything about what he looked at when he was at your
place? Anything seem to interest him particularly?”

“I think he spent most of his time
in the large, front room next to the bay window. I excused myself both times as
I recall, but the second guy looked in that area too, for a while actually. I
figured it was kind of better not to know, at the time.”

“Yeah I can see why.”

“I can show you where later, if you
want?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.
Just one more thing: anything unusual about the detective when he interviewed
you? Either of them, actually? Were they behaving normally? Anything stand out
as odd to you?”

“No, not that I can recall, but
gosh it’s been a really long time.”

“Yeah, it has.”

Downy was surprised by how nervous
he felt talking to the police, especially when they started asking about each
other. He was careful to express that he wanted to be forthcoming. Sullivan
leaned back in his chair.

“I grew up in a college town. I
never considered it though,” he said looking around the wall again at all the
pictures of Downy’s life. “I’ll bet there are some cool things I missed out on,
but you know what, I like how things have turned out anyway.”

“Great. Being happy is important,”
Downy said.

“Oh, I didn’t mean I was happy
exactly. Are you,” he said looking at him suspiciously.

“I’m sorry,” Sullivan said coming
to his senses. “You meant to compliment me and I got very philosophical and
dark, didn’t I? I’ll bet the girls love you here, huh,” he said smiling a
toothy grin, trying to change the subject.

There it was; everybody went there
eventually. Downy smiled demurely, “A lot fewer than before.”

He laughed with him. “Come on,
you’re about my age. You’re still in the fight.”

He raised his ring finger and
pointed, “I don’t have to fight anymore. They’re not as interesting as you
might think either, though of course they are forever young.”

“Yeah, I hear you. You know, there
is just one last thing I wanted to ask you about. In Detective Jensen’s notes
he mentioned possibly collecting a blood sample from you. Did he ever ask you
for one? I think I’m misreading his notes actually, probably I am.”

“From me? No, he never did.”

Sullivan paused.

“He had written
get
blood from the professor
?
”
he said holding up the page and pointing to each word of the detective’s hand
scrawled notes. “It’s weird though, he put a question mark at the end. Maybe he
was only considering it, but even that seems—well--I mean you didn’t even live
there yet.”

“No, as I said, we never really
discussed the case with them.”

“Right, not with Fleming either?”

“No, not that I recall.”

“Another professor he meant
perhaps?” Sullivan sighed and closed the folder. “Professor Downy, I can’t
thank you enough. Maybe our paths will cross again sometime under better
circumstances.”

“The pleasure has been mine,” Downy
said finally rising from his chair to shake hands.

“I’ll see myself out.”

“So you won’t be needing keys to
get in then, to the house?”

“No,” he said smiling, “I have
gotten everything I needed. Thank you.”

Downy sat for a few moments staring
at the wall in front of him. He looked at the pictures and had to agree, life
had been pretty good to him. He snatched his cell phone off the desk. It was
time to figure out what the hell was going on in Cairo.

Chapter 19

Sullivan got on his cell as soon as he was in the parking
lot. He hit the name Tackett and waited patiently. It was always an incredible
feeling when there was a break in a case. He had to tell someone. Tackett
seemed like he had his best interests at heart, even if he was being a bit
overly protective. It couldn’t hurt to share some at least of what he had
found.

“Tackett here,” he said picking up.

“Sergeant, this is Sullivan. Could
we meet? I think the uh—house--would be best.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” Tackett said with
noticeable surprise. “Everything ok?”

“Yeah sure,” Sullivan said, “I just
want to have a quick chat, probably best had there.”

“Ok, give me ten minutes. I’m on
the other side of town. I get to serve a warrant to a lawyer. It’s my absolute
favorite part of the job, so give me a few minutes to savor it, ok? I’ll be
right there.”

“Ok, see ya’ in twenty then.”

“Don’t go anywhere else, just drive
straight there, ok? I’m coming as soon as I can.”

“Fine. Fine.” Sullivan said clearly
annoyed. “I won’t move a muscle.” He passed a small cluster of girls walking
together as he arrived at his car. They all giggled, and looked impossibly
young.

“Nice suit man, one of them
chided.”

Sullivan flashed his badge. “Are
you girls parked legally? Do you have your decals up in their proper
positions?” he said with mock authority.

They laughed more. “You can arrest
me,” one of them said fluttering her eyelashes.

Being overdressed on a college campus
was a major giveaway apparently. He opened the door to his car and in one
swooping move grabbed the yellow parking ticket from his windshield. Then, as
if he were dancing with an invisible partner, turned to pivot toward the car
next to him. He placed the ticket on the windshield, slapping it down under the
wiper blade. He then reversed the move back toward his own car and rolled in
through the window. He started the engine and a black cloud of exhaust burst
out of his tailpipe. He revved the engine like everything depended on it and
squealed out of the parking lot.
Yes,
he
thought,
College could have been a good
place for him.

***

Downy wanted to talk to Naomi
immediately. She would definitely want to hear that the cop had seemed more
interested in the other detectives than he had been in the crime. What a
strange interview it had been for all that. There was something guarded about
the detective though. And why had they wanted to speak to the Pattersons? It
bothered him, but Nazim’s message was the most important thing on his mind at
the moment. He hit the voicemail button. The phone rang only once before a
voice answered. The voice was Nazim’s.

“Hello, Mr. Downy. This is Nazim
Celedana returning your call. I presume you must be looking for a boat and I am
just your man. You may call me anytime and we can discuss what you’re looking
for, and further I can tell you what I can provide. My craft is very large and
can hold up to twenty-five crew, fully serviced.”

It was another generic response.
He must not have listened to his message,
and must have him mixed up with a new client,
Downy thought.

Downy ignored the rest of the message and hit the redial
button and waited. But surely Nazim recognized his number?
Weird
.

Downy felt a surge of nervous anticipation as the phone
rang.

“Yes, hello. This is Nazim.”

“Nazim, it’s Noah, Noah Downy
calling. Thank God! Is everything ok over there?”

“I don’t follow you, sir. Have we
met? I am sorry I do not recog--”

“Nazim, this is Noah calling,
Charlie’s partner, Professor Downy.” Downy’s throat tightened as he spoke and
his voice went up noticeably in pitch.

“Ohhhh, so sorry, sir. Yes, Charlie
Patterson’s friend. How are you today, sir? I mean Professor Downy; I hope all
is well.” There was something off in his voice though.

“Sir, I believe you sent a
messenger to my home recently and there was a bit of a mix up, my family did
not know why she had come. One thousand apologies if she was upset by us. I
just feel terrible. Charlie has told me all about you, but didn’t mention you
were looking for a boat, so my family was confused. They said she seemed very
distressed, the girl.”

Downy sat up stiffly in his chair.
What the hell was he talking about?

“Nazim, how could Charlie tell
you?”

“Sir, I am very sorry if we have
met and I have forgotten. I am getting on in years now and some names and faces
escape me.”

“Nazim, are you sick? Are you ok?”

“No sir, I am sorry. I just do not
recall our having ever spoken before. Charlie is a dear friend though and
anything you want, I can assure you, I can provide.”

“It was Samara at your house,
Nazim. You remember Samara?”

“I cannot, I’m afraid. Perhaps you
have me confused.”

“So you do know Charlie, but not
Samara? I’m sorry, but could I speak to your wife? Can you put Diba Jan on the
phone, Nazim?”

“I am so utterly confused right now
my friend. My wife is at home, sir. I am at my office. Have you and she met
before?”

Downy was speechless. He sat
motionless for many seconds.

“Sir, perhaps I should call Charlie
and you can speak with him to refresh my memory.”

“Nazim, Charlie is dead. Why would
you say that?”

“No, sir, that cannot be. I only
just saw him, only two weeks ago. Has something happened? Sir?”

“Yes, Nazim he died on your boat
five years ago, goddamnit. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Sir, there is a terrible confusion
here. No one has died on my boat. Let me call Charlie and get back to you
immediately. Charlie, he is fine. I know it. I would have heard. I will call
after I--”

Downy threw his cell across the
office, hitting the wall. Janine rang immediately.

“Professor, is everything ok in
there?”

Downy could barely speak, “Fine,
Janine. Cell phone trouble.”

He darted to pick it up. The line
was dead. It was for the best as he was about to lose control anyway. Was his
friend losing his mind? Had Charlie’s death caused him to go insane, or was it
something else? It seemed like the only rational explanation. It was just as
Samara said. He was polite like always, but seemed genuinely confused. It
frightened him how much it sounded like true mental illness. He didn’t have
Nazim’s home number in his phone, but buzzed Janine to get it for him.

“Yes sir.” She responded.

“Janine, do you ever have one of
those days when it seems like the whole world has gone crazy?”

“Every Monday through Friday, sir.
Without fail.”

Downy dialed Naomi. She answered in
a low tone: “Hey you, what’s up?”

“You coming home round five?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said.

“Good, it’s been a weird day.”

“Everything ok?”

“Nothing bad, just odd. Tell you
about it later.” He was lying. It was bad. He couldn’t imagine things being
worse. Like Samara, he felt both anger and sorrow. And what now to do about
her, he thought. What could he say to Samara?

“Going home early again, Janine.”

“I hope you’re not still sick.” she
buzzed back.

“Chad will have my classes again.
Could you send him an email to confirm?”

“Done.”

Downy looked at his desk. The
letter that the student had given him caught his eye. It was a thick, almost
antique gauge of paper with a wax seal in the center. Downy had never seen
anything quite like it. He opened it:

Dear Professor Downy,

I write to you on
behalf of Monsieur Guy Taro. I have been acquainted with Mr. Taro now for some
eleven years…”

Downy skipped to the bottom of the page. The signature
looked formal and at the bottom was a stamped seal which read: “Sacred Order of
the Gracchi Brotherhood.”

Jesus
, he thought,
some reference.
He didn’t have the
energy to read on so he tossed the paper aside. It would have to wait. He had
far more important matters to tend to.

Chapter 20

Sullivan pulled into the parking space behind the house and
put the car in park. How many more years would it run he wondered? He had been planning
to have it painted before he left Richmond, but everything had happened so
fast. The paint had worn down from candy apple red to a faded, scarlety rust.
He pushed the 8 track tape of Elvis Presley’s ‘68 come back special into the
slot. He would have kept the car for the stereo alone. It was his meditation
music. Why would Jensen have wanted to take a sample of Professor Downy’s blood
he wondered? Jensen would have known the odds of a match were astronomical,
unless he knew something else of course. Unless there was some missing piece of
information, yet tying the professor to the blood at the scene. The fact that
an anonymous caller had initially reported the crime lingered in Sullivan’s
mind. It bothered him in the same way being lied to bothered him.

Which brought him to the other thing: Professor Downy was
definitely lying. He wasn’t sure on which point, but his instincts were never
wrong. Exactly what kind of killer would move into a house where he’d committed
a gruesome murder? This case was giving him a severe headache. He leaned his
head back and cupped his hands over his eyes, letting out a loud exhale. As he
opened them he saw the same kid on the bike from the other day. He was across
the street talking to a man wearing one of those horrible, floppy tourist hats
that made everyone look like they were on a goddamn safari. It looked like an
important lesson he was giving to the boy. He wondered if one of the cold beers
in the refrigerator might help untangle things in his mind, so he hopped out and
made his way to the front door, jangling with his keys. As he put his key in
the lock he felt a tug at his waist and jumped back.

“Damn kid you just about gave me a
heart attack.” It was the same little boy from across the street. He was
pointing.

“The man across the street said you
better run. The police house will go
boom
.”

It took him a second to process
what the boy had said. He grabbed the boy into his arms as quickly as he could
and ran. He made it to the grass, a seemingly safe distance and stopped.

“Which man? Where is the man?” he
said in his calmest voice.

Then, a thunderous boom ripped
through the silence. Shards of wood and debris flew in every direction.
Sullivan covered the boy’s head as the pieces fell all around them. Smoke
billowed into the sky in great black plumbs. When he finally looked up he
couldn’t believe his eyes. There was a crater at least six feet deep where the
living room of the house had been.
Jesus,
he thought, what
if someone was in there?
He ran as close as he could without endangering the boy to look, but there
was clearly nothing left of whatever or whoever was inside. Only smoke and
crackling debris waved in the wind.

“Where did the man go?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said barely
able to speak through his tears, shaking his head.

Sullivan tried his best to embrace
him and comfort him, but the boy was shaking violently with fear, with shock. A
car skidded to a stop just behind them and Tackett came running from his
vehicle.

“Goddamn it! Are you ok? Jesus, I
thought you were in there.”

“Where’s Rodriguez?” Sullivan shot
back.

“Wait!” he said, grabbing his cell.
He pushed a button and waited. The expression on his face was one of complete
anguish.

“Please answer, please answer. Damn
you! Answer Rodriguez.”

Tackett cupped the phone around his
ear as he walked away from the blaze. She wasn’t answering. Sullivan noticed
the black police SUV he had seen Rodriguez in across the street. His heart
sank.

“Thank God!” Tackett said suddenly
erupting.

“Is that you, Rodriguez? Oh, thank
Christ in heav--where the hell are you?” he yelled into the phone. “She’s ok,
she’s not here,” he said, finally looking up at Sullivan, “She’s getting a
goddamn coffee at Starbucks. Get over here, the safe house just got bombed.
It’s fucking gonzo.” Tackett sat on the curb where Sullivan was still consoling
the young boy. Tackett bent down and let out a loud exhale rubbing his face
with his hands.

A small crowd was beginning to form
on the other side of the street. They were pointing, many holding their hands
over their mouths in disbelief.

“This is not going to play well at
the station. It’s my responsibility in any case. Goddamnit that was a close
call.”

Squad cars and fire trucks were now
making their way down the side street.

“There was a man talking to the
boy. I saw him actually, but he was wearing a hat that covered his face. Five
ten maybe, tanned, somewhere in his 40s or 50s, maybe older--I thought he was a
fucking tourist.”

“Meet me at the station and you can
talk me through it. After I talk to Tierney, of course, and if I still have a
job.”

“Who else knew about this place?”

“Me, Rodriguez, a couple of other
guys; but they never even used it.”

“So, it was being watched?”

Tackett nodded silently. Paramedics
swarmed Sullivan and the boy.

“I need him at the station as soon
as you can. He’s the only one who can I.D. our perp,” Sullivan said imploringly
to the medics.

“As soon as he’s cleared sir.”

Sullivan’s right ear ached with a
piercing ring. He realized his car was probably toast as well. He walked toward
the house and through the smoke ignoring the firefighters. Sure enough there
sat his El Camino, covered in debris, but very much intact. The blast had been
centered on the front room of the house, just where he had slept, so his car had
been spared. He cleared the shards of wood off the hood and opened the door,
which fell off its hinge and onto the ground with a rusty groan. He dragged it
to the side and in one giant heave threw it into the back. Everything else was
amazingly intact. He sat down at the wheel and turned the ignition. Old
reliable. Elvis was still singing, “we can’t go on together with suspicious
minds.” As he pulled the car on the road he could see in the floorboard a half
burned page of Miss November still simmering.