The Fifth Man (6 page)

Back in her kitchen, she put a small pot of coffee on and lit up a Marlboro Light. The first deep drag calmed her down. While the coffee brewed, she fished around in the trashcan under a counter and found today’s Asbury Park Press, thinking of a front-page story she had read that morning: Local Locksmith Found Shot Dead
.
She knew the man, Ed Shields. He had come over to help her out when there was a lock on a deadbeat’s unit that was too much for her and her small arsenal of tools. He had hit on her and she had hissed him off, but he was a decent guy and never charged her.

Had he been the locksmith who opened A-17 for Matt Massi?

10.

Jackson, August 23, 2012, 11:00 a.m.

“How did they get in?”

“They must have had your code, or someone’s code.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I have already given them enough trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Do not ask.”

“You mean it’s none of my business?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you need a police report for your insurance company?”

Silence.

“Or don’t you have insurance?”

“They did not get in. Nothing was taken.”

“They?”

“There were two of them, one stayed in the car.”

“Can I see the video?”

“Of course.”

They were standing, as before, facing each other with the office’s waist-high gray Formica-covered counter between them. The south Jersey heat wave continued unabated. It was over eighty-five degrees in the un-air-conditioned office.

“You’ll have to come around,” Anna said, nodding toward the swinging half-door to Matt’s right. As Matt made his way into the inner space, Anna pulled two leather-covered bar stools out from under the counter. When they were both seated, she clicked on a video-camera icon on her computer screen. Matt, needing a better view of the video he was about to see, brought his stool closer to Anna’s. He was wearing khaki shorts and Anna was wearing a light cotton skirt. His knee touched hers and he let it stay there for a couple of seconds before pulling it away. Anna, concentrating on the computer, did not seem to notice. Or perhaps she did.

They watched a six-inch-square frame open on the screen, first appearing as a grainy gray and then resolving into a surprisingly sharp black-and-white image of a narrow, asphalt-covered street with a one-story storage building on either side. Seconds passed, and then a late-model sedan, its headlights off, turned into the narrow street heading toward them. The car stopped and a man in a ski mask got out of the driver’s side, approached a unit and went at the lock with a heavy-duty metal shear. He stopped suddenly and hustled back into the car, which he then backed rapidly and seemingly effortlessly out of the aisle, executing a quick and flawless K-turn at the open end before racing away.

The screen went gray for a second or two, and then Anna appeared, naked. Frontally and very beautifully naked, her large breasts round and high and perfectly formed, her belly slightly bulging, her crotch a thick mass of silky yellow curls on which Matt’s eyes were riveted until, a second later, the screen went gray again.

“Fuck,” Anna said.

“What was
that
?” Matt asked.

“I thought I hit the earmark button. I must have hit the interior office button by mistake.”

“Are you blushing?”

“As
you
would be.”

“Can we run through it again?”

Anna laughed at this, a rough, quick, involuntary bark of a laugh. Seeing her face light up for an instant, Matt realized he was wrong about her having a magnetic smile. What he saw was a flash of innocence, a child emerging for a split second from under the depressing layers of an adulthood that he now knew—for reasons he could not explain, except for the way she laughed and then quickly stopped—had started way too early.

“I mean it,” he said, smiling himself now. “You can delete the last frame. I’d also like a copy.”

“It was the middle of the night,” Anna said. “It was very hot.”

“Anna,” Matt said. “Can I call you Anna?”

“Why not?”

“Forget it. I never saw it.”

They looked at each other for a second or two, during which Matt recalled the feel of Anna Cavanagh’s sweaty leg when he got too close a few minutes ago. Was she remembering it too?

“Why do you want a copy?”

“To get it enhanced.”

“To try to see who it was?”

“Yes.”

“He had a ski mask on.”

“The other person didn’t, just a baseball cap. And there’s the license plate. That should be easy to read.”

“There is something I must tell you.”

“What?”

“What locksmith did you use?”

“A guy named Ed Shields. I found him online. Why?”

“He was killed two days ago, murdered. It was in the newspaper.”

Matt shook his head, remembering Shields, how talkative he was, how friendly, how he quickly quieted when he saw what was in the duffle bag.

“Did he have a family?”

“Two kids.”

“Did you know him?”

“He’s been here a few times.”

“What kind of guy was he?”

“What do you mean? He’s been dead two days. He could not have been the one who tried to get into your unit.”

Matt was silent for a second. That was as far as he would go with this line of questioning.

“Can you give me the newspaper?” he asked, finally.

“Sure.”

“There’s something else,” Matt said.

“Yes? Tell me.”

“I’d like to send someone to hang out around here for a few days. Would that be okay?”

“Hang out?”

“Watch the place.”

“Am I in danger?”

“You could be. Do you have a gun by any chance?”

“Yes, but I have never fired it.”

“Sleep with it.”

“What about my kids. I have two kids.”

“Can you send them someplace?”

“I have a friend. How long?”

“A few days, a week. I’m sorry, but it’s best.”

Anna was silent for a moment.

“What are you thinking?” Matt asked.

“My friend has children they can play with.”

“Good.”

“I know who you are,” Anna said. She stared at him, and as she did her bad eye seemed to be trying hard to align itself with the good one. Trying but not succeeding.

“You do?” Matt replied, matching the seriousness of her voice. “Who am I?”

“The grandson of a Mafia hit man.”

Matt smiled. “Hitt Mann,” was what she said, capitalized, as if she thought it was a proper noun.

“That’s true,” he replied. “Who are you?”

“Look around.”

“Look around?”

“Yes. This is me. This place that I am losing.”

“Do you have a husband?”

“Yes, but not for long.”

“A boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Where are you from? What is that accent?”

“Czech. I am Czech.”

“Are you having trouble with your husband? I saw the domestic violence papers on your fax.”

“He wants to kill me.”

“Is that why you have the gun?”

“Yes.”

“Can I send someone down?”

Silence again, the cocked eye again straining against itself, a sign, Matt was to eventually learn, of Anna forgetting herself as she concentrated.

“What choice do I have?” she said finally. “I cannot shut down. I have to stay in business.”

“His name is Sal Visco,” Matt said, thinking
what business?
“He’s a gentleman. He’ll be here tonight. He’ll bring a cot. He can sleep in the office.”

“It gets very hot in here at night.”

“He’ll survive.”

“You must tell me what is in the duffle bag. I have a right to know.”

Matt did not answer. He took a moment to look around, as if complying with what Anna had just asked him to do. Gazing up, he noticed for the first time a fan, motionless, hanging from the center of the room’s ceiling.

“Why don’t you turn that on?” he asked, nodding upward.

“It is broken.”

Matt took his wallet from the back pocket of his shorts and pulled out ten hundred dollar bills. “Take this,” he said, putting the bills on the counter. “Get the fan fixed. For Sal. The rest is for the gate out front.”

Anna stared at the neat stack of money. “It’s too much,” she said.

“And for your trouble.”

“The
duffle bag
is my trouble,” Anna said. “It must be money. How much? Or drugs, like on the television. Yes? No? I have a right to know.”

“I’ll tell you if you call me by my name.”

This brought a half smile to Anna’s face. Another surprise. That was another thing Matt was starting to learn, that Anna’s smiles were almost always surprises, and thus much more beautiful than ordinary smiles.

“I’ve seen you naked, don’t forget,” said Matt, seizing this small opening. “It’s Matt, by the way, in case you forgot. For Matteo.”

“Mott.”

“Not
Mott
,
Matt
.”

“What do your friends call you,
Mott-Matt
?”

“Matt. My sister calls me
Teo
sometimes. To tease me.”

“Tease you?”

“It’s a long story. We had an Uncle Matty who we called Uncle Teo. We think he was gay, in the closet.”

“How old is she, your sister?”

“Twenty-four.”

“And you, how old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“What’s in the duffle bag, Teo?”

Matt smiled. “Explosives,” he said. “In case someone who’s not supposed to tries to open it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Matt said. “If someone tries to get into that duffle bag, they’re going to
wish
they had died instantly in an explosion.”

11.

Manhattan, August 23, 2012, 4:00 p.m.

“The passenger has a ski mask on too, Matt, flesh colored.”

“The license plate?”

“It’s covered.”

“They knew there’d be cameras.”

“Friends of the locksmith? Someone he told?”

“Why kill him?”

“He’s a witness.”

“I guess so,” said Matt. “What’s on the baseball cap? Can you make it readable?”

“Sure. Hold on.”

A few seconds later a near-perfect image of the passenger appeared on the screen, down to the fine weave of the nylon mesh of the ski mask covering the face.

“It looks like a pineapple,” Matt said, staring at the yellow and blue emblem on the front of the navy blue cap.

“No, it’s a soccer ball with a crown on top.”

“What’s it say?” Matt asked, looking at the italicized letters
YKPAIHA
spanning the middle of what he now recognized as a soccer ball.

“It’s Russian. Football Federation of Ukraine.”

“Thanks, Dee, I really appreciate this.”

“De nada. Any time.”

12.

Skopelos, August 24, 2012, 12:00 a.m.

“Who’s this Diego?” Chris Massi asked.

“Diego Lopez,” Max French answered. “Dee for short. He’s a friend of Matt’s from college.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a computer geek.”

“That’s it?”

“He was in the same honors program as Matt. He speaks Russian, Greek, Farsi and Arabic.”

Silence from Chris, then: “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“Check him out.”

“I will.”

“Where’s Matt?”

“Home on Carmine Street. I’m having an espresso across the street.”

“Did he get the package?”

“I left it by his door.”

“Okay. Stay with him.”

“I will. Did Tess arrive okay?”

“Yes, she got here this afternoon.”

“Chris?”

“Yes?”

“You know the problems. It’s a big city, lot’s of traffic.”

“They won’t touch him.”

“Not if I’m around.”