The Manuscript (14 page)

But what was shaping up was a scenario where the manuscript’s allegations were verifiable enough for Michael to believe that there were groups that would do anything to silence them. That was the worst possible news for him, given that he was directly in the line of fire for anyone looking into Abe’s final twenty-four hours.

He debated what to do next, and then realized he hadn’t had any calls most of the day because he’d taken his cell phone out of play. He called his own number from the internet phone, and then when his message played hit a series of keystrokes, allowing him to remotely access his messages. Michael listened intently – there were two calls from prospective new clients and one from Ken. At this point, the clients weren’t a priority. But Ken was. He looked at his watch. It was already approaching ten o’clock. He’d burned a lot of time with his research, he realized.

Michael dialed Ken’s number, surprised at how quick he picked up.

“Where the hell have you been? I called you seven hours ago!” Ken started.

“I’m sorry, Ken. I got tied up, and my cell phone’s out of commission. But I’m here now. What’s going on?”

“I’m on my way home from your buddy Abe’s office. I need your ass sitting at my desk first thing in the morning for a sworn statement. This investigation has already taken a turn for the worse, and it only just started this morning,” Ken stated.

This was the demand he’d been dreading, but he’d already thought through how to respond.

“Ken, I’m out of town for a few days, traveling on business. I swear I’ll come in the second I get back into the city. In the meantime, what happened? Why are you so fired up?” Michael asked.

“Shit. Where do I start? Well, first off, there are no bugs in Abe’s offices. None. So if there were ever any there, whoever planted them retrieved them last night, which is obviously bad because it tells me they had free access to the premises pretty much to do as they pleased,” Ken told him.

“Ken, the bugs were there. We can get a sworn statement from Jim if you need it,” Michael protested. Ken knew Jim, so he’d take his testimony seriously.

“What’s the point? At least for now, we have no leads on a perp, so the bugs mean nothing, or less than nothing. Oh, and you’ll love this. Someone showed up this morning and interviewed Abe’s staff, claiming to be NYPD. Only they were there before we even had this as anything but a routine natural death, and the names they used were fake. That tells me that a pretty sophisticated effort is under way by whoever killed your friend, and that they’re not only brazen, but very believable. Everyone who talked to them thought they were cops.”

“That’s…well…have you ever heard of anything like that happening?” Michael asked.

“Never. In almost twenty years of doing this. And here’s the really strange part. They seemed really interested in finding out the whereabouts of some manuscript, that nobody working there had any idea about. Which brings me to my big question, tough guy: do you have any idea what’s in the manuscript the mystery men are looking for, or where it is?” Ken framed the question carefully and was obviously listening with trained ears for the response.

“Ken, I…look, I didn’t think it was important. Abe…he asked me to check because his e-mail attachment had gone missing, which we did. We didn’t find anything. While we were at it, he told me about some of the allegations the manuscript they’re looking for contained, which was directed at the government and its involvement with hit squads in Central America thirty years ago, and a bunch of other drug trafficking-related stuff. Best as I can tell, that’s what it has in it, but that doesn’t really help you much on this investigation, now does it?” Michael reasoned.

“Well, it’s goddamned well important if people start dropping from having read it. And right now, it looks like Abe’s cause of death was knowing too much about the manuscript’s contents, so that makes it pretty dangerous. So the second part of my question, which you never answered. Do you know where it is?” Ken demanded.

“Ken, I have no idea what Abe did with it.” Michael hated to lie to his friend but self-preservation was arguing against full disclosure.

Ken didn’t say anything for a few beats. Finally, he loosed a tired, exasperated sigh.

Ken shifted topics. “Michael, when will you be back in New York?”

“I’m hoping in three days, tops,” Michael hedged.

“Where are you?”

“Meetings in the Midwest. You’d love it if steak and big-boned girls are your thing,” Michael said, trying to keep the lies light. That was the problem with lying. Once you started, you got in deeper every time you opened your mouth.

“Michael, we’ve known each other for how long? Ten years? Long enough for me to accept what you’re telling me at face value. So I’ll play along. You’re in some nebulous, nameless area of the country and you can’t make it home for an indeterminate period of time. Fine. I’ll accept that as the truth, and I won’t call bullshit, which is what it sounds like to me. But what I will tell you is that you’d better watch your back, if my hunch is correct and you know more than you’re letting on, because this has the stink of very bad shit on it. Call me when you get back, Michael.”

And then he was listening to a dial tone instead of Ken’s voice.

So Ken knew it was all BS. He heard lies every day, from every perp who insisted it was all a big mistake and that they were innocent – so of course he’d recognize the sound of it from Michael. But Ken was also cutting him some major slack by allowing Michael to lie. Ken wasn’t a stupid man, so he’d correctly guessed that if Michael was inventing out of town trips to stay away from police headquarters, there was probably a good reason. Michael just hoped that he hadn’t irreparably damaged the relationship. Ken was a good friend and an important asset, but Michael simply couldn’t risk telling him the truth until he knew more.

********

Koshi was sitting with a group of friends at a loud sushi bar, where drunken karaoke battled with the din of diners laughing and chattering over the cacophony of off-key singing. His party was by far one of the rowdier. A host of bottles littered the table top amidst the plates and cups. He felt his phone vibrate and fished it out of his shirt pocket, and stared at the screen before answering it.

“Speak.”

“Koshi. It’s Michael. Can you talk? It sounds like you’re backstage at a rock concert.”

“Yeah. Hang on a second. Let me get somewhere I can hear you. Give me a minute,” Koshi shouted into the phone, before waving at his group and pointing to the phone. He got up and weaved his way over to the bathrooms, where the tipsy roar dulled to a muted buzz.

“All right, I can hear you now. What’s up?” Koshi asked.

“I wanted to bring you up to speed. The situations we were discussing earlier? It’s looking worse as more info comes in,” Michael said. He went on to describe the events of the day, including the fake cops and his belief that Abe’s death was related to the mystery manuscript.

“Dude, I hear you, but what am I supposed to do? I haven’t seen any signs of trouble, and all I did was check the guy’s computer. I don’t know anything. I can’t tell anyone anything if I don’t know it,” Koshi argued.

“Koshi, why don’t you get out of the city for a few days? Just leave – tonight – and e-mail me in the morning to let me know you’re safe. I’ll sleep way better if I know you’re out of town while we’re figuring this out. I’m not bullshitting you. Please do as I say,” Michael said.

“All right, all right. I’ve never heard you sound like this before. Okay, I’ll skip town and go relax somewhere tranquil and picturesque like New Jersey. I’ve got a cousin who lives there, so easy enough. I hope you’re wrong about all this, Michael, or this is a shit-storm that isn’t going to just blow over,” Koshi promised.

“So you’ll leave tonight? And e-mail me when you’re at your cousin’s? Don’t fuck with me on this, Koshi. Promise me you’ll take this seriously.”

“I told you – I’ll do it, all right, Dad? Jesus. How many times do I have to say it? By the way, in case you’re interested, this sucks big time. Once this is all over. you owe me a huge bonus for the aggravation. You hear me?” Koshi declared.

Michael realized Koshi had been drinking and wondered how sharp his senses were by this hour.

“Koshi, you been boozing?”

“What is this, Alcoholics Anonymous? Of course I’ve been boozing. It’s night in the Big Apple and I’m over twenty-one. What the fuck, man. But don’t worry. I told you I’ll leave, and I will. Now, have a nice night knitting or whatever old guys like you do for relaxation, and I’ll check in tomorrow morning, Okay? Goodnight, Michael – and thanks for a big bag of nothing.”

Shit.

Sounded like he was half bombed, which meant he probably had no idea whether anyone was following him. That was Koshi for you. His devil-may-care punk-ethic attitude was fine for most things, but it was going to get him killed if he didn’t take this seriously. Michael debated calling him back and decided he had to. He couldn’t just let this go.

Koshi felt his phone vibrate and checked the screen again. Irritated, he punched at the mute button and turned the phone to quiet. He didn’t need to hear warnings of doom from Michael every two minutes or have him hounding him to run for the hills immediately. He’d leave, but on his own schedule. And right now, there was a half a bottle of sake left with his name on it, and that took priority.

********

Michael stared at the phone as it went to voicemail. Koshi was blowing him off. Great. He had no idea what he was fucking with and was deciding to sling attitude instead of getting to safety. Michael just hoped that he was over-reacting to the threat and that Koshi wasn’t in any immediate danger. After all, the surveillance team could be watching to see if and when the manuscript surfaced. That was a valid scenario, and if so, Michael could arrange for it to never be mentioned again. But it was too soon to know for sure, and he didn’t like playing the odds when there was already a body bag to underscore the stakes.

There was one more call he felt he needed to make, which was to Jim, the electronics technician. It was extremely unlikely he was in any danger given that all he did was show up at the office and do a routine security sweep, but Michael felt obligated to at least warn him there could be some fallout from the assignment. At worst, he figured Jim might get the bogus cops showing up and shaking him down to confirm he didn’t know anything, but Michael wanted him to be aware of what he’d discovered. Ken’s call had changed everything.

He listened as Jim’s phone rang and then switched to an automated greeting. He debated leaving a message, but opted not to. Michael didn’t want his voice on record any more than it already was. He called again, on the off chance that Jim would pick up if the phone rang twice, only to get the same result.

Michael made a mental note to call him again in the morning. He was probably already asleep, which didn’t sound like such a terrible idea to Michael, either. He double-checked the apartment door to confirm the locks were secure and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. It had been another long and stressful day, the echoes of which ran around his head as he gradually fell asleep.

********

The phone vibrated on the coffee table, blaring its upbeat song before switching to voice mail. Lady GaGa’s
Poker Face
sounded a second time and then went silent.

Jim’s building was on the upper East Side; a co-op, two bedroom apartment on the ninth floor of a twenty-story pre-war edifice only a ten minute stride from Columbia University. When his mom had passed away, it had stayed in the family. He’d spent most of his life in the same eleven hundred square feet.

Expensively rare tube amplifiers lined one wall, along with a Clearaudio Ovation turntable and stacks of vinyl records, lovingly stored in plastic sleeves in specially-made racks. A 1960s era Marshall fifty watt guitar amp sat in a corner with a 1957 Gibson Les Paul junior guitar proudly displayed on a stand, its original cherry red stain now a salmon color from age.

Furniture was minimalist Danish contemporary and tasteful prints adorned the wall alongside photographs of Jim’s family.

A cooling nighttime breeze rustled the vertical blinds that framed the sliding glass door to the small terrace that was the New York apartment equivalent of a front yard. The Gypsy Kings’ haunting guitars emanated from the CD player; the only concession to modern contrivances in the audio realm that had been allowed entrance to Jim’s world. Some songs were now only available on CD or as downloads, so he’d reluctantly moved in the direction of progress even if the technology was distasteful.

Sirens rising from the street below like ululating mourners punctuated the guitars’ rhythmic strumming and slapping, providing an eerie contretemps to the crescendo of flamenco flourishes sounding from the custom-designed speakers.

A small crowd had gathered around the lifeless form that had only moments before been Jim’s mortal coil, now forever shed after all too brief a flight.

The front door made a muffled sound as it closed almost silently, the visitors’ work in Jim’s abode concluded.

Chapter 9

The tenement block was filthy. The areas surrounding the bleak brick towers were strewn with garbage. Desperation and poverty permeated the atmosphere; the denizens seemed shell-shocked and resigned, the predatory gangs of drug dealers having turned the housing project into a war zone. Groups of confidently menacing youths on foot met cars at the curb and exchanged paper packages for cash, which every few minutes their counterparts on bicycles would swing by and collect, dropping off a new batch of product.

The vehicles that wound their way down the battered asphalt were of no uniform type. Everything from new BMWs to beat up old Chevy Novas crawled the curbs of the graffiti-stained neighborhood, willing to brave the indigenous dangers, their drivers eager to secure the magic formula for a partying weekend night.

The police typically steered clear of these streets; it was not uncommon for gunshots to ring out for no apparent reason, and nobody in a squad car wanted to go home in a body bag because a sixteen year old with a little too much stimulant in his bloodstream had decided to take some potshots at the 5-0. The unwritten policy of the police force was to let the little fuckers kill each other off like cockroaches, and they’d come in once it was safe and shovel up the bodies. Given that the drug business had been going on strong in areas like this one for forty years without any noteworthy impact having been made by the hundreds of billions of dollars expended on the War On Drugs, it was safe to say that the effort was a losing proposition to date. When the enemy in this political conflict was your own citizens, driven by their insatiable appetite for substances made illegal to ‘protect’ them, it was tough to fight a winnable war. All that needed to happen for victory to be gained was for Americans to tire of taking illegal drugs – cocaine, meth, heroin, marijuana. Instead, they were the most prolific consumers of recreational chemicals on the planet. Yet the representative government duly elected by this population insisted on spending a fortune every year on an effort that had been a failure for as long as most Americans had been alive.