The Righteous Men (2006) (31 page)

‘Christ, Will! What the hell are you doing?’

‘Dad!’

‘Will, you scared me out of my wits. I thought someone had broken in.
Jesus.’ Monroe Sr, clad in striped pyjamas, collapsed into a chair,
clutching at his chest.

‘But Dad, I didn’t—’

‘Hold on, Will. Give me a second to catch my breath here. Hold on.’

When Will called out to TC, his father’s bewilderment was complete. ‘What
on earth is going on here?’

Will did the best he could, talking his father through the events of the
last few hours: the text messages, Proverbs 10, the visit to the office, the
stalker, the dash for Penn Station.

He listened patiently, nursing the hot tea TC had made for him, the great
judge now a Dad.

‘I should have told you I was here. I came yesterday evening. I hadn’t
heard from you and I was climbing the walls with worry. I thought it might help
to hear the ocean, breathe in the sea air. Beth is your wife, Will, but she’s
also my daughter-in-law. She’s family.’ He glanced towards TC, whose
face turned hot.

‘I’m sorry we woke you,’ she said, as if trying to change the
subject. Then, yawning, ‘I could really use some sleep.’

‘Motion granted. Will, the garden room is made up.’

That peeved Will. Was his father giving his son an order, instructing him
that he must sleep separately from TC — as if suspecting that, left to
their own devices, they would share a bed? Did his father really believe that
Will was cheating on the daughter-in-law he loved so dearly?

Perhaps his father suspected something much darker. Was it even possible?
Could he imagine his son had somehow engineered this whole episode as a way to
get back with his ex? Will realized how economical with information he had been,
barely letting his father in on the quest for Beth. How insistent he had been
that the police remain uninvolved. It had been nearly thirty years since Will
Monroe Sr had practised criminal law — but he would have forgotten none
of it.

What was worse, Will knew he could feel no righteous indignation: After all,
a matter of hours earlier he had pressed his lips to TC’s, their eyes
closed, in a kiss. And not a fleeting brush either; it had been a real kiss.

He was too exhausted to say any more. He surrendered mutely to his father
and headed upstairs, joining TC who was waiting for him on the landing. The way
she stood, as if she were hiding herself, suggested she felt it, too: the
suspicion radiating from his father and the guilty admission that it was not
entirely groundless.

‘Good work, young man. And your enthusiasm is a joy
to me, it really is.’ The voice was clear and distinct, even on the telephone.
‘No, your best move now is to hang back. I’m not worried about Sag
Harbor. That’s not going to be a problem. We need you there, in the city.’

‘So where do you want me to post myself, sir?’

‘Well. They’re not going to stay in Long Island long, are they?
He’s going to have to come back. And that means Penn Station. Why don’t
we make sure you’re there to greet him?’

H
e had left his phone on and
placed it right by his ear. But his exhaustion was so deep, the short trill of
a newly arrived message barely woke him. Instead, it insinuated itself into his
dream. He was putting the key in the lock of his front door; he walked in to
find Beth standing in the kitchen, clasping a child to her waist. She seemed
fierce, as if she was protecting this little boy — or girl, Will could
not tell — from an intruder about to do terrible harm.
Get back
,
her eyes seemed to say. She looked wild; feral.
Oh I see
, thought the
Will of the dream.
That’s Child X
. And, right on cue, as if
heralding this realization, a bell started to toll …

Like a winch pulling a diver up to the surface, his conscious brain dredged
him up and out of sleep. Reflexively, he grabbed the phone and brought it to
his face.

1 new message

fOrtY

He leapt out of bed and marched down the corridor to TC’s room, one of
the few denied a view of the ocean, backing onto a large, English-style garden
instead. The sun was streaming into the hallway, accompanied by the sound of
the waves. There was no getting away from it: his father had chosen a gorgeous
spot.

His father. Only now did Will remember their night-time encounter. He had
very nearly bludgeoned his dad. He might have killed him. But there was no time
to dwell on that.

‘OK,’ he said, once he had shaken TC awake and she was propped
up on one of the dozen or so pillows his father’s housekeeper routinely
provided for each bed. ‘There’s another one. Forty.’ He was
holding up the phone.

‘Forty messages?’ she croaked, eking the sleep out of one eye.

‘No. That’s the message. Look.’

‘Why’s he written it so weirdly?’

‘I don’t know. Get cracking on that, can you? I have a phone
call to make.’

He looked at his watch. 9.30am. He checked the BlackBerry: nothing new from
Crown Heights. They surely did not believe he had acceded to the rabbi’s
demand in yesterday’s phone call — that he back off and sit tight.
It was obvious they believed no such thing: after all, they had sent a man to
follow him precisely because they knew he would keep probing.

Nine thirty. Someone from the foreign desk would be in by now. Besides, he
could not afford to leave it much later.

As he dialled the number, he scrunched his face up in virtual prayer.
Please
let it be Andy
.

There were at least four assistants who worked on The
New York Times
foreign desk; Will would struggle to name three of them. But one he had got to
know. Andy was probably four years younger than Will and, ever since they had
chatted in the line for the canteen one lunchtime, he had latched on to him as
a kind of mentor. He was from Iowa and had a dry, unsmiling humour that Will
liked instantly; a surrogate for the sensibility he missed from home.

‘Foreign.’

‘Andy?’

‘No less.’

‘Thank God.’

‘Will, is that you?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘No, nothing. Just—’

‘What?’

‘Dude, if I believed every evil rumour that I heard.’

‘What evil rumour?’

‘Word is, you got pounded by the big guy yesterday. That he found you
rifling through someone else’s desk? I told people, “Hey,
investigative journalism’s a tough business”.’

‘Thanks, Andy.’

‘Is it true?’

‘Put it this way, it’s not entirely untrue.’

‘Hmm. Well, it’s a novel approach to career development, I’ll
say that for ya.’

‘Look, Andy. I need a favour. I need you to give me the number for the
Times
correspondent in Bangkok.’

‘John Bishop? Everyone’s on his case today, man. He’s run ragged.’

‘How come?’

‘Don’t you watch the news? The police are all over Brooklyn.
Apparently the black hats tried to kill some guy in Thailand. It’s a
Metro story: Walton’s on it.’

‘Walton?’ That was all Will needed: more needling from the
notebook-thief. He would have to speak to Bishop behind his back.

‘Yeah. I hear Walton tried to wriggle out of it, being the weekend and
all. Apparently he nominated you for the story: until the desk told him you
were, you know—’

‘I was what?’

‘You know, not available for work just now.’

‘Is that how they’re putting it?’

‘Something like that. Listen, Will, what’s the deal? Are you sick
or something? You smoke some bad weed?’

He knew Andy was trying to mock the heaviness of it all, sending up, in
particular, the absurdity of the hard-working, married Will Monroe under
suspicion as some Freak Brothers drug fiend. But it did not make Will laugh.
Instead his friend’s banter merely confirmed his worst anxieties: that he
was indeed effectively suspended from The
New York Times
and that he had
become precisely the office talking point, the topic of water-cooler
conversation, he had dreaded. The fact that this was a trivial matter, barely
worthy of consideration alongside his other worries, only emphasized the
desperation of his situation.

‘No, Andy. No bad weed, no weed at all as it happens. But I can see
how it must look. Excellent. Tip top. Bloody marvellous.’

‘I’m sorry, dude. Is there anything I can do?’

‘Yeah, that number will be a huge help. Cell phone if you have one.’

‘Sure. And remember, they’re twelve hours ahead there.

It’s like nearly ten at night now.’

Will did not allow himself a moment to digest the call with Andy. As he
dialled the multiple digits to reach Bangkok, he imagined how the
Times
’s
interns and young reporters would be burning up New York’s cellular
system, updating each other on the rise and dramatic fall of Will Monroe at
this very moment, but that was all. He tried to put it out of his mind — and
focus on the sound of a telephone ring that was now in his ear.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello, John? This is Will Monroe from the Metro desk. Is this a bad
time?’

‘I’ve just been up for about thirty-six hours and I’m about
to file a story, Why would it be a bad time? How can I help?’

‘Sorry, I’ll try to keep it really brief. I know you’re
liaising with Terry Walton, so I don’t want to cut across anything he’s
doing—’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘But I’m working on a piece at this end—’ Terrible
lie, and one that Bishop could so easily expose, but Will figured he was up to
his neck already, a few more inches would not make much difference. ‘I’m
trying to get more of a handle on the victim. Mr Sangsuk.’

‘Mr Samak. His name was Samak Sangsuk. In Thailand, the family name
comes first; you know, like Mao Tse-Tung. Anyway, I filed all that already. Foreign
will have it.’

Shit. Should have asked Andy to send everything over first.

‘I know and that’s all great. It’s just a bit of a steer I’ve
been getting from some of the Hassidim here.’

‘Oh, yes? That’s great, Will. What’s the steer?’ The
tone had changed. The prospect of useful information always improved
journalists’ manners.

‘I know this sounds odd, but I’ve been told to look closely at
the victim’s biography.’

‘Just some rich guy. In business.’

‘Well, I know. But my informer—’ a notch above “source”
and therefore much more tantalizing ‘—suggests if we dig a bit
deeper, we might find something useful. And relevant.’

‘What, was he a crook? There’s a ton of corruption in this town.
That wouldn’t be news.’

Now Will would have to take his chance. ‘No, what I hear is the
opposite. I’m told that if we look hard enough, we’ll find
something very unusual about this man — and I don’t mean unusually
corrupt.’

‘Well, what do you mean? What “very unusual” thing will we
find?’

‘I don’t know, John. I’m just telling you what the
Hassidim told me. Look for it, and it will explain everything. That’s what
my guy said. Just wanted to pass the tip on.’

‘It’s ten o’clock.’

‘I know. But maybe some relatives of the victim, of Mr Samak, are
still awake? Perhaps his friends?’

‘I’ve got a couple of numbers I can call. I’ll file
whatever I get to foreign.’

They said goodbye and Will let out a lungful of air in relief.

Now he was wasting senior foreign correspondents’ time. He would be
back at the
Bergen Record
within a week. If they would have him …

He phoned Andy, instructing him to email any new files from Bishop the
second they came in. He had no idea what the
Times
’s man in
Bangkok would find out.

‘Well, thanks for breakfast.’

‘Shit, sorry. I’ve been on the phone.’ TC was holding a piece
of paper. ‘Have you done it?’

She showed him. It just said fOrtV.

‘Yeah?’

‘At first I thought it was just a typing error. But this guy is very
neat and precise. Everything is deliberate.’

‘And?’

‘And he’s emphasized two letters: the second and the fifth.

I started trying to say it out loud. I thought maybe it was “forty O-Y”
but that makes no sense.’

‘TC—’

‘Anyway, it’s even simpler. It’s forty, second and fifth.
Or, put another way, 42nd and 5th.’

‘That’s the public library.’

‘Exactly, which means—’

Suddenly TC tensed up. Will looked round. His father had come in, wearing
Sunday morning chinos.

‘Is there some news?’

‘Yeah, we just got another text message. Sending us to the public
library.’

‘Is this man suggesting he meet you there? Be careful, William,
please.’

‘No, he hasn’t said anything yet. Just the address. Forty second
and fifth. That’s all we’ve got.’

‘Well, let me at least give you a ride to the station.’

There was another buzz. Another message.

Dare to be a Daniel.

Will showed it to his father and then to TC.

‘Oh, I think I know what that is,’ said his father, a matter of
seconds later. ‘What did Daniel do?’

‘He entered the lions’ den.’

‘And the New York Public Library—’

‘—is guarded by two lions. Of course. The statues.’

‘Patience and Fortitude. That’s what they’re called. Maybe
that’s what he’s saying you need.’

‘No, I think it’s simpler than that.’ It was TC. ‘I
think he’s just saying go into the library. Dare to be a Daniel, enter
the lions’ den. That’s it.’

The phone buzzed once more.

1 New Message

Will fumbled to press the right buttons. All three of them were watching and
waiting.

Primers’ domain discovered in
the orchard of fruit

‘Christ. What the hell’s that? Just when I thought we were getting
somewhere.’

‘It’s worded like a crossword clue. Or perhaps there’s a room
in the library that has a painting of an orchard?’