The captain had been right. The entrance way was in shambles. The door was still on but was badly scorched. Entering the house was worse. The antique mirror that usually greeted him when he came home was staring up at him from the floor in a thousand pieces. The entire area reeked and reminded him of the wet, sooty smell of a campfire after a rain storm.
The inside walls beside and above the door were gone. Likely, the end result of an axe in its search of unseen flame. He could hear the water still dripping from somewhere down into the basement.
Elliot surveyed the damage and thought about the why. It was clearly a warning. From Biovonix? The police? The mysterious big man? Could be any of them, or all of them. There wasn’t much he could accomplish that night; he decided to grab a few items and stay at his father’s until the house was fixed.
He went upstairs and filled an overnight bag with enough clothes to get him through the next few days and then down to the kitchen to get his laptop. He stood in the kitchen entrance without entering. He sensed, rather than knew, that something was amiss. Like the disoriented feeling one gets when a piece of furniture has been moved but you are unable to identify what it was. This was not how he had left the kitchen this morning, but given that there was a fire, maybe the firemen were in the kitchen. When he panned his view to the far right, he saw that instead of the vigilant face of his laptop screen keeping watch over the kitchen, there were four photographs on the table in its place. The photo on the left was a close-up of himself walking on the sidewalk in front of JFK. The next one was of Rivka with a bag of groceries under one arm unlocking the front door of her house. The third was another close-up, this time of his son as he was descending the steps of what looked like a university building. Across Jake's photo was a scrawl in red marker that said, "Final notice." The fourth photo was face down. He turned it over to see a photo of his father walking up the street from his house. He could tell by the level of snow melt and size of the snow banks that it was a recent spring photo, probably only days before he was killed.
Elliot swept the photos off the table, arched his neck back and closed his eyes. A swell of rage swept through him as thoughts of violence ran through his mind. He thought of his gun upstairs and Banik sitting in his grand office with a smug look on his face. He thought about a confrontation with Yilmaz, his fists and feet doing all the talking and Yilmaz forced to listen. He thought about how good it would feel to strike back, to hurt them in the same way that they had hurt him.
But, as the rage ebbed his thoughts of retribution faded with it. He bent forward and placed his hands on the table, his shoulders slumped and neck drooped forward. The rage now gone, replaced by the stark realization of the situation he was in.
Elliot’s heart was racing, so he sat down at the table to calm himself and take it all in. Whoever had started the fire must have been in the house first. There was no note, but the message was clear. He and the two people closest to him had been under surveillance, just as his father was in his last days. Someone else had already determined his father’s future, and now they were threatening to make the same decisions for Elliot, Rivka, and Jake.
He took stock of where he was in the investigation and what he should do next. His standing theory was that his father was killed because of information he stumbled upon regarding Biovonix and the drug Isotin. Banik was likely behind the murder, but he had no proof of that nor was he likely to get any. Banik hired a small army of mercenaries in Eastern Security that enforced the law, his law. He also had the police in his back pocket for when the mercenaries needed support. Banik’s miracle drug, which will be worth billions to Banik and his investors, was only days from getting approval. People had been killed for far less. He came to the conclusion that if Banik had himself or Rivka murdered, it would eventually lead to questions and connections to his father’s murder. Once the press made that connection, it would only be a matter of time before Biovonix would come under scrutiny. That was why he and Rivka were still alive. He also concluded that as soon as Yilmaz determined that their investigation was getting too close or that Elliot would not give up the chase, Eastern would have no choice but to eliminate the JFK threat.
He couldn’t go to the police for obvious reasons. He could take his story to the press, but he didn’t have anything for them. There was no proof; there was only conjecture, speculation, and unfounded theories. No newspaper would touch a story like this without proof. Men like Banik would eat the paper alive if they went to press without any backing.
He stared blankly at the aquarium as he peeled through the events of the past days. He’d made remarkable headway into the case in just five days, but every time he thought he was about to get close, to catch a break, he was shut down. Someone was manipulating events. Someone was pulling strings, and Elliot was just one of the puppets. He imagined a stage with Elliot and Rivka puppets being chased by police puppets with thug puppets lying in wait for them. Off to the side of the stage were the crumpled forms of his father and Frank, their strings clipped and jointed bodies motionless. Orchestrating the entire stage overhead was Alex Banik.
As he mulled over his situation, he noticed there was no sucker fish on the aquarium glass. He walked over to see where it might have been hiding and noticed something at the bottom of the tank. He saw the lifeless body of the sucker fish lying at the bottom of the tank, skewered with a toothpick.
Elliot cracked a beer and sat back down at the table to assess his situation. Up until now, he’d been gung-ho to find his father’s killer and bring him to justice. This was more than he anticipated. He weighed his options and asked himself what he had to gain by going through with the investigation and what he had to lose. The more he thought about it, the more one sided the equation became in his mind.
His father was dead, and his killer should be made accountable. Ever since the day in the grocery store with his mother, he imagined himself as the firebrand of justice, a shining sword in the night, slashing through the dark shadows where crime lived. For the first time, he thought it was an infantile dream. He was not the noble knight he imagined himself to be. There was no such thing. He was just a man with a fantasy. No, more like a man with a delusion. The crime novel heroes he fashioned his dreams after did not exist: his life, a charade.
This insight slammed into his head like an uppercut, and he realized he was hopelessly out of his league. He had jumped head first into a situation that he couldn’t manage and had dragged those he cared about in with him.
The other side of the ledger already had his father and Frank on it and now threatened to add himself, his partner, and his son. The decision was obvious. He would shut it down. He would stop the investigation, forget about Biovonix, about Les RD Boys, the big man and turn his back on Banik, Yilmaz, and his thugs. He’d wave the proverbial white flag and surrender. He didn’t like the idea of slinking back to his little practice with his tail between his legs, but the alternative was not an option.
Now that he’d made the decision, he felt tiny in his chair, insignificant and foolish. He felt the burden of duty shift from his shoulders down into his chest. It settled in close to his heart and next to his soul, where it hung like a dead animal.
Elliot didn’t want to think about the future of JFK. He might even fold the company while he was at it. There was always school to fall back on. Even that was optional. He no longer needed money. Between his father’s savings and life insurance, he would never need to work again. He picked up the photos and stuffed them into his overnight bag and then paused when he saw the case files he had left on the counter two days ago. Whoever came for the laptop either didn’t want these or didn’t see them. Without thinking about it, he stuffed them into the open bag and left.
* * * * * * *
Elliot unlocked the door at his father’s house and turned the lights on.
He thought he should feel relieved after making his decision, but he didn’t. The first thing he did was open a bottle of wine from
the liquor cabinet and poured a glass. He needed to talk to Jake and Rivka to let them know what was happening.
“Hello,” he heard on the other end of the line.
“Jake,” he said and let the words hang for a moment. “It’s Dad.”
“Dad. How are you?” Jake answered. Elliot heard a question behind the question that asked, "Why are you calling me?’
“Is something wrong?” Jake added before his father could reply.
“Yes and no. I’ve got myself involved in a situation that may affect the people around me, so I’m calling to give you a warning and explain myself before it goes any further.”
“Okay,” answered Jake cautiously.
Elliot proceeded to tell Jake about how he started looking for his grandfather’s killer and where it had led him over the past week. The only sounds from Jake were grunts of acknowledgement.
“So Jake, in order to make this right, I’m stopping the investigation immediately. That should appease the powers that be. I’d also like you to take a hiatus from school for a couple of weeks. I want you to go somewhere where nobody can find you. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Use cash only, and don’t call anyone. These people are more powerful than you can imagine. Look at my Facebook page every day, and I’ll give you updates if there are any.“
“OK, I’ll leave in the morning. Be careful, Dad.”
“You too, son.”
“Hello.”
“Riv,” Elliot blurted.
“Oh, hi. How’s the fire?”
“The fire was mostly confined to the front door and porch.”
“What happened?”
“It was arson, Riv. It was a warning from our friends. They also left a clear message.”
“Oh?”
“On the kitchen table, they left photos of me, you, and Jake: all taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. We’ve all been under surveillance.”
“Riv,” he said to stop her from saying anything yet. “They also left a photo of Dad, turned face down on the table.”
“The bastards. We’ll get them, Elliot.”
“No, Riv. I’m conceding. I’m waving the white flag. I can’t put those closest to me in danger any longer. I can’t risk it, Riv. It’s not worth it. I’m telling Banik and Yilmaz that we’re shutting down the investigation and walking away.”
“Elliot, they killed your father,” Rivka yelled trying and failing to keep her voice from cracking. “What about the Stungun Killer? You’ll let him walk away? Are you telling me you want to turn your back on all of them?”
“Rivka, we can’t win,” he said, resignation ringing in his voice. “They have resources we can’t even comprehend. Every time we turn, they’re already there. We can’t bring back my father, Frank, or your niece, but we can live to fight another day.”
“Knowing that we could have made a difference and then not following through is not living, Elliot,” said Rivka as her voice shook. “It’s dying!”
The phone disconnected.
Rivka tossed the phone into her purse in irritation.
How could he do that? she thought. He can’t make that kind of decision on his own. He can’t let these killers just walk away. They killed his bloody father. What was he thinking? She wondered how she ever considered Elliot a friend, how she had ever admired him. How did she not see this side of him before? He was nothing but a goddamn coward.
“Enver Yilmaz.”
“One moment, please,” answered the receptionist in her usual efficient manner.
A few minutes later, a voice answered on the phone.
“Yilmaz here.”
“Yilmaz, Elliot Forsman.”
“What do you want, Forsman?” Yilmaz answered without enthusiasm.
“I got your message; I’m shutting down the investigation. Call off your dogs, and I promise not to pursue the matter any longer.”
“Wise choice, Forsman.”
“What assurances do I have that you’ll back off?”
“All I can offer is my word.”
“Stay away from me and mine,” spat Elliot as he slammed the phone down.
“Banik, Yilmaz here.”
“Go ahead.”
“Forsman just called. He’s says he’s dropping the case.”
“Do you believe him?”
“It doesn’t matter. He knows too much. I’m going to take him and his partner out. I’ll do it quietly and make them disappear. ”
“Do what you have to do.”
“Hello, Anne. Elliot here.”
“Elliot! Quel surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’m enjoying a nice glass of 2006 Bordeaux de Treux and thought to myself, 'This would really go well with some female accompaniment.' Interested?”
“’I’m always willing to moisten my palette.”
“That sounds indecent.”
“What’s your address? I’ll call a cab.”
“620a Elm Avenue.”
“You’re upstairs?”
Elliot stomped on the floor with his heel three times to acknowledge Anne’s question.
“Oh, how unusual. You rode your horse.”
“Naaaayyyy.”
“I’ll be up shortly, horse man.”
Elliot refilled his glass and poured another for Anne while he waited and did not permit himself to think of the case or his recent decision to back off. He hooked his phone up to the stereo and played some Van Morrison. Van played an unusual blend of jazz, soul, and traditional Celtic music that was all pulled together by Van’s throaty voice that filled the musical hollows without overpowering them. Just as "Tupelo Honey" was concluding, he heard a knock on the basement door followed by the sound of a slide lock being opened. He opened the door on his side and was greeted by Anne in a tight, black t-shirt dress that covered everything but hid nothing. She was stunning. Elliot stood at the door with a wine glass in each hand, and all thoughts of the pleasant conversation to come vanished when he saw her. The intended greeting kiss morphed into something long and deep.
Hours later, the light of the moon crept across the floor to reveal two still full wine glasses standing sentry over a rumpled black dress.
Elliot lay in Anne’s bed looking at her back as she slept facing the wall. Her shoulders and back were uncovered, and he watched in fascination as her back rose and fell slowly with each breath. She had the toned musculature of an athlete, and he wondered what she did to keep in shape. A small birthmark on her neck, just below the ear, caught his attention. Without thinking he reached up and touched it lightly with his finger, tracing around and over it. His touch was light, but it was enough to wake Anne.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” she said lazily.
“That ship sailed last night.”
“Ha-ha, I guess you’re right. It’s Friday. Do you have plans for the day? You’ve probably got work to do on your case.”
“Nope. No plans and no case.”
Anne turned over to look at Elliot with a questioning look.
“Remember when I told you that I was investigating my father’s murder? “ Anne nodded. “Well, I seem to have gotten myself involved deeper than I wanted. When we last talked about it, I told you that I thought Dad had been murdered, and I was looking into it.”
“Of course, I remember.”
“Well, we confirmed that theory and managed to get a lead on the killers, at least we did on one of them. One of our part-time PIs, Frank Girard, tailed the perp to see where he went and whom he met with. When Rivka went to relieve him at the stakeout, she found him in his car dead, his neck broken.”
“Oh, my God! That’s terrible.”
“Before she could call it in, she was also assaulted by the killer. She’s okay. The killer's intent was to scare her. And he did a good job of that.”
Anne shifted so that she leaned up on her elbow to look directly at Elliot while he spoke.
“Frank Girard was an ex-cop, so it didn’t take long for the Montreal Ch
ief of Police to drag us in for an interview. Yesterday morning he ordered us off the case and assigned it to a couple of detectives. So Rivka and I were on the sidelines and the two cops had taken over our case. Yesterday afternoon I got another call from one of the detectives saying that if I wanted to see what happened, I should get over to the killer's house. Rivka and I drove over and found the killer in his lounger with a hole in his mouth. He’d committed suicide.“ Elliot gathered his thoughts for a moment. Anne was completely silent as she listened intently.
“There was also a folder on his table with irrefutable proof that he was involved in my father’s death. I pretended to be impressed but did not buy that story for one second. It was all too neat and tidy. And then, on my way home, I got another call from my neighbor telling me that my house was on fire. When I got there, the firemen were just cleaning up.”
“My God, Elliot! Did the house burn down?”
“No, the damage was moderate, but I can’t live there until someone fixes the front entrance. My laptop was gone, and in its place were four photos on the table. A photo of me, one of Rivka, one of my son, Jake, and a photo of Dad turned face down. It didn’t take much soul searching to realize what I had to do. I’m packing it in. They win, Anne. I won’t endanger those closest to me. I can’t. This is not their fight.”
Elliot found telling the story was therapeutic and felt better about his decision than he had yesterday. He’d left out a lot of the details. He didn’t tell her about Rivka and the Stungun theory, about Sammy’s thumb or anything about Biovonix and Alex Banik. They were details she didn’t need to know.
“What are you going to do? What’s going to happen to JFK?”