car?”
“He’s on the phone. We can’t stay long.”
“Then I’ll pack something up for him,” Heidi said as she pulled out the tin foil.
“Where’s your computer?”
“In the study on the-”
But Jack was already out of the room and in the adjacent study. It was paneled in a bleached oak; driftwood and shells were scattered on the shelves between the books on yachting, golf, fishing, and finance. He found his mother’s computer on the desk, lit with a screensaver of Hope and Sara, and turned to the all-in-one printer- scanner on the side table. He quickly rolled up his sleeve, lifted the scanner cover, and laid his tattooed left arm on the glass. After closing the lid, he hit scan and watched as the bright light poured through the machine. Within a few seconds, the scan of his arm filled the computer screen, looking like some Maori appendage that one might see in a Smithsonian magazine article.
“What did you do to yourself?”
Jack turned to see his mom alternately staring at the computer and his arm. “Long story.”
“What’s going on, Jack?”
He took a seat at the computer and opened his mother’s e-mail. He attached a copy of the tattoo image to a document and hit send. “I have no idea and not much time. You don’t know any language experts, do you?”
His mother shook her head as she leaned in and studied the tattoo on his arm. “That thing is horrific.”
“Thanks.”
“Columbia.”
“What?” Jack’s BlackBerry beeped. He pulled it out and saw the incoming e-mail he had just sent himself.
“They have a huge language and sociology department.” Heidi looked closer at the tattoo. “And I’m pretty sure linguistics and anthropology. Jeez, Jack, that thing is ugly.”
“Remember what I said about the girls.” Jack kissed her cheek and ran from the room.
He headed back up the stairs and stepped into his old bedroom to see the girls still fast asleep. He stared at them, taking comfort in the knowledge that they were safe, that they had no idea what was going on; their young minds were still unblemished with the dangers and realities of life. He silently walked to the bed and tucked the two bears under the covers between them.
As he turned to leave, he nearly jumped out of his skin, for sitting there was the one man he didn’t expect to see. If Jack’s relationship with his father-in-law was bad, the one with his own father was far worse. They hadn’t spoken in months, and the conversations they did have over the years were few and far between. They would start out cordial, with false smiles and handshakes, talking of the weather and the girls and maybe the Yankees, but after thirty seconds of niceties, David Keeler would only speak of himself, his world, his fishing and golf, how hard he worked. And the conversation would soon devolve into criticism and words of disappointment. His father was critical of his career choice, wasting his education on politics, living the life of an elected official; he never saw his son’s life as one of sacrifice, of protecting the people, of fighting crime. He would tell him he was wearing a white shirt in a blue-collar world.
He made Jack feel like a child, inadequate and small, with a diminished mind not worthy of a life.
But as Jack stared at his father, sitting calmly in his old wooden desk chair, his father looked back with eyes Jack hadn’t seen in years. They were filled with concern, with worry, so contrary to his usual expression of disappointment.
Jack stared at him for a long moment and walked out of the room without a word.
CHAPTER 9
Jack Keeler could hardly remember a time when he and his father didn’t disagree, didn’t fight, didn’t go for long spells without speaking.
Jack had grown up in a family of privilege, though not multimillionaires. His father’s successful career in finance left Jack wanting for nothing. He lived inside a bubble, his friends and family from similar backgrounds with similar morals and viewpoints. As far as Jack was concerned, life as it was in his town was the way the world was.
Jack had been the goalie on his high school hockey team and rode his talent to play Division III at Williams College in Massachusetts. While his father had pushed him to play Division I-the stepping stone to the pros-Jack was under no illusion of ever having the skill set to play in the NHL. He was happy having a good time and enjoying the sport for what it was. It had allowed him to attend a school that his grades couldn’t get him into, and it kept him the center of attention on campus for the first two seasons.
Jack was all of twenty when his world was turned upside down. His father was a senior VP of a small investment firm and had been pushing his son toward the power world of finance, badgering him about his grades, his appearance, his reputation. When he ventured into the city, his father ensured that he met with all of the movers and shakers, laying the groundwork for the future. In the summer of his freshman year, he interned at the investment bank Millar and Peabody in Manhattan, and his sophomore year saw him spend eight weeks at Wyeth Investments. But the experience did not have the effect his father had hoped for.
Earl Nathanson was their neighbor, a successful investment banker, a thrice-divorced father of five who regularly had forgone seeing his children’s baseball games and swim meets for work and the track. Earl’s house next to the Keelers’ was the finest on the block. He always claimed that it would have been three times its size if he didn’t have to pay his three ex-wives and so much child support.
Jack’s father truly hated the man. He found him despicable not only in his personal life but also in business, having made his money off of questionable trades and the backs of others. They both worked at Wyeth Investments but in different offices. Earl was considered a star in the company, and many said he was the man to learn from, but Jack’s father told him that he was the type to avoid, the type never to aspire to be.
But three weeks after that lecture, Earl and his father did a significant deal together, one that made them both a considerable amount of money. And in the small celebration in the firm’s conference room, with champagne flowing, Jack watched as his father shook the hand of the man he despised, all the while smiling and laughing, choosing money over principles.
He looked around the room, seeing men with phony smiles that masked hidden jealousy and agendas, employees driven by greed, all secretly hoping that the next champagne toast would be to them. Jack wondered how many of them would put aside their convictions and dreams to chase the dollar.
Jack silently railed against his father, his moral compromise for financial success, his lack of genuine honesty in his job. He swore that he was not going to let his dreams die, compromise himself for anything. Unbeknownst to his father, Jack formed his own plans.
It was in the summer, just before the start of his junior year, that he finally declared his major: criminal justice, a major that his father frowned upon.
Jack Keeler took the New York City police entrance exam in his senior year of college and headed to the Police Academy-much to the disappointment of his father-the day after graduation, his degree and pedigree making him a unique commodity in the New York City Police department.
It turned out that Jack was gifted with a gun, finishing head of his class at the range. He represented the N.Y. Police Academy at several competitions, always taking home the top prize. He never had a love for guns but found them to be like an extension of his body. His skill with a pistol in the obstacle-laden practical shooting courses was only bested by his ability with a rifle. His instructors recommended him for SWAT and made the military aware of his talent, but Jack would have none of it. He wanted to be engaged in fighting crime, solving crime; he wanted to use his mind far more than a firearm.
With the honors bestowed upon him, Jack was given accelerated entry into homicide, the division where he thought he could do the most good, applying his deductive reasoning to capturing those who committed the most heinous acts.
