Richard closes his eyes for maybe twenty seconds without saying anything, probably giving thanks to whoever it is he gives thanks to. Then he looks up and says, “Please tell me everything you know about what happened.”
I take him through all of it, starting with Franklin showing us the crates of money at the port, right through to finding him shot to death at his house.
“Why would Franklin have showed you the money if he was part of the conspiracy to sneak it out of the country?” he asks.
“I don’t think this has anything to do with that money. Maybe Franklin discovered it and used it to throw us off the track. Or maybe he was an innocent victim and was coerced into calling Karen.”
“But how could anyone have anything to gain by killing Karen? Who the hell did she ever hurt? What the hell did she know that could hurt someone?”
These are questions I can’t begin to answer, and my fear is that Karen won’t be able to answer them, either. First Richard was gotten out of the way, and now an attempt has been made to permanently remove Karen. They apparently posed a mortal threat to someone, without knowing who or how.
Before leaving, I question Richard extensively about his relationship with Franklin. He’s answered the questions before, though now they have gained far more importance.
“We met through work,” Richard says, “but we became friends. Richard and his girlfriend would go out on the boat with Stacy and me pretty often, maybe ten or twelve times.”
“Could he have had a relationship with Stacy that you didn’t know about?”
He shakes his head. “Not possible.” He considers this a moment. “Sorry, I answered too fast. Anything’s possible, but I saw absolutely no evidence of that, and I can’t imagine that it could have happened. But even if it did, what would that have to do with Karen?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just grasping at straws here. Was there anything about Franklin’s work that might be viewed as unusual in the light of what has happened?”
“Not that I can think of. We each handled our own area, so we didn’t interact at work that often.”
“And he came to see you for a while after you were convicted?”
Richard nods. “For about a year.” He starts to say something else, then hesitates.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Well, when Keith would come see me here, he’d talk about the job a lot. He’d tell me what was happening down at the port, what people were doing, and he’d ask me questions. I didn’t want to hear about it. I mean, I was never going back, but he kept talking about it. I figured my being in here made him uncomfortable, so that gave him something to talk about. But it was strange.”
“What kind of questions did he ask you?”
“Procedural things, how to handle certain situations. I had more seniority than him and knew more than he did.”
“So he was pumping you for information?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think of it that way at the time, but I guess you could say that.”
I leave Richard and head to the hospital to see Karen. She is already sitting up in bed and laughing with the nurses. Her upbeat attitude is truly amazing; by tonight she’ll be leading the entire hospital in a rendition of “If I Had a Hammer.”
She looks a little weak but far better than I expected. It’s hard to believe that it was just last night that I saw her lying bleeding and unconscious on the ground. I look worse than this if I stay up late to watch a West Coast baseball game.
“Andy!” she yells when she sees me in the doorway. “I was hoping you’d come by. Are you okay?”
It’s been twelve hours since someone fired a bullet into her body, and she’s asking how
She laughs and starts introducing me to the nurses. “Andy, this is Denise, and Charlotte, and that’s Robbie. This is Andy Carpenter, a really good friend of mine.”
We say our hellos, and then I prevail on them to give me a few minutes alone with Karen. I notice two books on the side table:
“You’re reading those?” I ask.
She nods. “Many times. They make me feel better.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. Just knowing that people wrote things like this, so many years ago, and that they could feel what I feel. I guess it makes me understand that life goes on and that what happens in the moment is not everything.”
“I understand,” I lie.
“Have you ever read them?”
“The Bronte sisters? No, but I dated them in high school. They were really hot.”
She laughs, which I cut short by saying, “Karen, Franklin is dead. He was shot in his living room about an hour before they shot you.”
Karen doesn’t say a word; she just starts to sob. It’s amazing to watch her navigate 180-degree emotional turns at warp speed.
I give her a minute and then push on. “When he called you, was there anything unusual in what he said, how he sounded?”
“He sounded nervous, but I thought it was because of whatever it was he had found. The thing that he was going to tell me.”
“And he didn’t give a hint as to what that was?”
“No. All he said was that I shouldn’t tell you he had called. God, he seemed like such a good guy-how could anyone do that to him?”
“Karen, whether or not he was a good guy, the purpose of that call was to put you in a place where you could be killed. Now, Franklin may have been forced to make that call, or he may have made it willingly. The point is-and you have to face it-somebody wants you dead.”
She looks devastated, shattered, as the truth of this sinks in. “But why? I’ve never tried to hurt anybody.”
“You represent a danger to someone.”
“How? If I knew anything important, I would have told you already.”
I nod. “I know that. But you have to think about it.”
She is frustrated, a completely understandable reaction. “I will, Andy. But it just doesn’t make sense.”
“I know. And until we can make sense out of it, I’m going to arrange for you to be protected. Both in here and outside when you’re ready to leave.”
“So they might come after me again?”
She knows the answer to this as well as I do. “They might,” I say.
She thinks about this for a few moments, then nods. “So we need to get them first.”
* * * * *
IF POVERTY IS your thing, you probably don’t live in Short Hills, New Jersey.
The town projects a serene, upscale elegance, and as I drive through it I find it amazing that I am rich enough to live here, should I so choose.
I’ve tried twice without success to reach Yasir Hamadi at his Montclair office, so rather than alert him further, I’ve decided to visit him at his home. Hopefully he’ll be home, but if not, I’ve lost nothing and had a nice drive.
When feasible, I like to interview potential witnesses where they live. People in their offices are more inclined to be brusque and uncooperative, while being at home seems to activate their hospitality genes.
There is no wrong side of the tracks in Short Hills; in fact, I don’t see any tracks at all. The homes seem to divide into two camps, luxurious and spectacular, and Hamadi’s is in the latter category.
I say this even though I can barely see it from the street. It is up a long driveway from the curb, and the
