longer separate the deception from the reality.
Epstein was not a man who tended to show surprise. He had seen too much of this world, and something of the next, for them to hold too many secrets from him. But now his eyes widened behind the magnified lenses, and his lips moved as though he were repeating the names to himself as a kind of litany.
‘Do those names mean anything to you?’ I asked. I had not yet told him about Kenny Chan, and the earlier fates of his wife and former business partner. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Epstein, but I saw no reason to give him all that I had learned, not without something in return.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘This one.’
He showed me the paper, his finger resting halfway down the page beneath the name Calvin Buchardt. ‘He worked quietly for a number of liberal causes for many years. He was involved with the ACLU, Searchlight, NAACP, as well as anti-authoritarian movements in South and Central America. He was a textbook white male with a conscience.’
‘I didn’t find his name in any of my searches.’
‘You might have found him had you looked for “Calvin Book”. Only a handful of people knew his real name.’
‘Why the secrecy?’
‘He always claimed that it was for protection, but it was also a way of distancing himself from his family legacy. His grandfather, William Buchardt, was a neo-Nazi of the most virulent kind: a supporter of appeasement in his youth, and an ally of segregationists, homophobes, and anti-Semites throughout his life. Calvin’s father, Edward, refused to have anything to do with the old man once he reached maturity, and Calvin took that a step further by acting as a discreet supporter of the kind of institutions that his grandfather would have put to the torch. It helped that he had a little wealth to his name.’
‘Then what’s he doing on this list?’
‘I suspect that the answer lies in the manner of his passing: he was found gassed to death in a parking garage in Mexico City. It emerged that Calvin was more like his grandfather than his father after all: he had been betraying his friends and their causes for decades. Labor leaders, civil rights workers, lawyers, all given over to their enemies because of Calvin Buchardt.’
‘Are you telling me that he killed himself in a fit of remorse?’
Epstein carefully repositioned his coffee spoon.
‘I expect that he did feel remorse at the end, but he didn’t kill himself. He’d been tied to his car seat, and his tongue had been removed, along with all of his teeth and the tips of his fingers. He had made the mistake of betraying lions as well as lambs. Officially, his remains were never identified, but unofficially . . .’
He returned his attention to the list, and emitted a small
‘Davis Tate,’ he said.
‘That one I know something of,’ I said.
‘A preacher of intolerance and calumny,’ said Epstein. ‘He’s a hatemonger, but like most of his kind he lacks a logical consistency, and any kind of backbone. He’s rabidly anti-Islamic but he also distrusts Jews. He hates the president of the United States for being black, but lacks the courage to reveal himself as a racist, so he codifies his racism. He calls himself a Christian, but Christ would disown him. He and his kind should be prosecuted for hate speech, but the powers that be get more exercised about a nipple showing during the Superbowl. Fear and hatred are good currency, Mr Parker. They buy votes in elections.’
He took a sip of wine to wash Tate’s name from his mouth.
‘And now you, Mr Parker? I can only assume that you did some digging of your own, and found something of interest to yourself among these names.’
‘This woman, Solene Escott, was the wife of a man named Kenny Chan,’ I said. ‘The numbers beside her name correspond to the dates of her birth and death. She was killed in a car accident, but that plane went down before, not after, she died. Her death was planned. Brandon Felice, a little farther down, was Kenny Chan’s business partner. He was killed in the course of a gas station robbery not long after Escott died. There was no reason to shoot him. The thieves were masked, and they’d got their money.’
‘Declined.’ Epstein read the word written beside Felice’s name. ‘And is that a letter “T” after the word?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘What does “T” stand for?’
‘Terminated?’ I suggested.
‘Possibly. Probably. Is the husband still alive?’
‘He was stuffed into his own safe and left there to rot, surrounded by his wealth.’
‘Do you have a narrative in mind?’
‘Kenny Chan struck a deal to have his wife and partner killed, but the deal came back to bite him in the end.’
‘Poetic justice, perhaps. You say his wife was killed in an accident?’
‘Accidents can be made to happen, and there were no witnesses. What do you know about a company called Pryor Investments?’
‘I may have read the name, but no more than that. Why?’
‘Pryor Investments was closely involved with the sale of Kenny Chan’s company. The police investigating Chan’s death were discouraged from bothering Pryor. It seems that he may have links to the Defense Department.’
‘I’ll see what we can find out,’ said Epstein.
He carefully folded the list, placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket, and stood. ‘Where are you staying tonight?’ he asked.
‘My ex-partner, Walter Cole, offered me a bed at his place.’
‘I’d prefer it if you stayed here. It may be that I’ll need to contact you urgently, and it would be easier to do so if you remained with Liat. She keeps an apartment upstairs. You’ll be quite comfortable, I assure you. One of my men will remain nearby, just in case. I take it you were shadowed here?’
Epstein was familiar with Angel and Louis.
‘They’re outside.’
‘Let them return to their beds. They won’t be needed. You’ll be safe. I give you my word.’
I called Angel on my cell phone and told him the plan.
‘You happy with the arrangement?’ he asked.
I looked at Liat. She looked at me.
‘I think I can live with it,’ I said, and hung up.
The apartment was more than comfortable. It occupied the top two floors of the building, the rest being given over to storage. It was decorated in a vaguely Middle Eastern style: a lot of cushions, a lot of rugs, the dominant tones of red and orange accented by lamps in the corners instead of a central ceiling light. Liat showed me to a guest bedroom with a small private bathroom next door. I showered to cool myself down. When I came out, the lights were off downstairs, and the apartment was quiet.
I put a towel around my waist and sat by the window, looking out on the streets below. I watched couples pass, hand in hand. I saw a man arguing with a child, and a woman remonstrating with them both. I heard music playing in a building nearby, a piano etude that I could not identify. I thought it was a recording until the player stumbled, and a woman laughed in an easy, loving way, and the man’s voice answered and the music ceased. I felt like an outsider here, even though I knew these streets, this city. It was not mine, though. It had never been mine. I was a stranger in a familiar land.
Liat entered the room shortly before midnight. She was wearing a cream nightdress that ended above her knees, and her hair hung loose on her shoulders. I had been sitting in darkness, but now she lit the bedside lamp before coming to me. She took my hand and bid me rise. In the lamplight, she examined me. She traced the scars of old wounds, touching each one with her fingertips, as though taking an account of the toll on my body. When she was done, she placed her right hand against my face, and her expression was one of intense compassion.
When she kissed me, I felt her tears against my skin, and I tasted them upon my lips. It had been so long, and I thought: accept this small gift, this tender, fleeting moment.
Liat: only later did I discover the meaning of her name.
Liat:
