James Siegel - Detour

R is for Riojas.

He had the power and means to find her, and slowly and surely, that’s what he did. Those men in the swamp weren’t looking for drugs or money—not simply drugs and money. They were looking for someone’s daughter. They were putting it together. They were closing in.

There it was in all its awful glory, the fault tree.

But when Paul looked at it, he thought he just might be able to use it to find shelter from the storm. Shelter for all of them—Joanna and Joelle and himself.

Just one question.

The girl the lawyer promised to adopt as his very own. Galina’s granddaughter.

Where was she?

THIRTY-NINE

The bird-watcher bit.

Paul was offering a look at a rare bird. At least the elusive progeny of one. He was offering to lead him to the nest.

“That’s an interesting story,” the bird-watcher said. “How would you catalog it? Fiction or nonfiction? Maybe science fiction .” Paul could tell he was more interested than he was letting on. For one thing he slipped the cigarette he was just about to light back into its crumpled pack. He straightened up and peered at Paul as if he were finally worth looking at.

“On the other hand, I’ll admit you’ve created a willing suspension of disbelief, Paul,” he said. “Of course Manuel Riojas isn’t my case. He’s case- closed. He’s sitting in a federal prison on twenty-four-hour butt-bandit alert. So I ask you, why should I give a shit?”

“Because Riojas might be in prison, but his men aren’t.” He was echoing a certain lawyer, now deceased. “They killed two men in New Jersey.”

“Colombian shitbags like themselves. So I ask again, why should I care?”

“Because if he’s still sending men to kill people, he’s still smuggling drugs. His men are. Isn’t your job to stop it?” He was practicing a dangerous kind of role reversal—lecturing his jailer on the right and proper path. Any minute he expected his head to be driven back into the table. Only Tom was still absent, and his back was clear.

“Well, that’s a matter of debate, Paul. What my job is. It’s usually what the U.S. government says it is. Right now it says my case is Miles Goldstein, which means my case, what’s left of it, is you. Not Manuel Riojas. I’ll admit he’s a lot sexier than you are. But that doesn’t mean I can turn cowboy and go riding off in a posse of one. Think what that would do to internal structure—if we all decided to do what we wanted. Think of the paperwork involved.”

“Riojas is still awaiting trial. His daughter would be valuable to you.”

“Maybe. If there is a daughter. Which, let’s face it, Paul, is kind of debatable. I’ll admit it, though—I’m intrigued. I am. Riojas’ bandidos aren’t my area of investigation, but if you’re telling the truth, they interfered with my money trail. They gummed up the works—which, one could interpret, has placed them into my area of investigation. So maybe I have quasi license to widen the net. Maybe. I’m still not sure how this impacts on your general welfare.”

“I can help you.”

“So you say. How?”

“I was the last person to see Miles alive.”

“Congratulations. Who cares?”

“Rachel. His wife seems like a very decent person. I don’t believe she knows.”

“Knows what?”

“What he did. The deal he struck with Galina. The drugs, the kidnappings. The girl .”

“Okay, then. If she doesn’t know . . . ?”

“She knows something . She probably doesn’t know what it means. She’ll talk to me. She’ll want to know what Miles said before he killed himself.”

“While we’re on the subject, what did Miles say before he killed himself?”

“Whatever I say he did. Whatever will get her to lead me in the right direction. To the girl. To whatever money Miles managed to stow away.”

“Paul, you have the perfidious heart of a DEA agent. Who would’ve thunk ? Let’s review. You want me to let you loose to probe and pry the poor widow. And in return for your government’s generosity?”

“No charges. And you help me get my wife and child back.” There. This was his chance, this was his last best hope.

“Sorry. I think you’re forgetting your current status as a stateless person. Let’s say, however, that charges will be reviewed . Let’s say that any said help provided by said defendant being held under the Patriot Act will be taken into utmost consideration. That any possible help within the normal channels to extricate defendant’s wife and baby will be extended.”

It was the best Paul could get.

Yes, he said.

SHIVAH.

The Jewish version of a wake.

Various members of the Orthodox community were entering Miles’ house in a steady stream of black, like ants bringing crumbs back to the queen. Crumbs of respect, condolences, and coffee cake.

The bird-watcher had rummaged through Paul’s closets and brought him back a suitably dark suit. He looked like just another mourner.

The first thing he noticed when he walked through the door was the odor. The smell of too many people packed too tightly together in a too-little room. There was no air-conditioning—perhaps it was considered disrespectful to the dead. There was enough disrespect already. Paul sensed a glowering uneasiness in the room, as palpable and uncomfortable as the heat. Know what’s the worst sin in Orthodox Judaism, Paul?

Yes, Miles, now I do.

Paul felt himself being prodded forward, slowly being sucked into a suffocating sea of black.

He found himself standing in front of three backless wooden chairs, containing the remains of Miles’ family. His two sons in black suits and even blacker yarmulkes, sitting rigid and tight-lipped as if they wanted to be anywhere but there. And Rachel, accepting whispered condolences with bowed head, as if they were unwanted flattery.

The older boy listened to Paul’s I’m sorry for your loss with silent resignation. Despite his father’s sins, Paul felt only compassion. Maybe because if you threw out the yarmulkes, it could have been his house when he was eleven years old. Numbly welcoming a parade of strangers who kept asking him if there was anything they could do for him, when all he wanted them to do was to give him his mother back. He knew Miles’ sons would spend the next few years wondering if God was an underachiever.

When Rachel saw him, it seemed to take her a long while to place him. She looked up, down, then slowly back up again, squinting at him as if trying to focus.

Then she pretty much fainted.

A GENERAL GASP WENT UP WHEN RACHEL FELL.

Poor thing, Paul heard someone murmur. It’s the stress.

Both boys jumped from their seats as if ejected, clearly fearful that they were going to be made full orphans today.

Rachel was carried to another room by committee, Paul tentatively following in their wake.

When her eyes fluttered open, when she made it back to a sitting position, she saw Paul standing there.

The bird-watcher had made some calls. The story—there had to be a story—was that Paul had left Miles alive. That he’d finished his business with him—this unfortunate visa screwup—shook Miles’ hand, and went on his way. That all this had already been related to the police.

Paul, in other words, was in the clear.

Still, the sight of him had proved too much for her.

“The last time I saw my husband, you were standing there,” she said. “I half expected Miles to come walking out of his office. I’m sorry.” They were sitting more or less alone now.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Paul said. “I didn’t consider what it might do to you—seeing me here. I just wanted to pay my respects.”