THREE Ex nihilo nihil fit
Vortäuschung falscher Tatsachen – A German term for taking place under false pretenses.
What is the value of nothing from nothing?
Friday
Elizabeth, NJ 10:12 am
Veronica and I worked out a plan of who to interview in turn for finding Tanner. We’re not ready as yet to talk to mom Martha; we have to discuss the best approach because moms are moms. Moms require an early start freshly washed and full of coffee, not end of the day fighting traffic and indigestion.
Tanner himself does not have a steady employment history so no place to get information that way. We already know that from our first case about him. Therefore we start with some of Tanner’s presumed friends. The first is James Busch, who bailed Tanner out. Busch has a job; he works in an auto parts store in Elizabeth.
We find the store on the east anchor spot of a strip mall, a Petco on the opposite spot. V parks their 350Z in front.
Inside, the store has the faint scent of tires. There are two people behind the counter. One is a rangy white woman around 30 with long thick dark hair curling over her shoulder, one is a white guy about Tanner’s age. Upon approach, his name tag says “James Busch Asst. Manager.”
I lean over the counter. “Jim Busch?”
The guy looks up from an inventory scanning device. “Yeah? Help you?”
We’ve seen him before. When we went into Tanner’s last known employment, a bar and grill not too far from mom’s house, Jim was skulking in the parking lot. Smoking and watching us. Dollars to deadbeats he tipped off Tanner.
“Can we speak to you for a minute?” I’m using a polite but serious tone.
The woman, with a pin that identifies her as Angie S., Snr. Associate, observes us with pretty, large brown eyes, flicking between us and Busch, maybe a little longer at Veronica.
We’re clearly not customers and a couple of real customers have come up to the counter as we talk. Busch doesn’t want them listening in. He waves us to the end of the counter. I note Angie continuing to eye us as she checks out the customers.
“What’s this about?” Busch is tall and thin, short hair and a wispy goatee. He has a high school ring and a polo shirt under his store-branded jacket.
“Tanner Harrison. Your friend. You just helped him out, we’ve heard.”
His face betrays wariness and a bit of fear. Investigative work is part being good at thorough research and a knack for putting things together, and part good observation, memory, and intuition regarding people. Busch knows who I am, and it throws him off. Probably the bullshit about my alleged reputation. Good, let it.
Something else there too. A flicker when I said help Busch helped him out. He’s not entirely happy about that.
Angie S. the associate glances at us again. Busch hesitates, then indicates we should follow him. Veronica and I exchange glances and trail Busch behind the counter, through a door, and into a back storeroom.
“Um, what’s this all about?” He tries and fails to sound authoritative.
I make it matter of fact, easygoing, no need for trouble. “We’re looking for your buddy, Tanner. You bailed him out, as we understand. Do you know where he might be right now?”
“No, no.” He shakes his head. “No.”
So no then, I think to myself.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” Veronica’s tone is for-real authoritative and severe. They are good at this, like Katherine Freeman as the Penguin in The Blues Brothers. At Veronica’s best, they’d intimidate Bud White and Tommy De Vito. The both of us have a few different ways of questioning and we switch off, observing and changing as needed.
Busch has swiveled his head to Veronica, surprised they are speaking. He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything.
“Before you bailed him? Right after?”
“Uh, after, but I don’t know–”
I follow smoothly, genial again. “He had to ask you for bail, right?”
“Yeah, he was in jail, and he’s done me favors, so…”
“So he called to thank you afterwards.” Veronica.
He chuckles nervously. “You don’t know Tanner…”
“Oh, we know him. He knows us, too. When we were looking for him before, someone told him we were.” I lean towards him.
“Not me! I’ve never seen y’all.” Nearly squeaking from the effort of the lie. Lightweight.
“Who would, girlfriend, maybe?” Me.
Sore spot. His face squinches then bounces back. “No. I don’t know.”
“Your girlfriend, maybe?”
He frowns. “Mine? What?”
“Something went down between you two? He stepped where he shouldn’t? I’m not surprised. But if that’s the case, I am surprised you bailed him out.”
“No, no…we’re fine. I told you. He’s a friend. He, uh, he took the heat for me once in high school. He already had a reputation but talked his way out of everything, so he covered for me. I owe that to him.”
I don’t agree with that but his appeasing toxic friends is not my business.
“You sure you didn’t talk to him when he made bail? Seems like something a friend should do.”
“Well, he didn’t tell me where he was. He just said he’d be back in a bit because he had heat, and not to worry.”
V and I can’t help but glance at each other. “He lies a lot, doesn’t he,” V says flatly.
Busch shrugs. The age-old tale of defending the nogoodnik friend, the missing stair of the group. “No, uh, more than the next person.”
If the next person was Frank Abagnale. Anyway.
V continues. “Did something happen to him before he was arrested?”
“Like what?” Busch is nervous, his hands fiddling in his pockets.
“Like anything that might lead to someone to be after him. We’re trying to help him, and so we’d need to know.” Not really true, but Tanner is probably safer in jail than out.
He starts backing away. “He wouldn’t want me to tell you his business.”
“He wouldn’t want you to tell whoever is after him his business. That’s not us. We’re going to talk to his mom, but I don’t think she knows.”
“Who hired you, anyway?”
“Glenda. She’s worried.”
“Oh.” From how he says it, he likes Glenda. V and I glance at each other while Busch runs his hands through his hair. He looks out the window of the office door. Angie looks back at him. I look out too; it’s not busy.
He turns. “I gotta go. She gets angry if I leave her alone too long.”
V steps closer, making him jump. “Then just let us know what’s going on. We’ll leave. As far as we’re concerned, you never said a thing. Glen said you, Jimmy, were the one who would most likely help.”
Busch finally drops in his chair. “All right. I don’t quite understand everything that’s going on with him. But Tanner was at a flea market out near Pennsylvania about a month ago. He sells things from time to time. He met some guy. It sounded like the guy had…opinions. But Tanner liked him. He wanted to find something good for this guy.”
We wait, but that’s it.
“So this guy,” I say, “He had opinions. What kind?”
James rolls his eyes. “Like those KKK blowhards.”
“A white supremacist.”
“Probably.”
V is probably thinking the same as me. This puts the WWII “artifact” in a different light.
“What would he want to find for this guy?” V makes a quick note, with a casual voice.
“I dunno, some antique that a guy like him would want. I can’t say for sure.”
“Did he mention the name of this guy?”
Busch thinks. “Dack? It sounded like Dack.”
That’s about it from Jimmy. We admonish him to let us know if Tanner calls, but we also know the likelihood of that happening. We leave the office and go back to the store, going by the check-out counter.
I notice Veronica looking sideways at Angie who in turn is glancing at them.
Veronica snags a key chain from a spinning rack and takes it up to the counter. A pride-graphic license plate. The transaction is but a minute and totally casual, but when Veronica picks up the chain they also set down a business card next to the credit card reader.
Busch has already left for the storeroom, probably to go out the back and smoke. Angie S. slides the card back towards her as we walk out the door.
Inside the car, V tosses the chain to me. “It’s quite lovely,” I say.
“She knows something, and she’s jonesing to tell someone. Here’s hoping,” V says with a smile.
Sunday, February
Metuchen, New Jersey, 1 pm
Sunday V and I arrive at Jess Jensen’s house for the podcast meet-up. Her house is a smallish light gray Cape Cod with a neat lawn and red brick path, in a quiet neighborhood. She’s set up her dining area with an impressive spread of food: crudite, charcuterie, canapes, all that sort of thing. We’re all hungry after an hour and a half drive from NYC to Metuchen, in Middlesex County, so this is welcomed.
Jensen is white, around 40, 5’5 or so, white, plump, long brown hair and bangs and extra big glasses. She’s a bundle of nervous energy, aiming to please. V and I are both tired from the past week. Walter is more animated than both of us put together.
Jess shows us her dedicated podcast room, which has an impressive amount of equipment. It looks like a radio booth. There’s soundproofing tacked to the walls, an expensive set of microphones with popscreens, headsets, two computers. No doubt she’s got good software for editing as well. As I understand, since, well, I researched it, popular podcasters pull in bank from the ads and subscribers.
She describes various cases she’s covered, some I’m familiar with. I suppose it’s impolite to not check out someone’s show before going on, but I was half-hearted about it. Veronica knows these and smoothly takes over, offering some sharp insights. I’m surprised and gratified, knowing they are just as tired as I.
Jess locks down Veronica to talk now and as a future guest about cases that have a supernatural or occult element, Veronica makes clear that they will debunk any aspect that should be debunked. First up, the West Memphis Three and debunking any satanic connections.
Once that is set, having engaged in an acceptable amount of chit chat, Jess says, “So let’s talk about why you’re here.”
So we get set up with headphones and whatnot. Jess interviews Walter and Veronica first, which I guess gives me a chance to observe to process and work out my nervousness.
In order to maximize the interview, Jess has sections to record with Walter as well. I’m thinking about what I’d talk about while she interviews Walter, and to an extent I enjoy listening to them. I’ll give her the accolades that she has a pleasant mezzo voice, that she shows intellectual curiosity, and she balances discussion of grim details with offering various resources, in seeming sincerity. While Jess talks to them, I look over a set of questions she has about me, and Dom.
How do I feel about this? Awkward. After Chris trying to help me, and Chiang saying there’s unfinished business, I really don’t feel in the mood. But I have to rise above this, as it’s unfair to Dom to just blank out.
I make some notes about what I’d like to say if I was a normal person, and some memories come back, with a bit of melancholy.
I guess I have to give Jess credit that she picks up on my mood and begins by getting me more comfortable in the setting with some irrelevant small talk before starting the interview, or discussion, or whatever it is.
Then we move on.
“What is your favorite memory of your uncle?”
I have my answer but I still think about it for a minute. “I guess…when he told me he was proud of me for doing well as a private investigator. See, he didn’t like the idea to put it mildly. I think he wanted me to be an academic but it wasn’t my thing. When he couldn’t convince me otherwise he insisted I continue with a college degree and to learn everything I could to protect myself—self-defense, psychology, law, critical thinking. I have a BA in Psych and History. I interned with attorneys as a paralegal, doing the ins and outs of courtrooms and police procedure. And I was able to get a decent job with a mentor of mine, Manny Smith. Manny, rest in peace, was the kind of boss who really wanted to train someone to do things right. Not easy to find. But I worked for him for a few years, and Manny kept meticulous records of my work to attest for my license application. Dom took me out to dinner when I got my license. He said he respected that I was serious and that I had built a career, he said, “…under the tutelage of a decent man.” He talked like that.”
We both laugh. I can see Dom smiling wryly as he said it. And if he were here? He’d ask why you aren’t using those skills now, right?
“You were very close, I take it.”
“Yeah, all the way up to the end. He—he and I were very similar and yet different, like a reflection. He was highly intellectual but with a tough side. He was Golden Gloves in school and never stopped practicing boxing. It was one of the first things he taught me. How to take a punch. Being gay, it was more likely than not that eventually one would have to take a punch—or a beating. So what he taught me was how to fight effectively, how to do enough to be able to get away, how to fight against different-sized persons and so on. And, I think the most important thing, to survive. Even if you have to run, to hide, to take a beating, you’ve come out ahead if you are alive at the end of the day. Nobody messed with him. And he didn’t look it—he dressed nice and he was a handsome man. But cross him and he would take you out.”
“You saw some of that?”
“Saw it? I caused it sometimes.” We laugh again. “I was not one for obeying rules. Never was. I used to sneak out all the time as a kid and a teen, and I would trespass everywhere, and then in my teens, trying to hook up. Both my mom and Dom would try to keep tabs on me. My mom knew everyone in our Bronx neighborhood from being a librarian, and Dom knew a ton of people in the East and West Village and Chelsea from being … who he was. An activist, a queer social butterfly in a way I never could be. He had the gay network, as it were, well aware of me and afraid to touch me. It’s why I hung out in New Jersey—no one knew him! Granted, this was still the time of AIDS and his generation was the second to get hit hard. He was affected by the Gabriel Rotello book, Sexual Ecology. He and his friends used to discuss and debate the sexual implications and politics.”
“That sounds interesting, like, the second wave after Gay Men’s Health Crisis and ACT UP.”
“Yeah it would have been, and should have been—to understand a social and historical circumstance, except it was my uncle talking. I didn’t want to know about his sex life. I didn’t want to know about my parents’ sex life either, same thing. Ugh!”
We go over some basics of Dom’s life. I find out that she had interviewed Randall, Dom’s partner, which gives me a bit of chagrin, knowing his feelings about me are about the same as mine about him. But anyway, life is messy.
“I’ve met some people who knew him, which was what inspired me to get in touch with you.”
“Well, I benefited from his good will more times than I can count. “You’re Dom’s nephew? I’ll help you get in this class, I’ll give you a discount, I’ll find someone who can talk to you about or help you with this thing…I’m not a social animal, honestly. I’m not him and sometimes I feel guilty about that. He did a lot to advocate for queer people in the city. Not just gay men, he reminded me how trans persons and people of color were important to the Stonewall uprising. He made it easier for me to not be an on-the-streets advocate. But he said I had to be me, not him, and being “normalized” was important. We shouldn’t have successive generations protesting the same Goddamn things over and over again, repeating history. He’d be horrified by what trans kids are going through now.”
After that soapbox, which helps me loosen up in not talking about myself so much, we discuss some of his academic research in art history and various charity efforts in the neighborhood, at least what I can remember. Once I started doing my own thing as a young adult I was less aware of his actions.
At a natural pause, Jess changes tone. “That’s great. Hold on a moment.” And then Jess stops the recording. I sense something’s coming from her microexpression.
“I didn’t want to record this unless you wanted to. But..have you ever…heard rumors about him? I don’t mean anything bad about him, for sure. I mean, about his death.”
For a moment, I feel exactly as I did when Chris approached me. What the Hell? “Who…who was saying that?” No wonder she’s saved this for last. “What do you mean?”
“Well, to be honest, I’ve heard from a few people that they think he was murdered. You must have researched how he died.”
I’m not saying she’s being accusatory, but I feel like the accusation is there. I want to get up and leave. Adrenaline washes over me; Veronica and Walter have concerned expressions. V starts to say something and thinks better of it, leaving it to me, but I know they have the instinct to protect me. And I want to be protected. But not here. You can’t run away here. “I…I don’t know. I had no idea anyone thought this.”
She nods slowly, staring at me intensely in a way that makes me not only uncomfortable, but angry. “So the people I spoke to said he was attending a right-wing rally at CUNY Uptown. There was some controversy around it because it’s a liberal campus but they were open to different groups speaking out of a sense of fairness. In spite of that, some of the hard-right speakers had really bad reputations due to their rhetoric so Dominic was setting up a counter-protest. That’s what I understand.”
I feel like a game level unlocked and I don’t know what weapon to use. I struggle to keep my voice calm. “Yes, that was what was going on that day.”
“What do you think of the idea that he may have been murdered?”
“It’s hard to say. The investigation concluded it was an accident. That he fell off the catwalk in the amphitheater.”
“Perhaps this isn’t something to spring on him out of nowhere,” Veronica says with their patented cut-the-shit tone that everyone respects. And indeed, Jess is taken aback.
“I apologize, I just thought this was something that you might have looked into…”
I was part of true crime not long ago, and I helped Walter with a true crime program on another case, and now my uncle is true crime, I guess. A flavor of the month. I suppose these hosts scour everything they can for the next shocking case. I gather more forcefulness in my voice. “Dom’s death isn’t talked about much at campus. I thought maybe for liability purposes but…I was given the impression that it was a topic that just could not be discussed. I don’t know anything else about, much less rumors of murders.”
Jess leans forward. “Would you say that on air?”
“Not at this time.” I’m currently a grad student at CUNY, on leave at the moment. I’m not afraid to speak up but I don’t have anything to say, no evidence of anything.”
Except that’s what Chris was trying to find.
Jess is disappointed, but she doesn’t pursue the topic. Maybe because Walter, a respected writer, is frowning at her. She goes back to interviewing Walter and playing up to Veronica. I’m off the hook. But occasionally she glances at me and I wonder if I’m somehow going to be a target. This makes me tense and I have to actively pretend I’m not.
In an hour or so, the experience is over and Jess walks us out, assuring she wants no hard feelings.
Sure, whatever.
Back in the car, they both look at me. “I’m missing something,” Walter says.
I clear my throat. “About my being shot…the person who got me to go out to the park called me and said they were Dom’s student and wanted to talk to me about something important, that it was about Dom. This person had talked to my advisor at CUNY as well and left his number. She told me a man had come by the school asking for Dom, that Dom had helped him with something, and he wanted to tell me about it. Obviously, this has strange aspects. He asked to meet me in a circumspect way, that’s why I was at the park. And then I was shot.”
“Ah. So he lured you out with information…indicating he may have known something or wanted you to think he did.”
“Yeah. It’s weird…when I was shot and…and went somewhere else, I spoke to them. My mom and my uncle. I did speak to them. I don’t talk about it much but there was a point where I wasn’t sure if I was coming back or not, and they knew. And he told me he was murdered.” I breathe out loud, exhaling deeply.
“My God, Gabriel.” Walter seems genuinely upset.
Veronica checks me while beginning to navigate us out of Jersey; they hand me a water bottle. “We’ll get some more coffee on the way out of here.”
“Coffee’s not enough. Stop by Sonic, get food for later. Anyway, it was so real, I remember that. But after, it faded like a dream. And I just let it…”
“Understandable. You had to heal. Is that…attack on you at the hospital connected to this?”
“Aaron? I don’t know what Aaron’s motives were. The police have not been able to find him. He seems to know me, though. Like…like whoever shot me knew me.”
Veronica says, “Do you…want to look into it? About you, and about Dom?”
It’s just so weird to think about. Before I was shot I would have immediately. Now I’m almost afraid.
But now I also feel that it will be worse somehow if I don’t try. Chiang gave me the impression that if I don’t try things will get worse. Things might also get worse if I try. Catastrophic, even. Then an idea pops into my head. Andrew Greene, my cop friend, said he’d do me a favor when the NYPD couldn’t find anything about who shot me. I think I’ll call it in.
*
*
*
Oh, and I have to apologize to Chris.
Tuesday
Elizabeth, New Jersey 10:00 am
After a day to move on from the podcasting experience, Veronica and I continue our case about Tanner with the next visit, with Mother Harrison. Apparently Glenda had paid for Martha’s place to be well-cleaned and stocked up on things. We find that out by calling her and listening to her vaguely complaining about it. Quick psychological diagnosis is a mom who doesn’t want to acknowledge Golden Child has been using her as that may be seen as a failure of sorts. But just as she seemed about to break down in the manner Glenda described, we managed to set up a meeting with her basically by pretending she isn’t about to break down, and talking over her until she finally agrees.
Martha herself answers the door, surprisingly tall and broad, and thick brown Mary Tyler Moore hair. She invites us into the kitchen, striding hard in a robe and slippers. A neighbor friend is there–Gerry-something, a rounder, curlier, slightly older white woman. Gerry waves her hands and tells Martha to sit; she’ll make coffee. Gerry-something’s presence makes the situation more difficult to ask questions. So we engage in small talk until Gerry brings coffee, and then I smile at her politely until she gets the hint and wanders toward the kitchen, muttering.
Back to Martha, who seems to understand it’s better that Gerry has been exiled. “Now you two are trying to find Tanner right?”
“That’s right,” Veronica responds. “To get those papers signed.”
She nods. “He means well, you know? He’s just troubled. But I’m too old to do this anymore. I couldn’t bail him out; I was in the hospital. He needs some time to find himself.”
All my energy goes to not rolling my eyes. Veronica does a better poker face and continues, “Are there particular hangouts he might favor to find himself?”
Martha gets a sad look. “He has friends. No girl right now. At least none he’s told me about. He and Kayleigh broke up. Say, you married, honey?”
Veronica freezes, probably from the prospect of being set up with the man we had to forcibly stop from shooting us.
I step in. “I appreciate you speaking with us, Ms. Harrison. Have you heard from him by any chance?”
“I think he may have called, but it wasn’t his number.”
“May we have it?”
Martha slowly picks up her phone and scrolls, frowns, frowns harder, then finally shows us. Veronica scribbles down the number.
“I don’t know that’s him.”
“Understood.”
Veronica then reads a list of names. “These are who we’ve been told are his friends and acquaintances. Are we missing anyone?”
Martha seems to still be sizing Veronica up for matrimony and is startled by the question. “Oh, no, that sounds right.”
“Any other family members?”
She shakes her head. “I have cousins across the country. We don’t keep in touch much. My brother is in Florida.”
Veronica takes the brother’s info, although Martha is unhappy about that.
“How about Kayleigh, Tanner’s ex?”
Martha brightens. “Oh don’t worry. I don’t think they’ll get back together.”
Veronica has to reboot for a second. “No, I mean she might know where he is.”
Martha frowns. “Well, I suppose.” She takes time to look up the number and hands it over with reluctance.
At least that’s taken care of. V and I glance at each other.
“So Ms. Harrison, we need to know something in order to find Tanner.”
“Call me Marty. What’s that, Gabriel?”
I fold my hands in front of me earnestly, trying to turn on the charm vibes. I tend to be good with senior ladies. Voice friendly, low with a touch of solemnity, a touch of warmth, a well-dressed courteous and charming young man. In other words, I try to be Pedro fucking Pascal. Even Matt McConaughey will do.
I lean forward conspiratorially. “Marty, we need to know what the thing he took from you was.” My voice is quieter than I’d like, since Gerry is hovering just out of sight in the kitchen; I see her shadow. Bad form, Gerry. I learned how to properly eavesdrop when I was seven.
Marty scrunches her face in distress and glances toward the kitchen. “Oh, I don’t know. How would it help?”
“Depending upon how unique it is, we can figure out what he may do with it, or who bought it.”
“Oh no, would he try to sell it?”
“Maybe so.” I glance to my left. Gerry’s shadow is larger. Damn, girl.
“What else might he do with it, Marty? We don’t know and our hands are tied to help him and you.”
Martha wrestles with this. There’s a part of her that doesn’t want to get Tanner further in trouble. And there’s a part that’s afraid he will if she doesn’t tell us. And a part that’s afraid for herself. How bad is this, I wonder. Terrible possibilities run through my head.
Gerry peeks around the corner since Martha is so silent for so long. Martha spies her and says, “Gerry, honey, can you get me your heating pad? I can’t find mine.”
Gerry protests a bit but can’t say no. As soon as she leaves the house, and V gets up to ensure she’s on the right side of the front door, Martha sighs.
“I guess I’ll tell you. My father brought it home from the war. He said he found it in a busted-up office in Berlin, some kind of communications office where he and some of his, uh, unit found a few officers. I think he, uh, took something from him. The officer.”
She stops like that is enough. I try smiling gently. “So it was a German officer’s property?”
Martha looks unhappy. “Yeah. It was…part of his uniform.”
Veronica makes a thoughtful face. “Like a medal?”
“No…”
We wait. 1…2…3…I try again. “A hat, perhaps?”
“Yes.” 1…2…3…
“But it was German.” From Veronica.
“Oh, yes.”
“Obviously Nazi?”
“I…yes, I guess it was.”
1…2…3…
I smile harder, maybe a bit more like Matt McConaughey now, but with a roguish Bronx accent. “Marty…” I reach over and take her hand. “We won’t judge. We should find this out before Gerry comes back.”
She’s staring at her tea, and gradually raises her eyes. Much like a dog feeling guilty. Not a cat; cats don’t feel guilty. I nod at her. When I do this, I can believe it.
“Gabriel, my father brought it back. You understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I didn’t know what to do with it when he told me.”
“Naturally.”
“I still don’t.”
“We can figure that out.”
She sighs. She wants it off her chest. “It’s…from that, I don’t know, organization. The SS? It’s from one of their officers.”
V and I both breathe. Okay, it’s not the worst thing. But I know we both understand the gravity of having that thing. And, of course, why Tanner would think it’s a great find to sell to a white supremacist.
Because I’ve read about Nazi-hunting, I know a little of this. “A gray cap? With a death’s head?”
Pause. Longer pause. “Yeah. And a, uh, swastika.”
I know what that is. An Allgemeine SS officer visor cap. Being what it was, it was worth a few grand, maybe ten even. I looked it up once and found that these do not stay unsold long. For historical purposes only, no doubt.
Martha looks exhausted. I have empathy for her. Her dad stole it–no way this was legal or something a troop commander would allow, especially if the owner was still alive. Burdened by two generations. She had no idea how to dispose of it and was probably discouraged to do so by dad.
Veronica is a bit sharper. “Do you know why your father kept that?”
Martha is startled again. “Oh, I guess. He told me it was important to him to prove they won over the Nazis. I guess people would call it a trophy.” A trophy in the moment, a symbol of overcoming the evil that was the Nazis in World War II. Then he left it for her to figure out. Her son snooped around and found it, and stole it.
“And Tanner found this.”
Now Martha is a bit angry. “Neither he or Glen was allowed to go in my things. Not allowed at all. He kept asking about it and I told him it was not his business.” This is the one point where she gets beyond the golden child syndrome; his getting into her privacy.
Veronica tries a couple times to ask a question. I know they are trying to ask if Martha believes in or is sympathetic to Nazism, but it’s a difficult question.
They switch gears. “Martha, some people may want that cap. For the ideology.”
Martha looks at V sadly, nodding. “I know. I didn’t raise my kids to do that. I swear I didn’t. My father hated Nazis. He had friends who died in the war, or came home with battle fatigue. He wasn’t a liberal but he said fascism was poison. He’d never deal with those people who put on clothes and pretend to be something they’re not. I can’t imagine what Tanner wants to do with it. You’re talking like he wants to sell it for that kind of thing.”
“He might, yes.”
“Oh, I’d hate to think he’d do that.” She shakes her head. “Please no. He wasn’t supposed to even know I had it. I didn’t know what to do with it. Daddy said he held on to it because it proved that those people can be defeated. Never forget. I don’t know. How could it be valuable? Please try to get it back. It shouldn’t be out there.”
“That’s what we’ll try to do.”
Martha looks up at us, almost tearful. “Maybe you could help me figure out what to do, if you find it?”
We glance at each other. There’s plenty of people who would buy it to turn around and sell it to one of the cosplayers and Hitler-worshippers. The ones crawling out of the woodwork right now. I feel for her. V must as well, as they reach over and take Martha’s hand. “We aren’t lawyers, but we can get some information for you. Some options.”
Wednesday
Gotham Investigations, Horatio Street, 12:02 pm
Andrew Greene walks into our office, after Chris lets him in.
“Hey, troublemaker.”
I put down my book, a Martin Cruz Smith Arkady Renko novel that I’m reading during lunch for the fifth or sixth time. I appreciate the existentialism of the Russian investigator who perseveres regardless of the system being against him. I’m doing some grunt paperwork while Veronica is reviewing issues at Spartan.
“Hey, Andrew.” Greene is a captain in the NYPD Major Crimes unit. Greene is in his early fifties, black, bald, tall. He’s carrying a file folder.
Before we talk about what’s in the folder, I order a lunch delivery for us, and for Chris working in their little office. Andrew’s happy because he knows I order from good places, not greasy spoons. Of course it’s worth it when trading in information.
I had already apologized to Chris. They were gracious and empathetic when I did so. Also I bought them an expensive lunch with dessert and a fancy cocktail, which is Chris’s favorite bribe. I mumbled something about how I should see what they found about the campus. Chris said they’d be ready when I was.
Greene cocks his head. “God, what is that noise from outside?”
I smile. “The FRB is protesting me again.”
Greene walks over to the open window near the bed and looks three stories down at the street, to observe the people on the corner where they are allowed to gather, wishing for my death. There aren’t many of them, about three to five, but they’ve been there all week since a small item in the news about my attack in the hospital. The political climate is such that I’m now seen as a so-called crisis actor. I don’t understand it; no one cares anymore about the Fundamental Righteousness of Baltimore, my nemesis of a few years ago.
I got in legal trouble and went viral for punching the founder, Reverend Mel Bunton, who was protesting the funeral of a college friend, former military who committed suicide. The original preacher’s daughter has broken ties with them and apologized to me personally. These people don’t even live in Baltimore, for god’s sake. They are HQd in Pennsylvania.
Bunton, whom I punched, was arrested for, and who sued me, died last year. But still there they are with signs and chants about being gay, being part of a Jewish cabal, a Muslim cabal, a gay trans cabal, a Jewish-Muslim-Gay-Trans cabal, etc. etc. It is amusing in a way that right-wing bigots and terfs have the same opinions these days. I would laugh except in this climate, of incels, doxxing, swatting, and YouTube/TikTok talking heads who make a living inciting conspiracy theories about liberals, it’s dangerous.
Greene shakes his head in disgust. “They haven’t gotten over you, have they?”
“Like an angry lover.” Alex flashes across my mind for a second and I shake my head. That’s something I don’t have to bother with. Did he reach out after I was shot? Yes, he is a lot of things….a lot of things, but he’s not without etiquette. And to be fair, I know he cared. He sent gorgeous expensive flowers to my room early in my long stay; an attendant placed them across from me. I could barely sit up and did not know who the flowers were from. Joel walked in, picked up the card to look at it, picked up the flowers, and dumped them in the garbage. That’s how I knew.
Back to Greene. “They probably just got back here. They take breaks during the day.”
Greene sighs. “I’d dump cold water on them. Well, how are you doing otherwise?”
“Better. Thank the gods Veronica has things under control.”
“Good people are invaluable.”
“They have my back.”
Andrew is here rather than me visiting him at his NYPD office. Cops don’t like me in general, but my former mentor Manny (who had been a cop) introduced me to Greene and vouched for me. Not long after I opened my own agency following Manny’s death, Greene reached out about a favor. He had a niece, a lesbian and also a cop. She lost her service weapon after a hook-up. I found the thief fairly quickly and retrieved the gun, and the niece was able to avoid having to report a serious, career-wrecking no-no. Andrew contacted me rather than Manny’s partner Gerry Doniger, because he didn’t trust Doniger. I didn’t either. Gerry had feelings about me. If I fell into a tank of petroleum, he’d have offered me a lighter. If I was in danger of an avalanche, he’d have blown a shofar. You get the idea.
Anyway, Andrew was grateful that I got the job done discreetly. Since then, sometimes I can get information from him and sometimes I do a favor for something he can’t do in order to tip the balance. I make a point to treat him well, since there are few other cops—well, none except maybe John Dell in Wayne NJ—with whom I can discuss things confidentially and honestly.
But he is very circumspect, as I have a reputation. That’s why he’s here, so the gossips in the precinct don’t notice. Cops gossip a lot. “I was going to update you on what’s going on with this Aaron person. Although not much, to be honest. Your description of this guy is circulating. No hits yet. The security footage doesn’t have a clear frame of his face.”
“He mentioned Don Mathers. I wonder if Mathers really did get mail from him or something?”
He nods. “I’ll check with the guys on the case, since it’s a Major Crimes case, and reach out to the prison where Mathers is. Outside of that, I’m afraid there’s no real progress on that. I was also checking into your shooting.”
“Oh, that’s old news,” I say wryly. “No, I’m kidding. Go ahead.” I have a little TV in my office, and I turn up an ESPN show to drown out the protestors. We both watch idly.
“I know you said the death of your uncle plays into it in some way. I checked with the detectives who originally handled his death. The thing is, there’s nothing to indicate what happened to your uncle wasn’t an accident. No one even raised the possibility of what happened being anything but random. So…there’s the possibility that whoever tried to kill you used something from your past solely to lure you out.”
I shake my head. “Maybe. And yet, I have a reasonable suspicion as to this being something else.”
“Tell me why you feel that way.”
I take a moment and listen to the sounds of the ball game. “You’re not going to like my reasoning. The only thing I can tell you is while I was dead, I saw something. My uncle. I know that sounds crazy; people would attribute that to visions from lack of oxygen. But he was clear as day, as real as you. And he told me he was killed. I can’t really remember anything else. He told me he would try to get me to remember.”
Greene exhales. “I’m not going to argue about what you experienced. That’s not my wheelhouse. You could have had something like unconscious cues and knowledge that, I don’t know, manifested. Look, someone tried to kill you. And then someone tried to terrorize or attack you. That gives what you say weight. If you can think of anything else to add about Aaron, let me know.”
“I will. Can you do me a favor?” I hesitate. If I ask, there isn’t really going back. It’s Pandora’s Box. I glance over toward Chris’s office but they are playing some Godforsaken music I can’t identify, and aren’t listening. Yes, I know what I said to them, but it’s still difficult to get past the Rubicon.
Andrew waits while I steel myself up to do this.
“About my uncle…is there any part of my uncle’s file you can give me?”
He looks away, thinking, then nodding. “Let me see what I can do.”
Thursday
East Rutherford, NJ 12:15 pm
Lewis Little lives in East Rutherford; he works in a store in American Dream, a giant shopping and entertainment complex. We find him on a lunch break in the food court. Having never been here as I don’t care for giant malls, I’m surprised at the food options. We make note of a confectionery to swing by on the way out.
Lewis is seated near a Ramen establishment. He looks up from his meal. “Hey. You all the detectives?”
“Private, yeah, we are.” I clarify that aspect, as I don’t want Stan Cooper having an excuse to rattle my cage.
He waves us to sit. I check my watch, wondering if we are late.
“It’s okay; my manager gave me some extra time. It’s why I stay working there, along with the bennies.”
“Good working conditions?”
“Yeah. I can’t deal with retail otherwise. You talked to Jimmy, right? That chain he works for sucks. OT and PTO discouraged, and the managers get bonuses for keeping costs down, which means cutting hours to 19, so no health coverage.”
We both nod empathetically. I say, “It’s a tough world, more than it was for my dad. He doesn’t understand why I don’t have a house.”
“Do we have the same dad?” He half-smiles and we all quietly acknowledge that the world is terrible right now.
A pause as we listen to people swirl around our table. Every person has a drama.
“So you’re here about Tanner.” Lewis says this casually, but with a hint of resignation. Tanner is that friend, the one everyone has a story about.
“Yes,” I say. “Have you heard from him lately, by any chance?”
“Not since he got bailed out. Jimmy told me about that. Are you the guys who tussled with him?” He plays with his straw, with an expression of painful curiosity.
“Yeah, but that’s not why we’re looking for him. Glenda is.”
“Poor Glen. You know Tanner was a bit of a prince, but I think Marty has finally woken up some.”
“We’re trying to stop him getting in more trouble. James Busch thinks he was concerned about someone, or someone was after him.”
Lewis frowns. “Well…you know what he was going to do with Kayson, right?”
For a moment I’m thinking of the ex-girlfriend. No, that’s Kayleigh.
V and I pick up on Lewis’s tone. Flared nostrils, his eyes grow wide, shoulders go up. He doesn’t approve.
“It sounded like trouble, but we didn’t get details.” V is casual in how they say it but matching his vocal tone.
Lewis shakes his head. “Oh, it’s trouble, all right. It’s why I kinda separated myself from that group. We’re not in fucking high school anymore, right? Things have real world consequences.”
“I hear you. I learned that some people want to take you with them so they can feel better about what they do.”
“Well, if you already know some…” He may not really believe this, but you’d be surprised how many people want an excuse to talk to a neutral party.
“As I was told, Tanner was at some kind of flea market to sell things that he probably stole from his mom or his friends, to be honest. Apparently, this market had some guy who’s in one of those militia or Proud Boys groups. Well somehow he strikes up an acquaintance with this guy and says he has connections to get him some weapons from an Army base.”
It sure is getting more interesting. Lewis pauses to eat some more—he knows how to hold attention—and we grab coffees and come back to give him some time with his ramen.
He’s done and goes back to his soda. “Okay, does Tanner have access to an Army base? No. But who does? A dude we know, Kayson. Kayson’s in the Army Reserve. Kayson allegedly may have some connections to some weapons disappearing from time to time. So Tanner’s brilliant move is to try to rob Kayson’s shit and take it to the Proud Boy doofus and pretend he’s got the hookup. But…Kayson’s not stupid, you know? Tanner, as I understand, barely got away from Kayson’s stash location with his life. Kayson couldn’t identify him but he knows who tried it, who would think he’s a mastermind thief. So Kayson’s pissed. Who else is pissed? Probably Proud Boy. ‘Cause Tanner’s hobby is his mouth writing checks his ass can’t cash, and getting friends to cover for him. Not me. Anymore. So that’s what I know.”
Okay. Well that’s certainly something. Lewis doesn’t know any specific group the “doofus” was connected to. We ask for Kayson’s info. Lewis doesn’t have a phone but does have an address. In turn, we assure we won’t be giving out his own info. He says Kayson is not violent, but is not going to let attempts to steal or report him lightly.
On the way out we do indeed snag the pastries, in light of information flowing as it should. Also as a comfort as it seems we have some white supremacists to deal with.