“This is the way to go,” he said, “travel light.” He checked out the RV. It was pretty fucking nice.
“You get to missing a yard,” Gray Beard said and ushered him out of the room. “You and your wife ever make it to San Diego,” he continued, “keep going south; you’ll find me where the lobster’s most plentiful.”
“Leave a couple for me,” David said, and then Gray Beard did something David never would have expected: he hugged him. “Do your jaw exercises. I can see your bite is already off again,” Gray Beard whispered. “I hope to never see you again.”
“Same,” David said. He patted him on the shoulder.
Gray Beard opened the passenger door and Marvin was standing there, waiting.
“Adios, Rain Man,” Marvin said, David knowing he’d made a mistake letting these two live, knowing that he fucked up his own training, knowing none of it mattered anymore. The sword comes to the world for the procrastination of justice, the corruption of justice, and because of those who misinterpret the Torah, David knew, but it said nothing of letting a friend who knew too much walk away with their life.
TWENTY
SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 2002
LAS VEGAS, NV
IT WAS A LITTLE PAST 10 P.M., BUT THE WRECKAGE OF THE COMMERCIAL Center was illuminated like Dodger Stadium. There were klieg lights set up in the middle of the vast parking lot and along four city blocks of East Sahara, cops and agents walking the grid, looking for evidence and body parts. Special Agent Kristy Levine had been on her shift for over an hour, inside what was left of The Ponderosa, when Jacob Dmitrov was allowed past the yellow tape. She’d never seen him outside of Odessa, much less in paper booties and gloves and a zip-up disposable hazmat suit.
“This is necessary?” he asked.
“Depends,” Kristy said. She was also in full gear. “You want your skin to fall off?”
Jacob shook his head. “I have relatives in Chernobyl; they’re fine.”
“For now,” Kristy said. “Your father couldn’t make it?”
“He’s not a big fan of meeting with the FBI.” Jacob peered around the burned-out bar. “No way we can rebuild this, yeah?”
“Once they find the last eyeball and tooth,” Kristy said, “my guess is they level this entire wing. The bomb scattered so much hazardous material, plus the human remains. There’s no chance for these buildings. Be a nice insurance payout.”
“That’s one time,” Jacob said. “You don’t just build another bar and hope all the cops and hookers start coming. That’s a generational thing. Habit, you know? You ever come here?”
“No,” Kristy said. “I’m a Pour Decisions gal.”
“Nice place,” Jacob said. “Wouldn’t sell to us.” He shrugged. “So, what? I already told the cops what I know, which is nothing. We’re not in the habit of burning down our most profitable businesses, you know?”
“I don’t care about who burned this down,” Kristy said. “I want to know what was going on in the warehouse attached to the dental office.”
“Talk to the dentist.”
Kristy said, “We already detained him at McCarran coming home from vacation. He said to talk to you.” She flipped through her notebook. “Direct quote, was ‘Talk to those KGB fucks.’”
“Well, that’s not me.”
“But it is your father.”
Jacob was silent for a moment. “I need a lawyer?” he said eventually.
Kristy took her hood off. Unstrapped the N95 from her nose and mouth. Looked directly at Jacob. “You see me?”
“Yeah.”
“Honestly, I don’t give a shit about what you do, Jacob. I don’t give a shit what your father does unless it hurts regular people. You do your gangster shit to each other, fine. But a couple blocks away, little kid, ten years old, finds three eyeballs in his front yard. Goes running into his backyard to tell his mother, and there’s a human head floating in the pool. So now, Jacob, it’s my problem. You didn’t burn this place down? Great. You’re paid. But who pays that kid?”
Kristy’s cell phone rang. It was Poremba. “Give me ten minutes. You think on that question, and then we’ll see if you need a lawyer.”
KRISTY FOUND THE ONLY PLACE TO TAKE POREMBA’S CALL THAT SHE WAS sure wasn’t under surveillance or being filmed by one of the twenty news crews staked out around the Commercial Center: her car.
“I don’t have much time,” she said. “I’m about to break Jacob Dmitrov.”
Poremba said, “Matthew Drew is dead.”
“What?”
“He tried to ambush his former station chief, Kirk Biglione, and ended up getting shot in the head with his own gun.” Poremba so matter of fact, he could have been talking about getting his toilet fixed.
“Where?”
“The Salton Sea, this morning. It was all over the news. Where were you?”
“A Torah study group at Temple Beth Israel,” she said. “Jesus. What was Drew doing?”
“I don’t know,” Poremba said. “It doesn’t add up. Tell me what you saw at the Temple.”
She spent the entire day at Temple Beth Israel. Peered into every open door. Spoke to as many people as possible. Walked the entire campus of the Barer Academy. Circled the Performing Arts Center. Dipped her toes into the pool at the Aquatic Center. Even saw the Blue Room inside the funeral home, where grieving families could wait for their funeral to begin, met a nice man named Miguel who gave her a croissant and a map of the dead. Thousands of names. Maybe ten thousand. Including her own.
She watched a van from LifeCore pull up around 6:30 p.m., depart fifteen minutes later.
