Witness to Death Page 9

  Pat picked up his beer and downed it.

  “You have to go to the cops,” he said, slamming the empty on the coffee table.

  “I can’t do that,” John said.

  “Why not? If you’re innocent, they’ll help you. It’s their job.”

  John shook his head. Thought about how Ashley told him he was a target. Thought about how he saw her with Frank. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Didn’t want to.

  “Not without Frank,” he said.

  “You said the police believe what you said about him.”

  “That’s why I need him. With him around, they’ll have to listen to me. They won’t just arrest me. They’ll listen.”

  His vision blurred a bit, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His arm was throbbing. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was Ashley. Sweat formed at his hairline and dripped over his face. He opened his eyes again and focused on the Opie and Anthony poster Pat had framed.

  “Jesus, shit just follows you around,” Pat said.

  “I just need a place to stay for the night.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please, Pat. I can’t go home, they’ll be waiting for me.”

  Pat shook his head. “If you stay here, I’m in just as much trouble as you. They’ll arrest me too.”

  John hadn’t even considered that. He’d already gotten Ashley involved. And there was Frank. He didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.

  “You’re right,” John said. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know—”

  “She’s dead? Ashley? You’re sure?”

  John shook his head. “I called an ambulance. I don’t know. She wasn’t breathing.”

  Pat dropped his head. “I can’t believe you left her.”

  “I’m sorry,” John said. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I shouldn’t have—”

  John pushed himself up from the couch and walked to the door. He went outside into the freezing air, unsure of what to do next. He walked a block to the corner. Looking down the road, he saw neon lights, and thought the dive bar was the best place to get out of the cold for a while. Figure out the next step.

  He went into the bar on the corner of Fairlawn Ave, and ordered a shot of whiskey. The tall, thick, bald bartender poured it for him slowly. John knew the guy was eyeing him, probably wondering about the reddish brown stains on his clothes. John paid, leaving a three-dollar tip and took the shot into the bathroom.

  He locked the door, dropped his coat on the floor, and pulled off his shirt. The fabric stuck to his shoulder and tore away like duct tape on wood. He bit his lip and tried to keep from grunting. Even though it was freezing in the bathroom, more sweat formed at his brow. He poured the shot over the wound and allowed it to burn, like touching a pot still on the stove.

  As the alcohol and blood rolled down his back, his arms shook. John didn’t know if it was from the pain or the cold air, but he had to grip both sides of the sink to get it to stop. He then took the Bactine and sprayed it all over the top of his shoulder. Getting the patch of gauze to line up with the wound was tough; he wasn’t flexible enough. He had to unroll the tape with his teeth. It took him ten minutes, and every time he heard someone step past the bathroom door, he thought it was the police coming for him.

  The cops had mentioned something about watching TV when they’d arrested him in Jersey City. The TVs were on over the bar. He didn’t want to risk walking through there again, and decided to climb out the small window into the parking lot.

  No car. No taxis in this neighborhood. It was too late to catch a train at the station around the corner. There wasn’t much he could do, at all.

  He could call his mother, find a payphone and just let her know he was okay. She lived in South Brunswick, but he’d never be able to get there tonight. With any luck, she was already asleep and hadn’t seen the news yet. And letting her know would just worry her more. She’d probably have a panic attack. He’d call her in the morning.

  As for his father, John didn’t even know where he was. He’d disappeared a year and a half after Hannah died.

  John had only one option.

  Just keep moving and survive until morning.

  Peter Callahan banged his fist on the door. The tenements around the Mosque were falling apart, but this one seemed sturdy. The air smelled like wet dog and steamed meat, and Callahan was pretty sure he’d seen a puddle of vomit on the sidewalk. These buildings were supposed to be demolished years ago, but the city of Jersey City never found the time to follow through. Now the place was a haven for dealers, users, and stray dogs. Muslims had moved in recently and were trying to build it back to respectability.

  Callahan had been in this area more times than he wanted to admit.

  He didn’t worry about walking the streets or even going inside unannouced, however. He’d called Candy and had her do a satellite check, make sure no one was waiting for him. The check was sort of like an HD live version of Google Maps. She could zoom in or out on areas, and check the surroundings. A world wide security camera. Years ago, she couldn’t see through walls. Now she could even get into buildings using heat sensors.

  When she checked this one, she found no threats. Only one person in a kitchen and someone else sleeping down the hall.

  A tall Arabic man dressed in sweatpants opened the door, wiping sleep from his bloodshot eyes. He had a reddened cut leading from the corner of his lip to his jawline. He held his rail thin body up in the door jamb.

  “Do you know Omar Thabata?” Callahan asked.

  “Who are you?” The man looked at his watch. “It’s two in the morning.”

  Callahan stepped around the man and into the Mosque. And then nearly stepped back out when the odor hit his nose. The place smelled like raw meat that had sat in the sun too long.

  “I don’t care what time it is,” Callahan said. “I need to find him.”

  “You haven’t told me who you are.”

  The inside looked much like a Catholic church minus pews. At the far end was an altar behind a banister. A chandelier filled with unlit candles hung only a few feet off the wall, about the height of the man standing behind Callahan. There were no seats save a bench that ran the length of a far wall. To Callahan’s left was an open door that led to a stairwell. Candy had mentioned the apartments were upstairs.

  “You can’t come in here like this. Who are you?”

  “I work for the government. I need to speak with Mr. Thabata, urgently.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  Callahan turned to face the man, who was looking at the ground.

  “You woke me up, sir. I want to see some identification. I don’t believe you can be in here without a warrant.” He wiped at the wound near the corner of his mouth.

  Callahan stood over the kid—and that was all he was. Maybe twenty-five, Callahan hoped he’d be surprised and scared enough at this time of night to volunteer his services to the government. It didn’t appear that would happen.

  Callahan took a deep breath before speaking. The odor smacked him in the face again, reminding him, next time, to breathe through his mouth.

  “My name is Peter Callahan. I don’t’ have a warrant.”

  “Forget that, then. Get out of here. You are just a crazy man off the street.”

  “You know better than that,” Callahan said. “If you don’t help me out, I can have ten federal agents down here to search this place. I can scare the neighbors. Better yet, we can shut this place down for the hell of it. Then where will you go?”

  The man waved Callahan off like he was a fly.

  Callahan felt the cold winter air draft through the room. He wondered if the heat wasn’t functioning properly. It wouldn’t surprise him. It wouldn’t surprise him if nothing worked here. They didn’t seem to take care of the place.

  “Listen to me, sir.”

  “My name is Jawad.” Callahan noticed sweat dripping off his nose. “I want you to leave.”

  “I will leave you alone. But I need
your help first. It’s important.”

  Jawad stared at the tiles on the floor. Ran his hand over his face and then rubbed the cut at his lip again.

  “Why don’t we take a walk around?”

  “You don’t have a warrant.” His voice was forceful, as if he was spitting the words on to the ground.

  “Come on, a quick look. It won’t hurt.”

  “I just want to be left alone, sir.”

  “All right. All right. Just tell me where Omar Thabata is and I’ll leave you alone.” Callahan took a deep breath—through his mouth this time. “We know he was here. We’ve been watching this place. I can call off the dogs, if you help me out.”

  Jawad walked to the stained glass window. He grabbed a pane and pulled it. The square angled inward and they could see out to the street. Callahan’s car sat by itself, frost already covering most of the windshield.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Jawad said. He was tapping his foot.

  “You won’t. Not unless we want you to.” Callahan smiled. “And here I am.”

  “I don’t know where he is. Last time I saw him was yesterday morning.”

  “He seem okay?”

  Jawad shrugged. “No, man. He was sweaty. Jumpy. His cell phone rang like four times.”

  “He say anything? About where he was going to be or when he was going to be back?”

  “Not really. But he did make me scared. He always says, ‘See you soon.’ Like, always. But this time he said ‘Goodbye.’ I don’t know. Seemed wrong. Seemed final.” Jaward sighed. “I don’t want to be a part of this.”

  Callahan shook his head. His muscles were loose and his eyes heavy. Been too long a night so far.

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. I do know he often visits with a Jose Sanchez. He’s Omar’s friend down in New Brunswick. I think Omar has been in contact.”

  Callahan nodded. “How do I find him?”

  Jawad closed his eyes. His lip trembled.

  “Omar said he’s always on George Street near the C Town. Around eight in the morning. Look at his hands. They’re all cut up. That’s how you’ll know him.”

  “Can’t I just give him a call?”

  Jawad shook his head. “I don’t have a phone number”

  “Okay, thanks very much.”

  “You’ll leave us alone?”

  Callahan didn’t answer, walking past Jawad though the door. He got in his car and started the engine. Maybe Omar was there. Maybe Callahan spooked him enough.

  He called Candy and had her run Jose Sanchez’s name. He’d been arrested twice in the past five years for dealing dope. Why did Omar know a drug dealer?

  He took the car for a spin around the block and parked on a far corner with a sightline to the front door. He left the engine on, the heat kicking. An hour and a half later, still no sign of Omar. Either Callahan hadn’t scared them enough or Omar wasn’t there.

  He thought about getting back to his house and getting some sleep.

  No time.

  And he still had things to tell Michelle.

  Michelle Sandler drove to her father’s. She’d promised him she’d stay the night.

  She used her key to open the door, figuring her father would be long asleep. The house was dark and quiet and she felt like a kid again, sneaking in after curfew not wanting to wake her father up. The floorboards always creaked then. She hoped they wouldn’t tonight.

  Her father was sitting in his easy chair in the dark. Michelle expected him to be snoring, maybe the glass of scotch spilled on the ground, ice cubes melting into the carpet. But that was not the case. He lifted his right arm and she heard him slurp from his scotch glass. The ice rattled in a nearly empty glass.

  “Dad?”

  He didn’t jump. He never jumped. Richard Sandler barely turned his head.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” he said. He paused. “Even when you were a kid, you didn’t like to stay here.”

  Her dad had separated from her mom, Evelyn, twenty years ago. Right when Michelle was about to start second grade. After four years of cheating on her, Mom finally woke up and walked out on him. Michelle was only eight at the time, and heard some mumblings about what was going on. She didn’t find out what had happened until she was about to start college.

  “I said I was going to.”

  “You’ve always tried to keep your promises.”

  “I know.”

  Her father stood up and took an unsteady step toward her, then turned and strode to the wall. He flicked a switch and all the lights came on.

  He was dressed in flannel pajamas and slippers. His hair was sticking out at every angle, as if he’d at least tried to sleep. Richard poured another glass of scotch.

  “How many of those have you had?” Michelle asked.

  “Your room is arranged. You can use it.”

  The air in the house smelled stale, like old potato chips. It was as if the house had been closed up for a long vacation.

  “Where’s Guadalupe?”

  “She decided to take this week off. I’ve been picking up after myself. Go to bed.”

  “What’s going on, dad?”

  He took a step forward, and leaned in close to her. She smelled the thick scotch on his breath. His eyes were a bit glassy. He used his big right arm and pulled Michelle close in a hug.

  “I love you,” he said. “Go to sleep. The phone’s going to ring a lot tonight. Ignore it, get your rest. I’m glad you’re here.”

  Michelle pushed her father away. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Trying to remember the last time her father hugged her, she turned and went to the stairs.

  As she climbed them she remembered. It was a late Tuesday night. She’d was a senior in college and had rushed home to see her dad, make sure he was okay.

  It was the night of September 11, 2001.

  ****

  “Why don’t you stay here for the day?” her dad said, the next morning.

  Icy rain tapped on the roof. The weather was supposed to turn to snow late in the day, but according to Guadalupe—who showed up in time to make breakfast—it was still too warm.

  Michelle looked up from her steaming coffee.

  “Why?” she asked. “I want to be home in case news comes in from John. Frank said he’d be home tonight as well. I don’t need to stay here.”

  He crooked the newspaper under his arm, and then took a deep sip of coffee. He wore a robe and slippers. Never used to dress like that in the morning when Mom was around. It was as if the longer he’d gone without her, and the more money the arms business brought in, the more stereotypical he tried to become. Two ex-wives. Drinking scotch with a smoking jacket on. Hiring a maid.

  “I’m worried about John.” Her dad put his mug down on the counter, and unfolded the newspaper. Guadalupe was whistling as she fried bacon. “What if he killed those people?”

  “Dad—”

  “What if he’s snapped? What if he comes after you next?”

  Michelle put a hand on the counter, and breathed through her nose. She thought about the conversation she’d had with Frank.

  “He’s not going to come after me, Dad. I don’t even think he did it.”

  His face went red.

  “What about Les? I can call him when you get in touch with John.”

  “If I hear from John, at home, I can get here quicker than the lawyer.”

  Her dad sat on a stool at the counter and flattened out the newspaper. He read the top article using his finger as a guide.

  “Fine,” he said. “Go home. But I’m worried about you.”

  Michelle finished her coffee. Goosebumps raised on her flesh. Her father never acted like this.

  Maybe she should have gone to her mother’s last night.

  Morning came, and with it the rain infused with ice. The drops didn’t splatter on the ground, they shattered. Last night John had found an unlocked back door a few blocks from Ashley’s. It led to a small lau
ndry room. Luckily no one was doing laundry on a late Friday night. He didn’t get much sleep, but he tried his best to relax for a few hours. Come up with some sort of plan. A way to get moving and stay alive.

  He stumbled outside and across the street, through the driving sleet. As the water slapped his shoulders, his legs tensed to run. Just get the hell out of the weather. He forced himself not to and walked into a Dunkin Donuts. He ordered a huge coffee and two donuts and bought a newspaper. He sat at a table, brushed some of the ice off his shoulders and opened the paper. There was an article on the fire last night in Jersey City. The photo on the front page showed flames licking the sky from the second floor windows. A throng of people watched from behind police caution tape.