Deadly Odds Read online

  The deceased. The words reverberated through his mind and decayed like the ring of a bell as they vanished into heavy silence.

  Howard’s dead. Howard is the deceased. Then the words finally began to sink in, his muscles going lax. He slumped against the hard cinderblock wall. Blowing through pursed lips, he scrambled to grasp the full reality of those words. Until this very moment he’d desperately held onto a thread of irrational hope that the detonation he assumed to be a gunshot had been something entirely different—although he had no idea what that might be. Or if it was a gunshot, it had served as only a warning, a threat, anything but a senseless murder.

  His best friend shot dead.

  Guilt engulfed him.

  Had he not gone for pizza, this awful senseless act of violence would never have happened. Meaning, in a perverse way, he was directly responsible for his friend’s death.

  He blew another deep breath and rocked forward, elbows on his knees, fingers knitted together as an anxious storm of butterflies fought to escape his stomach. The metal chair suddenly became too hard to bear, but fear of moving was paralyzing and he was too afraid to say a damn word. The acoustical-tile walls began squeezing his shoulders together, and this room’s air—smelling of sweat and fear permanently embedded in the cinderblock walls—had become too warm and stuffy to catch one satisfying breath.

  Glancing away from her, he massaged the back of his neck, suddenly aware this was an interrogation room. He stopped to look again. Oh Jesus, am I a suspect? They couldn’t possibly think…

  The gut butterflies morphed into a gnawing ache.

  “Mr. Gold?”

  “Huh?” His attention snapped back to the detective’s penetrating green eyes boring into him, but his mind couldn’t track her words. Those contacts she’s wearing? Eyes like emeralds.

  Jesus, did I actually think that? How ridiculous.

  Dude, get your shit together, focus. What does she want?

  She asked again, “What was your relationship with Mr. Weinstein?”

  And he knew then she must be reading his thoughts.

  “Mr. Weinstein? Funny, but he’s always been Howie…”

  “Please just answer the question.”

  Sucking another breath, he palm-wiped his face, blinked. “We’re best friends. Have been since grade school.” More than friends… brothers. Having grown up together. Bar mitzvahs only a month apart. Shared their fantasies, dreams, fears… He flashed on the countless hours spent together linked by a love of all things digital, sharing copies of WIRED when other kids passed around comics, building outrageous computers from junked equipment, reading operating manuals and books on languages like C++ just for fun.

  She seemed to weigh his answer, deciding something, which, in itself, was off-putting and uncomfortable, as if she was accusing him of something diffuse and intangible. Which did nothing but amp up his restlessness even more—if that were possible.

  “That all?” she asked.

  He mentally replayed the question yet still didn’t see the point.

  “Sorry. What is it you want to know?”

  “You and Mr. Weinstein. You just friends?”

  Ah. Now it was clear. Why was he so dense? “You asking if we’re gay?”

  He considered a biting answer, finding it unbelievable that she’d ask the question so obliquely. Should I be offended? Give her the benefit of the doubt. She needs facts, is all. Don’t take it personally.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Well?”

  He gave a sarcastic laugh. “No, we’re not gay.” And immediately regretted his irritable, sarcastic tone because it sounded so… adolescent. She was, after all, just doing her job. It was just that she was so far off base it actually struck him as humorous. Howie, Mr. Cool Dude, dated about three girls at any one time, his favorite du jour being Nicole, a French exchange student at the UW.

  Again, he glanced at the round-face wall-clock and realized it was approaching midnight. They’d been at this for an hour now, revisiting the same ground over and over, just asking the question slightly differently. Seemed like they’ve been here all day. With a weird detachment he noticed his right hand was splayed across his abdomen, in a weak attempt to staunch the gnawing pain that hovered just below unbearable. The pain came in continuous rolling waves, diminishing temporarily when distracted by a question, intensifying as he considered their answers, back and forth in an endless loop.

  Howie is dead. He’d never forgive himself. Never. Howie didn’t deserve to die. Especially not like that. Murdered.

  She tapped her ballpoint against the pad of paper on the small table in an attempt to capture his attention. “See, that’s what I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would someone kill your best friend for a computer? Can you explain that?”

  Damned ankle, aching like a sonofabitch. The terror of the alley zapping through him again, sending fresh searing bolts of pain deep into his gut, freezing his mind in mid-thought.

  Oh Christ, she’s waiting for another answer. He scrambled to remember the question, replayed it in his mind. “I don’t know.” But he did know. It’s just too complicated to go into at the moment. Maybe never.

  Frowning, she shook her head. “See, this is where your story begins to fall apart.”

  “Fall apart?”

  “Explain something to me. How do you know they were after your computer if you haven’t been inside the house?”

  Uh oh. Good point. Messed up on that. He saw her eyes—laser emeralds—boring straight through his pupils into his brain. Tell her?

  “You got a Tums, something like that?” The weightlessness ratcheting several notches again.

  She scoffed. “You going to answer the question or are we going to spend another hour playing hide and seek?” Her tone was demanding, leaving no room for discussion.

  Obviously, she knew he wasn’t telling the whole story. His entire life he’d been transparent as a contact lens. Probably always would. Lying just wasn’t in his DNA, and truth be told, that was a definite personality liability. Some friends claimed he was too blunt, whereas he considered it simply being truthful. But yeah, had to admit, there was probably something to be said for diplomacy. Exactly what that might be, he wasn’t quite sure. He decided to give her something reasonable.

  “No, you’re wrong. I said I came in the back door. Besides, it’s the only thing in the house worth anything.”

  She shook her head again, not buying that part of his story. “And you just assume it’s gone? Why would you assume that?”

  Shit, was it on the table when I came in? Only thing he could remember were Howie’s words. And the gunshot.

  “Which reminds me.” She straightened the pad of yellow legal paper, aligning it precisely parallel to the edge of the table. So far she hadn’t written a single word, but he’d seen enough television crime shows to assume the entire interview was being recorded anyway, so why bother, just use the pad as a prop. “Tell me about the room in your basement.”

  Yeah, sure, after an hour of questioning this just happens to pop into your head?

  He started to say, “What room?” but realized how ridiculous that would sound. Instead he shrugged, “I like computers.” At least that’s the truth.

  This time, instead of a scoff, she flat out laughed, the sound ripe with a definite sarcastic ring.

  Silence.

  More seconds ticked away, each seeming like a minute.

  She waited five more silence-filled seconds before saying, “Hey, Arnold, look, I was down there. I saw the whole enchilada. You’ve got what, a rack of equipment? Special A/C system? Power supplies? Looks more like Google’s research lab than the hobby room of a twenty-three year old. Understand why I might be curious?”

  He locked eyes with her in an attempt to settle the issue. “No, seriously, I’m really into computers.” And he was serious. He’d started figuring out digital circuits in the fifth grade when he was given a cast-off PC. Had that puppy dismantled and put back together r
unning better than ever in a few days.

  She leaned back in her chair and flashed him a serious dose of cop-eye.

  Compelling him to elaborate. “Ever hear of Nate Silver?” Without waiting for an answer he started in, finally seizing an opportunity to jabber about something he did want to discuss, hoping maybe to short-circuit some anxiety. “He’s, like, the guru of predictions. The last Presidential election? He called every electoral district, every Senate and House seat. I mean he was amazing. He—”

  “Can it.” She sliced a hand through the air, cutting him off. “Answer the question, Mr. Gold. Who was in your house and why are you so sure a computer’s missing? Wait,” holding up a finger, “Let me be very specific. What computer is missing? You went into the basement?”

  Palm-wiping his face again, he leaned back to stare at the acoustical tile ceiling and try to remember. He was about to contradict himself, he realized. How good was that? Well, he was going to have to start digging himself out of the hole. He straightened back up. “I just assumed they took my laptop. It was sitting right there on the kitchen table where it always is when I went out for pizza. Howie and I were using it. Like I said, it’s the only thing of value someone might take. I don’t have jewelry or artwork.” He bent over, started massaging his sprained ankle again, the skin feeling boggy now, and he knew it was swelling.

  She tapped her ballpoint against the pad. “Did you see that it was missing or do you just assume it is gone?”

  Was it? Thought about that a moment but knew that’s what those bastards were after, so yeah, had to be. “I can’t even remember looking. I mean, if I did I didn’t notice. Didn’t have time. Like I said, I came in, yelled to Howie, and he yelled for me to run. Then bang, I heard the gunshot… Then everything happened so fast… I ran. That’s it.” The gunshot echoed through his mind again and he knew it would be embedded there for the rest of his life.

  She waited a couple seconds for him to continue. When he said nothing, she said, “I’m being truthful with you, Mr. Gold, so listen up. The less you say, the more you implicate yourself in this murder. What am I supposed to believe, that two armed burglars forced their way into an occupied home to steal a laptop? Get real. That isn’t the way burglaries work. Burglars—real burglars—case a place out so they can break into it when it’s unoccupied. They’re trying not to get caught, much less identified. Armed robbers, on the other hand, are a different breed. They use ski masks to stick up 7-11s and gas stations.”

  Arnold figured this wasn’t a question, so didn’t answer.

  Detective Elliott continued, “So then—if I have your story straight—this unidentified armed laptop robber shoots your friend and chases you down the alley. This sound about right to you?”

  He resented the sarcasm. “I’m upset.”

  The words sounded so lame as to be embarrassing, but what could he say?

  She leaned into this answer. “Upset?” Even more sarcasm was dripping from the word.

  What the hell she want from me? He’d told her the truth.

  Well, sort of.

  “Yeah, upset. Wouldn’t you be if your best friend had just been murdered?”

  “You’re off in the weeds again. These two men—the ones you claim stole your computer and murdered your best friend—what were they doing in your house? You can’t get me to believe two armed men just show up out of the blue to steal a laptop. Nuh-uh!”

  “I don’t know,” his stomach killing him now.

  She stabbed an accusing finger at him. “You’re lying. I know you’re lying and you know I know you’re lying. What I’m trying to figure out is why.”

  Her question bounced right off, his mind too consumed with an endless loop replaying what Howie must have experienced during his final desperate seconds of life. He imagined Howie staring unbelievingly at the gun, defenselessly focusing on Karim’s finger as it pulled the trigger, the shock, surprise, and moment of horror at realizing a bullet had just ripped through his body, finally the helplessness of lying on the floor knowing life was rapidly ebbing from his body and that in another few seconds he’d discover the answer to a life-long question. Did he experience pain, or did the shock mercifully shield him from that?

  Arnold shut his eyes, pressed the heels of both hands tightly over both ears, and shook his head. Stop! Thinking! Of! It!

  Arnold didn’t practice his parents’ Judaism. Nor had he adopted any other religion. Yet every night he prayed to whatever God might be out there to not allow him death as a result of a violent or brutal act, to make sure his last living thought—the one he would carry into eternity—would not be one of horror. Exactly what had happened to Howie. He died knowing…

  He leaned forward, hands on his forehead, and began to sob. Big, heaving sobs that he couldn’t stop, for the loss of his brother. Elliott put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, Arnold, let it out. Tell me. Tell me the truth. You’ll feel better if you do.”

  He blurted, “The truth is if I hadn’t gone for pizza Howie would still be alive. That’s the fucking truth!”

  She continued massaging his shoulders now. “Why’s that, Arnold?”

  He shook his head, mumbled, “They would’ve killed me instead.”

  Her voice stayed soft and soothing, working on extracting the story from behind whatever wall Arnold had built. “Why’s that?”

  Arnold simply shook his head and remained mute. He was thinking back to Howie’s warning: “Don’t tell anyone about your system.” How prophetic. He had told. And that is the reason Howie was now dead.

  Elliott switched back into hard interrogation mode. “Who murdered your best friend, Arnold? I know you saw them.”

  Suddenly he knew this hammering on him wasn’t going to let up because she’d continuing this harangue until he broke down and told her everything. He was totally fucked. He had to end this. But how?

  “Arnold, you’re not leaving until we settle this,” now sounding like a grade school teacher instead of a detective.

  It dawned on him. He slowly raised his head and met those startling vibrant eyes. “I want a lawyer.”

  He thought he heard a sharp inhale, as if she’d just been gut-punched.

  “No you don’t, Arnold. You want to settle this now.”

  But now he detected a hint of desperation in her words and knew he’d done the right thing. His confidence grew. “You heard me. I want to talk to a lawyer.”

  3.

  Firouz let Karim drive, giving him more time to think, regroup, strategize, always his responsibility because that was the way things needed to be with Karim. If it weren’t for being brothers he would never bother using him. On the other hand, he was a devoted believer, a good Sunni, which, in the end stood for something. But the needless killing now drew attention to them they could ill afford. Not with what was at stake. But there was no sense saying anything more. They now had to deal with what they had, and, God willing, would still succeed.

  “The Jew saw you?”

  Karim said, “Yes.”

  Firouz silently shook his head and bit his tongue because the mission was not a total failure. They did, after all, have the computer and were on their way Gjayoor’s small apartment in the area called Capitol Hill. Gjayoor was a true believer as well as a brilliant computer expert. He would be the one to examine and extract information from the Jew’s computer, determine how he was able to see into the future and predict events as Naseem had explained. The Jew, he knew was smart, perhaps brilliant when it came to foreseeing events, so it was a shame he wasn’t sympathetic. Now that he had seen Karim kill his friend, he certainly would give this information to the police. Too bad because this now meant they would have to kill Gold, an outcome that would only implicate them more. Unless, of course they could kill him and disappear before the authorities had identified them. He was glad they had the sense to wear gloves when they went to the Jew’s front door. Yes, Arnold Gold would not be allowed to live.

  After what seemed like hours sitting
on the butt-numbing metal chair, breathing warm stale air in the cramped cinder-block room, steeping in an emotional stew of guilt, anger, and helplessness, the one metal door clicked open. Elliott stepped in, followed by an older, well-dressed man Arnold had never seen before. With three bodies packed in, the rectangular space felt even more cramped. How long had Elliott been gone? Could’ve been three minutes, could’ve been three hours, his mind had been so chockablock distracted with worry and self-loathing, that time had simply vanished into unmeasured consciousness. The man a police officer? Looked serious enough to be one, though maybe a bit too dapper. Arnold bet not.

  “Arnold Gold?” the man asked, hand extended.

  Without a word, Arnold stood and stared from the proffered hand to the man’s face. Older, maybe in his 50s, slick dresser, what with the well-tailored suit and polished Farragamos, a gold Movado, precisely barbered salt-and-pepper hair. He’d never paid attention to how well or poorly men dressed until the trip to Vegas. Not that he considered himself any sort of fashion connoisseur.

  Arnold answered, “Yes?” not intentionally ignoring the handshake. Having never been in this kind of situation, insecurity blinded him to his already thin social graces.

  The man hesitated before dropping his hand back to his side. “Palmer Davidson. Murray called me. I came straight over.”

  Aw, yes, Murray Fein, the only attorney Arnold knew. He’d always harbored an edgy distrust of lawyers for various reasons, but primarily because regardless of what type of law they practice, the majority of their effort was devoted to preying on other’s misfortunes. On top of that, they loved to argue, maybe even thrived on persevering with no regard to being right or wrong or what might be just.

  Arnold hated to argue. He hated confrontation even more. But preying on people’s problems…. The only reason he knew Murray was he had managed his parents’ legal affairs while they were alive.