As he stood in the elevator on the way back to his office, he rolled his neck around, the tension burning his muscles like a flame. He closed his eyes and, with the subtle movement of the elevator, felt like he could fall asleep if he were somewhere horizontal. But the tone of his phone stirred him. It was Leila, calling to tell him she had a surprise planned for the evening.
“I’ll have to take a raincheck,” he said as the doors parted. “Just too much damn work and too little time.”
“You know what they say about Jack,” she said. “Want me to think you’re a dull boy?”
“Maybe Jack is running a major investigation. Cut him some slack.” He walked into his office and sat down heavily in his chair. “Tell you what, though. In a few days I’ll make sure you don’t confuse me with boring old Jack. But for now, I just can’t leave.”
“You have to get some rest, give your mind a break. Have you even eaten dinner?”
Uzi glanced at the clock. It was almost eight. Where had the day gone? “No, mother, I haven’t eaten.”
“You have to eat sometime. Let’s do it together. I won’t keep you long.”
His stomach rumbled on cue. He rested his head in his hand, stifled a yawn. He really did need to eat, if nothing else to keep him awake.
“Meet me at HeadsUp Brewery,” she said. “A few doors down from Angelo & Maxie’s. Ninth and F.”
It was only a few blocks away. He could walk it, take in some cold night air. “I’ve got a couple things I have to wrap up. Meet you there in half an hour.”
Uzi looked up from the menu. “I thought you said we’d grab dinner.”
“First we do this. Then we eat.” She must have read the disappointment on his face, because she placed a hand on his. “C’mon, you can spare an extra half hour.”
Uzi sighed. She was right. He needed the time to clear his mind, return with a fresh perspective.
“Okay, I’m game. How does this thing work?”
Leila leaned over his shoulder, seductively touching his back with her breasts. “You brew your own beer. You choose what ingredients you want, mix it all together, bottle it, and label it. A couple of weeks later it’s ready to drink.” She pointed to a laminated placard that described the process. “Used to be a lot of these places, but the idea didn’t catch. This may be the only one left.”
Uzi glanced around at the mahogany paneling, the etched glass windows and brass fittings that lined the bar, tables, and light fixtures. “They’re into this place for a bundle. You don’t cover your monthly nut, you’re done.” He looked at Leila. “You sure this place will still be here in a couple of weeks when we come back for our beer?”
“Who knows if we’ll be here in a couple of weeks.”
Uzi raised his eyebrows. “That’s a fatalist comment, don’t you think? Or just pessimistic?”
Leila shrugged. “You never know, do you? No guarantees in life.”
Uzi was looking at her but wasn’t really seeing her. No guarantees in life. That’s what the director general of the Mossad had said to him after Dena and Maya were murdered. Before the agency completed its analysis of what had gone wrong. Before Gideon Aksel removed him from the payroll and made him leave Israel in disgrace.
“No guarantees,” Uzi repeated. He set the menu down and cleared away the gloomy memories. “I’m a dark beer guy. You?”
“I’m a dark beer guy, too.” She smiled.
“Then let’s get started.”
They laughed their way through the process, realizing their beer may not taste any better than a can of Coors — but having a good time nonetheless. Uzi typed their assigned lot number into the computer and hit Enter. A wizard appeared, walking them through the process of creating a label.
They chose the design style they wanted — a delicate strand of grain draping across the top with a serifed Olde English font below it.
“What should we call it? Two lines, twenty characters.”
Leila scrunched her lips. “Something fun.” She grinned. “How about Spy Brew?”
Uzi looked over at her to see if she was joking. “How about something meaningful? To us. Like, Genesis… or New Beginnings.”
“New Beginnings?”
“Because a relationship takes time to brew, just like beer.” Uzi winked at her, then typed in the words. He clicked Finish and waited while the label was making its way to the color printer. He leaned back and interlocked his fingers behind his neck. “In two weeks we’ll be enjoying this.” He winked. “Assuming we’re both still around.”
Leila opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a chirp from Uzi’s phone. As he reached into his pocket, Leila’s cell began ringing. They both answered their calls, Leila turning away while she talked.
“It’s Hoshi. I’ve got something you need to see.”
“Okay, but I’m in the middle—”
“You’ll want to see this now, Uzi.”
He looked up at Leila, who was turning toward him. “Gotta go.”
Leila held up her phone. “So do I.”
Uzi sighed, then swiveled the handset back to his mouth. “On my way.”
As Uzi made his way to Hoshi’s fourth floor cubicle, his mind made the slow transition back to work mode. Doing the reverse used to be difficult — the Mossad required him to be “always on.” Dena often complained that his inability to turn off the stresses of work and focus on her and Maya threatened their relationship. Although he knew she was right, he was never able to change the situation.
It eventually became a moot point.
He exited the elevator, swiped his ID card, then walked through the glass doors en route to Hoshi’s cubicle. He found her there, squinting at her computer monitor.
“Hey,” she said. “Pull up a chair. Got some things to show you.”
Uzi moved in tight and looked at her screen. “Go.”
She hesitated a second, then leaned back a bit and appraised him. Sniffed, moved closer to his body and sniffed again. “Were you on a date?’
Uzi felt his face turn crimson. “What are you, a hound?”
“I don’t think that particular perfume works with your body chemistry.”
“You’re jealous.”
Hoshi turned to face her computer. “Maybe.”
Uzi interposed his head between the screen and her face. “Really?”
She swiveled her chair toward a stack of files to her left. “I’ve been going through Tad Bishop’s phone logs. His home and office lines were pretty sparse — but his cell’s another story. I saw the call he made to you, a few he’d made to me. And then there were about two dozen over a two-week period to someone else.”
“Two dozen? Short or long calls?”
“Most were a minute long.”
“Leaving a voicemail?”
Hoshi shook her head. “Bishop didn’t like to leave messages. For anyone.”
“So if these calls weren’t to leave messages, then what were they for? Setting up meetings?”
“That would be my guess.”
“And who’s the owner of this number?”
“Brady Haldemann. According to NCAVC,” she said, referring to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, “he’s got a sheet.”
“This is a guy Bishop was meeting with regularly?”
“He didn’t believe anything he couldn’t independently verify. He was very careful.”
“For now I’ll accept that as fact. But despite what we may want to believe, he wasn’t a cop and he doesn’t know the standards we have to uphold.” Uzi flashed on his ARM compound incursion and guilt stabbed at his gut. “What’s on Haldemann’s sheet?”