We say our hellos, and then I prevail on them to give me a few minutes alone with Karen. I notice two books on the side table: Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë, and Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë. Richard had told me she majored in English literature at Yale.
“You’re reading those?” I ask.
She nods. “Many times. They make me feel better.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. Just knowing that people wrote things like this, so many years ago, and that they could feel what I feel. I guess it makes me understand that life goes on and that what happens in the moment is not everything.”
“I understand,” I lie.
“Have you ever read them?”
“The Brontë sisters? No, but I dated them in high school. They were really hot.”
She laughs, which I cut short by saying, “Karen, Franklin is dead. He was shot in his living room about an hour before they shot you.”
Karen doesn’t say a word; she just starts to sob. It’s amazing to watch her navigate 180-degree emotional turns at warp speed.
I give her a minute and then push on. “When he called you, was there anything unusual in what he said, how he sounded?”
“He sounded nervous, but I thought it was because of whatever it was he had found. The thing that he was going to tell me.”
“And he didn’t give a hint as to what that was?”
“No. All he said was that I shouldn’t tell you he had called. God, he seemed like such a good guy-how could anyone do that to him?”
“Karen, whether or not he was a good guy, the purpose of that call was to put you in a place where you could be killed. Now, Franklin may have been forced to make that call, or he may have made it willingly. The point is-and you have to face it-somebody wants you dead.”
She looks devastated, shattered, as the truth of this sinks in. “But why? I’ve never tried to hurt anybody.”
“You represent a danger to someone.”
“How? If I knew anything important, I would have told you already.”
I nod. “I know that. But you have to think about it.”
She is frustrated, a completely understandable reaction. “I will, Andy. But it just doesn’t make sense.”
“I know. And until we can make sense out of it, I’m going to arrange for you to be protected. Both in here and outside when you’re ready to leave.”
“So they might come after me again?”
She knows the answer to this as well as I do. “They might,” I say.
She thinks about this for a few moments, then nods. “So we need to get them first.”
* * * * *
IF POVERTY IS your thing, you probably don’t live in Short Hills, New Jersey.
The town projects a serene, upscale elegance, and as I drive through it I find it amazing that I am rich enough to live here, should I so choose.
I’ve tried twice without success to reach Yasir Hamadi at his Montclair office, so rather than alert him further, I’ve decided to visit him at his home. Hopefully he’ll be home, but if not, I’ve lost nothing and had a nice drive.
When feasible, I like to interview potential witnesses where they live. People in their offices are more inclined to be brusque and uncooperative, while being at home seems to activate their hospitality genes.
There is no wrong side of the tracks in Short Hills; in fact, I don’t see any tracks at all. The homes seem to divide into two camps, luxurious and spectacular, and Hamadi’s is in the latter category.
I say this even though I can barely see it from the street. It is up a long driveway from the curb, and the well-treed property blocks the view of most of the house. What I can see, however, is enough to convince me that Hamadi is not anxiously awaiting his monthly food stamps.
There are at least six trucks parked along the road, all with side panels indicating they are affiliated with a local construction company. They must be working on Hamadi’s house, since the nearest neighbor is probably a quarter mile away.
One of those workmen is standing next to the truck, looking intently at a large piece of paper, which seems to be a construction plan of some sort. “You working on the Hamadi house?” I ask.
He nods. “Yup.”
“Building an addition?”
He nods. “And repairing damage from the storm. Tree crashed through the back of the house.”
He’s probably referring to a major storm that went through North Jersey about three months ago, sending trees and power lines toppling.
I nod and walk toward the driveway. I’m trying to decide whether to drive up or park down here at the curb, when a BMW comes around the corner and turns into the Hamadi driveway. The driver of the car is a woman, mid-thirties, and the quick glimpse I get of her says that she is quite attractive. She notices me as she pulls in, but doesn’t stop. Since I’m driving an ordinary American car, she probably thinks I’m one of the workmen, or somebody here to case the joint for a future robbery.
I decide to leave the car on the street and walk up the driveway. Before I do so, I open the mailbox at the curb and see three pieces of mail. Two are addressed to Hamadi, and one to Jeannette Nelson.
The driveway turns out to be quite steep, and by the time I get to the house I’m hoping that the woman knows CPR. If not, there are plenty of other people who might. The large reconstruction operation is going on near the back of the house, and at least fifteen workmen are back there hammering away.
She has parked her car under the carport, making a total of three cars now positioned there, and is walking toward the front door, when she sees me near the top of the hill. She eyes me warily, and I’ve got a feeling that any moment she’s going to have a mace dispenser in her hand. She also looks vaguely familiar to me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a model and I’ve seen her in magazines or television commercials.
“Hi,” I say. I find that clever conversational gambits like that have a tendency to relax people.
“Can I help you?” she asks in a tone that indicates she doesn’t want to be particularly helpful at all.
I nod agreeably, granting her request. “I’m here to see Yasir Hamadi. My name is Andy Carpenter.”
“Is he expecting you?” she asks, not bothering to tell me her own name.
“Could be. We could ask him and find out.”
“He’s not at home,” she says, and I confess I am doubting her veracity. It was something about the way she said it, and the fact that there are three cars in the carport. Somebody else must be home, and Sam said that Hamadi is not married and has no children.
“Oh,” I say. “Then I’ll wait for him. Are you Jeannette Nelson?”
She reacts with some surprise that I know her name, and seems a little uncomfortable with it. I can’t say I blame her; as strangers go, I’m a little weird. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to come in,” she says without confirming the name.
I nod agreeably. “No problem. But in case you find out that he is home, could you give him this?” I take out a sealed envelope that I brought for this situation if it arose. Inside is a note that says, “I’m going to be talking about you and Donna Banks on Larry King on Wednesday night.”
She takes the envelope and goes in the house. I decide not to trudge down the hill, in case I’m summoned within the next few minutes. It’s better than walking up the hill again, especially since none of the vehicles in the carport is an ambulance.
Within three minutes, Jeannette Nelson, if that’s who she is, comes back out. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me standing there. “Mr. Hamadi will see you,” she says, apparently feeling no obligation to explain how he will do that if he’s not home.