When my daughter Kimberly was eight, she started to ask me about Santa Claus. Before she voiced her question, I looked her in the eye and said, “Don’t ever ask me anything unless you’re ready to hear the truth.” Kimberly decided not to ask. Kathleen, on the other hand, had to know.
“Have you ever done this to someone?” she asked. “Set their house on fire?”
“You should eat,” I said. “That sandwich looks terrific.”
She didn’t respond, so I looked up and saw her eyes burning a hole into my soul. “Have you?” she repeated.
I signaled the waiter and handed him a twenty. “Before you do anything else,” I said to him, “I need a roll of duct tape or sealing tape.” He nodded, took the bill, and moved double-time toward the kitchen. To Kathleen, I said, “I’ve done some terrible things. Things I hope I never have to tell you about, and yes, I’ve been trained to set fires. But no, I’ve never done it.”
“You swear?”
I swore. Happily, it was the truth. Still, I decided not to tell her how close I’d come a few times. And I was well aware that by swearing on the past I hadn’t ruled out the future.
She stared at me awhile before nodding slowly. “I believe you,” she said. “Look, I’m sure you’re a world-class shit heel. It wouldn’t even surprise me if you’d killed people for the CIA years ago, and God help me, I might even be able to live with that, depending on the circumstances. But since I started working with the kids at the burn center … well, you know.”
I did know.
Kathleen’s club sandwich had been cut into four pieces. She picked up a wedge and studied it. “What about the fire chief?” she asked. “If you’re right, that makes him wrong, and he’s the expert.”
I speared a couple of fries and popped them into my mouth. There’s nothing like the taste of diner French fries. “They put hamburger grease in the oil,” I said. “Makes the French fries burst with flavor. You want some?”
“No. What about the fire chief?”
The waiter returned with a thick roll of clear sealing tape and said he’d be right back to refresh our drinks. I nodded and began taping the fingers on my right hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure I don’t splay my metacarpals.”
She showed me her bewildered look and watched me tape my wrist. After doing that, I removed a thin sheet of plastic from my wallet and began fitting it to the bottom part of my palm, from pinky to wrist. “Can you wrap this for me?” I asked.
“You’re insane,” she said, but she wrapped the tape around the palm of my hand, covering the plastic and holding it in place. I flexed my hand to test it and decided it would do. “What about the fire chief?” she repeated.
“He’s in on it.”
“What?”
“They paid him off after the fact. They didn’t want to, but they had to.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This arsonist was good. The only reason he appears sloppy is because the fire department got to the scene so quickly. Four minutes and twenty seconds, if you can just imagine. Another five minutes and the fire would have killed all the evidence. The chief knew it was arson, some of his men probably knew. So whoever ordered the torch—I’m guessing Joe DeMeo—had to get to the chief.”
“You said the chief was talking about his retirement.”
“It’s all he talks about.”
“So this Joe DeMeo character, he gave the chief enough money to look the other way?”
“I expect the money was a bonus, like a reward for doing the right thing. DeMeo probably got the chief’s attention by threatening his wife, kids, and grandchildren.”
The composite plastic affixed to the edge of my hand was invented by an engineering team at the University of Michigan in mid-2007. It’s strong as steel and as thin and pliable as a small sheet of paper. Made from clay and nontoxic glue, it mimics the brick and-mortar molecular structure found in seashells. The nanosheets of plastic are layered like bricks and held together with a gluelike polymer that creates cooperative hydrogen bonds between the layers. It takes several hours to build up the three hundred layers needed to make the thin sheet I kept in my wallet at all times.
Kathleen watched me studying my hand. She said, “If Chief Blaunert’s involved in the cover up, why didn’t he destroy the evidence? It’s been two weeks.”
“I’m guessing he hasn’t had a chance, what with all the press coverage, candlelight vigils, and people coming day and night to place shrine items on the lawn.”
“But he must have known the insurance company would send someone to investigate.”
“That’s the thing. He told me he wasn’t expecting anyone this soon, which tells me no one has filed the claim yet. Or if it’s been filed, someone at the insurance company has either submitted a phony report or they’re delaying their investigation.”
“Are you sure this DeMeo guy has that much clout?”
“That much and more.”
Again she looked at the piece of sandwich in her hand but didn’t taste it.
“There’s something bothering you,” I said. “What is it?”
“Are you in danger?” she asked.
“I could be. The chief probably called DeMeo this morning right after my guy set the appointment. DeMeo probably told him to meet me and find out what I was up to.”
“Doesn’t DeMeo know you’re with the government? Doesn’t he know you’ll turn him in?”
I smiled. “These things aren’t as black and white as you might think. Taking Joe DeMeo down won’t be easy. He’s killed enough people to fill a cemetery.”
Kathleen’s eyes began to cloud up. “Are you going to die on me?”
“Not on purpose,” I said. “But nine million dollars is a lot of money, even to Joe DeMeo.”
“What will he do?”
“Send some goons to try to kill me.”
She put her uneaten sandwich wedge back on her plate. “Donovan, I’m scared. What if he really does send some men to kill you?”
“I’ll kill them first.”
“You can do that?”
I smiled. “I can.”
“Are you sure?” she said. “You aren’t even scared?”
“Not even,” I said, trying to sound not even scared. Then I asked her to help me tape the fi ngers and wrist of my left hand.
“Why are we doing this?” she asked.
“Don’t turn around,” I said, “but DeMeo’s goons are here.”
A look of panic flashed across her face. “What? Where? How many are there?”
“Two in the parking lot, one in the kitchen.”
“Jesus Christ, Donovan! What are we going to do?”
“The right thing.”
“What, call the cops?”
“No. The right thing in this situation is kill the guy in the kitchen first.”
“Kill him?” Her words came out louder than she’d intended. I noticed the couple across from us glancing in our direction. Katherine lowered her voice. “Why would your first thought be to kill him?”
“I don’t want him sneaking up behind me while I’m attacking the others.”
“You’re planning to attack the others? Trained killers? No way,” she said. “I’m calling the cops!”
I put my taped hand on her arm, shook my head. “Don’t make such a fuss. This is what I do.”
She looked … everything at once. Angry. Frightened. Exasperated. The businessman at the table across from us got to his feet. He put a little menace into his voice for my benefit while speaking to Kathleen. “Are you okay? Do you need any help?” She looked at him and back at me, and we locked eyes. She smiled at the man and shook her head no. Then she settled back in her seat, took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. When she spoke, her voice was small but steady. “Okay.”
“Ma’am?” the businessman said.
“I’m fine. Really,” Kathleen said, and the guy eased back into his seat, much to the relief of his wife. He did the right thing, too: stood up for a woman in distress, impressed his wife. If all went well, we’d probably both get laid tonight.