David stares at me, matches the control in my voice, and tells me, “I’ll think about it. That’s all I can promise.” Without saying more, he stands and walks out.
I wait until I hear him leave our suite, hear the door click behind him. Then I pick up my phone, dial the number, and wait for her to answer.
“Hello, Marcie,” I say. “It’s Mick. Remember what you told me when Susan and I came to your house? Whatever it takes?” I pause. Marcie waits quietly at the other end, wondering what I’m going to say, calculating. “David’s just left my office. He’s very upset. I’ve told him to do something he doesn’t want to do. He’s going to ask your opinion. When he does, you will advise him to pay the money.”
I close my eyes and sit still in my chair, let the silence wash over me. For the first time in a long while, I feel I’ve managed to get some control over things. David Hanson will pay the money; I have no doubt. Marcie will make him. That will ensure that the video does not reach Devlin Walker until I decide it’s time to show him the parts of the tape he needs to see. I smile as I envision the look on Devlin’s face when that time comes. David, of course, will still have to unveil his real alibi. And in the end, if all goes well, David will walk. Jennifer’s other killer will stay hidden. And my family will be preserved.
19
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6; SUNDAY, OCTOBER 7
It’s almost midnight, and I am still awake. Gabby is in her room, asleep. Piper is probably on Amtrak, heading toward 30th Street Station, returning from yet another trip with her girlfriends to New York City.
I sigh and open my eyes. I’m not going to fall asleep anytime soon. The neon-blue numbers on my alarm clock change to 12:00 midnight exactly, and I begin to wonder what all the important people in my life are doing right now.
I see David and Marcie Hanson sitting in David’s study, surrounded by priceless art, drinking tea or sake out of dainty Japanese cups, plotting their next move, some bold gambit designed to direct public attention away from David’s apparent guilt, portray him as a pawn in the ambition-driven plans of the district attorney’s office.
I envision Anna Groszek, dreaming of returning in triumph to her hometown of Poznan, showing up at the home of her ex-husband in a chauffeur-driven limousine. Anna sends the driver to knock on the door and watches from the car as Emeryk Groszek and his cow-faced second wife walk out onto the porch, peer at the limo, try to figure out what great and important person has come to visit them. Anna rolls down her tinted window, takes in the shock on Emeryk’s and Agneska’s faces as they realize who it is. She laughs, leans out the window, and spits on the road in front of their house.
Finally, my mind lands on Tommy. I see him with terminally ill Lawrence Washington, the two of them sitting at the picnic table outside Tommy’s trailer in Jim Thorpe, bundled in heavy sweaters against the chill of the fall night air. Tommy gets up to fetch them each a bottle of Bud. He sits back down, and the two of them stare at each other and take turns swigging their beers. Again, I wonder why Tommy’s putting himself through the same passion play he shared with our father. And, for the first time, I think I might know the answer: Tommy’s using Lawrence to punish himself. The cop’s slow death is another thing to feel guilty about. To beat himself up over.
I sit up in bed, swing around so that my feet are resting on the floor. I’m terrified that Tommy is going to wander off the straight and narrow again, disappear back into his netherworld of dive bars, fleabag hotels, and impulsive violence. I’ve been afraid of it since the day he was released from prison, and my fears deepened when Lawrence Washington told me about Tommy working for the cop drug ring to pay off his gambling debts.
“Damn, Tommy.” I say the words out loud. What can I do to help him? Why must he punish himself like this?
I sit for a long time. I can hear the ticktock of the grandfather clock in the living room downstairs. Across the hall, Gabby murmurs in her sleep. I stand up, walk to her room, sit on the bed next to her. Gabby’s mop of dark hair is spread all over the pillow. Her tiger, Toby, has fallen onto the floor, and I reach down, pick him up, and put him into her arms.
As if on cue, Gabby flips onto her stomach. I shiver as the image of Jennifer Yamura, faceup on her basement steps, flashes through my mind. I think of Jennifer’s parents. I’d read in the Inquirer that their names were John and Margaret Yamura. That John was a longtime IT specialist with the University of Southern California, and Margaret a stay-at-home mom. The article said John and Margaret’s own parents had been rounded up during World War II and held in the internment camps. After the war, of course, they were all released—to pay their taxes and raise children who could serve the country in later wars. Jennifer’s father served two tours in Vietnam, and her uncle died there.
I cannot imagine what they’ve been going through these past five months. Every moment, every milestone Piper and I have experienced with Gabby, the Yamuras enjoyed with Jennifer. And they had twenty more years’ worth of memories. Lacrosse and basketball—sports Jennifer played in high school, according to the Inquirer. Prom night. High school graduation, college graduation, the first job, the big move to the East Coast to take a job with a major-market TV station. And, I imagine, adult conversations. Late-night telephone calls to Mom or Dad when Jennifer was lonely or had suffered a setback, in need of a small slice of the comforts of home.
And, finally, the call that ended it all. Some police officer telephoning from three thousand miles away to tell John and Margaret Yamura that their daughter had been murdered and asking would they mind flying to Philadelphia to identify her body. They did, of course, right away; their pictures were in the paper. With them was their son and Jennifer’s fraternal twin, Brian, a computer guy like his father, who’d gotten in early at MyFace, the social networking site, and made $1 billion when the company went public. Brian Yamura, the American dream, brother of Jennifer Yamura, the American nightmare.
I lean over and kiss Gabby on the cheek, whispering, “I will never let anyone hurt you.” I sigh and leave the room, climb back into my bed.