The Anonymous Source Page 25

  “But how could he have known about Bice killing Hollinger?” Alex asked.

  “Who knows with these guys? Maybe he was tailing him or something.”

  Alex thought about the calls he had received from his source and pictured Sharp, his bald head gleaming under the courtroom lights. “Wow.”

  “I’m telling you,” Bearon said, “Sharp is a big enough asshole to do it, too. The other day I read a survey someone did about the most-hated professions in America. You know, they asked seventeen hundred people who they hated most. Lawyers and journalists came up numbers one and two. Politicians came in third.”

  “So what?” Alex asked.

  “Sharp is a lawyer, using a journalist to become a politician.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  ALEX WATCHED AMERICAN IDOL and began turning his timeline and notes into a story. Grady had told him that the NYPD was sending an investigator to work with the Kona police, but there had been no developments in the search for Rak. He didn’t know what he would do with his story, but he wanted to have it straight when the investigator arrived. Every few minutes, he glanced at the room service menu, but didn’t place an order. After an hour, he had eight pages, around two thousand words, handwritten.

  He looked at the menu again and muted the TV. He’d just get a little something. He had decided on a steak with extra vegetables instead of potatoes, but when room service picked up he found himself ordering a cheeseburger and fries, a Mai Tai, and two beers. He unmuted the TV right away to drown out the voice in his head asking him what he was doing.

  When the food arrived, he ate it while watching the end of American Idol. A few days off wasn’t so bad. He could start back on his eating and exercise regimen tomorrow. He looked at the clock: 9 p.m. Technically, tomorrow wasn’t for three hours, so he ordered two more beers.

  When they arrived, Grady poked his head into the room. “Boy, what’s wrong with you?”

  Alex stumbled and waved Grady in. “Who knows?” Alex said, flopping onto the bed. “You wanna beer?”

  “No,” Grady said, taking a seat next to the desk. “Been meaning to ask you, were you there on 9/11?”

  Alex stared at the ceiling. “I was there.”

  “Were you near the towers, I mean, Ground Zero?”

  “Nah. Uptown, five miles north, in my apartment.”

  “You’re a reporter, right? Weren’t you covering it?”

  Alex said nothing. Grady stood and moved to the door.

  “Wait,” Alex said, sitting up. “I pretended I was sick.” His words were a bit sloppy and he was sweating. “I was supposed to be covering a drug case at the courthouse that day but I was running late. I saw on TV that the planes had hit and my cellphone rang a couple minutes later. I knew it was my boss and I knew he wanted me to go in. I mean, it’s the biggest story of my lifetime, the most important thing in a generation. What did I do? I looked at the caller ID and put the phone down. E-mailed him later in the day and said I’d come down with the flu. Made up a whole bullshit story.”

  “So what’d you do?” Grady asked.

  “Watched the news in my apartment. Smelled dust and melted metal and burning bodies. I just sat there. All day.” Alex finished the last beer and dropped the empty can onto the bed.

  “Why’d you do it?” Grady asked.

  Alex picked the can up again and peered into it with one eye.

  After a minute, Grady got up and walked to the door. As he opened it, Alex stood up. “Because I’m a fucking coward. Why else?”

  “That why you’re in here drinking alone?” Grady looked at the room service tray. “You know, for a fella in such good shape, you sure don’t eat like it.”

  “I don’t usually eat like this,” Alex said. “I used to. I guess it’s still in me.”

  * * *

  By 11 p.m., Alex was half-asleep, watching images of Santiago float through his mind. His cell phone rang and he thought of Camila. He rubbed his eyes, rolled over, and looked at the caller ID. He jumped up from the bed when he saw the number: 000-0000. For a few seconds, he paced the room, holding the phone tight and trying to clear his mind.

  “Hello,” he said, trying not to slur his words.

  “Mr. Vane, you seem to have escaped a run in. You’re very lucky.”

  “How did you know?” Alex asked, walking into the bathroom.

  “You should trust the officer from New York City. He’s going there to help you.”

  Alex ran cold water over a washcloth and rubbed it across the back of his neck. The voice sounded even stranger than he remembered. “What else would he be here to do?”

  “Mr. Vane, have you connected the dots yet?”

  “Almost,” Alex said, rubbing the washcloth across his face. “I know who killed Martin, I know why, and I think I know how. I know that the same guy killed Demarcus Downton and that he was in my room, trying to kill me. And I have a theory about the third murder you mentioned.”

  “So, you know about Denver Bice?”

  Alex was startled. This was the first time the source had mentioned Bice by name. He set the washcloth down and walked to the bedroom. “Well, I have a theory. Did Bice kill Hollinger?”

  Slow, steady breathing.

  Alex raised his voice. “Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “On the morning of 9/11?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat on the bed. “Jesus. How long have you known this? I mean, how could you sit on this information and not—”

  “I’m not sitting on it now, am I? Why haven’t you approached Denver Bice?”

  “I’m still trying to prove it. I don’t know how you know what you know, but I need someone to go on record. And I need phone records.”

  “Whose?”

  “I need the record of a possible pay phone call from the World Trade Center Plaza to Denver Bice on the morning of 9/11. I think it happened, but I need to prove it.”

  A long silence. “Okay. I can get it.”

  “Pay phone records require a subpoena.”

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  “Thanks,” Alex said. “Look, I know who you are. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. But let me ask you a question. Are you doing this because you want to blow up the Santiago case and get the publicity? Or because you actually want to do the right thing?” He paused. “Or do you just want to hurt Denver Bice?”

  Silence.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. I just wanted to—”

  “I want to hurt Denver Bice.”

  Just as Alex was going to ask whether he knew of any reason that Bice would want to keep him alive, the line went dead. Alex scribbled what he could remember of the conversation onto a yellow pad. When he was finished, he piled all the empty beer cans on the room service tray and slid it out the door.

  Before falling asleep, he called Camila and left a message when her phone went straight to voice mail. “Camila, Rak found me again. He took the recordings, but I’m okay. I’m calling to . . . I just want to warn you. I doubt he’ll come looking for you, but he might. Be careful.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Tuesday, September 17, 2002

  AFTER A LONG RUN and a six-egg omelet, Alex got a ride to Sonia’s house from Officer Lucas. There had been no sign of Rak since the night he’d come to Alex’s hotel room, but Officer Lucas hadn’t left Alex’s side since, and told him now that he’d wait for him in the driveway.

  Alex walked around the side of the house to the pool. Seeing no one, he knocked on the side door by the kitchen. Sonia emerged wearing a hooded pink robe, which fell open and revealed a black bikini as she leaned in to peck Alex on the cheek. She held a frosty glass full of red liquid.

  “Bloody Mary?” she asked.

  “Um I—”

  “Come in, honey.”

  She led Alex into a round room with a glass dome for a ceiling. As they entered, she retracted a wall of curtains with a button on a remote control in her robe pocket. She
also muted a TV that took up an entire wall, one of the only walls not made of glass.

  Alex glanced at the TV and saw the banner headline along the bottom: “President Bush unveils new preemptive war doctrine.”

  Sonia saw him looking at it. “It’s about time. I mean, really.”

  She waved at a white couch and Alex sat down. “Where’s Juan?” he asked.

  She sat next to him. “Shopping. I read about what happened at the hotel,” she said, sounding concerned.

  Alex realized that he did not trust her completely, so her concern surprised him. “Yeah. It was a bit unnerving. Honestly, I’m hoping to get out of Hawaii as soon as I get a couple more pieces for my story.”

  “And where’s Camila?”

  “She went to see her father. He’s dying.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She no longer sounded concerned. “Have they had any luck finding the short man?”

  “No, but I’m hoping you can help me track down some information that may help.”

  “We will have time for that.” She shook her glass. “Are you sure I can’t get you one of these? It’s clear liquor and vegetables. I squeeze my own juice. It’s practically health food.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Just one, though.”

  Sonia stood slowly and led him into the kitchen. He knew she was already a bit tipsy. He thought of Camila and hoped Juan would be back soon.

  She juiced three tomatoes and a stalk of celery into a tall glass, then added ice and three shots of vodka before garnishing it with a lemon wedge and another stalk of celery. “I don’t do the Worcestershire because of the sugar,” she said, shaking some hot sauce on top and handing the drink to Alex.

  He leaned on the counter, trying to figure out how he would say what he needed to say. He took a long sip of the drink. “Sonia, I believe your husband was murdered. He made it out of the tower.” He paused but she said nothing. “He called Professor Martin from the pay phone at World Trade Center Plaza. Martin didn’t pick up. Then he made another call—I’ve had a source confirm it—and I may soon have the evidence to prove it. The man who killed him sent Rak to Hawaii because I have evidence against them.” He tipped his head back and poured the rest of the drink into his mouth, then looked back at her and held her gaze.

  She took a sip of her drink and closed her eyes. “Denver Bice?” she asked.

  Alex almost spat out his drink. “What? How did you . . . ” He couldn’t think of what to ask.

  “Juan and I were making love and I could tell that something was off. He and I do not keep secrets. He told me he’d spoken to you. I truly had no idea about the money, dear, but I believe Juan. When he told me about the call he overheard, I imagined the worst.”

  Sonia took his hand and led him back to the living room. She sprawled out on the sofa, pulled him down next to her, and placed her feet in his lap.

  “Sonia, I, uh . . . Aren’t you surprised? I was pretty worried about telling you that.”

  “I suspected that he got out of the tower for weeks after the attacks. Several people thought they had seen him. And the fact that he was in the rubble of the Marriott. It doesn’t come as a shock.”

  Alex looked at her feet, which were caressing his chest.

  Sonia laughed. “Oh, don’t tell me you and Camila are monogamous?”

  “What? Can we focus for a minute? It might not be a shock that he got out, but you don’t seem upset to learn that your husband was murdered.”

  “We all deal with grief in our own way.”

  “And were you and Juan dealing with grief like this when Mr. Hollinger was still alive?”

  “Of course we were. He was nearly eighty-four years old. He approved. Not everyone is an uptight white kid.”

  Alex heard the front door swing open. He gently shifted her feet off his lap and stood just as Juan walked in.

  “Hola,” Juan said.

  Alex looked down at Sonia, whose eyes were now closed. “Sonia? I need Mr. Hollinger’s phone records from the months before he died. Is there any chance you have those?”

  She opened her eyes just long enough to say, “Juan can get you whatever you need.”

  Juan gestured toward the kitchen and Alex followed him. He took a stack of bills from the top of the refrigerator and handed them to Alex. “I got them faxed from the phone company after we spoke.”

  “Thanks,” Alex said, thumbing through the bills.

  “She likes you. She likes you and is used to getting what she wants.”

  Alex sighed. “Is there somewhere I can work on this?”

  Juan laughed at him. “The bedroom where you showered the other day. Sonia will sleep for an hour or two now.”

  * * *

  Alex sat on the edge of the bed and thumbed through the phone records.

  He found the pages for August seventeenth, twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth, and thirtieth, and circled four different numbers. The first two turned out to be relatives, but the third number was a man named Louis Harrison. When Alex explained why he was calling and asked what the man’s relationship with Hollinger was, Harrison spoke in a deep voice. “I was his financial advisor, and you know that I won’t speak about his dealings.”

  “You’re not his banker though, Mr. Harrison. Confidentiality does not extend to informal financial advising.”

  “I was his banker at one time.”

  “I’m not asking about anything formal you did for him. I’m at Mrs. Hollinger’s house in Hawaii. She shared Mr. Hollinger’s phone records with me. I’m trying to show that he was murdered.”

  “Murdered? He died in 9/11,” Harrison said.

  “He didn’t, Mr. Harrison. I know it must be a shock, and I can’t tell you anything else, but he didn’t.”

  “I don’t want to be in the paper.”

  “We can discuss that later. For now, can you confirm that you spoke with him on the night of August twenty-eighth, 2001?”

  “This is not the first time I’ve spoken with a reporter. I will say a couple of things but I won’t be in the paper, even anonymously. Agreed?”

  Alex pressed his pen hard into his notebook, causing the tip to tear through a few pages. He needed to get someone to go on the record if his story was going to carry any weight. “Agreed,” he said quietly.

  Harrison continued. “Whatever you get from me is informational only and you’ll have to get someone else to confirm it.”

  “Okay. Did you speak to him the night of the twenty-eighth about his holdings in Standard Media Group?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can you confirm that he called you to discuss an idea he was pursuing concerning moving some of his assets?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can you confirm that he intended to sell five hundred million of his Standard Media holdings and donate it to the Media Protection Organization?”

  “Yes.”

  Alex thanked him and told him he would be in touch again soon. After hanging up, he sat on the bed and stared at the blank TV screen. He knew he had enough to publish now, though not enough to prove anything damning about Bice. And without the recording, probably not enough to get Santiago off, either. And without a job, he had nowhere to publish.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CAMILA SAT WITH her father all day as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He did not speak to her, but from time to time he opened his eyes and she cried and squeezed his hand. Her mother shuffled in and out of the room, straightened magazines she had already straightened, and brought in food they didn’t eat.

  At dinnertime, Camila left her father and walked into the kitchen. Her mother sat at the table, which was covered in steaming casserole dishes. Camila sat beside her and took a plate, staring at the bacon salad, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and corn. “We used to eat differently, Mama.”

  “Your father stopped eating Argentinian food a few years ago. I guess he became an American, and now we eat like it.”

  “I see that,” Camila said.

  “Oh, don�
��t be such a know-it-all. Just because we don’t eat sushi and sprouted whatever doesn’t mean we’re any less than.”

  “I wasn’t saying that.” Camila took a small spoonful of mashed potatoes. Her mother had placed a thick pat of butter on top and the yellow liquid pooled on her plate. She sopped up the butter with a biscuit and took a small bite. “Mama, why do you think Papa loves football?” Her mother said nothing. “Last night he was cheering for the Steelers and I asked him why. He said that three years ago the Raiders beat the Chiefs in the playoffs. He grew up playing soccer. And now because a group of millionaires from Oakland beat another group of millionaires from Kansas City in a game three years ago, he’s yelling at the TV in support of a third group of millionaires from Pittsburgh—a city he’s never been to and will never go to. All to get back at the first group of millionaires.”

  Her mother shook her head. “Oh, don’t be so cynical. That game broke his heart. On Sundays he loved the Chiefs with everything he had.”

  “Did he ever love you like that?”

  Her mother’s eyes widened. Camila thought it was because she knew that, if she blinked, a tear would fall.

  “Why did you finally decide to come back?” her mother asked.

  “You know he hit me, right?” Her mother turned away, but Camila continued. “He hit me like his mother hit him. Maybe he used football as a way to temper his aggression, but it didn’t always work. He was cruel to me, like he was to you. And we both still love him. And that’s fine. It’s okay to love him and to know that what he did wasn’t okay. It’s okay to know that it wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t your fault. All of it can pass through, like a storm, and it’s okay to let it pass.” Camila leaned in to try to catch her mother’s eye. “It’s okay to know that there’s a lightness in us that can’t be touched. And it’s okay to love him.”

  Her mother turned back to her, blinking away tears. “Have some corn,” she said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  ALEX WAS SITTING on a red leather chair across from Sonia when she opened her eyes at 3 p.m.