Terror Machine Page 10

  “Sure.”

  “Do you feel up to coming to my sister’s tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Jake. Tomorrow’s Sunday. You haven’t been in a while. If you’re so sure you don’t need my help anymore, that means you’re probably well enough to come see Adriana and the girls.”

  “You see her pretty much every Sunday . . .”

  “Jesus. You do need a nap.”

  “No, Mona . . . Hold on . . .” Jake scrambled towards the pile of phone records in front of him. He scanned through the list as quickly as he could, looking for the 631 numbers. “Maxine Borin,” he finally said. “It’s gotta be . . .”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Maximilian Borin’s mother. Also named Max, which is weird but not the point . . .” Jake continued scanning. “Yes!” he finally yelled out. “Maybe Maxine Borin goes to church—same time every Sunday. Then when she’s back, her son calls—not her main line, but some burner he gave her. Everyone saw the 631 number, but they weren’t looking at it the right way. It’s not the number itself that matters. It’s when Borin calls. Every single call is on a Sunday morning between ten twenty-eight and ten thirty-one in the morning. It’s so consistent. And . . .”

  “Yes?” Mona asked.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “But you, Jake Rivett, aren’t available,” Mona replied.

  Jake sprung from the couch. He stretched his neck. He paced into the kitchen. He turned towards Mona with a large kitchen knife in his hands and a maniacal smile on his face.

  “Cut the bandage off, Mona.”

  “You promised the doctors . . .”

  “If you don’t, I will.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE DAYS BLURRED. RIVETT WASN’T sure if it had been five nights or a week since the Bryant Park bombing. It didn’t matter. Fuzzy was the status quo—the days, his eyes, the case. What mattered was that he could somehow pull it all into focus. As Jake sat shotgun in Tony’s SUV and watched the urban blocks of the city deteriorate into the splotchy forest of Long Island, he realized they were at the very worst part of the investigation—the nadir. Most detectives would be afraid now. Jake was different. He felt anxiety on the way down, but once he was there and actually swimming at the bottom, he became more calm. He welcomed the feeling. In a way, it was similar to how he felt onstage—except that a song only lasted for a few minutes, whereas a case could go for months. That’s why Rivett loved being a detective.

  “How’s Susan?” Jake asked.

  “As if you want to know . . .” Tony replied.

  “She hate me?”

  “Yes—very much so,” Tony answered. “But . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Deep down inside, I’m pretty sure she loves you.”

  “Like a brother?”

  “More like a pet.”

  Jake chuckled. “Is she gonna let me back in the room?”

  “No idea. And I’m not doing your dirty work on that.”

  “Does she know we’re going to see Borin’s mother?”

  “Mr. White signed off. With Susan, it was more of a ‘you know, dear’ . . . I left out the part where you’re with me.”

  “Smart. A Unodir,” Jake said. Unodir was short for UNless Otherwise DIRected. It was one of Jake and Tony’s favorite memo subject lines to write when they wanted to begin an operation.

  “That’s how I get promoted,” Tony replied.

  “You get promoted. I get sick pay.”

  “Same, same.”

  Rivett and Tony soon entered the small hamlet of Farmingville—located at just about the center of Long Island.

  “Some balls on Maxine Borin to say her son called from different numbers . . .” Jake said.

  “It’s a hunch, Rivett.”

  “Cracked cases with much less.”

  “Maybe we’ll sit down with this nice old lady and get nothing at all.”

  “Truth,” Jake admitted.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Tony said. He tapped on the small clock on the SUV’s instrument panel. It was ten twenty in the morning.

  “How far out are we?”

  “Six minutes.”

  “Can’t be late,” Rivett said. “Fong’s ready on the other side, right?”

  “Yeah—he and Moseley. They’re at the AT&T substation right now. Everything’s ready for the live trace. If he calls, think he’ll talk?”

  “Normally I’d say no way, but just like the real Einstein, nothing this guy does makes any sense to me,” Rivett answered.

  The sky was turning from blue to purple above them. Rivett gazed out the window, deep in thought, as it began to rain. It was always glorious heading east, towards the sea, when a winter rainstorm began. The clouds were an obvious tell, and a beautiful one. As the first raindrops splattered down on the windshield, Rivett felt himself becoming even more zen. There wasn’t going to be an audience at this time, at least not in the room—not except for Tony and Maxine. But he was still going to perform.

  ▪

  Maxine Borin’s house was everything Rivett expected and more. Her small wood-paneled cape home was painted a pale yellow and situated in a modest neighborhood. Most remarkable to the two detectives was her front yard. It was accented by dozens of lawn ornaments of all shapes and sizes. Mrs. Borin didn’t stick to a particular theme. There were garden gnomes, windmills, flamingos, giant mushrooms—you name it. Rivett had to stop and gawk for just a moment. Then he remembered there was a time crunch and that it was go time.

  Knock-knock. Rivett rapped his hand on the door. He was surprised to hear an elderly lady’s voice yelling back almost immediately.

  “What do you want?”

  “Police, ma’am.”

  The door opened and Maxine Borin stared out. She was in her eighties, wearing a maroon cardigan festooned with sequin patterns and black pants. A pair of reading glasses hung from her neck, and she pulled them up to gaze at Jake and Tony.

  “Anthony! You’re lucky. I just got back from church.”

  “Hi, Maxine,” Tony replied, glancing at Jake. “This is Detective Rivett. We’re here for a routine follow up.” Tony grinned his friendliest grin at Maxine.

  “All right. Well, you two can come in . . . but just because you’re here, Anthony. You were such a delightful guest last time. Want some more cookies? I can make lemonade.”

  “Oh, we already ate—”

  “We’ll take some cookies—happily. And maybe just water?” Jake said.

  “You can’t have cookies without milk or lemonade. Milk?”

  “Lemonade, please,” Jake replied.

  Once they were inside the home, Rivett quickly eyed the interior. Maxine’s house was filled with tchotchkes. The walls were framed with large glass cabinets full of everything from expensive crystal glassware to cheap plastic birds balancing on small cones. Maxine’s living room was clearly organized for Maxine to live in. Her well-worn La-Z-Boy sat in the middle of the room with a small table next to it filled with calendars, a rotary telephone, pillboxes, and TV remotes. Jake clocked the telephone. Most likely, that was the phone number the FBI already had—not the one they were looking for.

  Maxine pulled a Tupperware bin off her dining room table. It was filled with homemade cookies. Jake thought to himself that either she had plenty of visitors or she wanted plenty of visitors. While she placed the cookies on a plate, Jake scanned across a series of framed photographs on the wall above her Laz-E-Boy. A number of the photos clearly displayed Maxine with her son, Maximilian. Only one photograph seemed to feature a man whom Jake assumed was Maxine’s husband—the three of them sitting on a small dock in front of a lake.

  “Maxine, did you name your son after you?” Jake asked.

  “Almost didn’t. But I won. Always do.”

  Jake chuckled. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, my late husband really thought that was a bad idea. Not like he wanted a junior. I think he simply didn’t want Maxie to be my ju
nior. Bless his heart.”

  “How’d you convince him?”

  “Put him in a choke hold,” Maxine said dryly.

  Jake and Tony stopped for a moment to check her face. Then Maxine burst out laughing. The detectives joined in.

  “That’s him?” Jake pointed to the photograph by the lake.

  “Yes.” Maxine nodded. “That’s Jerry Borin. He was trying to teach Maxie to swim. But Jerry wasn’t good at much, and Maxie never did what he was told either. It didn’t go well. He never did learn to swim, actually. Always felt bad about that.” She held up the cookies. “Cookie?”

  After accepting their cookies, the two detectives followed Maxine around the room until she finally sat down. Jake could see that she was just an arm’s length from her house phone. He pulled out his own cell phone and set it on his lap. Idly tapping the home button, Jake learned it was ten twenty-eight—just two minutes until the call, if there was going to be one.

  “So, really, Mrs. Borin, the reason that we’re here is—”

  “I prefer Ms. Borin now.”

  “Okay, Ms. Borin. Reason I had Tony come back today is just because we’re having a hell of a time finding your son. Nothing’s working. I thought that I could talk to you, ’cause I heard you’re an honest lady who just wants to help. You haven’t heard from him at all?”

  “My lovebug used to call. He also used to visit from Stony Brook, but not in a while.” Maxine shook her head. “Last I think I heard from him was five months ago . . .”

  Rivett glanced at his phone. The digits flickered to ten twenty-nine. “What if there was an emergency? You obviously love Max. He loves you. How are you supposed to contact him if you went to the hospital or something?” Jake asked.

  “Well . . .” Maxine paused. “Hadn’t quite thought about that. That’s a really good question. I figure whenever I see him next, he’s going to hear it from me.”

  “When did he leave the Stony Brook apartment?” Tony said.

  “He did?” Maxine seemed confused.

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  She shook her head in confusion.

  Jake spoke up. “Is it possible that he’s abandoned you, Ms. Borin?”

  The question hung in the air. Maxine took a deep breath. Jake caught her glancing ever-so-slightly towards the kitchen. “That’s just a ridiculous question. Anthony, is this man being silly? Maxie would never, ever, abandon me. He loves me. And, anyway, he wouldn’t be allowed to. Mother’s in charge. He knows that.”

  “But he doesn’t call. He doesn’t come see you. And he hasn’t told you where he is . . .”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You don’t seem so smart,” Maxine exclaimed and then sighed. “Forgive me for taking the Lord’s name in vain. You don’t understand what I’m saying. I don’t need to know where Maxie is to know that I’m the most important thing in the world to him.”

  Jake was having trouble stalling. The phone beside Maxine still hadn’t rung. Maybe this wouldn’t be his Sunday. The call records they’d pulled were very, very specific. If the call came, it was never more than a minute or two on either side of ten thirty. Jake knew he was missing something. But what was it?

  “I think . . . Listen, Ms. Borin. I’m not religious. Least not as much as you. My mother was and my father wasn’t, and sometimes I’m more like him than I care to admit. But I do believe there’s something out there. So maybe we just take a moment of silence here and think about the things that we have in our lives and how much they mean to us. How’s that sound?”

  “That sounds wonderful, detective.”

  Jake cut Tony a look. Without further ado, the three of them closed their eyes and sat in silence in Ms. Borin’s living room.

  That’s when Jake heard what he needed to hear—no, not God. Instead, he was aware of the slightest sensation. He could perceive a buzzing—somewhere between a vibration and a sound. He knew what he was sensing. It was a phone. But where?

  “Lemonade,” Jake erupted.

  All three of them opened their eyes.

  “I forgot!” Maxine said.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Borin. I’ll get it.”

  Jake stood and paced into the kitchen. He knew Maxine was shuffling in behind him. But once he was in the kitchen, he could hear the buzzing much better. Although the noise was muffled, Jake could tell the vibration was emanating from one of the kitchen drawers. He began to pull the drawers and cabinets open, one by one, until he reached a counter-height drawer to the right of the sink. He yanked it open to find a small flip phone. An unknown number was calling.

  Jake didn’t think. He opened the phone and spoke.

  “Is this the doctor?” Jake asked.

  “Yes, and, uh, who’s this?” Maximilian Borin answered.

  “Where are you?”

  Click. Dr. Borin hung up.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EARLY ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, OMER stepped off the front steps of Grant High School and began his daily walk towards the sports fields. He knew that Pat had a game today and Salma would be spectating. When Omer turned onto the sidewalk that ran down the length of the school’s property, he heard someone yelling his name.

  “Omer!”

  Omer recognized the voice immediately. It wasn’t just any someone. He lifted his head and noticed that one of his father’s dry-cleaning vans was parked at the entrance to the school—and Murad was yelling at him out of the open window.

  “Hey, brother! Want a ride?”

  Omer stepped towards the van, resting his arms on the window frame.

  “I’m okay. It’s not far. What are you doing?”

  “Deliveries. But I’m done. Figured I’d zip over here and might help out my little kid siblings for once. Where’s Salma?”

  She was just down the block, but thankfully still out of sight from Murad.

  “Don’t know . . .”

  “Don’t you guys walk home together?”

  “I meet her here.” Omer shrugged. “Maybe she’s still in class . . .”

  “All right. Well, I’ll give you a ride, then. Get in.” Murad reached over to the door and opened it.

  “I should wait for her, I think.”

  “Come on, Omer. I gotta get going. I’m doing you a favor. Get in.”

  Faced with no particularly logical reason why he shouldn’t take his brother’s offer, Omer jumped into the van. Murad began driving around the block and away from the school. Omer was relieved to see that he was taking a route that completely avoided the sports field on the south end of the property.

  “How’s school? How are the chicks?” Murad asked.

  “It’s good.” Omer shrugged. “I’m not too worried about girls.”

  “That’s good. Maybe if you study, you’ll be able to do more than me. Driving Dad’s van around all day . . . Though it ain’t terrible. Gives me freedom. Get to see the whole city filled with all its miserable people.”

  “Right,” Omer said.

  “What about Salma?”

  “What about her?”

  “You’re keeping track of her, right?”

  “Of course. I’m her brother.”

  “Yeah. So am I,” Murad said. He slowed down, waiting for the traffic passing on the left to proceed past. With a sudden turn of the wheel, Murad ripped the van into a U-turn. “Omer . . . You and me might have a different sense of what it means to take care of our sister. A woman never walks over a man. Do you understand me? Especially not a sister.”

  “What do you mean?” Omer stumbled. He saw that Murad was driving directly towards the sports field. Murad jammed his foot on the accelerator of the van, his eyes narrowing, and aimed directly at the bleachers to the side of the athletic field.

  “You know . . . Tell me what I mean, brother.”

  “What are you doing?” Omer gripped a handle in the van, glancing at Murad nervously.

  Murad accelerated. The speedometer moved up slowly, from twenty to twenty-five . . .

  Ahead, Omer could make out
Salma chatting with Pat Welch. His arm was around her waist.

  “When were you going to tell us about Salma?” Murad yelled.

  “Slow down! Stop it!”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know! I’m sorry!” Omer began to cry as the van crossed the double yellow lines in the center of the street. It seemed to Omer that Murad was planning on crashing directly into the bleachers.

  At the very last millisecond, Murad whipped the wheel back in the right direction. He swerved the van into its lane and passed by Salma and Pat—who had noticed nothing at all.

  “You know the rules, Omer. I didn’t make them up. They are bigger than any of us. Salma can’t date anyone without permission and chaperones. She definitely can’t date a non-Muslim. I’m very disappointed in you. Thought that you cared about our family, but maybe you’re just as bad as she is—because you’ve been protecting her. Maybe you’ve been idle, but I won’t be.”

  “I’ll talk to her, Murad,” Omer promised.

  “The time for talking is over. You talk. I take action.”

  “You won’t hurt her . . .”

  “You don’t decide what’s going to happen.”

  “And Dad?”

  “Dad will do whatever Mom says. Whatever I might want to do, Mom will be ten times worse.”

  “Please. Let me handle it. I’ll make sure she never sees the soccer player again. What can I do so you’ll let me?” Omer knew his brother was a loose cannon. He needed to buy a little time to figure out what to do.

  “Maybe there’s a world where I’ll let you take care of it, just for a little . . . But if not, I’m going straight to Mom.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The business club. At the restaurant. You know?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “We need some help. There’s a delivery, and I need an extra hand.”

  “So I help you, and you won’t mess with Salma?”

  “As long as you solve the problem.”

  “Deal, brother,” Omer agreed.

  ▪

  After a brief dinner with the family, during which Murad gazed at Salma menacingly but did not say anything, Murad and Omer headed out again in the van. Their first assignment, Murad told Omer, was a pickup to the east. Omer wasn’t exactly sure where they were going. Murad himself had never been there. He only had an address, as well as an invoice for two containers.