Chapter Twenty

I copy the old videotape in the least-tech but fastest way possible. I simply play it on the little camera screen while recording it with my smartphone. The quality is not as terrible as I thought it would be, but I won’t be winning any cinematography awards either. I upload a copy of the video to my cloud, and then, to be on the safe side, I email it out to another one of my email addresses.

Should I send a copy to someone else for safekeeping?

Yes. The question is, who? I consider David Rainiv, but if it ever got traced back—and, yes, I’m being paranoid—I don’t want to put him in danger. I think about sending it to Ellie, but same issue. Plus I need to think it through. I need to really consider my next move with her.

The obvious answer is Augie, but again, do I want to just send this out to his computer without any kind of warning?

I call Augie on the phone.

“You at the Rusty Nail yet?” Augie asks.

“On my way. I’m emailing you a video.”

I fill him in on David Rainiv’s visit and the rest of it. He stays quiet. When I finish, I ask if he’s still on the line.

“Don’t send it to my work,” he says.

“Okay.”

“You got my personal email address?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, send it there.” There is a longer pause. Then Augie clears his throat and says, “Diana . . . you said she wasn’t on the tape?”

I can always hear it when he says Diana’s name. I lost you. A brother. A twin. Devastating, sure. But Augie lost his only child. Whenever he says Diana’s name, it comes out hoarse, pained, like someone is pummeling him as he speaks. Each syllable rains down new hurt.

“I didn’t see or hear Diana,” I tell him, “but the tape isn’t great quality. You might pick up something I didn’t.”

“I still think you’re heading down the wrong path.”

I think about that. “I do too.”

“So?”

“So it’s the only path I have right now. I might as well stay on it and see where it leads.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Though not a good one.”

“No, not a good one,” Augie agrees.

“What did you tell Andy Reeves?” I ask.

“About you?”

“About my reason for visiting, yeah.”

“Not a damn thing. What could I tell him? I don’t even know.”

“Part of my plan,” I say. “The not-good one.”

“Better than none at all, I guess. I’m going to watch the tape. I’ll call you if I see anything.”

—

The Rusty Nail is a converted house with cedar-shake vinyl siding and a red door. I park between a yellow Ford Mustang with the license plate EBNY-IVRY and a bus-van hybrid with the words “Bergen County Senior Center” painted on the side. I don’t know what Augie meant by saying it used to be a dive bar. From the outside it still looks like one to me. The only change I notice is the extensive wheelchair ramp. That didn’t used to be there. I head up the steps and open the heavy red door.

Initial observation: The crowd is old.

Very old. I’m guessing the median age is close to eighty. Probably came in from the senior center. Interesting. Seniors take field trips to supermarkets and racetracks and casinos.

Why not taverns?

The second thing I notice: There is an ostentatious white piano with silver trim, like something Liberace would have considered too garish, in the middle of the room, complete with a tip jar. Straight out of Billy Joel. I almost expect a real estate novelist and Davy from the navy to be nursing drinks. But I don’t see anyone fitting that description. I see a variety of walkers and canes and wheelchairs.

The piano player is pounding out “Sweet Caroline.” “Sweet Caroline” has become one of those songs, played at every wedding and sporting event, beloved by children and seniors alike. The old patrons sing along enthusiastically. They are off-key and have no pitch and don’t care. It’s a nice scene.

I’m not sure which one is Andy Reeves. In my head, I’m expecting someone in his midsixties with a crew cut and military bearing. A few of the older men fit the bill, I guess. I step into the room. I spot several strong young guys now, their eyes moving around like wary security guards, and I’m tagging them as bartenders or maybe orderlies for the seniors.

The piano player looks up and nods at me. He does not have a crew cut or military bearing. He has feathered blond hair and that kind of waxy complexion I associate with chemical peels. He beckons with a head gesture for me to take a seat at the piano as the older crowd builds to a giant “Bah-bah-bah, good times never seemed so good.”

“So good, so good, so good . . .”

I sit. One of the old guys throws his arm around me, nudging me to sing along. I join in for a very unenthusiastic “I’ve been inclined” and wait for someone else—preferably Andy Reeves—to approach me. No one does. I glance around the room. There is a poster featuring four of the happiest, healthiest seniors this side of a Viagra ad with the words “Tuesday Afternoon Bingo—$3 Drinks” emblazoned across their chests. At the bar, a few of the guys I figure are orderlies-bartenders pour a red beverage into laid-out plastic cups.

When “Sweet Caroline” finishes up, the old folks hoot and holler their approval. I’m almost looking forward to the next song, enjoying this quasi normalcy, but the feathered-hair piano man stands up and announces a “quick break.”

The old-timers register their disappointment with gusto.

“Five minutes,” the piano man says. “Your drinks are at the bar. Think up a few requests, okay?”

That placates them a bit. The piano man scoops the money out of what looks like an oversized brandy snifter, heads toward me, and says, “Officer Dumas?”

I nod.

“I’m Andy Reeves.”

First thing I notice: His speaking voice is a little breathy.

Or whispery.

He takes the seat next to me. I try to guess the age. Even with whatever weird cosmetic work has made his face shiny, he can’t be more than midfifties, but then again, the military base closed down only fifteen years ago. Why does he have to be older than that?

I glance around. “This place,” I say.

“What about it?”

“It seems a far distance from the Department of Agriculture.”

“I know, right?” He spreads his hands. “What can I say? I needed a change.”

“So you no longer work for the government?”

“I retired, what, seven years ago. Worked for the USDA for twenty-five years. Got a nice pension and now I’m pursuing my passion.”

“Piano.”

“Yes. I mean, not here. This is, well, you have to start somewhere, right?”

I study his face. The tan is from a bottle or bed, not the sun. I can see some very pale skin near the hairline. “Right,” I say.

“We had a piano at that old Westbridge office. I used to play there all the time. Helped us relax when the job got too stressful.” Reeves shifts in his seat and flashes teeth so big and dazzlingly white that they could double as piano keys. “So what can I do for you, Detective?”

I jump right in. “What kind of work were you guys doing at the military base?”

“Military base?”

“That’s what it used to be,” I say. “A control center for Nike missiles.”

“Oh, I know.” He shakes his head in awe. “What a history that place has, am I right?”

I say nothing.

“But all of that, well, it was years before we moved in. We were just an office complex, not a military base.”

“An office complex for the USDA,” I say.

“That’s right. Our mission was to provide leadership on food, agriculture, natural resources, rural development, nutrition, and related issues based on sound public policy, the best available science, and efficient management.”

It sounds rehearsed, probably because it is.

“Why there?” I ask.

“Pardon?”

“The USDA has an office on Independence Avenue in Washington, DC.”

“Headquarters, sure. We were a satellite.”

“But why there, in the woods like that?”

“Why not?” he says, lifting his palms to the ceiling. “It was a great space. Some of the work we did, well, I don’t want to boast or make it sound more glamorous than it was, but many of our studies were absolutely top secret.” He leans forward. “Did you ever see the movie Trading Places?”

“Eddie Murphy, Dan Aykroyd, Jamie Lee Curtis,” I say.

He’s very pleased that I know it. “That’s the one. If you remember, the Duke brothers were trying to corner the orange juice market, right?”

“Right.”

“Do you remember how?” Reeves smiles as he sees on my face that I do. “The Dukes were bribing a government official to obtain an advance copy of the USDA’s monthly crop report. The USDA, Detective Dumas. That was us. Many of our studies were that important. We needed privacy and tight security.”

I nod. “So that’s why you had the fence and all the No Trespassing signs.”

“Exactly.” Reeves spreads his hands again. “Where better for us to conduct our testing than a former military base?”

“Anybody ever defy those signs?”

For the first time I think I see the smile flicker. “What do you mean?”

“Did you ever have trespassers?”

“Sometimes,” Reeves says as casually as he can muster. “Kids would sneak into the woods to drink or smoke pot.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would the kids ignore the warning signs?”

“Something like that.”

“What would they do then?”

“Nothing. They’d just walk past the signs.”

“And what would you do about that?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“We might tell them that this was private property.”

“Might?” I ask. “Or did?”

“Sometimes we did, I guess.”

“How would you do that exactly?”

“Pardon?”

“Walk me through it. A kid goes past your sign. What would you do?”

“Why are you asking?”

I put a little snap in my voice. “Just answer the question, please.”

“We’d tell him to go back. We’d remind him that he was trespassing.”

“Who would remind him?” I ask.

“I don’t understand.”

“Would you be the one to remind him?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then who?”

“One of our security guards.”

“Were they guarding the woods?”

“What?”

“The signs started probably fifty yards away from your fence.”

Andy Reeves considers this. “No, the guards wouldn’t be that far out. They would be more interested in controlling the perimeter.”

“So you probably wouldn’t see a trespasser until he reached your fence, is that correct?”

“I don’t see the relevance—”

“How would you spot this trespassing kid?” I ask, changing gears. “Would you rely on the guard’s vision, or did you have cameras?”

“I think we may have had a few . . .”

“Think you had cameras? You don’t remember?”

I’m testing his patience. That’s not unintentional. Reeves starts tapping the top of the table with a fingernail. A long fingernail, I notice. Then he gives me a toothy grin and whispers again: “I’m really not going to take much more badgering, Detective.”

“Yeah, okay, sorry,” I say. I tilt my head. “So let me ask you this: Why would stealth Black Hawks be landing at a ‘USDA’”—I do finger quotes—“‘office complex’ at night?”

Drop the mic, as one of my goddaughters might say.

Andy Reeves hadn’t been expecting that one. His mouth drops open, though not for long. His eyes harden. The big wide smile has been replaced with something closemouthed and far more reptilian.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he whispers.

I try to stare him down, but he has no problem with too much eye contact. I don’t like that. We all think eye contact is great or a sign of honesty, but like most things, too much indicates an issue.

“It’s been fifteen years, Reeves.”

He doesn’t stop staring.

“I don’t care what you guys were doing.” I try to keep the pleading out of my voice. “I just need to know what happened to my brother.”

Exact same volume, exact same cadence, exact same words: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My brother’s name was Leo Dumas.”

He pretends to be thinking about it, trying to dredge up the name from his memory bank.

“He was hit by a train with a girl named Diana Styles.”

“Oh, Augie’s daughter.” Andy Reeves shakes his head the way people do when they speak of someone else’s tragedy. “Your brother was the young man killed with her?”

He knows this. I know this. He knows I know.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The condescension drips off his voice like maple syrup off a stack of pancakes. Intentionally, of course. Striking back at me.

“I already told you I don’t care what you were doing at the base,” I try. “So if you want me to stop digging into this, all you have to do is tell me the truth. Unless.”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you killed my brother,” I say.

Reeves doesn’t take the bait. Instead he makes a scene out of checking his watch. He looks over at the old folks starting to meander back toward the piano. “My break is over.”

He stands.

“Before you go,” I say.

I take out my phone. The video is already up. It’s cued to the first time the helicopter appears. I click the play button and hold it up for him. Even the fake tan is leaving his face now.

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to be,” he says, but his voice just isn’t making it.

“Sure you do. It’s a Sikorsky Black Hawk stealth helicopter flying over what you claim is a Department of Agriculture office complex. If you watch a few more moments, that helicopter will land. And after that, you’ll be able to see a man in a prisoner-issue orange jumpsuit get out of that copter.”

That’s a touch of an exaggeration—you really just see an orange dot—but a touch is all you need.

“You can’t verify—”

“Sure I can. There is a date stamp. The buildings and landscape are unique enough. I have the volume turned down, but the whole thing is narrated.” Another exaggeration. “The teenagers who made the tape spell out exactly where they are and what they are witnessing.”

His glare is back.

“One more thing,” I say.

“What?”

“You can hear three teenage boys on the tape. All three have died under mysterious circumstances.”

One of the old men shouts out, “Hey, Andy, can I request ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’?”

“I hate Madonna,” another says.

“That’s ‘Like a Prayer,’ you moron. ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ is Bon Jovi.”

“Who you calling a moron?”

Andy Reeves ignores them. He turns to me. The facade is gone now. The whisper is harsher. “Is that the only copy of the tape?”

“Yes,” I say, giving him flat eyes. “I was dumb enough to come here without making copies.”

He speaks through gritted teeth. “If that tape is what you claim—and I stress the word ‘if’—revealing it would be a federal offense punishable by a prison sentence.”

“Andy?”

“What?”

“Do I look scared?”

“It would be treason to reveal that.”

I point to my calm face, indicating again that I do not in any way, shape, or form appear frightened by this threat.

“If you dare show it to anyone—”

“Let me stop you there, Andy. I don’t want you to worry your pretty head about it. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll definitely show it. I’ll post it all over Twitter and Facebook with your name on it.” I pretend to have a pen and paper and prepare to mime writing. “Is Reeves spelled with two e’s or ea?”

“I had nothing to do with your brother.”

“How about my girlfriend, then? Her name is Maura Wells. You want to tell me you had nothing to do with her either?”

“My God.” Andy Reeves slowly shakes his head. “You have no clue, do you?”

I don’t like the way he says it, with sudden confidence. I don’t know how to reply, so I go with a simple “So tell me.”

Another patron shouts, “Play ‘Don’t Stop Believin’,’ Andy. We love that one.”

“Sinatra!”

“Journey!”

Murmurs of agreement. One guy starts singing, “‘Just a small town girl.’” The others answer, “‘Livin’ in a lonely world.’”

“One second, fellas.” Reeves waves and smiles, just a good ol’ guy enjoying the attention. “Save your energy.”

Andy Reeves turns back to me, lowers his mouth until it’s close to my ear, and whispers, “If you release that tape, Detective Dumas, I’ll kill you and everyone you love. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.” I nod. Then I reach out, grab him by the balls, and squeeze.

His scream shatters the night air.

A few of the old folks jump up, startled. When I let go, Reeves flops to the floor like a fish hitting a dock.

The younger guys, the orderlies, react. They rush toward me. I back up, take out my shield.

“Stay where you are,” I warn. “Police business.”

The old folks don’t like this. Neither do three of the orderlies. They come closer, circling me. I take out my phone and snap a quick pic. The old-timers yell at me.

“What do you think you’re doing? . . . If I was ten years younger . . . You can’t just do that . . . ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’!”

One drops to his knee to tend to the wounded Reeves as the orderlies move closer.

I need to close this down now.

I show the approaching orderlies the gun in my hip holster. I don’t pull it out, but the sight is enough to slow them down.

An old man shakes his fist at me. “We’re going to report you!”

“Do what you must,” I say.

“You better get out of here now.”

I agree. Five seconds later, I’m out the door.