Confluence, connectivity, happenstance, or luck. One of those has brought us to a moment when all the pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place. Answers don’t bring relief—far from it—but they help bring the events surrounding the shooting into clearer focus.
Brian surprises us by showing up at the apartment at lunchtime. Kate is at work. Michael and I are expecting Nancy, who is an hour late. We put it down to her unpredictable schedule at the hospital. Michael has texted twice. I don’t want him to become agitated, so I engage him in strategizing the best way for me to approach Frederick Weber. The lawyer still keeps an office and a secretary at the Manhattan headquarters.
Being private citizens, we haven’t been able to check flight manifests or phone records to see where Weber has been or whom he might have seen over the last six weeks or two years, if it came to that. We know quite a bit, though. Michael has the ingenious idea of pretending to be the son of Weber’s cousin and calling the New York office to “chat up the secretary,” as he put it. I leave the room for fear I might burst out laughing.
My son deploys his considerable charm, entertaining the woman with tales of “cousin Fritz’s” exploits; in the process, he learns valuable information. For instance, Weber made several business trips to London between December 23 and January 11 of this year.
“The spring before this last one, he went back and forth so often we thought he might move there,” she tells Michael. “That was right after Mr. Kemp died, though, so it makes a lot of sense. I’m not sure what he has going on these days. Maybe he’s seeing someone?”
Seeing his old boss, I think, but I don’t say anything. In addition to being apprehensive, I’m also proud of my son.
“Maybe you ought to have a little sit-down with him, Mum,” he says. “Fly to New York and have a drink for old time’s sake. It’s not like you’d be tipping your hand. You and Dad and I were splashed all over the news for a bit along with Kate’s poor parents and the Westcotts.”
I flinch at the memory. While Michael’s welfare and my family’s safety have been uppermost in my mind, I’ve experienced more than a little discomfort with being the subject of any discussion. After the shooting, I refused all interviews. So did Brian, Kate, and Annie. Tommy released a statement through his office. I couldn’t keep people like Betsy Harrigan from commenting. The media is ruthless when pursuing a story. For most people, the attention is irresistible.
“He might wonder why I’ve suddenly decided to renew our acquaintance.”
Michael cocks his head. “He might. Or he might be sitting around waiting for the ax to fall. Either way, what have you got to lose?”
As insane as this idea seems, I consider it. I’m searching online for direct flights to New York, and Michael is leaving yet another message for Nancy, when Brian throws open the door. He’s not normally given to drama. The look on his face tells me we’re not dealing with normal. I’m not certain if we ever will again.
I turn from the laptop. Michael disconnects his call. We look at Brian, who gets right to it.
“There’s no good way to say this. Nancy Okorie is dead. Murdered.”
“What?” Michael jumps to his feet. “When? How? Why, for God’s sake?”
Brian orders him to sit down. He fills us in as to what he knows, including what the police have seen on the video. It’s clearly a homicide.
Michael is beside himself. “I don’t understand. Is it political? Someone from her country’s government? Who would want to hurt Nancy?”
“What was on the paper?” I ask.
Father and son turn to look at me.
“What was so important the mystery man burned it and pocketed the ashes?”
Brian nods. He knows where I’m going.
“It’s impossible to tell. That is the key, though. There’s something else I need to tell you. When I got the call about Nancy, I was looking at photos of a package that arrived here yesterday addressed to Michael, no return address.”
“A package? To me? But hardly anyone knows our address. Except—”
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet. Unexpected packages delivered here get special treatment. This one is still at the Met’s lab. It hasn’t been tampered with, at least as far as the technicians can determine. It’s a handmade wooden box filled with candy. The box is artful, if peculiar. So is the note.”
“Let me see.” I stretch out my hand for the phone and notice it’s shaking. I take a deep breath and catch Brian’s eye.
“Michael, can you handle this?”
Relieved to have something to do, Michael transfers the images to the laptop. We huddle around, staring at a box carved out of a deep-brown wood with a distinctive natural grain.
“This particular box is made from olive wood. It is said to be excellent for carving. My grandmother had a figurine of a saint made from the same material. The wood gives off a distinctive smell. A bit too informative for boxing candy unless you’re gifting chocolate-covered olives.”
No one laughs.
I lean in, studying the object. The box looks like something you’d buy in an upscale store aimed at tourists. The etching is quite ornate. It depicts a beach scene, complete with a large body of water on which rides a distant ship. A sleek-looking seal poses on an adjacent sandy beach. I’m getting ready to look at the image of the note when the buzzer sounds.
Brian picks up the receiver and has a few words with the security guard.
“Simon’s on his way up.”
My usually self-possessed nephew enters the apartment in a state of high excitement. I consider that two of the most measured people I know have now burst through the front door in the space of a half hour. The thought is anything but comforting.
“You’ll want to sit for this,” he says without preamble.
When instead we move towards him, he holds up his arms in mock horror.
“Whoa, easy now. Don’t sit, then, but at least stop coming at me. I’m feeling rather intimidated.”
“I guess we’re a bit anxious,” I say by way of apology. “It’s been quite the morning for news.”
“I did rather throw myself into your apartment. Let’s begin again. Tell me what’s been going on, and then I’ll fill you in on my news.”
Brian catches him up on events to date. Simon listens, grim-faced.
“I don’t know how my information is connected to everything you’ve just told me, but it sheds new light on Daniel Guzman.”
We listen, thunderstruck, as Simon recounts his serendipitous visit to Henry’s Bar. He’s pulled strings to rush DNA testing and then matched it against a hairbrush one of Brian’s associates pilfered from Luisa Guzman’s office in Rio. Sure enough, there’s a familial match. Daniel Guzman is Luisa Guzman’s son.
Brian waits for Simon to take a breath, then says, “I assume we still don’t know whether he’s Victor Kemp’s son.”
Simon clears his throat. “About that. Remember the second son Luisa had with Victor Kemp? His full name was João Daniel Guzman.”
I can’t stifle my gasp. In unison, the three men swing their heads in my direction. Maybe they’re worried I’ll fall into a faint. It does feel as if I’m starring in a melodrama. All we need are a couple of ominous chords—dun dun DUH.
But I’m not about to lose consciousness.
“I’m fine, gentlemen. And frankly unsurprised. This simply confirms what I’ve suspected all along. What I can’t figure out is why Daniel decided to kill me now. Did he act out of impulse or on orders? Whose orders? And what has happened to him?”
I sound calm. Am I calm? I wonder.
Brian and Simon exchange a look. Michael sees it.
“What, guys? Is there more? Come on, let’s have it.”
Simon looks at the floor, then back at me.
“As of this morning, Interpol is unofficially reactivating the file on Victor Kemp.”
“Why? Because they have conclusive proof Daniel is his son?”
“Yes, but also because they suspect Kemp may still be alive.”
“What makes them think that?” I turn to my husband. “Brian, have you suspected all along that Victor Kemp didn’t die in Wales?” I’m trying to keep my voice level. It isn’t easy.
“Kemp’s remains weren’t found at the scene. The explosion caused a lot of damage, as it was intended to. By the time a backup team came in to do a more thorough sweep of the area, the tides had done their work as well. There wasn’t anything further to process. The office declared him dead and closed the case.”
I breathe slowly in, slowly out. I don’t know how else to keep from exploding.
“And now?”
“Daniel’s likely relationship to Kemp is enough to raise questions. Informally, for now. We can only hope it offers the possibility of further resources.”
I don’t say anything, mainly because I have too much to say. I’m furious Brian didn’t take me into his confidence and share with me his concerns that Kemp was still alive. I realize he didn’t want to consider the likelihood any more than I did. But I deserved to have my apprehension taken seriously. I needed an ally. I didn’t need to drive myself mad over these past few months.
On the other hand, what could Brian have done? He’s at the mercy of his superiors as well as his own angst about our family. He needed to believe in Kemp’s demise as much as I did. Or did I expect him to join me in this latest round of hell I’ve put myself through? What about what he’s gone through? What about Michael? What would I have done in his place?
I don’t look at my husband, but I reach out a hand. He grabs it as if it were a life preserver.
“According to your information, Simon—and Brian’s—we know that Daniel Guzman is the son of Luisa Guzman and Victor Kemp. We don’t know about Francesco Guzman, who may be a relative or a doppelgänger. At the moment, none of them can be found. They may be dead or in hiding. What’s happens next?”
Brian exhales; he’s been holding his breath waiting for me to go off on him. I remind myself that my moodiness affects the ones I love.
He waves his nephew over.
“Come look at these photographs of the mystery package. Another piece of the puzzle.”
Simon peers at the screen. “Pretty box. What is that carved outline?”
“It’s a sea animal. There’s a note that wishes Michael a speedy recovery, signed from his ‘friends’ at Monachus. Which, by the way, is a biological subclass of seals on the verge of extinction. I looked it up.”
I manage to smile at my diligent husband
“I don’t get it,” my son says.
“It’s a message,” I say.
Brian nods. “I think it is as well. Which is why I’ve got a staffer running an associative word search. I’d like to know who these so-called friends are and how they’ve located us.”
“They’re obviously the sort of people who were willing to kill Nancy to get to me.”
We stare at Michael.
“What? It’s not a big leap to suppose she gave the mystery killer our address, is it? Maybe he promised her something having to do with her family. Instead, she paid for that information with her life. I just hope—I know this sounds odd—but I hope she felt she had no other choice.”
“I’m sure she didn’t, Michael.” What else could I say?
Brian’s mobile rings again. He holds up a finger and answers.
“Hallo, Erin, whatcha got?”
He listens, offering only snippets on his end — “okay,” “uh-huh,” “you don’t say” —before asking his assistant to text him the information. He hangs up and clears his throat.
“Alright, then. Most of the references to monachus concern the animal itself. The monk seal is a reclusive sort. It tends to hide away. Its isolation makes it endangered. Erin, smart girl that she is, also checked for theater pieces, movies, songs, last names, and new businesses using that name. Under the last category, she found something interesting.” Brian pauses.
“And? Don’t stop now.” Simon is still staring at the screen.
“In late December, papers were filed on behalf of a new business entity called Monachus. The company is in the shipping business, and the logo is a silhouette of a seal.”
Silence. Then Michael, my reliable treasure, speaks up.
“It seems we’re looking for the elusive owner of a mysterious company named after a reclusive seal. What do we do now?”
It's meant to break the tension, and it does. Simon risks a small smile. But there is no laughter or joy, not with Nancy Okorie murdered and the rest of us once again at risk.
I face my son, my expression serious.
“Michael, if there's anything you can do to help, I promise to let you know. What I most need right now is for you to get strong.”
“Without Nancy.”
“For Nancy.”
Simon throws an arm around his cousin. “I'm a poor substitute, mate, but your mother is right: you need to keep working out. What say we get you down to the gym, yes? You do the exercises. I’ll be the cheering section.”
The two of them head for the door. I hear bits of conversation.
“Guess I’m not getting outside for a while longer.”
“All in good time, Mike.”
Alone in the apartment, Brian and I slide into each other’s arms. Then I lean away to ask, “Who owns this new shipping company?”
“An Afrikaner named Johan Krüger.”
“And where do we find this Mr. Krüger?”
Brian doesn’t answer; he doesn’t need to. I already know.
The same place we find Francesco Guzman and Victor Kemp.