“The girl’s thoughts, and Sam’s, in England—I knew what they were before they died,” I say, opening the envelope from the doorman. Probably just inheritance paperwork, but it gives me something to do with my hands instead of punching them through glass.
“That’s never happened before?” Daniel asks as I sift out the papers, evading the question. One of them falls to the floor, and I bend to pick it up.
INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS
MAGNATE DAVID SHAW DIES AT 40
David S. Shaw, founder of the Euphrates International Corporation, died on September 5th. His family’s spokesperson confirmed his death from the family estate in Yorkshire, England, offering no cause. Some media outlets in the United Kingdom reported that he died of a genetic condition.
A few short years after his graduation from Trinity College, Cambridge, Mr. Shaw started a small company that grew to become Euphrates International, which injected hundreds of millions of dollars into private and academic research laboratories for the funding of research in genetic modification.
In recent years, its dealings prompted an investigation by the U.S. Department of Justice. Mr. Shaw was born on [REDACTED] in London, England, to his parents, Lord Elliot Shaw and Lady Sylvia Shaw. He attended Eton before graduating from Trinity College at Cambridge University, with a degree in history. He lived with his wife and two children in their family home in England until Euphrates International moved their headquarters to the United States after controversial funding decisions prompted the opening of several ethics enquiries by Parliament.
His survivors include his second wife, Ruth, his son, Noah, and his daughter, Katherine. The family will be holding a private service at their estate in Rievaulx. In lieu of gifts, the family requests that donations be sent to the Shaw Foundation.
I look up at Mara. “What the fuck is this?”
She takes the clipping from me. It’s from the Times.
“Your dad’s obituary? I don’t get it . . . .”
I withdraw the other piece of paper from the envelope. Also a clipping, but this one . . .
COPS POISONED!
New York, NY, 10:05 a.m.
“We are heartbroken to announce the death of Officer John Roland, twenty-eight, who died early this morning at 8:31 a.m.,” Commissioner [REDACTED] of the NYPD announced at a press conference this morning. “Officer Roland was a two-year member of the NYPD and will be remembered for his sense of humor, his generosity of spirit, and his bravery.”
Roland’s death comes at the heels of eight other members of the department who have all died under suspicious circumstances that are being closely guarded by the NYPD. Under conditions of anonymity, an inspector consulted by the Daily News stated, “Their deaths are consistent with some sort of mass poisoning; they all succumbed within a finite period of time, and shared the same symptoms.” The expert wouldn’t elaborate on what those symptoms were, but a source close to the police has said that each of the officers complained of a bloody nose at some point before their deaths. Two sources confirmed to the Daily News that the [REDACTED] Precinct is being temporarily shut down for an inspection into whether an airborne toxin, like anthrax, may have been mailed to the department. Commissioner [REDACTED] refused to answer whether they were considering terrorism as a motive at this point.
“This is an ongoing investigation and we can issue no further comment.”
Officer Roland is survived by his parents, Mary and Robert Roland, of Providence, Rhode Island, and two younger siblings, Paul and Benjamin Roland.
Mara’s eyes settle on the picture of the officer. She barely skims the rest of the piece before thrusting it back into my hands. Jamie snatches it from me directly, stares longer than Mara. Daniel has to urge him to part with it.
“What is this?” I ask no one in particular.
Daniel takes the envelope from me, turns it over. “Who sent these?”
“The doorman didn’t say who left them,” Mara says.
“But he gave them to you?”
“He called her Mrs. Shaw when she was walking us out,” Jamie chimes in. “Passssssword . . .” he singsongs under his breath.
“Why would someone send you this?” Daniel asks. “Who even knows you’re here?”
Solid question. I didn’t buy the flat under my own name, but anyone working for or with my father would probably have the means to find out where I’m living. So, not exactly a secret.
Mara takes the clippings from her brother. “Add that to the growing list of questions, like, why are we killing ourselves?”
We. The word stings like the bite of a whip. Why are we killing ourselves.
“Noah,” Mara says, “where did you say the address was?”
“I didn’t.”
“What address?” Jamie asks. Three pairs of eyes watch me.
The words stuck in my throat, but it was too late to do anything but confess. “The boy who killed himself this morning—he did it with pills. The address was on one of the bottles. Two-thirteen Myrtle.”
Mara looks at her brother, then at Jamie.
“Oh, I’m definitely coming,” Jamie says.
Daniel looks at me for permission, and I appreciate the gesture. “Join us, won’t you?” I ask.
He cracks a small grin. He takes out his phone and texts someone first, then looks up. “Ready?”
Mara’s already by the front door, pulling her leather jacket from a hook. “How’s Sophie?” she asks Daniel as the rest of us assemble.
“How do you know I was texting Sophie?”
“Because you’re always texting Sophie.” She opens the front door.
Goose is standing behind it, his duffel in hand.
“Hello, darlings. I’m home.”
17
BRUTE NEIGHBOURS
SO, WHERE IS IT WE’RE going?”
“All in good time, mate,” Jamie said, mocking his accent as he gestures for Goose to follow him. Then to me, “It’ll be fine, old chap. I’ll take care of everything.”
I do not love the idea of Jamie mind-fucking my friend for the day, especially not on this ill-conceived excursion, but having Goose along for part of it might present an excuse for me to get on alone for the rest of it. I was the only one who saw what the boy saw. I could use that, perhaps, to pawn Goose off on someone else. And Jamie seems quite happy to oblige.
And so the five of us find ourselves standing on the corner of Myrtle Avenue staring at a brownstone down the street that looks as if it’s been dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. The front steps are cracked and buckling, and the door, which appears to have once been red, seems rotted through.
Goose looks bored. “What are we doing here, again?”
“Exploring Brooklyn real estate,” Jamie says. “I’m not sure I want to live in the loft after all.”
Mara and I exchange a look. Real or not real?
“And you are obviously a man of great wealth and taste,” Jamie says in his normal voice, “So I invited you along.”
Goose shrugs. He’ll go along with most anything—one of his finer qualities. “What are we waiting for, then?
For the ambulance in front of one of the houses to leave, the house I suspect we’ve come to visit.
“Which house is it?” Goose asks.
Everyone looks at me, but Jamie’s the one who speaks. “Two-thirteen. But we’re waiting till the ambulance leaves.”
Goosey looks rather put out. “That’s absurd,” he says, and starts walking in the direction of the house.
Daniel says to Jamie, “Shouldn’t you . . . do something?”
“Goose. Stop,” Jamie calls out—mind-fuck voice, this time. No response, no reaction. Possibly didn’t hear him? He’s quite a ways off. When I catch up with him, Goose is already at the ambulance, which is closing its doors.
“Good day, fine gentlewoman,” Goose says to the EMT about to get into the ambulance’s passenger seat. “May I ask what happened over here?”
“Nothing I can tell you about,” she says, tightening her straw blond ponytail. “Run along, boys,” she says to us, shooing Goose away from her door.
The driver checks the rearview mirror. “Good to go.”
“Have a lovely day, then,” Goose says. “Excellent work.” The EMT rolls her eyes as the ambulance drives off.
Mara, Daniel, and Jamie, however, are looking anxious, annoyed, frustrated in turn.
“What?” Goose asks.