he could smell blood. But she said that during a vicious fight, shortly before hurling every glass in the kitchen at him.
This won’t be a complicated case. The sloppy Israeli will leave plenty of tracks. After all, he left his old shoes at the Duty Free, and even forgot his boarding pass stub. He’ll be easy to find.
Or his remains will.
Everything points to a spontaneous, unplanned decision. A rebellious kid playing hooky.
This is the first conclusion Lenox presents to the commissioner, and he doesn’t bother trying to disguise his smugness.
LENOX IS under pressure. Nothing is spoken outright, but he picks up whispers from behind closed doors. Someone from the Israeli Embassy in DC calls to find out if there’s any progress on the case. They don’t want anyone talking, otherwise the subject will find out they’re tailing him. And as soon as the press smells any blood . . .
Impatient fucking Israelis. Convinced they have the whole world eating out of their hand. If their missing man is in danger, why don’t they say so clearly and name their suspects? Keeping their dirty little secrets to themselves.
But the commissioner is on edge. He is also being pressured to report up the chain of command. Hit the road, Lenox. Don’t bury yourself in paperwork. Fill in the details as you go along.
But Lenox has yet to read the Israeli’s résumé, a series of dry data he intentionally leaves for last, burying the subject’s official curriculum vitae at the bottom of the pile. When he entered the US, he wrote “business trip” on his arrival form. His handwriting is clear and his English seems fluent. No signs of anxiety. The immigration authorities report that his passport is valid. Everything seems to be in order. And yet . . . Doesn’t a man have the right to shake his life off? Like a dog getting rid of a tick?
Perhaps the Israeli was in debt. Statements from three Israeli banks attest that he had emptied his accounts out, one after the other, shortly before the flight. He mailed his life insurance policy to a post office box in Jerusalem. There is not a casino in the world that will not roll out the red carpet for him.
Lenox makes a note: “Possible destination: Las Vegas.” He looks at the window. The rain on the eighty-fourth floor of the North Tower is puny, or perhaps the drops have not gained enough velocity at this height. The window-cleaning machine is operating. The windows are smaller than the standard size, to prevent the tower from becoming a heat trap. Despite the downpour, the cleaner has not deactivated the washer.
Idiot, Lenox thinks. It’s pointless. Perhaps the window washer also keeps a precious object with him as a memento? If he ever gave any thought to the abyss gaping below him, he’d quit immediately.
Idiot. Or a hopeless optimist.
Lenox devotes another second of thought to the cleaner and plunges into the next document.
WHAT CAME before what came before? Some people in the department dispute the unique investigation method Lenox has developed. “Shuffling the deck,” they call it. Why not go about things sequentially? Examine the testimonies chronologically until you get to the intersection at which things went either this way or that? But Simon T. Lenox prefers to chronicle events before they occur. To him, going backwards is the most logical direction. Putting toe to heel is not a regression, because it allows him to uncover the clues from which the future actions of the subject will derive. In previous cases Lenox has been able to predict the subjects’ destinations fairly accurately, and then he can lie in wait for his prey a step or two ahead—this on the basis of a cluster of clues gathered retroactively. It’s not prognostication. It’s not exactly science. Just a simple human talent that he has refined over time.
How unfortunate that his methods are not widely adopted—going backwards while facing forwards. The only steps Lenox seems unable to predict are his own. When he tries to chart the various branches of his life, whether by following the conventional theory of traces or using his own variation, he cannot reconstruct what came before what came before.
Sometimes he thinks his third wife left him before his second one did.
IN THE middle of the night, Simon T. Lenox sits up in bed and looks at the numbers glowing on the clock. Sleep has left him, and he lies there gazing at a drizzling Manhattan—Eighty-Seventh Street and Third Avenue—and thinks about suitcases. He pads over to the bathroom and squeezes a few drops out into the toilet.
If his wife had seen him remember to lift the seat and put it down again, she might not have left. Was that the second one or the third one? They all used to complain.
He pours the remaining Jack Daniels into the toilet, hoping the stream will awaken his bladder.
VALENTINA.
With his boxers still halfway down his legs, Simon T. Lenox bounds out of the bathroom to his computer. It’s getting light. Downstairs they’re collecting the trash. Black plastic bags piled outside the main doors.
Like bodies. That’s what one of his wives used to say. The one who got up early.
Soft pecking sounds emerge from his computer as it connects to the network. Sometimes he feels as though he himself is a search engine.
Valentina Vladimirovna Tereshkova. A Russian cosmonaut aboard Vostok 6. The first woman in space. How many times did she orbit Earth?
Lenox thinks he’s starting to get the Israeli mindset. He goes back into the bathroom and purposely dribbles on the toilet seat.
THE MISSING man had something else to say to the flight attendant when he came out of the bathroom: he complained about the faucets.
It’s a crazy system. Either your hands freeze or they get scalded, and you waste a lot of time trying to reach a lukewarm compromise. Not only that, but passengers are requested to wipe away the grayish residue in the bottom of the miniature sink, “In consideration of your fellow passengers.”
Simon T. Lenox highlights that paragraph in the affidavit with bright yellow.
A LUGGAGE carousel slowly revolves in his mind. He peers into his bedroom closet and takes out a small suitcase, then tosses in a pair of socks and a shaving razor. None of his wives were very good at packing. He would always find something missing and have to stop in some godforsaken town to buy underwear or a toothbrush.
The suitcase gapes at the foot of the bed like a mouth with its false teeth removed, and he kicks it shut and shoves it into the dusty darkness under the bed. He’s not going to set off without finding out his destination.
Not at his age. Not in his position.
Outside, in the rain, he realizes he’s forgotten an umbrella.
THE COMPLAINTS from Israel soon land on the commissioner’s desk: Why is your detective wasting our time with trivialities? What difference does it make which kind of suitcase the man used? What matters is what was inside it!
Lenox yells at the commissioner: What is up with these Israelis always being in a hurry? Why are they demanding results before they’ve even lifted a finger? They’re asking us to guarantee that some crazy theory they’ve concocted will turn out to be true. They should be grateful we’re helping them at all and shut up. We’re doing their dirty work and they sit there in their bloody Middle East and have the gall to complain.
The commissioner cuts him off. Listen to me carefully, Lenox. This is a mutual obligation, at least as long as our interests are aligned. And you’re the one who should be thanking me, because I’m the dam holding back the pressure from upstairs. A Republican congressman from Indiana has already intervened. What’s going on with your Israeli, Lenox? What is he up to? Where is he headed?
When Lenox demands once again to know why he is being asked to turn over every stone for this Israeli, the commissioner blurts: Maybe they count them over in Israel, like a herd of buffalo.
HE CAREFULLY copies the inventory faxed by the Israelis into his notepad:
One faded brown leather suitcase full of old records. One zipper torn, the other rusted.