Detour

THIRTY

Trajectory.

Atoms have it. Electrons and neutrinos. Lives too.

The trajectory of the bullet that killed Miles, that left him slumped and oddly peaceful-looking with the Agram 2000 still glued to his hand, went through his neck and directly into one of the dusty legal tomes that took up most of his bookcase. New York State Adoption Statutes. The bullet’s force sent several other books flying, scattering pages like confetti.

Paul ignored it at first. Trajectory.

Instead, he assumed a helter-skelter trajectory of his own. Nearly flying off a suddenly blood-splattered desk, then staggering around the room like a boxer on his last legs, unsure whether to go down or keep fighting.

He remained upright.

Clues, his brain nagged him.

Miles was his last link to what happened in Colombia.

Clues.

Miles had been right about the silencer. No one would’ve heard the gun go off—it sounded like the small pop you make by pulling a finger out of your cheek. Like a cartoon sound effect.

There was plenty of blood, though. The room stank of it.

Paul came around the side of the desk where Miles still sat—his body. He tried to ignore it—this lifeless lump of flesh that used to have a name and a voice and a family.

Know what’s the worst sin in Orthodox Judaism?

Paul opened the desk drawer. Papers, staples, pencils, two half-empty packs of gum. Wrigley’s spearmint. A calculator, ticket stubs, paper clips, envelopes. He had no idea what he was looking for.

Clues.

The question was, what was a clue? How did you divine clues from ordinary office things, the stuff of daily life?

They’re starting to put it together. I can tell.

He looked through some of the papers in the desk drawer. A W-2 tax form. A solicitation for subscription renewal from a legal journal. A coupon from Toys “R” Us—circled in red ink. Chatty Cathy. A New York Giants schedule from 1999.

A phone book.

The one Miles had looked through when he’d pantomimed calling María—when he’d snapped his fingers and said the driver. Pablo. María must have his number somewhere.

María’s number was in there, of course.

Pablo’s would be also.

Paul didn’t know his last name—he’d just been Pablo the driver, Pablo the hired help.

Then Pablo the kidnapper.

He had to search through A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, and K before he found it. Pablo Loraizo.

Odd, the last name seemed familiar.

He ripped out the page and stuck it into his pocket.

He was searching for clues, but he was clueless. About what to do. Call the police? Find the local shul and inform Rachel and kids that their husband and father had just blown his brains out?

Leave.

Leaving sounded good. When the police came to talk to him, he’d tell them they’d chatted, then Paul had left. Suicide? What suicide? Or he’d tell them everything—that Miles had sent him to Colombia to be kidnapped and his wife and daughter held for ransom. What ransom? Two million dollars’ worth of uncut cocaine he’d dutifully smuggled through customs. Maybe he’d leave that part out.

He felt light-headed, like in Galina’s house when he’d stood up to confront Pablo and ended up lying down instead. His thinking was all over the place, scattershot. Unlike the bullet that flew through Miles’ head.

He took notice of it now—its trajectory.

It had made a mess. Book pages were scattered all across the floor. No, they weren’t book pages. On closer look they were handwritten.

Letters.

Okay, Paul remembered.

The night he couldn’t sleep and wandered down here to find something to read. He’d ended up reading that letter from summer camp—Dear Dad: Remember when you took me to the zoo and you left me there? Feeding his loneliness by gorging on someone else’s family.

He was stepping over the sheets of paper to make his way out of the room when he noticed something else.

He read, bent down, stood there transfixed, hands on knees.

A bullet’s trajectory is governed by physics, he thought.

By the forces of propulsion, drag, and gravity. And the position of the shooting hand itself. This is important. Which way the hand’s pointing.

Maybe just before Miles decided to put a bullet into his brain, he’d reflected on the odds of poor Paul ever figuring this out and decided to better them.

He said I’m pointing here.

This way.