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I ignored him, talked to Tandy. “You’ll tell me who he is?”
“I think you know who he is,” Ziegler said.
I did, actually. I’d searched the car and found a wallet and ID: Vladimir Karenoff, thirty-seven, resident alien currently living in Brighton Beach, New York. The car was registered in New York as well. I’d taken photos of all his documents and returned them before the police arrived.
Looking at Ziegler placidly, I said, “And I think you know I know who he is.”
“What?” Ziegler said, confused.
“I’m walking away now,” I said. “You’re sworn to uphold the law, so go find whoever tried to kill me.”
I went toward Justine and the dogs. We hadn’t had time to say much to each other since she’d called 911.
“Want some coffee?” she asked, looking anxious, sad, and wan in a way I’d never seen before.
“I’d love some.”
Inside the bungalow she had the blinds drawn, but the windows behind them were open and you could hear the vague rumor of the ongoing crime scene investigation. Every once in a while one or the other of the dogs would start growling at the noise, and Justine would hush her. My mind was clanging, and my hand was trembling at the memories of the attack. If I hadn’t gotten my foot on the pedal, who knows?
Justine came over, poured me coffee. I studied her as a way to escape my own thoughts, and as she turned, it struck me that she was carrying some heavy burden. Her not-so-perfect lover?
“You all right?” I asked.
She nodded. “Just a little green around the gills. I’m not used to drinking that much on an empty stomach.”
I said nothing as she sat on the opposite side of the kitchen counter, stirring her coffee and finding it terribly interesting.
“How do you deal with it?” she asked at last.
“What are we talking about?”
“Violence,” she said. “You seem at ease during times of violence.”
“I wouldn’t say at ease,” I replied. “I was just taught to be resourceful when things get chaotic.”
“You either have the capacity for it or you don’t, I suppose,” she said.
“What’s this all …?”
She shook her head. “We’ve got more important things on our plate. I’ve been looking into Sharing Hands.”
I still wanted to know what was going on with her, but I could tell she was in no mood to go there. So I said, “The orphans’ charity?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s quite a remarkable operation.”
Justine showed me the Sharing Hands website, summarized the reviews the organization had received from various philanthropy watchdogs that cited the Harlows’ commitment and the charity’s foresight in building an endowment.
“Makes them sound like saints,” I said.
“It does,” Justine said. “Then again, how many family-values congressmen get caught with mistresses?”
“More than a few. Let’s keep digging.”
We scrolled through a dozen or more references to Sharing Hands’s good deeds before spotting an aberration in the comments section below an article about the charity that had run in the London Times two months before.
The comment was signed, “A. Aboubacar.”
Mr. Aboubacar claimed to be from Nigeria.
