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“John Cornwall. Retiree from ConEd. Lives on Staten Island.”
I say, “South end, right?”
“Right,” he says. “Practically in New Jersey.”
I say, “Okay, give her my love, and for God’s sake, neither of you leave there, okay?”
“Amy…”
“Tom, I don’t have much time.”
“I figured as much,” he says. “I tried contacting you…and nothing worked. You’ve been fired?”
“In a manner of speaking, but that can wait,” I say, not wanting to get bogged down in a lot of details. “I’m on the trail of someone, and I’ve come up against a wall, and I need your resources. Please.”
“Go,” he says. “I’m at my laptop.”
“His name is Rashad Hussain,” I say, and I spell it out. “Saudi national and businessman. Age thirty. And I’ve got a list of holding companies and corporations that I’m about to read to you…Tom, I need to know if there’s anything belonging to him or associated with him that’s in the Manhattan area. And Tom…I’m sorry, please, but you’ve got to keep this quiet. Nobody else can know.”
From thousands of miles away I hear Tom’s fingers hitting the keyboard, and that familiar and homey sound almost makes me choke up with emotion.
“This…it’s connected to Ticonderoga.”
“Yes. But please, don’t push me. Not now. It’s too important.”
Tom says, “I know what you’re saying. Nobody else will know. I promise. Okay. Go.”
“First up,” I say, “is a real estate company, Five Corners Realty…”
And so it goes for another five minutes, husband and wife, devoted lovers, speaking professionally and calmly, trying to stop someone intent on killing thousands.
Shouts are coming from the office into which Jeremy and the RAF officer disappeared. “Okay, Hon,” I tell Tom, “that’s it.”
“When do you need it?”
“Soon,” I say, “but you’ve got some time. I’m going to be out of pocket for six hours.”
“Flying home?” he asks.
I laugh. “My dear one, you’ll hear all about it, but only after the two of us have a nice home-cooked meal—by you!—and a long shower.”
He laughs in return. “Who’s taking the shower?”
“The two of us,” I say, “but only if you promise to wash my back.”
“And the front?”
I feel so much better. “Gotta go. Love you, and Denise.”
“Love you, too.”
I disconnect and sit back, feeling still better. The shouting goes on behind the closed door, and I know my Tom so well I’m sure he’s now working hard, digging, and starting to make phone calls.
Jeremy’s phone chimes at me.
I sit up.
It keeps on ringing. The screen saysBLOCKED NUMBER.
