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“Benjamin has no jacket. He pays his taxes. He’s never been involved in a dispute. He’s never filed or been the subject of a complaint.”
“Any record of a nine-one-one call to the address?”
Monck wagged his head. “Since living here, Benjamin’s been a model citizen.”
Were my instincts so wildly off base?
“Further back, the story sprouts interesting legs.” Monck drank half his mug. Set it on the table between us. “Benjamin said he and his old man moved to Provo from Crown Heights.”
“You did another deep dive, this one in Brooklyn?”
“I’ll spare you the details. My informant, one Uncle Shlomo, probably toothless and a hundred years old, was exceedingly forthcoming. Once we’d connected, I couldn’t get the old codger off the phone. I suspect he’s lonely.”
I twirled an impatient wrist. Stick to the point.
“According to Uncle Shlomo, Avner had two sons. Yaakov, older by five years, was the bad son. Josef was the good son.”
“What? Were they cops?”
Monck ignored my lame attempt at humor.
“Between his sophomore and junior years in college, Yaakov brought shame upon the family and disgrace upon himself.” Delivered with what I suspected were Shlomo theatrics.
“Can we skip the drama?”
“If you skip the jokes.”
“Done.”
“While summering in Israel, Yaakov blew off a hand building a bomb meant to kill a Palestinian activist.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yep.”
“Did he go to prison?”
“Due to the kid’s ineptitude, no crime was committed. Also, Daddy whisked the little cretin back to New York as soon as the docs stitched what remained of his arm back together.”
“Which arm?”
“His left.”
My pulse kicked into hyperdrive.
“According to Uncle Shlomo, after Yaakov’s disfigurement, life with Avner revolved solely around son number one. Yaakov had always been the golden boy, smarter, better looking—”
“Do you have a photo?”
Monck slipped a folded sheet from the tablet and handed it to me.
I unfolded the paper.
My breath caught in my throat.
I was holding hard copy of a printed email. Centered on the page was a single image, probably a recent iPhone retake of an old snapshot. Two young men stood shoulder to shoulder, heads tilted and almost touching.
The man on the right had heavy brows, wild corkscrew hair, and John Denver glasses. The man on the left had heart-stopping indigo eyes, thick black hair, and features that would have scored a month on any calendar featuring hot Jewish men. Hot men. Period.
