The Brothers Read online

  Chapter 6… Back To The Old Grind

  Denise said, “Are you going to tell me about your visit with Suzanne on Sunday?”

  Harry looked at his wife, knowing by her tone that he needed to talk to her instead of dwelling in the blue funk he’d been in all day. He’d hardly said two words to her since his return from Massachusetts the night before. Usually she was pretty good about not playing twenty questions and letting him process, but he knew something of this magnitude couldn’t stay inside him for long. Truth be told, he always felt better after they’d had a chance to talk about whatever was bugging him, but he could tell by her sideways glances that her patience with him was reaching its limits and it was approaching lecture time. That’s the last thing he fucking needed.

  He glanced at the clock next above the fridge. It was five o’clock somewhere, he figured, and he poured himself two fingers of Dewar’s, straight. “Glass of wine?” he asked with his back to her.

  “Sure,” she answered, surprising him. It was only four o’clock on Tuesday, three days after the reunion and Hutch’s death, and he knew simply by her demeanor that she’d said yes because she didn’t want to say no to him—about anything, not right now—he was strung too tight.

  “How were things at work today?” she asked.

  Another question. “Things were fine. I only missed two work days and everyone held down the fort with no problems. What are you making?” he asked, setting down a glass of merlot next to her. It was better that he ask the questions, he thought.

  “I forgot to take something out to defrost before I left for work this morning, so I thought some linguine and a little salad would be good. That all right with you?”

  “Linguine is good,” he said agreeably. Half the scotch went down, and it went down easy.

  “Do you want to make it and I’ll do the salad?” she asked.

  He knew immediately that she was trying to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t dwell. “Sure,” said Harry, taking her place at the counter. Denise moved off and took out a salad bowl. “The visit with Suzanne and the kids was terrible,” he said, finally answering her. “The autopsy hadn’t been performed yet on Sunday, and nobody knew anything about how Hutch could have died like that.” He paused as he unwrapped a container of creminis for the sauce. “Of course, now that the autopsy is finished, things might be even worse.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Denise countered. “You said they ruled cause of death to be natural causes, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, I don’t imagine that having a cause of death other than natural causes would somehow make the family feel better.”

  “You see,” said Harry. “That’s just it.”

  “What’s just it?”

  “Yes, Hutch’s death was ruled due to natural causes, but it’s because they couldn’t rule otherwise. They couldn’t rule it accidental, and they couldn’t find any drugs or toxins in his system, and there wasn’t any evidence of foul play, so for lack of another reason they had to rule death due to natural causes.”

  Denise put both hand on the counter, palms down, and speared him with a look. “What, and it would be better if it was classified as a murder? C’mon Harry.” He said nothing. “And I don’t understand why you’re so preoccupied with this cause of death thing. What difference does it make? The poor man is dead; the best thing we could do right now is honor him and comfort his family.” Now she was worked up, and she finally sipped her wine. “When is the funeral, anyway?”

  “You didn’t know me very well back in college,” Harry said. He let the statement hang there.

  “No, I didn’t,” she responded cautiously. “We didn’t meet until our senior year.”

  “But you do know that I had an older brother who died of leukemia back then.”

  “Of course I know. Your mother spoke about it many times, God rest her soul. It was like a piece of her went to the grave with him.”

  “It was the same for my dad,” Harry said reflectively. “I don’t think any of us ever got over that.” He downed the rest of his scotch and poured another.

  “I take it that has something to do with Hutch,” Denise concluded.

  “Did you know that my mom and dad went to counseling after Curly died? That my dad was drinking so much that he almost lost the family practice?”

  “No, no one ever told me about that.” Denise settled into a counter stool. “Are we still talking about Hutch?”

  “My parents actually separated for a while, although they tried to hide it from me.”

  “How do you hide something like that?”

  “Well, they weren’t very good at it. My dad took an apartment across town, and he would come home during my college breaks, but I could tell something was wrong. When I found out it was like my legs had been cut out from under me. With my brother gone, and then with them on the skids, I lost all my focus. I thought: why bother? I was thinking pretty seriously about just dropping out and moving to Alaska, or something. You know, my version of chucking it all and falling off the grid, I guess.”

  “Were you serious?”

  “Oh, hell, Denise, I don’t know. As serious as I could be at that time, I guess. All I knew is that my family was shattered, and school didn’t seem worth it to me anymore. My big brother was gone, my parents were as good as gone; my dad was basically a functioning alcoholic on the verge of losing everything in his own world... I mean, what was the point, right? I was on and off academic probation at school, more on than off, I think, on the verge of flunking out and getting thrown out until Hutch managed to help me out.”

  “Helped you out, how?”

  “Looking back on it, he just stayed with me. We’d just pledged Zeta Chi when all this happened and it was our first year living in the Lodge. He got to know my class schedule and made sure I got up for class every day. He made sure I did my reading and got my papers in on time. He basically became my mother and told me people had been through a lot worse than what I was going through, and that he wasn’t going to let me punk out and fail.”

  “Sounds like he was right.”

  “He was, although I didn’t want to believe it at the time. He knew I had fallen into a big time depression, and he became my support system. When my parents finally divorced in my junior year, he helped me decide who I wanted to designate as my legal guardian while I was still in school.” Harry paused as he contemplated his second scotch. “Now that Hutch is gone, I feel that I need to support his family in every way possible and make sure that there are no lingering questions about his death that would besmirch his reputation in any way.”

  Denise had no mercy on him. “Then I’m sure Hutch would be the first to say that drinking your way through his passing isn’t the way to honor him. That’s what your dad would have done.”

  Harry wheeled toward her as sparks flashed in his eyes. “You’re right,” he said bitterly, dropping his glass on the kitchen counter. “The way to honor him is to find out what killed him. There’s no fucking way Hutch died of natural causes, and we need to find out who did it.” Harry speared his wife with a look that wasn’t very friendly.

  * * * * *

  “What is the status of the accounts?” the caller asked, noting that the call to Qatar went through cleanly. He could have been calling across the street instead of halfway around the world.

  “They are still open and operating normally,” the recipient of the call verified.

  That was good news—so far. Both of them knew that the freezing of foreign assets was a complicated and imprecise exercise, fraught with political landmines, but the fact that the accounts were still accessible meant that they’d dodged a bullet—again, so far. There was no telling if the necessary actions for making the accounts unusable to them had already been put in motion, and there was no way to know who was monitoring the accounts. It would be just like the hypocritical infidel bastards to watch and wa
it until millions more had been transferred in before they froze those balances. Freezing assets was such a cleaner term than stealing them, and it would be just like them to purposely wait until there were many more zeros in those account balances before they stole those millions.

  The silence on the line was a signal that the recipient was waiting, and the caller was glad that he’d obtained the latest update from his source inside the state police bureaucracy. It had been a cheap and easy bribe, and an even easier hack. “The report we’ve been waiting for has ruled....” He almost said natural causes, but he caught himself just in time. “The report we’ve been waiting for,” he began again, “has indicated nothing unusual.” The cell phone the caller was using was supposed to be secure, but one was really never sure about that. If anyone was listening in they’d be asking: What report? And they’d have to work pretty hard to read something into the words nothing unusual.

  “I am glad to hear that,” the recipient responded. “Where are you now?”

  “I am in New Jersey outside the home of the accomplice.”

  “Does he suspect anything?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You are being paid to know so, not think so.”

  Again with the doubt. Someday maybe he’d have retribution for such insults. For now, however, he had no choice but to remember their mission and put up with the man’s affronts. “I am sure he is not aware of my presence, Mushir.” Mushir was the highest rank ever awarded in the Syrian military, a title the recipient still carried although he was no longer a soldier in the traditional sense of the word.

  “See that it remains that way. Our forces are in need of those funds and we cannot let these infidels take them from us and funnel them to our enemies.”

  “I understand completely, Mushir. I will report back to you once I have verified that the funds are still in our control.”

  “See that you do. I will inform our allies that the jihad will continue as planned and that our struggle to maintain the faith will persevere. It rests on your shoulders, mujahid.”

  The call went silent and the caller put his cell phone back into his pocket. Noting that it was almost time for afternoon prayers, he started his car and decided to head back toward Route 35 where he’d spotted a little motel that looked affordable. It was just as well, as someone in a parked car wearing a traditional keffiyeh was bound to attract attention, which was something he couldn’t afford. Hopefully his headdress would not cause him a problem in renting a room for the night. He’d had the experience more than once that rooms suddenly became unavailable despite the fact that there were only two or three cars in the parking lot.

  He pulled into the street and pushed the button for the air conditioning, feeling the rush of cool air that blew into his face. Point Pleasant was indeed pleasant this time of year, not too hot but quite humid, similar to Doha which at this time of day could be a sweltering cauldron with both temperature and humidity in the nineties. He’d say his prayers and have something to eat, then he would come back after dark when he would be less obvious.

  * * * * *

  Harry stared at the phone while the linguine he’d had for dinner reformed into a solid mass seemingly twice its original weight inside his stomach. He’d just gotten off the phone with Suzanne, who’d called and informed him that the family had decided to have the wake on Sunday and the funeral on Monday, and would he consent to being one of the pallbearers.

  “Of course, Suzanne, I’d expect nothing less and I’d be honored. How are you holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected,” she’d answered. “The kids are still here, but to tell you the truth, sometimes I wish they weren’t. I’m afraid that when they leave all this will come crashing down on me like a ton of bricks and I’ll crumble into a million pieces.”

  She was talking out of both sides of her mouth. “I suppose you got the medical examiner’s report,” said Harry, immediately regretting that he’d brought it up. She was under enough anguish and this wasn’t the time to talk about that. What the hell was wrong with him?

  After some silence, “Yes, we did. I guess he was under more stress than I imagined.”

  Huh? Did he dare pursue that statement? On his fourth scotch of the night, he figured his judgment was somewhere up his ass next to his head. “What do you mean by that?” he’d asked tentatively.

  “Well, what could have caused Hutch’s heart to stop like that besides stress from work?” Suzanne had replied between sobs. “I wish I had known and maybe I could have done something about it, but you know Hutch, always with that stiff upper lip mentality. Is that some kind of fraternity badge of honor all you fraternity brothers shared?”

  “I guess so, Suzanne,” he’d answered, absorbing her verbal dart. Thank God he’d had the good sense to steer the conversation toward the funeral arrangements and where to send flowers, did she need any help with anything, blah, blah, blah. Eventually, however, he got back to the question that had been on his mind since his conversation with her son Bobby on Sunday. “Suzanne, one last question about Hutch’s work, and then I promise I’ll never bring it up again.”

  “Sure, Harry. I’m sorry for that last remark. I guess I’m more upset than I think I am.”

  She broke into more sobs, yet he still plowed forward. It wasn’t going to get any easier with her, and he had to know. “Do you have any idea of what Hutch was working on at the bank that caused him so much stress?” Whatever her answer, he knew without any doubt that there was nothing work related that could have caused Hutch to have the kind of stress that would have caused his heart to stop. He was surprised, actually, that Suzanne was buying into that idea. Maybe she was grabbing at straws, looking for answers where there were none. Yeah, well, he wasn’t. He waited. “Suzanne?”

  “I think he was working on several things,” she’d answered.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Well, I know that he was working with some investors who wanted to build a theme park in Germany.”

  Hardly something that would cause enough stress to give anyone a heart attack, thought Harry. “Anything else?”

  “Why do you want to know all this, Harry? What are you driving at?”

  Uh-oh. He couldn’t exactly say because I think your husband was murdered, could he? “I’m a lawyer, Suzanne. If Hutch was intentionally put into circumstances that caused him undo risk to mind and/or body, you may have some basis for a lawsuit against the bank. As cold and unappealing as that sounds to you right now, I’m just looking out for you and your family.”

  “Do we have to talk about that right now?”

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry. I just thought as long as we were talking.... Well, perhaps this wasn’t the best time to bring it up. Listen, do you need any help with the arrangements, anything at all?” Inside his head, Harry heard the word jackass reverberating between the walls of his skull. What was he thinking?

  “You can help with something, Harry. If you could fit it in, that is.”

  “Anything, Suzanne. Anything at all. You just name it.”

  “Well, if you could call all the brothers who were at that reunion last Saturday, I’d appreciate it. I know they’re spread all over the country and they were just here for the reunion and all, but I know that Hutch would have wanted every one of them to come to the funeral if they could make it.”

  “Absolutely,” said Harry. “Consider it done. Is there anything else?”

  “Just be here with Denise,” Suzanne replied. “It’s all you can do.”

  “No problem, Suzanne. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it.” She paused, and Harry almost hung up on her. “Listen, Harry....”

  “Yes, Suzanne.”

  “There is one thing I remember about what Hutch might have been working on.”

  Hello. “Okay, what is it that you remember?”

  “A whil
e back—gee, I guess it’s a few months ago now—I remember Hutch saying something at dinner one night about him being in contact with the Treasury Department.”

  “The Treasury Department—as in the Treasury Department in Washington?”

  “Yes, that’s right. You know, with him being an expert in international banking and everything, he mentioned that they had a lot of questions about systems for international financial transactions and international currency exchanges, you know, things that he thought someone at the Treasury Department would know as well as he did. He thought it was kind of strange.”

  Harry found himself gripping the phone so tight that his fingers were turning white. “Do you know anything about what happened after that conversation?”

  “No, only that he flew to Washington the week after, and he never mentioned it again. I don’t even know if the phone call and that trip to D.C. were connected. I just forgot about it, I guess. I don’t know why I’m recalling that now. Funny how the mind works.”

  “Yeah,” said Harry. “Real funny.”

  * * * * *

  He’d already called Ducky to inform him of the dates for the wake and the subsequent funeral. They talked. It was a waste of time. Harry tried to tip-toe into the cause of death thing again with Ducky, figuring he’d try to reason with him, but poor Ducky was caught between a rock and a hard place.

  “C’mon Harry, my wife is the district attorney, for crying out loud.”

  “I know that, numb-nuts. Why do you think I’m bringing it up again? There’s got to be something you can say that might convince her that Detective Pruitt should take another look at this thing.”

  “You’re calling me a numb-nuts? How much have you had to drink?”

  Ducky was basically telling him he didn’t want to hear it, not right now, and not after Harry had downed a bellyful of scotch. Harry admitted to himself that he would have done the same thing had the situation been reversed. The cause of death discussion was a dead issue for now, but Harry did get a couple of phone numbers from Ducky, numbers that belonged to brothers that he was now charged with calling to inform them of the funeral date. He looked at the time, noting that it was 9:45 p.m., and he wondered if it was too late to call. Fuck it, he thought, not for this. The first number belonged to the Inevitable Doctor Stuart Eisenberg. He answered on the first ring, catching Harry by surprise.

  “Doc, it’s Harry.”

  “As in Dirty Harry?”

  “The one and only. I hope I’m not calling you too late.”

  “Not at all. I’m having a bit of a late night myself. Us doctors can keep some weird hours, you know. What’s up?”

  Harry thought he’d start out with the obvious. He’d get to the other topic he wanted to discuss in due time. “It’s about Hutch’s funeral, Doc. I told Hutch’s wife that I’d call all the brothers in case they wanted to attend. It’s going to be on Monday, Doc. The wake is going to be on Sunday afternoon.”

  “The family isn’t wasting any time, are they?”

  “I hope you can make it.”

  “It might be tough, but I’ll try. Hopefully I can get someone to cover for me at the hospital and we can squeeze onto a flight out of O’Hare.”

  Harry hesitated, wondering how he should pursue the conversation. “Shame about what happened with Hutch, isn’t it Doc?”

  “Sure is. I assume they’ve already had the autopsy and determined a cause of death.”

  “Now that you mention it, Doc, I wanted to ask you about that.”

  Doc must have sensed something in his voice. “Is something bothering you, Harry?”

  Harry thought he’d come at it from the side. “Sort of, Doc, I know you’ve been a doctor for twenty years.”

  “Longer than that,” Doc corrected.

  “And you’re a pediatrician, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well then, I’m not so sure I should be asking you this question, but in all that time have you ever heard of anyone’s heart stopping where there was nothing to predict or indicate that it could happen? I mean, none, no issues with the heart, no coronary artery disease, nothing.”

  “Harry, are you telling me Hutch died of a heart attack last Saturday night, and the autopsy didn’t reveal any symptoms or indications from inside the body that there was a problem?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, and furthermore the report said there were no poisons or toxins in his system.”

  Harry expected some reaction, but all he got was a practiced and restrained doctorly, Uh-huh. “You don’t believe me,” he shot back.

  “Well, I’m not a medical examiner....” Doc began.

  “C’mon Doc, you don’t need to take that path with me; I want to hear what you have to say.” Harry could almost hear Doc backing up.

  “Listen, Harry, I know Hutch was a dear friend, he was a friend to all of us, but even friends have problems.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that there are several drugs that could induce severe myocardial infarction. I hate to say it, but maybe Hutch had a drug problem.”

  Harry didn’t want to sound argumentative. “There were no drugs in his system either, Doc,” he said calmly.

  “Oh, now that is interesting,” said Doc. “You saw the report?”

  “I got the information from Ducky’s wife, Monica, the ADA—did you meet her Saturday night?”

  “Not really, she was kind of preoccupied after the police arrived.” Doc took a few moments. “What are you trying to tell me?” he finally asked.

  “Well, doesn’t that sound fishy to you? I mean, a guy doesn’t just up and drop dead out of the blue like that and there’s nothing to indicate what caused it to happen.”

  Once again, Doc let out with a doctorly, “Hmm. Based on what you said, it does sound rather strange, but maybe the investigation will find some explanation for what happened.”

  Finally, thought Harry. “That’s just it, Doc. Because the medical examiner didn’t find any evidence of foul play, he attributed cause of death to come from natural causes. There isn’t going to be any investigation.”

  “Oh,” said Doc. “That does sound strange.” Then, “What the hell is up with that?”

  “Now you’re seeing things from my point of view.” From a logic perspective, Harry figured he’d gone as far as he could in the conversation, so he popped the question he’d been dying to ask for the last few minutes. “Do you think you could help me out with this, Doc?”

  “Help you out, how? I’ve already told you, I’m a pediatrician, Harry, not a medical examiner. And besides, they’ve already released the body back to the family. Once the interment takes place, there’s not going to be much anyone can do.”

  “Well, I was hoping maybe you could make a couple of calls. You know, just nose around a little and ask a couple of questions from some of your doctor friends about how a perfectly healthy man suddenly dies from a massive myocardial infarction with no warning whatsoever. Surely you know someone who might be able to give us some idea of whether something like that is even possible.”

  “I’m sure it’s possible,” said Doc, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I knew I could count on you.”

  “Sure Harry, but don’t get your hopes up. I’m sure that medical examiner did a thorough job and unless he can specifically point to death by accident, overly dangerous risk, suicide, or homicide, he might have no choice but to classify the cause of death as an internal malfunction of the body simply because he can’t point to some external force.”

  He was talking doctor talk now, thought Harry, but essentially Doc was saying the same thing Monica said on Sunday. “Anything you can do would be great, Doc. Maybe you could even have a doctor-to-doctor talk with the medical examiner.”

  “Now you’re pressing, Harry. Take it easy on me, will ya’?”

  “Okay, sorry Doc. I get
wound up once in a while. Hope I see you at the funeral.”

  “Sure, Harry. I’ll let you know if I come across anything worth talking about further.”

  They both hung up and Harry looked at the list of phone numbers in front of him on the desk. It was gonna take a while to get through them all, and he thought about who to call next.