Matt put his hand on mine. I stopped speaking and allowed myself to feel the warmth. Not molecular heat, which I had plenty of myself, but the warmth of his touch. Understanding and supportive.
And, this time, validating.
“Turns out you were right to be suspicious, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Yes and no, I guess.”
At that moment I wished I could have gone to Elaine, confessed to being disoriented by hot flashes, or just an old, bungling retired physicist, and beg her forgiveness for the silliest suspicions in history. But I already knew from Andrea’s message that at the very least Phil had lied about not knowing a dead Indian scientist whose duffel bag or briefcase might have something to do with Tanisha Hall’s death.
Now I had to decide whether to back off completely, in spite of confirmed suspicions, and crawl back to Elaine, or to crawl back to her with evidence that she would thank me for later. When has that ever worked? I asked myself. The messenger is rarely greeted with gratitude and open arms.
I convinced myself that my friendship with Elaine would survive on its longevity and its own merits.
“Tell me more,” I said.
He laid out what he’d learned from Dana and the Berkeley PD, not necessarily in concert, he pointed out.
Russell hadn’t been willing to share much except the negatives: The duffel bag did not have anything important, just tennis balls and gym clothes. The ballistics results were not in, but, because of the drug issue, they were going with unrelated shootings, just as the newspapers reported.
“A crimp in my conspiracy theory.”
Matt nodded and replayed for me the scenario that had Dana mistakenly checking the YES box for drug use. He seemed to doubt it, and I was inclined to agree. I was dismayed that the police now had a reason to write off Tanisha’s death as one more drug-related shooting in the African American community.
I was most intrigued by the strange surfacing of Lokesh Patel’s Dorman Industries ID and by the triple threat of Phil/ Lokesh/Robin.
“How long has Dana known Robin?” Matt asked, not because he thought I knew but as part of our working routine—asking questions without answers, throwing out theories without thought of logic. The first data dump.
“How neat it would be if Dana’s father introduced her to Robin,” I offered.
“It seems likely that there was classified stuff in the briefcase,” Matt speculated.
“And where is that briefcase?” I wondered aloud. A belated response to Dana’s report to Matt about its being missing from her house.
Over unidentifiable rock (maybe) music from Heavenly Cup’s speakers, I could hear the James Bond theme song. “Phil Chambers and Lokesh Patel are involved in espionage, and the CIA goes after one of them, and Tanisha Hall gets caught in the crossfire.”
“Or vice versa,” Matt said.
“Tanisha was CIA?”
“Maybe this is a good stopping point,” Matt said.
Matt and I left the coffee shop to find a copy place with a fax machine. We walked around the edges of the campus, using city streets, passing buildings and landmarks I knew and loved from my days as a Berkeley resident. I pointed out places I’d frequented—small parks, restaurants, bookstores, produce stands. It occurred to me that with this walking tour I was constructing my own visual “album,” like Matt’s Teresa album, to share my past with him in a tangible way.
When Matt’s cell phone rang, at least three other people checked pockets and backpacks to see if the call was theirs. In some ways, Berkeley wasn’t that different from Wall Street.
“Hi, Rose,” Matt said, looking at me. Do you want to talk to her? he mouthed. “You tried calling her? I guess her battery’s dead.” He grimaced, as if ruing the day he got involved with me and my lying ways.
I couldn’t put Rose off any longer. I took the phone. “Rose, I got your message. Tell me what happened.” I tried to sound wildly interested. A crisis that was a full continent away was low on my priority list, but I didn’t want to lose another friend.
“There’s never been anything like this, Gloria.” Rose’s voice was high-pitched, sounding as panicky as if the explosion were happening in front of her. “John showed us the photo the Journal is going to carry on the front page. He’s not covering the story. He gave it to a new guy. That’s how John is, you know, always looking out for the younger reporters.”
Rose took a breath. Across the miles, I heard her mind clicking away, telling herself her mother’s pride had taken her off track. I felt a rush of affection and wished I were next to her on her wicker-laden porch. The feeling was intensified by my awareness that I’d effectively banished myself from Elaine’s porch.