Every Last Fear(9)
“It will just help make sure you’re—”
“I’d prefer to go alone.”
Keller frowned. “All right. But at least let us have our consular officer pick you up at the airport. He’ll take you to Tulum.”
When Matt didn’t object, Keller retrieved a sheet of paper from her handbag, and handed it to him. “This has your flight information.”
Matt remained silent.
“Does your friend have a number so we can reach you?”
“I don’t know it. It’s in my phone.” The art of remembering a ten-digit number extinguished by Apple.
“Okay. Here are my numbers.” She handed him a business card.
Matt glanced at the card. SARAH KELLER, FINANCIAL CRIMES SECTION. He wondered for a moment how a financial crimes agent had gotten stuck babysitting him. He’d assumed that the FBI was involved either because of Danny and the documentary or because of the death of Americans abroad. Whatever.
He opened the back door and stepped onto the sidewalk. The clouds had returned, the sun buried behind them again.
“And, Matt,” Keller said before he shut the door, “I’m really sorry for your loss.”
Matt looked at the federal agent, and he believed her.
CHAPTER 6
Matt stabbed the buzzer on the dilapidated apartment building again. Still no answer. He looked up and down the street. It was lined with dented cars and walk-ups with window-unit air conditioners jutting over the sidewalk. He glanced inside the darkened windows of the barbershop. Just the outline of four chairs facing mirrors. Matt rang the buzzer one more time, and when it went ignored, he walked down an alley to the back of the place. A rickety fire escape clung to the structure. It was rusty and looked like an accident waiting to happen. Matt jumped up, clasped the bottom rung, and tugged. The ladder skated down with a loud clank.
Matt clambered up to the fourth floor. On the narrow metal ledge at the top he peered into the window. And there was Ganesh. Passed out, enough weed paraphernalia on the coffee table to stock a head shop. The window was open a crack, and noise from the blaring television seeped outside. Matt tapped on the glass.
When Ganesh didn’t stir, Matt wedged his fingers under the window frame and lifted. The window was warped from rot and age, and it jammed halfway up. He crawled through the hole.
“Ganesh,” Matt said, but his friend didn’t move. He was out cold, mouth wide open, still wearing his plastic-framed glasses, a bag of potato chips on his lap.
“Ganesh,” he said again, louder, over the din of Fox News blasting from the television mounted on the wall.
Ganesh shot up, startled. He looked around, then seemed to relax when he registered that it was Matt.
“Dude, you scared the shit out of me,” Ganesh said. He spoke with a slight Indian accent, barely detectable, and sounded more British than Indian.
“Sorry, you weren’t answering the door, so I—” Matt pointed his chin at the window. They’d made the same climb once before when Ganesh had forgotten his keys. Matt was sober this time, at least.
“No worries.” Ganesh’s curly hair was a mess. He dusted potato chip crumbs from his shirt, then gave Matt a long sad look. “I heard … Did you get my texts? I don’t know what to say.”
Matt nodded. Nothing Ganesh would say—nothing anyone could say—would make one bit of difference.
Ganesh leaned forward and lifted a tall cylindrical bong from the coffee table. Lighter in one hand, bong in the other, he gestured to Matt, offering the first hit.
Matt held up a hand to decline. He was never one for weed. And he always found it strange how Ganesh, a law-and-order Republican, used the drug as a crutch. But he supposed that was the enigma of his roommate from freshman year. Ganesh was finishing his four-year degree in three, and had already been accepted to med school to specialize in neuroscience. Fitting—Ganesh’s own brain could provide years of study. He was a conservative who chose to attend liberal NYU. He was an immigrant who loved to chant “Build the wall.” He was sophisticated, yet highly susceptible to cable news conspiracy theories. He grew up in a ten-million-dollar penthouse in Mumbai, yet chose to live in a shithole apartment on the outskirts of the East Village.
Ganesh blew out a lungful of smoke and aimed the remote at the television. “That douche RA was on TV talking about you. So was your girl.”
“Ex-girl,” Matt corrected.
“I DVR’d it,” Ganesh said. He scrolled through the recordings displayed on the screen, and clicked on one for the local news. Up popped Phillip’s preppy face.
“We’re all heartbroken,” Phillip said.
“You and Matt Pine are close?” said the blond reporter holding the microphone.
“Oh yeah. I’m not just the dorm’s RA. We’re like family.”
Ganesh barked out a cough of smoke at that.
Next up was Jane, her long hair flowing like she’d just had a blowout, her eyes wet and glistening.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pine were so wonderful. They treated me like one of the family. And Matthew’s sister, Margaret, was such a special girl—she was the family rock, and was going to MIT in the fall. And Tommy”—Jane’s voice cracked—“he was just a sweet little boy.”
The emotion was real. Just yesterday, Jane had told Matt that she loved him but he couldn’t give her what she needed. Whatever that was. Jane dumping him shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Yet for such a supposedly observant guy, he sure hadn’t seen it coming. She was from old money, raised in a breathtaking apartment on the Upper West Side, destined to marry one of those guys from Stern who wore business suits and carried briefcases to class. Matt sometimes suspected that Jane dated him—a film student and scholarship kid—just to piss off her parents.