“Where would you like us to drop you?” Keller asked. “The dorm?”
“Do you think they’re gone yet?”
“Who? The reporters?”
“Yeah.”
Keller frowned. “I doubt it. Do you have a friend we can—”
“You can take me to East Seventh, if you wouldn’t mind.”
The driver looked at Keller in the rearview, and she gave him a nod. The SUV jerked around other cars until traffic was at a standstill. The driver flipped on the strobe mounted to the dash, and the vehicles ahead splayed, creating a narrow path.
Matt watched out the window again as the end-of-the-day crowd headed on foot to happy hours, commuter trains, and cramped apartments.
Finally the SUV drew to the curb on Seventh.
“Here?” Keller said, glancing at the run-down barbershop and dry cleaner next door.
“My friend lives upstairs.” Matt looked up at the four-story building in need of a paint job.
Keller nodded. “I just got a text that we have your phone,” she said. “I can bring it to you before your flight tomorrow, if that works?”
“Okay.”
“We’ll also have an agent fly to Mexico with you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Matt said.
“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.”