Play Dead

I say this even though I can barely see it from the street. It is up a long driveway from the curb, and the well-treed property blocks the view of most of the house. What I can see, however, is enough to convince me that Hamadi is not anxiously awaiting his monthly food stamps.

There are at least six trucks parked along the road, all with side panels indicating they are affiliated with a local construction company. They must be working on Hamadi’s house, since the nearest neighbor is probably a quarter mile away.

One of those workmen is standing next to the truck, looking intently at a large piece of paper, which seems to be a construction plan of some sort. “You working on the Hamadi house?” I ask.

He nods. “Yup.”

“Building an addition?”

He nods. “And repairing damage from the storm. Tree crashed through the back of the house.”

He’s probably referring to a major storm that went through North Jersey about three months ago, sending trees and power lines toppling.

I nod and walk toward the driveway. I’m trying to decide whether to drive up or park down here at the curb, when a BMW comes around the corner and turns into the Hamadi driveway. The driver of the car is a woman, mid-thirties, and the quick glimpse I get of her says that she is quite attractive. She notices me as she pulls in, but doesn’t stop. Since I’m driving an ordinary American car, she probably thinks I’m one of the workmen, or somebody here to case the joint for a future robbery.

I decide to leave the car on the street and walk up the driveway. Before I do so, I open the mailbox at the curb and see three pieces of mail. Two are addressed to Hamadi, and one to Jeannette Nelson.

The driveway turns out to be quite steep, and by the time I get to the house I’m hoping that the woman knows CPR. If not, there are plenty of other people who might. The large reconstruction operation is going on near the back of the house, and at least fifteen workmen are back there hammering away.

She has parked her car under the carport, making a total of three cars now positioned there, and is walking toward the front door, when she sees me near the top of the hill. She eyes me warily, and I’ve got a feeling that any moment she’s going to have a mace dispenser in her hand. She also looks vaguely familiar to me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a model and I’ve seen her in magazines or television commercials.

“Hi,” I say. I find that clever conversational gambits like that have a tendency to relax people.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a tone that indicates she doesn’t want to be particularly helpful at all.

I nod agreeably, granting her request. “I’m here to see Yasir Hamadi. My name is Andy Carpenter.”

“Is he expecting you?” she asks, not bothering to tell me her own name.

“Could be. We could ask him and find out.”

“He’s not at home,” she says, and I confess I am doubting her veracity. It was something about the way she said it, and the fact that there are three cars in the carport. Somebody else must be home, and Sam said that Hamadi is not married and has no children.

“Oh,” I say. “Then I’ll wait for him. Are you Jeannette Nelson?”

She reacts with some surprise that I know her name, and seems a little uncomfortable with it. I can’t say I blame her; as strangers go, I’m a little weird. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to come in,” she says without confirming the name.

I nod agreeably. “No problem. But in case you find out that he is home, could you give him this?” I take out a sealed envelope that I brought for this situation if it arose. Inside is a note that says, “I’m going to be talking about you and Donna Banks on Larry King on Wednesday night.”

She takes the envelope and goes in the house. I decide not to trudge down the hill, in case I’m summoned within the next few minutes. It’s better than walking up the hill again, especially since none of the vehicles in the carport is an ambulance.

Within three minutes, Jeannette Nelson, if that’s who she is, comes back out. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me standing there. “Mr. Hamadi will see you,” she says, apparently feeling no obligation to explain how he will do that if he’s not home.

I follow her inside, closing the door behind me. The interior of the house is even nicer than I expected. I’m not a good judge of the value of paintings and furnishings, but it’s a safe bet that none of what is here has ever been in a flea market.

She leads me through the house, toward the back, then ushers me into a large den, which seems to function as a private office. “He’ll be down in a moment,” she says, then turns and leaves.

Her prediction is accurate, as Hamadi soon enters the room, closing the door behind him. He is about forty, at least six feet and in excellent shape, with a demeanor that can best be described as polished. He fits in this house.

“Mr. Carpenter, I did not expect to see you here.”

“I tried calling you at your office.”