Hunt You Down
Page 6
So often he looked at her and saw a stranger. The way she flung herself into the world, leaped into everything as if there was no way she could ever be hurt, as if there would always be someone to catch her before she hit the ground.
Armin realizes now that even if she never said it out loud, she always thought it would be him. Her father. Who paid for the cars she wrecked. Who bailed her out of jail. Who hired the doctors and the counselors and the lawyers who made sure none of it went on her record. And who hired the man who saved her from the kidnappers.
For a second, I curl into myself, feeling a fraction of the pain and worry Armin carries. I see her again, in flashes of his memories. A little girl, tiny in her father’s arms, smiling in her christening dress. Beaming with pride, arms above her head, from the top of the monkey bars at four years old, seeking the highest spot and testing boundaries even then. He can see the tracks of tears running through her makeup, vomit in her hair and on her prom dress, that first time he was called by the police to pick her up. He remembers the overwhelming relief when I brought her home that morning from her kidnappers. She snarled at him and cursed him and called him names, refused his embrace, and screamed bloody murder all the way to rehab. And he had still never been so grateful in his life.
He thought that was the worst it would ever get. He thought it was all finally turning around for her. Sobriety. Fame and fortune. And a marriage. His little girl. He was just old-fashioned enough to believe that this all might finally make her happy.
Armin looks at me and gets it all locked down again without barely a tremor.
“I spoke to an FBI agent,” I tell him. “I wanted you to know. There’s something else going on here. It’s not random.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Armin waves that off. He knows what I mean.
“There’s a larger investigation going on. I can look into it. Or your lawyers—”
“No.” I know what he’s going to ask. You don’t need to be a psychic to figure it out. “I want the men behind this,” he says quietly.
“The men who did this, they’re already in jail,” I begin.
“Not just them. Whoever was behind them. Whoever was with them. Anyone who helped them. Anyone who even knew their names—”
He realizes he’s starting to raise his voice. His lawyer looks over at us. Armin stops himself.
“I want you to find them. No matter what happens—”
He stops himself again. He was going to say to Kira but it stuck in his throat.
“No matter what else happens. I want them to pay,” he says.
I look around the waiting area. He takes my hesitation for reluctance.
“Whatever it costs,” he says. “Whatever it takes.”
For once in my life, I’m not haggling for money. I didn’t walk in here to ask Armin’s permission. I came to tell him that I was going to find out who did this. And make them pay.
But I was not prepared for this.
My work, my life, depend on not seeing the pain of others. On causing it, when necessary.
In here, this close to Armin, all I feel is his pain. I am entangled in his whole family’s agony, strung across this room, binding them all together in fear and worry and suffering.
I do not want to feel this. I do not want to carry this burden.
I don’t know how anyone does. Christ, the faith it must take to have children in this world. I cannot imagine loving anything that much, and then sending it to face the random evil and insanity that swirl around us all every day.
I could walk away. I’ve got other clients. I’ve got a safety net.
Except for one thing. Kira was kind to me.
I honestly cannot say that about many people.
So I turn to Armin and I tell him, “No charge.”
Armin doesn’t say anything. He takes my arm in that same half embrace. His eyes well up again. I try to stifle a completely inappropriate laugh. How twisted has your life become that you’re grateful when someone agrees to find the men who shot your daughter?
That’s not what he’s thinking, though.
He’s thinking of Kira, walking down the aisle.
He allowed himself, for that moment, to forget the lessons he learned in Iran. He trusted the ground under his feet.
Then the shooting started.
Now he feels like an idiot.
He should have known better. It is exactly like he always told Kira:
The world is not a safe place. There are people who will hurt you. No one is watching your back. No one is looking out for you.
Except your family.
*
I leave the hospital through the front entrance. There are a few photographers still hanging around, hoping for a shot of one of the victims or their families. I think
I get an Uber to the hotel, pick up my car, and barely make it back to The Standard before I start to lose it. The valet—who usually gets a good tip from me—thinks
It’s not enough. I feel like I’m swimming in the sweat and shock and horror of everyone gathered on that patio. The pain blurs my vision. I reach for the pills again, but I stop myself. Instead, I take Vincent’s card out of my pocket and try to focus on the lettering.
I’ve got work to do in the morning.
///7
Show Them What You Think of Them
I watch CNN while I dial Vincent’s number. The news is still all about the shootings. If it weren’t for the celebrity factor, it probably wouldn’t be the lead story. The final body count is too low. But some genius has already dubbed it “the Red Wedding,” and there’s a graphic on TV and a hashtag on Twitter.
The shooters have been identified. I catch the names: Robert Baldwin, Myles Andrews, Daniel Goetz. There are photos from their booking shots and social media. Three baby-fat faces with hipster hair.
As I watch, I keep an eye out for my name or face—the police have not released the video from the TV crews, but there are at least a dozen angles on the shooters from different cell phones. Fortunately, in all the chaos, nobody seems to have gotten any action shots of me. I catch the start of an exclusive interview with the bodyguard who jumped me. He’s got two black eyes and a splint on his nose from where I head-butted him. People seem to be giving him credit for my actions, and he’s humbly willing to accept.
Let him. I don’t need the publicity.
Vincent’s phone goes to voice mail. I hit mute on the TV and leave a message.
Vincent calls back almost immediately. He says he’s surprised to hear from me. My talent doesn’t work over electronics—one of the many reasons the 1-800 Psychic Hotlines are bullshit, I’ve usually got to be within a dozen yards of a person to read them—but it seems genuine. He probably thought I would hide from any more questions.
I tell him that Armin has hired me to look into the shooting, and that maybe we can share some information. He says that sounds like a good idea. We’re both lying. I think I just moved back onto his suspect list, or he wants to use me to get to Armin. Could be both. And I don’t plan to share any information—just take it.
But hey, most relationships begin with lies, so why should ours be any different?
*
We meet in the afternoon at a coffee place not far from the Federal Building in Westwood. He’
s wearing a clean shirt with the same jacket and tie as the day before. Exhaustion spills off him like paint fumes and I don’t need to look inside his head to see he hasn’t gotten any sleep. He orders a triple espresso boost to his iced blended. I’m going to feel his caffeine jitters on the way home, I know it.
We sit down and he checks my suit. A different Armani today. The one I wore to the wedding had blood on it.
But Vincent is only thinking about the price tag.
Out loud, he asks, “How’s Ms. Sadeghi doing?”
“Last I heard, she was stable.” Armin’s lawyer passed the information along.
Vincent shakes his head. “Well, please give my best wishes to the family. I’d tell Mr. Sadeghi myself, but I haven’t been able to speak with him.” He doesn’t bother to hide his annoyance. He works for the FBI. He expects his calls to be returned.
Except it doesn’t quite work like that in Armin’s tax bracket. “Armin’s got some trust issues when it comes to the government,” I say. “But I can make sure that he’ll hear any message you want to give him.”
“Which is why you’re here, I assume,” he says.
“Armin wants to do whatever he can to assist the investigation. I’m here to help facilitate that.”
Vincent vents some of his frustration by reeling off a list of items: Times and dates of Kira’s movements. Any security-camera footage from the house, in case the shooters were there. Guest list for the wedding. And so on. I make a show of taking out my small notebook and writing them down. I’ve got no intention of doing any of them, but it gives me time.
This is where I start to go to work. The thing is, searching someone’s brain isn’t like entering a term into Google. People’s minds are messy, disorganized places. Even a type A overachiever like Vincent wanders between a couple dozen topics in his head while we’re talking. He feels something caught between his molars, reminds himself to make a dentist’s appointment, considers the wording on a warrant on another case, reminds himself to call the LAPD liaison again, toys with the idea of subpoenaing Armin’s tax records, and checks out the barista when she bends over to get something from under the counter—all before he reaches the end of his list.
And somewhere in all of that, there’s a glimpse of what I really need to know. Downvote. There’s the thread. I start to pull.
“You know, I looked up ‘Downvote,’” I tell him when he pauses for breath.
He’s instantly wary. Defenses go up. His game face goes on. Carefully neutral tone when he says, “Yeah?”
“It’s some Internet term. Means to vote against something to reduce its popularity. So what I’m wondering is, why would a guy who just shot up a wedding say that?”
I wait for him to respond. To his credit, Vincent doesn’t take the bait. He’s been through the FBI’s interrogation training courses. Most people will start talking just to fill the silence. They’ll give away their secrets because they seem to be incapable of handling a few seconds of quiet.
Vincent doesn’t say anything. But he can’t keep from thinking.
The word “Downvote” is the key to big chunk of his mental real estate. I see a computer file with the word downvote—when he started it, he didn’t know what it meant either. That was almost a year ago. Now it’s full of folders and subfolders, articles clipped from websites, crime-scene photos, and online videos.
He thinks about Jason Davis and Kira. There’s something in his mind riding along with their names that I can’t quite navigate. He doesn’t seem to like either of them much. I know people who investigate crimes have to maintain some distance or they’ll disappear under the bodies of the victims that pile up in their lives. But this is more than that. There’s an antipathy—an actual distaste—for both of them.
I can’t see where it’s coming from. He’s never had any personal experience with them before the shootings. And it doesn’t seem to have affected his work in any way.
So I file it away for later and move on.
An Internet site. Hours and hours in his GSA-purchased ergonomic chair in the office staring at the flat screen, looking for something, anything, that will lead to a real-world name or address.
It’s all jumbled up. A lot of material there. I need some direction. I push him a little more.
“I know the same people who targeted Kira targeted Jason Davis. I know there’s a connection,” I say.
“Where did you hear that?” he asks.
I let him think it’s the police. “It doesn’t matter. What I hear is that there’s some kind of Internet group. Someone called Downvote. And it’s probably targeting celebrities.”
There’s a brief flower of panic in his mind at the thought of this news getting around. But none of it shows. “Interesting theory,” he says.
I’m close.
He’s wondering just how much of this he can afford to tell me.
While he’s deciding, he asks, “Private security consulting. How did you get into that?”
I shrug. “Had to do something when I left government service. This is pretty much all I’m qualified for.”
He checks my suit again.
“You looking for a job? I’m not hiring, but I could make a few calls for you.”
He smiles back.
That’s what he says. But I can see a whole range of options scrolling through Vincent’s head. Everything from leg breaking to contract killing. I’d like to say I’m offended, but it’s not an unreasonable assumption.
“Sometimes it’s a little more exciting than that.”
“Like yesterday.”
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
He leans in. “What does Armin Sadeghi really want you to do, Mr. Smith?”
He’s not recording this. I know. So I tell him the truth, because I can always deny it later. And from what I can read in his mind, he’s never going to want either of us to repeat this conversation.
“What do you think? He wants the people responsible for this,” I say. “And he wants them dead.”
Vincent’s mind goes very quiet as he chooses his next words.
“I can understand that he must want revenge,” he says. “But those men—they’re in jail now. In fact, I’m due to interview them tomorrow. He’s just going to have to trust the system to do its job.”
This is a hard, bright line for him. He will not give me the shooters. I didn’t really expect him to.
But there’s something else. Something else he’s waiting for me to ask. And then I get it: he wants me involved. Not sure exactly why yet, but that’s why I’m here.
So I push him a little more, to see where he’ll go.
“You and I both know they didn’t do this alone,” I say. “There are other people out there. I intend to find them.”
Vincent maintains the poker face for a second longer, but I see his decision as he makes it. He gives me a small smile and says, “Well. I might be able to help you with that.”
*
“This is going to require a little background, so be patient,” he says. “It all started about nine months back. I pulled a case. Hate crime. Something that got kicked over to my desk for possible civil-rights violations. It’s the sort of thing we have to do all the time if the victim is in any of the check boxes—you know, minority, gay, trans—totally routine.”
In his head, again, I see the file on the screen on the computer on his immaculately clean desk.
A gay-rights activist—not a big name by any means, just a guy who showed up at protests and occasionally threw glitter at Republican politicians—had been beaten into a
coma outside a WeHo club. Vincent was supposed to review the police report and decide if there was any need for the Bureau to get involved.
Usually all that meant was a quick read of the basic facts. Name and date and specifics. Everybody in the office had to do one of these, take one for the team now and again. It was important to have the open file. Just in case it did turn out to be a hate crime, or part of a larger pattern, or the victim’s friends and family turned up the heat in the media. The FBI never wanted to look like it was ignoring anyone who belonged to any recognizable minority. It was important to have the computer file just in case something really did explode, so the media-relations people could say, “We’ve opened an inquiry.”
But nobody really took this one seriously, Vincent says. “Cops were willing to write it off as a robbery at the time.”
He smiles, waiting for me to ask the obvious questions. Sometimes I really hate this. Pretending I’m waiting for him to let me in on the secret when I can see what’s coming next. But it’s the price I’ve got to pay for an all-access pass into Vincent’s head.
“But it wasn’t a robbery,” I say.
He nods. “That’s right.” He waits.
I restrain a sigh and ask, “How do you know?”
Here’s where he gets to explain how smart he is, and he can’t help but glow a little.
Vincent tells me he noticed a line in the report from one of the victim’s friends. The friend said he was sure the victim had been targeted for his activism, because he’d been getting death threats on Facebook.
Vincent had a couple of minutes before he was due for a departmental seminar, and he got curious. He clicked over to the Net and looked up the victim’s page. All of the settings were public, so he could see everything that had been posted.
And it was a garbage fire. DIE U FAG was the mildest thing he saw. The rest of the messages were even more vicious and badly spelled.