by Rob Cornell
“I like not needing batteries to read.”
Devon rolled his eyes. “Weird.”
We’re sitting in his mother’s basement where he lives, surrounded by toys, lights out and four computers humming along, and I’m the weird one. “Can we stay on task?”
“You’re task already crashed. Blue screen of death. Operation not found.”
“Now you’re doing that on purpose.”
“I’ll turn you into a techie yet.”
“The phone, Dev. Can you track it?”
He shook his head and his devil’s lock dropped free from behind his ear. “His phone company could. Some massive secret government agency probably could. Me? Not a chance. But thanks for believing I’m that skilled.”
“His phone company can?”
“Most cell phones have GPS devices in them these days. Especially the fully featured ones like yours. That’s how you get your maps and stuff telling you where you are.”
My gaze slowly dipped to the iPhone clipped on my belt. It looked different to me now. Intrusive. Malignant. “You’re not making me feel any better.”
“Chill out. Like I said, some average Joe couldn’t trace you. It’s not like you can just call up customer service and ask to tell you where someone is.”
“Who would have access to the GPS at the phone company?”
He pulled his devil’s lock aside like a curtain. “I guess it would depend on the provider. But it’s an easy bet it would have to be someone high on the food chain. Not anyone local, that’s for sure.”
Well, there went that idea. “There’s got to be some way to track this guy.”
“You’ve never met the dude?”
In any normal circumstance, that question would be easy. Here in my world, I couldn’t give a straight answer. “According to him, I have.”
He shot me a scrunched up look. I held up my hands. “Nothing’s ever easy with me, Dev. You should know that by now.”
“You know, he’s probably got a burner phone anyway. Pre-paid, bought at a 7-Eleven or someplace like it.”
My haste to get at Hersch had left me scrambling after bad ideas. I should have known he wouldn’t go for the in-person money exchange. I should have also figured he had an untraceable phone. He had me so rattled, I completely forgot how to operate. It didn’t help that my phone rang, knocking me out of my thoughts.
“Love the ring tone,” Devon said.
The voice on the phone was so frantic I didn’t recognize it at first. “He called again. Jesus Christ, he called again.”
“Eddie?”
“You’ve got to help me,” he said. “He said it’s time. Just like that. ‘It’s time.’”
“Calm down.”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“I heard you, but you’re not making any sense. Time for what?”
Devon turned back to his computer and resumed twittering or whatever.
“It’s obvious,” Eddie said. “He’s going to kill me, Ridley. He’s wiped every Arndt out and now he’s coming after me.”
“No one’s coming after you. He’s trying to freak you out. That’s all.”
“It’s working.”
“Then you’re letting him win. Listen, I’ve thought long and hard about your case. I’m ninety percent positive someone’s trying to con you. More than likely, the con man tricked someone close to you to give them the information they needed.”
“There isn’t anyone that could have done that.”
I took a deep breath, trying to stay patient. “What about your cousin?”
“Shawn? He wouldn’t do that to me.”
“I’m not saying he did it on purpose. A good grifter can get facts out of you without you even realizing it.”
“No. I can’t… No.”
“I have something pretty important on my docket now, Ed. I’m sorry, but I have to cut this short.”
“What am I supposed to do? Wait around until this guy comes and tries to kill me?”
I thought about Hal. I thought about my daughter. I thought about Hersch and his “race.” My patience snapped. “Quit being so damn paranoid. I have real problems to deal with.”
Eddie made a small uh sound and fell silent.
Devon turned away from his computer to look my way. He lifted his eyebrows.
I closed my eyes and visualized a sandy beach. I could afford buying a beach house. Sounded like a good plan. Let Paul take over the High Note. Get the fuck out of Michigan. A nice fantasy, and it did the trick, centering me. “You don’t have to wait around for anything. Call your cousin. Ask him if he’s made any new friends or got friendly with a stranger, maybe drinking beers at the pub, swapping stories. That kind of thing.”
“I don’t want Shawn to think I’m accusing him of anything.”
“Haven’t you told him what’s going on?”
“I didn’t want to worry him.”
“He’s your closest friend—”
“He’s my only friend.”
I wondered how I could tactfully suggest he get on an antidepressant and book time with a therapist. I followed a different strategy, one less insensitive. “I’m sure you have more friends than you realize.”
He chuffed.
I glanced up at Devon, back at his keyboard again, only now the monitor in front of him had a first-person view of a guy holding a machine gun. He was cutting down what looked like zombies.
“I have to go now,” I said. “Give me a call back after you talk to your cousin.”
He let me go reluctantly. When I finally hung up, I turned off my phone’s ringer.
Devon tapped a key and the game on his screen froze. He swiveled to face me. “That sounded painful.”
“A client. He’s getting conned, too.”
Devon stuck a finger in his ear and scratched, face pinched up as if performing surgery on himself without an anesthetic. “That’s a weird coincidence.”
“I know,” I said. “But the only other theory I came up with stretches credulity. The guy’s life is full of unfortunate coincidences. It’s kind of freaky.”
“This doesn’t sound like you at all. If there are as many coincidences as you say there are, how can you ignore that? You wouldn’t normally.”
“I’m not ignoring them. But I’ve come up empty trying to connect it all.”
“Maybe,” Devon said with an excited whisper, “there’s only one con man who’s playing you both.”
“To what end?”
“It’s all part of his plan to drive you both insane.”
“You serious?”
He laughed. “Guess that’s why you’re the detective and I’m the video game addict.”
I couldn’t totally discount his concern over both Eddie and myself getting conned at exactly the same time. Should I backtrack? Look for some connection? I’d run into a dead end with tracking Hersch for the moment. It couldn’t hurt to poke that dead horse as long as I didn’t get frothy and start beating it.
The inflatable loveseat made a farting sound when I slid to its edge so I could stand.
That got a snorty giggle out of Devon, ever the child.
When I got to my feet, I said, “Thanks, Dev.”
“For what? I couldn’t help.”
“You helped.” I pointed at the computer he was stationed at. “You don’t always need one of those to help me. Sometimes talking’s enough.”
He smiled. “You’re not going to pinch my cheeks, are you? You look like you might. I get that enough from Mom.”
“I was thinking more of a big kiss.”
He waved a hand at me. “Get out of here, I have work to do.”
“Killing zombies?”
“Hacking a law firm’s database for a competitor. They want to gank some high-profile clients. But don’t tell anyone.”
I had always suspected some of Devon’s work was less than legal, but this was the first time he’d come out and confirmed it. “My lips are sealed as long as you can do me one last
favor.”
He double-tapped his chest with a fist. “Hit me.”
Chapter 20
I hit up Palmer for another favor. He said he’d agree to it if I gave him free drinks at the bar for life. I talked him down to a couple beers every now and then. That got me what I needed—a police sketch artist and an empty interrogation room. I provided the laptop and webcam myself.
The sketch artist and I sat on the same side of the table in the center of the room, facing the iconic one way mirror made famous by the glut of cop shows on TV. For our purposes, no one stood on the other side. Expect maybe Palmer. I had a feeling he might get nosy about what I was up to.
The artist had introduced himself as Gwen. I made no comment on the suggested gender of his name contradicting his person. His youth did give him a touch of femininity. His bones practically showed through his skin. I probably could have wrapped my hand around his waist and have my fingers meet. He had a neo-bohemian style of dress that made him look poor and trendy at the same time.
The good news was he hadn’t been tainted too much by the department’s universal malaise toward me. He did keep giving me furtive glances, though, as if he thought I might bite him. So he had to have heard something.
I set up the laptop and webcam on the table before us, powered up, and Skyped Sheila. When her image appeared on screen, her mouth filled the entire field of vision.
“Hello? Is it working?”
And I thought I was technologically challenged. Devon would have gone into anabolic shock if he’d stood in the room with us. “Back up a bit.”
Gwen snickered against his fingertips.
Sheila mercifully backed away, except now the camera was aimed at her torso, her head cut from view. We did a little backing and forthing before she finally had herself positioned right. We adjusted on our end so she could see us as well.
Gwen hummed doubtfully. “Not sure this is gonna work.”
“It’s this, or fly her in from some undisclosed place in Florida.”
When I had called Sheila with my idea, she immediately went into defensive mode. It was as if I had asked her to send me nude pictures over the internet. I talked her down, explaining the technology that Devon had hooked me up with, and she agreed to help. She refused, however, to tell me where she was, not that I had asked. The fact that she felt she had to say that to me spoke volumes about the awkward wall we’d built between us.
“Here’s the deal,” I said to the image of Sheila on the laptop. “He’s going to prompt you with some questions and start sketching. You describe Hersch as best you can and I can put a face to his name.”
She nodded. “I’m ready.”
I shifted to the side and let Gwen take over. He propped his sketchpad on one arm and poised his pencil over the page. While he asked her questions and he drew his impressions, he would occasionally hold his work in progress to the camera so Sheila could make sure he was on the right track.
When I had first asked Palmer to hook me up with a sketch artist, he had said there was no such thing anymore. I found that pretty hard to believe. He claimed the computer software they used these days had sent them into near extinction. I had caught on to the word “near” and pressed for any recommendation he could offer. Turned out he had a guy of his own he used. Said he didn’t trust the software as much as the old fashioned way, but he kept it to himself, only using the artist when he could get away with it without anyone else in the department finding out. It’s what made Palmer so reluctant to share Gwen with me. He didn’t want any of the others in the department trying to bogart his source.
While Gwen and Sheila worked, I zoned out. My mind drifted to Eddie, the panic in his voice when we last spoke. I couldn’t blame him for his paranoia. Who else could claim so much tragedy in one lifetime? I’d had my licks, but my life looked sweet and peachy in comparison. That didn’t make it any easier to look past his raping Amanda. It did allow for a dash of pity to cut down the bitterness.
Hopefully he was talking to his cousin and trying to find out if he’d spilled a few beans in the course of the last few weeks. Then I could show him the sketch, and if our guys matched, we had the connection and were playing on a whole new field.
“Mr. Brone?”
I blinked my way out of my thoughts. It felt like I was coming up for air after sitting at the bottom of a pool, a little painful but also a refreshing relief. “We good?”
Gwen turned his sketch book so I could see who he had drawn.
A lead weight dropped into my stomach. My mouth went dry. I could feel the skin on my balls shrink while every hair on my body stood on end. To cap it all off, my breathing turned to shallow and labored the edges of my vision darkened, halfway to passing out.
A hand grasped my arm. “Mr. Brone?”
I peeled my gaze away from the sketch and looked at the kid squeezing my bicep. Who the hell was he? What was I doing in an interrogation room with him?
“Ridley? What’s the matter?” I stared at the computer screen. The room started spinning. “Sheila?”
“Do you know him?”
Did I know him? Did I fucking know him? No. I didn’t know him. Obviously I didn’t. I thought he was the guy who had helped me get off the streets of LA and into a real life. The one who had introduced me to the man who became my beloved mentor. The person who had made up for my years as an only child, the brother I never had. Mort’s son. My old friend.
Bobby Quinn.
Chapter 21
I stood outside of the police department by an ashtray with at least a thousand cigarette butts shoved in the sand like tiny tombstones. No one was out smoking, but I could still smell the nicotine on the cold air as if someone had just left. I leaned against the brick façade of the building, hands shoved in my coat pockets, staring out beyond the parking lot to Garfield Park across the street. From here all I could see where the naked oak and maple trees, their branches pawing at the gray sky like blackened fingernails. I remembered a rainy night at that park, where I had first learned about my daughter.
I felt like I had lived three different lives. One was as a kid, surrounded by my parents’ addiction to performance, and their constant pushing to have me join them in their obsession. The second life was out in LA, finding out who I was supposed to be, and how I could reconcile that with who I’d been conditioned to think I wanted to be. This was also the life where I had met Mort, who could have been my father, and acted like it sometimes. And Bobby, of course. Now I was living my third life—partly the man my parents had hoped I’d be, and partly the person I wanted to be. A strange hybrid, but one I was slowly getting used to. Then a sketch enters the mix and swirls all my lives together like a tornado-powered paint stick. I didn’t recognize the color. If for no other reason than unanswerable question—
Why, Bobby? Why are you doing this?
I couldn’t begin to guess. When I left Los Angeles to come back to Hawthorne, it felt like leaving family. I felt the way I should have when leaving Hawthorne. Bobby and Mort threw me a going away party. We got drunk and hugged and cried. A piece of me tore loose and stayed there with them, and I had taken their memory with me.
Then distance did what it does so well. We stayed in touch often during the first few months. A few times Mort suggested picking up and moving back to Los Angeles. A tempting proposition. I had missed the Quinns. Felt it like an ache in my side after running too long.
After those first few months, though, our correspondence grew less and less. We downgraded from regular phone calls to the occasional email. And then our separate lives consumed us, and we lost track of one another in the fog.
I hadn’t spoken to Bobby in over three years. What had changed since then? Why would he come back into my life so bent on tearing it apart that he would play lover to a woman nearly twice his age (a tidbit Sheila failed to mention), use what he learned to strike at my weakest point, and spend close to a week taunting me?
What had happened?
I supposed
the best way to find out would be to ask him.
Burned by the cold while standing outside daydreaming, I sought the shelter of my car, cranked the heat up and drove across the street into Garfield Park. I made sure to drive around to a different section than where Autumn had told me about our daughter. I might subconsciously want to wallow in broken memories of my parents, but I had no desire to let thoughts of Autumn tramp dirty footprints through the clean parts of my mind.
In the winter it looked like a different place. Bare branches and undisturbed plains of white. Mine were one of only a few sets of tire tracks along the drive surrounding the park. I pulled to the side of the drive next to a gnarled oak, not an official parking spot, but I didn’t think anyone would care where I parked. People didn’t spend much time in parks during the winter.
Heat running, my body warming up, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for man who had called himself Hersch, who I now knew was Bobby Quinn.
He answered chuckling. “What’s your grand scheme to get me this time?”
“I don’t know,” I said. My esophagus felt as if it were twisting like a wrung rag. “You used to be a good PI. Why don’t you give me some ideas…Bobby?”
“Ha!” He burst into a mad laughter that sounded nothing like the Bobby Quinn I used to know. In fact, even knowing who he was now, I still hadn’t recognized his voice when he first answered. But it didn’t sound like a faked voice either. It sounded as if his voice had physically changed since I last spoke to him as a friend and not a con man.
“Phew.” Bobby wound up the laughter to a quite titter. “Took you long enough to figure that out. You’ve lost your edge, Rid. I mean, really lost it. You suck now.”
I didn’t want to banter. I wanted answers. “Why are you doing this?”
“You think you can cut to the chase like that? You think you have the right to rush me?”