"Shallow Throat." He chuckled. "Call me the Voice in the Dark."
"So, Voice, you're a pretty controlling dinner date."
I heard a click, and then he set something on the table.
"Pink-noise generator," I guessed. "You think I'm wired."
"You, the table, the walls."
"The walls?"
I shoveled my fork through the salad. By the time the tines got to my mouth, they were empty. I used my fingers, which somehow made everything taste better. Baby greens with pear slices and some kind of blue cheese. I chased a toasted walnut around the plate.
" Talking concrete,'" he said. "When we speak, we bounce amplitude waves off the walls. The Russians figured out how to embed crystals into concrete, crystals that oscillate with the amplitude waves, throw a signal a hundred fifty yards. It's no-shit stuff-they got it into the U.S. embassies in Moscow and Brussels when they poured the walls. Anyone could be listening to anyone else. At any time." Someone shuffled by. I heard the whir again, and then the Voice said, "He'll be eating quickly."
Jocelyn said, "I'll bring 'em as fast as they come out." She leaned over me. "Done with your salad already? All right, then. I'm gonna reach past your right shoulder. There we go. Now, hang on." She withdrew and returned moments later. "And hot plate coming. Okay, now."
Somehow, miraculously, she filled our water glasses.
The hot scent of steak rose to my face. I pawed around my plate. My fingertips told me that the filet was wrapped in something. Pancetta, maybe. I sawed with a knife, then tore with my fingers, slid a lump past my lips. My workout had left me ravenous. As I chewed, I realized that if I were still scared, I wouldn't be eating. Despite the ominous stage setting, the Voice didn't seem menacing. Just firm and concise.
"I need my money," the Voice said.
"I thought you said you had something / want."
"You only got one part of it."
"One part of what?" I asked.
"Of what he wanted to give you."
"Charlie?"
"So you know his name."
"Just his first name," I said. "What's his last?" My fingertips had moved instinctively to the dimple in my cheek from the explosion. Realizing that the Voice could see me, I lowered my hand.
"That's not important," he said.
"What is?"
"You found the P.O. box?"
I stopped mid-chew. "Yep. I got the photomat slip. When did you pick up my trail?"
"I knew where Charlie's safe house was. I waited for you there. It was the logical first place someone would look. After watching you for a bit, I figured out you needed my help."
"But you didn't know where Charlie had hidden the money. You saw me leaving his place with the rucksack. That's why you broke in to my place last night. To get the money."
"My money," he said.
"You were the one who paid him?"
"He got it for me."
"So that was you in my place last night."
He said, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me. You just pissed me off."
"I intended to help you. Did the P.O. box have whatever you were searching for?"
"You didn't look?"
"I didn't have the key," he said.
"Why didn't you ask me for it?"
"I don't want the key. I want the cash."
"Yeah," I said. "I opened the P.O. box. All it had in it was-"
"Don't tell me." The conversation around us silenced, then slowly started back up. After a time the Voice said, quietly, "Whatever comes with that key, I don't want it."
I pushed the plate away, leaned back in my chair.
Jocelyn was in the vicinity again. "How you doing here?"
"Good, thanks."
She cleared and set down another plate. I sat cross-armed for a few moments before curiosity got the better of me. I stuck my fingers into the plate, licked them. Chocolate profiteroles. Something to the side of the plate was moist and firm. I fished it out of the sauce. Explosion of strawberry. I'd have to bring Induma here someday. If I got the chance. So many dates I'd planned in my head since we'd broken up. All those elaborate fantasies of reconciliation that I never acted on. Rarely did I go to a new restaurant, a garden, an art-house movie that I didn't think about having her with me.
I could hear the Voice breathing, the sound of it bringing my attention back to the situation at hand. "I'll play along," I said. "What's the other part of what Charlie wanted to give me?"
"You got one key. There's another."
"Another key. Okay." I set down my hands angrily. "Forget any keys, or cash, until I know what angle you're coming into this from."
"I knew Charlie."
"Knew him how? Tried to kill him? You're his twin brother? What?"
"I owe something to his memory. Do you know what it means to owe someone? After they're dead?" The voice trembled, ever so slightly, with emotion.
The white noise around us seemed to swell until I could hear each distinct element. "You're his son," I said.
"You're not nearly as clever as you think you are."
"Well, that's bad news," I said, "because I don't strike myself as particularly clever."
"Charlie had a lot of respect for Caruthers," the
Voice said. "He was going to try to help him. He told me he had something Caruthers needed for his election bid."
That Caruthers needed. My stomach sank at the name.
The Voice continued, "Charlie's only fault was…"
"What?"
I could hear the flicks of his fingernails against his scalp, nervously scratching. "He thought he could get money for it," he said.
"Two hundred thousand dollars, maybe," I said.
"Or maybe four. Half up front. Half later. But there was no later."
"Extortion money," I said.
"I suppose some people might consider it that."
"So Caruthers paid him some of the money, then brought down the hammer."
"I don't know who paid," the Voice said. "I don't know what it was. But money was delivered. And then he was killed."
It sounded like he was fed a version of the truth from Charlie, but was that version correct? The Voice had said he didn't want whatever came with that key; he'd been kept insulated from the hard facts, which made it hard to untangle reality from conjecture. But everything he'd told me pointed to Caruthers. Which, in turn, pointed to Frank.
I nudged the plate away. My mouth was dry. "How was Frank Durant mixed up in all this?" I asked.
"Frank Durant? Hell if I know. I do know that he and Charlie went back to the old days. Thick as thieves, those two."
His choice of wording did not seem accidental. In light of the night-vision goggles, I tried to keep my face impassive, but it was a struggle.
Fortunately, the Voice didn't seem to notice. He continued, "Charlie did this for me, but it turned into more. He wanted to do what was right. He wanted whatever he had to be made public."
"But his conscience only kicked in once he got double-crossed by Caruthers's buyers," I said sardonically. No response from the darkness. I added, "And you won't see it through."
"I can't. I can't be seen. It's not safe for me right now. This is all… It's all my fault."
"How are they into you?" I asked. Again no answer. I said, "So you have the other piece."
"No. Just the other key. There's another P.O. box, another item. He kept them separate. Insurance. But you can't carry insurance against these people."
"How do I get the key?"
"We swap," he said. "The money for the key."
"When?"
"Soon. I had to see if I could trust you first."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
"How are you reachable?" I asked.
"I'm not."
Jocelyn came back. "Bet you're done with that dessert?"
I waited patiently while she cleared, humming to herself. Then she said, "I'll be back in a minute with some coffee."
I waited for her footsteps to fade, and then I said, "So how do we do this? Voice? Voice?"
But I was alone, talking to the darkness.
Chapter 24
Slumped against the wall of the elevator, I ran through the ambiguities and half answers I'd gotten out of the Voice. For every question I'd knocked off the list, four more had popped up. After being led out of the darkness by Jocelyn, I'd asked the staff about my mysterious dinner partner. Of course no one had seen anything-the blind waitstaff at least had an excuse-but the host's goatee had twitched with a faint smirk that said he was exercising Swiss discretion.
The doors dinged open, and I stepped out into the hall. Kim Kendall was leaning against my doorframe, shoulders pressed to the wood, her body an arc beneath them. Her thick hippie braids squirmed on her shoulders as she rolled her head to take me in. Her full lips, pronounced on her slender face, tensed, and she said, "His wife's gonna let it drop. The homeless guy. Wendell Alton. What do you call him again?"
I walked toward her. "Homer."
"Right, Homer. I thought you'd want to know. I mean, you seemed so worried about the guy, Nick."
"How do you know my name?"
"I work for a PI, remember? You didn't think I'd spy on your and Homer's little charity get-togethers without putting a name to the face."
I slid the key into the lock next to her. "It's not charity."
She put her hand on my arm. "How about you shut up and be flattered I came back here?" She shoved herself off the wall and kissed me on the cheek, catching me off guard. Those lips felt as good as I'd imagined they would. The effect was enhanced by relief-relief to be doing something normal again after chasing down spooks, getting calls from the president, being summoned to pitch-black rendezvous.
She said, "What's a girl gotta do to get invited in?"
I fumbled my keys into the locks, and we entered. She looked around and said, "The hell happened here?"
"Tasmanian devil."
She walked straight into the bedroom and fell on the mattress, propping her head on her fist and looking at me. Her waistband had slipped below one pale hip, and I could see the side thread of her thong. She said, "I brought you something."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a black-cord necklace. The perceive-no-evil monkeys, carved from boxwood, formed a small, circular pendant. "I saw it on Melrose and figured it was appropriate. For you not ratting me out."
I draped it over my hand. "This is cool. Thanks."
"Let's see it on." She lowered it over my head. Her translucent green eyes, up close, showed sparks of orange.
"Lemme check it out in the mirror." I got up, went into the bathroom, and closed the door. The pendant had a seam along the edge where the sculpted face was attached to the backing. I took a can of shaving cream from the shower and set the pendant on the counter. Reaching for the raised toilet seat, I flipped it closed just as I hammered the shaving cream can down on the three monkeys. I poked through the wood pieces and saw the little silver bug, half the size of a Tylenol capsule, glued into the hollow.
"It looks really good on!" I called out.
I swept the wood shards into my pocket and walked out quickly, breezing past her toward my front door. "Hey, Kim-right? — I just realized I parked my truck on the wrong side of the road. Street cleaning tomorrow at seven A.M. Lemme move it real quick."
I figured she'd be thrilled at the chance to poke around. The cash and sheet of numbers were hidden in the kitchen, and I doubted she'd make it out of my bedroom if I hurried.
I moved swiftly down the hall, dropped the bug down the trash chute, then tapped at Evelyn's door. She answered, New York Times in hand, folded back to the dimpled crossword. "Ten-letter word for unkempt?"
"Thanks a lot," I said. "Listen, I locked myself out of my apartment again. Can I climb over your balcony?"
A mournful sigh. "You know that scares the hell out of me, Nick."
"I know, but Eldy's not in until Monday with the master keys."
"Fine, but I'm not watching." She aimed the newspaper at me. "You be careful."
I thanked her and slipped onto her balcony, then climbed one apartment over the other direction. I moved through the vacant living room into the bedroom. Kim's pillow and blanket were still there, and the overnight bag. The bathroom smelled of darkroom chemicals. I clicked on the light. My face stared back from all around. Photographs, clipped to the shower rod, taped to the tile, hung from the clothesline above the tub. Some of them still wet. She'd captured me putting the disassembled Nokia phone on the lawn. Wanding down my truck in the alley. Removing the bug from behind the visor.
I collected the photos and walked back down the hall to my place. Quietly I opened the door. As I'd hoped, she was still in my bedroom. I heard her flop back to the mattress. "That didn't take long," she called out.
I walked in and threw the pictures on the bed, then the broken pieces of the pendant. She sat up quickly. "Shit," she said.
A quick knock, then Evelyn took a step into my living room, clutching the newspaper section. For once I'd left the door unlocked. She tilted her eyeglasses, peering into my bedroom. " 'Disheveled,' " she said triumphantly. She frowned, lowering the crossword. "You made it in one piece?"
"I did. Thank you."
"Is someone there with you?"
"This is a bad time," I said. "A really bad time."
She nodded and withdrew, holding her gaze on me.
I looked back at Kim. She was staring at the photos spread across the mattress, and I could have sworn it looked like she felt bad.
"Do I know you?" I asked. "Is this personal?"
"No. I was paid. To watch you."
"By who?"
"I don't know." She noted my face and said, "Look, I swear. I feel really bad about this."
"You're sweet."
"You have every right to be pissed off. But you can't let anyone know you caught me. This guy seems dangerous, all right? I wasn't lying-I am an art photographer. I do take PI jobs on the side. But never like this. This guy scares me."
"Tell me what you know."
She took a deep breath, studied the ceiling, exhaled hard. "I was tight on cash, so I pulled a posting off a Web site two days ago. Someone wanted a photographer like me, around my age. Had to be female. The guy had me meet him on a fire road by Runyon Canyon that night. He told me to park, turn off the car and lights, unlock the doors, angle away the rearview mirrors, and wait. So I did. He was twenty minutes late. Probably watching me, making sure I was alone. Just when I was about to drive off, he slid into my backseat. He told me your name and address and said he wanted me to spy on you, take pictures if I could. Get close. He knew that the condo here was getting renovated, but he'd had someone pay the owner to rent it for a few weeks. He told me to let myself get spotted by you, then have the pictures of the homeless guy waiting. Build trust, all that. He left cash and the necklace on the backseat. A lot of cash. He said to give you the necklace later. Then he told me to wait five minutes before leaving, and he walked off."
"Was the cash in hundreds, banded?" I asked.
"No. Twenties. Normal money, not fresh from a bank or anything."
"How old is he?"
"I didn't see him, obviously. He sounded older than me, though. Older than you."
"Did he have a smoker's voice?"
"No. Smooth, quiet. And calm. Too calm." Her eyes moistened, and then she blinked and they were as they'd been before. "Look, I just want to go back to my stupid life."
And I wanted to get the hell out of my condo, but if I did, the Voice wouldn't know where to find me, and I'd be giving up my shot at that second P.O.-box key. If there was a second key. I'd gone all-in on a single hand and couldn't leave the table taking anything with me. I blew out a breath and refocused. "How are you in touch with him?"
She sighed, stared up at the ceiling again. "I have a pager number, okay? If I input the number where I'm at, with a 1 after, he calls back. That's all I've don
e so far. But if I type a 2 after, it means I'm leaving something at our drop point."
"Which is where?"
"Echo Park. There's a garbage can next to the pretzel stand on the north side of the lake. I'm supposed to tape photos beneath the lid. But only if I get pictures of you meeting with other people. Everything else he's just had me describe over the phone."
I fished a piece of paper from a drawer and found a pen on my nightstand. "Write down the number."
She looked at me. "If you find him, you can't tell him."
"Write it down."
She jotted it down on a piece of paper for me. I dialed, got the two beeps of the pager right away, and hung up.
"Listen," I said, taking a page from Wydell's book, "let's pretend I believe you. You're scared. You should be. You don't even know who this guy works for. People have died already." Her eyelids flared convincingly, and she blanched. I said, "Is there anything else you can tell me?" Her eyes darted away, so I said, "What? "
"I don't know if it's anything," she said. "I don't even know what it means. But one time I dialed the pager from a pay phone, and after I input the number, I hit 4 instead of 1 by mistake. Right when I hung up, the phone rang." She'd gone cadaver pale, her voice thinned out with fear. "Before I could say hello, he said, 'Godfather's with Firebird, so all's clear. Get it to them.'"
Firebird. My mind went blank when I heard the word: Caruthers's old Secret Service call sign, from back when Frank worked with his protection detail.
The Voice in the Dark's information, though scattered, had pointed to Caruthers, but the phrase Kim had overheard seemed a solid indication that the senator was directly involved. As I sat there absorbing it, I began to wonder-was the snippet too pat, too convenient? Who the hell was Godfather? The handle seemed a bit on-the-nose for a mobster. The "accidental" message relay could have been disinformation. Call signs weren't classified; they were easy enough to find out and inevitably obvious, usually a jokey take on some feature of the principal. Everyone knew Reagan's was "Rawhide." When the Service had the pope back in '87, the newspapers even reported his call sign as "Halo."
"That's exactly what he said?" I asked.
"No. But it was something like that. And I remember the code names for sure."
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