[2013] Flash

by Tim Tigner

  Oliver nodded.

  “Say it, Oliver.”

  “It’s clear. No one is to know of our arrangement. Ever. But how are you going to—”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “It’s my money, I have the right—”

  “And I have the right to refuse your case. You are only here as a favor to Wendell. It’s not as if there’s a shortage of wealthy individuals needing legal miracles.” Just those whose case hinges on witness testimony, and who have no other legal issues or addictions, and who are appearing before a prosecutor and judge I haven’t already cheated.

  Oliver responded by sitting silently with his head bowed and his fingers tented.

  Luther saw the move for the hollow threat it was. Oliver might be one of Las Vegas’s top building contractors, but Luther could make him jump on one leg and cluck like a chicken if he chose to do so. He was the only man on the planet selling get-out-of-jail-free cards.

  “Are you in, Oliver, or out?”

  “I’m in. I’m in. Just tell me this much: it’s the judge, isn’t it? You’ve got a relationship with Rodgers; an understanding, don’t you?”

  “I’ve never met the man,” Luther said with a shake of his head. “Never even heard of him.”

  “Come on … then why did you ask?”

  Luther decided to throw his new client a bone. “I asked because, like any good magician, I never perform my trick twice before the same audience. It is precisely because I don’t know Rodgers that I accepted your case.”

  “So it’s some kind of trick?”

  “Ask again and you’ll never see it.”

  “Okay, Luther, okay. I just want to be sure it’s reliable. A million dollars isn’t what it used to be, but it’s still a lot of money.”

  “It’s not money, Oliver … It’s four years.”

  The words had their intended effect, and Oliver sagged back into his chair, slack-faced and nodding.

  Luther let the sentiment sink in for a moment and then stood to end their meeting. “When you have everything set up on your end, give me a call and I’ll give you an account number with strict instructions. Be sure you follow them to the letter, and then forget them—forever.”

  “Agreed,” Oliver said, holding out his hand.

  As Luther took it, the macaw said, “It’s a deal. It’s a deal.”

  “What’s with the bird?” Oliver asked.

  “Jury’s my secret weapon.”

  “Jerry?”

  “Jury. If he likes my speech, I know the jury will. I practiced all my arguments before him back in the day.” Luther pressed the elevator button.

  “I just need to know one thing before I go,” Oliver said. “How did Kimber know my name?”

  Luther bit back his reflexive reproach, deciding that a show of ingenuity would serve him well at this point. “Now that we’re in business together, I’ll share that little secret with you, Oliver … if you’ll promise to take it to your grave.”

  Oliver nodded his solemn acceptance of the terms.

  Luther held up his hand, fingers spread. “Fingerprints.”

  “Fingerprints? How did you … oh, the door! It was the door handle, that brass cylinder, wasn’t it?”

  “Very good, Oliver. The electromagnetic lock won’t release until the cylinder has captured your prints.”

  Oliver began nodding his appreciation but stopped suddenly. “Bullshit. That’s not how you do it. I’ve never been printed for comparison. Ever. In fact, I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid it.”

  Luther shook his head as if to say “Tisk tisk.” “Then you’ve wasted your time, my friend. Believe it or not, the government doesn’t tell us everything. With the Patriot Act, they don’t have to.”

  “You talking about some big secret program?”

  Luther smiled.

  The elevator door opened.

  Oliver stepped inside but did not press the button. “How’s it work?”

  “Quite simply, actually. Ever buy anything with plastic?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Ever use one of those electronic signature pads, the kind with a thick tethered stylus?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you know that most of them are manufactured by a major defense corporation?”

  Oliver raised a skeptical brow. “I don’t generally pay attention to things like that.”

  “Of course you don’t. Nobody does,” Luther said. “But think about it. The stylus on those signature pads is wired to a computer that has just verified your identity by both your credit card swipe and your signature. It covertly uploads your prints direct from your hot little fingers into a database. Over time, Homeland Security builds a complete set from those partial reads.”

  “And you have access to it?”

  “Everything is for sale, my friend.”

  “That why those government laptops occasionally disappear?”

  Luther smiled. “You just need to know whom to ask. Speaking of which, you owe Wendell a show of thanks. I’d suggest a case of Chateau Margaux ’96; clarets are his favorite. Then you can get back to planning the next four years of your life—after you’ve transferred my money.”

  Chapter 21

  Interpretations

  THEY BOTH STARED at Emmy’s foot for a moment as though hoping it would speak. Finally, Emmy said, “Looks like an international phone number.”

  “Yes and no,” Troy replied. “Yes, zero-zero is international from Europe and, I assume, from the Caymans. Also, forty-nine is Germany, a big country, and twelve digits makes sense too. But there are no parentheses or dashes. Why leave it ambiguous?”

  Emmy shrugged.

  Troy continued to think out loud. “I don’t know either. Maybe it’s nothing. But it seems to me that in a situation like ours, where people are after you and you fear that your memory is about to be erased, that you would tend to be as clear and succinct as possible. You would leave yourself whatever link you needed to reconnect with your life, to pick up wherever you were before your memory got erased. A phone number to a confidant would be perfect for that.” Troy felt his excitement mounting. “The owner of that number probably knows what happened to you.”

  “To us,” Emmy said. “I’m guessing that SBT is the owner. And he or she is just as likely to be your friend as mine. Do you think it’s safe for us to use the hotel phone?”

  It was Troy’s turn to shrug. A pay phone or the lobby phone would probably be safer, but the only credit card he had was Detective Sergeant Johnson’s and he was not about to touch that. He should have ditched it long ago, but was keeping it for an emergency. “Let’s find out.”

  His hand shook as he reached for the receiver, scaring him more than the sniper shot. Surgeons needed steady hands. He handed the phone to Emmy rather than attempting to dial, and hoped that his infirmity had gone unnoticed.

  Emmy dialed 9 for an outside line and then 004995625425. When it started to ring she pressed the speakerphone button. The line picked up and a message came on, first in German, which neither of them understood but both could gist, and then in English: “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please recheck the number and try again.” She dialed again as Troy read the numbers off her foot. The same recording repeated.

  Troy stood and began to pace the room, his right elbow resting in his left palm, his chin between his forefinger and thumb. Emmy remained on the edge of the bed. “There are two logical possibilities,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “One, the number was disconnected after the tattoo, presumably by the same people who wiped our memories. Two, the tattoo is not a phone number.”

  “What else would it be?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve been assuming that the number leads us to SBT. But if you think about it, it’s equally logical that SBT leads us to the number.”

  “Or perhaps SBT is some kind of decryption code for the number?” Emmy ventured.

  “Perhaps. But that seems awfully complicated. Why would we do that to
ourselves?”

  “So nobody else could read it.”

  Troy shook his head. “We have to assume that anyone clever enough to induce amnesia is also capable of deciphering any code that we can crack. Unless of course you’re some kind of mathematical whiz. You never did specify what kind of grifting you do. I gather from your previous reaction that it’s not card counting?”

  “I’m pretty good with numbers, but not that good. I make my living as a counselor.”

  “Counselor as in psychic?” Troy asked.

  “I’m good at reading people,” Emmy said, prevaricating.

  “I see. Does that really pay the rent?”

  “I get by. Most people will gladly pay to have someone tell them what they want to hear—so long as the source is credible. In your world, credibility comes with shoulder patches, medals and letters after a name. In mine, it comes with getting it right. I’m careful to word things ambiguously enough that I can always claim to be right.”

  “How do you do that?” Troy was asking partly out of genuine curiosity, and partly to give his subconscious a chance to work the tattoo problem.

  Emmy looked up at him, indecision in her eyes.

  Troy did not press. He just watched her make up her mind.

  She made it up quickly. “I just provide the words. I let the client provide most of the meaning and all of the significance.”

  “Like a fortune cookie?”

  Emmy nodded. “Or a horoscope.”

  “And there are enough fools with money for you to make a decent living doing that?”

  “I don’t consult fools, Troy. In fact, counterintuitive though it may seem to skeptics like you, the more logical a person is, the better.”

  “Come on …”

  “It’s true. Logical thinkers are by definition those best at connecting dots. I throw out an array of suggestions, and my clients aptly connect them in the way most meaningful to them—ignoring the incongruities as we all do when hope is involved, I might add.”

  “But the smarter a person is, the harder he is to fool.”

  Emmy shook her head. “A person’s desire to find meaning in his life is independent of his intelligence.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  Emmy grew a crafty smile and crossed her legs before her on the bed. “Come on then, sit. Take my hands.” She offered her hands palms up. “Put your money where your mouth is.”

  Chapter 22

  Ava

  TROY WAS NOT INCLINED to take time out of the investigation to play psychic games, but on second thought he decided that perhaps a little meditation was just what the doctor ordered. Besides, this kind of trickery had always fascinated him.

  “Don’t you need tarot cards or tea leaves or a crystal ball?”

  Emmy crinkled her nose. “Most people do feel more comfortable if there’s some kind of mystical medium involved, enough so that I keep the full spectrum in my office.”

  “The full spectrum?”

  “Everything you mentioned plus runes, incense, the Ouija board and many more in my parlor. I charge differently for each, but the content of the reading is the same as when I go it alone.”

  “Which is the most expensive?” Troy asked, his curiosity peaked.

  “Whichever the client wants most, of course. Come on,” she patted the bed. “Have a seat.”

  He climbed onto the bed and mimicked Emmy’s meditation stance. She took his hands and stared into his eyes, her face expressionless, her gaze disarming. Troy focused on the rich green color of her irises. They looked like Monet lily pads sprinkled with little flecks of gold. After a moment she closed her eyelids and began to move her head in circles, whispering “relax” with each revolution. Troy found the atmosphere incongruously soothing and stimulating at the same time.

  After a minute, once his shoulders had turned to putty, she stopped and opened her eyes. Staring through him she began to speak, her voice melodic and uplifting. “Some of your aspirations tend to be pretty unrealistic, Troy. It is good for you to have dreams, but you need to be realistic, too.” She paused, and took her head through another revolution. “I can see that at times you are extroverted, affable, and sociable, while at other times you are introverted, wary and reserved. You have found it unwise to be too frank when revealing yourself to others, yet sometimes you battle with the temptation to do so.”

  Another silence found Troy feeling mesmerized as Emmy rubbed her thumbs around the palms of his hands. She continued. “You pride yourself on being an independent thinker and do not accept others' opinions without satisfactory proof. You prefer a certain amount of change and variety, and become dissatisfied when hemmed in by restrictions and limitations. At times you have serious doubts as to whether you have made the right decision or done the right thing, although it usually turns out that you have. While disciplined and controlled on the outside, you tend to be worrisome and insecure on the inside. You must overcome those feelings if you are to grow to your full potential, a potential that I sense is great indeed.”

  Emmy closed her eyes and withdrew her hands, breaking the spell. Then she rolled her head through two more revolutions and asked, “Well?”

  “Well what?” Troy replied, his voice uncharacteristically weak. “We may not have known each other very long, but we have been through a lot together. Of course you know things about me. I know things about you too.”

  “But was I accurate?”

  “I suppose. But not helpful.”

  “I was just getting started.”

  “So finish.”

  “Would you like to hear more?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, there you have it then: Another fool and his money parted.”

  “But only because you know me.” And because it’s so pleasant to hold your warm hands, look into your brilliant eyes and listen to your sweet voice. “I trust you don’t run naked through the jungle with all your clients?”

  Emmy raised her eyebrows. “No. But I do use those very same words to open with all of them.”

  Troy could not hide his surprise. “What! Every client?”

  “Yep. From doctors to dishwashers. Actually, I would normally modify it a bit, throw in a dozen more stock phrases based upon the client’s age, gender, appearance and anything else I happened to know about him or her. But I didn’t want to do that with you. I wanted to give you a reading I could have given if you’d walked mute into my parlor while I was blindfolded—although even under those circumstances I still would have modified my reading based upon your footfalls, smell, the way you sat, the feel of your hands, and your physical reactions—twitches and breathing—during the reading.”

  “So what do you know about me that’s not canned?”

  “Would you like to know?”

  The way she said it, with an intriguing, almost sinister lilt, turned his mouth dry with apprehensive anticipation. “Yes.”

  “That’s how I make my living. I keep them coming back every week.”

  Troy held his arms wide and bowed his head. “I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, are you going to tell me what you genuinely know about me?”

  Emmy surprised him with a sober stare. “Why don’t you let me ask you a question instead?”

  “Okay,” Troy said, feeling inexplicably nervous.

  “Tell me about the man who helped you make it from an orphanage to med school.”

  “How … how did you—”

  “Come now, Troy. Don’t make me repeat myself. This is what I do.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Troy insisted.

  To his surprise, Emmy said, “You’re right. There is. The only reason I’m in good physical and mental health is because I wandered under the wing of a wonderful woman. Most runaways aren’t so lucky. Ava Zamora was the queen of the con in L.A. back in the nineties. She’s the proverbial person who taught me everything I know.”

  Troy took a moment to absorb this and then said, “Judge O
thers. That’s his name, really. The third time I passed through his juvenile court, Others saw past my record and rough edges to what lay underneath—an ability you obviously share. He studied my file, gave me the brainteaser questionnaire that I later learned Mensa uses for admission, and then decided I had potential if given a good environment. He put me to work in the courthouse instead of sending me off to juvie.”

  Emmy nodded. “Was medical school your choice, or his?”

  “His. I wanted to be a lawyer like him—as you’ve obviously already guessed. He knew me better than I knew myself, however, and steered me toward a military medical scholarship. Thank goodness he did. Tell me more about Ava.”

  “You always change the topic if I scratch beneath the surface,” Emmy noted. “But that’s okay. As for Ava, telling you about her would take hours.”

  “Hours we don’t have,” Troy concurred, feeling strangely disappointed to be getting back to business.

  “So what do we do next?” she asked.

  And just like that Troy had it. The meditation had worked. Excited, he asked Emmy, “What’s odd about the tattoos?”

  “What isn’t odd. The location for starters.”

  “No, that’s explainable. We just didn’t want anyone to spot them—lest they try to remove them with a cheese grater or blowtorch. The answer to the question is: palm fronds.”

  “Palm fronds.”

  “Why would I have asked the artist to draw them? If I had wanted to make SBT look like a monogram I would have written the initials in the shape of a diamond, or put the T in the middle and drawn it bigger.”

  “I give. Why?”

  “Because SBT is not someone’s initials.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No, SBT is a logo.”

  “Of course!”

  “And where do you find logos?”

  Emmy looked over at the nightstand. “In the phone book.”

  Chapter 23

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