“Yeah, it’s a mental picture. You can email me at [email protected] and I’ll send it to you.”
Maggie kept her face neutral. “Got it, thanks.” Suddenly, she had an idea. “Would it be okay if I showed you a few pictures of my own?” She got out her phone, accessed the appointment app and brought up Carson Parks’ photo. She turned the phone toward the man. “Do you know this guy?”
“Carson? Sure, everyone knows him. Works at the shelter. ’Course, it’s just a front for money laundering.”
Maggie nodded as if she agreed completely. “Did you ever see Carson with Elsa Henderson, the newspaper lady?”
“I know her name,” he said irritably, “and yes, the twain did meet. I saw them together on more than one o-casion.” He said it as if it were two words.
Maggie swiped the phone again. Mia’s face appeared. “What about her?”
He grabbed the phone, and Maggie resisted the urge to snatch it back. “No, I’d remember this one if I’d seen her. Bet she has nice titties. You don’t have a picture of her titties, do you?”
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
His mouth collapsed in a sunken pout.
“Can you think of anything else?” Maggie asked. “About Elsa Henderson or the man who watched—”
“Killed.”
“Right, killed her?”
“Nope. But I can tell you where the real Harry Potter lives.”
“Maybe some other time. I really appreciate you talking to me, Mr…”
“Al. You can call me Al. Like in that Paul Simon song.”
“Al, then. Would it be all right if I came back and talked with you some more?”
“Sure. Just bring some teriyaki jerky.” He spoke into the headphone jack. “And try to keep yourself alive.”
“I’ll do my best on both counts,” Maggie said.
Chapter 31
It was four thirty when Constantine got home.
“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” he said as he nudged open the door with a knee. “Unless those gifts involve takeout from Levitz’s Deli.”
He wound his way to the coffee table, plastic key ring in his teeth, plastic bags in his hands. He set the bags down and began removing white cylinders, which he placed in front of Maggie. “They were out of that chicken thing you like, so I got meatloaf. You do like loaf-shaped meats, right? If not, I could form it into something more pleasing. Like a butterfly.”
“I’m pro-loaf,” Maggie said, sitting up. “Not to mention pro-macaroni salad.” She plucked a plastic fork from the tabletop. “May I?”
“Please.”
Constantine watched as she attacked the food. “Sorry I couldn’t make it for lunch—or return your call. Putting out fires all day. But I’m home somewhat earlyish for our various and sundry fieldtrips. I’m thinking we start with phone victim one, maybe take a jaunt to where she worked.”
Maggie choked on her macaroni salad and shook her head.
“Don’t tell me you forgot about our sleuthing date,” he said. “You Sherlock. Me Watson. I brought a magnifying glass and an English accent and everything.”
“Aw, damn it.”
“Okay, okay, I don’t have to do the accent.”
Maggie picked up the two-liter Dr. Pepper Constantine had brought from the deli and chugged, then started coughing again from the carbonation. “Constantine, I’m so sorry,” she finally managed. “I couldn’t stand just hanging around here all day so I went down to The Post.”
“Alone? Without me? I thought I was supposed to play comic relief. Tell you how brilliant you are and point out obvious clues.”
“Ugh. I’m sorry, Gus. I had to get out of here, so I caught the bus and headed downtown.”
Constantine plunked down beside her and gave her a sideways hug. “No worries.” He cut a slab of meatloaf with a plastic knife and put it on a paper plate. “Just tell me what kind of breakthroughs your solo, non-Watson-including investigation yielded.”
“Well, there was a security guard who was basically the newspaper’s bouncer. He wouldn’t tell me anything about Elsa Henderson, other than she was dead. But there was this homeless guy who’d overheard me talking to the guard. He had a lot to say.”
“About world affairs?” Constantine said with his mouth full.
“More like stories about some guy stalking Elsa who was spending a lot of time hanging with the homeless.”
“‘Hanging with the Homeless.’ Sounds like a new sitcom.”
“Can you be serious for a moment? Please?”
Constantine performed a deep Carnac the Magnificent bow. “Your wish is my command.”
Maggie cleared her throat. “This homeless guy I talked to—Al—was sure that the man who stalked Elsa had also killed her. He also mentioned something about the homeless ‘paying a price’ for trusting guys in government clothes and government vans to exorcise their demons. It all sounds pretty ominous, no?”
Constantine took a gulp from the two-liter bottle. “Was he wearing a tinfoil hat at the time?”
“Oh, he was definitely nuts, but something about this story had the ring of truth. And he recognized a photo of Carson Parks and said he’d seen him with Elsa. There’s something here.”
Maggie stirred her macaroni salad, her appetite suddenly withering.
Constantine put his plate down and looked at her. He bounced to his feet, grabbed her hands and pulled her up with him. He spun her around the tiny room. “What next, Sherlock?” he said in a terrible English accent designed to brighten her mood. “Visit Reincarnated Phones to see if Travis can tell us anything about who owned your demonic device? A trip to Mia’s office? A jaunt to the homeless shelter?”
He stopped spinning and Maggie smiled in spite of herself. She understood using humor as a defense mechanism. She had often brought it out of her own secret stash of sublimations and suppressions. Sometimes it even worked.
She grew serious again, straightened up and looked him square in the eye. “Yes. To all three.”
They started with Reincarnated Phones, which was situated at the end of a strip mall next to a nail salon, health supplement store and Starbucks. Maggie and Constantine ducked beneath the Christmas lights and Chinese lanterns that festooned the store’s turquoise door and walked in, an overhead bell obediently announcing their arrival.
A man emerged from the back like the Wizard of Oz. He focused on Maggie, staring at her with small rodent eyes, squinting as if unaccustomed to the brilliance of the front room.
“Can I help you?” he said, donning his affable sales guy face.
Constantine rounded Maggie and thrust his hand out. “Hey, Travis. My man.”
They performed a series of awkward, half-missed fist bumps. Then Constantine extended his arms in Vanna White fashion toward Maggie. “I want you to meet my friend, Maggie.”
“Yes, we met on the phone,” Maggie said coolly.
Surprise registered on the man’s face. He covered it by stroking a nonexistent beard. “Right, right. The problem with the wipe. Like I said, we’ve got some sweet new models, but I got the impression you’re not interested in switching. What I can do is completely wipe this phone. Give it a top-to-bottom scrubbing. Make it good as new.”
Maggie crossed her arms. “I don’t want you to wipe my phone again. I want to know who owned it before I did.”
Travis was already shaking his head, long brown curls sproinging against the collar of his shirt. “I’d like to. I really would. It’s just that—”
“Company policy,” Constantine interrupted. “I heard.” He stepped closer, placed his hands on the low orange counter in front of him. “But we go back, man. Way back.” Travis’s eyes shifted away, trying to deny the past. “I’m not just here to ask a favor. I’m here because I’m worried about you.”
Travis’s eyes snapped to Constant
ine’s face. His mouth formed a perfect circle. “What do you mean?”
Constantine looked at Travis as if he felt sorry for him. He lowered his voice. “The thing is, the guy who had this phone, well, he’s been doing some bad things.”
Constantine took his wallet from his back pocket, opened it and flicked out a business card onto the counter.
Travis leaned forward to read. “Joe Hurley, FBI?”
Constantine made a play it cool gesture. “Cybercrime division. I’ve been doing some consulting with him on this phone case.”
Joe Hurley? Who the hell was Joe Hurley? Maggie looked at him, marveling at the sociopathic ease with which Constantine lied.
Travis stared at Constantine, a penlight trying to penetrate fog. “Are you messing with me?”
“Just tell me what you know about the guy who used to have this phone, and I’ll make sure my friends keep you out of it.”
Travis eyed him suspiciously, then wiped his nose on the inside of a Me for President t-shirt that promised cake and hookers for everyone. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.
“I’m sure you didn’t. Tell us what you know, and we’ll get out of your very lustrous hair.”
Travis picked at a small scab on his chin. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he repeated, looking toward the curtained area at the back of the store and lowering his voice. “I mean, maybe I exaggerate sometimes to get a sale. If someone comes in for a repair and I think he has dough, I’ll upsell him one of my already repaired models, even though I know I’ll fix and sell the old one. The guy gets a great new phone, and I keep an old, totally fixable phone out of the landfill. Win-win, right?”
Constantine nodded as if Travis were a paragon of social consciousness. “And that’s what happened to the previous owner of Maggie’s phone?”
Maggie placed the phone on the counter to jog the details loose.
“I remember because I was happy I’d upsold the guy. I thought he was just your garden-variety mealy-mouthed loser, but he turned out to be a total asshole.” He looked at Maggie. “Pardon my French.” Maggie smiled sweetly. “He came in only a couple of hours before you did. Phone had a broken screen. I told him the repair would be expensive, but that I had a new latest-greatest model and wouldn’t he prefer that instead.
“Well, the guy totally lost it. Said he wanted his phone back, that it was very important, he needed it. Yeah, like I don’t hear that a million times a day. Anyways, I reassured him we could transfer all his contacts and shit to his new phone, and that I’d wipe his old one. I gave him back the SIM card, which seemed to give him some kind of boner. He was happy to have a replacement phone and all his data squared away. Bada bing, bada boom. That was the last I saw of him.”
“Do you have his name? Maybe on a work order?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, I have a work order,” he scoffed. “What kind of operation do you think we run around here? I’ll go get it.”
Travis disappeared behind the curtain, Oz returning to his magic machine. Maggie and Constantine waited. Constantine picked up a brochure that advertised shop services and prices, folded it and put it in the front pocket of his jeans. “Just in case I need my phone repaired,” he said.
Maggie rolled her eyes. Travis strode back into the room, yellow paper held aloft like an Olympic torch. “See? Knew I could put my hand right on it. I run a tight ship here.”
“Except for when you forget to wipe people’s phones,” Maggie pointed out.
“I did wipe it.” He sniffed. “Just, you know, not all the way. Here’s the guy’s work order.” He let the paper fall from his fingers. It floated to the counter like a giant leaf.
Maggie picked it up. She groaned. “Ugh. Just a company name. MediPrixe. And no phone number or address.” She mumbled something about tight ship.
“Can I help it if people don’t follow directions?” He sniffed again, gave his nose another wipe on the inside of his shirt.
Constantine took the work order from Maggie. He creased it and put it into his breast pocket, then patted it significantly. “I’ll need to keep this. Evidence.”
Travis blanched. “Oh, right.”
Constantine made as if to leave, then turned back. “Before we go, maybe you could take a look at the phone, see what information you can extract.”
Travis narrowed his eyes. “Can’t your cybercrime guys do that?”
Constantine rolled his eyes. “Yes, but this way I get to report that you were cooperative. You do want to be cooperative, don’t you?”
Travis sputtered about already being cooperative. When Constantine said nothing, he sighed, then extended his hand. “Fine. Let me see it.”
Maggie handed it over.
Travis began swiping the keys. After several minutes, he put the phone on the counter. “I was able to find a partial log of incoming and outgoing calls, a bunch of spam emails and a text.”
He slid the phone to Maggie. She scrolled through emails advertising hair restoration, weight loss and work-at-home opportunities, then clicked the messaging icon.
Dolores has been taken care of, it read.
Maggie’s arms erupted in gooseflesh. She turned the phone toward Constantine. He read, then mouthed “Dolores?”
She shook her head and shrugged. She turned to Travis. “Can you tell who this text was sent to?”
“Nope. Number’s blocked.” He scrolled. “But there is a number that shows up a few times. Not the only number dialed or received, naturally. Just all I’m able to recover.”
He handed the phone to Maggie. She glanced at Constantine, who nodded. She pushed the CALL button.
A woman’s voice answered. “Capital Ideas, may I help you?”
“Um, yes,” Maggie said, startled, “what are your hours?”
“Monday through Friday until five thirty.”
Maggie concentrated on sounding normal. “Great, thanks.” Maggie hung up and looked at Constantine with wide eyes.
He wrinkled his brow quizzically, then frowned at Travis. “Travis, I guess that’s all we need from you for now.” He walked to the door and flung it open, the bell jingling loudly. “Oh, by the way,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t leave town. You know, in case we need to contact you.”
Travis nodded enthusiastically. “No problem. No problem at all.” Constantine and Maggie walked through the door. “Come again!” he called after them.
Chapter 32
“And the award for the best impersonation of a federal agent goes to…” Maggie said when they were far enough away from Reincarnated Phones.
“I wasn’t impersonating,” Constantine said. “I was suggesting. I said a few things, flashed a business card. He filled in the rest. Fortunately, I still had the guy’s business card from my interview at the FBI.”
They jogged across the street. Constantine unlocked the Datsun and they climbed inside. “I’m guessing you don’t know who Dolores is?” he said.
Maggie buckled herself in the lap belt. “Nope, unless it’s a nickname for Mia or Elsa.”
Constantine started the engine then stared into space. “My gut says Dolores is someone we don’t know. Someone who was ‘taken care of’ before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you got the phone. It had a life before you came along.”
Maggie gaped at him. “This whole hit list thing could have been going on for weeks before I got the phone. Months. Longer. Maybe Elsa wasn’t the first victim.”
Maggie felt the familiar churn of her stomach. She gripped the side of her seat. A muscle in her jaw twitched. She put her finger on it and pressed.
“Let’s get back to what we know,” Constantine said, pulling into traffic. “The number Travis came up with was familiar, right? The look on your face sure said it was.”
Maggie nodded. Yes. Something tangible. Good. “The nu
mber was for Capital Ideas.”
Constantine looked at her blankly, shook his head.
“The name of the brokerage firm where Mia worked.”
He stared. “Really?”
“Yep. Which means whoever owned this phone knew Mia. Like Travis said, it’s not the only number called or received, but it’s something.”
“Maybe a big something,” Constantine said.
They drove in silence as strip malls gave way to the city’s downtown, which was populated by glossy wine bars, tony department stores and coffee shops catering to those who preferred their organic half-caf lattes in Italian porcelain mugs hand-painted by monks.
“Here’s what we know,” Maggie said. “Whoever owned this phone knew Mia Rennick well enough to call her. He also ‘took care of’ someone unknown named Dolores and, if we believe what’s on the form, worked for or with a company called MediPrixe.”
“Hmm…sounds medical-y. Ever heard of them?”
Maggie got out her phone. “Not until now. Let’s see what Dr. Google says.” She pressed, scrolled, repeated. “There’s got to be something about MediPrixe that will help us find the previous owner. Employee list. Contact info. Something.”
She grew quiet, thumbing through digital pages.
“Here we go. MediPrixe…dedicated to blah, blah, committed to yadda, yadda.” She paused, digesting the text. “Looks like they’re a pharmaceutical.” She looked at Constantine. He raised a brow. “That’s a bit cozy. Anyway…it was founded five years ago by Maxwell Simmons, who according to the bio, was a gentleman and a scholar. Emphasis on ‘was’ because Mr. Simmons is dead.”
“He’s dead?”
“The whole page is basically a memorial. There’s a handy ‘request information’ form, but no email address or phone number, just a physical address, which I’ll bet is a post office box.” Maggie tapped the phone against her cheek. “Guess we’ll have to look it up on the business registry.” She sighed. “So much for progress.”
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