by Neal Penn
“Alright, we got to take him out, then. You got someone to take it over?”
“We could use Ricky’s brother. He’s a good guy.” Ricky was a good guy, too. That would work.
“Okay, set it up.”
The spaghetti arrived, and Nero motioned for Chucky to eat. Chucky swirled some on his fork and took a bite.
“You want to send Ray-Ray over to take care of Pookie?” He paused a moment, a smile on his face. “This spaghetti’s really good, boss.”
“It wouldn’t be on my table if it wasn’t. Ray-Ray is handling something out of town for me, but Pookie isn’t shit anyway. Send a couple of the boys. Have them teach the girls who went with him a lesson, too.” That was the problem with the whores; they always trusted some guy to be their hero. A couple of whacks across the cheek usually fixed that.
“You got it, boss.”
A waiter brought a phone to the table on a tray. Both men looked up.
“Mr. Nero, would you like to take a call from Tyrone Lewis?”
Nero looked confused for a moment but nodded and the waiter placed the phone on the table. Nero put the receiver to his ear.
“I never hear from you anymore, Lewis.”
“You remember the Calley case, Nero? You remember how I saved you a decade in a jumpsuit?”
Jesus, this fucker. Crane was the one who saved him from the prison time, not Lewis. “I remember that case.”
“Well I got a problem like Calley had, and I need your help.”
Fucking idiot. Calley was a contracted hit; you didn’t talk about that on the phone.
“If you need me to help you with a problem, we don’t talk about it over the phone. Set up a goddamn appointment with my girl.”
“Alright, but I need this to happen fast.”
The line went dead. What the fuck is this? Who the hell did Ty Lewis want Nero to kill?
Chapter Fifty-One
It was the nicest Marriott hotel room he’d been in. Okay, it was the most almost-nicest hotel room he’d ever been in. The room was decorated more like a bed and breakfast than a national chain. There was a whole bunch of cookie-cutter amenities designed to appear old fashioned or made to order.
At least the minibar was familiar. It was stocked, too. Crane opened it and poured two shot-sized bottles of Canadian whiskey into a paper cup.
“Can we get to the bar, Roddie?” Noelle was impatient. It was nothing like her.
“What’s the hurry, Elle? Come on, have a drink.” He gestured to the minibar. “There’s wine, beer, soda, other stuff. I can make you a cocktail.”
“What’s the hurry?” Noelle’s eyes flashed. “I was just tied up like a sheep and thrown into a chemical toilet—”
“The bathroom, not the toilet.”
“Okay, the bathroom, but that’s not the point, Roddie. I want to—”
“Like a sheep? Why like a sheep instead of like a hog or like a—”
“Jesus, Roddie. Are you really that dense? I want to nail these jerks. If they don’t want you to figure out what happened to Dennis Winslow, I want you to figure it out. If they want you to be quiet, I want you to be loud. If they want you to wear green, I want you to wear red. If they—”
“Okay, Elle. Okay, I get it.” He drained the cup. “Let me get a few things together.” He grabbed his toiletries bag, dumped out the toothbrush, soap, and deodorant onto the sink and proceeded to fill it with bottles from the minibar. He hesitated over the smoked almonds but decided in favor and put those in the bag as well. Then Crane walked to the sink and splashed water onto his face. “I’m ready now.”
Elle shook her head at him. She walked to the crate with Lolly inside and opened it. She took the hotel ice bucket, filled it with water, and put it in front of the dog. “I’m sorry, Lolly. I forgot to bring food, but I’ll bring some back for you, honey.” Crane felt a pang of irrational jealousy. Honey was supposed to be his term of endearment.
When she finished with the dog, she grabbed her purse from the bed, brushing aside the fabric of the canopy and mentioning absently, “This is a nice valance.”
“A what?”
“Valance. It’s a piece of fabric designed to separate the space for a bed…oh screw it, Roddie. Never mind.”
Purse in hand, she walked to the door and stepped out. Crane hurried to catch up. In the hallway, he caught her arm and turned her around.
“Look, Elle, I appreciate everything you’re doing.” She looked at him, her eyes narrow. It was dangerous ground. “I mean, I know you didn’t sign up for any of this, and I really am thankful to have you with me.” Her eyes didn’t soften, and he wasn’t certain where to go with it. “I mean, I really like that you’re here and not just back home. I think the trip will be fun. I want … Jesus, Elle, what the fuck am I supposed to say right now?”
She kept up the narrow gaze, but finally the corners of her mouth rose a bit and she sighed. “I’m glad we can work together here, Roddie. Now, can we nail these jerks to the wall, please?”
“Anything you say, Elle. You think we’ll find him at the bar?”
“The Viking pub is our best choice.”
She turned and walked toward the elevator. Crane tried not to stare at her rear end.
Chapter Fifty-One
Sage sat on the bed. The cheap mattress had to be at least ten years old, and the grey wool blanket on top of it was threadbare and full of holes. The old television worked, but the rabbit ears on top of the digital converter box gave the picture only a hazy, static-filled image. Through the horizontal lines and the flickering corners, he watched an Asian woman with a plastic look of concern on her face read a news story.
“The number of victims in the sniper attacks is now four. Two out of town visitors, a man at his son’s birthday party, and now the wife of Councilman John Arthur-Smythe. Mrs. Arthur-Smythe was shopping for her daughter’s birthday gift when she became the latest victim. We’re turning to Dr. Andy Garnetsky, an expert on serial killers for discussion … Dr. Garnetsky, can you tell us anything about the motivation for a killer like this?”
The screen flashed to a picture of a man in a smoking jacket sitting in front of a bookcase filled with volumes, whose titles were obscured by the camera angle or maybe the reception on the screen. “Tina,”—oh yeah, typical Asian name—“there’s really no way to definitively describe a killer like this, and his motivations. Sometimes we have crazed zealots trying to make a point, and sometimes the killers receive a thrill from the attention. However, it’s a good idea to consider that the sniper may be a spree killer rather than a serial killer.”
The picture didn’t change, but Sage heard the reporter ask, “Can you tell us the difference between the two, Dr. Garnetsky?”
There was a slight pause, as though the question hit the TV before it hit the good doctor. “Yes, a serial killer usually plans each killing, and there is usually a long period of time between killings. A spree killer usually is acting out of rage, some reaction to an event that—”
Sage turned the TV off. It was brilliant. The company responded far faster than he had expected, and essentially eliminated any worries about the deaths of the killers they’d brought in to get him. They could probably leave it at this, or add another for good measure, but they’d essentially eliminated the risks associated with his little demonstration outside of the office. He considered whether it made sense to stage another but decided to let things lie for a while. He’d made his point and cost them time and resources.
If they backed off, he’d back off.
Not that they would back off. He knew that. Still, they had to have their hands full for a least another day or so. He figured he’d stop off and see Tommy tonight, try to jumpstart finishing the Costa Rica book.
He could feel a headache coming on. They were getting too frequent. It was Tommy, his complete disregard for security.
Oh, Tommy, give me a way to keep you safe.
Briefly, Sage wondered if there were any others out there he co
uld become friendly with, anyone with whom he could develop an acquaintance. It was unlikely. He was probably only able to interact with Tommy because Tommy was so large, so at odds with the society that valued girls that looked like ten-year-old boys and thought of ten extra pounds as obesity.
Tonight. They’d get on track, get the book ready to go, maybe even make plans for the future. Maybe he could find a way for Tommy to live. Maybe.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Tommy sat at the table and sipped his beer. It was what, his eighth? Ninth? Drew kept them coming, along with stuffed potato skins, wings, and other bar food. Melissa Etheridge was on the jukebox, exhorting her lover to come to her window, crawl inside, and to…God, this waiting is awful. Maybe I’ll just finish the book.
He knew he wouldn’t though. When the books were just smart plots in the mind of an ex-soldier, they were exciting. If all of that stuff was real, well … That’s crazy shit. The stuff Sage had told him made the whole Vietnam My Lai thing look like a third grade Sunday School class.
The blonde woke up a few minutes after Sage left. She didn’t remember him at all, just stood up disoriented and freaked out. She accused Tommy of passing her some kind of drug before he reminded her that she hadn’t stepped more than three feet into the room. Besides, she’d already agreed to have sex with him for money. What did he need to drug her for? That mollified her, and he fixed her a brandy Alexander, although he had to use chocolate syrup mixed with vodka instead of the crème de cocoa.
All in all, the evening was ruined, but he finally convinced her to give him a handjob. He couldn’t finish though, and he eventually just paid her and watched her leave.
My whole damn life and I’ve never had a woman I didn’t pay for. Now, he couldn’t even leverage Lester Twill to get some attention. He’d written more than a hundred and twenty books and his name hadn’t been on goddamn one of them.
Finally, there was a pseudonym that was for all intents and purposes his, and he still didn’t get any of the credit.
He sighed, finished the beer, and signaled for another from Drew.
The bartender walked up with it and put it on the table. “Uh, Mr. Norwood?” Tommy looked up at him. “I didn’t tell her, but there’s a pretty good looking girl at the bar asking for you. No way she’s gay, either.”
“Asking for me?” Tommy looked at the bar. Only one girl there and she was definitely good looking. Hot as hell, in fact. She wore tight jeans that made her—
“Well, asking for Lester Twill. You want me to tell her he’s not in?”
She had nice tits, too. Her lips were an incredible shade of red, too; not slut-red, but still hot. She had on glasses that made her look like some kind of sexy bookworm. Last night’s frustration coursed through him again.
The woman sipped a clear drink, probably lemon lime soda, and the way her lips wrapped around the straw made the decision for him.
“I guess you could send her this way, Drew. Go ahead and put her drink on my tab and send over another for her.”
“You got it, Mr. Norwood.” The bartender left, and Tommy grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth to make sure there was nothing there. He watched him walk behind the bar and almost held his breath while Drew fixed some drinks for the cocktail waitress. Finally, he saw him walk up to the girl, say a few words, and point his direction.
If the girl was surprised to see a mountain on an electronic chair instead of a person, she gave no notice. Instead, she stood gracefully, took her glass, and walked toward the table. She was walking normally, but Tommy could have sworn she was moving in time to the music. He could feel his heart beating.
She slid into a chair across from him and smiled. “Hi, Mr. Twill. I’m a really big fan. My name is Noelle Phillips.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Gladys walked into the office just after seven. She looked beautiful in a deep blue cocktail dress with a matching bag. “Do you keep clothes at the office, Gladys?”
She laughed, and her face lit up enough that she looked fifteen years younger. “Clothes, an overnight bag, toiletries, frozen meals, and a sleeping bag. This, though, I had my sister drop off for me.” He’d forgotten she had a sister, he realized a little awkwardly.
The light on his phone blinked, and he reached for it, but Gladys reached it first. He looked at his watch as she announced his office and then placed the call on hold. “It’s Mr. Aiken. We have an hour before we need to be at the table.”
He nodded and took the receiver. “I saw the news. Looks like we’re on track. Good job.”
Aiken’s voice was a little high-pitched, excited. “Thank you, sir. I think I’ve found the offices of the publisher.”
“You said they were a mailbox drop in—”
‘Yes, sir, but …” Aiken paused, probably realizing he’d interrupted a man who didn’t tolerate interruptions. But there was no response, so he continued. “Um, I tracked a couple of the payments for the book purchases until I located a financial account, hacked it, and found another address.”
“Is it another mail drop?”
Gladys had a bourbon in her hand. He hadn’t even seen her leave the office.
“No. The address is one-third of an old 1920s brownstone.”
“So he’s running the business from a residence?”
“It seems that way, sir.” He took the bourbon for Gladys with a smile, sipped it. It was good. “But I think these are the only books the publisher is putting out. The guy’s name is Thomas Norwood. The company name is JSTN books.”
“John Sage, Thomas Norwood.” He thought for a moment. “Alright, send a few of our men over to talk to this Norwood guy.”
“Um, we don’t have anybody in town, sir. The operatives overseas will start arriving—”
“We got two back from Maryland today. Send them.”
He stood and put the receiver back in its cradle. He walked to the closet next to his bookshelf. It was cleverly hidden between two supporting posts, and a small amount of pressure at shoulder height opened it with a click. He reached in and got his jacket, realizing as he did that he was nervous about dinner. Gladys smiled as he returned to the office.
“Would you like to finish your drink before we leave, sir?”
“As much as I hate to waste good bourbon, I’m sure that if I finished it, unless I gulped it down, that I’d receive another eight or nine calls. I’m ready to be finished for the day.”
She smiled at him and stepped aside to let him through the door. He shook his head and waved her through first. Together, they headed for the elevator.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Crane threw the third empty booze bottle on the floor of the rental. That was all the vodka the minibar had to offer. He lit a cigarette before he realized he had one burning in the ashtray, right below the bright red NO SMOKING sticker. Fuck ’em. I’ll bill the Winslows if they charge the card.
This case was weird as hell. Who gave a damn about a guy missing for forty years, except for the family of course? And if somebody did care, why the hell would they send Mork and Mindy instead of effective goons? It just didn’t make sense.
He reached into the toiletries bag and pulled out another bottle. Brandy. You’re a fine girl. He unscrewed the cap and drained it. It tasted awfully tannic after the vodka, but it burned nicely going down.
No, this whole thing just didn’t seem to make sense. What kind of idiot hides effectively for forty years and then puts his picture on the back of a bestselling novel? He sighed and reached for another bottle. Red wine. He set it aside, fished around, and came up with a quarter-pint of Chivas Regal. No sense at all.
The whole thing was like the brainteasers his ninth grade English teacher used to put up on a chalkboard. If a student figured it out before the end of the day, Standifer gave extra credit. They were always difficult, maddeningly so.
Crane always liked the logic puzzles. Eight people, eight jobs, eight apartments, eight dishes to the potluck. Figure out where each person belongs. Th
ose puzzles were just plodding along, like going through two-thousand pages of a deposition to determine strategy for a case.
Of course, being a defense attorney wasn’t about finding truth. No fucking way.
The cap on the scotch didn’t want to come off, so he finally clamped down on it with his teeth and twisted the bottle until it was removed.
Defense tactics are all about creating hundreds of possible truths.
He took a long drink from the bottle, draining two-thirds of it in one.
The problem with this case is that it wasn’t one of those plodding, draw a graph, and x-out the negatives until you come up with the right answers brainteasers. No, that wasn’t right. Those were time-consuming, but they were easy. Get rid of possibilities until all of the answers fell into place.
He finished the bottle and finally felt the alcohol, which was a long time coming after the big meal. I must’ve earned eight tests worth of credit with those things.
This case was more like a really frustrating puzzle Standifer wrote in long, flowing, perfect letters on the chalkboard the same morning he first met Noelle. Two doors in a pit. One leads to riches, the other to a pit filled with snakes or lions or scorpions or something. You have to choose which door. There are two men sitting on top of the pit. One always tells the truth. One always lies. You don’t know which one is which, and you can only ask one question. What question do you ask?
It was difficult. Fucking impossible. He’d spent the entire class trying to figure it out, ignoring Shakespeare. Then he ignored geography and health. He didn’t have to ignore physical education because it was the day the class ran the mile, so he just thought about it while he ran.
At lunchtime, he headed toward Standifer’s room to try to get a clue and ran into Noelle. He literally ran into her, spilled her books all over the hallway and bent down to help her pick them up.