Pseudonym

by Neal Penn

  “Maybe I even find something inside that makes me think you’re the shooter.” Threat number three. After this, he’ll give up and just take me to the station.

  “Better make it something good because when I tear it apart in court, you’ll be lucky to get calls for kittens and trees.”

  The detective shook his head and walked away. Better than most. Most of them would have lost their cool. Thrown a tantrum just like Sienna.

  The detective was back in less than five minutes. “Okay, Crane. You’re going to the station.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then say it nicely. Don’t forget to be polite.”

  “You’re an asshole, Crane.” The detective shook his head and blew out a long sigh. “Alright. Mr. Crane, would you please allow me to have one of my men drive you to the station so I can see you when I’m done here?”

  Crane smiled. “Certainly. You know, I’ve always tried to be a good citizen.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Cops everywhere. No chance to get in and out of Tommy’s house. Sage stood about a block down watching silently. He knew he’d left fingerprints and DNA behind, but none of them would do the police any good unless they found him to go with it.

  Hell, his DNA was so altered by the company that it wasn’t necessarily static anyway.

  There was a guy sitting on Tommy’s step. Not a cop. In fact, it looked like he was pissing off one of the cops.

  Sage knew he should leave. But he also knew with the same certainty that he wouldn’t. It was too late.

  He was already in mission mode. He felt his mind creating objectives, plans, contingencies. It was second nature, nearly subliminal. When he reached this state, it was over. There was nothing changing it. His programming prevented abandoning a mission.

  He was in for the duration. Tommy deserves it anyway.

  The police were leading the guy from the doorstep to a car. No cuffs, but they shut him in the back. Either they thought he needed protection or they thought he knew something.

  He wasn’t linked to Tommy. Sage knew every one of Norwood’s friends and acquaintances. If he wasn’t connected to Tommy, it meant he was likely connected to the company. It was also possible he’d just met Tommy recently, within a few days at most.

  If he was with the company, he was a target. If the connection was different, he still could probably shed light on the situation. They weren’t arresting the guy, probably sweating him for a few hours. Sage weighed options, again nearly subconsciously. He could stay by the police station, give it two or three hours and then station himself outside. The doorstep man would be released and he could follow him. Alternatively, he could try …

  Something clicked.

  Wine. Tommy had wine out. He was expecting company. He never scheduled his girls that late. The guy might have been his appointment.

  No, not an appointment. Tommy wouldn’t serve wine for that. That meant Tommy must have been expecting a woman.

  It was crazy. No woman would see Tommy for free. Unless …

  Oh, Tommy, you stupid slob.

  It had to be a set-up. Tommy fell for one of the simplest and oldest traps. Some girl convinced him she was coming to be with him. Probably made up an excuse so she could get an accomplice. Accomplice. Had to be the doorstep man. They get Tommy to give up his apartment and the company comes in to kill him.

  No. If that was the case, no way the man would have shown up. Tommy just gets killed and nobody ever shows up for the date.

  So the guy wasn’t with the company. She and the girl were after Tommy for something else. What did they want with Norwood? Only the company would want him in order to find Sage.

  It couldn’t be debts; the books made a shitload of money for both of them. Maybe one of his whores turned out to be underage, an angry father thing. But that was wrong, too. Tommy went for women, not kids.

  He had to find the guy. That meant he had to find the girl. Tommy had all of his groceries – hell, all of his everythin, delivered. There was only one place he went. So she had to have picked him up there.

  Sage weighed the options again, this time more conscious than subconscious. The police station for the guy or the bar to track down the girl?

  Jesus, Tommy. You didn’t believe her, did you?

  He walked to where he’d parked his car four streets down. He got behind the wheel and headed for the Viking Pub.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  The station was closer than Crane would have thought. He had to fight the urge to walk into an interview room and demand his client be either charged or released.

  The station was like every station in an urban setting in any city. The officer asked him to sit on a chair in front of the entryway desk. He sat down. Four hours, maybe a few less.

  The idiots hadn’t taken his stuff. Hadn’t searched him. They’d looked as his licenses, both the driver’s and the investigator’s. Then they’d given them back and sat him on the porch.

  He still had his cell phone. He opened it up, removed the battery and the SIM card, and returned the battery to the phone. The SIM card he placed in his back pocket.

  None of this made sense. Why would the same goons warning him away from the Winslows want to kill Twill? That’s how it had to go down. They kill Twill. He shook his head. It’s not Twill, Roddie, it’s Norwood. They kill Norwood and Sage kills them, or he kills one of them and chases after the second one.

  So who the hell were these guys? Why would they want to kill Norwood? Were they warning everyone away from Winslow? It just made no sense. What was up with Sage anyway? The guy disappears for forty years and shows up just in time to protect the guy using his picture?

  An attractive young policewoman walked up to him. “Mr. Crane, Detective Yurk will be with you in a moment. May I show you to where you can wait for him?”

  Crane considered giving her hell, but she was kind of cute so he nodded and let her lead him to an interview room. She stopped him outside of the room and asked permission to search him. He allowed her, and she took his cell phone but returned his wallet.

  He sat down on the hard metal chair and waited for the dance to begin again. He estimated forty-five minutes to an hour before they’d talk to him again. It was fifty-three minutes according to his watch when Yurk came in. “Alright, Crane. Let’s go over a few details.”

  “She was a year older than me, you know.” Cue music, I’ll lead.

  “What?”

  “See, there was this club, right. One of those clubs that kids make.” Left, right, slide.

  “Uh huh. Go on.”

  Thinks he’s getting some kind of confession. “So Timmy Tichter gets a girlfriend and makes a club and you can only be in it if you’ve kissed a girl. So he has all of us lined up, and then one at a time we go inside the cardboard clubhouse. Then, the girl goes inside, makes out with us, and we’re in the club, see.” Crescendo.

  “Uh, Mr. Crane?”

  “So I’m only about ten, so I don’t know how to make out. So anyway; I pucker, and the girl opens her mouth. It’s supposed to be a French kiss, but I’m speaking Gaelic. Asshole Timmy made fun of me forever about that one.” Cue big finish.

  “So what’s that got to do with tonight?” Still hoping.

  “Oh. Details about tonight?” Crane shook his head. “I already gave those details to an officer. I thought you just wanted details about something.”

  “Jesus, Crane.” What? No applause?

  “Detective, it was a very influential episode of my life.”

  Yurk was pissed. Good. “I can keep you here all night, Crane.”

  “It’s already morning, Detective. Can you point me to the door?”

  Yurk stood up and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  “Yes?” He was on his third bourbon. He kept trying to think of Gladys and dinner, but the Sage situation was making it impossible.

  “It’s Aiken, sir. No way to get an
yone there before the police showed up.” Aiken was excited. Something was coming.

  “Go on.”

  “We have a guy in the evidence room, so I’ll get the logs from whatever they take. He’ll deliver it tonight. We’ll also search the scene after the police are gone.” Come on, Aiken.

  “Oh, one other thing …” Finally. “The 911 call. It was Crane.”

  “What?” Jesus. “Crane?”

  “Yeah. He called from the house. Identified himself and said he found two bodies.” Who the hell was this Rodney Crane?

  “So Crane found this author.”

  “Norwood. Yes, sir. He found him.”

  “So we’ve been at this for months since the first book comes out. We have unlimited funds at our disposal. We have every—”

  “It hasn’t been months, just about a month since we became sure it was Sage.” Aiken didn’t like where he was taking this.

  “And this guy Crane tracks him down in, what? Three days?”

  “Yes.” Not so excited anymore. “Uh, he’s at the police department for questioning now.”

  “What else does he know?” How much had Crane already figured out?

  “He can’t know anything about us, he—”

  “Listen, Aiken. The man you called a loser discovered the biggest Sage lead before you did. He did it without a budget and without operatives. I should have just hired him from the beginning, not warned him off.” God, it was all so much. He took another sip of bourbon. The other line was silent. “Aiken, that’s not a reflection of you. It just means Crane’s good. For now, he can be a resource.”

  “Okay, sir.” He sounded mopey now.

  “By the way. I’m very pleased with the outside talent situation. When is the next event?”

  That brightened Aiken a bit. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. Keep on top of the evidence side.” He took another sip. “Anybody we own with juice working tonight?”

  “You mean at the Police Station? We might. What else would you like?”

  He took one more sip and licked his lips. “I want Crane back out on the street.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Nero ordered a second lunch, another bottle of wine, and the phone. The phone came first, and he dialed Chucky up. “Yeah, boss?”

  “How long before the kid brother takes over?”

  “Gonna take care of it all tonight.”

  “Good. I got some laundry I need him to take care of.” Fifty-thousand shirts to clean. “I think maybe you should stick with him for a few days and make sure he gets all the stains out.”

  “Sure. You need anything special?”

  “Not really. Drop by the house tonight and you can pick it all up. Tanya’s making gnocchi.”

  “How’s she doing? How are the kids?”

  “Aw shit, Tanya’s getting fat and the kids are loud as hell, but what you gonna do?” The waiter brought the food, and Nero tucked a napkin into his collar. “They’re all good, Chucky. You should bring someone tonight, but not one of your toy girls, I mean a real date. I worry about you. You need to settle down.”

  “Alright, boss, I’ll make a call or two.”

  “I’ll see you tonight.” He hung up the phone and thought about whom to call for the job. It was an easy one, but fifty-thousand meant he should probably use top talent. He dialed again. No answer. He didn’t leave a message. She’d call back.

  Lewis was an idiot. Fifty-thousand dollars. He wanted Crane dead because of a girl. All the shit I gotta deal with because of girls. Jesus.

  Nero knew he’d have to be careful. A hit like this one could bring blowback. He was a client of that firm for years, and the relationship would be noted. When people ended up dead and his organization was even tenuously related to them, the cops came around. He poured himself some wine and noticed Lewis in the doorway holding a briefcase. He waved him forward.

  Lewis walked to the table and Nero directed one of his men to take the case. “Here’s the first half. When will this be done, Nero?”

  “Everyone’s out of town right now. Keep your fuckin’ pants on and your fuckin’ mouth shut.” Idiot. Nero went back to eating.

  Lewis stood at the table for a while until he realized he was dismissed and then he turned and walked out. Nero chuckled as he walked away.

  The waiter brought by a new lunch dish he wanted Nero to try, chicken with mushrooms and cream served over potatoes. He tried it. It was good. “Tell him to cut the potatoes smaller and put it on the menu.” The waiter nodded and offered to take the phone, but Nero waved him away. He finished the chicken and started on the meal he’d already ordered.

  The phone rang just as he was finishing up. He nodded to one of his men, and the man answered and then handed the phone over.

  “Nero.”

  “Ray-Ray. When you gonna finish up there? I got a job for you.”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  On the day she turned twelve years old, Noelle saw a teenage boy eviscerated by a bowie knife. He had awakened to find himself tied to a post in the basement. His eyes were wide with terror and his wrists were bleeding as he tried to pull himself free. The killer walked up to him, stabbed him just above the groin, and as he cried out an impossibly terrible howl of pain, drew it up through his abdomen to where the knife got stuck in his sternum.

  Noelle screamed as his intestines fell from his body, and then she and her girlfriends giggled while her mom delivered more popcorn and pizza.

  Every birthday from the time she was twelve until she left for college was a slumber party with all-night slasher films. Noelle had seen them all, watched the best killers at work. Freddie, Michael, Jason—all of them. Bloodbath after bloodbath. Naked high school girls and college cheerleaders running from madmen. “Don’t go in there!” “Look out!”

  She knew every horror convention there was. She knew the difference between Italian slashers, Scandinavian slashers, and Hollywood slashers. She knew the popular films. She knew the unknown films. Her mom and dad had been so relieved that their daughter, who seemed to care only about academics, had a mundane interest, no matter how violent or stomach turning the films seemed to them.

  Noelle sat on the floor in the hotel room holding Lolly and stroking her fur. The dog was wagging its tail lazily and whining softly with the strokes.

  Noelle did quick calculations in her head. It wasn’t surprising, really. She was generally unable to avoid doing quick calculations. Six birthdays, an average of nine hours of movies, an average of two point four dead bodies per hour. One hundred twenty-nine point six mutilated, stabbed, choked, slashed, or crushed bodies.

  And that covered only the birthday parties. She probably watched one additional film per week, an hour and a half each. That would give her more than eleven-hundred more dead bodies. Eleven-hundred twenty-three point two, to be exact.

  Not a single one of those bodies looked like Norwood or the man on the floor. They didn’t look like actors. There was no camera panning up from their legs to their heads, following the path of the other actors. There was no music in the background, no audience in the theatre or girlfriend on the couch. No heroes were stumbling into the room to discover the murders and formulate plans.

  They looked just like carcasses, like the cows Rocky Balboa used for training in the first movie.

  Lolly yipped, and Noelle realized she was squeezing him hard. She let the dog go and he trotted into a corner and lay down. Noelle got off the floor and walked to the bed, where she’d dropped Norwood’s laptop. She sat beside it and stared at it for a while. Norwood had—

  Wait, what did he tell me to call him? Tommy. Tommy Norwood had used this laptop just hours ago, probably getting stuff together for his big date – his big date with her.

  She felt dirty. She felt dirty and scared and shocked and sad. She felt like how Roddie must have felt about Sienna, except that Roddie loved Sienna and Tommy Norwood was just a poor fat man she met once at a bar. He was a poor fat man who probably never had
a girl treat him nicely, and she had tried to trick him into revealing information.

  She reached for the laptop, and opened it. The guy didn’t even have it password protected. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, but she didn’t touch the keys. She couldn’t. She wanted to, but her hands didn’t listen. Instead, they started to shake.

  She watched her hands shaking in front of her and then felt her chest shaking too. Tears spilled from her eyes, fell down her face freely, and she brought her hands to her face and sobbed.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Yurk walked back into the room, beaming a little. He thought he had something. He sat down on the chair opposite Crane and said nothing. Crane began a countdown. Thirteen seconds… twelve… eleven…

  He got down to two before Yurk spoke. “So, uh, Crane. Who was with you in the house?”

  Crane smiled. “You know, Detective, I speak a little French and a little Italian. I could say I already talked to an officer in one of those languages. I mean, if you think that will help you to understand better.”

  Yurk snarled, but he wasn’t really pissed. He thought he had something. “Okay, wiseass. Why don’t you tell me how you called 911?”

  “Detective Yurk, have you never used a cell phone?” This was too easy.

  “Your cell phone isn’t working, asshole.”

  “Why, Detective! Please tell me you didn’t try to access information on my cell phone without probable cause or a warrant.”

  That flustered Yurk. Now he was pissed. “Listen, you shit. I made a couple of calls. I know all about you. You aren’t a lawyer anymore, you got kicked out. You almost landed in jail.”

  “Gee, Detective. If you really know all about me, you have to know I made a career of exploiting that word, uh, ‘almost’ I mean.” Crane smiled at Yurk and blinked a few times.

  “Listen to me, Crane. I …” Yurk paused. Crane waited. “I’ll keep you here all night.” He was imploding now.