As I unwrap the package I notice my ringers are trembling; Emma's breath is coming in shallow bursts. Yet the bubble-wrapped object is neither a lid of grass nor a pistol. At first glance I mistake it for an eight-track cassette, but it's slightly larger and thicker. "Let me take a look," Emma offers. She turns the black plastic box around in her hands. "See that little doohickey? This thing plugs into a computer."
"What could it be?"
"I haven't got a clue," Emma says, "but I know who would."
"Oh no. Not on a Friday night."
"It's now Saturday morning." She points at her watch.
"Three a.m. We can't possibly do this now," I insist.
"Why not?"
"Because." Hell, I tell myself, just get it over with. "Because he'll have company."
"Oh, who cares," Emma says merrily. "Honestly, Jack."
In the car I twist up the volume on the StomatoseCD and, in memory of the late Jay Burns, play for Emma one of his collaborations with Jimmy Stoma.
Three days in the sack and my dreams came true
But you gotta let me up 'cause I'm all black 'n' blue.
Don't take it personal, ooooh, don't pitch a fit.
My gums are bleedin' and the motor's quit.
I love you, baby, but I'm all humped out.
I love you, baby, but I'm all humped out.
Aw, I want you, baby, but I'm ... all ... humped ... OUT!
"Catchy," Emma says thinly. She remains unconvinced of Jimmy Stoma's genius.
"Could you hear Burns on the piano?"
"Not really, Jack."
"Doing his Little Richard bop."
"Who's Little Richard?" she asks.
"You're breaking my heart."
I'm pulling into the driveway of Juan's house when Emma says, "I've never been here before."
"Then you should be warned: This is where he frequently sleeps with women."
"I'll try not to make a scene," Emma says.
The house is dark. I knock firmly on the door. She stands back, clutching the gadget we found inside the scuba tank.
"Maybe he's not home," I say hopefully.
"His Jeep's in the carport," Emma notes.
I knock again, harder this time. A light appears through a side window and soon we hear voices, plural.
"Juan!" I call out. "Hey, Juan, it's me!"
The door cracks open. "Obituary Boy?"
"Yeah. You decent?"
Juan pokes his head out, blinking fuzzily.
"Hi," Emma says.
"Hi there." Juan reddens. "Look, I"
Here I leap in with abject apologies and begin to relate the turbulent events of the evening. He cuts me off and waves us in. Emma and I choose an overstuffed sofa and sit side by side, like a couple, while Juan hurries to the bedroom to change. Again voices are heard, but Emma is unflinching. Her expression suggests she approves of Juan's taste in art and furniture. When he returns, in wrinkled blue jeans and a polo shirt, he is accompanied by a stunning black-haired woman whom I recognize as Miriam, the orthopedic surgeon. She now is wearing Juan's robe, making a statement.
"Miriam, you remember Jack," Juan says, nervously smoothing his hair, "and this is Emma, she works at the newspaper, too. She's an editor."
Miriam acts unimpressed but Emma is smooth as silk. The two women exchange cool hellos. Juan looks at me pleadingly and all I can do is wince with remorse.
"We won't stay long," Emma says, and hands the black box to Juan. "We think it attaches to a computer."
He nods. "Sure does. Connects right here, with a cable." Out of courtesy he shows it to Miriam, who also nods. When I sneak a glance at Emma, a smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
"It's an external hard drive," Juan says.
"What does it do?"
"Whatever it's told. Where'd you get this?"
We can't tell him, not with Miriam hovering. She is intently curious about the reason for our visit; only high drama can excuse an interruption at this hour.
"It's a long, messy story," I tell Juan.
Emma pipes up: "Jack's working on an investigation." Words I never dreamed I'd hear her say.
Juan winks at me. I ask him if the hard drive will fit on my computer at work.
"Might," he says, "but it'll probably come up as gibberish on your screen." He explains that the device is like a disembodied brain. "You can't just plug it in anywhere and expect it to zap back to life. You need to figure out how it was programmed before you can find out what's inside."
And what's inside that little box, I'm hoping, is the key to Jimmy Stoma's death.
Emma says to Juan, "Can you give it a try?"
His eyes flick painfully from Emma to Miriam, and then to me. He says, "Um ... not tonight. How about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is fine," I say.
He peers at my lumpy face. "Man, you all right? Looks like you fell down three flights of stairs."
"Two," I say with a crooked smile. "And would you believe I was dead sober."
Miriam, the physician, feels obliged to let us know she isn't fooled by our light bonhomie. "You've been beaten up," she says sternly. "You've been punched in the face."
"Yes, and elsewhere." Suddenly I don't feel so chipper. "Come on, Emma, let's be on our way. These two kids need some shut-eye."
Just as I'm approaching the car, the flagstones in Juan's yard start dodging my feet. Emma orders me into the passenger seat, where I prop my clammy forehead against the window.
"Thanks for driving," I say.
"Welcome."
"You okay?"
"Better than you. Take a nap."
"She's a doctor. Miriam is." For some inexplicable reasonor perhaps as an unfortunate side effect of the concussionI decide Emma should know that Juan has high standards. He doesn't screw just anybody. "A trained surgeon," I add.
"Well, she's very pretty."
I hear myself saying, "Not as pretty as you."
"Jack, you're so full of shit."
"Fine."
God, do I feel wretchedthis is the worst possible time to be alone with Emma. I'm liable to blow everything. When I ask her to turn down the volume on the stereo, she says, "Gladly." It will be her final word on Stomatose.
As we pull up to her driveway, she snatches the car keys out of the ignition. "You're in no shape to go home."
"Give 'em here! I'll be all right."
"Don't be a jerk."
So I'm back on her couch, with a sweaty palmful of aspirin and a forehead packed under ice. She's wearing an oversized Pearl Jam T-shirt and padding barefoot around the place, turning off lamps and checking the locks.
"Jack, wouldn't it be something," she's saying, "if they're trying to knock off the band?"
"Who?"
"Wellfirst Jimmy Stoma dies, and now Jay Burns. What if somebody's killing off the Slut Puppies one by one?"
Emma slips into the bathroom, out of view. I can hear the assiduous brushing of teeth. "Fink a bow id," she gurgles.
"I've heard of careers being murdered," I say, "but never a whole band."
When Emma returns, she smells like a mint. "Well, who's left?"
"The lead guitarist died a few years ago, so there's really just the two bass players."
"What about a drummer?"
"Jimmy went through a dozen of 'em," I say.
The apartment is dark except for a light on the nightstand in Emma's bedroom.
"Maybe you should talk to them. The bass players," she suggests.
"Whenbetween dead rabbis?"
"Hey, didn't I give you a week to crack the case."
"'Crack the case'?" All of a sudden I'm Angela Lansbury.
Emma rolls her eyes and heads for the sack. Moments later, her room goes black. I swallow the aspirins dry, and blink exhaustedly. Bedsprings squeak as Emma arranges herself beneath the covers. In the darkness I hear myself saying, "Hey, I never answered your snoopy question."
"What's that?" Emma calls back, testily.
"You asked if I was sleeping with anybody. Well, I'm not."
"I know." She replies so quietly I can barely hear it. "Get some rest, Jack." And I obey ...
Later I awake to a rhythm of breathing that's not my own. The ice has been removed from my brow, and my cheeks have been patted dry. Emma is pulling the blanket down to cover my feet.