“You wouldn’t take my calls, Richard, and I had an afternoon to kill.” Gilpin wrinkled his brow and looked behind me, through the open door. He lowered his voice.
“You a cop?”
“Not lately.”
“Private?” I nodded, and Gilpin relaxed minutely. “Working for who?”
I smiled at him and shook my head.
“I don’t know what your business is,” Gilpin said, “but I can tell you this isn’t the place to do it. The office isn’t open to the public, and management gets real nervous about visitors. From what I heard, the last guy who came sniffing around was lucky to get out with all his fingers attached. If I were you I’d hit the road, Jack.”
“And where is your management today, down in the Caymans or down the block getting takeout? By the way, do I call you Gilford around the office, or Richard, or just plain Dick?”
Gilpin blanched behind his tan. He got up, shut the door, and retreated behind his desk again. He moved quickly for a big man.
“You’re hysterical, buddy, a fucking riot. I figure you got about ten minutes before you’re laughing out your asshole, so make the most of them.”
I poked at the carpet with the tip of my umbrella. “I don’t need long, Richard. Just tell me when you last heard from your brother.”
“From Greg?” He snorted. “I never hear from that little prick, unless I call him- and I gave up on that a while ago.” Gilpin picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. He made a sour face and put it down. “And he’s my half brother.”
“So the last time you spoke to him was when?”
Gilpin’s mouth puckered with something worse than the taste of his coffee. “A year ago- no, fourteen months it was.”
“And?”
“And nothing. That’s the last time we talked. Full stop.” Gilpin looked at the door.
“What did you talk about?”
He wrinkled his brow some more, and anger began to vie with nervousness in his small deep eyes. “What the fuck business is it of yours?”
“I said I didn’t need long, Richard, but you’re slowing things down.”
Gilpin’s thin mouth twisted. He pointed a stubby tan finger at me. “Screw you, buddy. You’re nothing. I don’t have to tell you shit.”
I shrugged. “Of course you don’t, Richard, it’s your choice entirely. Just like it’s my choice to call your pals down at the SECin the enforcement division, maybe- and tell them where they can forward your Christmas card this year. I’m sure they’d be fascinated to hear what you and your associates are up to.”
Gilpin blanched again. “Hey, I don’t know those guys from Adam,” he said, pointing toward the door. “I don’t know what the hell they do out there, and I don’t ask; we just share the office.” But even he wasn’t convinced. He put his hands up and shook his head a little. “All right, all right: the last time I talked to Greg… I called him fourteen months ago, about some money, a loan I needed. My big brother ran true to form and told me to fuck off. I told him to screw himself, and that was the end. Conversation didn’t last ten minutes.”
“That the way it usually goes between you two?”
Gilpin made a mocking smile. “You’re real perceptive, pal. You must be a pro.”
“You know any of his friends? Anybody he’s close to?”
He barked a nasty laugh. “You think I know shit about his life? You think he’s had a goddamn thing to do with me since he went off to college? Christ, he barely had the time of day for me before then. Talk to his buddies on Wall Street if you want to know about him; talk to his dyke wife; talk to anybody but me.” Gilpin took another swallow of his coffee and made another wretched face.
“So you don’t know where he might go on vacation?”
The nasty laugh again. “I told you- I don’t know about Greg’s life, and I don’t want to. I got my own problems.” He gestured around the room and snorted. “I got my own fucking vacation to worry about, right here.” Gilpin picked up his coffee cup and arced it into the trash can in the corner. Coffee splashed on the wall and ran down the paneling; Gilpin didn’t seem to mind. He looked at me again.
“Greg’s missing?” he asked. “Is that what this is about?” Before I could answer, he screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his thick hands over his face. “Fuck it, I don’t want to know. Just do me a favor and get the hell out of here, will you?”
Gilpin slumped behind his desk, and I saw fatigue and chronic worry beneath his artificial tan. He was like a long-caged animaclass="underline" exhausted and resigned, any fight left in him no more than reflex. He hadn’t said much, but it was all he had. I got up.
Nothing had changed in the big room when I passed through; the boys were still smoking and working the phones, and this time no one raised a head. Something had changed in the reception area, though.
The girl was gone. In her place behind the desk was a compact man, wearing a green waterproof field jacket just like mine. He had short blond hair and precise handsome features on a narrow white face. His eyes were gray and slightly upturned and reminded me of the eyes of the girl who wasn’t there. The TV was still on, but it was C-SPAN, not sheep, that he was watching. He looked at me briefly and impassively when I came through the door, and then his eyes went back to the screen. I paused for a moment, expecting him to say something, but he didn’t. I crossed the room, and his hand dipped into his jacket pocket and came out with a phone. I left the office and found the elevator waiting in the empty hallway.
They were outside, just beyond the lobby doors, and there were three of them. Two were big, and the third was bigger. The two big men held wide golf umbrellas. One man was around thirty, with dirty-blond hair, tied in a ponytail. He had a lot of rings on his umbrella hand, and his high cheekbones, pointed nose, and V-shaped mouth made him look something like a shark. He wore a long canvas duster, fastened to the throat. The other man was older, with short dark hair, a neat beard, and suspicious eyes. He wore work boots and khakis and an expensive waterproof shell over a plaid shirt, and in other circumstances I might have taken him for an engineer or a geologist. They had a couple of inches on me, each, and an easy twenty pounds. The third guy was a different story altogether.
He was six-foot-six, at least, and nearly three hundred pounds, and his bald bullet-shaped head was mostly covered by an intricate tattoo: two dragons locked in mortal combat, their red fangs clashing at the top of his skull. A hint, perhaps, of what went on underneath.
His face was fleshy and hairless and fish-belly white. A pale blue scar ran from temple to cheek down the left side, and met up with another that ran across his chin. His brow was a shelf of bone above small black eyes and a nose that had been rebuilt several times. His mouth was a lipless wrinkle, and his arms looked like two sacks of rocks. He was dressed in black motorcycle leathers, black gloves, and heavy black boots, all soaked through with rain. Rain beat down on his bare head, and each drop seemed to enrage him. He seemed to like the feeling. His eyes were locked on me.
The geologist nodded. “Let’s get out of the rain while we talk,” he said. He motioned me under his big umbrella. He had an accent, but it was slight and I couldn’t place it. My carry permit is no good in Jersey, my gun was safe at home, and my options were limited. I nodded back at him, rolled up my umbrella, and stepped under his. The shark stepped in beside us and Attila brought up the rear. They walked me into the parking structure next door.
Inside, the two big guys closed their umbrellas and led the way up a ramp to the second level. Attila walked behind me and made kissing noises. The only car on the second level was a massive black Hummer. It had smoked windows and a big chrome brush bar, and it glistened with beaded rainwater. The two big guys walked toward it but stopped when they were twenty yards away. I stopped too. They turned to face me. Attila paced behind me and made sniffing sounds. The big guys looked at me and I looked back, and we stood that way for a while.