“Private. It’s private business that he wouldn’t want you hearing about.”
“I know about all of Mr. Sledge’s affairs.”
I wondered if she intended the double entendre.
“Not this one,” I assured her.
“Give me your number. I’ll ask him to call you back.”
“Now or never, Delphine.”
“Hold on.”
While waiting, I did a little math, coming up with a number that was maybe the last digit of the combination to Roger’s secret. I was about to test that calculation when a silken-toned tenor got on the line.
“Lon Preston?”
“Mr. Sledge?”
“How can I help you?”
“I have a problem that coincides with an issue you’re having.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Oh? You mean the FBI, heating oil, and Tava Burkel’s real name aren’t things that make your dick soft?”
Blessed silence.
“Who is this?”
“Just a guy who wants parity. We meet, exchange a few words, and then all our problems will be solved.”
“How much do you want?”
“Not a dime.”
“So why are we talking?”
“Meet me and you’ll find out.”
“There’s nothing you’ve said that would make me want to meet with you.” He sounded very certain.
“No, Mr. Burkel? Really?”
More silence.
“Where?” Sledge asked.
“Dead center of the pedestrian passway on the Brooklyn Bridge. Tonight. Midnight.”
“You think I’m a fool?”
“Only if you don’t show.”
I hung up. I wasn’t worried about repercussions over using my office phone because I had the best protection software that blackmail could buy.
Feeling undeservedly good about myself, I went to the outer office.
Oliya was sitting in my daughter’s chair reading a Spanish novel titled She Opened the Box.
“So what did you want to talk about?” I asked, taking the visitor’s seat.
Oliya put down the myth made modern. “I called a friend at Int-Op. My mentor. The woman that brought me in.”
“Somebody you can trust?”
“Nothing’s for sure, but — I think so.”
“And what did she say?”
“Int-Op is a very old company. More than a hundred years. They started in the United States and then moved the base of operations to Europe in the 1950s. My division works mostly for big corporations dealing with everything from kidnapping to corporate espionage, but the majority of the staff now consists of hackers researching and protecting sensitive data.
“Still, the company has deep roots in the kind of work I do. That’s why I wouldn’t tell you about our relationship with Zyron. In a perfect world any association we have with them should not compromise what we’re doing for you.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“But it seems that Zyron and maybe others have bought off certain key representatives. That’s what my friend says.”
“Do they know who these people are?”
“No.”
“But they know you.”
“Yes.”
“They trust you.”
“As far as I know.”
“You need to go take care of business?”
“Right now my job is to protect you.”
An hour later I was sitting in my office again looking out on Montague Street. There was nothing to do until late night. Oliya would cover the Manhattan entrance while Mel would guard the Brooklyn side. In the meantime I could watch the pedestrians making their way down a street they could no longer afford.
I was so into the sights that when the phone rang I was startled.
“Hello.”
“Joe?”
“Henri, my man.”
“I don’t know what you could be looking for here, but I got some of the story if you want it.”
“Hit me.”
“It happened nearly fifty years ago. A very popular junior at Yale, George Laurel, was killed in his New Haven apartment by another student named Sola Prendergast. Sola came from Argentina. He was poor but that year they were looking for bilingual students with fair grades.”
“Did he give any reason for the killing?”
“No. He just pled guilty and took a life sentence.”
“What prison he in?”
“He was in Bridgeport Correctional but got released in ’92. Upon release he was deported back to Argentina.”
I tried, in my mind, to connect this half-a-century-old seemingly senseless murder to Quiller. All I got was a mental cramp.
“You need anything else, Joe?” Henri asked.
“Yeah. A factory job putting cheap shoes in cardboard boxes.”
I looked up Alexander and Cassandra Ferris and their college educations. He went to Harvard and she to Princeton. He was a fuckup at school; his sister, on the other hand, attained the distinction of summa cum laude. Neither one had anything to do with Yale. Their father didn’t seem to spend much time there either.
George Laurel would have to wait.
I leaned back in the swivel chair and put both feet up on the desk.
I was at a country fair in the late day. It was different from most fairs in that they had a zoo but all the animals, from elephants to lions, were walking among the people come to gawk at them. There was a river with seals and sea lions lolling on the banks. The hot dog vendor didn’t charge and the lions yawned lazily. There was a tall, very tall and lanky man who wore a stovepipe top hat the crown of which must have stood a good yard above his brow. His green dress jacket had big yellow stars sewn on it. This ringmaster, this circus boss, had a perpetual grin plastered on his face. He was looking around the crowd, for something.
When he turned that gaze on me I experienced a thrill of fear.
He took a step in my direction.
I set off at a run. I was hoofing it but for some reason made little headway. The man in the top hat was walking and still catching up. His tooth-filled grin was feral. I ran harder but he was closing the gap. Then I slammed into an extinct cave bear. Falling to the ground I saw that the circus boss had caught up with me. He held out a helping hand but I knew that he wanted to capture me, to make me a part of his carnival.
I cringed, closing my eyes and praying for escape.
“Joe.”
28
Oliya was standing next to the chair, jostling my shoulder.
“It’s ten thirty,” she said.
I sat up, shaking my head.
“Joe,” my newfound friend said again.
“I’m up.”
“We have to go.”
I pressed the heels of my palms against both orbital bones.
“Sure,” I said. “Of course. You go get the car and I’ll make it there on my own.”
Looking down at my forearms and desk, I felt her considering my words. Then she was gone.
I was approaching the Washington Street pedestrian entrance to the bridge about forty-five minutes later. Melquarth was standing at the top of the concrete stairs.
“Joe.”
“Hey.”
We shook hands.
“Wanna grab some chili up in Harlem after we’re through?”
“Okay.”
I walked on.
There wasn’t anything to go over with Mel. He’d attached microcameras overlooking the spot where the meeting was to take place so that he and Olo could watch without being seen. If any suspicious characters got on during the meeting, they’d follow — and respond accordingly.
I reached a spot where Mel had painted a small white X on the outer wall. If I stood there, the hidden, high-resolution camera lens would capture me — and anyone I was with. I also had a voice-activated digital recorder inside an empty pack of Kool cigarettes in my shirt pocket.