“Another one who lives her life out according to your good graces?”
“As you wish.”
“Well, your graces aren’t so good for our little friend Pansy. I found her nodding out on illegal make, taking it in the arm. Something called Blanketrol, for people who aren’t satisfied just to forget. According to a maker I talked to, Pansy is scooping out the insides of her head like a Halloween pumpkin.”
“Her brother committed a murder. I understand why she might want—”
“Yeah,” I said, cutting him off. “Who supplied her with the stuff?”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“As you wish.”
He smiled and took another sip from his drink. I took the opportunity to lean back and breathe slowly. I needed it I wasn’t accustomed to the questions going in both directions. Plus I felt a little hemmed in here, in Phoneblum’s underground house. I thought about the kangaroo and the man with the breath waiting in their brightly lit concrete bunker, and I wondered if it would be as easy getting out of this hole as it had been getting in.
“I don’t even use make,” said Phoneblum after swallowing the gulp of scotch. “Let alone distribute it. I’ve known about Pansy’s indiscretions for years, and it’s very distressing to hear she’s taken up the needle, but I’ve learned I’m powerless to stop it. Are you a user? I’ve never understood it, myself.”
“I’ve got a blend for when I need it.” I cursed myself silently for the defensive way it came out.
“The Office and the makery—they’re one and the same to me,” he said. “Make is a tool for controlling great masses of people. It homogenizes their response to repression, don’t you think? You consider yourself an outsider, a seeker of truth amidst lies, yet you’ve bought into the biggest lie that can be told. You snort that lie through your nose and let it run in your bloodstream.”
“Fuck you.”
“Woof.”
“Let’s get back to specifics,” I said. Control of the conversation kept reeling away from me. Phoneblum had actually reminded me that I could use a line or two of my blend, but I didn’t see anywhere handy to spread it out. “You’ve known Pansy for a couple of years. Who fathered the kid?”
“I have no idea,” he said.
“Who paid for the house? That’s a pretty nice neighborhood.”
He sighed again. “You’re forcing me into some uncomfortable revelations, Mr. Metcalf. Pansy Greenleaf worked for me once. I helped her acquire the Cranberry Street property two and a half years ago.”
“Two and a half years ago. The same time Celeste married Stanhunt”
“Is that true? How interesting.”
“Yeah. Interesting. Were Celeste and Pansy friends back then?”
“I recommended Pansy for a job in Maynard’s office,” Phoneblum explained. It started to smack of improvisation, but his verbal skills were bridging the gaps in logic. “It didn’t work out, but the women remained friends.”
“A few years ago that wasn’t Maynard Stanhunt’s office,” I reminded him. “It belonged to Dr. Testafer. I guess you helped with the transition.”
“Indeed.”
“Why your interest in the practice? What was in it for you?”
“I have need of doctors,” he said. I waited for him to continue but he didn’t.
I finished my drink and put the empty glass on the floor between my feet and his. “You mentioned another detective who warned off better than I did.”
“After you refused Maynard your services, he turned to me to arrange for someone to ‘keep tabs,’ as you said, on Celeste. I hired another man to pick up where you left off. Maynard left it to me—after his bad experience with you he didn’t want to meet the new fellow, and I obliged him in that.”
“What’s his name?”
“I have a feeling you want to go and bother the man.”
“That’s right.”’
“He didn’t last long, you know. He was fired six days before the murder.”
“Great. What’s his name?”
The big man chuckled. “What would be my motive for telling you that?”
“Simple. I’ll find out one way or another. Either you tell me or I bother your loved ones about it.”
“Very well. There’s something I like about letting you go on thinking your threats are effective with me. I suppose I admire your bluster. His name is Walter Surface. But you’ll find he knows nothing.”
“I’m still interested. Who watched Celeste after Surface?”
“After two failures I was able to convince Maynard of the futility of outside surveillance. He requested that my staff keep an eye on Celeste, and I agreed. That was the end of it.”
“Was anyone shadowing her at the time of the murder?”
Phoneblum’s face clouded. I’d stumbled onto something, but I didn’t know what. He puffed up his cheeks and then let them slacken like a rubber bellows. His free hand stroked his beard while his forehead enacted its ritual dance. “Unfortunately, no,” he said softly. “We have no record of her whereabouts.”
Had Celeste done the killing, after all? And was Phoneblum trying to cover for her?
It seemed wrong, but I didn’t know what seemed righter. “What was Stanhunt doing in the Bayview Motel?” I asked.
“If only I knew.”
“Were you ever questioned by the Office? You’re in this up to your neck.”
“The Office doesn’t question me,” he said in a flat tone. I guess he was just being honest. He seemed to have fallen into an introspective, distracted mood. “Besides, my hands are clean. That must be evident even to you.”
“The Office doesn’t seem to bother you—yet on the phone you jumped at the mention of Morgenlander. What makes him different?”
“Morgenlander is an outsider. He’s a crusader, and he’s unwelcome.”
“You contradict yourself, Phoneblum. The Office is your friend or it isn’t. You can’t have it both ways.”
“The Office and I have arrived at an understanding. An iconoclast like Morgenlander is a threat to stability. He pokes around at things that don’t require his attention. Like you.”
“Thanks. I felt an instant affinity with the guy when he smacked me in the mouth.”
“You’re quite a complainer, Mr. Metcalf. I should think you take such things in stride by now.”
Trying to think of an answer just made me feel tired. I picked up my glass and got out of the chain.
“I’m sorry,” said Phoneblum. “I should have offered you a second.”
“No, but thanks no. I’m drinking on an empty stomach.” I put my glass in the cabinet with the bottles and wiped the condensation from my hands on the seat of my pants. “I guess I’ll stop bothering you. Thanks for your time.”
“Just a minute. Why do you think I permitted you to question me?”
“You tell me.”
“I like you. I believe your intentions are honorable. It pleases me to save you trouble. Drop the case now and I’ll see to it that your missing karma is restored. There’s no future in this inquisition, Mr. Metcalf. No future at all.”
“You like to mix up your threats with your enticements, Phoneblum.”
“I haven’t threatened anyone. I simply want to repair the damage that’s already been done.”
“The damage to Angwine is on the verge of becoming unrepairable. Nobody will maintain his body. He’ll get shuffled into some cut-rate ice chest and disappear forever.”
Phoneblum smiled in a complicated way. It gave me the feeling I was touching on something again, but I didn’t know what, and Phoneblum wasn’t about to set me straight.
“You have a very cynical view of our penal system, Mr. Metcalf,” he said softly. “Cynical, yet somewhat naive. What makes you think unsponsored bodies necessarily remain frozen?”