Meanwhile, the righteous indignation, accumulating within the collective battery of the traffic jam Brome was bypassing without properly explaining himself, began to spill over. The iron herd mooed loudly in outrage. He ignored them for about five minutes, refusing to settle the matter by placing the flasher on his roof, when a black Toyota fell in behind him. As he watched in the rear view mirror, another car jumped out of the throng to follow the Toyota. Ahead, skyscrapers rose like peaks he was about to conquer. By the time they blocked out the sun, it was quiet again, and Brome’s escort counted no less than three dozen cars.
Brighton met him in the garage. He waved his notebook in the air, as though to drive away all pleasant thoughts.
“Guess how many contacts I have for Whales in the last five years?” he asked. “I mean aside from other celebrities, hired labor and one night stands.”
Brome waited.
“Three. His ex-wife, with whom he hasn’t spoken in months, his doctor and his producer, both of whom are technically hired labor. That’s it. Can you believe it? Whales is a celebrity with no friends.”
“That doesn’t really surprise me,” replied Brome. Brighton nodded, as though to show that it didn’t really surprise him either. What if I were to compile such a list for you? Brome thought suddenly. What if I made it for myself?
No one had friends. The very concept of friendship was outdated. An archaism, leftover from the previous millennium. If you were to utter the word “friend” seriously, using it in conjunction with a possessive pronoun, in the presence of other people, the expression would embarrass everyone involved.
There were plenty of less ear-jarring synonyms in use, like partner, neighbor, coworker, classmate, compatriot and buddy. Of these, “buddy” was the one closest to the embarrassing old version, but it sounded less implicating, it sounded as though it was an inside joke, that’s why it was popular. Of course, in reality, that’s really what “buddy” was — a joke. The funny guy who came to watch the game at the bar. The guy, whose shoulders you weren’t afraid to wrap you arm around briefly at a barbecue.
I wonder if Brighton thinks I am his friend, Brome thought, clicking the seat belt.
“How about family? Parents?”
“They were in San Diego in ‘17.”
“No luck?”
“No.”
“I’m guessing none of these three live within five miles of the place the police lost him yesterday.”
“Not even within ten. But I’m hoping one of them might know something we don’t. Maybe a new habit, a dealer’s name, a place.”
Brome had no such hope, but he said nothing. Although ignorant of the HAPAL scale, Brome was well aware of Brighton’s — another semi-official thing — higher rank within their duo. Brighton had the track record. Brighton brought results. That’s why Brighton tolerated Brome’s frequent, semi-insolent questions. Brome was the question guy; Brighton was the answer guy. Brighton was there to make Brome a better fed.
First they went to Whales’s TV studio, which occupied the seventy-seventh floor of a ninety-story skyscraper on Wabash. The place trembled with chaotic shouting and panicky movement. As soon as the word got out that the federal agents had arrived, the shouting ceased, but the movement intensified. Staff positively ran in all direction. At the same time, the people responsible for Whales’s TV show avoided contact with the feds so much that they preferred to run into walls and each other over coming within reaching distance of the agents. Brome looked around. There’s at least one happy person on this floor somewhere, he thought. Brighton frowned, grabbed somebody with his tractor-beam gaze and arranged passage to the producer’s office.
The receptionist squeaked and pointed at the door, half out of her chair and half-smiling.
“Special Agent Brighton. This is Special Agent Brome,” Brighton announced, entering the bleak room with a long table, at the end of which, a red-faced man in a white shirt stretched tight over his abdomen struggled to rise.
“Yes, a good morning, if you would call the dawn of Apocalypse that. James Cornwell. I’ll do my best, although…” He didn’t finish the phrase, as though the ending was too obvious to bother.
Having uncorked from behind the desk, Mr. Cornwell showed surprising agility, jumping towards them on short legs. He thirsted to shake their hands, and Brighton allowed it. The producer beamed momentarily, before slumping back into appropriate sadness.
“Luke, old sport…” He almost sobbed. Brome glanced at him with brief interest, then tuned out, looking out of the window at the infinite city stretching westwards. Brighton took over, wasting almost twenty minutes.
They wasted another fifteen speaking with several studio grunts denounced by Cornwell. They had all just assumed Luke was sick. This was really, totally unexpected.
An hour later they were in the suburbs, ringing the bell of a red Victorian mansion.
Jennifer Carlson, as she had introduced herself, stood leaning on the counter by the sink much like Grace Brome had earlier that morning. A lingering habit, perhaps, from her married days. The kitchen was, of course, a lot larger, packed with all sorts of electronics, crystal and china. It also had no chairs, so they drank gourmet coffee standing up.
Besides that coffee, they didn’t get anything of value out of Ms. Carlson either. Her boyfriend, a curly-haired jock with an ice patch on his chin, fidgeted nearby. When Brighton questioned him on what he did for a living, he blushed, grabbed his chin, winced, and mumbled something to the effect of being an actor. He blushed even more when asked to point out the exact spot where Mr. Whales had punched him, but stayed when dismissed, taking hold of his girlfriend’s hand when Brighton continued to ask about Whales in general.
That’s when the phone rang, and they were soon in the Yukon again, buzzing back towards the city, because the surveillance team seemed to have found something. Brome studied the image they sent over while Brighton drove. It was a picture shot from one of the traffic cameras. A blue Civic, pushing twenty years probably, a girl at the wheel and a man in the seat next to her. No sign of Whales, but the man was fat, mustached, wearing a black jacket. Brome turned the screen towards Brighton, incredulous.
“Fat cop in civvies?”
Brighton took a glance and couldn’t help a triumphant little smile.
“That,” he said, “is Lloyd Freud. The second marshal.”
Chapter Nine
Lloyd told Iris to park the “Civic” on the side of a narrow tree-lined street four blocks away from our destination. Trees stood naked in their lines. Black oily leaves coated the lawns and some of the cars. It was around seven in the morning. It began to drizzle as we walked.
“Chicago weather for you,” Lloyd said cheerfully. “The climate in the whole world can go straight to hell, but you can never tell in Chicago, because the weather here changes three times a day. You just keep on living as if nothing’s happening.”
I didn’t comment. I thought it was a stupid thing to say. Iris was silent as well, and looked a little cold. It wasn’t the best morning to be out, having the adventure which could lead to imprisonment or death.
We followed Lloyd into an alley, coming eventually to the rear of what seemed to be a strip mall. The moist parking lot we entered was empty.
“Whatever it is, looks like it’s closed,” I said.
Lloyd grinned. “The house of the Lord never closes.”
“You brought me to see a priest?”
“He’s also a doctor when he feels like it. A healer of souls and a healer of bodies are the same person for once.”
“I don’t need a healer of anything,” I argued.
“But I do,” Lloyd said. I was beginning to understand.