The talking head, meanwhile, continued.
…Luke Whales is being sought nationally in connection to the murder of a U.S. Marshal, Samuel O’Malley, whose body was found at Mr. Whales’s Chicago downtown penthouse. In a brief statement, an anonymous medical expert from Freedom Corp., the manufacturer of the antidepressant medicine Mr. Whales reportedly failed to ingest, said the side effects of the treatment interruption, thought to have caused Mr. Whales’s alleged mental breakdown, are not uncommon. Steps are being taken to improve awareness and eliminate such unfortunate accidents in the future, the official added. Freedom Corp. will continue to be committed…
“Great. Now I’m a TV star too,” said Iris.
…Sports and Weather will continue after these important messages…
Dr. Young switched off the TV. Iris slid deeper into the couch and crossed her legs in a simple lotus position. I almost apologized to her again, but remembered our earlier conversation and refrained.
“So what now, Doc?” I asked instead. “Want to run the plan for tomorrow by me again? Apparently they are looking for Lloyd, too.”
“Let’s leave that for tomorrow, Mr. Whales.” Out of nowhere, the old man produced a joint and lit it. Puffing at it a few times, he rose from his seat in the corner and approached.
“This stuff from the good people at the lab too?” I asked, making no movement to accept.
“It’s medical,” the doctor rasped. “It’ll help you relax. It is my professional opinion, Mr. Whales.”
I shrugged and took the joint and a couple of hits, lapsing into a bout of throat-rending cough.
“No cough — no laugh,” Dr. Young remarked, letting the smoke out.
“I thought you were a priest,” I said to him through tears. I felt saliva accumulating in my cheeks. Iris took a single long hit, passing the joint back to Dr. Young.
“God sees absolutely nothing wrong with a little ganja.”
“What God is that?”
“There’s only one God.”
“What’s his name?”
“What’s in a name…?”
“No need to be so damn coy, doc. I know it can’t be Christ, so who is it that you serve? Allah? Was Buddha a pothead?”
“I don’t serve.”
“You preach.”
“Not really.”
“What the hell were you doing at the church with those people?”
“What people?”
“I don’t know. Your flock. You wouldn’t just sing for your own enjoyment, would you?”
“For yours, also. And that wasn’t exactly preaching.”
I took another hit. Now my mouth was suddenly dry. Iris began to smile.
“Wait, you chanted there in front of an empty church?”
“I didn’t chant ‘in front’ of anything, Mr. Whales. I just sang.”
I chuckled. Actually, I giggled.
“It’s official. Everybody here is crazy. And I’m the craziest one for hanging around without having a clue.”
“Would you prefer that world you just saw on the screen?”
“There’s only one world, doc. I would prefer to hear something that makes sense.” Grinning merrily, I turned to Iris. “You’re awful quiet, Ms. Smith. Go on. I am sure you got some pearl you’d like to share.”
She glanced at me sideways, nodded matter-of-factly, and said, “All right. Luke, I am an undercover DEA agent.” I very nearly fainted. Staring at her I froze with my mouth open. After a minute, they both began to shake with laughter. “It’s a joke, you gullible fool,” she managed eventually.
“See?” I cried. “And you said it was hard to mislead me now Mr. Whales, because I am not on the pill and all that.”
“You know, Mr. Whales, perhaps Mr. Freud was not that far off in his assessment of your—”
“Screw you, Doc. Screw both of you. You especially,” I told Iris, but a grin was already splitting my face. The joint was out.
Out of everything that happened to me in those two days, this was the weirdest thing. We laughed and told jokes late into the night, as though there was not an unanswered question in the world, as though no one had tried to shoot me earlier, as though a marshal hadn’t died in my kitchen, as though his murderer didn’t sleep upstairs. We laughed like no one ever died nor would die in the future. At around ten, when the weed began to wear off, and we began to feel sleepy, Dr. Young showed us to our separate rooms, which disappointed me a little. I even quipped something to the effect of some houses having way too many rooms for their size and went to sleep feeling relaxed and like a complete fool.
Chapter Twelve
Brome was looking up at a four-story condominium building, brand new and with only one duplex left unsold, according to the holographic billboard. The holographic, discounted price equaled twice the value of Brome’s house. This was where U.S. Marshal Lloyd Freud had lived for the last three months. A possible benefit of being single?
Though supposedly occupied to near capacity, the building stood completely dark. The rain had weakened. Brome flashed his badge to the two cops in an unmarked car parked on the other side of the street and climbed the porch. He was alone. Brighton had told him Freud’s apartment would be a waste of time. Brighton was irritated, because three hours later he still had no car and, what’s worse, zero additional information on Iris Smith. Her name was not on any of the bills; no Iris Smith resided at that address according to both, the DMV and the IRS. And the picture from the car still produced no definite match. A wall dared to oppose Special Agent Brighton, and for that he meant to demolish it with his head. Everything else was a waste of time.
Brome sprinted up two flights of stairs to get the blood flowing. Freud’s apartment was the one on the left, number five. He unlocked the door and entered slowly, steadying his breath. There was nothing to listen to. Not much to see, either. The living room Brome entered was bathed in pale orange glow of the streetlight. There was a leather sofa, a TV, which presently pulsed to life together with the lights, and a bar counter with three foggy glasses and seven different bottles of vodka. All of which had been in the report. But the people who wrote the report were not looking for Freud’s doctor.
Brome remembered that he was late to take his medicine. He went to the bathroom and got rid of another dose. His bottle had three pills left. He flushed and looked around. Freud’s bathroom was about halfway between Whales’s and his own. Expensive tiles and shinier metal, but no pool. The mirror was set up the same way, too. Brome pushed a button on top of the faucet. The mirror slid sideways, revealing the medicine cabinet. Where amidst cotton balls and disposable razor blades stood an orange plastic bottle, identical to the one Brome still held in his fist. He scanned the label and got the name and the address. The name was Freedom Corp. The address was their branch office in Skokie, Illinois. Not helpful. Brome scanned his own bottle and the name and address of his doctor immediately popped up. He scanned Freud’s bottle again. Freedom Corp. “This better not be a waste of time,” he said to himself. He called Data and sent them the scan.
“Coming up as Freedom internal.”
“Yes, I noticed. I need to know who wrote the prescription.”
“All right. I’ll call you back.”
There was nothing to do but go back to the car and start driving. Brome drove northward, wondering if the fact that he, Whales and Freud were all taking meds supplied by Freedom Corp. was as improbable a coincidence as it seemed. Because it definitely seemed pretty far out there, and probably was so, unless in reality everybody was secretly taking pills. Brome chuckled and shook his head.
About fifteen minutes later Brighton called.
“They found the car. You should have the location now. Still nothing on the girl. Any luck at Freud’s place?”