Career. Rothchild froze the display. “Career. Wait a minute.”
For several minutes he swam through the digitized information until he had what he wanted, something that had whizzed by hours before but now took on new meaning. A newspaper article, about some mobster beating a federal rap, and in particular the portion where the U.S. Attorney had none-too-kind words for the man of the night. “Oooh, I am thinking, I am thinking….”
Rothchild’s eyes glazed over for a long while, nothing in the room moving except the air through the vents. His mind worked, taking that which had happened and twisting it into a picture he wanted to see. Into a false reality, but one nonetheless as real as his own false existence.
And at some point his cheeks bulged above a grin, and his eyes narrowed. He had it. The picture. Whole. “Oh, Special Agent Jefferson, have I got a surprise for you.”
Art guided Simon through the living room of 2564 Vincent, leaving the lights off, and led him up the stairs where he finally turned a light on in Simon’s room.
The young man took a tentative step in, then another, and finally went to his bed and sat on the edge. His face angled toward a corner of his room, a corner where a large red rocking chair sat in pained stillness.
“Daddy’s gonna sing,” Simon said, then his jittery gaze shifted to the floor near his feet.
From where he stood just inside the doorway, Art brought his hands free of the pockets that provided the implements of nervous distraction. He clasped them first in front, then crossed his arms, then tucked his thumbs in his front waistband. Glancing down and picturing the image he thought, An Armani cowboy, and gave up, letting his hands back where they wanted to be, with the change and the keys that provided relief.
A minor relief.
And why did he need relief?
What is the matter with you? Art demanded of himself as he watched Simon begin to slowly rock where he sat on the bed. He’s the one who lost his parents. What’s your problem?
But he knew what his problem was. It was a lingering remnant of the old Art, pre-heart attack, pre-new life. A trait that was part of his successes and part of his failures. He was sure there was a gene in his makeup just for it.
You want to fix it. You want to make it right for him.
Simon stood and went to the chair, but he did not sit. Instead he touched the wooden arm. After a moment he pulled out his cards and flipped through them, searching, it appeared to Art, for an explanation, an answer. You and me both, kid.
“Daddy…”
Art walked to where Simon stood and put a hand on his shoulder. The cards disappeared back beneath a pull over sweater.
“Where did Daddy sing to you?”
Simon caressed the worn arm of the rocker. It moved eagerly beneath his touch.
Art watched the motion and thought how soothing it was, remembering his grandmother rocking him when he was young. He wondered quietly, equating it with Simon’s seemingly furtive motions, the rocking, the swaying, wishing he knew if he found comfort in it.
“Do you want to sit?” Art asked. The rocker moved, old wood moaning softly against the hardwood floor.
“Daddy’s gonna sing,” Simon repeated.
Art eyed the chair thoughtfully. “Did Daddy sit here? And sing to you?”
Simon reached over and took Art’s left hand in his, and squeezed hard. “Daddy sits in the chair and sings.”
The skin, cold and soft, churned a pang in Art’s gut, and he said, “What did Daddy sing, Simon?”
Simon let go of Art’s hand and backed away, once again sitting on the edge of his bed, downcast face toward the rocker.
Dammit, what is it?! Art swore internally. I don’t know what he wants! He’s sitting here just like at our house, except there it’s an empty corner. Here it’s a…
Anne heard the garage door open, her cue to get the sundaes from the freezer and top them with whipped cream and a drizzle of glorious chocolate. As the door from the garage to the house opened, she decided that she wouldn’t tell Art that she had snuck a few spoonfuls of Hersheys earlier. To test it, of course.
“Well, my men, how did it…” Surprise screwed onto Anne’s face at what came in the door, Simon in the lead, followed by Art, and a big red rocking chair in a stretcher-carry between them. “What is that?”
Two hours later, Art came to bed after turning the lights out in the guest room.
“Is he?” Anne asked hopefully, rolling toward her husband.
“He’s under the covers and it’s not even midnight,” Art said, sliding into bed and turning off the light on his nightstand. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, shining off their skin as Art pulled Anne close. “Staring at that rocker.”
They held each other tight, Anne letting one finger trace random patterns through the hair on his chest. “It’s something familiar to him. Comforting, you know. What’s his name in the Peanuts always has his blanket. Pigpen, or Schroeder. I can never remember. But it’s the same thing.” She kissed his chest and said, “You did good, G-Man.”
Art said nothing back. When Anne rose up on one elbow she saw that he was fast asleep.
Chapter Ten
The Spark
Leo Pedanski had no sooner come into the Puzzle Center when Craig Dean was on his feet. The taller man’s hair, usually in a pony tail that at least made one wonder if he’d washed it recently, hung loose and dirty, strands and clumps going every which way. His eyes were open but glassy. He snatched his jacket from a cluttered table and pushed his lanky arms through the sleeves.
“Where’s Vik?” Dean asked, his voice hoarse. He coughed and spit into a used coffee cup.
Pedanski came no further into the room. He’d never seen Dean look this bad. “Man, you look absolutely toasted.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed through a yawn. He looked quickly around and tested three soda cans resting near the main console, choosing the one with the most heft and downing the remnants with a fast gulp. “So where’s Vik? He’s supposed to relieve me.”
“We switched,” Pedanski said, coming past Dean, his nose twitching. “Man, take a shower, Craig.”
Dean sneered at his illustrious leader. “Yeah, like fucking when do I have time for hygiene?”
“Ease up, man,” Pedanski reacted. He checked the activity log. “Anything?”
“What does the log say?” Dean asked sarcastically as he headed for the door, haste in his step.
“Where are you going?” Pedanski asked innocently.
“Fucking home, Leo,” Dean answered brusquely. “Where else would I go?”
Just one step into Art Jefferson’s office and Lomax knew that something was different about his number two. “You get lucky last night?”
“No, I got some sleep,” Art said. Lomax took a seat and swung his feet onto the visitor side of Art’s desk.
“How’s the Bell investigation coming?”
“Slow,” Art replied. He took a sip from his coffee mug and made a silent offer to Lomax.
“No thanks. Red tape trouble?”
Art set the mug down. “More like red armor.”
Lomax thought for a few seconds. “We could shake things up a little. Get the U.S. Attorney in on this.”
“Breem?” Art’s head shook. “Give me a little more time, Bob. I’ve got other approaches to try.”
“Have you talked to Simon yet?”
“About the night? No, not yet.” Art stood from his chair, stretched, and leaned against the window ledge. “I know I need to, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to give us anything of use.”