Matt frowned. "A financial bigwig needs to do this?"
"You don't want to know."
Cingle took Matt's phone, dialed in her number, answered her phone. She handed his cell phone back to him. "Attach it to your belt. If you're in trouble, just yell for help."
"Okay."
The lobby was empty. Not a surprise considering the hour. He heard a bell ding when the glass door slid open. The night shift receptionist, an unshaven blob who resembled an overstuffed laundry bag, staggered into view. Matt waved to him without slowing, trying to look as if he belonged. The receptionist returned the wave, staggered back.
Matt reached the elevator and pushed the call button. There was only one working elevator car. He heard it start toward him with a grunt, but it took its time coming. Images again started flashing through his head. That video. The platinum-blonde wig. He still had no idea what it all meant, no clue at all.
Yesterday Cingle had compared all this to stepping into a fight- you couldn't predict the outcome. But here he was, about to open a door literally, and in truth he had no idea what he'd find behind it.
A minute later, Matt stood in front of the door to Room 515.
The gun was still on him. He debated taking it out and hiding it behind his back, but no, if Talley saw it, this would all go wrong. Matt lifted his hand and knocked. He listened. A noise came from down the corridor, a door opening, maybe. He turned.
Nobody.
He knocked again, harder this time.
"Talley?" he shouted. "You in there? We need to talk."
He waited. Nothing.
"Please open up, Talley. I just want to talk to you, that's all."
And then a voice came from behind the door, the same voice he'd heard on the phone: "One second."
The door to Room 515 opened.
And suddenly, standing in front of him, with that blue-black hair and knowing scowl, was Charles Talley.
Talley stood in the doorway, talking on his mobile phone. "Right," he said to whoever was on the other end. "Right, okay."
He gestured with his chin for Matt to step inside.
And that was exactly what Matt did.
Chapter 26
LOREN THOUGHT about the jolt.
Matt had tried to cover it, but he'd reacted to the name Max Darrow. The question was, of course, why.
She actually took up Matt's challenge and semi-followed him- that is, she drove ahead and planted herself near the offices of MVD. She knew that the owner of the private investigation firm was an ex-fed. He had a reputation for discretion, but maybe he could be squeezed.
When Matt pulled in- just as he'd said- there were two other cars in the lot. Loren wrote down the license plate numbers. It was late. There was no reason to hang around now.
Twenty minutes later, Loren arrived home. Oscar, her oldest cat, nestled up for an ear scratch. Loren obliged but the cat quickly grew bored, meowed his impatience, and crept into the dark. There was a time when Oscar would dart away, but age and bad hips had ended that. Oscar was getting old. The vet had given Loren that look during the last checkup, the one that said she'd better start preparing. Loren blocked on it. In movies, it was always the kids who were, à la Old Yeller and its subsequent ripoffs, devastated by the loss of a pet. In reality kids get bored with pets. Lonely adults feel the loss most acutely. Like Loren.
It was freezing in the apartment. The air conditioner rattled against the windowsill, dripping water and keeping the room at a good temperature to store meat. Mom was asleep on the couch. The television was still on, playing an infomercial for some contraption guaranteed to give you six-pack abs. She flicked off the air conditioner. Her mother did not budge.
Loren stood in the doorway and listened to her mother's smoke-phlegm snore. The grating sound was something of a comfort- it eased Loren's own desire to light up. Loren didn't wake her mother. She didn't fluff her pillow or pull a blanket over her. She just watched for a few moments and wondered for the umpteenth time what she felt for this woman.
Loren made herself a ham sandwich, wolfed it down over the sink in the kitchen, and poured a glass of Chablis from a jug-shaped bottle. The garbage, she saw, needed to be taken out. The bag was overflowing, not that that ever stopped her mother from trying to stuff more into it.
She ran the dish under the faucet and lifted the garbage can with a sigh. Her mother still did not stir; there was no disturbance or variance in her phlegm-snore cycle. She took the bag to the Dumpster outside. The outside air was sticky. The crickets hummed. She tossed the bag on the heap.
When she got back to her apartment her mother was awake.
"Where were you?" Carmen asked.
"I had to work late."
"And you couldn't call?"
"Sorry."
"I was worried sick."
"Yeah," Loren said. "I saw how it affected your sleep."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Good night."
"You're so inconsiderate. How could you not call? I waited and waited-"
Loren shook her head. "I'm kinda getting tired of it, Mom."
"Of what?"
"Your constantly berating me."
"You want to throw me out?"
"I didn't say that."
"But that's what you want, isn't it? To have me gone?"
"Yes."
Carmen opened her mouth and put her hand to her chest. There was probably a time when men would react to such theatrics. Loren remembered all those photographs of the young Carmen- so lovely, so unhappy, so sure she deserved more.
"You'd throw out your own mother?"
"No. You asked if I wanted to. I do. But I won't."
"Am I that horrible?"
"Just… just stay off my back, okay?"
"I just want you to be happy."
"Right."
"I want you to find someone."
"You mean a man."
"Yes, of course."
Men- that was Carmen's answer to everything. Loren wanted to say, "Yeah, Mom, look at how ecstatically happy men have made you," but she bit down.
"I just don't want you to be alone," her mother said.
"Like you," Loren said, wishing she hadn't.
She did not wait for the response. She headed into the bathroom and started getting ready for bed. When she came out, her mother was back on the couch. The television was off. The air conditioner was back on.
Loren said, "I'm sorry."
Her mother did not reply.
"Were there any messages?" Loren asked.
"Tom Cruise called twice."
"Fine, good night."
"What, you think that boyfriend of yours called?"
"Good night, Mother."
Loren headed into the bedroom and switched on the laptop. While it booted up, she decided to check the caller ID. Nope, Pete, her new boyfriend, hadn't called- hadn't called, for that matter, in three days. In fact, other than those that had emanated from her office, there had been no new calls at all.
Man, that was pitiful.
Pete was a nice enough guy, on the overweight side and sort of sweaty. He worked some district job for Stop amp; Shop. Loren could never figure out what he did exactly, probably because it really didn't interest her much. They were nothing steady, nothing serious, the kind of relationship that just glides along, that scientific principle about a body in motion will keep moving. Any friction would pretty much stop it in its tracks.
She glanced around the room, at the bad wallpaper, the nondescript bureau, the Kmart snap-together night table.
What kind of life was this?
Loren felt old and without prospects. She considered moving out west- to Arizona or New Mexico, someplace warm and new like that. Start fresh with great weather. But the truth is, she didn't like the outdoors all that much. She liked the rain and cold because they gave her an excuse to stay inside and watch a movie or read a book guilt-free.
The computer sprang to life. She checked her e-mail. There was a message from Ed Steinberg sent within the hour:
Loren,