She allowed her fingers to trace his name and whispered, as she had so often done in the past, “Your little girl’s in over her head, Dad. Way over her head.”
• • •
An hour later she grabbed a coffee. Crap, at a place that should have been called D.C.’s Worst, she thought and made her way to Mallory’s office. She badged her way through security and was met by Emerson, who seemed as fresh as someone who’d had ten hours of sleep. Maybe he’d had ten hours of sleep.
“You look—”
“Fresh? Yes I do. You, on the other hand, look like a somewhat worn dishrag.”
“Thanks.”
“An attractive dishrag who’s in trouble.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I found it.”
“It?”
“You’ll see.”
“Enough. Where’s the meeting?”
“This way, Your Highness.”
As they walked, Yslan noted that government buildings were built like warrens—hives. She shivered as she realized that they were built that way to defeat an invading force—modern castles.
Emerson opened a door and stepped aside for her to enter ahead of him.
She did and was greeted by a sight that surprised her. Overnight the techs of Homeland Security had recreated in exacting detail the room above Harrison’s study and were just now adding the final touches. She turned to speak to Emerson, but Mallory was there.
“So what did you take?”
“Excuse me?”
“What did you take?” He grabbed her by her upper arm. His manicured nails bit into her flesh. He guided her to the shrine and pointed to the place on the pyramid of things that had formerly been occupied by the catalyst formula and the Bible citation. “There. Emerson says there had to be something there. What was there?”
“A picture.”
“Of?”
“Me.”
“And you took it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It was lewd.”
He stepped back to get a better look at her. “Lewd?”
“Yes. I don’t know how he got it but it was . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off, and she shook her head. When she looked up, Mallory was staring at her. Then he turned to Emerson.
“Are you sure?”
Emerson walked up to the shrine and spent a long time looking at the objects there. It surprised Yslan that Mallory waited patiently—but waited for what? For Emerson to do what?
Emerson turned to Mallory and said, “It wasn’t just a photograph.”
Yslan stared at Emerson, who raised his shoulders. “It’s a special talent of mine.” Yslan thought, Decker could tell when people were telling the truth, Viola Tripping could stand on the spot where someone had died and tell you what had been in his mind and Martin Armistaad could predict events based on the mathematical reality of pi. What is it that Emerson—
Emerson said simply, “People called my grandmother a witch. I was with her when she died. I was six. She taught me how to see patterns—even in her crazy quilt.”
Yslan vaguely remembered Decker talking about a thing that he called semblant order—was that what Emerson was talking about?
He was pointing at the pyramid again. “It looks random, where he put the objects, but there’s a pattern—and a nude picture of you, however charming that might be, doesn’t totally complete the pattern.”
“So what does?” It was Mallory, and he was openly angry.
Yslan reached into her pocket and took out the photo, formula and Bible quotation side up.
Mallory called out, “Henderson.” A classic tech raised his head. If there were still pocket protectors he would have had one, maybe two. He had a coffee stain on his wrinkled white shirt. The man left his task and his cup of Seattle’s Best coffee on his table, then approached. “What do you make of this?”
Henderson glanced at it and quickly said, “Standard formulation for a catalyst, sir. Why?”
“No particular reason.” Taking back the photo he said, “Thanks,” in a manner that those with power are comfortable using to dismiss a subordinate—and Henderson ambled obediently away.
Mallory took out his BlackBerry and expertly navigated to a Bible search site, entered the citation, read the text and grunted.
Mallory turned to Yslan and stepped inside her personal space. “Explain. You have two minutes to explain why I shouldn’t have you locked up for interfering with a federal investigation.”
Yslan took the photo from Mallory, walked over to the shrine and put it where it belonged, then turned back to Mallory and Emerson. “Because somehow I’m part of all this—whatever ‘this’ is. And I don’t mean just as an investigator or agent for the NSA—but part of all this. I’ve felt it for a long time.”
“Since you met Mr. Roberts?”
“And before.”
Mallory stepped forward and raised his voice. “That’s enough—every nonessential out. Now. Out.” And after a bit of scurrying the room was empty except for Yslan, Mallory, Emerson and the tech who had decoded the catalyst formula.
“Explain.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know why myself. But I believe it’s true.”
“The house was immaculate but this room was by comparison somehow chaotic. Why?”
Yslan thought, Because the chaos allowed him to feel closer to the ‘other.’ Instead, she said, “I have no idea. Maybe because he never thought anyone would find his hidden room.”
Mallory looked at Emerson, who had a profoundly lost look on his face. “Makes no sense to me, sir. If there was a pattern then I’d have found something in the rest of the house that would have preambled this.”
“Preambled?”
“Foreshadowed. Patterns always have predecessors—always. And there were those three sets of prints we found.”
“Three?” Yslan asked.
“Yours, Harrison’s, and an unidentified set.”
“You’ve run—”
“Of course, and no hits.”
“Were there any—”
“Dozens. Hair samples, clothing fibres, enough that whoever it was might have been up there for quite some time.”
“How could that be?”
“I don’t know.”
It seemed clear to Yslan that Mallory had rarely, if ever, allowed those words out of his mouth.
The tech approached them, his coffee cup in his hand. Yslan grabbed it from him, hot coffee splashing his already coffee-stained shirt.
“Hey!”
“What the hell?” Mallory demanded.
“Something was snuck into Harrison’s food, right?”
“That’s about the extent of what forensics is willing to commit to.”
“Yet, Harrison was a maniac for preparing his own food. He had a real thing about that.”
“So?”
“Except for coffee—from Seattle’s Best.”
• • •
Mallory watched Yslan and Emerson leave, then turned to the tech. “Out.”
The tech quickly left the room. Mallory allowed his eyes to trace the chalk lines to the four chalked numbers, then back to the shrine—just as he had done when he was in Harrison’s hidden room all those months ago.
Well before anyone else had seen Harrison’s creation, his world of wonders.
He’d arranged for Harrison to attend a conference in Malaysia, which gave him lots of time to follow up on the doings of one Leonard Harrison. That’s when he’d found the man’s family Bible—and chanced upon the hidden room that Special Agent Yslan Hicks thought she had been the first to discover. The third set of fingerprints were, of course, his.
He stepped into the midst of the reconstruction and stared at the photo of Yslan Hicks. “Find him, Special Agent Hicks—find number one.”
15
SEATTLE’S BEST
THE SEATTLE’S BEST ON WISCONSIN Avenue was
the nearest one to NSA head offices and looked pretty much like every other Seattle’s Best. Yslan didn’t enter, she just stood outside looking in the window.
“Waiting for something?” Emerson asked.
She had to get used to him being by her side.
“Yeah,” she said, “till nine o’clock.”
“It’s almost—”
“But not exactly nine.”
She waited for the digital clock behind the coffee bar to register 9:00. When it did she stepped into the coffee bar. The barista behind the counter was talking to his customer. “She’ll ring you up.” He took off his apron, and another young barista stepped out of the back room, smiled and approached the cash register.
Yslan watched the shuffle closely. Watched the coffee cup on the counter—and saw quite clearly that in the nine o’clock switch it would have been easy to reach over and lace Harrison’s coffee with whatever it had been laced with.
The music changed from early James Taylor to something classical.
Yslan approached the cashier.
“Hi, what can I getcha?” the barista asked.
“Information,” Yslan said, flashing her NSA ID.
“About what?”
“Do you usually work the nine o’clock shift on your own?”
“For now—until they replace Jason.”
“Where’s Jason?”
“Who knows. The guy up and quits and leaves me to deal with the crowds.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When did he quit?”
“Last Friday, and I really thought he liked working here. It’s why we got the dumb classical music—for him.”
“Not a fan?”
“Hell no, not me.”
Yslan smiled. The barista smiled back.
After that it took Yslan only three minutes to get Jason’s address, four to find out that a barista only makes $405 a week, five more to find that Jason had made a $500 deposit to his savings account last Friday. Fifteen minutes later she was standing outside his apartment door and signalling to the cops carrying the battering ram to use the damned thing.
The door gave with a nasty screech and Yslan found herself in a small apartment that clearly belonged to classical musicians. A string quartet was playing on the iPod dock, two music stands were set up with scores opened and annotated. There were posters of classical music concerts on the walls.
Jason’s two roommates made some noises about warrants, police brutality and Nazis but shut up when Yslan told them that they could go, that they should go, that it was only Jason who she wanted to talk to.
Once his roommates were gone, Jason looked around wildly. He wore an old pair of pleated and cuffed Dockers and a large cardigan sweater that failed to hide his bulk. A long strand of hair fell across his eyes, and the cello bow in his right hand vibrated like a hummingbird’s wings.
Yslan lowered her voice and said, “Five hundred dollars isn’t nearly enough to commit a murder.”
“Murder!”
“Yes, a murder, Jason.” She heard the cops behind her shuffling, but she didn’t care. Dead, catatonic—what’s the difference? “So, who gave you the money?”
“He said it was just a sedative, to counteract the effect of the caffeine. That the guy was his partner and hadn’t slept for days. That I’d save their marriage if I’d just put the powder in the coffee so he could sleep.”
“And you believed him?”
“Yeah.”
“Really? Why would you believe that?”
“Well, he’s a musician like me.”
“How do you know that?”
“He’d brought in his cello before. He showed it to me. It was incredible—an Andrea Amati.”
“A what?”
“Some think it’s the finest string instrument ever made. There are only three still extant,” Emerson said.
She looked back at him. “And you know this why?”
“Because such things interest me.”
Yslan shook her head and returned to Jason. “What about the five hundred dollars he gave you?”
“It was a surety.”
“A what?”
“He promised me that if I put the powder in his guy’s coffee that he’d let me have the Andrea Amati for a week. A whole week! But since he didn’t have it with him that time he gave me five hundred dollars as a show of good faith.”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you describe him?”
“I can try.”
Yslan turned to the cop who still had the battering ram in his hand and said, “Get a sketch artist in here, now.”
There was a long moment of silence. Jason sat heavily on a straight-backed chair. The cello bow fell from his hand to the floor with a thin clatter.
“What happens now?” Jason asked.
“Now you talk to the sketch artist.”
“And then?”
“You get yourself a lawyer because you’re going to need one.”
• • •
Down on the street, Yslan pulled out her BlackBerry.
“What now?” Emerson asked.
“That cello.”
“The Andrea Amati?”
“Yeah, that one. It’s rare, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Get in the car.” She looked at her BlackBerry and said, “Twenty-One Eighteen South Dakota Avenue. Go.”
“What’s there?”
“Maybe a place to start.”
16
A MUSIC SHOP
THE SHOP DOOR HAD A sign stating “Appointments are required, please do not ring the doorbell” and gave a phone number.
Emerson leaned on the doorbell, and eventually a light came on inside the shop. Through the dust-covered front window the place looked like something from a Dickens novel. The man who eventually opened the door was also right from one of Mr. Dickens’s extraordinary inventions. Since he was much closer to seven feet in height than six and could not have weighed 120 pounds, he probably would have had a name like Pennyfeather or Pifflewanger or the like, although he introduced himself as Theodore Ross. They introduced themselves then asked if he would answer a few questions.
“Okay but I’m afraid I’ve become just a teensy bit literal in my old age. I hope that’s okay with you?”
Neither Yslan nor Emerson had any idea what that had to do with anything, so they launched right in. “Have you ever sold an Andrea Amati cello?”
“An Andrea Amati? Goodness gracious, no. And I don’t know anyone who ever has.”
“So you don’t—”
“I’ve only seen an Andrea Amati in this shop once before.”
“And when was that?”
“July third, 1994.”
“And you remember that date why exactly?”
“Well, it was the only time I’d seen an Amati cello.”
“So you said.”
“That literalism I warned you about.”
“Yes.”
“And my wife died the very next day.”
Yslan stared at this strange creature. Was he pulling their collective legs? But Emerson was unfazed and said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you happen to remember who brought you the Andrea Amati cello?”
“Certainly.”
Yslan and Emerson waited for the details, but none were forthcoming. “So?” Yslan demanded.
“So what?” Theodore Ross asked, clearly lost.
“So,” Yslan asked carefully, “can you describe the person who brought you the cello?”
Theodore Ross smiled, greatly relieved, and said, “Yes.”
Yslan and Emerson waited—nothing. “Well, would you please?”
“Please what?”
“Describe the person who brought in the Andrea Amati cello.”
“Oh, that. But I’m not good at describing—”
“Please try, it’s important.”
“There’s an easier way—”
>
“Excuse me?”
He indicated an old poster behind them on the wall. It announced a classical string concert by a group called the Path. No other names appeared on the poster. The date was almost two years ago. The poster did have a small photo featuring the twelve musicians fronted by a conductor. Theodore Ross crossed to the poster, leaned down and put on a pair of glasses with Coke-bottle lenses. Then he pointed to the grey-haired man in the back row and said, “Him.”
• • •
Within twenty minutes they had enlargements of the man’s image sent to every Homeland and NSA office, and the most advanced facial recognition software in the world was parsing the image.
Jason ID’d the grey-haired man as the one who gave him the five hundred dollars.
An hour later Emerson and Yslan were in the office of the concert promoter who had staged the event where the Andrea Amati cellist had played.
17
MR. LEVINE
THE THIN BALDING MAN HAD delicate hands. He’d clearly earned every wrinkle on his seventy-plus-years face. He sat behind a huge desk. Yslan wondered if his feet touched the ground. She doubted they did.
A poster over his shoulder announced, “Nothing mars perfect beauty like missing a Levine concert.”
“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Levine.”
“I was told that if I knew what was good for me I’d make time to see you.”
“And that you’d cooperate with us?”
“Yeah, that too.”
“That’s good advice, Mr. Levine,” Emerson said.
The man’s face suddenly lightened—as if the clouds had cleared. “Call me Arnie, like the golfer.”
“Okay, Arnie, who gave you such good advice?”
“A flutist who owes me some money, whose brother’s wife’s sister is a legal aid attorney.”
Emerson nodded. Yslan produced a copy of the concert poster from Theodore Ross’s shop and laid it out on the desk. “Arnie,” Yslan said, “you promoted this concert.”
“That’s against the law? Since when?”
“It’s not against the law, Arnie. Just take a look at the poster.”
Arnie took a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his desk and looked at the poster. Then he muttered, “Very smart, very smart.” He took off the glasses and took out another pair that looked exactly the same, put them on, looked at the poster and said, “Ah.” He noticed Yslan’s inquiring look and said, “Silly me—I bought regular and reading glasses exact the same.”
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