He walked down the street, boots clicking on broken cement, past the pale houses, sagging and splintering in the shadows. He walked down the block on the opposite side of the street from the sentry car and ignored Donato's men, who had slumped down out of sight. Calvin's rented duplex was at the end of the block behind a wall of greedy, clutching ivy that in the dark breeze wiggled like a massive spider. Julius lived next door, in a home that may as well have been a prison. The windows had black-barred grills and a security door fit for a pawn shop in Watts. Callahan swallowed. He stared at that browning and trash-strewn lawn, those weary, wooden steps. He was on the front lawn now, with his back to the dark neighborhood. The short hairs on his neck tickled and his blood pressure rose. He felt the presence of unseen eyes.
Well, I feel alive again, Callahan thought, wryly. At least I'm not bored or depressed.
He walked slowly up the steps, hearing them complain at his size and weight. The place seemed dark, just as before. But that didn't prove anything. The neighbor known as Julius had seemed like the kind of man who wouldn't want to be disturbed, even if he'd won the California Lotto.
Callahan couldn't find a bell. He raised his hand to knock. The entrance developed a crack before he could make a sound. It opened soundlessly, efficiently, almost like a sliding glass door in an upscale market. The effect was high tech and completely unexpected. The door slid open. The room was as dark as the yard, so it wasn't possible to make who or what waited inside. Flesh rippling, Callahan stepped into the living room. The place reeked of rotting garbage and human sweat and his nose was tickled by dust. The door closed behind him and dim lights clicked on. Callahan looked over his shoulder. The windows were sealed tight by metal plates. He heard faint clicking sounds as the house secured itself again.
"Mr. Callahan."
That high, reedy tenor, so out of place coming from such a huge man. Julius was wearing the same green sweatsuit, though he seemed to have washed up a bit. Rolls of fat bulged over the waist line like bags of cat litter wrapped in green felt. His outfit was still dark with sweat at the armpits. His shaved head gleamed dully in the limited light. He had removed his garish earrings. He was sweating heavily, but appeared calm.
"Hello, Julius."
"Welcome to my humble abode."
Light sarcasm, no embarrassment. Callahan checked his eyes. The gaze was clear and direct, the pupils not dilated or enlarged. Julius seemed tired but probably not high. Not like last time. Perhaps getting and acting high was his cover.
"Your friend must be quite a gifted hacker," Julius said. "I was working on something when an IM from a fraudulent ISP popped up on my screen, telling me you were coming. Guess it's time we had a serious talk."
"Yes, he's good." Callahan moved closer. The floor felt solid, as if the inside of the house had been refurbished and strengthened. "Julius, I'm sorry about Calvin. And I'm really, really angry. I really don't know what else to say."
Julius sighed. He looked down at surprisingly decent carpeting. "He was a good friend. His murder was such a terrible, terrible tragedy."
"You are my only hope at the moment. Can you tell me why this happened?"
The huge man studied Callahan for a time. Then he turned and lumbered away. Callahan followed Julius down a short hallway to a much larger room. This one was brightly lit. A large refrigerator anchored one corner, unbearably modern with a clear glass door. It sat humming and cooling bottles of obscure beers and wines and racks of snacks and sweets.
Callahan blinked in surprise. Expensive computers were everywhere, floor to ceiling, laptops and desktops and handheld devices. Several seemed to be running the same codes over and over, as if searching for something. Callahan didn't know much about technology, but this was an impressive and doubtlessly expensive array of the latest and greatest gear. Jerry would have flat lost his mind.
"Please. Sit down."
Julius parked heavily in a huge barrel chair, a sturdy device made of metal rims and wooden beams. Callahan chose an easy chair. Julius gestured at the fridge, offering refreshment. Mick declined with a wave of one hand.
"You asked me a question," Julius said. His tenor had a rasp. Smoking too much, or hadn't been getting enough sleep.
Callahan waited patiently. Julius looked up at the ceiling, either gathering his thoughts or the nerve to continue.
"Julius, who killed Calvin?"
Julius visibly decided. His brow furrowed then relaxed. "The man you want can manipulate reality Mr. Callahan. He exists and yet cannot be identified, he is powerful yet remains virtually anonymous except to the world's governments and finest individual hackers. He is a genius who attended Yale at the age of sixteen and graduated with a Master's in Computer Science. He did that in two years. He also did so under an assumed name with forged documents and transcripts. Then he vanished. No one can find him, yet the CIA and others do business with him almost on a daily basis."
Callahan remembered his conversation with Jerry. "Avant?"
Julius seemed pleasantly surprised. "You've heard of him?"
"As you noticed, I have a friend who's brilliant."
"Avant traffics in information," Julius said. "He makes Julian Assange and Wikileaks look amateur. In fact, rumor has it he fed them much of the information they acquired, and the solider being punished is merely a fall guy to make the U.S. government look less incompetent. I don't know how much of this is true, but if Avant is as powerful as they say, he's got the world running scared."
"And he does it all through the web?"
Julius barked like a small dog, some kind of strangled laugh. He did not appear amused. "The web is reality, Mr. Callahan. It always was. Everything and everyone else is a part of the matrix. We're more real in cyberspace than we have ever been in the physical world. Avant was just one of the first men to figure that out. As I said, his organization traffics in information. Some he wants public, some he sells to the highest bidder."
"And his motive?"
"Like Assange, he purports to be a Libertarian force, out to let the people govern themselves, to expose the rich and powerful."
"Purports?"
Julius sighed. "Power is an aphrodisiac, as I'm sure you know. You're the therapist. It tempts people to fuck everyone else."
"Indeed it does," Callahan said. "Are you saying Avant has now become corrupted, or that he was all along?"
"Who knows?"
One of the computers buzzed. Julius forced himself up and waddled to the jet black keyboard. He typed rapidly, studied the result and put the large machine back to work. He sat down again with a grunt, leaned back in the chair. His face sagged.
"I feel ashamed."
Callahan waited. Silence is a counselor's best friend. He propped his chin up with one hand and listened.
"I have worked for Avant from time to time," Julius said. "My motives were good, not that it matters. There has been so much corruption in government the last few years, so little transparency. I just wanted to do my part. Encryption is difficult these days, there are so many superb hackers, many of them work both freelance and for the government. If information is emailed, or just uploaded and exposed for any length of time, it can be copied and studied, hence stolen."
"So much for security."
"Just so. Secrets are not secrets any longer. Neither is the identity of the thief. Everything is out there to be discovered and shared, and an entire cottage industry has erupted around issues of security."
Julius fell silent as if lost in thought. Callahan prompted him. "And I'd assume there is one hell of a lot of money to be made."
"Absolutely." Julius chuckled. "Information and sex are the world's two oldest professions."
"Julius, no offense but it's late and I'm tired. You said you feel guilty. Why? Did something you were working on get Calvin killed?"
"Perhaps," Julius said at last. "Perhaps."
Callahan leaned forward. "Then all I need to know from you is what happened and who did it."
"I
can't be sure."
"So guess."
"I know your reputation," Julius said. "People talk about the trouble that follows you around. I'm already in over my head. I'm sure you can understand my trepidation about being involved in something so unsavory. I go to great lengths to protect myself from that."
"Julius, I've already figured out that you're Avant."
The huge man's eyes widened. "What?" He forced a disparaging laugh. "That is ridiculous."
"Out there in the world you come on like a stoned computer geek living in Mom's basement. In here you are sober, educated and have the vocabulary of a college professor. I don't know what you're doing, and also don't care. I just want whoever murdered my friend. The rest is your business."
The two men studied one another. They negotiated.
Julius said, "I paid for a burglary. That can't be mentioned."
Callahan said, "Give me a dollar."
"Excuse me?"
"Give me a dollar." He extended his hand.
With a puzzled look, Julius gave Callahan a one dollar bill. Callahan put it in the pocket of his jeans.
"You're now my client. I can't speak of it unless the rest involves murder or child abuse."
Julius shrugged. He was peculiar himself, and probably wasn't inclined to judge others. "I used two volunteers and two professionals to break in to a laboratory hidden in a casino in Las Vegas. I'd rather not tell you what we were looking for. All you need to know is that it could not be safely copied or uploaded without potentially disastrous results, and that it was small enough to fit into a suitcase."
"I'll accept that for now."
"Thank you. My people died getting it out of that laboratory, Mr. Callahan. When the alarms went off, Blackwatch Security showed up with the Las Vegas police. That should tell you something."
Callahan nodded. "It does."
"Blackwatch wants this material badly. They'd do anything to get it. It is worth a fortune to the Chinese, the Russians, all this country's enemies."
"So you tried to get it first."
"Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones, Mr. Black and Mr. Johnson were very brave men. Smith, Jones and Johnson were killed. Mr. Black, who was terminally ill anyway, was forced by events to commit suicide and make it appear to be a terrorist attack. Fortunately, we had a backup plan if they failed to escape. He managed to hand the case off to another operative before stepping outside."
Callahan blinked. "And that someone needed to find a safe way get that case into your hands."
"That other operative went to ground for a while, then realized there was a tail. Everything was being tapped, watched and followed. We had a fallback plan, a very risky one, only to be used as a last resort. She slipped the briefcase to Calvin's son when I knew he was going to be in Vegas gambling."
"So Calvin never knew any of this?"
Julius shook his head. He seemed genuinely distraught. "He was tortured to death for nothing. Wes McCann possessed the secret that got his father killed."
EIGHTEEN
Friday morning
Nathaniel Pearlman, Esq. had a regular morning routine. His office sat in a funky area near Victory Boulevard and Laurel Canyon near a large shopping mall. It was less than two blocks from the inexpensive donut shop he frequented, a discreet dump where he often met people he compensated for business tips. Mr. Pearlman, a rotund man with thinning hair, wore scuffed dress shoes and a decent suit. He drove onto the lot adjacent to the mall to avoid the parking fees in his building. Found a spot under the trees to protect the leased BMW. He walked to the donut shop for a cup of coffee and a bear claw at precisely 8:40.
Mr. Pearlman said hello to the Vietnamese owner's lovely daughter, a girl he'd been trying to nail for years. Paid for his coffee and food, failed to tip, and walked the rest of the way to work. He seldom carried a briefcase unless due in court. He preferred to leave everything locked up in his office.
The office building had been recently renovated. The architect had installed a rather pretty glass atrium laden with green plants and flourishing ivy. Mr. Pearlman loved strolling past it to the newly painted elevators, saying good morning to the Latino security guard, riding up to the upper floors. The law offices building, despite its less than advantageous location, did its job. It impressed most clients, particularly his somewhat impoverished regulars, and thus motivated them to dig deep to retain his services. Almost as importantly, the building started Pearlman's day with a sense of confidence. It made him feel successful.
Nathanial Pearlman stepped into the elevator. A disheveled young man edged on at the last second. He was tall and his entry forced a young woman out of the way and rather rudely left her to catch the next car. The young man held a newspaper folded in half. He seemed preoccupied with the sports section. Pearlman adjusted his tie and mentally reviewed his morning schedule. He had some calls to return of course, but nothing in court until a pleading in Van Nuys at 11:30. After that, a discreet lunch with two police officers who fed him inside information that often led to new clients. An easy morning. But there was something about this young man on the elevator, perhaps his body odor, that made Pearlman feel nervous. He cleared his throat. The car seemed to take forever to reach the sixth floor.
The elevator opened. Pearlman hurried out onto the thick carpet, fondling the keys in his pocket. He didn't hear the young man follow. Pearlman felt his blood pressure drop back to normal. He opened the security lock and the front door, then stepped inside and punched in the alarm system code.
"Good morning."
The voice was close by his ear. It startled Pearlman into dropping his keys. He bent down to retrieve them, looked up to see that young man filling his doorway. And now he saw what was beneath the folded newspaper. A very large, black gun. Pearlman felt his bowels loosen. He was unable to contain a small fart. The man seemed not to notice. He pushed forward into the office.
"Sit on the couch, counselor," the man said. Pearlman stepped back, almost fell over his waiting room table. "I just want to keep you away from any panic buttons until we're through talking. Relax, I'm not here to kill you, I want to hire you. Rosa sent me, she said to tell you this is the favor you owed her."
"Rosa?" Pearlman brightened a bit. "How is she?"
"She's dead," the young man said.
"I'm . . . so sorry."
"Yeah, but nobody is sorrier than me. Look, it's a long story. My name is Wes McCann, I'm in some serious fucking trouble. I want to retain you to handle a very delicate situation."
Pearlman swallowed. "Could you start by lowering that weapon?"
Wes seemed surprised to be holding the gun. He folded the paper around it and set it down beside him on the floor. "Yes, of course. Just stay away from the telephone, your cell phone and your desk. Understood?"
Pearlman nodded. "If you're retaining me, I need to know what's going on, and there will have to be of course some discussion of finances." He seemed to reflect for a moment. "First, what happened to Rosa?"
"She was murdered last night on Catalina, Mr. Pearlman. I didn't do it, but I was there. I killed three men who came after us, very serious men, very well trained."
Pearlman looked queasy. "Oh, my."
Wes leaned forward. "Let me make this as simple as possible. My father Calvin McCann owed a substantial sum of money to a local bookie named Roth. I assume you have heard of Mr. Roth? That his name has come up from time to time?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Then you also know about a muscle guy name of Quinn. He does pretty badass shit to people who don't pay Marvin Roth. And now are you with me on this so far?"
Mr. Pearlman nodded. He clearly did not like the sound of this case. His rapidly shifting face said that he was struggling to formulate a polite and firm way to hand things off to someone else. But Wes had no intention of letting him do that. Not now, not later. He pressed his advantage.
"My father was murdered a couple of nights ago, presumably over that unpaid debt. Needless to say, I have my own intentions when
it comes to Roth and Quinn, a plan to put things right. I don't need you for any of that. So relax."
"You should go to the police at once, Mr. McCann," Pearlman said. "We both know I need to advise that."
"The police were there at my father's house. So was his therapist, a guy named Mick Callahan. Apparently, he found the body. Yes, that Mick Callahan, the radio and television shrink. He'd been seeing my dad for free."
"This is . . . messy."
"Yeah, and could suddenly become very high profile. Which could help you. Now back to Callahan. I don't trust the dude. Hell, in a way this was all is fault."
"His fault?"
Wes McCann's face darkened. "My dad was alive until Callahan got involved."
Pearlman went pale. "I don't need to know what you're planning, okay?"
"I'll leave you out of any wet work. Relax."
Wet work? Pearlman thought, He said that so casually. This kid is a shitload more than meets the eye.
"Anyway," Wes said. "So I know the cops are up to speed about Roth and Quinn, because Dad said he told Doc everything. He called Callahan that. Doc." That look crossed his face again. "I'll handle him. Mick Callahan."
"So . . . so what do you need me for?"
"The attempt on my life last night, the mess that got Rosa killed. That may be a different story entirely."
"How so?"
"These guys were professionals, maybe mercenaries but definitely former soldiers. They were after something. They thought I knew where it was. Whatever they represented, it's bigger and nastier and better financed than any gumball like Marvin Roth could manage. They had it in their heads that I knew where something was. Something that seems to be worth one fuck of a lot of money."
"Any idea what it could be?"
Nathaniel Pearlman's mind was now in over-drive. He was thinking fast. That local drug dealer who went by Dawg got himself popped recently, maybe in the right time frame. Some other kid named Gregor got killed with him. Pearlman had already been approached by Gregor's mother, asking if there could be a lawsuit against the LAPD for triggering the shootout that got her son killed. Just a desperate attempt to squeeze a few free bucks out of the tragedy. What had Pearlman's contact said, though? That it was an estimated two million dollars worth of heroin? Face value, before it got stepped on by dealers? A shitload of money at the end of that tunnel, what, maybe five million? That could inspire someone to hire a private army. The question is, how does Wes McCann know anything about where that dope ended up? Where is the connection?
Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 18
