by John Lutz
Suddenly, Harper understood. He said, “It’s Blake you want to get square with, isn’t it? More than you want to make the court admit it was wrong. Or clear your name with the public. You want to prove to Blake that you didn’t do it.”
“I still think of him as my friend,” said Sugar. “I can’t stand him believing that I maimed him. Ruined his career.”
Laverne had moved to stand close to Sugar’s chair. He didn’t notice her. He was intent on Harper. “Maybe you can help,” said Sugar. “Why are you here, anyway? Do you have any idea who could have sent that bomb to Jake?”
Sugar wanted a reason to hope. But Harper had to be careful. If he mentioned the Celebrity Bomber to Sugar, and Sugar let it slip to the media, Harper would be in trouble. He had no authority to be going around the country asking questions—or that would be the way Special Agent Frances Wilson would see it.
Harper said slowly, “I think there might be a link between this case and one I worked on, But I have no idea of the bomber’s identity at this point.”
Sugar looked disappointed by this statement, but he accepted it. He set down his beer and stood up, with an effort. He looked older than his years. Frail.
Laverne moved closer to him, so that her hip was almost touching his, her nearness offering comfort and protection for Sugar. “Good-bye, Mr. Harper.” She made it sound final; maybe she didn’t want anything representing Sugar’s old life to intrude into their new life together. That would be impossible, Harper knew, which was sad.
He got up and walked toward the front door. Sugar walked along with him, “You’ll let me know how your investigation goes, won’t you? Just send me an e-mail. Please. It would mean a lot to me.”
“All right.”
“Where do you go from here?”
Harper didn’t think it would do any harm to say. In any case, he felt that Sugar had already guessed. “Encino. To talk to Blake.”
Sugar opened the door. He smiled bitterly. “I’d say give him my regards, but he won’t want to hear a damn thing about me.”
23
Markman had been in show business once. He seldom thought about it, because to remember was to be overwhelmed with disgust for the stupidity of his younger self. But he didn’t regret having learned about costume and makeup and playing a role. The skills came in handy sometimes.
As he sat in the waiting room, scanning the headlines in the Washington Post the receptionist had given him, he was confident that he looked the part. He’d lavished time and money on today’s costume. He’d had to, for he was playing a rich man. The maroon tie was silk, the blue shirt Egyptian cotton. The gray glen plaid suit from Brooks Brothers was a lightweight wool blend. Markman had selected it because he’d expected warm weather in Washington. As usual, his preparations paid off. He’d noticed as he rode around the streets that the cherry blossoms were gone already and summer was almost here. And it wasn’t even May yet.
Not quite.
Another thing he’d noticed since his arrival in the capital was that security seemed heavier than usual. There had been long lines at the airport checkpoints, and he’d been just as glad that his own bags held nothing incriminating, that his purpose on this trip was only reconnaissance. At the hotel, the clerks had subjected his fake credit card and driver’s license to a long scrutiny. Though he’d prepared this identity carefully and was confident it would stand up, the delay had annoyed him. And everywhere he went around the city he saw armed guards.
It made him worry a bit, made him ask himself if the authorities could somehow have guessed that Washington was the Celebrity Bomber’s next target.
Markman was pleased with the name they had given him. He liked the pun: Not only did he target celebrities, he was a celebrity himself, an object of fear and anger, of nervous jokes and unending speculation. Because no one knew anything about him.
Every time he thought it all over, that was the conclusion he reached. The FBI had no leads to his identity, no clue as to where he would strike next. If security in Washington was heavier than usual, it was only because the city was full of pompous windbags who felt that their miserable lives were indispensable to the Republic, and were willing to spend the taxpayers’ money to protect themselves. Or maybe the terrorist threat level had been raised. Lots of chatter on the Internet, or some such thing.
A woman’s voice broke in on his thoughts. “Andrew Marshall?”
Markman stood up at once, smiling and folding his newspaper. He always chose an alias that sounded similar to his own name, in order to eliminate the risk of being suspiciously slow to respond when someone hailed him.
The woman shook his hand and introduced herself. She was Molly Nathan, a little blonde with a warm, sincere smile. That smile irritated Markman at once, and he knew he was going to be seeing a lot more of it. He supposed she was typical of the low-level fund-raising executives who conducted tours for the sort of wealthy prospective donor he was pretending to be.
“Before we go in, let me give you a little orientation,” she said, and launched into a well-honed spiel. “The purpose of Constant Light Children’s Hospital is to treat the children of war, innocents who have been wounded in conflicts in which they bore no interest or responsibility. The hospital’s patients are from almost every continent and of almost every race and culture. Our work is funded entirely by donations from people like yourself—private individuals of many nationalities who are concerned about the welfare of children. We accept no government funds. Politics stops at the door of Constant Light, and humanity takes over.”
It was fulsome stuff, and Markman had to struggle to keep the straight face appropriate to Andrew Marshall. He’d laid the groundwork for this visit carefully, sending letters on expensive, embossed stationery, dropping names judiciously. The identity of Marshall, a wealthy commodities trader from Chicago, was thin, but good enough for the purpose. Institutions tended to check cursorily on people who might give them sizable checks. Pledges might be carried through on, or might not, but each potential donor had to be treated with respect.
As Molly Nathan showed him through the hospital, he didn’t pay much attention to the children with missing or permanently damaged limbs, or those whose physical infirmities were eclipsed by the flatness of their voices and expressions and the sad and stunned eyes that still saw, and were deadened to, horror. He was really more interested in the building’s design and construction, in stress points and load-bearing walls.
He had to remind himself that the usual structural principles would apply, because Constant Light didn’t look like the usual hospital. Its floors were carpeted in bright hues, and long multicolored arrows were painted along the corridors to show people the way to various departments. The personnel were just as colorful as the decor. None of the doctors and nurses were wearing white. In their blue, green, or red scrubsuits, with cords knotted around their waists, they looked like kids at a slumber party rather than medical specialists. Still, he noticed that everyone displayed an identity badge. This was a detail he’d have to remember in making his plan.
Molly Nathan broke stride beside him, turning to him with that irritating smile. He realized that he hadn’t spoken in a while. Better ask a question.
“I do wonder, Ms. Nathan—is it a wise use of funds to bring these children all the way to Washington for treatment? Wouldn’t the money be better spent improving the facilities in their home countries, where they could be looked after by their own families and communities?”
Molly Nathan’s bright eyes showed she was ready for that one, but she moderated her voice to project a note of solemnity. “The children of these families have been shattered by war, Mr. Marshall. So have their communities. In some cases, the very countries of which they used to be citizens have been wiped off the map. We are their last hope.”
Molly Nathan paused, as a girl of seven or so walked past them. She was wearing the bright flowery pajamas they issued to all patients, and carrying a paper cup. The expression on the small face
was purposeful. The smile returned to Molly’s face. “Oh, there’s Nadia. Come along.”
They followed the girl down the corridor and into a room, where another patient was lying on the bed. The figure was so heavily bandaged Markman couldn’t guess the age or sex.
Molly was whispering to him. “That’s Sona, Nadia’s twin sister. They were asleep in their bedroom in Lebanon when a mortar shell hit the house. They were only a few feet apart, yet Nadia had only minor injuries, while Sona—well, you can see.”
The girl lying on the bed had no left arm. The left side of her face showed signs of extensive skin-grafting; the incisions had not yet healed. She had a patch covering what was obviously an empty left eye socket and her ear on that side was deformed. It was a cauliflower ear such as boxers get. The explosion had crushed it as precisely as a blow from a fist.
“Fascinating,” Markman murmured.
“It is fascinating, the way a child’s mind works,” said Molly. “I think poor Nadia feels guilty because of her escape. She tries to look after Sona herself. She imitates the nurses.”
The unharmed girl was cradling the other’s head, helping her to drink from the paper cup. Molly continued to talk, but Markman wasn’t listening. He was speculating on the endlessly complex effects of blast. What an extraordinary explosion this one must have been. That it should hit one person so hard while missing the other almost entirely was unusual, but not unprecedented; Markman had heard of similar cases. But that it had affected only the one side of the one victim’s body was unique in his experience. How big had the mortar shell been, he wondered. What was the floor plan of the house? He would have given a lot to see a reconstruction, showing the relative positions of the two girls and the point of impact of the shell. Perhaps a doorway had been placed at just the right angle to admit the force of the blast, allowing it to fall on the left side of the one girl’s body. Markman remembered a painting he’d been admiring at the National Gallery that morning, a Vermeer, in which a shaft of light had fallen across a dark interior, illuminating the face and neck and bosom of a lovely girl. The explosion had been like that. Markman marveled at this demonstration of precision and power.
“Fate is so capricious,” Molly was saying.
Fate might be, Markman thought, but there was nothing capricious about blast. Blast was predictable. Manageable. A tool in the hands of a master craftsman.
“Would you like to talk to Nadia?” Molly asked. “She knows some English.”
Markman turned away and went out into the hall.
“What’s down that direction?”
“Beyond that door is the administration wing.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“But it’s just offices.”
Markman smiled. “Well, if you don’t mind, as long as I’m here I’d like a thorough tour of the building. Including the basement.”
“The basement?” She looked puzzled. Perhaps even a shade reluctant.
“Yes. You see, when I make a donation, I make it for a specific purpose. And it’s my experience that charitable organizations sometimes neglect their physical plant. If you take me all around I might see something specific I’ll want to help you out with.”
“We can make the tour as thorough as you wish, Mr. Marshall.” The talk about his donation restored Molly’s smile, as he’d known it would. She led him down the corridor at a brisk clip. “You know, if you do decide to add your name to our roll of benefactors, you’ll be in very distinguished company.”
“I’m sure,” said Markman.
“Some of the most prominent people in this country and around the world are proud to count themselves as friends of Constant Light Hospital—”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Markman, moving a step ahead of her as they went through a set of swinging doors. He found this woman’s crude attempt at bribery disgusting. Even though Andrew Marshall was in her view a successful, hardheaded businessman, she thought he could be dazzled by the notion that in handing over his check he was joining a company of famous people. Such was the power of celebrity. It sickened Markman.
Molly hustled after him through the doors. “In fact, the honorary Chairwoman of our Board of Benefactors is—”
That name, of all names. Markman simply had to cut her off before she said it; he’d only just had lunch. “Yes, I know who she is. What’s down that way?”
“Secretarial offices,” said Molly shortly. Her smile had slipped again; she seemed annoyed by his lack of interest. No doubt it was unusual. The fame of the hospital’s Chairwoman could turn even sensible people into awed and giggly fans.
“Did you know that she’s going to be here in just two weeks? She’s going to tour the hospital and meet with the trustees. Just think—she’ll be walking right where we’re walking now.” Molly looked down at the floor tiles that were about to receive this unparalleled honor.
Now Markman did turn. He was surprised that an employee of the hospital would give out this information so freely. But the visit was no secret, after all. He said, “Really? What’s the exact date?”
“May fifteenth,” replied Molly.
Markman had only been mildly curious to see if she would give out the date. He wasn’t prepared for the impact of hearing it spoken aloud, after he’d been preparing for it, directing all his efforts toward it for so long. He felt a cold pang of excitement deep in his gut.
Molly noticed the change in his expression. She thought she had hooked him at last. Putting on a phony sympathetic smile, she said, “I’m terribly sorry, but there’s no way I can promise you an invitation to the reception now. They all went out weeks ago.”
“What a shame,” Markman said.
“She doesn’t visit us as often as we’d like,” Molly went on. “People are so excited!”
For the first time, Markman smiled back at Molly Nathan.
“I’m sure the event will even surpass your expectations,” he said.
24
Harper caught an overnight bus from Phoenix to Los Angeles, saving both airfare and a hotel bill. He didn’t know how far he would have to make Addleman’s meager funds stretch. And Harper didn’t mind. Once a man had trained himself to doze off in the Duty Room of the NYPD Bomb Squad, be could sleep anywhere.
At the public library in downtown L.A. he consulted phone books and made calls, trying to locate Jake Blake’s coffee shop.
The sixth call accomplished that. Blake wasn’t in the shop yet himself, but the woman who answered the phone told Harper he was expected within the hour. Harper thanked her and hung up. He considered taking a cab, but Encino was so far away that he figured renting a car would be cheaper.
Harper waited until ten, when the breakfast crowd would be gone from Midnight Espresso, as the coffee shop was called, before driving to its address on Hobbie Avenue.
On each side of the street were low, stucco buildings containing small retail shops and offices. Everything looked clean and bright in the brilliant morning sun. Midnight Espresso shared a pastel green building with a secondhand clothing shop and a portrait photographer who was promoting a sale on family shots. Half a dozen groupings smiled dazzlingly at Harper as he walked past the show window, then took a step up and pushed open the thick, stained oak door to the coffee shop.
It was bright but cool inside. Sunlight poured down from skylights and through the wide windows. The tables were small and round and topped with artificial veined marble. The chairs looked like used wooden schoolroom chairs. There was a stainless-steel counter with stools, and behind it a glass case displaying doughnuts and bagels. Off to the right was a rack display of small, hand-labeled paper sacks containing gourmet coffee, next to it a shiny, oversize machine where customers could grind beans to their liking. Midnight Espresso smelled strongly and pleasantly of fresh-brewed coffee.
There were only two customers, an old man in a Dodgers T-shirt and a bored-looking teenage girl seated at a table near the fancy grinding machine. A tall Hispanic woman was wiping down tables. B
ehind the counter stood a wiry man in his mid forties, with vivid blue eyes and wildly curly blond hair that reminded Harper of Harpo Marx. He was wearing a white shirt and a whiter apron. A newspaper he was reading was spread out before him on the counter. As Harper watched, the man adroitly turned a page with a prosthetic right hand.
“Jake Blake,” Harper said, smiling and taking a stool at the counter.
Blake looked at him and smiled back. It was a winning smile; Harper could easily believe what Sugar had told him about Blake being a nice guy. “I’m sorry, I don’t—have we met?” Blake asked.
“Sam Sugar told me about you,” Harper said.
Blake’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You an attorney?”
“Not hardly.”
“Cop?”
“Used to be. On the Bomb Squad. Just a private citizen now.”
“I heard about that blog of Sugar’s. Don’t tell me you got sucked in?” Blake’s voice did not sound scornful or indignant. Instead, he seemed to feel a little sorry for Harper.
“Clearing Sugar isn’t my main purpose, if that’s what you mean. I’m a private citizen looking into long-ago bombings, to see if they might tie in with more recent ones.”
Blake considered for a moment, then said, “The Celebrity Bomber?”
Startled, Harper said quickly, “What makes you think that?”
Blake grinned and pointed southward. “Hollywood’s just the other side of those mountains. Fella goes around blowing up celebrities, it hits us close to home.” He folded the newspaper and slid it aside on the counter. “You aren’t thinking what happened to me—my hand—all those years ago has anything to do with the Celebrity Bomber, are you?”
“You’re the one who brought up the Celebrity Bomber, Mr. Blake. I haven’t said anything.”
Blake’s amusement deepened. “You don’t have to. ’Cause I remember now who you are. I’ve been following the case. You’re that New York cop. Harper.”
He leaned over the counter to look pointedly at Harper’s maimed hand. Harper wasn’t offended. He figured Blake’s own injury gave him certain privileges. He said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep our discussion private.”
