This could be it, she thought. Someone who had heard her questions but didn't want to speak up in front of other people. Someone who knew something about Mandy and needed to talk about it, even at great personal risk.
O'Hara slowed down just a little, then turned quickly to see the person who was going to break her case wide-open.
It was her partner.
"Gee, Muffy, didn't mean to startle you," Lassiter said. "I just wanted to know who was taking you to the prom."
"How did you know I was here, Carlton?" she said.
"You had an appointment," Lassiter said. "It was on your scheduler."
"You broke into my computer?" she said, anger rising.
"Let me rephrase that," Lassiter said. "You had an appointment. It was on your scheduler, right under the reminder about the meeting with the Coalition to Help the Homeless."
O'Hara felt her anger melting rapidly into embarrassment. She'd completely forgotten about that. "How bad was it?"
"How bad was it?" Lassiter said. "Let's see--how many times in an hour do you imagine one noble philanthropist could mention that his wife sits on the city council?"
"That clown?" O'Hara said. "About a thousand."
"Sure, he's a clown," Lassiter said. "Only I was the one feeling like I had a red nose and floppy shoes. Because when he wasn't reminding me that he sleeps next to a woman who controls our budget, he was demanding to know what kind of progress we were making solving the hit-and-run of a homeless man on Santa Barbara's busiest street. And what could I tell him? That we hadn't done jack on the case because we were busy trying to prove that an obvious suicide really wasn't?"
"Carlton, I'm sorry I missed the meeting," O'Hara said.
"Don't be sorry. Be right," Lassiter said.
"I don't understand," O'Hara said.
"Find some evidence fast that this cheerleader was actually murdered," Lassiter said. "That way no one can accuse us of ignoring our jobs."
Chapter Eight
The meeting had gone well. Better, in fact, than Gus had expected. He'd spent much of the previous night memorizing facts and figures, studying company history and trying to game a strategy for dealing with a roomful of skeptical executives.
But to start with, the room hadn't been full. There had only been two people sitting at the conference table. One of them was Armitage, of course. He'd been Gus' contact all through this, and he was exactly as Gus had envisioned him during their multiple phone calls. Maybe the suit was a little more expensive than Gus had imagined, but that was only because his imagination had trouble picturing anyone spending that much money on clothes. His hair was white, but the lines of his face looked like the kind that come from lots of outdoor living, not decay. He had a firm handshake and a broad smile that matched the one Gus had always heard in his voice.
The other man was young enough to be Armitage's grandson, and he was dressed like he'd stopped in to cadge a free lunch out of gramps on the way to a Hacky Sack tournament in the marina. His bright pink polo was wrinkled, his chinos stained at the cuffs by grease from a bicycle chain. While Gus did his best to answer Armitage's questions without sounding like he'd stayed up late rehearsing them, the kid barely looked up from his smartphone, except for one moment when he let out a loud "boo-yah!" that seemed to have more to do with whatever was on his screen than Gus' frank confession that he often put his work obligations over his personal life, even to his own detriment.
In another context Gus might have pulled Armitage aside and suggested they give the kid a handful of quarters and send him to the arcade down the street until their meeting was over. Or he might have gotten so annoyed that he grabbed the punk by his tiny ponytail and dragged him out of the conference room.
But this was Armitage's meeting, and if he wanted his grandson here, then his grandson would be here.
After an hour, Armitage gave him another of his broad smiles. "I think that's everything we need to know," he said, getting to his feet and holding out a hand for Gus to shake. "You'll be hearing from us very soon."
"I'm looking forward to it," Gus said. Only then did he turn toward the kid at the end of the table. "Nice to meet you."
The kid didn't exactly look up from his smartphone, but he did raise a hand to give him half a wave.
As Gus rode back down in the walnut-paneled elevator, he tried to figure out what he'd do next. If the meeting had been a failure, of course, he wouldn't need to make a decision. He'd fly back to Burbank, sweat the traffic up the 101, and in the morning he'd pick up Shawn and accompany him to Darksyde City.
But if he'd read things correctly Gus was about to be facing a serious decision. And this wouldn't be like most of his decisions, which he usually made, unmade, and remade at least a dozen times before he committed to a certain path, and then a dozen more afterward. This one would be final.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, letting Gus out into a small lobby of granite walls and marble floors. He slipped the visitor's pass out of his shirt pocket and slid it across the security guard's console, then clickclacked his way across the stone floor to the metal and glass door.
It was amazing what a couple tons of granite can protect you from. Inside the lobby you'd never know this building sat at one of the busiest corners in San Francisco, with thousands of screeching brakes and blaring horns going past every hour. Inside, life seemed sane and calm and peaceful. If only Gus could stay right here for a few hours to think things through. Removed from the noise and bustle and confusion of life, he could surely come to the right decision. If the security guard hadn't started to eye him suspiciously and finger the gun at his waist, Gus might have slid down to the floor and stayed there until he'd made up his mind.
Instead he pushed the door open and let the sounds of the traffic wash over him along with the cool air that was being pushed into the city by the oncoming layer of fog.
Even out in the noise it isn't bad, Gus thought. Maybe it wasn't the isolation of the stone lobby that had made him feel so calm and so free. It was simply being away from home.
Gus glanced at his watch. His flight didn't leave for another four hours. Normally he'd already be worried about missing the plane and would spend the next half hour debating whether he should take BART or spring for a taxi. But right now he didn't feel any pressure to get to the airport. He didn't want to go home. He had a strange feeling that whatever decision he made, it would be easier to reach here.
So Gus would stay for a few hours. He'd stroll through the financial district, maybe toddle down toward the waterfront, where he could watch the ferries come and go. Or he could head over to Chinatown and atone for his lunch by ordering some real Chinese food. Maybe he'd just walk. Walk and think. And if he wasn't done thinking by eight o'clock, he could find a cheap hotel and postpone his return until the morning. Worst-case scenario was he'd get bad news from Armitage after he'd rescheduled his flight and be stuck here for no reason.
Now that the thought of staying overnight had occurred to him, Gus started to like it more and more. He might as well just commit now. He'd call United and change his reservation, then look around for a hotel.
Gus pulled out his cell phone and powered it up--he had, of course, switched it off for the meeting. It went through its usual delaying tactics, showing logo screen after logo screen. Then it told him it was searching for service. Finally a series of four bars appeared at the top of the display. Gus started to dial when the phone rang. It was Shawn.
"Hey, Shawn," Gus said as casually as he could. "Good timing. We've got a short break in the sales conference."
"Good, because I need some advice," Shawn said.
Gus regarded the phone suspiciously. In all the years they'd been first friends, then colleagues, Shawn had never actually asked Gus for advice. Even on those occasions when he knew he needed it, Shawn always found a way to phrase the request so that it sounded like he was doing Gus a great favor.
"About what?" Gus said
.
"Remember that guy you killed?" Shawn said. "The one with the Cayenne?"
"You mean the character I killed in the computer game we were playing," Gus said. He didn't know for sure that the government had computers that sifted all cell calls for certain phrases, but if they did "remember that guy you killed" was probably one that sent up a lot of flags.
"That's him," Shawn said. "He was a hit man who was working for Morton, right?"
"He was a fictional hit man whose role in the game was as a soldier for the fictional mobster known as Morton, right," Gus said.
"Let's say I've been following this guy," Shawn said.
Gus felt a flare of irritation. He was on the cusp of making a life-changing decision, and Shawn wanted advice on a move in a computer game. "Why?" Gus said. "He's dead, at least in the fictional scenario we've been discussing in this entire conversation. Because as you pointed out, when I was playing the game, I killed him. In the game."
"Let's say I had to restart the game," Shawn said.
"You had to restart the game?" Gus was doubly glad he'd decided to stay in San Francisco now. He had no desire to relive the terrible events at the petting zoo. The fictional terrible events at the petting zoo, he corrected himself, although he doubted that any government agency actually had the technology to pick up stray thoughts.
"Let's say," Shawn said.
"Okay, you've been following Cayenne," Gus said. "So?"
"Let's say I think he's going to lead me to Morton, thus shortcutting me through at least two levels of play," Shawn said.
"Congratulations," Gus said. If he'd thought of that the last time he'd been in the game, it would have saved him from the encounter with the liquor store owner.
"Only when I followed him, he didn't lead me to Morton," Shawn said. "Instead he took me to a part of the city we hadn't seen before. He went to an office building and disappeared inside."
"And?" Gus said, wishing he could finish this call so he could reschedule his flight.
"Let's say I was able to trace the ownership of the building," Shawn said.
"How?" Gus said.
"It's a game," Shawn said. "There are clues built in."
"Okay, fine," Gus said. "So who owns the building?"
"Flint Powers," Shawn said.
Gus tried to remember why that name sounded familiar, at the same time trying to understand why he should care what was happening inside some dumb game. "He's the other mob's boss, right?" Gus said. "Morton's only rival?"
"That's right," Shawn said. "What do you think that means?"
"I assume Cayenne didn't kill Powers," Gus said. "Because you probably would have told me. So I've got to assume the only reason he's going there is because he's actually working for the guy."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and Gus was about to check the readout to see if the call had cut out when Shawn's voice came back. "So, you're saying that if I see an employee of one mobster going into the place of business of another mobster, it means that the employee is betraying his boss. Selling him out to his rival behind his back."
"I don't see what else it could be," Gus said.
"That's kind of what I was thinking," Shawn said.
"You didn't need me to tell you this," Gus said. "You've seen as many mob movies as I have."
"Let me try one other thing," Shawn said. "Let's say that Cayenne wasn't a hit man."
"Shawn, my meeting's about to start up again," Gus said.
"Let's say he's actually a private detective," Shawn continued.
"Fine, but let's say that later," Gus said. "I really have to go."
"And let's say he works for one detective agency, but his boss begins to wonder why he's never around, so he tails him one day. And you know where it gets him?"
Gus felt his throat go dry. "Shawn, I--"
Before Gus could come up with a verb, Shawn stepped around the corner, slipping his cell phone into his pocket. Barely casting a glance at Gus, he rapped on the shining brass sign affixed to the building's granite entrance. The sign that read: RUTLAND ARMITAGE, DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS.
"It gets him right here," Shawn said.
Chapter Nine
If you love somebody, set them free. That was how the song went, anyway. Not that Shawn had any idea what came after that line because every time it came on the radio, Gus insisted on changing the station. There was some grammatical issue in the line that used to drive him crazy for reasons Shawn probably wouldn't understand even if he had bothered to listen.
Even so, he got the basic idea that the song was trying to convey. And he was fine with it. Shawn had never been possessive or jealous. He'd always been secure in the knowledge that he was more fun than anyone else around, so if a girlfriend started acting like she was ready to break it off, he knew he was better off without her. If she couldn't appreciate what he had to offer, then they should go their separate ways.
That was true with friends, too. Even with Gus. Despite the fact that they'd been inseparable for three quarters of their lives, Shawn understood that their paths would have to split off at some point. If that time was now, then so be it.
All of which made it hard to explain to himself exactly why he had followed Gus through the airport to the air train, and then on to BART. He'd waited until Gus had stepped into one silver car, then gone into the next one. Positioning himself at the door between the cars, he'd watched the back of Gus' head through the window, prepared to duck back if Gus ever happened to glance over his shoulder toward him. But Gus seemed to be lost in thought and stared straight ahead for the entire thirty minutes of the trip. When the loudspeaker announced that the next stop was Powell Street, Gus got up and stood by the door, apparently without a thought that someone might be following him.
Even that left Shawn with mixed feelings. On the one hand it was making his job a lot easier. But it also suggested that Gus had forgotten everything Shawn had tried to teach him over the years. If Gus took a stroll through Darksyde City without paying any more attention than this, he'd be chopped into pieces and made into soup by one of the mobs of feral children that roamed the place.
As the train slid to a stop in the tiled subway station, Shawn told himself to be a little more generous with his old friend. He had no idea what was going on here. Maybe Gus was trying to protect him, or was simply concerned about facing his judgment.
Or maybe Gus was waiting to find out if something was seriously wrong before bringing Shawn into it. Something medical, for instance. Maybe Gus had been slipping away all those times to see doctors and he'd come here to visit a specialist. If that was the case, Shawn had promised himself, if Gus led him to a medical building he'd back off and wait for Gus to give him the news when he was ready. And he'd do everything he could to make Gus' life easier until that moment came.
By the time the train doors whooshed open Shawn had almost convinced himself that he should turn around and go straight back to Santa Barbara. If Gus needed a little privacy to deal with a medical crisis, Shawn certainly owed him that much. But since he'd been standing in the doorway when he reached that conclusion, he was pushed out to the platform by a surge of exiting passengers just in time to see Gus heading toward the escalator. He figured he might as well trail his friend for a block or two, if for no other reason than to see how good Gus was at spotting the tail.
He was appallingly bad. By the time they were halfway through the station, Shawn was considering jumping up and down and screaming Gus' name, just to see if he'd notice that. Even when Shawn used the exit turnstile right next to his, Gus didn't look around to see him. If Gus had simply inclined his head a few degrees while he was riding the steep escalator that brought him from the station up to the street, he would have spotted Shawn a dozen steps behind him. But he remained oblivious.
This, to Shawn, suggested strongly that he had indeed figured out the reason for Gus' odd behavior. If you've traveled four hundred miles to ask a
complete stranger whether you're going to live or die, you're probably not concerned with much of anything else.
That made Shawn glad he was following Gus. This way when he found the name of the mystery doctor Shawn would check up on him. If the news was good Shawn might leave it alone. But if the doctor gave Gus any prognosis other than seventy more years of happy living Shawn would work night and day to prove he was a fraud. Because Gus was healthy. Shawn knew it. He might not be a medical man, but he did have a sense of the way the universe was supposed to work, and people like Gus did not get serious diseases. That was simply out of the question.
Not that the area above the Powell Street station looked like a medical corridor. Not unless the new government health plan covered postcards, T-shirts, and trinkets. One side of the street was filled with tiny boutiques selling touristy kitsch, which was perhaps not surprising since the sidewalk was jammed with out-of-towners lined up waiting for a cable car.
Gus was already walking up Powell Street alongside the line of waiting tourists. Shawn pushed past an unwashed man who'd stopped in front of him to ask for a quarter, and followed.
If Gus were suffering from some kind of terrible disease it didn't seem to have reached his legs yet. Shawn nearly had to run just to stay twenty feet behind him. After a couple of blocks Gus made a left turn up a side street, then disappeared into a low, gray stone building. Shawn bolted after him just in time to see the door closing behind him. That was when he noticed the sign on the building's wall. RUTLAND ARMITAGE, DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS.
Gus wasn't sick. Gus wasn't dying. Gus was interviewing with another detective agency.
For the first time in his life Shawn understood the impotent fury of the cuckold. He'd been covering for Gus with their client, coming up with excuses for his poor performance. And all this time Gus had been sneaking around behind his back, looking for a job with a bigger agency. One with a fancy stone building and snooty name instead of a beach bungalow and a snazzy brand.
Mind-Altering Murder Page 5
