I took a seat on the dusty futon first, then Andi gingerly sat next to me, her stiff leg extended at just the right angle to keep the pain at bay.
“Last night you started telling me about the paper.” Her hands reached out.
“You fell asleep two minutes into it. I didn't try to wake you up. It's obvious your body is still recovering from the trauma of the gunshot wound.”
“I'm better, and the sleep has helped a ton. But if we're ever going to be able to walk the streets without thinking we're going to get mugged, run over, or shot at, then we need to start figuring out what the hell is going on. And fast. These four walls are closing in on me.”
“Me too,” I said, glancing out the murky window and watching a steady rain pelt the glass. I then looked up at the ceiling and wondered how long it would be before the whole damn thing caved in right on top of us.
I pulled the piece of paper out of my back pocket.
“You've been in those jeans for...what, three days?” Andi's contorted face looked repulsed.
“Unfortunately, Susan and Jet didn't have any cousins or friends near my size. So get ready. I might be wearing these for days to come.”
She scrunched her nose then cued me to continue with my story about the paper.
“I found this in the corner of Camila's office at Swan Massage Therapy and stuffed it in my pocket.” I straightened out the paper, which now resembled more of a soft tissue. “At Jet's place, while you were sleeping off your morphine, I took my time and reviewed everything on here. Check it out.“
The paper was as eclectic as I believed Camila was unique. It displayed lots of numbers, some randomly placed, a few built into complex equations. At the bottom, however, was a pencil sketch, remarkably detailed and true to life, displaying a shoreline and waves, with rolling, lush mountaintops in the backdrop. Arched atop the highest mountain, a statue. It was unmistakably a drawing of Rio de Janeiro, the statue of Christ the Redeemer looking over the city and coastline.
“Camila, or whoever drew this, is quite talented,” Andi said.
I paused, wondering if I'd made too giant of a leap in assuming it was Camila's artwork.
“That beautiful drawing doesn't really match this scribble over here,” Andi pointed out.
“That's where I was going. Jet's youngest sister, the little six-year-old you never met, got hold of the paper and started doodling, scribbling in her own way. And, if you look at it in just the right light, it shows the outline of something strange.”
Our heads both raised up as the glare from the window shined just enough light to detect letters that had been etched on the piece of paper, possibly with a fingernail or small coin.
“What is that, a backward D?” she asked.
“I guess. Then, see here, M-W.”
Handing the piece of paper to Andi, I pushed myself upward and paced one direction in the small apartment, then back the other way. My brain seemed to think best when I was in redundant motion.
“A backward D, M-W,” Andi repeated, turning the paper to an angle, her lips pulled into a straight line.
I scratched my chin, then rubbed my face, feeling days of stubble reaching nearly beard level. This was life when you were essentially hiding from society—you had no foundation, no one you could truly trust in your immediate world, at least no one in an authoritative position. I gazed at Andi, and knew I could trust her.
“With the toys you found at the office, I feel like these etched letters connect to a child. I think a kid wrote these, which is why they stand out from everything else,” I surmised.
I popped two knuckles.
“Did you know you're going to give yourself arthritis doing that?”
Our eyes met, then I continued pacing, ignoring the question.
“Okay, I can see that. Kids just learning to write, they mix up which way letters go all the time,” Andi said.
I nodded. “You think she has a child, her own child?”
“Why not? She is a woman, even if she is The Natural.” Andi popped an eyebrow.
“It's just strange she didn't mention it when I visited with her.”
“I think a lot of single women might try to keep knowledge of their child to themselves. It's not exactly a dude magnet, at least for some guys.”
I shrugged my shoulders then noticed Andi wince as she used her arms to shift her weight on the futon.
“Oh, did we miss the time for your meds?”
“I need to be able to handle some pain. I'm not a wimp.”
“Always the martyr,” I said sarcastically, opening the lid and dropping two brown pills in her hand. I gave her a cup of lukewarm tap water. Our little mini-fridge didn't have a cube of ice.
“It's just a mere flesh wound,” I said in a British accent.
“Thanks, Monty Python, I get it,” she said, extending an arm to me. “Want to help me up? My butt's falling asleep.“
I planted a foot and steadily eased her up, our heads nearly touching by the time she stood upright. "Not bad for a gimp," she said about herself.
“Self-deprecating humor is almost cute,” I said before I realized how the comment sounded.
Andi turned, her eyes and expression resting at an awkward in-between state of flattery and confusion.
I changed the topic.
“For the purposes of this conversation, it doesn't matter if it is Camila's child or someone she babysits on a regular basis. We're both in agreement a kid etched those letters on that paper.”
Andi continued the brainstorming. “And we're assuming they're significant, these letters. That the kid wrote them because of some greater meaning. Or at least because the child had seen or heard them.”
“Right,” I said. “What about all those other numbers and equations? They could be just as significant.“
“Or not. Maybe we're creating some concealed, devious project or activity out of thin air. Could just be a coincidence.” Andi hobbled a few steps then angled the paper toward the window's glare.
“I might believe that—might—if Glass Eye and his pudgy partner hadn't shown up to extricate us from the earth,” I said, my mind then making another couple of leaps. “Which reminds me, how the hell did they know we were at Swan Massage Therapy to begin with?“
Scratching my face again, I felt my stomach tighten, recalling the gun pointed at us, their threatening tone, and then, with Jet slinging his nunchucks like a Kung Fu master, our impending fight for our lives. Despite Andi being grazed by the gunshot, we were damn lucky to be breathing at all, although every intake carried a waft of Kung Pao or sweet and sour. I had a feeling another interaction with the same pair of thugs would end tragically...for us. Somehow, we had to find Camila, figure out what the hell she was mixed up in, and ensure we didn't get caught in the crossfire. Eventually, we'd have to bring in the authorities, but given my current status with the SFPD, they'd treat me like a leper until we had airtight evidence.
“I don't know, Michael. There's just not a lot to go on here. We're at a huge disadvantage. We're stuck in this...” She looked around. “...apartment. All we have to go on from our uninvited visit to Swan Massage Therapy is a room full of computers.“
“And servers.”
“Those too. Kids toys, and now this piece of paper with random numbers, an artistic sketch of Brazil, and three letters written by a kid. Kids are unpredictable. They do random shit for no reason. These three letters might be the latest letters they learned in preschool.”
My pacing had stopped just in front of Andi, who was still turning the paper at different angles, searching for a tangible clue we could run with.
A thought zipped into my mind just as my eyes locked onto the opposite side of the paper.
“Don't move,” I said.
I pinched the corners of my eyes then studied the paper again. I walked around next to her, flipping the paper over, where there were no pencil marks.
“Hold it up again, like before, and look up in this corner.” I put my f
inger just under the etched letters that were barely readable from the other side.
“W-M-D,” Andi said with air in her breath. She swiveled around and looked into my eyes.
“I've only heard one acronym in my lifetime using those letters.”
“Mother fucker,” she said.
“Nope. Weapons of Mass Destruction.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Today
Just after I'd walked out of the miniature bathroom in our shared efficiency apartment, Andi tapped her phone and brought it to her side.
“Next stop, San Mateo,” she said.
“What's in San Mateo?”
“Not what, who.”
“Okay, Sherlock, who?”
“Satish,” she said in a high-pitched tone, her lips forming a genuine Andi smile.
We then debated our next steps in our official/unofficial investigation, sanctioned by no one but us. Stay out of sight, let Andi's leg heal up, and try to wait out the perps was one option. The second and third options focused on taking more proactive steps, ranging from talking to my colleagues and management at Playa to see if they'd be willing to assist, all the way to calling my old buddy Guidry at the FBI. We settled in the middle. Satish, Andi's old friend from the University of North Texas, was a certified technical genius, also known as a world-renowned hacker. There was nothing he couldn't accomplish with a keyboard, mouse, and Internet access. He'd been the one to uncover the fact that my brother, rather half-brother, was essentially a lying piece of shit.
No part of me wanted to go back to that moment in time. I felt a slight tug on my heartstrings and cut them off before they could take hold of my thoughts.
“You said his name, but I didn't know you were going to call him right away,” I'd said. “And you never said he lived in the area, just down in San Mateo?“
“You never asked.”
“You act like I'm supposed to read your mind,” I said, with an annoying tone.
“I'm a girl. That comes with the territory.” She punched me right in the shoulder socket, again, and I winced.
“Was that necessary?”
I was beginning to wonder if I liked the old Andi better, the one who appreciated just being in my company, learning at the hand of master Yoda. Wow, what had I been thinking? It's obvious I didn't know the real Andi. Or maybe, over time and after living more life, she had evolved...or devolved, as the case may be.
Regardless, I was happy as hell to learn that Satish had moved his act to the West Coast. The storm had picked up some steam, and we didn't have any type of protection, so I called downstairs to Mr. Chao. He met us at the back door with two rain slickers. They were identical...identically massive. I think I saw XXL on the tag. Covered in the colors of the 49ers, gold and red, and Mr. Chao's logo on the back, the biggest Cowboys fan on the West Coast reluctantly threw on the coat and zipped it up. I slid on the hood and tied it tight under my chin. Andi and I looked like inverted egg yolks.
With the storm approaching Noah's Ark status, we could barely make out the corner, about a hundred feet down the alley, where Mr. Chao's cousin, another one of San Francisco's talented cabbies, was supposed to meet us.
A surge of white noise shifted my mind back a few years, recalling one of my high school friends, Craig, who used travel to Colorado each summer with his family and hike up Pike's Peak. One year, I think when we were both fifteen, the day after his vacation ended, Craig walked into my house and said, "I ain't never going up that high again." Hands and fingers were flying everywhere, his voice on the edge of quivering. I'd never seen him so emphatic.
He explained, “It starts raining, hard. Suddenly, we realize the clouds are closing down on us, just above our heads. Then it thunders so loud..." He smacked his hands together. "...like a bomb exploded in my gut. I almost frickin' shit my pants, man. A split second later, a zap of lightning struck. I swear to you, it hit two feet from me. My mom screamed like she'd been stabbed by a pitchfork.”
At that moment, my heart was probably beating as fast as Craig's, but I was withholding the natural urge to laugh my ass off. Craig, though, was on the verge of giving himself a heart attack.
“Did you run into your mommy's arms?” I said with a smirk escaping my lips.
“I hit the deck, dude. Bear-crawled down the mountain about a hundred feet until I found a small cliff of rocks I could take cover under.”
I gave him one slow nod and realized I'd never heard Craig's voice so high or with such a twangy country accent.
“What?” he said, hanging on to the word an extra two seconds. His eyebrows nearly crossed each other. “And fuck you, and fuck the horse you road in on.“
The sky rumbled for thirty seconds straight as Andi and I stood shoulder to shoulder, and I wondered if my ridicule of Craig was coming back to haunt me. Enormous drops of water fell from the sky, looking more like gray pebbles, sounding like them as they bombarded the dumpster twenty feet from us. I couldn't see the top of the three-story building across the way, as thick, menacing clouds collapsed around us. Then, a combination lightning strike and thunder clap...Andi and I leaped into each other's arms like two kids who'd just heard death whispering in their ears.
“Uh, sorry,” I said, uncurling my arms from around her shoulders.
“What?” she yelled, her wet face also showing signs of embarrassment.
It was as if the entire area was contained in a small, metal box, the roar of the storm rattling my core. I was in awe of what Mother Nature had conjured up, almost to the point of turning around and calling it a day. Instead, I said, “Want to make a run for it?”
Andi emphatically pointed to her wounded leg, the lower half of which was soaked and now a darker shade of denim. I felt stupid for even going there, but that didn't stop me.
“I can carry you on my back.”
“Seriously?”
I shrugged my shoulders and looked behind me to see if Mr. Chao was checking on us. His back door was wide open.
“We can't stand here forever,” I said.
“You got a wheelbarrow?” Andi asked, just as I noticed the rain had let up a tad.
I looked both ways down the alley and spotted a grocery cart lying on its side.
“I'll be right back.” I turned and ran off, ignoring Andi's shouting voice behind me.
I got to the cart, flipped it on its wheels, and then ran back, pushing it in front of the doorway. Then I stood inside for a moment, drenched to the bone, huffing through my words. "Door to door service. There's your chariot, my lady." I extended a hand.
Andi raised an arm and said, “All I need is a whip.”
“Believe me, I already feel like your whipping boy.”
She smirked, and her head withdrew a bit. I think she got offended. Whatever.
Andi hobbled out a couple of steps and stood on the crossbar, her hands gripping the slick handlebar. I jumped in front and began dragging the cart and Andi down the alley, over pebbles, crushed cans, empty plastic bags. I heard a couple of low rumbles and held my breath, bracing for a strike of lightning or a smack of thunder. None occurred.
“Hey, I think I see the cab up there,” I yelled above the storm.
Another surge of energy took us within ten feet of the yellow cab, then we ditched the cart. I flew open the car door and dove across the backseat, Andi pushing my backside.
“It's frickin' raining cats and dogs!” she said, slipping off her hood, releasing her thick, brown hair.
“Who let the dogs out? Woo...woo, woo, woo, woo.” The driver pumped his fist and sang one of the most tiresome, over-played songs of this millennium all the way down to San Mateo.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You going to knock or keep chewing the inside of your cheek?” I asked.
Andi and I stood on a narrow porch, a crevice in the cement beneath our feet wide enough to lose a large shoe. A glass door—splintered like a twenty-legged spider—separated us from the main door, which appeared to have been painted and sa
nded about ten times in its life.
I scanned the front yard again, noticing a combination of stones and weeds, dual brown bushes flanking the entryway, but not another lick of landscaping. The house was built using brown brick from what I guessed was the 1960s. Most of it appeared to be intact, although a few rust-stained bricks near the three windows were dislodged.
Just above my head a gutter dipped about a foot below the rim of the one-story rooftop.
I shook my head and observed Andi scratching the side of hers, puzzled apparently.
“Care to share?” I asked, my eyes glancing back up at the sagging gutter, wondering if someone might have used it as a pull-up bar.
She scrunched and twisted her lips. “I can't recall if Satish said it was 1610 or 1605 across the street.”
I turned around to look across the street and instantly dropped my chin. It was like we'd been transported out of San Mateo into a ritzy suburb. Palo Alto came to mind. Although modest in size, the house across the street could have been on the cover of Architectural Digest with its sleek design, solar-paneled roof, and off to the left, a water tank for reusable water. The yard was lush, colorful, a cacophony of vegetation that somehow blended in with the house like a painting.
I pointed my thumb across the street. “You're debating whether Satish and his two buddies live in that dream home versus this rundown hut?”
She raised both eyebrows.
“Satish, the same guy with shag carpeting and a disco ball at his place back in Texas?” I said, recalling my lifestyle in my early twenties. “Two roommates—“
“And business partners,” she chimed in.
“If they could live in a cardboard house of pizza boxes, they probably would. As long they had an Internet connection.”
I carefully pulled open the glass door, hoping it wouldn't shatter at our feet, then took hold of the knocker. I pulled it back, and the thin nail holding it in place slid out. I stood there holding the knocker.
Andi giggled and snorted.
GREED Box Set (Books 1-4) Page 84
