He armed sweat from his brow. His fake contact was starting to itch. “Not just any olives.”
Seated on the far side, Mia took mercy on him. “Are these different kinds, Evan?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “The Spanish Queens are a classic, though you’ll want to rinse them before you put them in a glass so you don’t brine the vodka.”
“Vodka?” Johnny Middleton said.
“Oh, right.” Evan picked up the bottle, realizing too late that he was displaying it like a servile waiter. “This is a rye-based small-batch. You’ll taste a bit of smoke in it, a toasty charge on the tongue. It’s made in a distillery in northeast Minnesota on a farm built by Swedish immigrants a century ago, so it retains that plainspoken Finnish pedigree. The grain oil hits mid-palate, and if you pay attention, you can grab a hint of orange peel and lavender.…”
Everyone was staring at him in a manner that suggested they were captivated less by what he was saying than by the fact that he was saying it at all.
His voice lost steam. “The Castelvetranos are best with a flavorless vodka, something delicate.…”
Lorilee, evidently the only person worse at reading the room than he was, brightened above even her elevated baseline. “I like olives stuffed with red pepper.”
He suppressed a shudder. “It’s a martini. Not a tapenade.”
For reasons unclear to him, this remark caused a stir. Mia tipped her mouth into her hand in an attempt to hide a smile. Peter flopped onto the table, kicking his legs to propel himself toward the center. He dug his dirty fingers into the nearest glass, retrieving a fistful of Grand Barounis.
“Peter, please,” Mia said. “You look like you’re rooting for truffles.” She grabbed the rear of his belt and slid him back across the table, even as he shoved several olives into his mouth.
Hugh banged his empty coffee mug on the table, a judicial rebuke. “Please don’t make me regret lifting the child-attendance embargo, Ms. Hall.” His patronizing gaze found Evan. “And if you consult Reg 13.8, you’ll see that alcohol is disallowed at these meetings.”
Evan wondered how anyone got through an HOA meeting without alcohol but decided against raising that objection.
Hugh pointed to the sole empty chair at the table. “That spot is held for the snack docent.”
A familiar feeling of unease resurfaced, that Evan was a traveler in a foreign land, observing native customs and rituals without understanding their purpose. Being concussed didn’t exactly clarify matters.
“That’s okay,” Evan said. “Maybe someone else would like to—”
“Please sit down,” Hugh said.
Evan sat.
He looked across the table at Mia, who bit down a grin and rolled her eyes. She surreptitiously pointed at the lonely olive-filled glasses, untouched since Peter’s plundering, and mouthed, Nice nibbles.
“Before you swept in,” Hugh said, “we were about to vote on the new carpet initiative.” Wielding a clicker with lightsaber proficiency, he brought up a PowerPoint presentation comparing pile densities and anti-stain treatments.
As Hugh droned on about estimated HOA assessments, the air conditioner breathed a current of dry air onto Evan’s neck. The room smelled like the cabin of an airplane. There were a jaw-dropping number of incredibly specific questions. Evan found himself wishing that the ringing in his ears was even louder so it could drown out the deliberations.
He stared longingly at the bottle of Syvä, verboten by Regulation 13.8.
It took a moment for him to register that his right thigh was vibrating.
The Turing Phone.
He removed it from his cargo pocket and set it on his knee beneath the table.
A text from the Unidentified Caller he’d spoken to an hour before: I WILL FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE.
The letters blurred and then snapped back into focus. He could practically hear that voice, unrushed and hoarse with age, delivering promises of violence. The cool air at the back of his neck felt suddenly unnerving.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Johnny Middleton held up a hand, stubby fingers splayed. The overhead light illuminated his hair plugs, symmetrically planted like rows of corn. “Does the Emerald Forest Green come Scotchgarded?”
Lorilee cut in, waving a pad on which she was—for some reason known only to herself and God—taking notes. “What’s the tuft-twist rating on the Juniper Bloom?”
Peter tossed an olive into the air and tried to catch it in his mouth, but it bounced off his forehead and skittered across the table.
The Turing Phone vibrated again: I SHOULD WARN YOU, BOY. THIS ISN’T SOME DOGFIGHTING RING YOU CAN WALK INTO LIKE A THIRD-RATE GUNSLINGER. NOW YOU’VE GRADUATED. YOU HAVE MY COMPLETE ATTENTION. I HAVE NOTHING ELSE ON MY AGENDA EXCEPT YOU.
“—need to turn our attention to the most important matter at hand,” Hugh was saying. “I know we’re all enormously concerned about the incident that took place last night when Ida Rosenbaum was brutally assaulted.”
Now Evan’s other pocket vibrated. He tugged out his RoamZone, rested it on his left knee.
It was an alert from the image search he’d run on Ida’s necklace. MATCH FOUND. He thumbed the link, opening up a Los Angeles Craigslist posting. “*MINT* beatifull silver + purpel necklace. $500. Dont waste my time w/ fake offers. Local only, cash handoff, text now. Jerry Z.”
Evan tapped Jerry Z’s phone number into his RoamZone. Through his VOIP provider, Evan was able to set his caller ID to any name or number in the world. It was currently programmed to identify him as Jean Pate with a San Bernardino area code. The French approximation of John Doe was a source of secret amusement for him.
LOVE THIS NECKLACE!! Evan typed from behind the fake ID, cringing slightly at the double exclamation point required to stay in eager-buyer character. WANT IT FOR MY LADY. WILL PAY IN FULL. WHEN CAN YOU MEET?
“Mr. Smoak!” Hugh’s voice held an insistence that indicated that this wasn’t the first time he’d called Evan’s name. “I implore you to pay attention. This is as severe a security challenge as we’ve faced at Castle Heights in my seventeen years as HOA president.”
As Evan nodded, the Turing Phone went again. He flicked his eyes down to scan the text: I’M GOING TO HAVE MY MEN SKULL-FUCK MAX MERRIWEATHER TO DEATH AND MAKE YOU WATCH.
Eyes back up to Hugh. “I understand the gravity of the situation,” Evan said.
On Evan’s left knee, Jerry Z’s reply arrived on the RoamZone: MCDONALD’S @ CRESSENT HEIGHTS + SUNSET TOMOROW @ 10PM DONT B LATE BRING ALL THE CASH
“We are simply not safe until this madman is in custody.” Hugh removed his black-framed glasses with soap-opera aplomb and wagged them at the captive audience. “Now, as many of you know, Mia Hall is helping with this issue. It’s not often we get a big-case DA overseeing a robbery. She has graciously offered to update us on the investigation.”
Under the table Evan tapped a reply to Jerry Z. NO PROBLEMO. SEE YOU TOMORROW.
Another hum on his right knee, another threat from the Unidentified Caller on the Turing Phone: AND THEN MY MEN WILL DO WORSE TO YOU.
Mia rose slowly to address the group. Noting Evan’s distraction, she frowned at him with concern and mouthed, You okay?
He flashed a low thumbs-up.
Left knee: I’M AFRAID WE’LL HAVE TO PUT THE DOG TO SLEEP TOMORROW.
Evan had a moment of confusion until he saw the 323 area code. This was the animal shelter now, not Jerry Z, purveyor of stolen jewelry.
Left knee: WE’RE WAY PAST CAPACITY, AND NO ONE WANTS A FIGHT DOG.
Right knee: YOUR TIME IS COMING, BOY. I AM CONSULTING THE KAMA SUTRA FOR NEW IDEAS ABOUT HOW TO VIOLATE YOU.
Left knee: EVEN BAIT DOGS. SAD BUT TRUE.
It was like Dada poetry but even more awful.
“Can we have pets?” Evan blurted out.
A painful silence ensued. Mia’s hands were clasped, her shoulders squared. Clearly he’d interrupted her closing-argument-level focus. Her head was cocked more
in disbelief than irritation.
“Absolutely not,” Hugh said, punching the words to make clear his irritation at the non sequitur. “This is a strictly allergy-free building. No pets, no smoking. Even the plant life in here requires a board approval process.”
Right knee: IT WILL BE LONG.
Left knee: I’M SORRY.
Right knee: AND MORE PAINFUL THAN YOU CAN POSSIBLY IMAGINE.
Left knee: THERE’S NOTHING WE CAN DO.
Across the table another tossed olive struck Peter’s chin and flew into Lorilee’s cleavage.
Peter reddened. “Oh, boy.”
Evan used the distraction to ease back from the table and slip away.
* * *
Though his balance was still in and out, Evan managed a shower, bracing himself against the wall. Toweling off brought forth a swell of nausea, and he rushed to sit down on the bed. He wanted to go to the bureau to get a pair of boxers, but his head hurt too much, and the city lights, diffuse through the window, started to streak.
The RoamZone indented his sheets where he’d tossed it, and he picked it up, thumbing down the brightness as a concession to his light sensitivity.
A deep, long sleep could be incautious; a patient was supposed to be awakened every hour and checked for focal neurological abnormalities that would suggest damage worse than a simple concussion.
To be safe, Evan set the RoamZone alarm and turned the volume all the way up before collapsing onto his side. A clammy sweat enveloped him. Closing his eyes seemed to intensify the pain where his head met the pillow.
He told himself to doze lightly so the alarm could pull him out for a self-exam.
Before he went under, a parting thought glanced off his consciousness: It would’ve been nice to have someone here to look after him.
24
Amphetamized
Bouncing footsteps sounded inside the apartment after Evan rang the doorbell. Then a voice: “Are you a rapist?”
“Not funny, Joey.”
“So that’s a no, then?”
“Open the door.”
She did. Her lopsided grin faded when she saw the bag of kibble tucked under his arm. Her gaze tracked down to his hand and then along the leash he gripped to the Rhodesian ridgeback puppy panting at his side.
“Uh, no,” she said. “No way.”
Evan said, “They’re gonna put him down.”
“Why is that my concern?”
“You need a guard dog anyway.”
“I do not need a guard dog. Plus, it’s all banged up.”
“He was a bait dog.”
“A bait dog?”
“A dog they throw to bigger dogs to tear up so they’re blood-hungry before a fight.”
“Fuckers.”
“Language. But yes.”
After his oft-broken night’s sleep, Evan was feeling somewhat better. He could still feel the aftereffects of the concussion, but the symptoms had receded significantly, the ringing in his ears faint enough to ignore. The dog had been nicely patched up, the vet suturing his wounds and treating his raw skin. At Evan’s request she’d removed the dog’s tracking device and stitched up that incision as well.
“What’s with the stripe down its back?” Joey asked. “Did it have spine surgery or something?”
“No. He’s a ridgeback. They’re lion hunters from Africa.”
At this, Joey’s eyebrows lifted a millimeter, a poker tell that she was ever so slightly impressed. She stepped back with a sigh, her shoulders sagging operatically. “Fine. You can park it here—just until it heals up. I’m not keeping it.”
“He’s a him,” Evan said. “With the requisite parts and everything. At least most of them.”
The dog padded in at his side, nosing Joey’s hand as she walked off. She flung her arm away. “It got schlop on me. So gross.”
In a fall of pale early-morning light, a half-eaten breakfast burrito rested on the kitchen counter next to the ubiquitous Big Gulp. Music pulsed from the pod of the workstation—some remixed dance number heavy on percussion.
“Do you ever sleep?” he asked.
“Not with you coming over at all hours bearing dogs.”
Evan set a prescription bottle on the edge of her desk. “You’ll have to give him these antibiotics twice a day. Just mash the pill into a piece of cheese or something.”
“Great. A sick dog.”
“He’s not sick. It’s to prevent an infection from his injuries.”
She flicked a hand at the dog. “Go over there.”
The dog looked at her.
“It’s really well trained,” she said.
“He’s better trained than you.”
“That’s hysterical. And inaccurate.”
“You should name him.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“If I name it, it could get attached to me.”
“Joey.”
“Fine. Didn’t you have a dog way back when? With Jack? What was its name?”
“Strider.”
“Like the knife company?”
“Yes. But that was before there was—”
“You’re such a guy.” She crossed her arms, displeased. “Fine. I’ll name it ‘Dog.’”
“Careful you don’t spoil him with too much affection.”
Dog sat, wagging his tail, staring up at her. She tugged off her sweatshirt and coiled it in the corner beneath a pull-up bar bolted to the wall. A makeshift bed. “Here. Come over here, Dog. Dog, come!”
The dog furrowed his brow, regarding her intently.
She glared at Evan. “Why’s it tilting its head at me?”
“Dogs are incredibly attuned to their owners. They want to know your mood at all times.”
“I’m not its owner.”
“They watch their owners’ mouths—their teeth—to see if they’re bared. Or smiling. His muzzle blocks his view of the lower half of your face so he’s cocking his head to clear his field of vision.”
For the first time, she didn’t have a ready answer. “It cares that much how I’m feeling?”
“He does.”
She crouched and patted the sweatshirt. The dog padded over, circled the puddled fabric a few times, and lay down, licking at the raw skin where the duct tape had stripped off his fur.
Joey rose, cracked her knuckles. “Okay. Did you need something, or were you just dropping by to complicate my life?”
“Without complications life is sterile.”
“Who said that?”
“Confucius.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Me.”
She rolled her eyes, transforming from a striking young woman to a stubborn kid. A sixteen-year-old could be either, Evan had learned. Or both at the same time.
“I need you to track an unidentified caller who dialed this phone.” He produced Terzian’s cell phone. “Which will be challenging, given the encryption.”
“Look at you, getting all tech-porny over a Turing.” She snatched it off his palm and disappeared into the circular desk, only the top of her head visible behind the monitors. “It’s built like a tank, sure, and waterproof—cool, I know—but there’s no micro USB, which is their fancypants ultra-secure move—lame, right?—and no headphone jack, like if you’re doing super-encrypted shit, you don’t wanna jam to—what do people like you listen to? Josh Groban? Michael Bolton?”
“I don’t know who they are, but I sense that’s below the belt.”
From behind the row of monitors, she leaned into sight, shot him a winning smile, then swooped back offstage. More amphetamized typing.
“It sucks for mobile gaming, too—not that you’ve ever played a game in your whole life—I know, I know, ‘Chess is a game’—and it barely achieved a twenty-five hundred rating on Geekbench 3, if you can call that ‘achieved.’” She snorted. “I get that it’s for security, not performance, so whatevs, but still, can’t these people walk and ch
ew gum at the same time?”
Evan circled to the opening in the desk. “Look, I doubt you’ll be able to uncloak—”
“‘Uncloak’? What is this, Middle Earth? Easy, Gandalf, I just need to grab the IMEI—that’s international mobile equipment identifier for you mouth-breathers in the room.” At this, she directed a pointed look at Evan and then at the dog, snoozing in the corner. “It’s the fifteen-digit number burned into each phone they use to authenticate you to the network, charge you for minutes, all that. Then I’ll just jump into the maintenance channel of the telco switch and use their SS7 hacks to look up which number texted this IMEI at…” Scrolling through the Turing’s text messages, she cocked her head, not unlike the dog. “Wow. Kama Sutra, huh? Here we go—9:37 last night—and wham. Call detail record, bitches!”
He stared blankly at the wall of numbers on the screen. “So how do I…?”
“Subscriber data’s in another part of the database, dummy.” She tucked back in, fingers blurring. “Lookee here. Your caller’s account is registered to … Three Monkeys Café in Glendale.”
She spun around in her chair, pulling in her knees, a full 360 ending with her bare feet stomped down and jazz hands.
“I’d express admiration for what you just did,” Evan said. “But your ego doesn’t need any shoring up.”
“Who is this guy anyways?”
“Looks like I’ll have to head to Glendale to find out.”
“No, I mean, who is he, like, contextually?”
“Seems like he’s the boss who unleashed Terzian,” Evan said, plucking the phone from the desk and backpedaling out of the cockpit-like enclosure. “Which means the money-laundering operation’s bigger than I thought.”
“Why don’t you bring me the thumb drive, let me take a spin through the spreadsheets?”
“I already analyzed them.”
She stripped a Red Vine from a plastic tub and flopped one end into her mouth. “I’d think by now you’d have learned to extrapolate what my insulting reply to that might be.”
Into the Fire Page 14
