Dead and Gone (20 page)

“Sure.”

“On hand?”

“Yep.”

“Can you meet me? On the waterfront? Just take Alder—that’s the block the hotel’s on—east. You’ll know you’re on track if the street numbers keep getting lower, okay? Make a right on Fourth, and a left on Taylor. Follow it down; you’ll see the river. Find a place to park anywhere near Front Street, then just walk across and stroll north along the waterfront. I’ll pick you out easy enough. Give it … thirty minutes, okay?”

“You got it.”

“M
ay I come with you?” Gem asked, her voice formal.

“Sure. But …”

“Yes?”

“We have to be there in less than a half-hour.”

“Pooh! You think it takes me so long just to get dressed?”

“No. I mean, I was just—”

“I will wager with you. The last one ready to go pays for lunch.”

“Can we just make it a hundred or so?” I asked her. “I don’t know how much I need for Byron.”

She punched me in the chest. Lightly, with the side of her fist, not the knuckles.

G
em practically dove into a lilac sweatshirt, then pulled a pair of jeans on as far as her thighs. She held the waistband of the jeans in both hands as she hopped over to the door, dragging them up over her hips. “I win!” she announced, breathlessly.

When I conceded that she had, she said “Hah!” And celebrated by immediately stripping and prancing into the shower. Still, we were on the waterfront, strolling hand in hand like … I don’t know what … with a good five minutes to spare. We must have been walking in the right direction, because we found Byron lounging on one of the wooden benches, taking in the scenery. We sat down on either side of him. Gem turned sideways so she could see behind us. “That’s okay, girl. It’s covered,” Byron told her.

“It’s only eleven,” I said to him. “You got something already?”

“A lot. I fronted it, but I need a couple of grand to get square. You said—”

“I got seven and change with me.”

“Perfect. We got a deuce, deuce and a half, committed already, but I figure that could double if the stream keeps flowing.”

“Hundreds okay?” I asked, reaching into the side pocket of my coat.

“Long as they’re not private stock, bro. Computers and laser printers have changed the game. Any geek can make funny money in his house now.”

“This is all clean,” I said, handing over a bundle. “Used and random, too. I know you’ve got a man out there and—”

“That’s
my
man, Burke. This cash is to grease some wheels. My
partner
is here for me, not for pay, understand?”

“I apologize,” I told him, meaning it.

He nodded, closing the subject. Took a breath. “All right, here’s what we got so far: the house cost the better part of eight fifty large. They put down three and a piece, financed the rest at seven and three-eighths, thirty-year, fixed. Income stream is all ‘investments,’ and it looks fine on paper—two mil and change in five mutual funds, three index, one value, and one Euro. Their TRW is squeaky clean—only thing they have going is a revolving credit line from American Express, and they pay
that
every month, no balance. Two phone lines. Long-distance bills run less than a hundred a month. They use U S West for a carrier, the chumps. State taxes paid right to the penny.”

“Which means they—?”

“Yeah. Not just new names, bro. New Social Security numbers. And the names on the paper are as Anglo-Saxon as King James.”

“So they’re
deep
under.”

“They are. But they’re not visible enough locally for anyone to notice. That American Express account? The one they pay righteously? Some months it’s damn near ten grand.” He paused, made sure my eyes were on his. “For travel.”

“Luxury cruises?”

“Sure. If you think Estonia’s a playground for the rich and lazy.”

“Estonia?”

“And Romania.”

“What about the Philippines?” Gem asked, softly.

“Nope. Europe. All
over
Europe, but that’s all.”

I filed it. Filed Gem’s question, too. “What else have you—?”

Byron held up his hand, reached in his jacket, came out with his pager, checked the screen, said, “More than I thought I would, Burke. See for yourself.”

He held the pager so I could reach the window. This time the window read 411 + + +.

I raised my eyebrows, asking what the string of plus signs meant.

“Pictures,” Byron said. “Let’s ride.”

B
yron’s ride turned out to be a nondescript dark-green Chrysler four-door. “Tradecraft,” he said, apologetically. He suavely opened the back door for Gem.

She sat way forward, resting her chin on my shoulder, listening to Byron’s travelogue as he crisscrossed streets.

“This is Southeast,” he said. “Kind of a mixed bag. See for yourself.”

What I saw was a string of antiques shops and used-book stores, and a vegetarian restaurant called Old Wives’ Tales. A couple of blocks farther along, a pair of topless joints that looked right at home.

Byron turned off the main drag, his eyes scanning the block. I didn’t know what he was looking for, and he didn’t ask for my help, so I stayed inside myself, waiting.

He slowed at a small stone building—looked like an eight-family unit—then pulled into the driveway and continued until we were in a little alley. Byron reversed the car smoothly, and expertly backed it toward a big garage. The door opened and we rolled in. The door came down again, as silently as silk on silicon.

It was dark inside. No windows. A tiny red light came on in a far corner, no bigger than an LED. I flicked my eyes to my chest, thinking,
Laser sight!
But I couldn’t see anything.

Byron turned off the engine. A tall man came out of the shadows. When he got closer, I could see he was white, somewhere in his forties, maybe, with a neat haircut, wearing a dark boxy-cut suit.

He bent down so his face was close to Byron’s. I couldn’t hear what passed between them. The tall man opened the back door and climbed in next to Gem. I half-turned so I was facing Byron, my good eye on the back seat.

“This is Brick,” Byron said to us.

“My name is Gem,” she said, holding out her hand.

He shook it.

“Burke,” I told him. And he did the same. His grip was soft and dry. Contact, not pressure—no transmissions. I couldn’t make out all his features, but he had a high forehead and a squarish jaw.

He took some photographs out of a manila envelope I hadn’t noticed in his hand. “These two surfaced at oh-six-twenty-two,” he said. “Just before first light. They came in a pickup, a Ford F150 with California tags.” He read the license number to Byron.

“There goes the budget,” Byron said.

“Shouldn’t take as long as you might think,” Brick replied. “Their truck was one of those ‘Lightning’ jobs—couldn’t miss it, even from a distance. They were real limited production. Can’t be that many of them running around.”

He handed the photos to me, together with a pocket flash. “These are from a digital camera, downloaded and printed. The detail is very good, but you’ll need to blow them up anyway.”

“Try this,” Byron said, taking the flash from me and handing over a rectangular magnifying glass. He trained the light where I was looking. Skinheads. In jackets—one leather, the other denim—and T-shirts. The photos showed them standing next to their truck; walking toward the Russians’ house; returning. The last two shots were close-ups. Even under the low-light conditions, the clarity was better than the average mug shot—I’d know either of them again. And they weren’t from the same crew as the plaza. These two were a decade, if not a generation, older.

I handed the photographs to Gem. Brick took the flash from Byron and held it for her while she checked for herself.

“These men were not the ones who—”

“They’re not,” I agreed with her. Then I asked Brick, “Are they known to—?”

“Have to wait on positive IDs for that.”

“Can you do it from these photos?”

“Possibly. It’s all on digital, and we’ve got programs that can work miracles with the pixels. But there’s a better option. I creeped their truck while they were inside the house. Got some really excellent lifts. Too many, in fact. So it will take a while, run all the elims. But if they’re in the computer banks, we should be able to pull them up.”

“That was slick,” I complimented him.

“Brick is James-fucking-Bond,” Byron said proudly. “They’ll never know anyone was there, either.”

“Why would skinheads—?” Gem asked.

“There’s all kinds of skinheads,” I told her. “We won’t know until …”

“…  some of the lines tighten,” Byron finished for me.

W
hen the Chrysler pulled out of the garage on Brick’s signal,

I was at the wheel, Gem sitting next to me. Byron stayed with Brick, saying they both had work to do.

“Makes me feel … useless,” I told Gem.

“Because you cannot go with them?”

“Not go with them, go
somewhere
. Do
something
, you know?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked her, turning left onto Burnside, thinking how Portland’s street grid was pretty easy to navigate.

“I have work to do.”

“Oh. You mean you have to go back to—”

“No. Work to do here. As I told you from the beginning. But I have … neglected it, somewhat. And I must devote myself to it for … a while now.”

“No problem.”

“You are not … concerned?”

“I don’t know how you mean the word, little girl. Worried about you, what you’re into? Or nosy about stuff that’s none of my business?”

“The first.”

“You speak, what, a half-dozen damn languages? You know at least that many ways to kill a man. Your IQ’s off the charts. You survived what a couple of million people didn’t … and that was when you were a little kid. It would be … I don’t know … disrespectful to worry about you.”

“But you call me ‘little girl.’ How does that square with what you just said?”

“It’s just a … Did I insult you? If I did, I’m sorry. For me, it’s a term of affection. Like … ‘honey’ or something.”

“My language skills are not as complete as you appear to believe, Burke. But it does not seem the same.”

“The same as … what?”

“ ‘Honey’ might be what you call a waitress.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I do not believe you would. I expressed it incorrectly. Let me try it from the other end. ‘Little girl.’ If it was in my language, and I had to translate it into English, it would come out as … ‘cherished.’ Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“So you …?”

“I don’t know. It’s just an expression.”

“It is not just an expression,” she said, gravely. “And you
do
know.”

W
hen we got back to the hotel, Gem ate one of her megameals, then announced she needed a nap.

The message light was flashing on the phone. The voice-mail system told me I had one message. When I retrieved it, all I got was the sound of fingers snapping, once.

From Max. Call Mama.

I switched fresh batteries into the cellular, put the old ones on recharge, then used the hotel phone to start the relay.

Nothing to do but wait, so I lay back on the couch and watched CNN with the sound off, reading the pop-up screens and practicing my lip-reading when one of the anchors came on.

The buzzing of the cellular brought me around—must have drifted off.

“Cop come,” Mama said.

“One cop?”

“Yes. You know him. Come here, many times.”

That wasn’t as clear as it sounded. A whole lot of professions fit “cop” in Mama’s vocabulary.

“Spanish guy? Cheap suit? Small eyes? Hard man?” I asked, not wanting to say a name on the phone.

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“Thumbprint.”

“I don’t—”

“Want
your
thumbprint. Come back tonight.”

“But the cops’ve got all the—”

“From … surface. Say want to ‘lift’ …”

“He say why?”

“No.”

“Mama, you have …?”

“Sure. Have your old—”

“Okay. Do it.”

“You want Max?”

“Not yet. I don’t know anything yet.”

“But soon, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

I
t was dark by the time Gem came out of her room. She was wearing a black silk sheath with a mandarin collar, the black spikes with ankle straps over sheer stockings, hair flowing loose, carrying a small black patent-leather clutch bag. Not a trace of color besides black, except her skin.

“I cannot be certain when I will return,” she said, bending at the waist to kiss me softly on my neck.

“You have the cell number …?”

“Yes.”

“Look, I’m not doing anything now. Just waiting around. I could come along—”

“No, thank you,” she said, formally.

“I wouldn’t cramp your style or anything. Couldn’t I just be the … driver, or something?”

“It would be a mistake. Fear is a mistake.”

“I’m not—”

“You do not understand. Either the … people I must meet might think I was afraid of them. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Or they would be afraid of you,” she said.

I
watched daylight break the next morning. I used to do that a lot, before. Different now. No Hudson River off in the distance. No cigarette in my hand. No … Pansy next to me. The window in my head opened. And the sky behind it was splattered with red.

I closed my eyes so hard the corners hurt. Impaled on my own truth. Wishing I’d bought some of the religion one of the foster homes had tried so viciously to beat into me. I tried to see my Pansy in some dog heaven. Lying on her sheepskin rug, gnawing on a rawhide bone, watching a boxing match on TV with me. Safe and happy. Doing her job. Loved.

But all I could see was Pansy snarling her last war cry as the bullets took her off this earth.

I breathed deep through my nose, expanding my stomach, taking the air down past my belly into my groin, holding it until it gathered the poison inside me into a little ball. Then I expelled it in a long, harsh stream, toxic yellow-green as it left. Lose the poison, keep the pain. I needed the pain the way a man who survives a bad car crash needs to feel his legs—to know they still work.