Simple Simon (17 page)

Lomax looked at Anne, embarrassed, and went to her, giving the man standing over her a sharp look that matched the scar. “Get her off the floor.”

The Deputy U.S. Marshal looked to Kasvakis, who nodded, and with Lomax on one arm they helped her into a chair.

“Bob, what is happening?”

One of the entry team trotted down from the second floor and went to Kasvakis. “He’s not here.”

Anne, disoriented, angry, scared, and more than a bit sore, looked away before Lomax could answer her question and said toward Kasvakis and Breem, “What are you doing in my house?!”

Lomax crouched in front of Anne, his hands on her shoulders. “Anne, where is Art?”

“Art?
ART
?” She looked at anyone with a face, shock everywhere on hers. “You’re here for
ART
?”

Breem stepped closer, and said to the man guarding her, “Mirandize her.”

Getting a nod from his boss, the man did.

“Anne,” Lomax began when the rights had been read, “something needs to be cleared up.”

“Where is your husband?” Breem asked.

Anne tried to focus her attention, but too many things were happening at once. Plus, with the disorientation and fear fading, her anger had room to grow, and when it reached critical mass it had its own questions. “Who are you?”

“I’m United States Attorney Angelo Breem. Now, where is your husband?”

“Why do you want to know?” Anne demanded, remembering the name, and some choice characterizations her husband had made about the man.

“Because I have a warrant for his arrest, as well as yours.”

Arrest? Art, arrested? And…me?
She needed a familiar face and turned to Lomax. “Bob?”

“Anne, something has happened. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know Art can.”

Breem rolled his eyes. “Your husband? Where is he?”

“Why are you here to arrest him?”

“Stop playing stupid,” Breem said.

Lomax stood. “Watch it, Breem.”

“No, you watch it Agent Lomax. I have a warrant, I have one suspect from this residence. Now I want the other.” He stepped right up to Anne now and glared at her. “I want your husband. Where is he?”

Anne started to say something, then stopped, and swallowed. The conversation over the breakfast table flashed in her head, Art saying nothing was up, and her knowing it was a lie. Did this have something to do with that? She thought hard, in silence, the thin man who said he was the U.S. Attorney waiting for his answer.

*  *  *

For the second time that week, Art Jefferson took Simon Lynch back to the house where his parents were murdered, and up to the room that not long before was a large part of his physical world.

The first thing Simon did was go to the corner where the red rocker had been and fix an unsteady gaze on the empty space.

“We took that back with us the other night,” Art said, lowering himself onto the bed behind where Simon stood. “Remember?”

Simon studied the floor, the corner, the walls where they came together, even glancing at the ceiling, but it was not there. The red rocker was supposed to be in the corner. It was in the corner in the room at Art and Dr. Anne’s house. It was not here. Simon chewed his lip and fretted over the inconsistency.

“Simon, come here.” Art patted the bed next to him, picking the same spot as the previous night.

Simon did as his friend asked.

Art leaned casually forward, elbows on his knees, and did not try to force eye contact with Simon. On his lap he had
The
Tinkery
, and the paper taken off Mike Bell. It could have been a repeat of their earlier visit. Art hoped it would not be.

“Do you remember the man with red hair?” Art asked.

“The man with red hair,” Simon parroted partially, and began to rock.

All right, was that nerves making him do that, or was it because of the simile Art had seen with the rocker? Art did not know that, but he knew he hated with every fiber of his being the condition that afflicted this kid.

“Simon, did the man with red hair hit you?”

Simon’s head swung right, then came back. “The man with red hair hit me.”

Art considered the answer, and its repetitious nature. After a moment he asked, as a test, “Simon, did the man with red hair sing to you?”

A pleasing silence followed.

Okay. So he hit you.
That could have angered Art without end, but he would not let it. There were more important—

“Daddy’s gonna sing,” Simon said.

Oh, shit. You had to ask him about singing.
Would this ever end? Art wondered. Did he still believe his mommy and daddy were around, just AWOL for some unexplained reason? If he did, it was torture to let it go on.

“Simon, Daddy’s not going to sing to you. He’s not here.”

That triggered something in Simon, and he pulled his cards out and flipped through, choosing the one at the very back.
IF DADDY IS NOT AT HOM AND CAN NOT SING TO SIMON THN GO TO TH TOP DRSSR DRAWR AND TAK OUT TH TAP TO LISTN TO.

Art leaned over enough to read the card for himself, mentally adding the E’s where needed.
A tape…

Simon was up and at the dresser before Art’s revelation had run its course. He came back and sat next to Art, a black plastic cassette cradled in both hands.

“Daddy’s gonna sing.”

Well, it wasn’t an answer Art had been looking for, but he was damn glad to have stumbled upon it. It meant sleep for he and Anne, and, more importantly, it meant a measure of peace for Simon.

But first, there were more questions.

Art took the cassette and put
The Tinkery
in Simon’s hands, open to the KIWI page, as he was thinking of it now. “When you saw this, what did you do?”

Simon saw the puzzle, and the words inside the letters and numbers, and Mommy was in the kitchen, and he got up from Daddy’s chair, and…

“I know how to call someone.”

“Did you call the number in here?”

The number. Number
. Simon’s brain played with that for a moment. There were so many possibilities with any number. But his friend Art was asking about calling. Calling. Pressing the buttons with numbers on them. That was calling. Calling had numbers.

“I called that number.”

Okay. Okay.
“Where were you when you called?”

“Mommy was making dinner, and I had hot chocolate.”

Not the exact answer, but something nonetheless, telling Art that Jean Lynch was alive when her son called this number. This was all before Mike Bell came into their lives.

“You were downstairs,” Art said.

“Downstairs.”

There was only one phone downstairs, Art knew. In the living room. About ten feet from a dark stain on the floor.

He had no choice, and carefully led Simon down the stairs and into the darkened living room, keeping himself between the kid and the horrific landmarks on the hardwood floor.

At the table where the phone rested, Simon stood and stared at the device. Art picked up the phone. It was still connected, the dial tone humming. He put the phone to Simon’s ear and held
The Tinkery
where the moonlight could hit the KIWI page. “Can you see the number, Simon?”

Simon saw the number, and the words. Together they told him to do something, just like before. He straightened a single finger and began to press numbers on the phone. He was calling someone. Again.

Art bent forward and kept his ear close to the handset, listening for an answer. It came after one ring.

“Hi,” a voice answered with strained enthusiasm. “You’ve reached the puzzle center…”

Before Simon could respond, or the person at the other end go on, Art took the handset and put it to the side of his face. “I’m calling about puzzle ninety-nine.”

Silence, mostly, from the other end. Art thought maybe a muffled quick breath also.

“Hello,” Art said.

“Uh…”

“Who is this?” Art asked.

“Uh… You…
puzzle ninety nine
?”

A little too surprised, Art thought.
Okay. Let’s shake ‘em up.
“This is Special Agent Art Jefferson, FBI. Who am I speaking to?”

Click.

Art kept the phone to his ear, listening as the dial tone followed, and hung up after a moment.

Well, well, well
. He asked himself where that call might have been answered. Placing Bell and KIWI into the equation, he could easily hazard a guess.

“We called someone,” Simon said.

Art looked to him, putting a big hand on the bony shoulder. “We sure did.”

The sound erupting suddenly in the dead quiet of the Lynch’s living room sent a short-lived shudder through Art. He took the ringing cell phone from inside his jacket.

“Jefferson.”

“Art. It’s Bob.”

Squeezing Simon’s shoulder softly, Art said, “What’s up?”

The pause before Lomax answered was oddly uncharacteristic, and Art picked up on it instantly.

“You’d better come home, Art.”

Come home…
ANNE!
“Bob, what is it? Is Anne all right? What’s wrong?”

“Anne’s…all right. But, Art, there’s…a problem”

“A problem?” What the hell was Lomax talking about? “Are you at my house?”

“Yes, along with Breem and a dozen or so of Pete Kasvakis’s fellas.”

“What?” Art reacted.

“Just come home. We’ll straighten this out.”

“Straighten what out? Dammit, Bob, put Anne on. I want to talk to her.”

There was a muffled discussion at the other end, which Art could not make out through the hand that was obviously covering the mouthpiece. Then…

“Art? Babe?”

“Anne? What’s going on?”

“Art, there are a bunch of men here. With guns. They broke in and said they have warrants to arrest us.”

Art’s hand slid off Simon’s shoulder and balled into a fist at his side. “Arrest us. You included?”

“They have handcuffs on me right now.”

Instinct drew Art’s gaze to the rough oval of dried blood a few feet distant, then to the body of the phone on the table, and finally to Simon, who stood in blissful silence, rocking ever so slightly next to him.

“Breem is there?”

“Yes. Art, what is going on?”

Jaw muscles flexed, and Art said as calmly as he could, “Put Bob back on.”

More muffled talk, then, “Art, where are you?”

“What is this, Bob? What am I supposed to have done that Breem would want to arrest me and Anne?”

“Art, they found bank accounts. One overseas with Anne’s maiden name on it and full of money from one of Fiorello’s accounts.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I know it is. But there’s more, Art. A lot of stuff that makes you look guilty just because it exists.”

“It doesn’t exist.”

“I know, but I’ve seen the account records. They’re there.”

“Then someone put them there,” Art said, invoking the defense of those with no defense. A setup.

“Where are you?”

Art looked around the room. It seemed suddenly smaller than a few minutes earlier.
Why set me up?

The fist thumping against his leg brushed the small arm next to him, and a hand came to his, wiggling its way between the clenched fingers, relaxing them, until it was comfortably in his palm.

The
Tinkery
blazed white in the moonlight where it lay on the phone table.

Simon squeezed his hand.

Lomax pressed the question.

This is the puzzle center…

Mike Bell hit Simon. Mike Bell had a page of KIWI ciphertext reading ‘I know kiwi’.

Simon can decipher KIWI.

Mike Bell once worked for the NSA.

The NSA developed KIWI.

KIWI is unbreakable.

Simon knows KIWI.

They wanted Simon.

They
still
want Simon.

Art’s brain waded through the pieces. Placed together it was a clear picture. He knew that neither he nor Anne had done anything wrong. It had to be a setup. And who would want to set him up, to get him out of the way?

Who wanted Simon?

“Bob, this isn’t what it looks like,” Art said. He knew, though, that if he said any more he’d sound like a man with guilt at his core. The unbelievable could not explain the impossible. It had to be made believable first.

“Where are you?”

“I’m sorry, Bob.”
Oh, God, Anne… How can I let her…
“I can’t tell you.”

“Art.”

“Tell Anne everything will be all right. I’ll figure this out.”

“Art! Don’t do it this way.”

“Bob, if you believe me, follow your own advice. Look at the holes. This is a big one and you know it.”

“Art.”

The line clicked off.

*  *  *

“Well?” Breem asked.

Lomax hung his head. When it came up he threw the U.S. Attorney’s cell phone at the wall, breaking a vase in the process.

“Hey!” Breem protested angrily.

Lomax afforded him just a brief glance, then said to Anne, “Sorry about the vase.”

One of Kasvakis’s men came hurriedly in, interrupting the heated moment. “We got a cell hit.”

Kasvakis and Breem looked at the slip of paper the Deputy Marshal held out.

Anne caught Lomax’s eye. “Bob, is Simon all right?”

“Simon?” Breem asked. “Who’s Simon?”

“That’s the Lynch kid,” Kasvakis recalled aloud, turning to Breem and adding, “His parents were killed last week.” The U.S. Attorney’s blank stare requested more information. Kasvakis gave it with an edge. “Chrissakes, Breem, don’t you read the intel attached to your warrants? Under ‘Occupants’?”

Breem looked to Anne. “This Simon is with your husband?” Then to Lomax. “Now he has a hostage.”

“Art is running the investigation of his parents’ murder,” Lomax explained.

“Was,” Breem corrected.

The Deputy Marshal that brought word of the cell hit now had the warrant out and was flipping through the attached information. “Hey, look at this.”

Kasvakis did first, Breem joining him a second later, peeling his eyes from Anne and Lomax.

“The cell hit,” the Deputy Marshal said, pointing. “The repeater that bounced the call is here. And look where the Lynch house is.”