The Devil's Analyst (31 page)

Outside the room, the house phone rang. Likely Kenosha once more. Throughout the day, she tried his cell phone, but he always ignored it. Now she was trying the landline. He still wouldn’t answer. He needed solitude.

Amazing how much one room could embody another person’s spirit. If Danny saw a picture of this office, positioned with other individuals’ work spaces in some decorator’s lineup of potential culprits, there would have been no question that this belonged to Josh. The color of the paint, the placement of the furniture, and the casual disorder on the shelves—it all spoke of Josh.

Something in this room had to make sense of all the bizarre, unsettling incidents of the previous weeks. Others had tried to find this room. He was convinced there was no other explanation for the attempted break-ins, despite Josh’s lying to him and telling him nobody was targeting them. One couldn’t ignore reality. That was the thing about entering the room . . . the space was more than just the physical representation of a betrayal. Its physicality broke through his consciousness like the tip of the iceberg thrusting above a sea of lies. But beneath that, like the frozen bulk that could ram a ship and sink it, there were the sudden questions of a lifetime.

But if he allowed himself to sink low enough beneath the turbulence, he could sense the bottom and the beckoning of some type of calm. If there was nothing left in the house for him to clean, there still remained a multitude of unknown items to inventory. Whatever it took, he would account for everything in this room. That listing would fashion something meaningful. Josh made this happen when he called Kenosha. Josh forced him to look for this room, to find its entrance, and to discover things Danny didn’t want to know. He wouldn’t betray Josh now by turning back.

Pete’s hat still sat on the desk where Danny had placed it after proclaiming that this was the actual hat once worn by Pete. Danny had seen it in Pete’s house so many times, and had even jokingly donned it more than once. The hat might now be dirty and fraying, but it was the same color, size, and shape. And Danny’s initials were inked on the inside brim just where Danny had written them. He remembered the day he did it. He had saved much of his earnings from doing chores for Pete to give the man something back, and he wanted to ensure that Pete would think about him. Pete’s eyes watered with joy when he accepted the gift and that gave Danny a small taste of his power over the man.

Putting the hat on himself, Danny expected to feel something cosmic. Instead he only questioned how Josh came to possess Pete’s hat.

All his life Danny kept lists. There were lists of books he owned, experiences he had, futures he envisioned, and people who mattered. Sometimes he ran through those tallies in his head, and recalled why and when each entry was inscribed on the roster. The harshest of those accountings identified those who harmed him: his mother, his father, Pete, Oliver, all the boys at the resort. Today, he was adding Josh to that list.

He began his inventory in one corner of the room—the one with the horror figure in the doctor’s coat. He planned to work completely around the space by going counterclockwise. He placed a pad of paper on the desk on which to write a short description of each item encountered—whether a photograph, a book, a knickknack, or whatever. There was no rationale for such a list other than to pull order out of disorder.

By the time he completed a full circle of the room, leaving only the desk and its contents, Danny felt he had learned nothing. While everything seemed to speak of Josh, most of the items were little more than decorations chosen for an image. Taken together, they shimmered with only a mere suggestion of Josh. None of the book titles had anything to do with Josh’s interests. Only a few personal photos were on the wall: a picture of Josh’s parents’ farm back in Thread and another of the house where Danny once lived. Oddly, there was even a framed postcard of the resort where Danny first met Oliver. But there were no framed certificates, newspaper clippings, or photos of Josh with others. Nothing in the room spoke of the man’s accomplishments.

It was time to tackle the desk. Danny was worried over what he might find, such as a drawer containing some disgusting cache of pornography, but as he opened the bottom file drawers, all he found were business files. He pulled out the first hanging folder, which contained within it another series of folders, each labeled with titles like ‘Project Rough Rider’ and ‘Project Big Stick.’ Sitting down in the large leather chair, he spread the folders across the leather-topped desk to read them.

Hours later, and still only a third of the way through, Danny was bewildered. He couldn’t follow everything he read, but it was clear that a number of projects were being hidden from everyone at Premios, including Orleans and the investors. As near as he could tell, the real purpose of Premios was a scam. Josh was setting the stage to abscond with personal information from the users of the site so that the data might be manipulated in various ways for illegal purposes.

Josh was a crook.

There was no other way to put it. The entire company existed only to hide a double strategy. To be certain he would have to read through everything. Already Danny wondered about the real story connecting several events over the past several months: the hacking of Premios on New Year’s Eve, the embezzlement of funds from Lattigo, and the murder of Chip Grant. Was it possible that Josh was involved with all these crimes? Not only involved, but the ringleader? And was someone else connected? Was that who attempted the home burglary?

Once again, the phone was ringing. Danny decided to answer it. He had gone as far as he could by himself, and he knew he could no longer deal with his discoveries alone. He stepped out of the vault, across the wine cellar and back into the game room. He picked up the phone, and then walked back to Josh’s space.

“Danny, is that you?” It wasn’t Kenosha, but Orleans.

“Yes.”

She was frantic. “I have to talk to Josh. I’m certain you know where he is, or how to get in contact with him. I need him now. It can’t wait.”

Danny wondered how much Orleans might suspect about what he had just uncovered in the files. Would he dare tell her? “I don’t know where Josh is. What’s so important?”

“It’s happened again,” she said. “Another investor is dead. Oliver Meyers was murdered in his townhouse in Chicago. The police say it’s a robbery gone bad. But I don’t believe that. Someone is targeting us. Somebody is out to destroy Premios.”

But Danny wasn’t listening. By accident he had just pulled an unexpected latch in the desk and opened up a secret drawer. Inside were an automated tape machine and a stack of cassettes.

The Ferris wheel
on the Santa Monica Pier stopped moving. From her bench on the palisades high above the beach and hundreds of yards from the amusement pier, Cynthia couldn’t discern if there were people stuck in the cars. All she could see was a wharf crowded with people and the breaking waves of the surf that hit the sandy beach below.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” said Jesus Lopez. He sat next to her on the bench, and he was right on time.

She didn’t bother to look over, and she wasn’t quite sure why she had agreed to meet, but he had been so insistent. After multiple emails and more than one phone message, she finally suggested they meet in a public park in mid-afternoon. It wasn’t that she felt a need to be cautious, or that she was unwilling to drive across town to his college campus. Instead she wanted to stay close to shore, to see and hear the ocean. A distant horizon combined with the constant beating of waves kept her fears at bay. Whatever Lopez had to say—and she held little hope that it would be positive—she was certain she could deal with it better if facing the sea.

“Why did you need to see me?” she asked. “If you know something, why wouldn’t you go to Danny?”

“Because I don’t trust him.”

For the first time she looked look over. Lopez was gaunter than she remembered him.

“That’s funny. Danny doesn’t trust you either.”

“Do you know that Oliver Meyers is dead?” he asked. “They found him murdered in his townhouse in Chicago last week.”

That was old news to Cynthia. Colby Endicott called her the day he found out. Terrified, he tried to convince her that someone was killing off the funders of Premios. Cynthia found Colby’s ravings tedious. Oliver’s murder was clearly a case of a burglary gone wrong. All of Oliver’s best contemporary art pieces had been taken from the walls. Despite that, she did ask Denkey to investigate the coincidence of another death, but he reported that the Chicago police agreed that it pointed toward thieves.

“And I suppose you know that Josh Gunderson is missing?” Cynthia batted that question back. She was hoping that she might actually learn something, since Danny refused to talk about Josh’s whereabouts. What little Cynthia knew was from information relayed by Orleans. Things were insane; maybe Lopez was right. Not for the first time, Cynthia decided to quit her short-term lease and head back to the Midwest. She truly was alone on the West Coast.

Looking out over Santa Monica Bay with its many sailboats, Lopez sat quietly and didn’t respond for a long beat. With the sun still high overhead, the water sparkled. Cynthia wondered again what was on his mind. Finally, he spoke.

“Of course, I know about Josh’s disappearance. And Colby told me that he tried to warn you, but you dismissed him. Can’t you see there’s a pattern? It began with your husband. Then Oliver. Now Josh. Everyone connected with this firm disappears. I submitted my resignation. I want nothing to do with that company.”

Ignoring the last part of Lopez’s statement, Cynthia instead focused on his insinuation. “Do you think Josh is dead?” she asked calmly, not that she cared if he was or not, because being part of Danny and Josh’s life was too much a burden to carry, and she needed to drop them all.

“I don’t know, but these events can’t be coincidental. You remain an investor, inheriting your husband’s share. You should be concerned. You could be next.”

Cynthia was unwilling to buy into conspiracy theory. “It’s a random set of coincidences. Is that why you wanted to meet me? To warn me away? Are you working as Colby’s surrogate? Trying to scare me so I flee back home to Wisconsin?”

Lopez looked shocked. “It’s not about you. It’s about Danny.”

Suddenly, Cynthia was fed up. This man had no right to be concerned about her old friend. “You want to talk about Danny. Okay, here you go. Why write a book based on his teenage experiences? And without his knowledge. Don’t you know how it’s eating him alive? I can’t even pretend to say that I know the details of what happened to him that summer. But one thing is certain: he’s happy that Oliver is dead—because Danny blames him for the book, and he blames you too. You turned his life into a horror story. He’d probably be happy to see you dead as well.”

“And you wonder why I said I don’t trust him.”

Cynthia felt as though he goaded her into that outburst, and she wanted to wipe away his smug smile. It was simply too much. She had read
The Dumping Ground
out of curiosity. While she acknowledged that it was well written, it also proved quite moving. In some ways she couldn’t help but think of Danny as she read every scene. When they first worked together as teenagers, she always considered Danny brittle, and she treated him gently because she valued that delicacy. But the novel forced her to think that maybe Danny was tougher than she realized. Maybe an element of steel was hidden in his tall lanky frame.

Cynthia thought carefully about what to say to Lopez. “To me, you’re the one who’s not to be trusted. You chose to write that book. Why shouldn’t Danny hate you for it? What were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t my idea.” Lopez almost whispered those words. Cynthia wasn’t certain she had heard correctly because the afternoon breeze was starting to blow in from the sea.

“Not your idea. Then whose?”

He chose not to answer. “I told you I’ve severed my relationship with Premios,” he said without prompting. “I don’t think it’s the right place for me or my students to be working. It’s not a healthy environment. I’ve also encouraged Colby to dump his investment before it’s too late.”

Back in Lattigo, Cynthia’s financial team was recommending the same. They calculated the odds of the company surviving the year as less than ten percent. She felt no loyalty to the firm, but she doubted there was anyone likely to want to buy her shares.

In ten minutes, she could walk to her condo and watch the ocean from her balcony. She could sink back into the blank canvas of a sea view. She decided to make a joke of it, and quickly find a way to escape this conversation. “I hope you’re not suggesting I buy Oliver’s stake.”

“Everything Danny touches get corrupted,” Jesus said “It’s taken me too long to realize that.”

That line of thinking was ridiculous. Of course it would be cathartic to blame Danny for everything: for Chip flying west to investigate the firm, for all the steps that led to his murder, for her being alone, and for everything that she did not like. But there was no proof of that and it belied years of friendship.

She swiveled back to the book conversation that Lopez dodged. “You said it wasn’t your idea to write about Danny’s summer. Then whose idea was it?”

“Josh’s, of course. It was at the dinner meeting when I thought I was introducing Josh and Oliver to one another. Well, I soon realized they had known each other for years. They started talking about the summer when Oliver and Danny worked together.”