The Face (22 page)

Ethan winced. “Sounds like his mom’s days were numbered whether or not Reynerd ever met the professor.”

They were silent. The well-insulated church roof lay so far overhead that the storm’s voice was barely audible, less like the drumming of rain than like the whispery wings of some hovering flock.

“So,” Hazard eventually said, “even with Reynerd dead, maybe Chan the Man had better be looking over his shoulder. The professor—or whatever he might be in real life—is still out there somewhere.”

“Who’s working Mina Reynerd’s murder?” Ethan wondered. “Anyone I know?”

“Sam Kesselman.”

Sam had been a detective with Robbery/Homicide when Ethan still carried a badge.

“What’s he make of the screenplay?”

Hazard shrugged. “He hasn’t heard about it yet. They probably won’t drop a Xerox on him till tomorrow.”

“He’s a good man. He’ll be all over it.”

“Maybe not fast enough for you,” Hazard predicted.

At the front of the church, teased by a draft, votive-candle flames squirmed in ruby glasses. Chameleons of light and shadow wriggled across a sanctuary wall.

“What’re you going to do?” Hazard asked.

“Reynerd’s shooting will be in the morning newspaper. They’re sure to mention his mother’s murder. That’ll give me an excuse to go to Kesselman, fill him in on those packages Reynerd has been sending to Manheim. He’ll have read the partial screenplay—”

“About which you don’t know jack,” Hazard reminded him.

“—and he’ll realize there’s an ongoing threat to Manheim until the professor is identified. That’ll accelerate the investigation, and I might even get police protection for my boss in the meantime.”

“In a perfect world,” Hazard said sourly.

“Sometimes the system works.”

“Only when you don’t expect it to.”

“Yeah. But I don’t have the resources to investigate Reynerd’s friends and associates fast enough to matter, and I don’t have the authority to dig through his personal records and effects. I’ve got to rely on the system whether I want to or not.”

“What about our lunch today?” Hazard asked.

“It never happened.”

“Someone might’ve seen us. And there’s a credit-card trail.”

“Okay, we had lunch. But I never mentioned Reynerd to you.”

“Who’s going to believe that?”

Ethan couldn’t think of anyone sufficiently gullible.

“You and I have lunch,” Hazard said, “I cook up a reason to visit Reynerd the same day, and it just so happens he gets killed while I’m there.
Then
it just so happens the shooter’s getaway car belongs to Dunny Whistler, your old buddy.”

“My head hurts,” Ethan said.

“And I haven’t even kicked it yet. Man, they’ll expect us to know what’s going on here, and when we claim we don’t—”

“Which we don’t.”

“—they’re going to be sure we’re lying. I was them,
I’d
think we were lying.”

“Me too,” Ethan admitted.

“So they’ll dream up a screwy scenario that sorta-kinda explains things, and we’ll wind up accused of offing Reynerd’s mother, wasting Reynerd, pinning it on Hector X, then popping him, too. Before it’s over, the bastard D.A. will be trying to pin us for the disappearance of the dinosaurs.”

The church didn’t seem like a sanctuary anymore. Ethan wished he were in another bar, where he might have a chance of finding solace, but not a bar that Dunny, dead or alive, would be likely to visit.

“I can’t go to Kesselman,” he decided.

Hazard would never sigh with relief and concede the intensity of his concern. A mirror held under his nostrils might have revealed a sudden bloom of condensation, but otherwise his relaxation of tension was marked by only a slight settling of his mountainous shoulders.

Ethan said, “I’m going to have to take extra measures to protect Manheim, and just hope Kesselman finds Mina’s killer quickly.”

“If the preliminary OIS opinion doesn’t move me off the Reynerd case,” Hazard said, “I’ll turn this city inside out to find Dunny Whistler. I’ve got to believe he’s the key to all this.”

“I think Dunny will find me first.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” Ethan hesitated, sighed. “Dunny was there.”

Hazard frowned. “There where?”

“At the hotel bar. I only noticed him when he left. I went after him, lost him in the crowd outside.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Drinking. Maybe watching me. Maybe he followed me there, intended to approach me, then decided against it. I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me first thing?”

“I don’t know. It seemed…like one ghost too many.”

“You think it all gets too rich, I won’t believe it? Have some faith, man. We go back, don’t we? We been shot at together.”

They chose to leave the church separately.

Hazard got up first and moved away. From the farther end of the pew, in the center aisle, he said, “Like old times, huh?”

Ethan knew what he meant. “Covering each other’s ass again.”

For such a big man, Hazard made little noise as he walked from the nave to the narthex, and out of the church.

Having a reliable friend to watch your back is a comfort, but the consolation and support provided by even the best of friends is no match for what a loving wife can be to a husband, or a loving husband to a wife. In the architecture of the heart, the rooms of friendship are deeply placed and strongly built, but the warmest and most secure retreat in Ethan’s heart was the one that he had shared with Hannah, where these days she lived only as a precious ghost, a sweet haunting memory.

He could have told her everything—about the phantom in the mirror, about his second death outside Forever Roses—and she would have believed him. Together they’d have sought some understanding.

During the five years that she’d been gone, he had never missed her more than he missed her at this moment. Sitting alone in a silent church, keenly aware of the soft beating of the rain on the roof, of the lingering fragrance of incense, of the ruby light of the votive candles, but unable to detect the faintest whisper, whiff, or glimmer of God, Ethan longed not for evidence of his Maker, but for Hannah, for the music of her voice and the beautiful geometry of her smile.

He felt homeless, without hearth or anchor. His apartment in the Manheim house awaited his return, offering many comforts, but it was merely a residence, not a place endeared to him. He had felt the tug of home only once in this long strange day: when he’d stood at Hannah’s grave, where she lay beside an empty plot to which he held the deed.

CHAPTER 37

F
ROM ALTERNATING BRONZE-BALL AND BRONZE-FLAME finials, from cast panels of arabesques, from darts and twists and frets and scallops and leaves, from griffins and heraldic emblems, black and silver rain dripped and drizzled off the Manheim gate.

Ethan braked to a stop beside the security post: a five-foot-high, square, limestone-clad column in which were embedded a closed-circuit video camera, an intercom speaker, and a keypad. He put down his window and keyed in his six-digit personal code.

Slowly, with the Expedition’s headlight beams rippling across its ornate surfaces, the massive gate began to roll aside.

Each employee of the estate had a different code. The security staff maintained computerized records of every entrance.

Remote-control units such as typical garage-door openers or coded transponders, assigned to each vehicle, would have been more convenient than a key-entry system, especially in foul weather; however, such devices would have been accessible to garage mechanics, valet-parking attendants, and anyone else in temporary custody of a vehicle. One dishonest person among them might easily compromise the security of the estate.

If Ethan had been a visitor lacking a personal gate-entry code, he would have pushed the intercom button on the post and would have announced himself to the guard in the security office at the back of the property. If the visitor was expected or was a family friend on the permanent-access list, the guard would open the gate from his command board.

As he waited for the massive bronze barrier to roll out of the way, Ethan was under surveillance by the camera on the security post. Entering the property, he would be scrutinized through a series of tree-mounted cameras angled in such a manner as to reveal anyone who might be lying on the floor of the SUV to avoid detection.

All videocams included night-vision technology that transformed the faintest moonlight into a revealing glow. A sophisticated bit of software filtered out most of the veiling and the distortion effects produced by falling rain, ensuring a clear real-time image on the security-office screens.

Had he been a repairman or deliveryman arriving in an enclosed van or truck, Ethan would have been asked to wait outside the gate until a security guard arrived. The guard would then look inside the vehicle to ensure that the driver was not, under duress, bringing any bad guys with him.

Palazzo Rospo was not a fortress either by modern definition or by the moat-and-drawbridge standards of medieval times. Neither was the estate a cupcake served on a plate to be easily plucked by any hungry thief.

Explosives could bring down the gate. The property wall could be scaled. But the grounds couldn’t easily be entered by stealth. Intruders would be identified and tracked almost at once by cameras, motion detectors, heat sensors, and other devices.

The thirty-foot-wide bronze gate, more solid than open, weighed over eight thousand pounds. The motor that operated the chain drive was powerful, however, and the barrier rolled aside with apparent ease and with more speed than one might expect.

A five-acre plot qualified as a large piece of land in most residential communities. In
this
neighborhood, where an acre could bring upwards of ten million dollars, a five-acre property was the equivalent of an English country estate of baronial scale.

The long driveway looped around a reflection pond in front of the great house, which was not Baroque, like the bronze gate, but a limestone-clad, three-story Palladian structure with simple classic ornamentation, huge yet elegant in its proportions.

Just before reaching the pond, the driveway split, and Ethan took the branch that led around to the side of the house. When it split again, one artery led to the groundskeeper’s building and the security office, while the other led down a ramp to the underground garage.

The garage had two levels. In the upper, the Face stored thirty-two vehicles in his personal collection, ranging from a new Porsche to a series of Rolls-Royces from the 1930s, to a 1936 Mercedes-Benz 500K, to a 1931 Duesenberg Model J, to a 1933 Cadillac Sixteen.

The lower garage housed the fleet of workaday vehicles owned by the estate and provided parking for cars belonging to employees.

Like the upper garage, the lower featured a beige mattefinish ceramic-tile floor and walls of glossy tile in a matching color. Supporting columns were decorated with free-flowing mosaics in various shades of yellow.

Few high-end automobile sales facilities, catering to the very wealthy, were as beautifully appointed as this lower garage.

The pegboard for car keys hung on the wall outside the elevator, and Fric sat on the floor under the board, holding the same paperback fantasy novel that he’d been reading in the library this morning. He got to his feet as Ethan approached.

To a degree that surprised Ethan, the sight of the boy gladdened him. Nothing else had done so in this long, gray, dismal day.

He wasn’t entirely sure why the kid lifted his spirits. Maybe because you expected the son of the Face, raised in such wealth and with such indifference, to be spoiled rotten or to be dysfunctionally neurotic, or both; and because instead Fric was basically decent and shy, tried to cover his shyness with a seen-it-all air, but could not conceal a fundamental modesty as rare in his glamorous world as pity was rare among the scaly denizens of a crocodile swamp.

Indicating the paperback, Ethan said, “Has the evil wizard found the tongue of an honest man for his potion?”

“No luck yet. But he just sent his brutal assistant, Cragmore, to visit a lying politician and harvest his testicles.”

Ethan winced. “He
is
an evil wizard.”

“Well, it’s just a politician. Some of them come around here now and then, you know. After they leave, Mrs. McBee does an inventory of the valuable items in the rooms they visited.”

“So…what’re you doing down here? Planning to go for a drive?”

Fric shook his head. “There’s no point making a break for it until I’m sixteen. First I’ve got to get my driver’s license, have enough time to put together a stash of cash big enough to start over with, research the perfect small town to hide in, and design a series of really cool impenetrable disguises.”

Ethan smiled. “That’s the plan, huh?”

Failing to match Ethan’s smile, with bone-dry seriousness, Fric said, “That’s the plan.”

The boy pressed the button to call the elevator. The machinery hummed into motion, the noise only partly muffled by the shaft walls.

“I’ve been hiding out from the decorating crew,” Fric revealed. “They’re still putting up trees and stuff all over the house. This is your first Christmas here, so you don’t know, but they all wear these stupid Santa hats, and every time they see you, they shout, ‘Merry Christmas,’ grinning like lunatics, and they want to give you these sucky little candy canes. They don’t just decorate, they like make a performance out of it, which I guess most people want, otherwise they wouldn’t have a business, but it’s enough to turn you into an atheist.”

“Sounds like a memorable holiday tradition.”

“It’s better than the paid carolers on Christmas Eve. They dress like characters out of Dickens, and between songs they talk to you about Queen Victoria and Mr. Scrooge and whether you’re going to have goose and suet pudding for Christmas dinner, and they call you ‘m’lord’ and ‘young master,’ and you’ve got to be there because Ghost…because my father thinks it’s all so cool. After about half an hour, you’re sure you’re either going to shit or go blind, and there’s
another
half-hour to get through. But then it’s okay, because after the carolers is the magician who does this act with dwarfs dressed up like Santa’s elves, and he’s radically hilarious.”

Aelfric seemed to be concealing a nervous and urgent concern that he unintentionally expressed in a flood of words set loose with a quality akin to babble. He wasn’t a tight-lipped boy by nature, but neither was he a nonstop talker.

The elevator arrived and the doors opened.

Ethan followed the boy into the wood-paneled cab.

After pushing the button for the ground floor, Fric said, “In your experience, are phone perverts really dangerous or are they just all talk?”

“Phone perverts?”

To this point, the boy had made eye contact. Now he watched the light on the floor-indicator board and didn’t even glance at Ethan. “Guys that call up and breathe at you. Do they mainly get their kicks from just that, or do they sometimes actually come around and want to grope you and stuff?”

“Has someone called you, Fric?”

“Yeah. This freak.” The boy made heavy, ragged panting sounds, as if Ethan might be able to identify the pervert from the unique signature of his breathing patterns.

“When did this start?”

“Just today. First when I was in the train room. Then he called again when I was in the wine cellar, eating dinner.”

“He called on your private line?”

“Yeah.”

On the board, the indicator light blinked from the lower garage to the higher garage. The elevator moved slowly upward.

“What did this guy say to you?”

Fric hesitated, shuffling his feet slightly on the inlaid-marble floor. Then: “He just breathed. And made some…some almost like animal sounds.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah. Animal sounds, but I don’t know what they were supposed to be, ’cause he wasn’t like
talented
at it or anything.”

“You’re sure he didn’t say something to you? Didn’t even use your name?”

Remaining focused on the indicator board, Fric said, “Just that stupid breathing. I star sixty-nined him, figuring maybe the pervert still lives with his mother, see, and she’d answer, and I could tell her what her precious sicko son was up to, but then I just got him breathing at me.”

They arrived at the ground floor. The doors opened.

Ethan stepped into the hall, but Fric remained in the elevator.

Blocking the doors with one arm, Ethan said, “Calling him back—that wasn’t a good idea, Fric. When someone’s trying to harass you, what gives them a kick is knowing they got under your skin. The best thing to do is hang up as soon as you realize who it is, and if the phone rings again right away, don’t answer it.”

Looking at his wristwatch, adjusting the time with the stem, busying himself, Fric said, “I thought you’d have a way to find out who he is.”

“I’ll give it a try. And Fric?”

The boy continued to fiddle with the watch. “Yeah?”

“It’s important that you tell me everything about this.”

“Sure.”

“You
are
telling me everything, aren’t you?”

Holding the watch to one ear, as if listening for ticking, Fric said, “Sure. It was this breather.”

The boy was withholding information, but putting pressure on him at this time would only ensure that he would guard his secret all the more fiercely.

Recalling how he himself had responded to Hazard’s interrogation in the church, Ethan relented. “If it’s all right with you, when your line rings tonight or anytime tomorrow while I’m here, I’d like to answer it myself.”

“Okay.”

“Your line doesn’t ring in my apartment, but I’ll just go into the house computer and change that.”

“When?”

“Right now. I’ll pick it up on the first few rings, but if a call comes in tomorrow when I’m not here, then just let it go to your voice mail.”

The boy made eye contact at last. “Okay. You know what my ring sounds like?”

Ethan smiled. “I’ll recognize it.”

With a look of consternation, Fric said, “Yeah, it’s dorky.”

“And you think the first nine notes of ‘Dragnet’ makes me feel like I’m getting an important call?”

Fric smiled.

“If you need to call me anytime, day or night,” Ethan said, “on one of my house lines or my cell phone, don’t hesitate, Fric. I don’t sleep all that much anyway. You understand?”

The boy nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Truman.”

Ethan stepped backward into the hallway once more.

Self-conscious, Fric chewed solemnly on his lower lip as he pushed a control-panel button, probably for the third floor where he had his rooms.

Because of the boy’s diminutive stature, the elevator, as big as any in a high-rise building, seemed to be even larger than usual.

Although short and slender for his age, Fric possessed a quiet determination and a courage, apparent in his posture and in his daily attitude, that were surprising for his years and bigger than his small body. The boy’s strange and lonely childhood had already begun to steel him for adversity.

In spite of his wealth and wit and growing wisdom, adversity would come to him sooner or later. He was a human being, after all, and therefore heir to his share of misery and misfortune.

The elevator doors slid shut.

As Fric disappeared from view and as machinery purred, Ethan looked at the indicator board above the door. He watched until he saw the light change from the ground floor to the second, listened as the lift mechanism continued to grind.

In his mind’s eye, Ethan saw the elevator doors open on the third floor, revealing an empty cab, Fric having vanished forever between floors.

Such peculiar dark imaginings were not common to him. On any day but this one, he would have wondered where such a disturbing twist of thought had come from, and he would have at once smoothed it out of his mind as easily as pressing a wrinkle from a shirt.

This was the day it was, however, so utterly unlike any other that Ethan felt inclined to take seriously even the most unlikely presentiments and possibilities.

The back staircase wrapped the elevator shaft. He was tempted to race up four flights. The elevator rose so slowly that he might beat it to the third floor.

When the doors slid open, revealing Fric unharmed, the boy would be startled to be greeted with such alarm. Breathing hard from his frantic ascent, Ethan wouldn’t be able to conceal his concern from Fric—nor would he be able to explain it.

The moment passed.

His clenched throat relaxed. He swallowed, breathed.

The indicator light blinked from the second to the third floor. The elevator motor fell silent.