The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense (30 page)

two

Paul

Paul Jones hailed a
taxi outside Sol’s Deli. He reeked of pickle juice, a splash of tomato soup marred his white shirt, and Moira had called to tell him his father had started a small fire in the kitchen, but not to worry. Not to worry! How was he supposed to not worry when Pop’s behavior grew more erratic every day? When he eluded Moira and wandered off, sometimes dressed, sometimes in bathrobe and socks, when he started to fill the tub and got caught up watching
Judge Judy
so the water overflowed and soaked the linoleum so it had to be replaced, when—

“Address?” the taxi driver asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror. His fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat of a rap song on the radio.

Paul closed his eyes and took a deep breath through flared nostrils. Calm. He had a job to do. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Moira could handle his pop. Concentrate. After a moment he opened his eyes and gave the driver the address of his motel.

With a grunt, the driver started the meter and pulled into traffic, making the hula girl suction-cupped to the dash vibrate.

Paul eased his head back against the vinyl seat. He wasn’t sure what smelled worse—the mildewy plastic of the cab or his clothes. His ability to blend in with a crowd, to rate no more detailed a description than “middle-aged white guy,” was key to his success. Smelling like a pickle factory jeopardized his anonymity. As the taxi sludged along in the stop-and-go traffic, he concentrated on clearing his mind, emptying it of all thought and emotion. It was a trick he’d developed working with a Buddhist monk in Laos when he was in country for the third time in the early ’70s. It kept him focused.

The opening glissando of Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” trilled from his pocket, almost drowned out by the cabbie’s rap crap. What the—? He pulled out the cell phone, conscious of the driver’s gaze, and answered cautiously,“Yes?”

A recorded voice said, “This call is for Sydney Ellison from Dr. Field’s office to remind you of your dental appointment on Monday, August 5th, at eight o’clock. If you need to reschedule, please call 555-1324.”

“Go back,” he told the startled cabbie.

“Huh?”

“To the deli. And turn off that fucking noise.”

Paul’s fingers worried at the curling end of duct tape that patched a foot-long tear in the seat beside him. Every red light and delay twanged his taut nerves. There was no relief at the deli—his phone wasn’t there. No one remembered seeing it. He should never have set it on the counter, not for an instant, he berated himself. He didn’t give a damn about the phone—it was pay-as-you-go and replaceable—but he needed to make sure his client didn’t call and say something that could incriminate both of them if the Sid Ellison guy answered. He’d have to alert his client via email—that was safer and quicker than a face-to-face with Ellison to trade phones.

He climbed back into the cab and pulled his laptop out of its case. “Starbucks. The closest one.”