Hollow Man (18 page)

But me, I didn't think that for a minute.

On Sunday, Tristan went to church. I didn't know he even owned a Bible, and once he'd gone, I tried the handle to his bedroom in the vague hope he'd forgotten to lock it. No such luck.

It wasn't that I believed Otto, or thought he was right about Tristan. No, that Poindexter barely had the balls to drive past the mobile-home park at night, let alone sneak in there and go digging up the forest floor with cops lingering nearby. I figured Otto had exaggerated, letting his paranoia see more than there was to be seen. At some point, I'd come out and ask Tristan about his trip to the trailer park and his storage locker. But, as any good trial lawyer will tell you: when the stakes are high, don't ask a question you don't already know the answer to.

One thing, though, I didn't like Tristan's change in routine. This disappearance to church, it made me nervous. I sure as hell didn't want him getting all religious and confessing his sins to some guy in a dress with an overly tuned sense of right and wrong.

The other problem with straight out asking him was that I'd have had to wait, and waiting was hard for me at the best of times. My music usually provided enough stimulation to keep me out of trouble, but Otto's accusations, and events generally, had put pressure on my natural self and forced cracks in the shell I'd constructed, and dangerous little pieces of me were looking to squeeze out. When self-preservation, my own life and freedom, were at stake, my incapacity for inaction always became unbearable.

So, assuming he'd be out for another hour at least, I rattled the door to his bedroom one more time, then picked the lock.

Both of our doors had pin-and-tumbler locks, more secure than those you usually find in apartments where a button on the door handle pretends to be security. I had no idea whether they came with the place or if Tristan had them installed. Either way, I had the tension wrench and pick that I'd bought online, tools I'd practiced with on my own door when Tristan was out.

I knelt on the carpet outside his room and got to work. The tension wrench went into the bottom of the keyhole. I twisted it slightly in the direction the door should unlock, and put the pick into the upper portion of the key hole. I ran it back and forth, picturing the five pins that dropped down into the tumbler, keeping the door locked. I started with the most stubborn of the pins, pressing it up out of the cylinder until I heard a faint click. I upped the torque on the wrench, just a hair's breadth, to make sure the pin stayed up and out of the way, then found the next pin. And the next after that until, with a final, gentle click, Tristan's door swung open.

I went in and looked around.

A queen-size bed lay to the left, taking up most of that wall. A flat-screen TV hung to my right. Opposite me, his windows looked out over the parking lot, and under the windows he'd put two desks, end to end. A desktop computer sat on the left, a laptop on the right, and various electronic debris was scattered in the spaces between, cables, chargers, and mini speakers. Matching bedside tables sat either side of his bed, the one nearest me bearing an alarm clock, the one the other side of the bed carrying a stack of books.

I started in his closet, a small walk-in just past his TV. It was emptier than most closets, but then I wouldn't have expected him to have too many clothes. He was a geek, and not in a metrosexual way. One corner held his laundry basket, another was filled by a tumble of sneakers and work shoes, and the one behind me to my right was a stacking place for three wheeled suitcases, each a different size.
I flipped the light on, unzipped the top case, and peered inside. Empty. I put my hands in all the pockets but came up with nothing. I dumped the case and tried the second, then the third. No money, and no guns.

I restacked the bags and looked in his laundry basket, holding my breath. He didn't empty it as often as he should have, and it took an unpleasant thirty seconds to be sure there was nothing stashed at the bottom.

I went to his double desk next, resisting the urge to go wash my hands first, and checked each drawer methodically. I knew what I was looking for, guns or money, so I went through them quickly, and I couldn't decide whether to be relieved or frustrated when all I found was batteries, instructions manuals, and three flashlights. Not even any porn, though he had the Internet for that. I got to the last drawer, the bottom one in the left-hand desk. I tugged the little handle, but it didn't open. I pulled harder, but it stayed shut. A tiny keyhole told me I'd found the one interesting place in his room.

I perched on the edge of his bed and began the lock-pick routine. The keyhole was small, almost too small, but I managed to get the tension wrench into the bottom of the slot. I slipped up several times, letting the pins pop back into place accidentally and having to start again. Five long minutes later, I was intently focused on the last of the six pins when I heard the front door. I slid the drawer open and quickly looked inside. Its contents had nothing to do with our heist, but I saw why he kept it locked, and I smiled. I closed the drawer, locked it, and twisted toward the door.

“Hey!” Tristan stared at me, bug-eyed, his face reddening. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

His eyes left me and went to the little drawer, so I palmed my tools and stared at him, choosing my lie. My options were outrage (
You're damn right I broke in here, you've been acting so weird and Otto thinks you have our money, so what the fuck is going on? Locking your doors, pawing my girlfriend, pretending you're going to church?
Are you fucking kidding me?
) or apology. The former created conflict and gave me a modicum of power over him, the latter defused conflict and gave him power over me. A wonderful weapon, the apology.

“Shit, Tristan.” I stood and slipped my tools into my pocket. “I'm so sorry. I know this is wrong and I know you have nothing to hide—”

“Yeah, now you've been through my fucking stuff.” He was furious, planting his righteous anger in the middle of my apology, just like I wanted him to.

“I know, you're right, totally right. I just…everything's been so fucked up this past week or so, like you said yourself…man you've been weird. I suppose we all have, but you've not been yourself. I mean, I know she asked for it, but walking in on my girlfriend like that. And pretending you're going to church, I mean what's that about?” I held up my hands in apology, not giving him a chance to respond. “But that doesn't make this okay, I know that. I know that, and I'm truly sorry. It won't happen again, I promise.”

Tristan stood aside to let me out, then looked down at his door knob. “How did you get in?”

“It was unlocked.”

“No, dude, it wasn't. I always lock it.”

“I don't…” I put on my confused face. “I don't know, then. I just tried the handle and I swear it just…well, you know, I did rattle it pretty hard. Maybe that's what did it? Maybe you locked it and it came loose somehow, when I shook it. That's all I can think, I don't really know.”

I went into the living room and sank onto the couch. Tristan hovered near his bedroom door, eyeing it and me. I knew he was unsettled, not just by my intrusion but also by my attitude because he'd never seen me apologize to anyone before, for anything. It was his first encounter with a contrite Dominic, and he didn't know how to handle it.

“Seriously, I'm so sorry. But there's one thing I should tell you, even though now's not the best time.”

His eyes narrowed. “Tell me what?”

“The reason I went into your room.”

“To snoop. Because you don't trust me.”

“Not me. Look, I wanted to be able to tell Otto he was wrong. And I can, I can do that now because there's nothing in your room—”

“Wait, Otto? What do you mean, tell him he's wrong?”

“He called me yesterday. He wanted me to meet with him because he had this stupid fucking idea that maybe you…knew where the money was?”

“What?” His eyes widened into saucers, and I knew for sure that he was truly shocked by the allegation.

“I know.” I held up placating hands. “I met with him, and told him he was full of crap. I told him we've all been acting weirdly, not just you, and that there's no way in hell you'd try to double-cross us, just like I wouldn't and he wouldn't.”

“I don't believe I'm hearing this.”

“Good, because I was horrified, too. And now, as wrong as that was, I can tell Otto I went into your room and all I found were some smelly socks and a stack of porn magazines. Actually, no porn magazines.”

The joke went by him. “Why would Otto think that?”

“He said he watched both of us when we went out there, when we were checking on the police. He said that you parked and walked around the trailer park for about ten minutes. Did you do that?”

“Yeah, of course. I didn't see the cops so I parked in the area near that shitty office. I didn't want to be driving around so I just walked. The place creeped me out, so as soon as I saw the cop car I left.”

“Yeah, I told Otto it was something like that.”

“I didn't go into the fucking woods, I'm not stupid.”

I watched him carefully for his reaction to my next question. “And the storage facility you went to right after that?”

He was quiet for a second, as his brain traced back to that night, a look of slight confusion on his face. “The storage…I went to get
some speakers. For my new iPod. When you moved in, I had to pack a lot of my crap and…Wait, how did you know I went there?”

“Otto. He followed you. He couldn't see what you were doing, so he got suspicious.” I held up both hands as if in surrender. “That's him, not me.”

I thought he'd explode with anger, I know I would have, but instead he leaned against the wall and shook his head. “What have we done, man? What are we becoming?”

“Nothing, Tristan. Nothing at all. Just stay cool and everything will be fine. Otto will shut the hell up, we'll all keep a low profile, and everything will work out.”

“We can't do that, man, we can't be accusing each other of shit.”

“I know, and I agree. Maybe we can have a sit-down with Otto and clear the air.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I've a few things to say to him.”

“No, like you just said, we can't be turning on each other. So when everyone's calmed down, you, me, and him, we'll get together.”

Something in my voice made him look at me. “What?”

“No, nothing. Don't worry.”

“Dude, tell me.”

I paused, as if to think about it. “While we're on the subject, it's my friend Gus.”

“What about him? Don't tell me he wants a cut.”

“No, no. Quite the opposite, I suppose you could say.”

“Meaning?”

“He's disappeared. His wife called me yesterday, he went out a couple of days ago and hasn't come home or even phoned her since.”

Tristan looked wary. “That common for him?”

“No. Not at all.”

“So you think it might have something to do with…our money?”

“Seems like odd timing, don't you think?”

“Yeah, very. What should we do?”

“I think I'm going to head over to his place, talk to Michelle again. I might have a little look around while I'm over there. Anyway, if she's not heard from him, there's only one thing I can do. I hate to, but I don't think I have a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I'll have to call the police.”

Tristan stared at me, like he wasn't sure if I was kidding. I assured him I wasn't.

“There's no way,” he said. “You're the last person to be calling the cops. What will you tell them?”

“It's the only way. The trick is to control the situation. If you let others take control or leave it to fate, then you're screwed. If I'm with Michelle and we call, then I'll know what she tells them and I'll be able to tell them I know nothing. Much better than having them snoop around and catch us by surprise with questions when we're not expecting them.”

“They won't talk to me. I don't know the guy.”

“Which is why I'll be the one going to see Michelle. Look, I know how it works. Some patrol guy will roll up an hour after the call, eyeball this pretty housewife, see me there being all supportive, and figure it's a love triangle, which he wants nothing to do with. He'll take a report, enter it into the system, and that's that. If I'm not there, the hot housewife is a little more alluring, and in the interest of staying longer the cop asks more questions. We don't want that.”

“That's for damn sure.”

“So sit tight and I'll check in later.”

“Do you really think he might have taken off with our money? I mean, you know him best.”

“I sincerely doubt it. More likely he got rolled in an alley and
has a headache and bad memory in a hospital bed somewhere. Or he's banging some groupie chick who likes the way he sings.”

“I hope so.”

I feigned awkwardness, shifting from foot to foot. “Hey, I don't mean to be a jerk or anything, but I'd like to put the storage-facility thing to rest.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought maybe I could drive by there on my way to see Michelle.”

“My unit?” He chewed his lip. “And what, look inside?”

“Just so I can tell Otto I did. Make him realize he's being an idiot.”

“Why not just tell him you did?”

“I don't know, I don't want to lie. He's a cop, they're good at spotting that.”

“You know why this pisses me off so much?”

“Tell me,” I said.

“Because I've gone out of my way to look out for him, and you. I told you before, you left some stuff on your computer, and I went on and cleared it. Didn't tell you, didn't make a big deal, I was just looking out for you. For us. And this is my thanks.”

“Wow, I didn't know that. Thank you, Tristan, really. And look, I'm trying to do the same as you, keep us together and safe. It's just that reassuring Otto has become a part of me looking out for us. Even though you're right, I shouldn't have to, not by nosing through your stuff.”

I could see him thinking, and finally he nodded. “Okay, that's fine.”

“Great. Thanks. That'll make him feel better, stop being so paranoid.” I started for the door. “Oh wait.”

“What?”

“With everything that's going on…mind if I use your car?”

“Why?”

“Now it's me being paranoid but if someone working there knows your car, associates with that unit and then sees my car pull up…. Am I overthinking this?”

“Yeah, a little.” He smiled. “But seeing what's happened, I'm fine with you overthinking our safety. I wasn't planning on going anywhere for a while. What time will you be back?”

“Couple of hours, no more.”

“Go for it. The code at the gate is all sevens, four of them. I'll get you my keys.”

Fifteen minutes later, the gate rattled and shook as it slid out of the way. I pulled though and headed to Tristan's lock-up, which lay at one end of a long row of orange-doored units.

I used the key he'd given me to undo the padlock and yanked the sliding door up. A switch to my left turned on a light bulb that sat protected by its own wire cage. The unit was about ten feet wide and ten deep, and mostly empty. It smelled of dust and some sort of chemical. A battered, brown sofa sat against the right-hand wall, its matching armchair against the left. Various electronic gadgets were piled on the furniture and floor, old computer monitors and processing units, some ancient music speakers, and what looked like miles of cables, white, black, and gray lying on the floor and spilling out of cardboard boxes.

Two old file cabinets, faded green metal, sat side by side at the back of the unit. I moved inside, pulling the door down behind me. I looked quickly under the sofa and chair cushions, then moved the speakers and cables around with my foot. I didn't expect to find anything. I never believed Tristan had double-crossed us, but this way I could honestly tell Otto I'd looked. The filing cabinet was next. I looked through each of the six drawers. Four were empty. One held stacks of papers, old bills and tax forms, musty with age. The other had a small gun safe in it, about the size of a shoe box. It had a combination lock, which Tristan hadn't mentioned, but there was no way it could have held all our money, so I didn't worry about it.

I took one more look around the space, slid open the door, and locked up carefully behind me.

I pulled into Gus's driveway twenty minutes later. Michelle met me at the front door, wringing her hands and upset, but it looked like she was glad to see a friendly face.

“No word?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

I sat in the living room, and she brought me iced tea, a vile substance that all true Englishmen despise. I put it down on the coffee table. She sat opposite me and wouldn't meet my eye.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Anything.”

“And please. Please, be honest, I can handle anything, I just want the truth.”

“Sure.”

She looked at me intently, her head slightly cocked to one side like a dog waiting to sniff out a lie. “Is he seeing someone else?”

“No.” I shook my head, pleased I didn't have to lie. “At least, not that I know of. I promise, I've always seen him as faithful and loving. That sounds trite, but it's true. Even when we were out…I know what you said on the phone the other day, but I've never seen that. I certainly don't know anything about him seeing someone.”

“Okay.” She stayed in that position, staring at me. “One other thing. I mentioned it the other day, but I've been thinking more about it. Can't get it out of my head. That thing a few weeks ago, when you and he met a couple of times. He said something at the time…” My face was a mask.
That stupid fucking idiot.
“I can't remember what, and I know he was vague, but I felt like you two were planning something.”

“I've been thinking, too, and it had to be music stuff, I'm sure. Otherwise, I don't really—”

“No, it wasn't. You guys always do that here, or at your place. Usually the den here. So I don't think it was that.”

“I don't remember, honestly. Although…” My voice trailed off.

“What?”

“No, I doubt it but…we've talked about him maybe doing some consulting work with the DA's office, but that was early stages. Not much more than me offering to talk to the hierarchy about it.”

“What do you mean consulting work?”

“We're getting a lot of cases with foreign nationals. Mexicans mostly, but other Central and Southern Americans. Every time they pick up a felony charge, their defense attorney comes into court and tries to get us to drop or reduce charges by saying that if we don't, they'll get deported. You know, play the sympathy card about the three kids and pregnant wife who will starve if their client gets booted out of the country. The rules about deportation are complicated, so it'd be nice to have a reliable immigration attorney to consult with, to find out if they're blowing smoke or actually telling us the truth in each case.”

“Huh. Why wouldn't he just come out and tell me about that?”

“I don't know.”
Probably because it's a steaming pile of horseshit that I just made up.
“Like I say, it wasn't much more than a suggestion. But we did talk about it, to see if he was interested and to see how it'd work. Maybe he wanted to wait until it was a real possibility before saying anything.”

“Maybe. Was he acting weird in the last week or two?”

I gave her a kind smile. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“No. Worried about work, but nothing new there.”

Her eyes settled on her phone. “Will you…will you help me call the hospitals?”

“No need, I already did.”
True
. “Nothing.”

“Really? I figured they only answer family about health stuff.”

“Normally,” I said. “Family and prosecutors.”

“Ah, of course. Thank you for doing that.”

“Of course, Michelle, he's my friend.”

“And now?”

“Now I think we should call the police.”

In my little village back home, there was a constable assigned to keep the peace. His name was Clive Potter, a forty-something single man who lived with his parents and could only ever play good cop, because bad cops didn't have pot bellies and ruddy cheeks. He had a tried-and-true routine for ensuring a peaceful village that began with a morning bicycle ride. If someone had suffered a puncture on the four streets that wound through Weston, he'd keep them company as they changed their own wheel or hold the gate for the farmer chasing his escaped cows back into the field.

Around lunchtime, Constable Potter propped his cycle against the wall of one of the three pubs and made sure there was no trouble inside, accepting a ham sandwich and pint of ale for his trouble. In the early afternoon, he'd work off the sandwich and beer on a park bench on the village green, with ducks for company. He usually read a mystery novel, his version of studying police procedure, an Agatha Christie his criminal-investigation manual. We were pretty sure he nodded off every day, his belly holding him upright, but his bench sat beneath a weeping willow tree, so it was hard to be sure. At around three, he'd stretch himself awake and walk his bicycle to the elementary school half a mile away to make sure no kids got run over at day's end. And, when the summer began, to buy himself an ice cream from old Mr. Miller, who cranked up his ice cream van for a few months and toured the nearby villages in the late afternoons and on weekends.

I'd somehow expected the cop who took Michelle's call to be like Clive Potter. To be the cop who preferred the easy missing-person's call to the higher-priority calls that might require confrontation and
running. Jared Carruth was no Clive Potter. In his midtwenties, he addressed us with the politeness and interest of a highly trained customer-service rep, all
Sir
and
Ma'am
in his soft, Texas twang. His pen jotted down everything we said, a modern cop full of efficient concern. And no hint that he thought we were having an affair, no suggestion that this wasn't his most important call of the day.

After he'd gathered the details of name, age, height, weight, and Michelle's contact number, Carruth asked, “What was he wearing when you last saw him?”

“Khaki pants, light-blue shirt, and dark-blue tie,” Michelle said.

“You gave me his car details. It hasn't turned up?”

“No. I wouldn't expect it to, not without him.”