Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 02 - The Hustle (19 page)

While I drove to my next destination, I drew my phone and called the bar. Paul picked up on the third ring. “You planning on coming in soon?” he asked.

“Sorry about last night. Everything go okay?”

“We managed somehow.” Paul could split a phrase so finely you could never tell if he was being sarcastic or genuine. I chose sarcastic for this one, a safe bet.

“I can’t make it in again tonight,” I said.

“Your work life interfering with your work life?”

He liked to tease me that I worked basically two full-time jobs when, with my inheritance, I didn’t really have to work at all. “Not a typical job. This one is in-house.”

Paul’s tone changed, lightening ever so slightly. “Anything you need help with?”

“Just keep things rolling at the bar.”

“You let me know if it gets serious. You’ve seen me. I’m good for more than just serving drinks.”

I thanked him for the offer, hung up, and drove the rest of the way to Devon the Devil Man’s house.

“Yeah,” Devon said, the light from four computer monitors the only thing illuminating his face. “That’s not really possible.”

I looked around Devon’s downstairs room—as in down in his mother’s basement room—and admired his toy collection which had grown exponentially since last time I had visited him at home. Devon’s the guy I teach vocal lessons to. He’s my only student, and the only reason I do it is because he helped big time with that Autumn snafu. Devon’s got computer skills like Tiger Woods has golf skills—only without the awkward public affairs and the worldwide notoriety. And, unlike Tiger, Devon didn’t get outside much.

Among the various action figures, spaceship models, and collector statuettes, several versions of Darth Vader stared down at us from the shelf above his desk. At one end, Devon had the old school original Vader with the light saber that came out of his arm. Beside the original stood the evolutionary chain of improvements to the figure throughout time, ending with a fancy looking, anatomically correct Vader that looked too expensive to actually play with. I often wondered if Devon played with his toys. I had a feeling he did, except for the ones still in their packages hung on the only wall that didn’t have a table with a computer on it.

Devon said, “The Viper Mark VII from
Battlestar
is new.”

While some of his words sounded like English, he might as well have said
Bla,bla, blobbity, blabla
. I smiled. “Cool.” I shifted in my so-called chair, which was a hot pink inflatable loveseat. Supposedly the blow-up piece of furniture could support two. I wouldn’t want to test it. “About the phone thing, though—”

The computer he sat in front of chirruped and a little box popped up on the monitor. He held up a finger and swiveled so he could type something on the keyboard. The box popped up again with another accompanying toot. Devon giggled and snorted. He swiveled back to me with a grin that looked ghastly in the monitor light. His devil’s lock—a long wave of hair dangling from his otherwise shorn head—hung over one eye. He swiped the lone lock aside and tucked it behind his ear. “You totally need to get on Twitter. I still can’t believe you’re not on. You can update all your followers right from the iPhone I set you up with.”

Whenever Devon started in on the techno toy talk (or TTT—pronounced titty, or T-cubed for the prudes) I felt tired all over, like I had after my annual workout session that morning. Devon had no patience for my luddite leanings. He spotted the boredom on my face and swatted my arm. “Step into the new century, Ridley. I bet you’re still reading paper books.”

“I like not needing batteries to read.”

Devon rolled his eyes. “Weird.”

We’re sitting in his mother’s basement where he lives, surrounded by toys, lights out and four computers humming along, and I’m the weird one. “Can we stay on task?”

“You’re task already crashed. Blue screen of death. Operation not found.”

“Now you’re doing that on purpose.”

“I’ll turn you into a techie yet.”

“The phone, Dev. Can you track it?”

He shook his head and his devil’s lock dropped free from behind his ear. “His phone company could. Some massive secret government agency probably could. Me? Not a chance. But thanks for believing I’m that skilled.”

“His phone company can?”

“Most cell phones have GPS devices in them these days. Especially the fully featured ones like yours. That’s how you get your maps and stuff telling you where you are.”

My gaze slowly dipped to the iPhone clipped on my belt. It looked different to me now. Intrusive. Malignant. “You’re not making me feel any better.”

“Chill out. Like I said, some average Joe couldn’t trace you. It’s not like you can just call up customer service and ask to tell you where someone is.”

“Who would have access to the GPS at the phone company?”

He pulled his devil’s lock aside like a curtain. “I guess it would depend on the provider. But it’s an easy bet it would have to be someone high on the food chain. Not anyone local, that’s for sure.”

Well, there went that idea. “There’s got to be some way to track this guy.”

“You’ve never met the dude?”

In any normal circumstance, that question would be easy. Here in my world, I couldn’t give a straight answer. “According to him, I have.”

He shot me a scrunched up look. I held up my hands. “Nothing’s ever easy with me, Dev. You should know that by now.”

“You know, he’s probably got a burner phone anyway. Pre-paid, bought at a 7-Eleven or someplace like it.”

My haste to get at Hersch had left me scrambling after bad ideas. I should have known he wouldn’t go for the in-person money exchange. I should have also figured he had an untraceable phone. He had me so rattled, I completely forgot how to operate. It didn’t help that my phone rang, knocking me out of my thoughts.

“Love the ring tone,” Devon said.

The voice on the phone was so frantic I didn’t recognize it at first. “He called again. Jesus Christ, he called again.”

“Eddie?”

“You’ve got to help me,” he said. “He said it’s time. Just like that. ‘It’s time.’”

“Calm down.”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you, but you’re not making any sense. Time for what?”

Devon turned back to his computer and resumed twittering or whatever.

“It’s obvious,” Eddie said. “He’s going to kill me, Ridley. He’s wiped every Arndt out and now he’s coming after me.”

“No one’s coming after you. He’s trying to freak you out. That’s all.”

“It’s working.”

“Then you’re letting him win. Listen, I’ve thought long and hard about your case. I’m ninety percent positive someone’s trying to con you. More than likely, the con man tricked someone close to you to give them the information they needed.”

“There isn’t anyone that could have done that.”

I took a deep breath, trying to stay patient. “What about your cousin?”

“Shawn? He wouldn’t do that to me.”

“I’m not saying he did it on purpose. A good grifter can get facts out of you without you even realizing it.”

“No. I can’t… No.”

“I have something pretty important on my docket now, Ed. I’m sorry, but I have to cut this short.”

“What am I supposed to do? Wait around until this guy comes and tries to kill me?”

I thought about Hal. I thought about my daughter. I thought about Hersch and his “race.” My patience snapped. “Quit being so damn paranoid. I have real problems to deal with.”

Eddie made a small
uh
sound and fell silent.

Devon turned away from his computer to look my way. He lifted his eyebrows.

I closed my eyes and visualized a sandy beach. I could afford buying a beach house. Sounded like a good plan. Let Paul take over the
High Note
. Get the fuck out of Michigan. A nice fantasy, and it did the trick, centering me. “You don’t have to wait around for anything. Call your cousin. Ask him if he’s made any new friends or got friendly with a stranger, maybe drinking beers at the pub, swapping stories. That kind of thing.”

“I don’t want Shawn to think I’m accusing him of anything.”

“Haven’t you told him what’s going on?”

“I didn’t want to worry him.”

“He’s your closest friend—”

“He’s my only friend.”

I wondered how I could tactfully suggest he get on an antidepressant and book time with a therapist. I followed a different strategy, one less insensitive. “I’m sure you have more friends than you realize.”

He chuffed.

I glanced up at Devon, back at his keyboard again, only now the monitor in front of him had a first-person view of a guy holding a machine gun. He was cutting down what looked like zombies.

“I have to go now,” I said. “Give me a call back after you talk to your cousin.”

He let me go reluctantly. When I finally hung up, I turned off my phone’s ringer.

Devon tapped a key and the game on his screen froze. He swiveled to face me. “That sounded painful.”

“A client. He’s getting conned, too.”

Devon stuck a finger in his ear and scratched, face pinched up as if performing surgery on himself without an anesthetic. “That’s a weird coincidence.”

“I know,” I said. “But the only other theory I came up with stretches credulity. The guy’s life is full of unfortunate coincidences. It’s kind of freaky.”

“This doesn’t sound like you at all. If there are as many coincidences as you say there are, how can you ignore that? You wouldn’t normally.”

“I’m not ignoring them. But I’ve come up empty trying to connect it all.”

“Maybe,” Devon said with an excited whisper, “there’s only one con man who’s playing you both.”

“To what end?”

“It’s all part of his plan to drive you both insane.”

“You serious?”

He laughed. “Guess that’s why you’re the detective and I’m the video game addict.”

I couldn’t totally discount his concern over both Eddie and myself getting conned at exactly the same time. Should I backtrack? Look for some connection? I’d run into a dead end with tracking Hersch for the moment. It couldn’t hurt to poke that dead horse as long as I didn’t get frothy and start beating it.

The inflatable loveseat made a farting sound when I slid to its edge so I could stand.

That got a snorty giggle out of Devon, ever the child.

When I got to my feet, I said, “Thanks, Dev.”

“For what? I couldn’t help.”

“You helped.” I pointed at the computer he was stationed at. “You don’t always need one of those to help me. Sometimes talking’s enough.”

He smiled. “You’re not going to pinch my cheeks, are you? You look like you might. I get that enough from Mom.”

“I was thinking more of a big kiss.”

He waved a hand at me. “Get out of here, I have work to do.”

“Killing zombies?”

“Hacking a law firm’s database for a competitor. They want to gank some high-profile clients. But don’t tell anyone.”

I had always suspected some of Devon’s work was less than legal, but this was the first time he’d come out and confirmed it. “My lips are sealed as long as you can do me one last favor.”

He double-tapped his chest with a fist. “Hit me.”

Chapter 20

I hit up Palmer for another favor. He said he’d agree to it if I gave him free drinks at the bar for life. I talked him down to a couple beers every now and then. That got me what I needed—a police sketch artist and an empty interrogation room. I provided the laptop and webcam myself.

The sketch artist and I sat on the same side of the table in the center of the room, facing the iconic one way mirror made famous by the glut of cop shows on TV. For our purposes, no one stood on the other side. Expect maybe Palmer. I had a feeling he might get nosy about what I was up to.

The artist had introduced himself as Gwen. I made no comment on the suggested gender of his name contradicting his person. His youth did give him a touch of femininity. His bones practically showed through his skin. I probably could have wrapped my hand around his waist and have my fingers meet. He had a neo-bohemian style of dress that made him look poor and trendy at the same time.

The good news was he hadn’t been tainted too much by the department’s universal malaise toward me. He did keep giving me furtive glances, though, as if he thought I might bite him. So he had to have heard something.

I set up the laptop and webcam on the table before us, powered up, and Skyped Sheila. When her image appeared on screen, her mouth filled the entire field of vision.

“Hello? Is it working?”

And I thought I was technologically challenged. Devon would have gone into anabolic shock if he’d stood in the room with us. “Back up a bit.”

Gwen snickered against his fingertips.

Sheila mercifully backed away, except now the camera was aimed at her torso, her head cut from view. We did a little backing and forthing before she finally had herself positioned right. We adjusted on our end so she could see us as well.

Gwen hummed doubtfully. “Not sure this is gonna work.”

“It’s this, or fly her in from some undisclosed place in Florida.”

When I had called Sheila with my idea, she immediately went into defensive mode. It was as if I had asked her to send me nude pictures over the internet. I talked her down, explaining the technology that Devon had hooked me up with, and she agreed to help. She refused, however, to tell me where she was, not that I had asked. The fact that she felt she had to say that to me spoke volumes about the awkward wall we’d built between us.