The Big Sheep (16 page)

“Sorry,” I said. “Things have been just … well, crazy.”

“You haven't found Priya yet?”

“No.”

“Well, Tom will be thrilled you're still on the case,” she said. “He's looking for any excuse to go down to the set and gawk at her. I think he's dummying up some fake legal documents right now.”

It took a moment for me to register that Tom was her lawyer friend who had spotted Priya on the set of the Prima Facie commercial yesterday. “Tell Tom his sacrifice is appreciated,” I said.

“So I should tell him to take his fake contracts down there?”

“Can't hurt to have another set of eyes looking out for Priya,” I said.

“Are you working on her case now?” April asked.

“Actually, I'm back on the hunt for the missing sheep,” I said.

“How's that going?”

“Not great. We had a lead on it the other night, but things went sideways and we lost her again. It seems our sheep is in high demand.”

“Well, I don't think Tom can help you there.”

“I suppose not,” I said. “Hey, there's one more thing I wanted to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

“Does the word
maelstrom
mean anything to you?”

“You mean like a storm?”

“A very powerful whirlpool,” I said. I had already done a Web search for the word and hadn't found much of interest beyond the dictionary definition.

“Sounds like you know more than I do,” she said.

“So you've never heard of a Project Maelstrom?”

“Not that I can recall. What's this about?”

“Probably nothing,” I said. “Thanks for your help, April.”

“Anytime.” She ended the call.

It was just after three o'clock, so I figured I had enough time to hit at least three or four Nifty Truck Rental locations before I needed to head downtown to meet April. I parked at the Inglewood location and sat for a moment, staring at the still-sealed envelope on the dash. If Keane really did have some dark, criminal past, didn't I deserve to know about it? I was his partner, after all. If he was involved in something illegal, it could come back on me. I'd never asked about his life before becoming Erasmus Keane, just as I had never formally asked him to look into Gwen's disappearance. In my mind, we had a sort of unspoken agreement that he would help me with the latter if I didn't bring up the former. After three years, though, this arrangement had produced no fruit, not a single lead on what had happened to Gwen, and I had begun to wonder if I wasn't imagining this agreement—or at least taking it much more seriously than Keane was. I'd exhausted most potential leads before I'd started working for Keane, but I kept working on her case in my spare time, tracking down classmates, ex-boyfriends, previous employers … anyone who might have had a clue what had happened to Gwen. I'd never really expected Keane to help with the mundane stuff, of course. In fact, part of my frustration with Keane was that it was virtually impossible to quantify his work. He had no process I could discern, so I couldn't say for certain he wasn't doing anything to help find Gwen. All I knew was that the flashes of insight we relied on to solve other cases were in extremely short supply when it came to locating my ex-girlfriend.

Whether or not an agreement was still in effect (or even existed), though, what could be the harm in looking in the envelope? I could reseal the envelope, and Keane would never know. Would he?

I sighed and put the envelope in the glove compartment. Of course he would know. I don't know how, but he would know. He always knew.

I got out of the car and went to the Nifty Truck Rental office. The pimply-faced kid behind the counter wouldn't give me the time of day at first, but he got a lot more helpful after I slipped him a hundred new-dollar note.

Keane and I always used new dollars for bribes, because they got people's attention. The conversion rate for new dollars to greenbacks was pegged by the government at twenty to one, but the truth was that nobody really wanted those wrinkled, ugly old bills. I think it was a psychological barrier as much as any sort of economic principle at work: those who had held a lot of dollars didn't like to be reminded how much they had lost in the Collapse, and those who had dumped their dollars at the bottom of the market didn't like to be reminded of how much more they'd lost by not waiting it out. Greenbacks were just bad juju, and everyone felt it. New dollars held the promise of better days to come.

Anyway, the pimply-faced kid didn't recall renting a truck to anyone matching the descriptions of the three sheep thieves I gave him, but he let me sniff around the company's recently returned trucks and gave me a printout of the last few days of rental records. The rental trucks smelled like … well, rental trucks, and no names on the printouts jumped out at me. Not a lot of information for a hundred new dollars, but maybe I'd have better luck at the next Nifty location.

Sadly, I struck out there as well. This store, in the Torrance area, was staffed by a pretty young blond woman, and I might have charmed her into giving me the rental logs if her manager, a dour Middle Eastern gentleman, didn't keep peeking out of the office at me, throwing off my mojo. I had her show me a few trucks under the pretense of needing to move some furniture, but when I insisted on seeing (not to mention smelling) the interior of six different identical trucks, the manager decided he needed to take over. When I agreed to take one of the trucks, he handed me back to the blonde, and I slipped her a hundred for the rental records while he took a phone call, and then got the hell out of there.

I was on my way to the third closest location, northeast of Downtown, when my comm chirped. It was Dr. Takemago, the scientist Keane and I had talked to at the Esper Corporation.

“Hello, Doctor,” I said. “What can I do for you? Another sheep gone missing?”

“Mr. Fowler?” I heard Takemago's voice say. “I tried to call Mr. Keane, but he didn't answer. Something very strange is happening.”

“What is it, Dr. Takemago?”

“Mary's GPS tracker. It's back online.”

“You mean it's transmitting?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“So you have Mary's location?”

“Yes.” My comm display lit up with coordinates. After a moment the comm identified the location.

“She's in Griffith Park,” I said.

“It would appear so,” said Dr. Takemago.

“Have you told anyone else this?”

“No,” said Dr. Takemago.

“Doctor, this is important,” I said. “You haven't told anyone at Esper. Not even Jason Banerjee?” I was fairly certain Banerjee didn't want the police involved in the case, but I wasn't sure what he might do if he knew the sheep had been located. He might try to cut Keane and me out of the deal entirely.

“I have told no one but you,” she said. Then her voice got quiet. “I … don't trust Mr. Banerjee,” she said.

“You and me both, sister,” I said. “Don't say a word to anyone. I'll get ahold of Keane. Stay ready. When I get close to the park, I'll message you for updated coordinates. We'll get your sheep for you.”

“Safely, please,” said Dr. Takemago. “It is … imperative that the animal not be harmed.”

“I'll do my best,” I said, and ended the call. I put the car on a course to Griffith Park and called Keane. He didn't answer, so I left him a message. I couldn't imagine why the thieves would take Mary the sheep to a public park, or why they would have reactivated her tracking device, but there wasn't much to do but go there and find out.

When I got near the park, I messaged Takemago again, and she sent me another set of coordinates. The sheep had moved a few hundred yards to the northwest. The original coordinates Takemago had sent me were near the southeast entrance of the park, but now the sheep was a bit farther into the park—probably near the old merry-go-round. If I were Keane, I'd probably just have landed the aircar right in the middle of the park, but I didn't particularly want to get arrested—nor did I want to terrify Mary the sheep into running headlong into a ravine. I parked in the closest lot I could find and then took off on foot toward the coordinates. The parking lot was mostly empty, and only a few dozen people—mostly young couples and families with small children—meandered around the area.

I was nearing the carousel when another message, with a third set of coordinates, came in from Takemago. The sheep was moving more slowly now, north by northwest. It should be just on the other side of the merry-go-round. I walked clockwise around the perimeter, my hand on my gun, not knowing what to expect. The tracker coordinates were probably only accurate to within thirty feet or so, but I didn't think I'd have any trouble spotting a three-hundred pound sheep anywhere in the vicinity.

But I didn't see it. All I saw were families, couples … and one very shapely young woman with long black hair. I'm usually pretty good at staying on task when I'm working, but I couldn't help but admire this girl's figure. In fact, I was still looking when she turned around and found myself—after a momentary correction of attitude—staring straight into the eyes of a face that had become very familiar of late.

“Priya,” I said. It was her. It had to be. The exact same woman I had met in Keane's office two days before.

Her eyes were wide with fear. “Do I … know you?” she asked.

I noticed, fifty or so yards away, a muscular man with dark spiky hair walking rapidly toward us.

“I work for Erasmus Keane,” I said. “You know who that is?” There was no hint of recognition in her face. Priya had forgotten she'd ever met me. Again.

“The private investigator? But how—”

“Mr. Keane is … looking into your situation,” I said. “I'm his partner. You can trust me.”

“Um, okay,” she said, looking around nervously. She didn't sound convinced. I didn't blame her. Spike had closed about half the distance between us.

“Do you have a GPS tracker on you?” I asked. “A small electronic device?”

She nodded and pulled something from her purse. It was a little plastic box, complete with a clip that could be used to attach it to a belt—or animal collar.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“I don't know if I should—”

“Priya!” called the muscular man, who was coming up behind her.

“Somebody told you to come here,” I said. “Somebody wanted you to meet me here.”

“I found a letter in my room at the Four Seasons this morning. It told me to go to Selah's office, find the tracker thing, and then go to the merry-go-round at Griffith Park.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The letter was from your—”

“Priya,” said Spike sternly, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You can't run off like that. It's not safe.” He was regarding me suspiciously. Around us, people had begun to turn and stare at Priya. Priya's eyes darted from me to the gathering crowd. She looked like a frightened little girl.

“Who is this guy?” asked Spike. “You said you wanted to go for a walk in the park. You didn't say anything about meeting someone.”

“I … don't know him,” said Priya distantly.

“I'm a friend,” I said. I saw Spike's eyes fall to my gun. “A concerned friend. Who are you?”

“This is Carlos,” said Priya. “My bodyguard.”

Another bodyguard. How many bodyguards did one woman need?

“Well, concerned friend,” said Carlos. “Ms. Mistry needs to be going.” He grabbed her upper arm lightly and began to coax her away.

“I'm
extremely
concerned,” I said, my hand hovering over my gun. I didn't know what was going on here, but I had a pretty good idea that whoever had sent the letter that had prompted the original Priya to hire Erasmus Keane had also sent the letter that told this Priya to come to Griffith Park. Noogus must have figured out that Keane and I were looking for the sheep, and that the tracking device would lure us here. That meant he wanted Keane to meet Priya. But I didn't yet know why, and I wasn't about to lose her until I found out.

“Priya,” said Carlos, putting himself between me and her, “go to the car.” His hand was on his own sidearm. Priya began moving uncertainly away from us.

“You don't want to do that,” I said. “Carlos, you seem like a decent guy. I don't want to shoot you. But I can't let you take Priya.”

“Fuck off,” growled Carlos, drawing his gun. “I don't work for you.”

I was having second thoughts about Carlos being a decent guy. There were now close to a hundred civilians in the immediate vicinity, and he was escalating the situation. Once again I found myself nostalgic for Roy, whom I still thought of as All-Grown-Up Noogus. Priya continued to walk away from us, the assembled gawkers parting in front of her like the Red Sea.

“That's right, Carlos,” I said. “You don't work for me. In fact, you don't work for Priya Mistry, either, do you? If I'm not mistaken, Selah Fiore signs your checks.”

“What's your point?” demanded Carlos. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Blake Fowler. I'm a private investigator. I work for Erasmus Keane.”

“Who?” Carlos grunted.

So much for name-dropping. I pressed on. “I'm looking into a threat against Priya. I have nothing against you, Carlos, but I have some reason to believe that Selah Fiore can't be trusted. Until I know more, I can't let you take Priya.”

Carlos laughed and shook his head. “Whatever, man,” he said. He must have decided I wasn't much of a threat, because he holstered his gun and turned to follow Priya.

“Carlos,” I said. But he just kept walking. I sighed. Why did guys like Carlos always want to do things the hard way?

I drew my gun and took aim. A few of the bystanders screamed, but not in time to warn Carlos. I squeezed the trigger, and a flurry of turf erupted between his feet. Carlos fell to the ground, clutching his right foot. “God damn you!” he snarled. “You shot me!”