The Thought Readers (3 page)

Returning my attention to the file, I find little personal information beyond her name and address—just other casinos, games, and the amounts she’s won under different aliases, plus pictures. She’s good at changing her appearance; all the pictures feature women who look very different from one another. Impressive.

Having memorized as much of Mira’s file as I can, I walk over to Nick and take my own file from his hands.

I’m relieved to find that there’s not much to this folder. They have my name and address, which they must’ve gotten from the credit card I used to pay for drinks. They know that I work at a hedge fund and that I’ve never had problems with the law—all stuff easily found on the web. Same goes for Harvard and my other achievements. They probably just did a Google search on me once they knew my name.

Reading the file makes me feel better. They’re not on to me or anything like that. They probably just saw me winning too much and decided to nip the situation in the bud. The best thing to do at this point is to placate them, so I can go home and digest all this. No need to search the hotel anymore. I have more than enough information about Mira now, and my friend Bert can help me fill in the rest of the puzzle.

Thus resolved, I walk back to myself. My frozen self’s face looks scared, but I don’t feel scared anymore because I now have a plan.

Taking a deep breath, I touch my frozen forehead again and phase out.

Nick is still yelling at me, so I tell him politely, “Sir, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what or whom you’re talking about. I was lucky, yes, but I didn’t cheat.” My voice quavers on that last bit. I might be overacting now, but I want to be convincing as a scared young man. “I’ll be happy to leave the money and never come back to this casino again.”

“You
are
going to leave the money, and you won’t ever come back to this
city
again,” corrects Buff.

“Fine, I won’t. I was just here to have fun,” I say in a steadier but still deferential voice, like I’m totally in awe of their authority. “I just turned twenty-one and it’s Labor Day weekend, so I went gambling for the first time,” I add. This should add an air of sincerity, because it’s the truth. “I work at a hedge fund. I don’t need to cheat for money.”

Nick snorts. “Please. Guys like you cheat because you like the rush of being so much smarter than everyone else.”

Despite his obvious contempt for me, I don’t reply. Every remark I form in my head sounds snide. Instead I just continue groveling, saying that I know nothing, gradually becoming more and more polite. They keep asking me about Mira and about how I cheat, and I keep denying it. The conversation goes in circles for a while. I can tell they’re getting as tired of it as I am—maybe more so.

Seeing an opening, I go in for the kill. “I need to know how much longer I’ll be detained, sir,” I tell Nick, “so that I can notify my family.”

The implication is that people will wonder where I am if I don’t show up soon. Also, my subtle use of the word ‘detained’ reminds them of the legality of their position—or more likely, the lack thereof.

Frowning, but apparently unwilling to give in, Nick says stubbornly, “You can leave as soon as you tell us something useful.” There isn’t much conviction in his voice, though, and I can tell that my question hit the mark. He’s just saving face at this point.

Doggedly continuing the interrogation, he asks me the same questions again, to which I respond with the same answers. After a couple of minutes, Buff touches his shoulder. They exchange a look.

“Wait here,” Buff says. They leave, presumably to have a quick discussion out of my earshot.

I wish I could listen in, but sadly it’s not possible with the Quiet. Well, that’s not entirely true. If I learned to read lips and phased in and out very quickly, I could probably piece together some of the conversation by looking at their frozen faces, over and over again. But that would be a long, tedious process. Plus, I don’t need to do that. I can use logic to figure out the gist of what they’re saying. I’m guessing it goes something like this: “The kid’s too smart for us; we should let him go, get doughnuts, and swing by a strip club.”

They return after a few minutes, and Buff tells me, “We’re going to let you go, but we don’t want to see you—or your girlfriend—here ever again.” I can tell Nick isn’t happy about having to abandon his questioning without getting the answers he wanted, but he doesn’t voice any objections.

I suppress a relieved sigh. I half-thought they’d rough me up or something. It would’ve sucked, but it wouldn’t have been unexpected—or perhaps even undeserved, given that I did cheat. But then again, they have no proof that I cheated. And they probably think I’m clever enough to cause legal problems—particularly given my law degree.

Of course, it’s also possible that they know more about me than what’s in the file. Maybe they’ve come across some info about my moms. Oh yeah, did I mention that I have two moms? Well, I do. Trust me, I know how strange that sounds. And before there’s any temptation, I never want to hear another joke on the subject. I got enough of that in school. Even in college, people used to say shit sometimes. I usually made sure they regretted it, of course.

In any case, Lucy, who is my adoptive mom—but is nonetheless the most awesome mom ever—is a tough-as-nails detective. If these bozos laid a finger on me, she’d probably track them down and personally kick their asses with a baseball bat. She also has a team that reports to her, and they would likely chime in, too. And Sara, my biological mom—who is usually quite peace-loving—wouldn’t stop her. Not in this case.

Nick and Buff are silent as they lead me out of their office and through the casino to the cab waiting area outside.

“If you come here again,” Nick says as I get into an empty cab, “I’ll break something of yours. Personally.”

I nod and quickly close the door. All he had to do was ask me nicely like that. In retrospect, Atlantic City wasn’t even that much fun.

I’m convinced I won’t ever want to come back.

I start my post-Labor Day Tuesday morning feeling like a zombie. I couldn’t fall asleep after the events at the casino, but I can’t skip work today
.
I have an appointment with Bill.

Bill is my boss, and no one ever calls him that—except me, in my thoughts. His name is William Pierce. As in Pierce Capital Management. Even his wife calls him William—I’ve heard her do it. Most people call him Mr. Pierce, because they’re uncomfortable calling him by his first name. So, yeah, Bill is among the few people I take seriously. Even if, in this case, I’d rather nap than meet with him.

I wish it were possible to sleep in the Quiet. Then I’d be all set. I’d phase in and snooze right under my desk without anyone noticing.

I achieve some semblance of clear thought after my first cup of coffee. I’m in my cubicle at this point. It’s eight a.m. If you think that’s early, you’re wrong. I was actually the last to get into the office in my part of the floor. I don’t care what those early risers think of my lateness, though. I can barely function as is.

Despite my achievements at the fund, I don’t have an office. Bill has the only office in the company. It would be nice to have some privacy for slacking off, but otherwise, I’m content with my cube. As long as I can work in the field or from home most of the time—and as long as I get paid on par with people who typically have offices—the lack of my own office doesn’t bother me.

My computer is on, and I’m looking at the list of coworkers on the company instant messenger. Aha—I see Bert’s name come online. This is really early for him. As our best hacker, he gets to stroll in whenever he wants, and he knows it. Like me, he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks about it. In fact, he probably cares even less than I do—and thus comes in even later. I initially thought we would talk after my meeting with Bill, but there’s no time like the present, since Bert is in already.

“Stop by,” I message him. “Need your unique skills.”

“BRT,” Bert replies.
Be right there.

I’ve known Bert for years. Unlike me, he’s a real prodigy. We were the only fourteen-year-olds in a Harvard
Introduction to Computer Science
course that year. He aced the course without having to phase into the Quiet and look up the answers in the textbook, the way I did in the middle of the exams. Nor did he pay a guy from Belarus to write his programing projects for him.

Bert is
the
computer guy at Pierce. He’s probably the most capable coder in New York City. He always drops hints that he used to work for some intelligence agency as a contractor before I got him to join me here and make some real money.

“Darren,” says Bert’s slightly nasal voice, and I swivel my chair in response.

Picturing this guy as part of the CIA or FBI always puts a smile on my face. He’s around five-four, and probably weighs less than a hundred pounds. Before we became friends, my nickname for Bert was Mini-Me.

“So, Albert, we should discuss that idea you gave me last week,” I begin, jerking my chin toward one of our public meeting rooms.

“Yes, I would love to hear your report,” Bert responds as we close the door. He always overacts this part.

As soon as we’re alone, he drops the formal colleague act. “Dude, you fucking did it? You went to Vegas?”

“Well, not quite. I didn’t feel like taking a five-hour flight—”

“So you opted for a two-hour cab ride to Atlantic City instead,” Bert interrupts, grinning.

“Yes, exactly.” I grin back, taking a sip of my coffee.

“Classic Darren. And then?”

“They banned me,” I say triumphantly, like it’s some huge accomplishment.

“Already?”

“Yeah. But not before I met this chick.” I pause for dramatic effect. I know this is the part he’s really waiting for. His own experience with girls thus far has been horrendous.

Sure enough, he’s hooked. He wants to know every detail. I tell him a variation of what happened. Nothing about the Quiet, of course. I don’t share that with anyone, except my shrink. I just tell Bert I won a lot. He loves that part, as he was the one who suggested I try going to a casino. This was after he and a bunch of our coworkers got slaughtered by me at a friendly card game.

He, like most at the fund, knows that I know things I shouldn’t. He just doesn’t know
how
I know them. He accepts it as a given, though. In a way, Bert is a little bit like me. He knows things he shouldn’t, too. Only in his case, everyone knows the ‘how.’ The method behind Bert’s omniscience is his ability to get into any computer system he wants.

That is precisely what I need from him now, so as soon I finish describing the mystery girl, I tell him, “I need your help.”

His eyebrows rise, and I explain, “I need to learn more about her. Whatever you can find out would be helpful.”

“What?” His excitement noticeably wanes. “No, Darren, I can’t.”

“You owe me,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but this is cyber-crime.” He looks stubborn, and I mentally sigh. If I had a dollar for every time Bert used that line . . . We both know he commits cyber-crime on a daily basis.

I decide to offer him a bribe. “I’ll watch a card trick,” I say, making a Herculean effort to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. Bert’s attempts at card tricks are abysmal, but that doesn’t deter him one bit.

“Oh,” Bert responds casually. His poker face is shit, though. I know he’s about to try to get more out of me, but it’s not going to happen, and I tell him so.

“Fine, fine, text me those aliases you mentioned, the ones that ‘fell into your lap,’ and the address you ‘got by chance,’” he says, giving in. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great, thanks.” I grin at him again. “Now I have to go—I’ve got a meeting with Bill.”

I can see him cringing when I call William that. I guess that’s why I do it—to get a rise out of Bert.

“Hold on,” he says, frowning.

I know what’s coming, and I try not to look too impatient.

Bert is into magic. Only he isn’t very good. He carries a deck of cards with him wherever he goes, and at any opportunity—real or imaginary—he whips the cards out and tries to do a card trick.

In my case, it’s even worse. Because I showed off to him once, he thinks I’m into magic too, and that I only pretend I’m not. My tendency to win when playing cards only solidifies his conviction that I’m a closet magician.

As I promised him, I watch as he does his trick. I won’t describe it. Suffice it to say, there are piles of cards on the conference room table, and I have to make choices and count and spell something while turning cards over.

“Great, good one, Bert,” I lie as soon as my card is found. “Now I really have to go.”

“Oh, come on,” he cajoles. “Let me see your trick one more time.”

I know it’ll be faster for me to go along with him than to argue my way out of it. “Okay,” I say, “you know the drill.”

As Bert cuts the deck, I look away and phase into the Quiet.

As soon as the world freezes, I realize how much ambient noise the meeting room actually has. The lack of sound is refreshing. I feel it more keenly after being sleep-deprived. Partly because most of the ‘feeling like crap’ sensation dissipates when I’m in the Quiet, and partly because outside the Quiet, the sounds must’ve been exacerbating a minor headache that I only now realize is there.

Walking over to motionless Bert, I take the pile of cards in his hand and look at the card he cut to. Then I phase back out of the Quiet.

“Seven of hearts,” I say without turning around. The sounds are back, and with them, the headache.

“Fuck,” Bert says predictably. “We should go together. Get ourselves banned from Vegas next time.”

“For that, I’ll need a bigger favor.” I wink at him and go back to my cubicle.

When I get to my desk, I see that it’s time for my meeting. I quickly text Bert the information he needs to search for Mira and then head off to see Bill.

* * *

Bill’s office looks as awesome as usual. It’s the size of my Tribeca apartment. I’ve heard it said that he only has this huge office because that’s what our clients expect to see when they visit. That he allegedly is egalitarian and would gladly sit in a cube with low walls, like the rest of us.

I’m not sure I buy that. The decorations are a little too meticulous to support that theory. Plus, he strikes me as a guy who likes his privacy.

One day I’ll have an office too, unless I decide to retire first.

Bill looks like a natural-born leader. I can’t put my finger on what attributes give this impression. Maybe it’s his strong jaw, the wise warmth in his gaze, or the way he carries himself. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. All I know is he looks like someone people would follow—and they do.

Bill earned major respect from me when he played a part in legalizing gay marriage in New York. My moms have dreamed of getting married for as long as I can remember, and anyone who helps make my moms happier is a good person in my book.

“Darren, please sit,” he says, pulling his gaze from his monitor as I walk in.

“Hi William, how was your weekend?” I say. He’s probably the only person in the office I bother doing the small-talk thing with. Even here, I ask mainly because I know Bill’s answer will be blissfully brief. I don’t care what my coworkers do in general, let alone on their weekends.

“Eventful,” he says. “How about you?”

I try to beat his laconic response. “Interesting.”

“Great.” Like me, Bill doesn’t seem interested in probing beyond that. “I have something for you. We’re thinking about building a position in FBTI.”

That’s the ticker for Future Biotechnology and Innovation Corp; I’ve heard of them before. “Sure. We need a position in biotech,” I say without blinking. In truth, I haven’t bothered to look at our portfolio in a while. I just can’t recall having biotech-related assignments recently—so I figure there can’t be that many biotech stocks in there.

“Right,” he says. “But this isn’t just to diversify.”

I nod, while trying to look my most serious and thoughtful. That’s easier to do with Bill than with most other people. Sometimes I genuinely find what he says interesting.

“FBTI is going to unveil something three weeks from now,” he explains. “The stock is up just based on speculation on the Street. It could be a nice short if FBTI disappoints—” he pauses for emphasis, “—but I personally have a hunch that things will go in the other direction.”

“Well, to my knowledge, your hunches have never been wrong,” I say. I know it sounds like I’m ass-kissing, but it’s the truth.

“You know I never act on hunch alone,” he says, doing this weird quirking thing he often does with his eyebrow. “In this case, maybe a hunch is understating things. I had some of FBTI’s patents analyzed. Plenty of them are for very promising developments.”

I’m convinced that I know where this is leading.

“Why don’t you poke around?” he suggests, proving my conviction right. “Speak with them and see if the news is indeed bigger than what people are expecting. If that’s the case, we need to start building the position.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I say.

This generates a smile from Bill. “Was that humility? That would be a first,” he says, seemingly amused. “I need you to do your usual magic. You’re up for the challenge, right?”

“Of course. Whatever the news is, you’ll know by the end of the week. I guarantee it.” I don’t add ‘or your money back.’ That would be too much. What if I get nothing? Bill is the type of person who would hold me to the claim.

“The sooner the better, but we definitely need it before the official news in three weeks,” Bill says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Knowing that I’m dismissed, I leave him with his computer and go to my cube to make a few phone calls.

As soon as they hear the name Pierce, FBTI is happy to talk to me. I make an appointment with their CTO and am mentally planning the subway trip to their Manhattan office in SoHo when Bert pings me on Instant Messenger.

“Got it,” the message says.

“Walk out with me?” I IM back.

He agrees, and we meet by the elevator.

“This chick is crazy,” Bert says as I press the button for the lobby. “She leads a very strange life.”

Outside his card tricks, Bert knows how to build suspense. I have to give him that. I don’t rush him, or else this will take longer. So I just say, “Oh?”

“For starters, you’re lucky you have me,” he says, his voice brimming with excitement. “She’s long gone from that address you found ‘by chance.’ From what I can puzzle out, that name—Mira—is her real one. Only that name disappeared from the face of the planet a little over a year ago. No electronic trail at all. Same thing with some of those aliases.”

“Hmm,” I say, giving him the encouragement I know he needs to keep going.

“Well, to get around that, I hacked into some Vegas casino databases, going on the assumption that she would play there as well as in Atlantic City, and sure enough, they had files on some of the other aliases that you mentioned. They also had additional names for her.”

“Wow,” is all I can say.

“Yeah,” Bert agrees. “At first, only one led to any recently occupied address. She’s clearly hiding. Anyway, that one alias, Alina something, had a membership at a gym on Kings Highway and Nostrand Avenue, in Brooklyn. Hacking into their system, I found out that the membership is still used sometimes. Once I had that, I set a radius around that gym. People don’t usually go far to get workouts.”

“Impressive,” I say, and mean it. At times like this, I wonder if the business about him being a contractor for some intelligence agency is true after all.

“Anyway, at first there was nothing,” he continues. “None of the aliases rent or own any apartments or condos nearby. But then I tried combining first names of some of these aliases with the last names of others.” He pauses and looks at me—to get a pat on the back, I think.

“That’s diabolical,” I say, wishing he would get to the point already.

“Yes,” he says, looking pleased. “I am, indeed . . . She, on the other hand, isn’t very imaginative. One of the combinations worked. She’s partial to the first name of Ilona. Combining Ilona with a last name of Derkovitch, from the Yulia Derkovitch alias, yielded the result I was looking for.”