Whom Dog Hath Joined (18 page)

By nine forty-five the gun was clean and ready to fire. I
got Rochester into my car and drove over to Rick’s, where I let the dog loose
in the back yard with Rascal. Then I joined Rick in his truck. “So how good are
you with that gun, anyway?” he asked. “Do I have to worry you’re going to shoot
me?”

“My dad was pretty strong on the basics,” I said. “Always
know if the gun is loaded, and don’t point it at anybody you don’t want to
shoot. That kind of thing.”

“Good start.”

I followed him into the gun shop, where I bought a box of
ammo for the .22 while Rick filled out some paperwork for the police force that
showed he was getting in the required hours to requalify with his weapon.

We got our ear protection and walked to the indoor range,
where we laid our guns on the shelf, facing down toward the targets, and he
watched while I loaded mine. Then he popped the magazine into his Glock and
picked it up. He spread his legs and balanced himself, then raised the gun in a
two-handed grip. He fired a series of six shots in quick succession, then
lowered the gun.

He said something to me, and I lifted one side of the ear
protection to hear. “Aim for center body mass.” He pointed downrange. Five of
his six shots had clustered around the target’s heart; the sixth had hit the
neck.

I readjusted the ear protection, then tried to mimic Rick’s
stance. My hands were shaking a bit as I raised the gun. Rick adjusted the
position of my right thumb, then wrapped my left hand around the right. He
pointed at the sight, and I raised the gun and tried to line up. I fired one
shot and the kickback surprised me.

It wasn’t the first time I’d shot, but it had been long
enough that I’d forgotten what it felt like. I had hit the target high,
somewhere on the cheek. I took a couple of deep breaths and raised the gun
again, closing my left eye and focusing.

I fired the next five shots and then put the gun down, again
facing forward, even though I knew it was empty. “Not bad,” Rick said. I had
hit three of my shots around the center of the chest; the other two had gone
high.

He went through a couple of rounds, and I followed. My aim
didn’t get much better, but I did start to feel more confident. By the time we
were finished, I felt that all the adrenaline my body could produce had drained
away.

We didn’t say much as we left the range. I guessed Rick was
caught up in his own thoughts, as I was in mine. Could I ever shoot someone who
menaced me? Or Rochester? I’d threatened it in the past, in the heat of the
moment. But I hadn’t had to carry through. And I knew that if I did shoot
someone, even if it was justified, my felony conviction would make things
difficult for me.

I was lost in memories when Rick said, “Assuming the dental
records match, and the victim turns out to be Don Lamprey, I still have to
figure out who killed him. I need your help to do some more searching for Peter
Breaux. The Pop Warner kids are practicing this afternoon at the middle school
and I’ve got to be there to coach.”

“And to see Tamsen,” I said.

“Give it a rest, Levitan. I already told you I’m having
dinner with her tonight. Do you think you can do some searching for me this
afternoon?”

“Never tried anything in Canada. I’m sure there are some
public databases. I’m assuming you don’t want me to do anything illegal.”

He looked over at me. “You even have to ask that?”

I shrugged. “Just saying.”

He shook his head. “You don’t change, do you? Even after
prison, and parole, and all the things Lili and I said.”

“Hey, you’re the one who needs my help.”

“You know what? Forget it. Forget I asked. I’ll put together
an official request and send it to Canada.”

“Rick…” I began.

“No. Just no, all right?” He pulled into his driveway.

He was acting like a jerk, and I wasn’t sure why. Did he
think that asking me for help was admitting he couldn’t do his job? Or was he
nervous about his date, and taking out his irritability on me?

“Thanks for taking me with you this morning,” I said. “I
appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

Rochester came romping over to the fence, and I reached down
and scratched under his chin. “You have fun, boy?” I asked. He woofed. “I’ll
take that as a yes.”

Rick looked at me as I opened the gate to let Rochester out.
“Remember,” he said.  “Frank Hardy is the older brother, and he can kick Joe’s
ass.”

At least if he could still make jokes, he wasn’t that mad at
me. Maybe he was just nervous about his date.

In the year and a half we’d been friends, since reconnecting
at The Chocolate Ear one day soon after I returned to Stewart’s Crossing, Rick
had dated occasionally. They were always women he didn’t see a future with,
casual affairs that were mostly about sex. Tamsen seemed different. He already
knew her and her son, and I’d never seen him bashful around women before.

But Tamsen’s husband had been a war hero, and those were big
shoes to fill. So I assumed that’s why he’d snapped at me, and tried to let it
slide off my back.

While the dog biscuits baked that afternoon, Rochester and I
spent some quality time on the living room floor with him jumping back and
forth over me. When he heard Lili’s car pull up in the driveway, he abandoned
me faster than smoke vanishing to rush to the front door. He stood there,
panting and sniffing, until she opened the gate to the courtyard, when he
barked a welcome.

I opened the door for her, and kissed her on the doorstep.
Then I snuggled my nose into her curls and sniffed. “New shampoo?”

She laughed. “That must be the darkroom chemicals.”

I liked the fact that Lili had started leaving basic
toiletries and casual clothes at my house. Even so, she always brought a
wheeled duffle bag with her when she came to stay over. I took the bag from her
and carried it upstairs. Rochester raced around between us as Lili followed me.

“It was strange to be in a darkroom again,” Lili said. “It
brought back a whole lot of memories.”

“And Adam? Was he helpful?”

I was trying to mask my jealousy with curiosity but it
didn’t work. “He was developing his own work,” she said. “Erotic nudes.”

My mouth must have dropped open, because she laughed and
said, “Male nudes. Adam’s gay and he makes most of his money doing boudoir
shots of gay men from New Hope.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “He shoots
straight men too, if they want gifts for their girlfriends. Or photos for
dating sites.”

I’m sure I blushed, because she poked me in the side and
said, “Christmas is coming, you know.”

I had to change the subject quickly before I said something
that embarrassed myself even further. “I’m surprised you’re still using film to
take pictures. I thought everything was digital these days.”

“I started shooting digital back in ‘96 or ‘97, when I was
on assignment in South America, and it was a lot easier to upload files than to
overnight film,” she said. “But I kept shooting film, too, for years after
that, because the results weren’t as good for art photos.”

I hoisted her bag onto my bed and she began to unpack her
toiletries, a sexy nightgown I liked to see her in, and her clothes for the
next day. Rochester rolled around on his back on the carpet, and I got down to
his level to rub his belly.

“Good color negative film has terrific dynamic range, so you
can capture a scene with bright highlights and deep shadows,” she continued.
“But over the last few years the technology has improved to the point that
there isn’t much difference, and I love the immediacy of digital – I can see
right away if I’ve captured what I want, or if I’ve screwed up. I can shoot
like crazy and then with a click or two delete anything not worth saving.”

She looked over at me. “Sorry, didn’t mean to lecture. I was
usually good about labeling my film canisters but I must have gotten sloppy
toward the end, so I had a bunch of film I’d never developed. It was
interesting to see what was there.”

“Which was?”

“Mostly junk. A lot of background for a story I never
finished, some art I might be able to use. And some personal photos, including
a bunch of shots in Darfur of this translator and his family. He was this very
sweet guy, and we loved working with him. Only after we left the country did we
realize he was lying to us the whole time.”

She pulled a folder out of her bag and sat down beside me.
“This is Jafaar,” she said, showing me a thin, dark-skinned man with a receding
hairline. “At least, that’s the name we knew him under.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was working on a story with Van back then,” she said. Van
Dryver had been a work colleague and a boyfriend; he had ended up with the
Wall
Street Journal
, and continued to float around Lili’s periphery. I’d met him
a couple of times, while he was nosing around stories that involved Lili or me,
and I didn’t like him. His whole
I live in the city and I’m a globe-trotting
journalist
persona grated on me.

“Jafaar turned up one day and offered to translate for us.”
Lili pulled out another picture, of a dark-skinned young woman in a
Western-style T-shirt. She had a small child on her lap. Rochester nosed his
way between us, eager to sniff the photographs.

 “Jafaar introduced us to his family. We trusted him and
worked with him for nearly two months. Then we finished up and moved on. A few
months later, another reporter told us Jafaar had been arrested.”

“For working with foreign journalists?” I asked.

She shook her head. “He was a leader in one of the rebel
groups. We didn’t believe it – but the authorities discovered his real name,
and that he had faked a lot of his background, including the fact that the
woman wasn’t his wife, and the child wasn’t his. He was using us to get access
to the people we spoke to.”

“That must have been tough for you to realize,” I said.

She nodded. “I learned something from it, though. Don’t
accept people at face value. Each of us chooses how we present ourselves – and
sometimes that façade is very different from reality.”

I stood up, and offered my hand to Lili. I felt that we were
starting, after six months, to begin to know each other well. We had
established the basics, bringing most of the dark details of our lives out, and
while I knew there was much more we would learn about each other, we were
comfortable together.

“How was your morning?” she asked, as we walked back
downstairs. I told her about going to the range with Rick, and how he’d gotten
angry with me.

“I was joking with him,” I said. “I know that he can’t use
any information I find illegally. And I had no intention of doing any hacking.
But he jumped to conclusions. This is the second time he’s gotten touchy about
asking for my help. I’m not sure if that’s what he’s really angry about, or if
it’s the case getting to him, or maybe that he’s nervous about his date with
Tamsen.”

“Probably the case. Rick doesn’t seem like the type to get
nervous around women.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “I’m sure things
will be fine. You guys are friends, and friends sometimes get cranky with each
other.”

 “I know, I know. What else is new with you?”

“Dr. Bobeaux is getting on my nerves,” she said as we walked
into the kitchen. “Every other day there’s a new memo about department
procedures, or new forms we have to fill out. New committees. It’s enough to
drive you mad.”

Lili began to spread her photos out on the kitchen table. “I
want to look through these before dinner. Is that all right with you?”

“Sure. Despite what Rick said, I’m going to see what I can
find out about that kid who went to Canada.”

She looked up at me. “Have fun and play safe.”

“I will.” I went upstairs to the office, but Rochester chose
to stay on the kitchen floor beside Lili. I couldn’t blame him—there was a
greater chance of getting a treat down there than with me.

23 – Like Alaska

I hadn’t done much to decorate the townhouse’s small second
bedroom; I was still using the desk that had been in my bedroom as a kid, which
my dad had brought with him. I had added a collection of books about computers
and technical writing, which I never used because the information was out of
date; a golden retriever bobblehead Rick had given me; and a light-blue
Wedgwood cylinder filled with pencils and pens, which my mother had always used
for the same purpose.

I sat down at the desk and turned on the laptop I’d
inherited from Caroline Kelly. It was nice not to have to crawl up into the
attic and keep all my activities hidden. I’d discussed this with some of the
other hackers in my online group, and we all felt that when we could be honest
about what we were doing, we were less likely to get into trouble.

I started searching all the public databases for Peter
Breaux. A few times I thought I’d hit something, but then I’d click through to
the full record and realize it didn’t match the teenager who had crossed the
Canadian border in 1969.

It was frustrating to find nothing legal, yet I knew there
had to be some records of this guy. He couldn’t have disappeared into the air.
It was nearly impossible to live without a driver’s license, an electric bill,
a cell phone, or some other connection to the rest of the world. And how could
a nineteen-year-old in a foreign country have managed to leave no trail behind
him?

Had he changed his name? A woman could have married soon
after arriving in Canada, and then all the records would be in her new name.
But a guy? If Peter Breaux had done that, there had to be records. Why weren’t
there?

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the tingling in my
fingertips, the temptation to pull out my hacking software and launch a cyber-attack
on the government of Canada. That was a stupid idea, to start with, and I
doubted I had the skills for it. But what could I do?