103
ity? Who there is handling Hank Thompson? Oh. you are. Excellent. I'm Moishe Horowitz, features editor for the Trenton Times.""
Jack mouthed, Moishe Horowitz? Abe shrugged.
"Yes, well, one of my reporters happens to be in New York today and we're wondering if Hank Thompson would be available for an interview. We'd like a face-to-face if possible. Yes, of course." He fumbled for a pen and handed it to Jack. "Let me give you my reporter's cell number. His name is John Tyleski and his number is…"
Jack scribbled it down on the back of an envelope and Abe read it off. Abe closed with a few stroking pleasantries about the success of the book and what a wonderful job they were doing promoting it.
"There," he said as he hung up. "What could be simpler? Her name is Susan Abrams and she'll call after she talks to Thompson."
"Great." Jack took a sip of his coffee. "What do you think about all this? The Kicker Man links the Compendium to Thompson, and Thompson's linked to the Creighton place. Christy Pickering is linked to Jerry Bethlehem—whoever he really is—who's linked to Doctor Levy who works at Creighton."
"Bethlehem is linked to a dead man as well, don't forget."
"I'm not. But I wonder why there's been no mention of Gerhard's death. You sure you haven't seen anything?"
"Not a word."
If Abe hadn't read it, then it hadn't been published. He pored over every inch of his papers.
"Why are they keeping it under wraps?"
"Maybe he was more than he pretended to be. Maybe he worked for this group you mentioned already that runs Creighton. Your instincts say what?"
"That the Creighton Institute is the key."
"I agree. Might be something going on there that connects everything. Then again, maybe not."
"Well, I know someone on the inside at Creighton, and he owes me—big time. But I've got a feeling that's not going to be enough to make him open up." Jack checked his watch. "Gotta run. I'm meeting Christy Pickering in an hour."
"Go already. I'll do searches on Creighton. Such fun I'll have."
"See if you can get me an interview with Winslow while you're at it."
If he was going to go to the trouble of printing up some business cards, might as well multitask them.
2
Jack rode the R out to Forest Hills. He did not want what he had to tell Christy floating along over a phone—land line or cell, no telling who was listening these days. Christy had begged him to meet her outside the city. He'd agreed. She'd hired a block of his time, so why not?
He'd opted for the subway over his car. Rush hour had passed, and even if it hadn't, he was headed against the morning flow. It was a local but he had time.
He plowed further into Kick. According to Thompson, his stint at Creighton didn't put him on the straight and narrow so much as make him more choosy about his activities, opting for the dubiously legal over the blatantly illegal. He worked various scams and cons that Jack found uncomfortably familiar.
Been there, done that.
He closed the book and glanced down at the rumpled copy of this morning's Post on the seat next to him. He'd already been through the paper looking for news of Gerhard's death. Strange that it hadn't been announced.
Maybe he should try another call…
He looked around. Less than a dozen other people on the car in various states of age, quality of clothing, and consciousness, either dozing, walled off behind headphones, staring at the ads or at the floor. His gaze came to rest on one of the sliding doors. He hadn't noticed it when he came in, but someone had spray-painted an all-too-familiar figure on its lower half…
Couldn't get away from the Kicker Man, it seemed.
Okay. Nobody within earshot. He pulled out his officialdom phone, powered it up, and gave 911 another try.
"Emergency Services." said a woman's voice.
"Yes, I called the night before last about a problem with a house in my neighborhood and nothing's been done about it."
"What house was that, sir?"
Jack gave Gerhard's address. "There was water running out the door and I was afraid maybe someone had left the water on or, God forbid, died while running the sink."
"Let me look that up for you, sir." After a pause, she said, "We sent someone out there this morning and—"
Jack put a huff into his tone. "This morning? What took you so long? I called you two days ago."
"Yessir, but things have been extremely hectic lately, and we must prioritize. I'm sure you can understand that when we have to choose between, say, a missing child or someone found unconscious in an alley, and a water leak, we put off the water leak. I assure you, we got there as soon as our schedule allowed."
Jack couldn't argue with that.
"So you were there this morning. What did you find? Was everybody okay inside?"
"Well, they went in and… let's see… it says here they found extensive water damage—apparently an upstairs tub had overflowed—but the house was empty."
Empty! How…?
"Mister Gerhard wasn't home?"
"It says no one was home."
Jack sat in silent shock. What the hell? He wasn't crazy. He'd seen Gerhard's bungeed-up body.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"
"No… thank you very much."
He hung up and turned off the phone. Someone had gone in and removed Gerhard's body. Who? Bethlehem? Someone had left him there with the water running. Why go back?
None of this made sense.
His other phone rang: Susan Abrams of Vector Publications calling. It just so happened that Hank Thompson was going to be visiting their offices this afternoon. If Jack could be there at two thirty, he could interview Hank in their conference room.
Jack said he'd be there and she gave him the address.
He reopened Kick and began skimming so he'd be up to speed when he faced Thompson. But images of Gerhard's corpse kept Hashing between him and the pages.
The car pretty much emptied out at Woodhaven Boulevard—everyone going to Queens Center Mall, he guessed. He watched a pregnant woman, a brunette six months or better along, get on and take a seat. She carried a bebe shopping bag. She glanced around, flashed him a quick, shy smile, then pulled a magazine from the bag.
Gia had been just about that far into her pregnancy before…
Before it was ended.
He felt his mood darken. The lights seemed to darken too. He'd been in a decent mood, hadn't thought about Emma for a whole couple of hours, and then this lady had to show up and ruin it.
Not her fault, of course.
He tried not to look at her as the train moved on.
As the train was pulling out of the 67th Avenue station, the car's forward door opened and a couple of hip-hop zoolanders swaggered in. Could have been sixteen, could have been eighteen. Hard to tell. Ghetto manque white kids—headed for Forest Hills, no less—regurgitating the cliches of the sideways Amahzan baseball cap, the way-too-big basketball jersey, and the baggy, falling-off jeans. These guys had added some gang accessories, like blue stubby do-rags under the caps and blue-and-white bead necklaces along with the gold.
Crip never-bes.
The shorter one snatched the paper from the old dude near the front and tossed it across the car.
"What you readin that fuckin shit for, asshole? It's all lies!"
His buddy laughed as they moved on, leaving the old guy scrabbling to reassemble his paper. They passed Jack, giving him a don't-mess-with-us look. Jack looked back down at his book.
Trouble today? No thanks.
After they'd passed he glanced up in time to see the taller one stomp on one of the pregnant girl's feet as he went by. The kid was wearing sneakers, but Jack bet it hurt.