McGee nodded.
“Who?” Tony Olsen.
“Why?” Meyer.
McGee’s shoulders rose and dropped. Beats me.
All eyes turned to Jon Nunn.
But Nunn was looking at Stan Ballard.
It was Olsen who voiced the question on everyone’s mind: “Then where the hell is Christopher Thomas?”
28 R. L. Stine
I know where to find them. I know more about everything than all of them.
I found Peter Heusen easily. No prob. Rented a rubber dinghy with a putt-putt motor and sailed out to his cabin cruiser moored near the St. Francis Yacht Club.
Typical San Francisco day, foggy and damp, the water choppy, blue-brown under the clouds. I could see the Golden Gate Bridge off to my right, but I didn’t come for sightseeing.
Twelve years later, and I knew how happy Heusen would be to see me.
Peter must be in his fifties now, I figured. And richer than God. Thanks in part to me.
As I came closer, I saw him seated by himself at a table on the back deck. He had a wineglass in his hand. He stood up when he saw me and stepped to the rail.
“Remember me?” I shouted. He didn’t look much older. Money’ll do that for you. He was in a white admiral’s jacket. He had a blue yachting cap pulled down on his head. What was this? Halloween?
I couldn’t see if he still had his hair. But he looked tanned and fit.
Of course he recognized me. He began waving his arms in front of him, like signaling an alarm. “Ruby? I don’t want to see you!” he shouted. “Turn around! Go back! You’re not welcome here.”
Of course he didn’t want to see me. I scrambled onto the deck and tied the dinghy to the side. The sun came out for a moment, and everything started to gleam. Like a spotlight shining on me. Time for my close-up.
I thought maybe he had some flunkies who would come push me off the yacht. But he appeared to be alone.
“I have nothing to say to you,” he said as I stepped up to his table. “You’re not welcome here. Why have you come?”
“Peter, come on. I thought you’d be more friendly.” I couldn’t keep a smile off my face. “I mean, I did a very big favor for you.”
Beneath the cap, his forehead creased. His pale eyes narrowed. “Favor for me? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know who you are. But you never did anything for me.”
“Why, just the other day, some guy finds me, starts asking me questions about the favor I did for you.”
“What?” Peter squealed.
“Don’t worry, I had him taken care of.”
Peter looked worried now.
“Did you really think that lousy ten K was going to last me forever?” I sat down at the table. I picked up his wineglass and took a long sip. “Is this a Chablis?”
“I can call the harbor police. I’ve had intruders before.”
I picked up a biscuit from the silver bread basket. Still warm. I took a bite. “Are you really going to pretend you don’t know anything?”
He stood over me. His lips began to twitch. “I don’t have to pretend. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Amnesia? Let me help you.” I decided to go for it. “The body in the iron maiden?”
Heusen swallowed. But he didn’t blink. “Excuse me? Are you insane?”
“Jeez, how long you going to keep up this charade?”
“I’m going to call the patrol now.”
“Oh, I know who you’re going to call-and it won’t be no police.”
He made a move toward the cabin, but I grabbed his arm. “Just sit down. Let’s be civilized, Peter. Tell you what. I’ll tell you a story, and you sit there and pretend you don’t already know it.” I had to pull him down to the chair.
“I’ll give you five minutes,” he said, still playacting, but he was sweating. “What’s your story?”
“Yeah, let’s say it’s a story,” I said. “Let’s pretend it’s not all total truth.”
He stared at the wineglass in my hand. I tilted it to my mouth and drank the rest.
“Peter, let’s say there was once an iron maiden in a museum in San Francisco. Let’s say it was built hundreds of years ago, but used recently-”
“I’m not a history buff,” Heusen interrupted, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Well, I did my homework-after the fact.” I ran my finger around the rim of the empty wineglass.
Heusen started to his feet. “You’re out of here.”
I pushed him back down. I had to be a little rough. I could see a flash of fear on his face. His tan had disappeared.
“Let’s say there was a dead man stuffed inside the thing?”
“That’s very old news,” Heusen muttered. “Why did you come here?”
I brought my face up close to his. “Is it old news, Peter? What if I told the story-the whole story? What if I call the police?”
That got to him. I saw two red circles blossom on his cheeks. “Why would you do that, Artie?” His eyes danced around. As if he were looking for a way to escape. “It, it was a lot of years ago. Why would you go to the police now?”
“Do I look desperate to you?” I asked, leaning close to him again. “Well, I am. I am desperate. I know what you think. You think I’m a piece of low-life scum who crawled onto your big yacht like a cockroach. But I know some pretty big words for a cockroach. Like accessory. You know, like in accessory to murder?”
Heusen was breathing hard. Under the admiral’s jacket, his chest heaved up and down. “You wouldn’t dare,” he whispered. “You would turn yourself in? Admit to murder? And drag me down with you?”
I nodded. I was enjoying this. “I told you. I’m desperate.”
Heusen’s shoulders slumped. He narrowed his eyes until they were thin slits. “What do you want, Artie? Money?”
“Yes. Good guess. I want money. A lot of it.”
“Okay. Okay. Money. And then you’ll go away?”
That went very well.
Now I had one more call I wanted to make. One more call before I left town for good. I had a fat wad of money from Heusen. But I wanted more. A lot more.
I needed to make the call. Call it closure. Or call it my sadistic streak. Or maybe a victory lap. Ha-ha. And more money.
I had gotten the number out of that cowardly worm Peter.
I punched it in eagerly.
“Hello?” I recognized the voice right away.
“I have information on Christopher Thomas.”
A silence. Then: “Who?”
“Don’t you recognize my voice?”
“You-you have the wrong number.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“I’m sorry. You have the wrong number.” He hung up.
I laughed. It felt good to laugh.
“Call you back later,” I said into the silent phone.
I pulled on a jacket and headed out.
29 Jeffery Deaver
With his four-fingered hand, Christopher Thomas poured ancient Rémy Martin cognac into a glass obviously bought at Wal-Mart. The Trompe l’Oeil Hotel, a good one, had scrimped on a few details. Still, it made sense. It was logical. Nice booze, cheap delivery.
He glanced into the large window at his own reflection. Even after nearly ten years with his new appearance, he was never completely used to this version of himself. Not that he disliked what he saw; the plastic surgeon had been an artist.
Dr. 90210…
A zip code, he reflected, whose numbers represented about one-third of the doctor’s bill.
Now he looked past his image and gazed through the early-evening dusk.
He was angry and he was troubled. He’d heard on the news, of course, about the bungled robbery at the museum last night and had gotten brief text messages from Peter Heusen about the debacle. The sloppy keyboarding suggested the man had been drinking.