“How’s that?”
“Good,” Student #5 said. “Now in the hat.” He can hardly miss that logo on the front. Don’t see too many University of Massachusetts Minutemen logos in South Florida. Plenty of University of Miami Ibis, University of Florida Gators, Florida State University Seminoles, but not Minutemen. Hard to forget that logo.
“Done.” He saw the drug dealer toe the baseball cap into a shadow. “Name?” the drug dealer demanded.
“Timothy Warner.”
A pause.
“Who? Who the fuck is that? Never heard of him.”
Student #5 felt a great sense of accomplishment. “Just drop that name on Susan Terry, your prosecutor client. See how she reacts.”
He disconnected the line and watched the dealer. He could tell the man was torn-didn’t want to leave whatever fake drug and real cash was lying on the sidewalk. Are you the sort of man that honors a deal? Student #5 wondered.
To his surprise, the dealer was. With only a slight hesitation and a single glance back, the dealer returned to his car and drove rapidly away.
Student #5 watched the next three cars pull into the gas station to fill up at the pumps, to see if one of those drivers was looking at the abandoned hat. Possible. But irrelevant.
He put his rental car in gear and also started to drive away, slowly. He had never had any intention of obtaining anything from the dealer, but he had enjoyed the back-and-forth. Someone will get a happy surprise, he thought. Maybe the underpaid gas station attendant will spot it. Student #5 didn’t care.
He won’t call The Prosecutor until tomorrow morning but he won’t wait much longer than that. He will do a name search on his computer first, just as I did, find out many of the same things about young Timothy. Maybe then he’ll call his lawyer, try the name out on him before calling The Prosecutor. And while he’s doing all that, I will have time to leave one more trail of crumbs before going home.
34
Two phone calls and an argument-each upsetting in its own way.
The first call came to Moth, mid-morning. He thought it would be from Andy Candy, just as Moth was beginning to worry about her being a little late. He snatched up his phone-but the caller ID came up Anonymous and he paused before answering. His first thought was that the killer who had called Andy was now calling him and he tried to prepare something to reply. He felt abruptly naked-yet was unable to not answer.
“Yes?”
“Timothy?”
He vaguely recognized the voice, but didn’t place it instantly.
“Yes.”
“This is Martin from your aunt’s office.” Cold. Flat. Atonal.
Moth was taken aback. He stammered, “Yes, Martin, ah, how can I-”
“I thought your aunt was totally explicit when you spoke with her.”
“Explicit?”
“Yes. I believe she made herself abundantly clear.”
Moth gathered himself. “Yes. She didn’t seem to want any contact, especially if it had something to do with Ed…”
“I think she meant Ed-or anyone else.”
“Yes, okay, Martin, but I don’t see…”
Deep theatrical sigh, followed by a chilled voice. “Your aunt does not like to be threatened.”
Moth was confused. “Threatened?”
“Yes. Threatened.”
“Martin, I’m not following you…”
Martin the art purchasing assistant, sex provider, and all-around factotum business partner continued in an irate, indignant, irritated tone that told Moth that he had rehearsed his speech.
“Let me explain so there is absolutely no confusion. Shortly after we opened the gallery this morning we received a call from some thug. Let me repeat his words precisely so you will know exactly how angry we are: ‘Tell your fucking nephew Timothy to stop fucking around with me or else I will fuck him up, but I will also fuck you and your business up and maybe do a lot worse. Got it?’ Nice question to end on. Of course I quote got it end quote.”
Moth reeled back. He wanted to say something to the obnoxious assistant, but his mind went blank.
“So, Timothy, your aunt Cynthia would like me to say the following to you: ‘Whatever drunken or drugged-up mess you are now in, please don’t involve her, or else you will hear from her lawyers, who will be equipped with a restraining order and will make your miserable life even more miserable.’ Is that perfectly clear?”
Couldn’t make that threat any more pretentious, Moth thought. It was a pretty clear contrast from the other threat-not guns, knives, and murder, but lawyers. Typical of his aunt. But her threat was minuscule. He knew who had made that call. He just couldn’t see why. Moth suddenly felt awash in a sea of danger. He tried to gather himself, maintain a non-panicked sense of understanding. He wished Andy Candy were there because he respected her rational side and her ability to see the larger picture. He felt blind. This is all part of a plan. It has to be. This thought wasn’t reassuring. He admonished himself: You need to figure out what is going on.
Moth took a deep breath. “Yes, but Martin-”
“Is it clear?”
“It is.”
“Then we have nothing more to speak about.”
“Martin, please, was there any indication who was making this call?”
The assistant paused briefly. “You mean, Timothy, there is more than one person who might be angry enough with you to go around threatening innocent people?” This was said in a fake-incredulous voice.
“Please, Martin. Help me out here, so at the very least I can make sure that whoever it is doesn’t bother you or Aunt Cynthia again.”
This was a false promise. Moth actually wished for one evil second that he could find a way to steer the killer in his aunt’s direction. Fuck them up as promised. That would be great.
Martin seemed to hesitate. “Well, no, no indication, except for one thing.”
“One thing?”
“Yes. The caller’s accent.”
“Accent?”
“Correct. I would have expected this thuggish talk from someone different…” Martin began.
Moth knew that Martin-whom he imagined was an utter racist-meant black or Hispanic when he used the word different. Moth wished he could use that moment to display all the contempt he had for his aunt’s assistant and his aunt, but he did not.
“Yes,” Moth replied.
“Clearly, this fellow wasn’t from around here. Broad a sounds and dropped g’s. Reminded me of…” Martin hesitated. Moth could sense the assistant’s shrug over the phone line before he continued. “… my days as an undergraduate in Cambridge. You know: ‘Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd.’ That’s it. Very New England accent. Sounded like a character from some violent movie like The Departed or The Town. Could have been Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, or Massachusetts, but certainly not Miami or anywhere in the South. I hope this narrows your choices down. Regardless, this conversation is now over.”
Martin hung up. Moth pictured the smug, self-important look the man would have on his face, but then this portrait dissipated and he began to pace around his apartment aimlessly, on edge, his feet driven by a sudden wave of questions.
The other phone call was equally curt.
Susan Terry was just out of the shower, drying her hair, unsure what the day held for her, unsure what her next step was-either with Moth and Andy Candy or with her addiction-when her phone rang. She answered casually, befitting her semidressed state.