He blinked, yawned, and damned his pride, pressing the Aa setting on the screen to enlarge the font to a size 8. It beat getting eyeglasses. Then he adjusted his pillow and settled in to read about playing online games together.
Yeah. That’s what Joan would be into. Us fragging each other in an Xbox Halo death match. How the hell did this guy get on Dr. Phil?
But curiosity got the best of Tom, and he exited the book and began to surf the net, seeing if there were any online games about fifteenth century France, which Joan did have an interest in. He was flipping through Google pages when there was a knock at his door.
Tom’s first thought was the gun on his nightstand. As a Homicide cop, Tom had made enemies. And some of them were real doozies.
His second thought was, Maybe Joan is reading this same stupid book and is surprising me with a visit.
She’d called earlier that day, but it had been hours ago. Had she phoned from the airport, just before hopping on the red-eye?
Tom swung his legs out of bed, grabbed the terrycloth bathrobe on the floor (a gift from Joan) and stuck the Sig Saur in his pocket, first making sure there was one in the chamber. He walked out of the bedroom softly, on the balls of his feet, and traversed the short hallway to his apartment door. After an altercation with a very bad and very powerful man several years ago, Tom had improved his home security. The door was bulletproof, with a reinforced security bar. It was the same setup he’d installed at Joan’s house, and nothing short of a charging rhino could get through it.
Tom took a peek through the peephole, and saw two men in dark suits standing in the hallway. Caucasian, thirties, blank expressions. He noted how their jackets bulged, indicating they were carrying.
He palmed his Sig and said, “Yeah?”
The man on the right said, “FBI.”
They both held up badges and ID cards. Tom had seen a few in his day, and they looked legitimate enough. But you could buy anything online these days.
“What do you want?”
“It’s about your partner. Roy Lewis.”
Tom hadn’t expected that.
“What about him?”
“We believe he’s in trouble, Detective Mankowski. Can we come in?”
Tom didn’t like it. It was 2am, a highly abnormal time for the Feebies to drop in. But they both shared the classic, bored expression of government drones, and Roy was like a brother to Tom. Keeping his gun at his side, he went through the complicated process of unlatching the door and letting them in.
“The gun is hardly necessary, Detective,” said the same one, eying Tom’s piece.
“I’m a nervous type.”
They didn’t reply. Tom stepped aside and allowed them into his apartment. He noticed two things immediately.
First was their footwear. Rather than the expected Florsheims or equivalent, these men had heavy boots on, with thick rubber soles, suitable for combat. The second was their scent. It was odd, sort of a musk combined with something medicinal. Nothing that came from a bottle, and unlike any body odor Tom had ever smelled. Neither offensive or appealing, but certainly unusual.
He followed the men into the living room, where they turned to face him. No one made any move to sit on the sofa or easy chair, and Tom didn’t offer them any of the cold coffee still in the pot on the kitchen counter. He waited for them to speak first, an old cop trick. After a few seconds of silence, they did.
“We understand you and Detective Lewis were invited to an unusual gathering last weekend.”
Tom remembered the invitation, which had arrived via FedEx at work.
“Some sort of gameshow thing,” Tom said. “Win a million dollars or something like that.”
“Did you discuss it with your partner?”
Tom hadn’t. At least, not in depth. He and Roy had each gotten identical invitations, but they’d been working a gang hit, interrogating seven members of the Latin Kings over a period of four days, and he’d forgotten about the FedEx ten seconds after it arrived. After making the arrest, Roy had taken leave, mentioning he might check the invite out.
As far as Tom could recall, it was for some stupid reality show contest. Tom didn’t need the money, and he certainly didn’t want the fame. He preferred to keep to himself. One of the things he hated most about Joan’s work was the parties he was forced to attend when he visited her. All those Hollywood phonies, each trying to shine brighter than the next. Joan never acted that way, but it seemed almost every single one of her friends did.
“We spoke about it for less than a minute. Roy wondered if it was a scam. I had no interest. Didn’t even read the whole thing.”
“Do you have the invitation here?”
Tom had it on the desk in his bedroom, but something made him withhold that info.
“Not sure where it is.”
“Can you find it?”
“Why?”
The Feebies exchanged a glance, then focused back on Tom. “Because it’s evidence in a possible homicide investigation.”
Tom gripped the butt of his Sig tighter. “What are you saying?”
“We have reason to believe that Roy Lewis, your partner, has been murdered.”
It had been a long time since anyone had punched Tom in the face.
This was a whole lot worse.
Cleveland , Ohio
Deb
Deb Dieter stared at the ringing phone.
Her mouth was dry, and she could feel her heart fluttering in her chest like a hummingbird was trapped in her ribcage. She began reaching for her husband to grip his arm, and then hesitated. Her walking legs—made of carbon and fitted with a microprocessor—were harder to get on than her other prosthetics, and she was torn between the need to be comforted by Mal and the need to get dressed and flee.
Flee from what? The phone? The door?
Is this what my life has come to? Letting fear dictate my every move?
Deb forced herself to look at the phone. She flinched when it rang again.
Just answer it.
Do it.
Now.
But Deb couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even reach for it. She’d run marathons, fought mountain lions, and survived the Rushmore Inn. She’d even been taking a karate course, and had just advanced to 3rd Mon Kyu; Purple Belt with Red Stripe. But she couldn’t get herself to answer a telephone.
Mal seemed equally paralyzed. In many ways, his ordeal had been even worse than hers. On the rare nights she was able to fall asleep, Mal often woke her up, in the throes of a night terror, whimpering in a way that never failed to raise the hair on her arms.
The phone rang again.
And again.
Then the answering machine picked up.
“You’ve reached the Dieters, please leave a message.”
“It’s the FBI. Open the door.”
Deb managed to look over at Mal, whose expression was somewhere between terrified and confused.
“This is about West Virginia.”
The Rushmore. Most of those responsible for the atrocities committed there had died.
But there was one man, who was currently in prison.
Could he have escaped?
Deb couldn’t imagine anything worse. Her mind went into overdrive, conjuring scenarios so fast they became one big blur in her head. He got out… he’s coming for her and Mal… he’s been seen in the vicinity… he’s…
He’s the one on the phone right now, impersonating the FBI.
More pounding on the door. Deb didn’t know what to do. She felt glued to the bed. Mal was shaking so badly he wouldn’t be able to hit anything with the gun he held.
“This is extremely important,” said the voice on the answering machine. “open the door. We know you’re in there. We can see you.”