Concrete Underground (2010) (30 page)

I picked up one of the bare cushions that had been stripped from its cover and tossed it on the couch frame, then took a seat.

"What about? Sports? The weather? Or your honeymoon - I never did get a chance to ask you guys about it the other night. Was this resort nice? How about the beach? Did you have a good time fucking my sister?"

I could see it was taking everything Brad had not to tear off and punch me in the face. Already my morning was looking up.

"Actually," he said, veins throbbing in his temples and neck, "I was hoping to talk to you about these accusations you've been making lately, this stuff you posted online. Look, whoever's duped you into believing those documents are real obviously went through a lot of trouble to--"

My laughter cut him off. "For fuck's sake, Brad, give me a little credit. You don't really expect me to fall for a cheesy head game like that, do you?"

Brad took a deep breath. "Okay, I'm not here to debate with you. The point is, true or not, the implications of your actions could be extremely damaging to this city in ways you haven't considered. My uncle's death, aside from being tragic on a personal level, leaves behind a considerable leadership vacuum. He was a driving force behind getting people to believe in this city and its industry - investors, customers, government. If we appear weak, if people lose faith in us, they'll start pulling money out of this city's businesses. That may not mean anything to you, but think about the consequences for jobs, tax revenue, local charities."

"Save your breath; I get it," I said. "What's it got to do with me?"

Brad continued, "We need to fill the void my uncle left, and like it or not, Dylan Maxwell is a major asset. It doesn't help anyone to have him undermined by wild allegations of criminal behavior."

I laughed again. "So he's holding your leash now, is that it? Fucking bastard couldn't just have me shot like any civilized man. No, he sends you to annoy me to death."

"Nobody sent me, and no one is trying to kill you. There's no reason to get paranoid."

I cut him off, "So Max ascends to the throne of the Highwater Society by offing your uncle and you all stand around and applaud politely, 'The king is dead, long live the king.' Have you no shame, man?"

Brad shook his head. "Dylan Maxwell is not the head of Highwater, I have been nominated to take over my uncle's duties, and Max is supporting me. And as for the circumstances of my uncle's death, I will ensure it is thoroughly investigated, and I am confident that we won't find any evidence of Max's involvement."

"That's beautiful. And when the time comes, I'm sure they'll say Max didn't have anything to do with your death, either."

Then Brad reached out and put his hand on my shoulder - a friendly, reassuring gesture that was so unexpected it actually made me flinch.

He said, "D, you keep talking about Highwater like we're you're enemies. Yet you
chose
to work for Dylan Maxwell. You're friends with my cousin. And as much I may not like it, we're brothers now; you mean a lot to Jenny, and she means the world to me. You're one of us now, and you need to start working with us, not against us."

"That's funny; you're uncle said the same thing. Problem is, you guys keep too many secrets for my tastes. I'd maybe see my way to helping you a little more clearly if someone would explain to me what it is you all actually do."

"The purpose of Highwater - well, it's not really something that can be easily put into words. It can only be understood by experiencing it first-hand, learning it for yourself."

"Your uncle said that, too. It didn't make much sense then, still doesn't now. How about you try something a little easier then, like telling me what Max has hidden away beneath the Asterion facility in Storage Unit 33?"

Brad stood up abruptly. His voice took on a sarcastic, almost threatening edge. "You know, D, for someone so intent on exposing other people's secrets, your life isn't exactly an open book."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for one thing, you never told your old newspaper that you were kicked out of journalism school for fabricating quotes in your articles. I'd say the
Concrete Underground
would be interested in light of its current legal problems - not to mention to mention the rest of the media covering this story. The same would apply to the time you spent in Oak Hill, or what you did to get sent there."

I jumped up and got in his face. "You know what, tell Max that I don't care what kind of dirt he thinks he's dug up on me. Tell him not to bother trying to threaten me or reason with me anymore. "

He held up his hands, gesturing that he didn't want to fight. "I told you, I'm not here on Max's behalf," Brad said. "I'm here out of respect for your sister - and for my cousin." He paused - a significant pause, I thought - and added, "Do you know where she is, by the way? I've been looking everywhere for her."

I lifted up the couch cushion and mimed like I was looking for something, then sifted through the debris on the floor with my foot and shrugged.

Brad grinned spitefully and nodded his head. "It's got to be hard on her, losing both of them in such quick succession. Anyways, tell her to give me a call, if you happen to hear from her," he said as he left.

I followed him outside and watched him descend the stairs. He could have been asking about Columbine out of legitimate concern, I told myself. Of course, he could have also had ulterior motives.

After all, if anyone had gained from McPherson's death, it was certainly him.

After he disappeared around the corner of the building, I hopped down the stairs myself and crossed the courtyard, peeking around the corner just in time to see him getting into his car. As soon as he drove away, I ran into the Volvo and tailed after him.

I glanced in the rearview and saw the Crown Vic a few yards behind me. A little further behind it, there was the white Asterion van.

---

Brad's car pulled into the parking garage adjacent to the Abrasax building. I parked the Volvo at a metered spot across the street and ran inside, then staked out a place to hide behind a planter of Birds of Paradise while I waited for him. Soon enough, I spotted him crossing the lobby toward the elevators. I made sure to keep a safe distance behind until he got into one of the cars, then I watched the digital display above the doors to see what floor he got off on. It stopped at seven. I took the next car up.

When I got out on the public relations floor, the receptionist cheerfully waved me towards the press briefing room. Apparently she hadn't yet got the memo that I was
persona-non-grata
again.

I slipped into the large briefing room where a full press conference was in progress. Curiously, Jenny was the one at the podium, answering a question about McPherson's death with the requisite sensitivity and pathos. Brad was standing off to the side of the stage, right beside Max.

I stood at the back of the room, glaring at them for a few minutes before Max glanced over and recognized me. He discreetly slipped off the stage and came back to talk to me.

"I don't think you quite get how this ghost thing is supposed to work," he said with a smirk as he leaned in close to me.

On stage, Jenny took another question, this one from some hack I recognized from the
Morning-Star
.

"The DA has decided not to pursue any charges against Mr. Maxwell, citing concerns that the documents in question were forged," Jenny answered. "Obviously, we applaud this decision and look forward to putting the matter behind us as quickly as possible so Mr. Maxwell can continue to focus his energies on providing our customers with a quality online experience."

"What the fuck?" I asked, turning to Max.

He grinned triumphantly and handed me a business card. It read:
Jennifer McPherson, Abrasax Communications Director.

"I thought it was only appropriate, really, to replace Lily with another woman who will never fuck you no matter how desperately you may want it."

I whirled around and landed a punch solidly on his jaw, causing a large crack to sound throughout the room, followed by stunned gasps and general frantic rustling among the assembled press.

Before I even realized what was happening, Abrasax security guards managed to drag me kicking and screaming out of the briefing room.

Saint Anthony was waiting for me outside, sitting on top of the receptionist's desk, clapping his thick meaty palms together in delight. Then too late, I realized why the receptionist had so willingly let me in.

"Bravo!" he shouted, hopping down from the desk. The three security guards who were holding me forced me to stand upright.

He sent one of his fists into my abdomen, hitting me so hard I wanted to puke. He landed a couple more shots to my gut, then followed with a right hook to the side of my face. There was probably a lot more after that, too, but mercifully I blacked out.

34. The Same Stories, Over and Over

I woke up to find myself getting dragged out of Saint Anthony's Escalade. It took a while for my vision to come back into focus, so the first thing I saw clearly was the black metal door with the spray-painted message:
Bell Out of Order, Please Knock
. I looked around and recognized the alleyway off of 27
^th
and Mission, and I realized where they were taking me.

Anthony held the door open and shoved me inside. Max was already waiting for us, standing in the middle of the room behind a man who was covered in blood and tied to a chair. The man in the chair was wearing the same grotesque mask I had worn to the Highwater party.

In the far corner of the room behind Max, I also saw Ben Garza, who wore a black turtleneck and looked like he was going out of his way to lurk in the shadows.

"I should have known the only person crazy enough to blackmail you
was you
."

Max looked at me confused for a moment, then chuckled. "Oh, I get it, because of this place. No, I'm not the one who brought you here before. I'm just someone who isn't shy about borrowing a good idea. And I didn't fabricate my own blackmailing, although that's a very amusing theory just the same."

The captive squirmed in the chair, straining against his bonds, and tried to say something. But it came out muffled, suggesting that he was was gagged under the mask.

"Quiet, you," Max admonished with a mock sternness as he circled around to kneel beside the chair, revealing a bloody pair of gardening shears in his hand.

"It's an interesting choice of mask," he said. "It reminds me of the
Commedia dell'Arte
. Are you familiar with it? Our friend Columbine certainly is."

I didn't respond. As usual, this didn't deter him one bit.

"One of the things I find fascinating about the
Commedia
," he continued, "is that it reminds us how few stories there actually are in this world. We just keep retelling the same handful over and over again across the centuries, from primitive cave drawings and ancient myths to comic books and summer blockbusters. We're very simple creatures that way. It all boils down to the same basic instincts driving us - greed, fear, lust, love, ambition, vanity, jealousy. Once you understand the
Commedia
, all our stories become so... predictable."

I scratched my head. "Once again, I have no fucking clue how what you're saying has anything to do with anything."

Max stood next to me and put the hand with the bloody shears on my shoulder, casually, like we were having a friendly conversation. "The other thing that interests me about the
Commedia
is the use of masks. It relies on stock characters, archetypes, that are instantly recognizable to the audience. The mask is a key part of that - which is ironic when you think about it. In
Commedia
, the mask defines a character's identity, whereas normally a mask is intended to conceal identity. Sometimes I like to think about how the masks we try to hide behind can betray us, and how they can come to define us."

"Still not seeing how this is relevant," I said.

"It's relevant because you two tried very hard to conceal his identity, and you almost pulled it off." Max pointed back at the man in the chair. "Granted, he was an obvious suspect when I first learned that you had gotten your hands on the e-mails between me and City Hall. So I had my people look into it, but they couldn't find any substantial connection between the two of you since your falling-out after high school. I mean, you really had everyone fooled into thinking you guys hated each other."

"We do hate each other," I said. "Brian only gave me those e-mails because he overheard the Mayor badmouthing him to the chief of staff. They didn't realize he was in the next room listening in."

"Ahh, well, the Commedia strikes again," Max said with palpable satisfaction. "Even in this age of technological wonders, it still boils down the the same base passions."

Max pulled off the mask, revealing Brian's bloody face with two empty eye sockets.

I felt light headed and nauseous. "So how did you figure it out?" I asked Max, managing to somehow keep from getting sick.

"It was Garza actually. He poured through days of surveillance footage to figure out how you coordinated the hand-off."

I looked scornfully back to Garza, who was still skulking in the back of the room, tugging up on his turtleneck nervously, and I wondered what his deal was. "Don't say much, do you?"

"Yeah, what's the matter, Ben? You usually never shut the fuck up." Max chimed in.

Just then something clicked in my head, and I realized that I had in fact never heard Garza speak. I walked over to him and clamped a hand on his shoulder, just at the base of his neck in mock-congratulation, saying, "Nice detective work, asshole."

It was a simple, innocuous gesture, not violent or forceful at all, but Garza winced in pain as my hand touched his neck,

"Sorry," I said, pulling my hand back. "Did you hurt yourself?" I turned back to look at Max, who was wearing an expression of curiosity. "So what's the score? Is this the end of the road for me and Brian?"