Crack-Up (26 page)

Moments later, an address popped up on the screen, an address that I had only seen once before, and only briefly, on a driver’s license in the piano bar at Randolph House in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia.
 
I memorized it, shut down the computer, and woke Hideo.

We drove north in Hideo’s van, through light patches of early morning traffic on Interstate 95.
 
Thirty minutes later, we took the
Broken Land Parkway
exit, then the exit for Highway 32, which brought us into
Columbia
,
Maryland
.

Columbia
, you may know, is famous for being one of the first planned cities in
America
.
 
But it feels more like a suburb.
 
The land is loaded with greenery: woods and hills and fields long ago designated permanent open space to prevent urban sprawl.
 
And the city’s residents congregate in nine self-contained villages, where schools, shopping, recreation, and virtually all other amenities cluster within easy reach, if not walking distance.

Hideo followed the directions I provided him by reading off a folding map of his that hated folding.
 
Soon we reached the village known as King’s Contrivance, winding by tall pines and townhouses and sizable single family homes.

Luxury cars and SUVs, like an army of metal dinosaurs, rumbled by us on their daily commutes south to
Washington
, or else north to
Baltimore
.
 
From Hideo’s thermos, I kept pouring hot green tea into my porcelain cup and drinking it and wishing like hell I was drinking hot black coffee.

“What do we know for a fact, Hideo?”

“Only one thing,” he said, his gravelly voice more grating than usual at this early hour.
 
“Someone switch your medicine, to make you lose your mind.”

“Correct,” I said.
 
“But why?”

“Most obvious answer, to harm you.”

“But we don’t know that for a fact.
 
Let’s assume it was to harm John Helms.
 
Let’s assume someone wished to murder him and—to avoid suspicion—weaponized my illness.
 
Had me do the job.”

“Very well,” Hideo said after a long silence, “I assume such evil person exist.
 
This evil one would know about your mental illness.
 
Also would know you work for John Helms.”

“The evil one would enter my home,” I said, “steal my pills, and replace them with dummies, then watch me carefully, monitor my behavior, wait until my sanity begins to slip away, and then point me toward John Helms like a heat-seeking cruise missile.”

“You mean try to convince you to kill billionaire?”

“Precisely,” I said.
 
“Just like this man we’re going to see tried to do, just like Bernard Alan Simpson.”

“But we don’t know that for fact,” Hideo said.
 
“Could be that day you already completely crazy.”

“ ‘Insane,’ Hideo.
 
Insane’s a better term.
 
Or better yet, ‘reality challenged.’ ”

Bernard Alan Simpson, we found, lived in a cul-de-sac crowded with mock colonial homes.
 
His was a bone-white, two-story garrison colonial with green shutters.
 
Planted alongside the shrubs was one of those rectangular security patrol signs to ward off burglars.

“How much do you think it’s worth?” I said to Hideo.
 
We were watching the house while parked on the street curb in front of a neighboring house, slouching low in our seats.

Hideo grumbled.
 
“Real estate here just like
Tokyo
.
 
Reality challenged.
 
Half million US dollars easy.”

Bernard Alan Simpson’s garage door opened.
 
A dark green Mercedes-Benz sedan—an older, 90’s model—rolled out of the garage in reverse gear and slowly backed down a slanting, concrete driveway.
 
The vehicle was in mint condition and recently waxed.

I caught the profile of the driver, the lone occupant.
 
He had a huge nose, a real honker.
 
It was Bernard himself, no doubt about it.
 
I hopped out of Hideo’s van and ran up to the driver’s side of the Mercedes, just as Bernard slowed the car to a near stop at the end of the driveway so the muffler wouldn’t scrape against the pavement as it entered the cul-de-sac.

Funny, I thought, how automobile drivers almost never lock their own doors.
 
I flung Bernard’s open and stepped on his brake with a good deal of pressure—never mind that I had to step on Bernard’s polished black shoe to do it.

“Good morning, Bernard Alan Simpson.
 
Remember me?”
 
I whipped off my glasses to help him recall.

Bernard was wearing the same gray flannel suit he’d worn at the hotel in
Alexandria
, or else one much like it.
 
His walking cane lay on the passenger seat.
 
He stared up at me.
 
His mouth dropped open.
 
UFO-spotting open.

“C’mon, Bernard, you remember,” I said.
 
“The piano bar at Randolph House?
 
You told me I should kill John Helms?”
 
Bernard suddenly forgot how to breathe.
 
But not how to gasp.
 
A vehicle door shut behind me.
 
Hideo was coming.
 
“Argus Ward is the name.
 
Did you read about my murder arraignment in the newspapers?”

“Don’t hurt me!” Bernard said.
 
“Please!”

“Shut up!”

I realized I’d begun shivering, from head to toe, and breathing hard.
 
Baring my teeth.
 
Hideo appeared at my side.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Bernard whispered, frantic-eyed.
 
“It wasn’t my idea.
 
I didn’t want to do it.
 
It took four stiff drinks before I could go through with it.”

Chapter 28

I walked silently behind Hideo, who followed Bernard’s limping, three-legged gait toward the house.
 
It was no accident Hideo had placed himself in the middle.
 
My shivering, hyperventilating, bared teeth rage raged on.
 
If only
! I thought
,
I could just flail upon the person of Bernard Alan Simpson for ten seconds
!

“My wife is out walking,” Bernard said, entering his house through the front door with a key.
 
“In the neighborhood.”

“We know,” Hideo said, crossing the threshold.

“She’ll be back soon,” Bernard said.

He cringed hearing his front door bash against the inside wall of his home.
 
I’d kicked it in myself, entering.
 
“My wife thinks I’m a killer, Bernard!”

“I-I-I’m sorry,” Bernard said.

“Get on with it, Bernard!” I said, glaring at him over the top of Hideo’s flat head.
 
“Who the fuck are you?”

“Shut the door, please.”
 
I slammed it shut, and I took pleasure sliding the deadbolt into place with a loud clank, before spinning back around and staring into Bernard’s worried eyes.
 
“I’m just a furniture store owner, Mister Ward.
 
Nothing more.
 
Before all this started, I didn’t know you from Adam.”

“Why did you set me up?” I said.

“I was blackmailed.”

“By who?”

Bernard hesitated, opening and shutting his mouth twice without producing any sound.
 
Finally, he said, “I’ll show you.”

The furniture man led a single file procession toward the rear of his house.
 
Through a bay window in the living room, I noted a Jacuzzi sunken into the backyard patio.
 
Down a hallway, we entered into an airy study, paneled in pine.
 
Bernard pointed to an old strawberry red iMAC computer atop his desk.

“That’s the culprit,” Bernard said.
 
“That damn computer.”

I stared at Bernard’s computer, confused, half-expecting the machine to sprout legs and arms, or to at least swivel toward me of its own accord, maybe with sinister digital eyebrows arching across the top of its monitor.
 
But it didn’t sprout anything, and it didn’t budge.
 
It just sat there, like any other old iMac I’d ever seen, garish and silly-shaped, distant cousin of the Volkswagen bug.

“This is the culprit?” I said.
 
“I don’t follow.”

“One night,” Bernard said, “about a month ago, I was sitting there at my desk, doing my taxes on a spreadsheet, when . . . when I lost control of my computer.”

“What do you mean, ‘lost control?’ ”

“All of a sudden, my spreadsheet disappeared, and the screen turned black.
 
I thought the computer had crashed, but then, just a second or two later, white lines of type started appearing across my screen, letter by letter.
 
It was a message.
 
To me.
 
Specifically, to me. I remember it word for word: ‘Good evening, Mister Simpson.
 
Don’t be alarmed.
 
And don’t turn off your computer.
 
Or you will regret it.’ ”

“So what did you do?” I said.

“I turned off the computer,” Bernard said.
 
“I don’t mind saying, I was scared shitless.
 
Like now.”

“Then what happen?” Hideo said.

“I regretted turning off the computer,” Bernard said.
 
“Just like the computer said I would.
 
Because before I’d even got up out of my seat, the computer turned itself right back on.
 
Like it had a mind of its own.
 
And a photo appeared . . .”
 
The eyes in Bernard’s fear-sickened face watered.
 
He lowered his head.
 
“This is really quite embarrassing.”

“Not as embarrassing as a murder charge!” I said.
 
“Go on!”

Bernard directed his gaze toward a window overlooking his backyard barbecue pit.
 
“There’s a place I go.
 
In a rather seedy area of
Baltimore
.
 
To meet . . . to meet . . . young men for . . .”

“I get the picture,” I said.
 
“Your wife doesn’t know you’re a switch hitter.”
 
Bernard nodded, still facing the window.

“Switch hitter?” Hideo whispered to me.

“I’ll explain later,” I whispered back.

Bernard turned to face us, wet-cheeked now and tremulous.
 
“My wife, she’ll be back any minute.”

“Go on,” I said.

“I was terrified,” Bernard said.
 
“But also angry.
 
I felt violated.
 
I
had
been violated.
 
I yanked the plug to the computer out of the wall socket.”