Phantom Limb (21 page)

The guy stiffened. I tensed, watching the two of them closely. The customer was already half in the bag. Unfortunately for him, he was also half Noah's size.

“Noah!” I called out. He stopped in his tracks, head swiveling at the sound of my voice. “Cut the crap and give the guy another beer. On
me
, okay?”

Noah's big shoulders rose and fell, to the accompaniment of a massive sigh. He somberly nodded. Grabbing up the frightened customer's mug, he refilled it at the tap. Then slammed it back down on the bar.

“Appreciate your business,” he mumbled. “Come again.”

Then he lumbered back up to my end of the bar.

“Sorry, Danny. Just havin' a bad night.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soul Patch finish his beer in two great gulps and hurry away from the bar. Looked like he left a nice tip, too. But my focus was on Noah.

“You get in touch with Nancy Mendors about your meds? You might need to make some changes.”

“Yeah, maybe. I
am
feelin' a little wigged-out. I mean, even more than usual.”

“Okay. If you don't mind, I'll give Nancy a call. But maybe you could close up the place a bit earlier tonight.”

“I'll take that under advisement, Herr Doctor.”

Then he offered me that familiar, pained grin. Below a pair of eyes burning with intensity. Holding either barely contained madness or profound knowledge of the Infinite. Or both.

Noah left abruptly to serve other customers, giving me some privacy for my call to Nancy. I got her service, and left a message detailing my concerns about Noah's behavior. Luckily, she always welcomed my input. Noah was as much her friend as her patient, and we both worried about him.

Though neither one of us fretted more than Charlene, who was suddenly standing next to me. Order pad in her pocket, she'd taken a quick break from waiting tables.

“I hope you were just talking to Dr. Mendors on the phone, Danny. Noah's got me a little worried.”

“Me, too. But he's not delusional. Anyway, I left a message on Nancy's machine. She'll take care of it.”

“I know. Thank God for that woman.” Charlene blew a long stray curl of sweaty hair from her forehead. “And I could also say the same for you. I really appreciate your bailing Skip out of the mess at that store yesterday. And, yes, he finally broke down and told me about it.”

“Glad I could help. I like your brother a lot.”

“He feels the same way about you. Just this morning, he called and said, ‘Bugs, that Rinaldi guy's all right.'”

“Bugs?”

“For Bugs Bunny. My nickname when we were kids. I had these two buck teeth that made me look like a rabbit. At least, that's what
he
said. You know what shits little brothers are.”

“Not from my own experience, but I've heard.”

Charlene sighed. “Just don't tell Noah about it. Or else he'll be calling me ‘Bugs' the rest of my natural life.”

I sipped my drink. “Nicknames
do
have a way of sticking.”

“Funny. That's what happened to Skip. Everybody always called him that growing up, and he liked it fine. So he kept it. Not that I blame him. Not with the
real
name my parents saddled him with.”

“Yeah? What was it?”

“Julian. Now what kinda name is
that
for a kid?”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Harry Polk was not the kind of guy who liked unexpected visitors knocking on his door. Especially at midnight.

I'd been doing just that for almost a minute before his apartment door finally opened a crack, and I was favored with one bleary, suspicious eye. As well as a glimpse of a threadbare robe, thrown over a baggy pair of boxer shorts.

“Rinaldi? What the fuck are ya doin' here? Ya got any idea what time it is?”

I glanced at my watch. “I know exactly. But I had to talk to you, Harry. It's important.”

“Well, guess what? They got this newfangled thing now called the telephone. Has little numbers on it and everything.”

“I figured, if I called, you'd just hang up.”

“Good guess.”

He started to close the door, but I pushed back against it with the palm of my hand. “Come on, Harry. It's important. About the Lisa Campbell kidnapping. I think I may know who's behind it.”

“Yeah? Me, too. Prick named Ray Sykes.”

“Unless he's working with or for somebody else. A guy who calls himself Skip Hines. Though his real name is Julian.”

He blinked, brow darkening. “Are you shittin' me? Julian?…”

Polk stopped pushing back against me, and let the door open a few inches wider.

“How the hell do you know this?”

“Long story. Now are you gonna let me in or not?”

“Fuck that, Rinaldi. We ain't that close. Besides, talkin' to you always makes me thirsty. Gimme five minutes.”

He slammed the door shut, leaving me alone in the quiet, dimly lit hallway. Harry Polk was still living in the forlorn Wilkinsburg apartment complex he'd moved into after his marriage ended. The majority of the tenants were elderly, or, like Harry, recently divorced. Yet most of the latter soon moved to better, more congenial accommodations. Providing, if only to themselves, external confirmation that they'd moved on with their lives.

But not Harry. After he and Maddie split, he took what few possessions he had and burrowed into this place like a wounded animal. And showed little sign of making a change any time soon.

As I waited for him, I thought about the call I'd made to Gloria Reese on the drive here from Noah's place. Though I'd tried her cell, she was at home in her South Side loft when she picked up. I remembered her mentioning once that it was the only asset she'd received from
her
divorce. Anyway, unlike Harry, she was still awake, and had just brewed herself a cup of chamomile tea to help her wind down. So she could finally sleep.

After checking to see how she was holding up, and getting her usual stiff-upper-lip reply, I asked her two questions: did she have access to the FBI's database from her home computer? And, if so, would she be willing to do me a favor? Naturally enough, she said it depended on what the favor was.

I told her.

Now, rocking back and forth on my heels, I felt a growing impatience. Harry's five minutes had clearly come and gone. I was just about to pound on his door again when it opened. The sergeant was wearing a faded Penquins sweatshirt over wrinkled pants and his customary Florsheim shoes.

“This better be worth it, Rinaldi. I need my beauty sleep.”

“You get no argument from me, Harry. Where to?”

“Where do ya think?”

***

The Spent Cartridge was an old cop bar uncomfortably wedged between two downtown high-rises, its wood-framed facade and buzzing neon signs a stark reminder of the blue-collar past now being gradually supplanted by the city's gentrification.

The place was just getting its second wind, so to speak, in that the precinct shift change brought with it a wave of off-duty uniforms and plainclothes dicks. Luckily, Polk and I had found seats in a corner booth before the bar filled to standing-room-only capacity.

Nursing an Iron City, Harry sat staring at me across the booth table. By agreement on the drive here, I wasn't to talk about the case until he'd been—in his words—properly lubed.

At last, contemplating my own whiskey glass, I recounted my conversation with Charlene.

“After she told me her brother's given name was Julian, I tried to probe some more, but without arousing her suspicions. Mostly because Charlene's a friend of mine. Besides, this thing about Skip's real name could just be a wild coincidence.”

“Ya don't really believe that, do ya?”

“Honestly, no. Especially when she told me a little more about his life. Turns out, after a stint in the Marines, he went to work in high-level security. A company called Starr Sentinel, which happens to be the same firm that Mike Payton used to work for. Before going solo and hooking up with the Harlands.”

“Payton and this Julian Hines both worked for Starr?”

“Right. And when I casually asked if her brother ever mentioned this other guy I knew—Mike Payton—she said yes. That Skip had talked about him more than once, and seemed to like the guy. He and Payton were on the same tactical team at Starr. Doing security work for CEOs, celebrities. That kinda thing.”

Polk distractedly took a swallow of beer.

“So what happened to Julian? I mean, did he quit the job when Payton did?”

I shook my head. “According to Charlene, he stayed on a couple more months. But she says he always found civilian life difficult to manage. Confusing. So he re-enlisted and was sent back to Afghanistan, where he lost a leg in combat.”

“Jesus.” Polk massaged the dark stubble on his chin. “So you think this lady's brother is the same Julian who called the Harland house? Who ran the whole show?”

“Either he ran it or worked in partnership with Sykes. Think about it, Harry. Julian Hines is a former Marine, and the kidnapping felt like some kind of paramilitary op from the very beginning. Remember, we know about Sykes' background in the military. Griffin's, too. Maybe the three of them planned the whole thing together. Like a military maneuver.”

“Maybe. Anything else?”

“I think that Julian—just like Mike Payton—had to know a lot about home security, having worked for Starr. In fact, the security system at the Harland house—the cameras, the off-site monitoring, everything—had all been installed and maintained by Starr Sentinel. It was the company Payton recommended to Charles Harland when he first came to work for the old man. Probably because he felt familiar with the company and its technology.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I put in a call to Agent Gloria Reese before I showed up at your door. She could access a lot of it because Payton had, at the FBI's insistence, sent them a copy of the personnel data from the Harland files—which included Payton's own employment history, as well as the contract that Charles Harland, at Mike's suggestion, had signed with Starr Sentinel.”

“Then maybe we should be lookin' at Mike Payton.”

“Funny, because Arthur Drake had his own suspicions about Payton. He told me before he died that he believed Payton was behind Lisa's kidnapping. But I don't see it, Harry. For one thing, Payton was in Harland's office with the rest of us when the first ransom call came in. Just as he was in the library, in plain sight, when Julian called with his second demand.”

What I didn't tell Harry was the
real
reason I ruled out any involvement on Payton's part. Namely, that he was still in love with Lisa. At least it looked that way to me.

“I don't care that he was there when the calls came in,” Polk was saying. “Doesn't mean Payton couldn't be in on it. A silent partner, or whatever. It's worth checkin' into, that's for damn sure.”

“I think the same thing's true about Julian Hines. Of course, I didn't give Charlene the slightest clue that I had any suspicions about her brother. She just thought we were talking about his past because I was interested.”

“In other words, since everyone knows what a nosy, head-shrinkin' bastard you are, she didn't suspect a thing.”

“Well, I guess that's another way to look at it.”

He threw back the rest of his beer. “You talk to anyone else about this? Other than Reese?”

“No. And all I asked her to do was look up stuff about Mike Payton. I told her I was curious about his military background and employment history before coming to work for Harland.”

“She didn't ask why?”

“Sure she did. I told her it was personal.”

Polk considered this. “So she'd assume you couldn't talk about it. Which suggested that Payton had approached you about wantin' therapy. So if she
did
ask you, you couldn't say squat. Nice move, Doc. Sneaky, but nice.”

“The point is, Harry,
you're
the one I've come to about Julian Hines. I sure as hell don't want to alert Biegler or Agent Wilson. In case I'm way off base, I don't want to cause Skip—or Charlene, for that matter—any additional grief.”

“But even if you're right, Rinaldi, what's the motive?”

“Behind the kidnapping? What else? The money. Skip's been floundering since he got shipped home. God knows, a lot of returning vets go through that. Especially those who've been seriously injured. Though many still end up doing well, as long as they're given proper medical and psychological support.”

“But not this Skip character?”

“Not based on my two interactions with him. I don't think he's sought treatment anywhere. My impression is of a guy who's wired tight as a drum. With nothing to show for his two tours of duty but a missing leg and a heart full of anger and resentment. Meanwhile, people like the Harlands live like kings.”

Polk nodded soberly. Then gestured to a passing waitress for a refill. She swept up his mug and hurried away.

“Remember, too,” I went on, “the Harland fortune came from building armaments. War machines. For a wounded vet like Skip, the painful irony of that must seem intolerable. How fitting, then, to grab some of that blood-stained cash for himself?”

The waitress returned with the full mug and vanished again into the crowd. Polk took a long pull, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“Nice theory, Rinaldi. Except you left out the proof. Got any, or are you just flappin' your gums?”

“Isn't that where
you
come in, Sergeant? Not that I'm just dumping all this in your lap. Maybe I can do some more digging myself, and—”

“Watch it, Doc. I know you get a lotta leeway from the brass 'cause you're sorta on the job. But remember, you're just supposed to consult. So, okay, you consulted. Now leave it be.”

“But you're going to follow up, aren't you? Discreetly, I mean. Like I say, I want to shield Charlene—
and
her brother—from unnecessary pain or embarrassment.”

In answer, Polk merely sipped his beer. I swear I could almost see the gears slowly grinding in his skull.

Finally, he leaned back in his seat.

“This Julian thing is a real lead, no doubt about it. So I'll look into it. But at least we agree about one thing. I don't wanna shake Biegler's tree 'til I have somethin' solid. And I sure ain't gonna let the Feds in on it.”

He let out a ponderous sigh.

“The pisser is, to do this right, I gotta go solo. If anybody gets wind o' this at the precinct, I'll have Biegler so far up my ass I'll be eatin' for both of us.”

“What about Jerry Banks? Your new partner?”

“Let me see. He's young, green, and I don't trust him. That about cover it?”

“In other words, he's no Eleanor Lowrey.”

“Few of 'em are, Doc. 'Course, I don't gotta tell
you
that. Though I think I remember warnin' you not to go there. One o' you was bound to get fucked. And I don't mean in the
good
way.”

I bristled at that, but stayed cool. “Can we stay on task here, Sergeant? If you're not even letting your new partner in on this, how do you expect to work it?”

He gave me a wink. “Same way I do everythin', Doc. Hang onto my balls and jump in.”

***

After another round, I was ready to leave. But Harry wanted to stay behind, having run into an old buddy from his former precinct. He said he'd get a ride home with him. Before leaving the bar, though, I got Harry's promise to keep me updated on anything he uncovered about Skip.

Driving now through mid-town's shadowed concrete canyons, in that eerie middle-of-the-night hush, I kept replaying my conversation with Polk. I knew I'd done the right thing bringing him my suspicions about Skip Hines, but still felt badly about it. As though I'd betrayed both Charlene
and
her brother, and had started something going that, regardless of outcome, would cause unwanted trouble and pain. The last thing Skip needed was to be considered a suspect in a series of capital crimes. And the last thing Charlene needed was to know that
I'd
been the one who put her brother's face in the picture.

On the other hand, I thought, there were simply too many connections between Skip Hines and some other facets of the case to ignore. Especially since his real name was Julian. Maybe I was rationalizing to ease my guilty conscience, but I still had a hard time believing that it was just a coincidence.

I'd reached Fifth, and was heading into Oakland, but instead of going directly home, I decided to swing by my office to get some patient files I'd been meaning to review. Since I was still too wired to sleep, at least I could work.

I turned onto Forbes Avenue and found a curbside parking spot in front of my building. I knew the parking garage would be closed at this time of night. Besides, I'd only need a couple minutes to go up to my office and retrieve what I needed.

I got out of the car, buttoning my jacket against the brisk wind, and looked around. The sidewalk was completely deserted, as were the streets. The only thing to catch my eye was the ceaseless activity of the traffic lights, dutifully going from green to yellow to red and back again. Directing a flow of cars that wasn't there.