Sleepless (28 page)

"Of course there's another possibility."

"Yes?"

Vinnie coughed as if he might be embarrassed to bring something up.

"He could just be a cop doing his job."

I considered the possibility.

"Is that likely?"

"No."

I nodded.

"My feeling as well."

"Anything else?"

"No. This was extremely helpful."

"My pleasure. And thanks for taking care of things on my end."

"No trouble at all."

"Keep your head down, Jasper."

"And you as well, Vincent."

I closed my phone and dropped it in my pocket.

Above the San Gabriels the sun shone silver behind an unseasonable marine layer. Though, at that point, labeling any weather phenomenon as seasonable or otherwise was a fool's errand. It was not the intense early morning brightness of just a few years prior, but plenty hot. The cool I'd enjoyed a moment before was fading. I brushed my hand along the tops of the basil and the other herbs in my little container garden. Rosemary, lemon thyme, Mexican oregano, peppermint, bay, coriander, all of them releasing their oils.

I needed to get out of the previous day's clothes. I needed a shower. I needed a few hours' sleep. Refreshed, I would return to Officer Haas's home and pursue my business with him. I still harbored a slight hope that he was in possession of the drive. But imagined it more likely that it had been sold to Afronzo Jr. for monies that would fatten the coffers of whatever secret police squad Haas was a member of.

The blend of herbs was disrupted. A change in the breeze taking it from me. But there was no breeze. I began to turn, and, as I did, my attention was caught by the sight of an intense bead of light arcing up out of the Los Angeles basin.

Perched on an extreme southern foot of the Santa Monicas, just above West Hollywood, overlooking the entire basin from an advantageous elevation, Number One Electra Court was a natural location for SoCal Theater of Operations Command to place an observation post. Yes, the high-rent owners within the dubiously named Mount Olympus development objected, but national security was invoked and little more could be said. Had anyone known the flying saucer-shaped house was also a forward firebase the objections might have endured. I knew that it was a forward firebase. As I am certain that anyone with any personal experience of artillery knew it was a forward firebase. Not only could such a position be used to call in pinpoint coordinates for bombardments from the 16"/50 Mark 7 guns of any Iowa-class battleship that might one day find itself anchored off Santa Monica, it was also the ideal spot from which to launch surface-to-surface rockets, or lob mortars onto the street below.

Just across Laurel Canyon, with my own spectacular view of the basin, I was shocked to see that the first shot fired did not come from Mount Olympus, but from below. It flashed across the sky, leaving a contrail. More than likely a Javelin, it could have come from anywhere within twenty-five hundred meters. Anywhere with a clear line of sight. Any number of parking lots along Fairfax would have worked. Whether by luck or by virtue of poor marksmanship, it didn't strike the house directly but impacted on the blast walls covered in soldiers' graffiti that had been staggered across the yard to defend from just such an attack.

Still, it served its purpose. Served it if I may be so bold as to suggest that Electra Court was not the actual target of the rocket. Assuming my own ego has not run away with me, the Javelin scored an absolute bull's-eye on my awareness. I watched it hit, watched it explode, a bare moment before it rolled thunder over the hills, felt the trailing waves of super-heated air, the reverse suck as the fireball rolled upward, smelled the burned plastic odor of modern warfare, and came back to myself.

The scent of herbs. How the air had shifted unexpectedly seconds before. What had caused that change? All too late considered.

Two teams of three. Well-trained units of mercenaries like the ones I had killed at the gold farm. One coming up from below the deck, one from within the house.

I said they did not take me by virtue of surprise. And if there had been only two attackers, indeed they would not have been successful, as that is the number I killed before I was subdued.

Chapter 16.

IN A WINDOWLESS ROOM, A COMBINATION OF FATIGUE POISONS, adrenaline dregs, and the waning influence of the spansule he'd taken before leaving his house, had twisted the hands from Park's internal clock. Counting slowly to himself, Mississippi by Mississippi, as if he were "it," Park waited, his face buried in his hands, until he could count high enough for someone to let him start seeking, peeking from time to time at his father's watch, his guesses about how much time had passed never correct.

The door opened.

"What were you doing there?"

He stopped counting and looked up at Captain Bartolome.

Bartolome looked at the AC vent mounted on the wall. He lifted one of the limp pieces of ribbon tied to the grille and let it drop.

"This thing been off since you came in?"

Park pulled the front of his sweat-soaked shirt from his chest.

"Yes."

Bartolome dragged a chair away from the table at which Park sat.

"You tell anyone?"

"No one has been in since they left me here."

Bartolome set a few sheets of copy paper on the table.

"That's not what I meant."

Park lifted his left hand and jerked it twice against the cuffs that latched him to a steel ring welded to the tabletop.

Bartolome dropped his keys on the table.

"You tell anyone?"

Park found the stubby cuff key and unlocked himself.

"What time is it?"

Bartolome scooped up his keys.

"Did you tell anyone?"

Park rubbed his wrist.

"Tell anyone what? That the AC doesn't work? I haven't seen anyone. Except Hounds. He thinks I'm a snitch."

"Haas."

Bartolome picked one of the sheets of copy paper and turned it over, revealing the reverse side; a photo print blurred by a printer running low on toner.

"Officer Haas, did you tell anyone?"

Park looked at the fuzzy image, a still from a video, taken in a dark room, blown up, himself sitting at a table, speaking with Cager.

Bartolome took off his sunglasses; his eyes had sunk yet farther into their sockets since Park had last seen them.

"Did you tell anyone?"

Park took the picture. The ink had soaked into the cheap paper and rippled the surface, distorting both their faces.

"I was going to tell you."

Bartolome used his hand to whisk sweat from his bald crown.

"Tell me what? That you've gone out of your fucking mind?"

"No."

Park rotated the picture so that it faced his captain.

Earlier, while he'd waited on the track, he'd arranged his case into a detailed outline. An order of fact and supporting evidence, bullet-pointed and footnoted with everything that had happened over the previous forty-eight hours and during the vast hours of observation he'd logged working Dreamer. He'd been prepared. He tried to recall that tightly rendered diagram of logic, cause and effect. But it was gone now, blown from the page by exhaustion and worry. Only the principal assumption remained legible in the mental scraps.

He placed his finger on the picture, pointing at Cager.

"It's him."

Bartolome took another poor photo print from his papers and showed Park a close-up of Cager.

"I know who it is. Everyone knows who he is. That's the point."

"No, it's not."

Park was remembering his father again. Remembering conversations where they seemed always to be speaking different languages. Or talking in code, each lacking the key that would unlock the secret of the other's meaning. Conversations about why he was taking a Ph.D. in philosophy instead of carrying on in political science. About taking the degree at Stanford rather than Harvard. About joining the police force. About having a child. His father had shifted the phone, a crinkle of newspaper, and then read a few headlines from the front page of the Washington Post. Sighed. Having a child, Parker? Now? What possible sense does that make? And Park had stopped trying to explain.

But now he needed to be understood.

He covered the picture of Cager with his hand.

"It's him. He's the one doing it."

Bartolome squinted at him.

"Can you pass a piss test?"

Sweat ran from Park's hairline, beaded in his eyebrows, stung his eyes, and made him blink.

"What?"

Bartolome stood up.

"Jesus, Haas. Of all the asshole rookie moves, hitting your stash. No one expects you to be a saint on a job like this, but you don't get high when you've requested a sit-down."

Park rubbed the sweat from his eyes.

"I didn't. I."

Bartomome was looking at the AC vent.

"Bullshit."

"Captain."

He walked to the vent.

"Goddamned thing."

Park watched as Bartolome took a butterfly knife from his pocket, twirled it open. He remembered how his father would shift an awkward conversation by suddenly embarking on some small task. After his mother's funeral, standing in a far corner of the room as close to the door as possible, he'd watched as his sister had asked their father what his plans were for the house. Watched his father rise in midconversation, go to the wall, and stick his finger into a divot that Park had put there nearly twenty years before while playing field hockey indoors. That, he'd said, should have been tended to by now. And he'd gone to the garden shed for a can of spackle and a putty knife.

Bartolome slide the blade of his knife into the slot on the back of one of the screws that held the vent grille in place.

Park remembered following his father from the room, breaking off into the kitchen, calling a car to come pick him up, and leaving a half hour later while Ambassador Haas was still in the library covering one of the few remaining signs that indicated his children had been raised in his home. The patch, his sister told him when they next spoke, had not been painted over. Their father had left it visible. Apparently, she mused, he forgot to finish the job.

Park watched the older man unscrewing the grille.

"He gave me Dreamer."

Bartolome kept his back turned.

"Captain."

He didn't look at Park.

"The real thing, Captain."

He pocketed the two bottom screws, began turning the one in the grille's top right corner.

Park rapped two points of his argument into the tabletop with his knuckles.

"Hologram. RFID."

Bartolome jabbed the knife point into the wall and left it sticking there as he used his fingertips to pry at the edges of the grille.

"Shut up."

Park rose.

"He used it to conduct a transaction."

"Shut the fuck up."

The grille swung loose, hanging from the remaining screw in the upper left corner, revealing a cluster of tiny microphones and cameras mounted around the rim of the duct.

Park walked over. He looked at the listening and observation devices. He looked at his captain. He remembered his father's final act of surrender in the face of a world that had grown wild beyond his ability to keep himself and his family safe. He pointed at the pictures still resting faceup on the table and raised his voice.

"Parsifal K. Afronzo Junior. He gave me Dreamer in exchange for Shabu."

Bartolome stuck a hand inside the duct and began ripping out the mikes and cameras. He dropped them on the floor, a bristle of wires and antennae, and stomped the pile twice with his Kevlar-soled boot.

He put on his sunglasses, yanked his knife from the wall, scooped the papers from the table, and pulled the door open.

"Come on."

Park looked at the pile of broken surveillance equipment and started to open his mouth again.

Bartolome came back into the room and grabbed his arm.

"You have a family, Haas. Keep your mouth shut and come on. Those were just the ones we could see."

He pulled Park down a hall of two-way mirrored glass peering in on interrogation rooms. Park saw a woman sitting alone, picking at a cake of scab on her neck. A small soot-smeared boy being screamed at by two uniformed officers. A man being beaten with a bloodstained telephone book. He pulled to a stop at the last room. Someone with a black bag over his head hung by his wrists from a U-bolt driven into the ceiling. An officer sat in a chair, smoking, occasionally setting the hanging body to swinging with prods from a PR-24 baton.

"Captain."

Bartolome shoved him down the hall.

"Shut up."

Bartolome slapped a button next to the door at the end of the hall and looked up at a camera in the corner where the wall and ceiling met.