The Liar's Lullaby (33 page)

Crouched in the stinking garbage can, she heard an electric motor whir. She looked up. The little tank was outside. The monkey perched on top of it, teeth bared.

“What the hell?”

The monkey leaped at her.

 

 

T
HEVIEW FROM across the street was good. It was pretty damned fine. Ferd stood beside Jo, making excited squeaking sounds. Jo held the remote control by her side. Ahnuld didn’t need to go anyplace else at the moment.

Down the path beside Ferd’s house, the trash can bucked and rolled. The screaming was high-pitched.

Ferd murmured, “Oh, I hope he’s okay.”

“That’s not Mr. Peebles, it’s Edie,” Jo said.

Tina crouched near the trash can, peering in. She caught Jo’s eye. Jo shrugged.

Tina stood, put her foot against the trash can and gave it a hard shove. It rolled along the sidewalk, slowly turning to display its contents.

The cameraman from Edie Wilson’s crew was still filming. The Asian American producer was standing openmouthed in shock. A second film crew, shouting in German, ran across the street to get a closer look.

The producer said, “Shut it down, Andy.”

Andy kept filming.

“Cut.
Cut
.” The producer took off toward the trash can. Jo strolled over to Andy.

He kept filming. Gave her a quick glance. “You drove that thing out here?”

“It’s a prototype for a robotic vehicle competition. Nifty, huh?”

The producer reached the trash can and dragged Edie out.

“Ultrasonic navigation system,” Jo said. “Drives animals insane.”

“That explains why he went for her. Her radio mike probably picked up the sound and fed it back through her earpiece,” Andy said.

Edie lay on the ground, kicking her feet in the air and flapping at Mr. Peebles. He was hanging on to her hair, tiny hands gripping her blond tresses, shaking her head like a crazed hairdresser in the Monkeyhouse salon.

“Are you live?” Jo said.

“Oh yeah.”

Across the street, the producer turned to Andy and made a slashing motion across his throat.
“Cut
.
”

Andy lowered his camera. The producer waved his arms at the German crew, shooing them away.

“YouTube?” Jo said.

“Of course.”

Jo leaned back against the fender of the Volvo SUV. Andy joined her. He lit a cigarette and watched the free- for-all with a smile as bright as neon.

 

 

I
N THE BREAK room at the SFPD Homicide Detail in the Hall of Justice, two detectives broke into laughter. Amy Tang walked through the door. A uniformed officer was staring at the television, shaking his head. One of the detectives was shaking spilled coffee from his hand. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his tie. Tang looked at the screen.

She saw a trash can, Jo’s sister, Tina, and a frantic Asian American man trying to pull a monkey out of Edie Wilson’s hair.

“Well, now I’m awake,” she said.

 

 

G
ABE PULLED A T-shirt over his head, put on his diver’s watch, and opened the blinds. Downstairs in the kitchen, the television came on.

“Sophie,” he called.

He loped barefoot down the stairs. He heard a newscaster’s rapid-fire narration, and high-pitched shrieking.

He walked into the kitchen. “What’d I say? No TV without asking first.”

Sophie was dressed in her school uniform, holding a bowl of Cheerios, gaping at the morning news. He reached to turn off the television, and stopped.

They watched Mr. Peebles ride Edie Wilson’s head like a tiny camel jockey.

Sophie turned to him. “I
knew
there was gorilla warfare.”

A
MY TANG PUSHED THROUGH THE DOOR INTO THE CRAMPED DELI. JO stood at the counter. Through the plate-glass windows, the Hall of Justice shone like alabaster, looming over the street’s bail bondsmen and auto body shops.

Tang took off her sunglasses and looked Jo over. “You testifying to Congress?”

“Ambushing the White House chief of staff.”

“Aren’t you the scalp taker?” She suppressed a smile. “I suppose you’re entitled to dress like a dominatrix.”

Jo considered her black suit conservative, though the slacks did fit like a surgical glove. And her heels were sharp.

She got her bagel and they found a table. “I haven’t signed off on my report,” she said. “I’ve had a change of heart.”

Tang drummed her fingers on the table. “You ate the whole box of Wheaties this morning, didn’t you?”

“Call it professional responsibility.”

Tang feigned cool, but again Jo saw her secret smile.

“Very well,” Tang said. “Unofficially, here’s what we’ve learned about Noel Michael Petty. She had a record of small-time thefts, mostly related to musicians and movie stars she was infatuated with. Posters, DVDs, T-shirts. She contributed to a number of online forums about Tasia McFarland and Searle Lecroix. Her computer search history lists Lecroix-related searches as the top thousand things she hunted for online.”

“But? There’s a but, I can tell.”

“She’s not on any footage from the concert where Tasia died. None.”

Jo nodded, not in agreement but excitement. “And?”

“She didn’t vandalize Tasia’s rented SUV at the ballpark. CCTV caught somebody keying the vehicle, and it wasn’t Petty. The vandal wore sunglasses, gloves, and a hoodie, but had a dramatically slimmer silhouette.”

“Who was it?”

“Good question. Here’s something that doesn’t fit. We found matchbooks at both Petty’s hotel room and in Tasia’s kitchen.”

“What makes that unusual?”

“Same design. From Smiley’s Gas ’n’ Go in Hoback, Wyoming. Near Grand Teton National Park.”

“Let me guess—there’s no record of either woman ever being in Hoback?”

“Petty had never even visited Wyoming.”

“It’s not much.”

Tang leaned forward. “The matchbook in Tasia’s kitchen was set next to an envelope. Self-sealing, so no DNA. Mailed from Herndon, Virginia—down the road from the hotel where Tasia met the president. Postmarked the day after their meeting.”

“And the matchbook in Petty’s possession?”

“We have a request in for a search of her premises in Tucson.”

“I have a question. Petty sent more than fourteen hundred messages to an e-mail address Tasia hadn’t publicized. How did she get the address?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Thanks, Amy.” Jo stood up. “Wish me luck. Will you be at the Hall of Justice?”

“No, I’m taking the afternoon off. Going to help my parents put their store back together.” She made sparkle fingers. “We’re ordering fireworks. It should be a hell of a day.”

 

 

I
VORY SAT IN a booth at the Hi-Way coffee shop, a mile south of San Francisco International Airport. Her steak sandwich was half-eaten. The waitress came by again with the coffeepot.

“Warm you up, hon?”

Ivory had already drunk four cups of the disgusting coffee, but she held up her mug. She couldn’t let the waitress think she was loitering. She opened the newspaper. Nothing but the ROW blowing things up, eating weird shit, planning ways to destroy the U.S.A. The waitress went away. Ivory glanced out the big windows that overlooked the bay. Any time now.

At San Francisco International, planes approached over the water. Normally, flights passed overhead every two minutes. But not a single plane had flown past for fifteen. The skies were being cleared.

Ivory forced a sloppy bite of the steak sandwich. She needed the red meat. But all she could think about was blood pouring out of her sister Noel’s head.

She hadn’t clocked in today. Blue Eagle Security could shove their job, and their confiscatory illegal taxes, up their ass. After today, she and Keyes weren’t coming back. They were going to take the day’s cash haul with them when they hit the highway. Sixteen hours hard driving, she figured, and they’d get into the mountains up in Washington, near the Canadian border. Some sovereign citizens had a compound in the back country. She and Keyes planned on joining them.

After today, it would be time to get out of San Fran-sewer. Run for it before the bridges were blockaded or blown. Hunker down and wait while the fires raged.

She drew a hard breath. This was actually it.

In a booth by the window, a kid pressed his face to the glass. “It’s Air Force One.”

His mother glanced up idly. “It’s just a seven forty-seven.”

“It says ‘United States of America’ on the side. Mom,
look.
”

His mom looked again, along with everybody in the restaurant. Ivory froze, eyes pinned on the sky.

In the distance, gear down like an evil bird, the blue-and-white 747 floated toward the runway. People scurried to the windows. Several pulled out cameras and phones and snapped photos.

“That is so cool,” the boy said.

The sandwich fell from Ivory’s hand. The roar of the engines, the shriek of death, passed outside, not close enough to touch. Not yet.

She called Keyes as she headed out the door. “Wheels down in thirty seconds. I’m moving and will report when the motorcade is sighted.”

 

 

P
AINE PICKED UP his mail from the post office box. The envelope was slim, the handwriting crabbed. No return address. Keyes had got that right. So far so good.

Paine tore open the envelope and shook out a claim check ticket from the Hilton near Union Square. One of the busiest hotels in the city—two points for Keyes. Twenty minutes later he handed over the ticket at the bell stand in the Hilton. The bellman retrieved a gray sports bag and said, “Need help loading your car?”

“No.” Paine took it from him. “It’s no trouble.”

He set the bag down and dug two bucks from his pocket. The bellman already found him distinctive; fail to tip, and he’d become
that asshole
. Tips were insurance against standing out. He hoisted the sports bag over his shoulder and left.

Three blocks uphill, he walked into another chain hotel. It was bustling and upscale, but not so ritzy that the staff were all over people who walked through the doors or—as Paine did—into the men’s room. Good: no attendant. Nobody would see and remember him.

He locked himself in a stall and opened the sports bag. Maneuvering awkwardly in the tight quarters, he changed into the Blue Eagle Security uniform Keyes had left for him. He could barely zip the navy blue pants. He fumbled with the buttons of the shirt, sucking in his gut. The short jacket was roomier. He zipped it halfway.

Today was shaping up. Today was going to be the pinnacle.

Today, the fire would be lit.

To have a task before him that so united all his goals—a task that aligned with his beliefs, and promised riches—filled him with awe. It was righteous and beautiful.

And it chilled him. If he failed, he’d die.

He would be hunted, relentlessly, and there wouldn’t be arrest and trial. Federal agents might try to capture him. But his paymaster would expend huge resources to ensure that he was never taken alive. His paymaster would break the bank to kill him before he could talk. Fail this time, and he had no out. He couldn’t turn back. He had to succeed.

So he would.

Today the message would be delivered. He would, as usual, come at the task obliquely. But today the message wouldn’t be oblique. Today, he would drive home the point in blood and fire.

Tasia McFarland had been a message too. Her death was collateral damage. Today’s damage would strike harder, spread deeper. Today’s damage would not be merely collateral, or family-oriented, though that was his specialty. And really, “family” could not truly describe the relationship of the Usurper and the new succubus who shared his bed. Today’s damage would be direct and irrevocable. It would light the fire, the big one, the one that would cleanse and purge the nation.

Stuffing his own clothes in the sports bag, he walked out of the men’s room, staring straight ahead. Man in a company uniform, quiet, bland—he would blend with the furniture, the background, and a crowd. He would become invisible.

So when he struck, it would seem to come straight out of nowhere.

J
O PAUSED OUTSIDE WAYMIRE & FONG’S ART DECO OFFICE BUILDING. She kicked off one of her heels to get rid of a pebble. She braced a hand against the wall of the building and, for a moment, wished this weren’t a city street but a mountainside, that this wind was funneling between spires in the high country, beckoning her to funneling between spires in the high country, beckoning her to climb.

All the mountains could do was kill her. They wouldn’t laugh over her grave and toast their success at dragging her name through the mud. They wouldn’t punish her lover. They wouldn’t shoulder her aside when she tried to warn people of danger.

She put her shoe back on, smoothed her hair, and entered the building to face K. T. Lewicki.

 

 

P
ARKED BENEATH A freeway interchange outside San Francisco airport, Ivory held a map and talked into her phone, though nobody was on the other end. Overhead, foreign jumbo jets lugged themselves into the air, engines annoying the hell out of her already ragged nerves.

Half a mile away, a gate in the airport fence rolled open. On the tarmac Ivory saw seagulls, coast guard planes, private jets, and in the distance, the white-and-blue paint on the 747 with the lettering on the side that said UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Through the gate came a parade of police motorcycles and black Chevy Suburbans. They accelerated and roared past, three vehicles, four—how did you know which one the bastard was riding in?—and zoomed onto the freeway.

She dropped the map, started the car, and pulled out to follow them.