The Eighth Day (8 page)

Jeez Louise,
Danny thought.
This is going to make Belzer happy! This is gonna—

Fuck me.

It was, he suddenly realized, the end of the investigation. There wasn’t much of anything left for him to do. The client didn’t want him to interview any of the obvious sources (Rolvaag, Barzan, or Patel). And the estate auction would happen on its own in two months. Maybe Belzer would ask him to attend and bid, but even if he did, that was a couple of hours of work and nothing more. As for the laptop, it was sitting in Italy. And the client was
from
Italy. So that was that. Obviously, Belzer would take it from here.

End of story.

The End.

SIX

Only it wasn’t. The End, that is.

He still had a report to write and a couple of loose ends to tie up. Sitting down at his desk in the studio, he went on-line to the FedEx tracking Web site and typed in the waybill numbers to see if Terio’s computer had arrived in Rome. It had.

The next thing to do was make sure that the Jason Patel who’d been killed in California was the same one that Terio had called.

There were a couple of ways to do that, Danny thought. For instance: he could call the number he’d been given by the data broker in Daytona and see who answered. But no. If it
was
the same Jason Patel, either no one would answer or the police would pick up—in which case things might get complicated.

A safer course of action, and the one he took, was to run a credit check on the Jason Patel whose telephone number he had. This wasn’t entirely legal, of course. The dissemination of credit reports was supposedly restricted to a handful of requesters: landlords and employers could get them, and so could insurance companies, collection agencies, and businesses that grant credit to consumers. But aside from those, and aside from the person whose credit history it was, that was about it—in theory, anyway.

As a practical matter, it was really just a question of establishing a dummy account with one of the credit-reporting agencies. Fellner Associates had a number of such accounts, using bland names like Franklin Realty, First Manassas Investments, and Harriman’s Department Stores. On occasion, Danny had run credit checks for one investigation or another, so it only took him a minute or two to find the password that he needed in one of his old notebooks.

He went to the Experian Web site and entered what little information he had—in essence, Patel’s first and last names and the phone number that he’d gotten from Florida. Then he clicked on one of the boxes on the screen, indicating that all he needed was the report’s “top line.” This would give him Patel’s most recent address and current employer but no financial information—which was fine. Danny didn’t need to know how much Patel was making or whether he paid his bills on time. He just wanted to know if the guy had been tortured to death.

After plugging in the data, Danny hit the
RETURN
key, sat back, and watched. After a bit, the screen shivered and the information appeared: Patel’s name, address, and telephone number. Then the words:

Very Small Systems, Inc.

Chief Technology Officer

Christ,
he thought.
It is the same guy.

His first instinct was to call Belzer. But it was still early in the morning in San Francisco—so he decided to wait. In fact, he tried to put the whole thing out of his mind.

Removing a small notebook from the top drawer of his desk, he leafed through its pages until he found what he was looking for—a list of sculptures and paintings, lithographs, and other works, pieces in galleries and loaned out to friends. There were fifteen of them, total, of which he still liked nine or ten. Taken together with what he had in the studio and with the pieces in his own apartment, he might be able to put together twenty works that would be worth showing.

Crossing the room to the bank of windows on the far wall, he gazed out across the tops of trees, without really seeing them. In his mind’s eye, he was taking a virtual tour of the Neon Gallery, hanging the show. The gallery consisted of two large rooms, with very high ceilings, and a smaller room on the second floor. Most of his work would fit nicely in one of the larger rooms, with maybe some spillover onto the second floor. But there was no way he could furnish the entire gallery—not with what he had.

So maybe it’s a good thing Belzer’s over with. I gotta get rolling.

For a second he remembered Lavinia’s cool glance of assessment, her bloodred lips and businesslike tone: “You
do
have enough work . . . ?”

Today was—what?—August tenth. The show was October fifth. That gave him almost two months. But of course he still had to put in twenty hours a week for Ian. Unless he quit. For a moment he considered that. It might make sense. The show was a lot more important than anything he did at the gallery. On the other hand, he had exactly what—a grand?—in the bank. Plus whatever he got from Belzer.
Not enough
. And he’d have extra expenses, mounting the show. Which meant that if he quit working for Ian, he’d have to survive on the kindness of . . . Caleigh. Not something he wanted to do.

What he really needed was video equipment. There was just so much he could do with it. But that wasn’t likely to happen. He’d worked about twenty-five hours for Belzer—not enough, even, to earn out his advance. He still had a report to write, and there was an outside chance that Belzer would want him to go to the estate sale to bid on the filing cabinets. So maybe he’d rack up thirty hours all together. About half of what he’d need just to make the down payment on a good system.

Frustrated, he picked up a pair of wire snips and began to rework a mobile that he’d put aside the week before. It was a delicate piece, which he’d fabricated from strands of heavy-gauge copper wire, crimped and bent into a painterly simulacrum of Albert Einstein. Suspended from the ceiling by a nylon thread, the mobile turned slowly on its axis, looking for all the world as if it had been sketched in the air. It was an interesting experiment and Danny was proud of it, but if it was going to work it would have to work from every angle. No matter which way the mobile turned or where one stood in the room, it should be obvious—immediately obvious—that this was a representation of Einstein.

And it wasn’t there yet. From the back, it looked more like Jerry Garcia. Using the snips and a pair of pliers, he twisted the wire this way and that, adding a line of metal here and removing one there. Soon he was lost in the moment, aware of nothing but his hands and the wire in his hands—the image, the shape, the surprise.

He worked for nearly an hour, until—quite suddenly—he looked up and realized where he was. The transition he went through was as profound and instantaneous as that a swimmer feels when he breaks the surface of the water, moving from one atmosphere to another. He stepped back, cocked his head, and considered the mobile. Then he walked around it.
Not bad,
he decided.
Less Jerry. More Albert.

But he was going to be late if he didn’t hurry. He had to be at the gallery at one, and it was already a quarter to. Even so, he paused long enough to gaze unhappily on
Babel On II
. It was the best thing he’d ever done. He had to have it for the show. But he still had to figure out how the hell he was going to move it and keep it in one piece.

He spent the rest of the afternoon working at the gallery. Caleigh called. (“It’s for you,” Ian grouched.) She told him she had to work late. Also, she’d have to bail on their weekend plans. Tomorrow, she was heading to Seattle—some kind of meltdown at headquarters.

After Jake stopped by to borrow twenty bucks, Ian cut loose with a tight-assed little speech about “personal phone calls and visitors to the workplace.” Danny listened patiently, idly toying with the rings in his ear and secretly feeling sorry for the guy—who couldn’t even look him in the eye. It was embarrassing. The man was almost hyperventilating.

“Okay,” Danny said when Ian seemed to be done. “Take it easy.”

That just set him off again. “Take it
easy
?” Ian wheezed. “I might take it easy if . . .” And so on.

Danny tuned out, but when Ian finally wound down he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Remember,” he said, “you only pay me nine bucks an hour.”

If Ian hadn’t already worn himself out venting, Danny thought, he might have gone nova.

After work, he stopped at Mixtec for a plate of rice and beans, which he washed down with a couple of bottles of Negra Modelo. Then he went back to the apartment, wrote up his report, and, using the Quick Books program, logged in the expenses he’d incurred and the hours he’d worked. When he was done, he called Belzer to tell him about the FedEx receipt he’d found in Terio’s garbage.

“That’s very good work,” Belzer remarked. “Very smart!”

“Thanks.”

“And he sent the computer to Rome?”

“Right,” Danny said, “to a priest named Inzaghi.”

“ ‘Inzaghi’ . . . and how do you know he’s a priest?”

“Because there’s an ‘S.J.’ after his name.” When the lawyer didn’t react, Danny added, “Society of Jesus. It means he’s a Jesuit.”

“I know what it means,” Belzer replied. “I was just thinking . . .
Roma
.”

“Nice town,” Danny joked. “If you need someone to look up the good father . . . I’m available.”

To his surprise, the suggestion was greeted by a long silence. Finally, Belzer said, “I thought you didn’t speak Italian.”

Danny laughed. “I don’t. I mean, I can order pasta. ‘Penne penne penne. Vino.’ ” He paused. “That would be three orders of penne and, ummm—some wine.”

Belzer chuckled. “Let me think about it,” he suggested. “I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

Rii-ight,
Danny thought.
I’ll wait by the phone.

He was smearing marmalade on a piece of toast when the phone rang. To his astonishment, it was Belzer. “I was thinking,” the lawyer said. “It might be an advantage.”

“What might?” Danny asked.

“Being an American. Being
so
American. And not having the language.”

Danny frowned. Was he serious? “I don’t get it. Why would
that
help? I couldn’t even ask him about the computer. Which is what we’re talking about, right? The priest—the computer?”

“Exactly. But what if you had some good ID—and telephone backup? You could tell the priest you’re a detective—a police detective—and that you’re investigating Mr. Terio’s death.”

The suggestion was so unexpected, and such a nonstarter, that even though he was alone in the apartment, Danny mimed a look of shock.
You gotta be kidding,
he thought as the silence between them grew.

After a while, Belzer cued him: “Dan?”

“Yes . . .”

“I was saying that”—

“It’s just . . . not the sort of thing I do,” Danny told him.

“Oh, but it is,” Belzer replied. “It’s exactly the sort of thing you do. Didn’t you pretend to be in the market for a house when you called the real-estate agent?”

“Yeah, sure, but that’s a lot different from impersonating a police officer. One’s a white lie; the other’s a felony.”

“Not in Italy,” Belzer said. “A Fairfax County sheriff’s deputy has no authority whatsoever in Rome, so impersonating one would be more like an eccentricity than a crime. It’s not like you’d be pretending to judicial authority—because you wouldn’t have any . . . not
really
.” Belzer paused and then went on. “And let’s not lose sight of what we’re doing here: Zerevan Zebek is being smeared from one end of Europe to the other—and it’s costing him millions. He can afford that, I’ll admit. He’s a very wealthy man. But he’s not the only one getting hurt. When a company like Sistemi di Pavone takes a hit, a lot of people suffer. Suppliers lose money; people lose jobs. There’s a snowball effect.”

“I understand, but—”

“A little subterfuge isn’t the end of the world. It’s not as if I’m asking you to do something illegal.”

“I know, but—”

“You could give it a try,” Belzer suggested.

“You mean—”

“Go over there. See what the comfort level is.”

Danny thought about it. Thought:
Roma!
Thought:
No more Ian!
Then he heard himself say, “And if I do?”

“You’d be very well paid.”

“And what is it you’d want me to do?”

“Talk to the priest. See if you can get the computer back.”

A skeptical look settled on Danny’s face.
And how am I gonna do that?

“I’ll give you ten thousand dollars,” Belzer went on. “That’s in addition to your hourly rate and expenses. Maybe the priest will sell you the computer. If he does, fine—you can keep whatever’s left. I don’t care how you handle it, actually. What I’m hoping is that you’ll use your imagination to come up with a pretext that works for everyone. And if, in the end, you’re unsuccessful—well, you’ll have been well paid for your time.”

Danny wasn’t sure what to say. The idea of pretending to be a cop made him nervous. Even if it wasn’t illegal, it was sleazy. Like Dumpster diving. That was legal, too, but you wouldn’t want to put it on your résumé.
And that’s not all. . . .
He’d seen a follow-up story on the “desert crucifixion” the night before. Watched a woman in a red suit standing in front of a monster Joshua tree, her eyes crinkling against the desert sun. She was talking about how Patel’s body had been pierced by dozens of cholla cactus spines.
I’m told that these are so sharp and strong, John, that if you kick a cholla even with the thickest leather boots, the spines go right through.
Even so, he hadn’t bled to death.
Preliminary indications are that Mr. Patel died of dehydration.

Just like Terio,
Danny thought. It was another coincidence and, like the first, it made him nervous. As did Belzer himself. The guy was way slick, even for a lawyer. And a little bent, too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t suggest this stuff about pretending to be a cop.

On the other hand . . .
there was ten thousand dollars out there. Maybe he could just
buy
the computer from the priest. He might not even want the thing. The Vatican probably had a boatload of computers already. In fact, they were probably
swimming
in computers.

He’d offer, say . . . two or three grand—leaving Danny with . . . seven or eight grand. And even if the holy father didn’t want to sell the goddamn thing, Danny would still be racking up eight hundred dollars a day just for going to see him.

“As I said, we’d take care of the expenses,” Belzer reminded him.

“Uh-huh.” Danny had been to Italy once before—right out of college, the backpacking thing with Jake. Even with them “picnicking” on bread and cheese and sleeping in hostels, the country had been almost supernaturally expensive—so much so that they hadn’t even gotten to Rome. They’d kicked around Florence for three or four days, spending as much money as they’d budgeted for two weeks. They couldn’t keep it up, hopped a bus down to the Boot, found a boat to Corfu. Missed the Vatican and so much else. Maybe it was time he saw Rome. . . .