The Glass House (11 page)

“He said it was just a sedative, to counteract the effect of the caffeine. That the guy was his partner and hadn't slept for days. That I'd save their marriage if I'd just put the powder in the coffee so he could sleep.”

“And you believed him?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? Why would you believe that?”

“Well, he's a musician like me.”

“How do you know that?”

“He'd brought in his cello before. He showed it to me. It was incredible—an Andrea Amati.”

“A what?”

“Some think it's the finest string instrument ever made. There are only three still extant,” Emerson said.

She looked back at him. “And you know this why?”

“Because such things interest me.”

Yslan shook her head and returned to Jason. “What about the five hundred dollars he gave you?”

“It was a surety.”

“A what?”

“He promised me that if I put the powder in his guy's coffee that he'd let me have the Andrea Amati for a week. A whole week! But since he didn't have it with him that time he gave me five hundred dollars as a show of good faith.”

“What's this guy's name?”

“I don't know.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I can try.”

Yslan turned to the cop who still had the battering ram in his hand and said, “Get a sketch artist in here, now.”

There was a long moment of silence. Jason sat heavily on a straight-backed chair. The cello bow fell from his hand to the floor with a thin clatter.

“What happens now?” Jason asked.

“Now you talk to the sketch artist.”

“And then?”

“You get yourself a lawyer because you're going to need one.”

• • •

Down on the street, Yslan pulled out her BlackBerry.

“What now?” Emerson asked.

“That cello.”

“The Andrea Amati?”

“Yeah, that one. It's rare, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Get in the car.” She looked at her BlackBerry and said, “Twenty-One Eighteen South Dakota Avenue. Go.”

“What's there?”

“Maybe a place to start.”

THE SHOP DOOR HAD A
sign stating “Appointments are required, please do not ring the doorbell” and gave a phone number.

Emerson leaned on the doorbell, and eventually a light came on inside the shop. Through the dust-covered front window the place looked like something from a Dickens novel. The man who eventually opened the door was also right from one of Mr. Dickens's extraordinary inventions. Since he was much closer to seven feet in height than six and could not have weighed 120 pounds, he probably would have had a name like Pennyfeather or Pifflewanger or the like, although he introduced himself as Theodore Ross. They introduced themselves then asked if he would answer a few questions.

“Okay but I'm afraid I've become just a teensy bit literal in my old age. I hope that's okay with you?”

Neither Yslan nor Emerson had any idea what that had to do with anything, so they launched right in. “Have you ever sold an Andrea Amati cello?”

“An Andrea Amati? Goodness gracious, no. And I don't know anyone who ever has.”

“So you don't—”

“I've only seen an Andrea Amati in this shop once before.”

“And when was that?”

“July third, 1994.”

“And you remember that date why exactly?”

“Well, it was the only time I'd seen an Amati cello.”

“So you said.”

“That literalism I warned you about.”

“Yes.”

“And my wife died the very next day.”

Yslan stared at this strange creature. Was he pulling their collective legs? But Emerson was unfazed and said, “I'm sorry to hear that. Do you happen to remember who brought you the Andrea Amati cello?”

“Certainly.”

Yslan and Emerson waited for the details, but none were forthcoming. “So?” Yslan demanded.

“So what?” Theodore Ross asked, clearly lost.

“So,” Yslan asked carefully, “can you describe the person who brought you the cello?”

Theodore Ross smiled, greatly relieved, and said, “Yes.”

Yslan and Emerson waited—nothing. “Well, would you please?”

“Please what?”

“Describe the person who brought in the Andrea Amati cello.”

“Oh, that. But I'm not good at describing—”

“Please try, it's important.”

“There's an easier way—”

“Excuse me?”

He indicated an old poster behind them on the wall. It announced a classical string concert by a group called the Path. No other names appeared on the poster. The date was almost two years ago. The poster did have a small photo featuring the twelve musicians fronted by a conductor. Theodore Ross crossed to the poster, leaned down and put on a pair of glasses with Coke-bottle
lenses. Then he pointed to the grey-haired man in the back row and said, “Him.”

• • •

Within twenty minutes they had enlargements of the man's image sent to every Homeland and NSA office, and the most advanced facial recognition software in the world was parsing the image.

Jason ID'd the grey-haired man as the one who gave him the five hundred dollars.

An hour later Emerson and Yslan were in the office of the concert promoter who had staged the event where the Andrea Amati cellist had played.

THE THIN BALDING MAN HAD
delicate hands. He'd clearly earned every wrinkle on his seventy-plus-years face. He sat behind a huge desk. Yslan wondered if his feet touched the ground. She doubted they did.

A poster over his shoulder announced, “Nothing mars perfect beauty like missing a Levine concert.”

“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Levine.”

“I was told that if I knew what was good for me I'd make time to see you.”

“And that you'd cooperate with us?”

“Yeah, that too.”

“That's good advice, Mr. Levine,” Emerson said.

The man's face suddenly lightened—as if the clouds had cleared. “Call me Arnie, like the golfer.”

“Okay, Arnie, who gave you such good advice?”

“A flutist who owes me some money, whose brother's wife's sister is a legal aid attorney.”

Emerson nodded. Yslan produced a copy of the concert poster from Theodore Ross's shop and laid it out on the desk. “Arnie,” Yslan said, “you promoted this concert.”

“That's against the law? Since when?”

“It's not against the law, Arnie. Just take a look at the poster.”

Arnie took a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his desk and looked at the poster. Then he muttered, “Very smart, very smart.” He took off the glasses and took out another pair that looked exactly the same, put them on, looked at the poster and said, “Ah.” He noticed Yslan's inquiring look and said, “Silly me—I bought regular and reading glasses exact the same.”

“Why? Was there a sale on frames?”

“There was one, but I missed it by a week. My kind of luck, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, that kind of thing happens, Arnie.”

“To others, seldom—to me, all the time.”

“Yes. Arnie, can you take a look at the poster. Do you remember this group of musicians?”

Arnie leaned forward so that he was almost on top of the poster. Yslan wondered what good the glasses did if he had to be so close. Then Arnie smiled. “Yeah, I remember. They were great.”

“How so?”

“They paid up front—great.”

“Do you remember anything else about them?”

“The Path, they were called the Path—or at least that's what they called themselves then.” He took off his reading glasses.

“Classical groups change their names?” Yslan asked as she rolled up the poster.

“All the time—helps them get away without paying the promoter.”

“What?”

“Nothing—a joke, just a joke, jeez.”

Yslan thought for a second then asked, “Why the Path? Why that name, do you think?”

“Classical groups need to sound, you know, hip.”

The word “hip” sounded archaic coming from this man's mouth—archaic, white, fifties.

“Do you know where we can find the Path?”

“You fans?” Before Yslan or Emerson could reply, he continued, clearly happy that this was no more than fans wanting info. “Hard to find them in stores—ain't that many record stores left. Online I guess, if you're lucky. That's it? That's all you want to know? Thanks for coming—”

“No, Arnie, I mean find them. The actual musicians of the Path.”

Arnie deflated. “Nope. Haven't got a clue how to find them.”

“How do you communicate with them?”

“E-mail.”

“We'll have to have our people look at your computer.”

“Okay. Do I get a loaner? I'd love an iPad.”

“No you don't.”

“Hey! That's not fair; I'm cooperating here.”

“Yes you are, but you're dealing with the federal government—and they're not always fair. Our guys are outside, they'll be right in.”

Emerson and Yslan headed towards the door, where Yslan stopped and turned back to Arnie. “How do they pay you?” The little man's face crinkled into a smile. “Cash? They pay you in cash, Arnie?”

“A man has to make a living and classical music—”

“Isn't that popular anymore,” Yslan completed his thought. “Do you happen to declare this cash to the IRS?”

The man smiled and shrugged. His narrow shoulders almost reached his ears as he said, “I'm such a small fish, who would notice?”

“I would, Mr. Levine,” Yslan said.

“Now it's Mr. Levine. Was Arnie before, but now it's Mr. Levine.”

“Right,” Yslan said, “So, Mr. Levine, maybe we can help you keep your secret.”

“That would be good, since I'm cooperating. And you're a nice person.” Then as if it were a revelation he announced, “Hey, I'm a nice person—”

“Yes.” Yslan returned to the desk and spread out the poster again. “Put on your reading glasses, Mr. Levine.” He did. Yslan pointed to the man holding the Andrea Amati cello. “Tell me everything you know about this man.”

“The Freak?”

“Why do you call him that?”

“Because he looks like a freak—so the Freak.”

“You wouldn't happen to know how we can find the Freak?”

“No idea where to find WJ.”

“WJ?”

“Yeah, that's all I've ever known him as—WJ. He comes, gives me the cash, plays the concert, then poof—gone.”

“What does WJ stand for?”

“For WJ I guess.”

Yslan stared at Arnie for a moment, then picked up the poster, turned and headed towards the door, where she said to the waiting techs, “He wants a loaner for his computer.”

They all—except Arnie Levine—had a good laugh about that.

“Very funny. You folks are really a hoot. Yessiree bob.”

Something about the slurring of the
s
in “yessiree” made Yslan turn back.

Arnie smiled at her, a big sarcastic smile. “A real pleasure doing business with you people,” he said.

She hadn't noticed that he was missing a front tooth before.

“Now get your ass outta my office.”

“Sure, Arnie. But, you know, you ought to get that tooth replaced. That space in the front of your mouth mars your perfect beauty.”

“Will do, officer, just lend me the twenty-five hundred buckos.”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars?”

“Front teeth—they have to screw in. Twenty-five hundred buckos.”

• • •

Back on the street, Arnie Levine's phrase “twenty-five hundred buckos” kept going round and round Yslan's head. She walked right past their parked car.

“Hey! Car's back here.”

“Yeah I know that, but—”

“But what?”

“I don't know what—but it's something.”
Twenty-five hundred buckos
, she thought,
twenty-five hundred buckos.

• • •

Yslan awoke with a start and switched on the bedside light. She grabbed her BlackBerry and quickly found the prison photos of Martin Armistaad taken three days before his escape, two of which had him smiling a big tooth-filled smile. Then she called up the video of her interview with him. She fast-forwarded to the one moment Martin Armistaad smiled at her, and there it was—he was missing a front tooth.

She grabbed the phone and called Emerson.

“What?” he answered, his voice deep with sleep.

“We're going to Leavenworth.”

“Why?”

“Because a new front tooth costs twenty-five hundred buckos.”

THE PRISON DENTIST MADE THEM
wait. Yslan took the time to check up at the office. There was a note that they were having trouble contacting Viola Tripping. Yslan tried Sora's private line—there was no connection. Not no signal—no connection.

The elderly inmate who acted as a receptionist approached them and said, “The doctor will see you now.”

To Yslan the prison dentist looked more like a well-fed country vet than a DDS, although he had all the arrogance of a head of surgery at a big city hospital. “Look here, I'm an educated man—”

Yslan cut him short. “There's no patient confidentiality between a dentist and a patient—especially a federal prisoner patient—if that's where you are going with this.”

“I'll need a lawyer to confirm that,” the large man said.

Yslan was about to respond when she felt Emerson's hand on her shoulder. He whispered, “A word?”

Yslan turned to the dentist and said, “We'll be back in a minute. Give me your cell phone.”