The wake-up Page 4

  "Do you like that?"

  Thorpe nodded, noncommittal. He strolled around, stopped, then crossed over to a high-gloss ebony desk for a better look. He picked up a small limestone wall panel, held it gently, stared at the image of a man in an elaborate headdress surrounded by Mayan hieroglyphs. The panel was absolutely genuine, a seven-inch-long piece of limestone chipped off a temple wall in Uxmal or Copan or some unknown, overgrown city given up to lizards and dragonflies. Half the man's body was gone, but the face was startling, one of the lords of the Yucatan, a broad, thick-lipped autocrat from seven hundred years ago, more distant from the present than the calendar could count. Thorpe's fingers grazed the regal verdigris countenance, the face staring back at him with blind eyes. A king without a kingdom. In a perfect world, Thorpe would steal the broken panel and return it to the jungle, hide the Mayan lord in some triple-canopy vastness, where the howler monkeys could serenade him for eternity. In this world, it was just the kind of thing he was hoping to find in Meachum's gallery.

  "Lovely, isn't it?" said Nell. "It just came in yesterday. It was pre-sold, I'm afraid."

  "Pity." Thorpe held the limestone king in his hands. Pieces like this hadn't been allowed out of their country of origin for thirty years. "What's the provenance?"

  "You'd have to ask Douglas. I really don't know."

  "Is the buyer local?"

  Nell hesitated. "We have to maintain our clients' privacy. I'm sure you understand."

  Thorpe carefully replaced the panel on the desk. He went through the motions of looking at other items in the shop, felt the nap of a classic Anatolian carpet, peered at the signature on a Manolo bullfighter print while Nell hovered behind him.

  "Why don't we sit down, have an espresso or a glass of wine, and get to know each other?" Nell gestured to the pale blue leather sofa in a nearby alcove, a cozy nook half-hidden from the main room. "We have a relatively small inventory, but I have access to pieces from all over the globe. I'm certain I can show you some things that would be suitable to your needs."

  "How about a martini? That would suit my needs."

  Nell started to check her watch, then slipped through a curtain into the back of the shop.

  Thorpe sat down on the sofa, draped a leg over one of the arms, and listened to her cracking ice. It was a good sound, and the sound of her jiggling the cocktail shaker was even better. He waited until she came back bearing a couple of martini glasses, a little nervous, probably not sure if she had made the drink to his liking. She had too many clients with misplaced priorities. "Where's the boss?"

  Nell's gray eyes heated up. Meachum might be her boss, but she didn't enjoy it. Another reason for Thorpe to like her. "Mr. Meachum is in New York on a buying trip."

  "Must be our lucky day, Nell. That way, you get the commission, and I get the pleasure of your company. I hear he's a prick anyway."

  Nell had a little-girl laugh, high and nervous, like it didn't get out to play enough. "I really can't address that."

  Thorpe winked at her. "You just did."

  Nell joined him on the couch, the soft flesh under her chin jiggling slightly. "This new home of yours… what kind of square footage are we talking about?"

  Two martinis later, they were old friends, chuckling over the latest movies and the best Japanese restaurants, knee-to-knee, Nell confiding that she was tired of covering for Meachum: "Little Nell has her resume at the Guggenheim and the Whitney, and I'm just waiting for them to give me a buzz."

  Thorpe beamed as they went through portfolio notebooks of houses Meachum and Associates had made over. The notebooks were filled with slides and eight-by-ten color glossies, and Nell was eager to let him know the pieces she had chosen, and which ones had been selected by Douglas Meachum. The dates of installation were clearly marked on the slides and glossies, but there was no indication of the clients' identities, and, more importantly, he didn't see any other pre-Columbian pieces.

  "The party that purchased the Mayan frieze, have you worked with him before?" asked Thorpe. "Or is it a she?"

  "It's a them, and they're new to the art world." Nell shook her head. "The Mayan head is the piece de resistance, but it's only part of the collection we've put together for them. We're doing their whole house." She was slurring her words, her voice a little too loud. "Proof positive that art is wasted on the rich."

  "I know just what you mean. Let me guess: They made their money in real estate? Strip malls and parking lots."

  "Nope."

  "They're doctors," said Thorpe. "Doctors have the worst taste in the world."

  "Except for lawyers."

  "Okay, he's a doctor; she's an attorney. Am I getting warm?"

  Nell shook her head. "Cold as ice."

  "Give me a hint."

  "T-shirts." Nell giggled, covered her mouth, as though she had spilled the secret of the plasma warp drive.

  "Right."

  "I'm serious, Frank."

  Thorpe turned the page, backing off, giving her a chance to tease him with more information. A circular red-and-white bedroom was filled with paintings, larger-than-life realistic nudes of Bill and Hillary Clinton, Jesse Jackson, Barbra Streisand, and Michael Moore. The sight gave Thorpe a headache.

  "I put that whole room together," Nell boasted. She leaned closer and sloshed the last of her drink over her wrist, but she didn't seem to notice. "The artist is a young Chicano painter, totally self-taught. He does Republicans, too. I could talk to him…"

  "Anyone working in here?" A woman stood just inside the doorway, tapping her perfectly white sneaker on the bleached pine, a thin, pretty blonde in her early thirties, wearing a white pleated tennis skirt, a scoop-neck blouse showing off the taut musculature of her upper arms. Three gold chains were looped around her neck, a gold stallion dangling from one of them. A red Ferrari convertible was double-parked out front. She scanned the room, her face sharp and hard. "I'm waiting." Her voice was a crow's caw, demanding, and she wasn't so pretty anymore.

  Nell quickly got up, smoothed her hair. "Mrs. Riddenhauer, so nice to-"

  "What do you look so guilty about?"

  Nell reddened.

  "Relax," said Mrs. Riddenhauer, her eyes on Thorpe. "No one could blame you." Her body seemed to vibrate at a submolecular level, but she didn't jerk or twitch-it was as though she simply put out more energy than her skin could contain. "Where's Meachum?"

  "Mr. Meachum isn't here at the moment, but I'm sure that I-"

  "He's never around unless I'm writing a check." Mrs. Riddenhauer caught sight of the Mayan wall plaque on the desk, crossed over and picked it up, her brows wrinkling. "Is this it?" She turned it over, handling it roughly. "Not very big for a hundred and twenty-five thousand."

  "It's a unique object," Nell said softly. "Size… size isn't really important."

  "That's where you're wrong." Mrs. Riddenhauer watched Thorpe. "My husband is hung like a Brahma bull, so don't think size-"

  "Ole," said Thorpe, snapping his finger overhead, giddy from the martinis and his own good fortune.

  Mrs. Riddenhauer squinted at Thorpe, then turned back to Nell. "Still seems like a lot of money for a chunk of rock, and this guy with the headdress is an ugly son of a bitch, too." Her eyes narrowed at Thorpe. "Ole… I get it." She hummed softly as she looked him over. "I like clever men."

  "If you don't wish to take possession, I'm sure Douglas would be happy to retain the piece," said Nell.

  "Don't be snippy," said Mrs. Riddenhauer, her eyes still on Thorpe. "Meachum said every room was supposed to have a-what did he call it?"

  "An aesthetic focal point."

  Mrs. Riddenhauer put back the limestone panel. "Well, the dining room needs a fucking focal point, and this is it. Just make sure it's installed before my party. You need to come by and rearrange the main living room, too. It's still not right." The sunlight coming through the window behind her made her skirt nearly transparent. A thong on center court… Thorpe wondered what Wimbledon would say about that. Mrs. Riddenh
auer showed him her small, slightly uneven teeth. "You have a name, clever guy?"

  "Frank Antonelli."

  "Missy Riddenhauer." She slipped her hand in his. "As in Camp Riddenhauer."

  Thorpe nodded, as though he knew what she was talking about.

  "What do you do, Frank?"

  "I sell insurance."

  "Sounds dull." Missy held on to his hand, and her grip was warm and very firm, and if she wanted to hang on, Thorpe was going to have to clock her to make her let go. "You don't look dull."

  "Ah, but I am. I see that Ferrari of yours out front, and all I can think of is what kind of liability coverage you have, and how you keep that short skirt from blowing in the wind when you accelerate."

  "Would you like to go for a ride? You can see how well I manage it."

  "I can't today."

  Missy gnawed her lower lip, and Thorpe wasn't sure if it was a sign of desire or anger. She gave his hand a final squeeze, then released him. "You want to come to my party? It's next Saturday night, and it's going to be loads of fun. Come on, what's to think about? Meachum did a complete makeover on our home-you'll get a chance to see if you like his work, and I'll get a chance to see if you're as boring as you say you are."

  "Sure, sounds like fun."

  "I'll put your name on the guest list." Missy slipped him a business card. "Send me an e-mail if you need anything. Nell, give the man the details." She turned on her heel, strode out the door, and slid behind the wheel of the Ferrari.

  Thorpe tucked away Missy's business card as she roared off.

  5

  "Best behavior now, Warren. This is a dangerous man," said Billy, introducing them. "Everybody in the shop thought Frank was a brainiac, but I knew better."

  Warren looked up from his beeping GameBoy, pushed aside a nest of light blue hair, the silver chains around his wrists making slinky sounds. He was in his twenties, a sullen punk in torn jeans and a black leather jacket, a barbell stud through his left eyebrow, blue mascara matching his hair and nail polish-the geek as rough trade. He propped one black engineer's boot on the plastic bench of lane number 24, the last lane of the Hollywood Bowlerama, eyeballing Thorpe.

  Thorpe held up his right hand. "I come in peace."

  Warren went back to his GameBoy, one of those modified units sold only in Japan.

  "You'll have to forgive Warren-he's very territorial," said Billy.

  "I'll survive." Thorpe felt like he had to shout to be heard over the thundering din, but Billy's silky voice somehow cut through the noise, slipped under the disco blaring on the sound system. No wonder Billy had wanted to meet here: there wasn't a parabolic mike or laser recorder that could pick up conversation through the auditory soup.

  "Of course you will," purred Billy, a tall, powerfully built man in his mid-fifties, with large liquid eyes, a broad, flat nose, and skin the color of polished anthracite. His gray hair was cropped and thick, an aristocrat in burnt-orange trousers and a shimmering yellow rayon bowling shirt. He plucked his bowling ball from the return chute, hefted it in his huge hands. "Good to see you, Frank. The shop should have never let you go, but then, Hendricks always had a limited imagination."

  "Maybe I was due for a change."

  "Nonsense." Cheers erupted from the next lane. Old ladies in green team shirts-Keglar Kuties-were clapping, high-fiving each other. A wizened bottle redhead called to Billy, and he waved back, then moved to the approach line, stood there, the bowling ball clasped to his chest. His matching yellow bowling shoes whispered across the polished hardwood as he glided forward. A smooth release and the ball whipped down the alley. Strike! He sauntered back.

  "Two forty-one," said Warren. "Today's three-game average is two twelve. Two seventeen for the week."

  Billy tapped the side of his head. "Warren keeps it all up here. You should see him at the supermarket-he knows the final bill before the clerk scans the last item. Comes in handy, Frank. They can't subpoena what's not written down." His face reflected the red neon lane lights as he took inventory of Thorpe's dark gray Versace. "Tres chic, as always. You're the best-dressed killer I ever met." He grinned. "One dead in the parking lot, another cut down charging out of the underbrush, and another so badly wounded, he died that afternoon." Pins crashed around them, echoing off the concrete-block walls. "My whole career, I never hefted anything more dangerous than a butter knife, and you kill three men in the fifteen seconds it took you to reach your car." Billy's eyes were bright now. "What does that feel like?"

  "Like it wasn't nearly enough."

  Billy nodded. "Yes, Kimberly was a talented girl, intellectually very agile. Weeks… well, I always thought he was a little careless."

  "Shut up, Billy."

  "Eggs and omelettes, Frank, and you did draw blood yourself. If you were an ancient Egyptian, those three dead men would be added to your slaves in the afterlife."

  "I don't want any slaves."

  "Might be nice to have someone to send out for ice water."

  "You think I'm going to need a cold drink, Billy?"

  Billy reached for his rum and Coke. "We're both going to be parched for all of eternity. Of that, I'm certain." He peered at Thorpe over the rim of the glass, a lepidopterist examining a particularly interesting butterfly, imagining how he would look with pins through his wings. "How are you physically, Frank? I heard you were lucky not to lose your spleen. I warrant you've been doing push-ups for weeks now, building your strength, working up a good healthy sweat-"

  "Did you check out the Engineer like I asked?"

  "Congratulations." Billy rattled the ice cubes in his drink. "You were right. He was a virus. You have no idea how many markers I had to call in to get confirmation."

  "Does the Engineer's shop know where he is?"

  "What are you guys talking about?" Warren looked from one to the other, his narrow fox face framed by the upturned collar of his leather jacket. "Speak English, okay?"

  "A virus is a player who inserts himself into an existing criminal enterprise, then directs it toward his own ends, or the ends of his shop," explained Billy.

  "I should have picked up on him," said Thorpe. "Lazurus was into extortion, credit card fraud, money laundering… nothing particularly interesting. Then the Engineer joined the crew and they shift into overseas transfers of dual-use hardware. I figured Lazurus had brought him in to oversee the technical part of the operation, but I should-"

  "You weren't the only one fooled." Billy chuckled. "Lazurus probably thought it was his idea to go into the arms business. The Engineer was going to roll up some very nasty operators when the time was ripe. He was going to take down the whole network. You can understand him being vexed when you stepped on his toes. All that hard work spoiled."

  "Vexed? You saw what he did at the safe house."

  Billy shrugged. "These deep-cover boys are always twitchy, and the Engineer was positively subterranean. The way you and Kimberly duped him must have touched a nerve."

  "Why didn't he just say something?" asked Thorpe. "We were on the same side."

  "Actually, no." Billy played with the crease in his trousers. "Different shop."

  "Same fucking side, Billy."

  Billy flicked a speck of lint away. "The Engineer took out Lazurus's crew before he disappeared. Did you know that? Wiped the slate clean, every one of them, except for his own bodyguard. Disappeared with an unknown amount of cash and the cigar box of D-flawless diamonds that Lazurus was so fond of. The Engineer's old shop is as interested in finding him as you are."

  "Sure they are."

  Billy smiled. "Perhaps I have overstated their commitment."

  "I want to talk to your contact at his old shop. I want to find out-"

  "Who would ever trust me if I did that?" Billy laughed. "Besides, I've already asked about the Engineer. He's as much a mystery to them as he is to you." He stroked his chin. "I have good news, though. Your personnel file got hacked yesterday afternoon."

  Thorpe stiffened. "Who was it? Did you ru
n him down?"

  "Regrettably, no," said Billy. "Warren put in a trip wire, but the intruder managed to cover his tracks. Temporarily at least. We can't be sure who it was, but the Engineer is the most likely candidate."

  "He's got some sweet moves," said Warren, his eyes on the GameBoy. "I've been slingshot all over the planet, bouncing from one ISP to another, but I'll find him."

  "Warren changed the file, just as you asked," said Billy. "I had him tweak your postdischarge assessment. Fine piece of work, too, getting past the shop's fire walls."

  "A defcon four-quality crack job," said Warren. "I could bring down the space shuttle if Billy asked me to."

  "But you can't trace the Engineer."

  "Not yet," said Warren.

  "According to your file, you're now a very bad boy, Frank, as corrupt as they come. There's even a notation that you may have lifted a few million in cash from an al Qaeda banker who didn't survive his arrest. For your sake, I hope the Engineer doesn't take the bait."

  "We're not done with each other," said Thorpe.

  "I'm sure it will be a lovely reunion," said Billy. "Give Warren time to locate the Engineer. Warren's an artist. When I met him, he was wasting his time as a card counter in Vegas, and hot-sheeted at most of the casinos. Now he has a calling." His face was radiant. "I hate seeing talent wasted. That's the only sin there is."

  "Oh, there's a few more," said Thorpe.

  "Indeed." Billy sat on the bench, arms and legs spread wide, staking his turf. "How do you like it on the beach, Frank? Not much fun being just a taxpayer, is it?"