smart kid picked up all kinds of things.
Still, there was something sexual about this. A boy embraces an older man and blows them both up.
She kept hearing his voice in her head. Giving a kidlike performance, she thought. A child who was doing his best to act like a child.
Yet she didn't feel the murder in him. The kid was, of course, crazy by definition. But still, she prided herself on a certain ability to suss out the truly dangerous. She couldn't name the specifics, though there were plenty of well-documented signs. This was something else. A flavor, a whiff. A buzz that was the best term she had for it. As if she could hear the tiny sound being made by a bad connection, the particular bit of faulty wiring that made murder more than just a fantasy.
It was complicated by the fact that every now and then, some of them were right. The tobacco companies
She heard a noise in the hallway, right outside her door. A scraping. Something. Like a heel dragging across the tile. It was probably Arthur next door, pausing for an emphysemic breath before stumbling on, but she knew the sounds Arthur made; she knew
She raised her head from the book. She listened.
There it was again. A furtive, scrabbling sound. If this were the country, it might have been an opossum, scratching at the shingles.
She got up, went and stood by the door. Nothing now. Still, she was shaky. A little shaky. Given the times. She didn't have a gun, being deterrence. Had never wanted one. Now she wondered.
She said 'Hello?' and was embarrassed by the girlish fear in her voice. Fuck that. Fuck them if they wanted her meek. She opened the door.
No one. Just the ordinary drear of the corridor, its brackish aquarium light, its tiles the color of decayed teeth. She stepped out and took a proper look. Empty. The sound had probably been coming from the street or through the wall from the other next-door apartment (where the druggy, dreamy young couple in residence were always engaged in some mysterious project that involved endless little tappings and draggings). There was no one and nothing.
It took her another moment to see what was on the wall opposite her door. In white chalk, in perfect if slightly labored grade-school cursive, someone had written, TO DIE IS DIFFERENT FROM WHAT ANY ONE SUPPOSES, AND LUCKIER.
Neither Pete nor the FBI boys could offer much. They questioned the neighbors, of course, and of course nobody knew anything, had seen anyone untoward, or etcetera. As every tenant knew, it was semi-challenging but not impossible to get into the labyrinth of alleys and dumping grounds behind the building and slip in through the broken back door. The building's denizens had recently observed the fifth anniversary of their ongoing attempts to get the landlord to fix it.
Pete stood in Cat's living room, sweating majestically, sipping the espresso she'd made for him.
'How's the coffee?' she asked.
'Strong.'
'Only way I know how to make it.'
'I'm frankly at a loss about how this asshole figured out where you live.'
'There are about a dozen ways.' 'Right.'
This was one of the surprises there were no elaborate systems for keeping cops anonymous. That was movie stuff. Matter of fact, the systems that did exist, for the higher-level grunts, didn't work all that well. Just about anybody with true determination and a computer could track down a cop or an FBI agent or an auditor with the IRS, knock on the door one night, and deliver a lethal message. Only the biggest bosses had protection.
Pete said, 'You want one of the guys to stay with you tonight? Or would you rather go to a hotel?'
'I can spend the night at Simon's.'
'If they've got your address here, they may know about him, too.'
'Simon's building is probably safer than FBI headquarters. Some exiled king lives in one of the penthouses, plus a few very kidnappable CEOs.'
'Have you called him?'
'I was just about to. He should be done with his client by now.'
'Call him. I want to get you settled somewhere.'
She dialed Simon on her cell. She told him the story.
'My God,' he said.
'I am, in fact, a little rattled,' she told him.
'Come right over.'
'I will.'
Pete took her. They left the FBI boys lifting the ten thousand fingerprints from every inch of the premises. Who knew? Maybe they'd come up with something.
Pete walked her into the lobby of Simon's building on Franklin. He whistled softly over the maple paneling, the silent explosion of pink lilies on the concierge's desk.
'Fat,' he said under his breath.
She announced herself to Joseph, the supremely capable Korean doorman.
' 'Night,' she said to Pete. 'Must be nice,' he said.
'I'll see you in the morning,' she answered curtly. She was in no mood right now.
'Right. See you in the morning.'
Simon was waiting for her upstairs. He held her. She was surprised to realize that she might start weeping, not so much from exhaustion or nerves but from the sheer joy of having someone to go to.
'Unbelievable,' he whispered. 'Unbelievable,' she said.
She sat on his sofa, declined his offer of a drink. She loved his apartment, felt appropriately guilty for loving it, but loved it all the same. Four big rooms on the twenty-second floor, twelve-foot ceilings. The people walking the streets below, trying to find the least bruised bananas at the corner market, hoping not to get hit by cabs they had no idea what hovered over them, these oases of granite and ebony, these sanctuaries. The scorched plains rose to alpine peaks, where the wizards lived. Up here it was temple lights and a sequestered, snowy hush.
Simon was a collector. Nineteenth-century maps, Chinese pottery, vintage toys, and music boxes. Cat kept meaning to ask him. Why those particular objects, out of all the things in the world? She hadn't asked. She preferred the mystery. Simon bought and sold futures. He saw some particular significance in maps, pots, and playthings. She liked it that way. She spent enough time searching for explanations at work.
Simon sat beside her. 'What happens now?' he said. She saw the spark in his eyes. He was turned on.
'They're checking out my building. I don't expect them to find anything.'
'How can they not find anything?'
'There are thousands of fingerprints in a building like mine. And… Well. It's time you knew. We're not really all that good at this. We work very, very hard. But a lot of the time we just end up arresting the wrong person, and that person goes to jail, and everybody feels safer.'
Simon paused, nodding. He seemed unsurprised, or had decided to act unsurprised. He said, 'The pay-phone thing is funny, isn't it? Why not a cell?'
'Cell phones have owners. This is brilliant, in its way. Low-tech is the best way to go. You pump a few coins in, say your piece, and run. We can't watch every pay phone in the five boroughs. These little fuckers are smart.'
'Do you think you'll catch him?' Simon asked. 'We have to. We can't screw up something this big.' 'And your role is?'
'To go back to work in the morning and wait for another call.'