“Tell me about it,” Davis said. “He broke my brother-in-law's collarbone.”
“But nobody's found this kid,” Rush said, “and believe you me, the PD looked every damn where.”
“Are they
looking?” Lydecker asked.
Rush shrugged, shook his head; Davis, too.
“Well then,” Lydecker said, sliding out of the booth, “let's get out there and start the search back up again.”
Lydecker spent the next six hours with Rush and Davis. Displaying the Seth photo, offering generous bribes for any Eyes Only lead, they rousted every snitch, every lowlife, every rat bastard the two detectives had ever met (and they had met a few), with no luck. He rode in the back of the unmarked car as they continued to drive around the city.
“How the hell is this possible?” Lydecker finally asked. “This Eyes Only son of a bitch has been working in this city for
… and no one knows
”
Rush, riding up front, smirked back at his passenger. “You're gonna make me say ‘I told you so,' aren't you?”
Lydecker resisted the urge to brood and thought, instead. Finally he said, “We may be going at this from the wrong angle.”
“You got an angle we ain't tried?” Davis, behind the wheel, asked.
“I think so. This remarkable young man we're looking for, he's got a medical problem.”
“What kind?” Rush asked.
“Seizures. Only thing that will control the symptoms is an enzyme called tryptophan. It's not a controlled substance, but a kid trying
to attract attention is gonna be buying it on the black market, anyway… Any ideas where we might look for such a thing in your fair city?”
Once again the detectives exchanged looks, then nods.
“Sit back and chill, Colonel,” Davis said. “It's across town, and'll take the better part of an hour.”
On the way, Davis explained that the guy they were going to see had been busted twice in the last three years for selling controlled substances.
“And he's at large, why?”
“Guy's got a hell of a Johnnie Cochran.”
Lydecker smiled at the slang term, wondering if the cop knew enough about history to realize there really had been a Johnnie Cochran back before the Pulse.
Lydecker asked, “What's his name?”
“Johan Bryant.”
The unmarked car finally pulled to a stop in front of an upscale house in the suburbs, one of those retro ranch-styles the neo-affluent had been building lately. The whole street was lined with homes that probably sold for high seven figures.
“Nice digs for a drug dealer,” Lydecker said.
The well-tended, sloping lawn had a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sign.
Rush said, “We are definitely in the wrong racket.”
Nodding, Davis said, “Colonel, practically every asshole in this part of town is into some kind of crooked shit. How else in this economy could they afford pads like these?”
“Why don't you arrest them?”
“We do,” Rush said. “But every mook in this neighborhood who ain't into crime is a defense attorney.”
Lydecker thought.
An attractive thirtyish honey-blond woman in an off-white slacks outfit answered the bell. She seemed to recognize Rush, and— without identifying herself (whether she was hired help or the man's wife or girlfriend remained a mystery)— led the little group to a large room off to the right.
The walls were pale yellow, the trim all white, the carpeting thick and heavy, also white. This might have been the living room, but Lydecker supposed it was a music room of sorts, since the only piece of furniture was a white grand piano where a man who just had to be Johan Bryant sat on the stool, his hand resting casually over the keyboard.
The man at the piano didn't rise when the trio walked in, Rush in the lead, Lydecker laying back. Tall, blond, and chiseled, Bryant might have been a member of the Hitler Youth if it hadn't been for his long hippie-ish hair ponytailed back.
“Rush, Davis— how's it hanging?” he asked, his smile wide and unrealistically white, the same shade as his white slacks; he wore a yellow V-neck pullover and sandals. A glass of clear liquid with a lemon floating in it sat on a coaster on the piano.
“I don't believe we've met,” Bryant continued affably, looking past the two cops at the unimpressive figure in the gray zippered jacket.
“Not yet,” Lydecker said, with a smile.
“Uncle Sam needs you,” Rush said to the dealer, pointing to the colonel.
“Not the Policemen's Health and Retirement Fund, this time, huh?” Bryant said, noodling softly on the keyboard.
“Zip it,” Rush said tightly.
Bryant smiled faintly, ironically.
The detectives approached Bryant at the bench. Lydecker was on the other side of Bryant; he withdrew the photos from inside his jacket. The dealer continued playing a meandering tune on the piano.
“We're trying to locate a suspect,” Lydecker said. “It's not a narcotics matter.”
Bryant noodled.
Lydecker said, “This individual uses tryptophan.”
The dealer said, “You can get that at pharmacies.”
“Pharmacies have to record sales of that nature. Customers have to sign. This individual wouldn't like that. Look at the pictures.”
Bryant noodled some more.
Lydecker held one of the photos of the male X5 in front of the dealer. “Have you seen him before?”
Bryant said, “No,” but he was looking at the ivories under his fingers.
Grabbing onto the man's ponytail for leverage, Lydecker shoved Bryant's face into the piano keys, making dissonant nonmusic, accompanied by a surprised, pained scream.
The woman came running, and she had a big gun in her little hand. But Davis plucked the weapon like a flower and walked her out of the room, disappearing with her.
Lydecker stepped back to allow the dealer to sit up, and compose himself; the man was touching his face— really, there were just a few cuts and welts, his forehead crying tears of blood onto his yellow sweater. Awkwardly, the dealer started to get up.
But Rush put a hand on Bryant's shoulder, holding him down. “Interview's not over.”
Bryant glared back at Rush, who shook his head. Lydecker took this to mean the dealer and these cops had an arrangement… but this matter was not covered by it.
The dealer sat down again, his hands going automatically to the keyboard— but no more noodling.
Lydecker gave the man a handkerchief and Bryant dabbed blood from his forehead, saying to the man who'd caused the wounds, “Thanks.”
“Would you mind taking another look?” Lydecker asked.
The dealer swallowed and looked at the photo Lydecker was holding up. “Yeah, now that I take a closer
