Flashback

States. Nick had learned to hate that expression on the faces of young rich-shit Japanese tourists on their slumming-in-America expeditions. The only photos of Keigo Nakamura that had interested him at all had been the crime-scene and autopsy photos showing a huge smile—but one created by the ragged knife slash across the boy’s neck that revealed the white glisten of cervical vertebrae. The unknown assailant had almost severed Keigo’s head from his body when he’d cut the young heir’s throat.

“If you’re going to hire me, it’s precisely because of flashback,” Nick said softly. “Why don’t we quit fucking around and either get to it or call it a day? I have things to do today, other people to see.”

That last sentence was the biggest lie Nick had told.

Nakamura’s and Sato’s faces remained totally impassive, seemingly uninterested, as if Nick Bottom had already left the room.

Nakamura shook his head. Nick saw the man’s age now in the subtle but growing pouches under the eyes, the lines of wrinkles flowing back from the corners of the eyes. “You are mistaken to think that you are indispensable, Mr. Bottom. We have hard copies of all the police reports both before and after the cyberattack, both before and after you were removed from my son’s case. Mr. Sato has a complete dossier of everything the Denver Police Department had.”

Nick laughed. For the first time he saw anger in the aging billionaire Advisor’s eyes. He was glad to see it.

“You know better than that, Mr. Nakamura,” he said. “That ‘everything’ the department shared with you, both before and after I was heading up the investigation, constituted less than ten percent of what we kept in digital form. Paper’s too fucking expensive to print out tons of redundant crap, even for pushy Japanese billionaires with pull from the White House. Sato never even saw the Murder Book… did you, Hideki-san?”

The security chief’s expression did not change at the taunt and familiarity, but his already cold eyes turned to black ice. There was no hint of amusement there now.

“So you need me if there’s going to be a new investigation,” said Nick. “For the last time, I suggest we cut the bullshit and get on with it. How much will you pay me for this job?”

Nakamura stared in silence for another moment and then said softly, “If you succeed in finding my son’s killers, Mr. Bottom, I am prepared to pay you fifteen thousand dollars. Plus expenses.”

“Fifteen thousand new bucks or old dollars?” asked Nick in only slightly choked tones.

“Old dollars,” said Nakamura. “And expenses.”

Nick folded his arms as if he were thinking, but the movement was actually an attempt to catch his balance. He suddenly felt faint.

Fifteen thousand old dollars was the equivalent of a little more than twenty-two million new bucks.

Nick had about $160,000 in new bucks in his NICC balance now and owed several million to his former friends and to bookies and flashback dealers and various loan sharks.

$60,000,000 bucks. Mother of Christ. Nick planted his feet wider so he wouldn’t sway.

Still playing out his noir tough-guy string, he managed to put some energy in his voice. “All right, I want the fifteen thousand old dollars transferred to my card at once. No strings attached… ‘no strings’ means no restrictions or tricks or evasions, Mr. Nakamura. Hire me and transfer the money. Now. Or call your golf cart guy to take me back to my car.”

This time it was the billionaire’s turn to laugh.

“Do you think us fools, Mr. Bottom? If we transferred the full payment to you now, you would flee at your first opportunity and spend it all on buying flashback for your own purposes.”

Of course I would, thought Nick. I’ll be alive again. And rich enough to spend the rest of Dara’s and my life together—several times over.

Still dizzy, Nick said, “What do you suggest, then? Half now? Half when I catch the guy?” Seventy-five hundred old dollars was enough to keep him under the flash for years.

Nakamura said, “I will transfer a suitable amount for expenses to your NIC Card and increase it as is needed. These are expenses, mind you. In new dollars. The fifteen thousand old dollars will be transferred to your private account only after my son’s killer is identified and the information has been verified by Mr. Sato.”

“After you’ve killed the guy I finger, you mean,” said Nick.

Mr. Nakamura ignored this. After a moment he said, “Our holistic contract has been transferred to your phone, Mr. Bottom. You can study it at your leisure. Your virtual signature will activate the contract and Mr. Sato will then transfer the money for initial expenses to your NICC. In the meantime, will you be so kind as to give Mr. Sato a ride back to Denver?”

“Why the hell should I do that?” said Nick.

“You will not see me again until this investigation is finished, Mr. Bottom, but you will be seeing much of Mr. Sato. He will be my full-time liaison with you for this investigation. Today I wish him to experience your vehicle and see your residence.”

“Experience my vehicle?” laughed Nick. “See my residence? What on earth for?”

“Mr. Sato has never seen a Baby Gap store,” said Hiroshi Nakamura. “It would amuse him to do so. This concludes our business, Mr. Bottom. Good day.”

The billionaire bowed almost infinitesimally, the bow all but invisible in its shallow curtness.

Nick Bottom did not bow. He turned on his heel and walked back toward the genkan entranceway and shoe-storage area, feeling the soft tatami under his exposed big toe every step of the way.

Hideki Sato followed close behind him without making any noise at all.

1.01 Los Angeles—Friday, Sept. 10

Val reclined in a V where rusted steel met pigeon-shit-stained concrete under a crumbling overpass high over an abandoned stretch of the 101 not far from what was left of Union Station. Val loved this place not only for its relative coolness, as in lower temperature here in the shade, but also for its coolness. He liked to think that the steel-trussed and concrete ledges such as the one he and the guys were resting on now were the buttresses of some abandoned Gothic cathedral and he was the hunchback up here with the gargoyles. Charles Laughton, maybe. Val’s love of old movies was, he thought, probably the only thing he’d gotten from his old man before the bastard abandoned him.

The other guys in his little flashgang were coming out of flash now, their twitches and droolings changing to yawns, stretches, and shouts.

“All right!” screamed Coyne. He was as close to a leader as this raggedy-ass band of mewly white kids had ever managed.

“Fuckin’ A all right!” echoed Gene D. The tall, acned boy was absentmindedly rubbing his crotch as he came fully up and out from under, evidently trying to finish after the flash what he’d failed to achieve during the actual rape.

“Do her again, Ben!” cried Sully. His tats not only ran up and down the more muscled sixteen-year-old’s arms but turned his face into a Maori war mask.

Monk, Toohey, the Cruncher, and Dinjin twitched up and out of their repeated thirty-minute flashes and remained silent except for their yawns, belches, and farts. These four were all a year or two younger than Val and the other three older boys (but the Cruncher—Calvin—was by far the tallest and heaviest and stupidest of the eight). None of their attempts at sex had lasted even a minute before their premature whateveryoucallems, so Val wondered—What have these morons been flashing on for the other twenty-nine minutes?