swear he looked like a movie star or a corporate executive. Maybe he should go into the voice-over business. He could even-’
But Doyle is already diving into the nearest elevator. ‘I gotta go, Lonnie. Thanks again.’
He doesn’t hear what Adelman calls to him after that. Doesn’t hear what the other occupants of the elevator are saying to each other. He hears only one voice: that of his mysterious phone caller. And the only picture in his head is that of Gonzo.
He finds it impossible to marry the two together.
And that’s what makes it the neatest trick of all. Cleverer than any of the clues given to him about the victims.
It fooled him completely.
He can hear the music from the hallway. A heavy, pounding bass that must drive the neighbors crazy. Doyle stands outside the door to Apartment 32 and pauses. He still doesn’t fully understand what’s been going on. Doesn’t know who Gonzo is anymore, or what he’s capable of.
What he does know is that he mustn’t underestimate the man inside this apartment. He’s not what he seems. Not by a long way.
And so Doyle slides his Glock from its holster and mentally prepares himself to use it on the nerdy kid he thought had become a friend.
Slowly, he raises his left hand. The hand containing the key he has just persuaded the building superintendent to hand over. As quietly as he can, he inserts the key into the lock. When it’s fully home, he takes a deep breath. In one fluid movement he twists the key, pushes open the door and steps inside.
His heart seems to stop beating when a voice screams at him, then revs up again when he realizes it’s just the rock group on the hi-fi. Most of the words are indecipherable. The only one he can make out is ‘hellfire’.
The place looks deserted, but he wishes the so-called music wasn’t depriving him of one of his senses.
And then a shape looms into view. Entering the room from the kitchen area. A male. Holding something in his hand.
Doyle swings his gun onto the target. When he sees Doyle and the gun aimed at his chest, the figure jumps and releases what he’s holding. The plate of waffles crashes to the floor, almost unheard above the music.
Doyle and the other occupant of the room stare at each other. In unison they yell the same question:
‘Who the fuck are you?’
It’s not Gonzo. Not even in disguise could this be Gonzo. He’s about forty pounds heavier, has a center parting in his lank brown hair, sports a wispy attempt at a moustache, and wears a T-shirt that says ‘Life, but not as we know it’. Another heavy-metal-loving nerd, to be sure, but definitely not Gonzo.
‘Turn the music down,’ Doyle shouts.
‘What?’
Doyle gestures toward the sound system. ‘The music. Shut it off.’
The young man holds his palms up as if pleading not to be shot. Not taking his eyes off Doyle and his gun, he sidles over to the hi-fi rack and powers off the amplifier.
The silence that greets Doyle is eerie after the cacophony.
‘Who are you?’ he asks.
‘M-Michael.’
‘Michael what?’
‘Michael Rowson.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I. . I live here.’
‘What do you mean, you live here? Since when?’
‘I. . I’ve lived here for about a year.’
Doyle glances at the doors to the bedroom and the bathroom.
‘Where is he?’
‘Who? What? Are you sure you’re in the right place?’
‘Turn around.’
‘What?’
Doyle reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. He flips it open to display his gold shield.
‘I’m a cop, Michael. Now turn around and put your hands on the wall.’
Michael does as he is told. Doyle frisks him, but finds nothing.
‘Don’t move a muscle.’
While Michael strains to maintain his position, Doyle checks out the other rooms. Still nothing. It’s as if Gonzo never existed.
‘All right, Michael, start talking. What the fuck is going on here?’
‘Can I lower my arms now?’
‘No. Not until I get an explanation. You don’t live here, Michael. I’ve been here. I’ve been in this room. You weren’t here. There was no sign of you. So cut the bullshit before I get really pissed.’
Michael pauses, thinking something over. ‘All right. I think I know what this is about. But I didn’t do nothing. I mean nothing illegal, okay? I was just. . finding stuff out. That’s not a crime, is it?’
‘Michael, what the fuck are you talking about?’
‘The hackers’ convention. In Seattle. I’ve been there for a week. Isn’t that. . isn’t that why you’re here? Did somebody rat on me?’
Doyle senses he’s telling the truth. He really does live here, and Gonzo doesn’t. Which means that he doesn’t know where the hell Gonzo is. Unless. .
‘Michael, do you know a kid called Gonzo?’
‘Gonzo? What’s he got to do with this?’
‘You know him?’
‘Sure I know him. He’s the one who told me about this apartment when I was looking for a place. I asked him to water my plants while I was away. Wait a minute — is that what this is? Has Gonzo done something wrong?’
‘Listen to me, Michael. This is important. Do you know Gonzo’s address?’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘Why would I be kidding you? Do you know it or don’t you?’
‘Sure I do.’ He nods down at Doyle’s shoes. Doyle looks down too, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to see. And then it dawns on him.
‘Downstairs?’
Michael nods. ‘Apartment 22.’
Doyle continues to stare at the carpet, as if doing so could allow him to see straight into Gonzo’s apartment. And then he’s heading for the door.
‘Hey,’ Michael calls after him. ‘Can I lower my arms now?’
Doyle takes the stairs two at a time. He wonders how thin the ceilings are here. Gonzo must have heard the music being abruptly cut off. Did he hear any of the yelling too? Does he know that Doyle is here?
As Doyle reaches door 22, another question occurs to him. Why did Gonzo go to all the trouble of using Michael’s apartment when Doyle asked him to look after Tabitha? Why not simply use his own?
When Doyle leaps at the door and kicks it open, he gets his answer.
There are no sofas or armchairs here. No dining table or bookcases. No television. No normality. Gonzo could not have invited anyone in here without revealing that he was not simply the amusing social misfit or the endearing eccentric. He has gone way beyond that.
A better description might be ‘unhinged’.
Because this place is like a shrine. A shrine to technology.
Arranged in a large circle is a set of desks. There are over a dozen of them. And on each desk there is a computer, facing inwards. All of the monitors are blank, but the computer towers hum softly and their tiny lights wink at Doyle. He gets the strange feeling that they’re talking about him.
He pushes the door closed behind him. Keeping his gun at the ready, he steps through a narrow gap in the circle of desks. When he reaches the center of the arena, he turns slowly, looking at all these computers.
