key there inside the air pocket.
The rest of the pictures were black. Unexposed.
Eager as I was to get moving, I headed back inside the photomat, passing the overnight drop box outside the front door where the film had been left last night. The guy behind the counter was overweight, a wispy blond beard framing his round face.
I handed him the film and asked, 'Is there any way you can tell what kind of camera was used to take these pictures?'
The guy studied them. 'Not really. He's got a pretty good zoom lens going, maybe a Canon, but you can't really tell.'
'You mean a zoom lens separate from the camera?'
'Yeah, there's no way he got this clarity from a built-in.'
He handed the pictures over, and I caught the faint lettering on the back of the top print. Kodak Endura. I pointed to it. 'What can you tell me about this type of film?'
'That's just the kind of paper it's printed on. But let me see the slides.' He removed from the envelope's inside pocket a few old-fashioned slides-I hadn't thought to look. 'Since there were only a few shots, I just tucked the slides back here.' His tongue poked out as he squinted at them. 'Kodak Ektachrome 100. A daytime-balanced color transparency. Fine grain, high sharpness, makes your colors pop.'
'So someone who uses this knows what they're doing? This isn't a film you'd pick up to snap casual pictures?'
He shook his head, used his cupped hands to slide his dangling hair back over his ears. 'Nuh-uh. Mostly commercial photographers use it.'
'Would you choose this film if you were a paparazzi? Or a cop on stakeout or something?'
He gave me a weird look. 'Paparazzo's the singular. And not really. More like if you're shooting clothes or curtains or something where you need really accurate color.'
I thanked him and walked back to my pickup.
Five minutes later I was parked outside the post office, staring at the same view as the photograph in my hand. Casting glances over my shoulder, I entered. The sudden chill of the air-conditioning underscored the dead heat outside. There was a line of annoyed customers, people bickering over forms. I veered left, into the banks of P.O. boxes. The second alcove held Box 229, a double-wide bottom unit. The half walls afforded privacy and muted the sounds from the rest of the building. I crouched and worked the key from my shoe.
I slid it home, paused for good luck, turned it.
The little door swung open.
The box was empty.
I sat, putting my back against the wall, allowing myself a few moments of despair. Then I sighed and started to swing the door closed so I could retrieve the key.
A yellow edge protruded ever so slightly from the roof of Box 229. Getting down on all fours, I peered in. Taped to the top of the unit, a manila envelope. I reached in, tugged it free, and opened it. A partial sheet of paper covered with columns of numbers slid out. I scanned down the rows. 1.65, 4.05, 3.49, 1.80, 2.71-they were all numbers less than five, not a single integer. Only one stood out, both in size and in its own column: 99.999. The top part of the page had been torn off, and the paper was brittle with age. An electronic date stamp on the bottom read DECEMBER 15, 1990.
About five months before Frank was murdered.
Holding the stiff sheet in my hand, I slumped back against the wall. 'Well,' I said, 'this clears up everything.'
Chapter 17
I drove home with the torn page of numerals staring at me from the passenger seat, in case it decided to explain itself. Rolling down the window, I let the stale Valley air blow across my face.
Your life is now on the line. That's what Charlie had said when he'd shoved the key into my hand. Over a sheet of numbers? This grid of digits had put a charge into the Service, scrambled a Black Hawk, led to a standoff at a nuclear power plant? Were they missile launch codes? Kickback tallies? Or a cipher for government documents? And who the hell was leading me to this stuff? Charlie's confederates? Or his killers? It was like that Tetris game I used to play on Nintendo, puzzle pieces falling one after another, defying order.
Miraculously, I found a parking spot on my street. When I got off the elevator upstairs, Homer was slumped against what appeared to be my new front door, his coat loose around him like a sack.
'You're late,' he said. 'But I exercised restraint.'
As I regarded the new door with surprise, Evelyn emerged from her apartment, a pendulous knockoff Gucci at her elbow. She disapproved of Homer's Thursday appointments with my shower and did her best to ignore us.
Homer stared at her with great humility. The smell coming off him was sour, whiskey pushed through dried sweat. 'Ma'am, can you spare a dollar? I haven't eaten in two days.'
Evelyn set her dead bolt with a decisive click, casting a dubious gaze over her shoulder. 'Force yourself.' She disappeared into the stairwell.
I set my hand on the door. Shiny brass doorknob, Medeco lock. 'How am I supposed to get in?'
'Try the knob?'
It turned easily under my grasp and swung open on well-greased hinges.
Sever sat on the remains of my couch, his agent-perfect suit riding high at the shoulders. My first reaction was that he'd come, at long last, to arrest me for Frank's murder. I tensed, fought an impulse to bolt. But he wore an accommodating grin.
I did my best not to look over at the dishwasher that hid Charlie's cash.
He struggled to his feet and pulled two sets of keys from his pocket, that tan outdoorsman's face crinkled around the eyes. He looked far less comfortable confined to a suit than he'd seemed in his SWAT gear with an assault rifle dangling from a shoulder. He was the ideal counterpart to Wydell, intelligent muscle to Wydell's muscular intelligence. 'I wanted to make sure I put these directly in your hand,' he said. 'And that I kept this guy out of here until you got home.'
Homer shrugged, his shoulders even more massive beneath the layers of cloth. 'So I didn't exercise that much restraint.'
'You do know him?' Sever asked me.
'I do.'
The sun was shining through the sliding glass door, making Sever's scalp tingle through his flattop. I'd forgotten how tall he was, the linebacker's weight behind his boots when he'd swung off my roof and knocked me in the chest. His mouth gathered solemnly, and he started to say something, then thought better of it. He tilted his head at Homer.
I said, 'Give us a sec here?'
Homer curtsied, even pinching out a phantom dress on either side, and withdrew, closing the door behind him. For our benefit he hummed as he strolled up the hall.
Sever reached for his hip holster, and I froze before his hand continued to his pocket and pulled out a fat cell phone. Holding up a finger at me, he pushed a button, listened, then said, 'Yes. Yes, it's a secure line. Put him through.'
He offered me the phone.
I hesitated. After all, Charlie hadn't fared so well after taking their proffered call. But, knee-jerk reaction aside, I grabbed the phone.
'Nick Horrigan?'
I recognized the voice but still couldn't believe it. I said hoarsely, 'Yes, Mr. President?'
'So good of you to take my call this time.'
I wasn't sure what to do with that, so I bit my lip and waited.
Bilton continued, 'I understand you want to stay out of the limelight.'
