21
The guitar store wasn’t in downtown San Francisco, but in a little upscale pocket neighborhood on the way toward Oakland. This was an area that had been bought up and renewed, old buildings remodeled or torn down and new ones built that looked like those they had replaced. There were shops and businesses within easy walking distance of housing — small apartments, row houses of condos, and even single-family homes. Very nice and, Kent knew, very spendy. Real estate in the Bay Area had always been some of the most expensive in the country, and it still was.
It was late in the afternoon before he arrived at the shop, which was identified simply as “Cyrus Guitars.” There was a parking lot across the street next to a deli, and Kent pulled his rented and outfitted van into that. He had food, water, a little portable potty, and assorted other knick-knacks that would make a long surveillance bearable.
He went into the deli and talked to the guy running the place about letting him park there for the next couple of days. His Net Force ID and a few words about Homeland Security — along with a single fifty-dollar bill — were enough to settle the deal.
With the van situated, Kent walked across the street to the guitar place.
It wasn’t particularly impressive from the sidewalk. The sign was low-key, there was one small window with a single guitar on display, and without those to identify it, the shop could have been any small-business storefront.
Inside, it was more interesting. There was a wooden counter, covered with what looked like a sheet of black velvet. Behind the counter, hung on the wall inside a series of rectangular glass or Plexiglas cases, were ten guitars. They were mostly classical models — Kent had become passingly familiar with the design — a couple of steel-string acoustics, and he quickly spotted the one made by Stansell — the color on the sides was unique.
The man behind the counter sat on a stool with one foot propped on the cross-supports, playing an acoustic guitar that appeared to have a stainless-steel clamp on the neck several frets up from the tuning pegs. He wore sweatpants and a T-shirt and what looked like moccasins. His right arm was covered with a long black sleeve. It took Kent a second to realize what the sleeve was for: to keep his bare skin from touching the guitar.
The instrument had a rich, warm tone. As Kent watched, the player squeezed the metal clamp and removed it from the guitar.
“G7th capo,” the player said. “Great design. Locking cam, doesn’t detune the strings if you’re careful, one- handed operation, imported out of the U.K. by John Pearse Strings. Plus the looks-cool factor is still very high even after ten years.” He extended the clamp toward Kent, who walked over and took it. He didn’t know capos from capons, but the little device did feel very solid and well-made. He said so as he handed it back.
“The euro is down again,” the man said, “so they are running about fifty bucks American. I’m Cyrus, what can I do for you?”
Cyrus stood, and was tall — six-five, six-six, maybe, with a one-cut cropped-short red orange crewcut. He wore three or four earrings in each ear, wire-rimmed glasses, and had what looked like some kind of tribal tattoos on the arm Kent could see.
There were several ways to play this, and they usually depended on the guy you were dealing with. His instinct was that Cyrus was a solid citizen. Something seemed familiar about him, Kent couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. He decided to go for it straight on: “I’m Abraham Kent,” he said, “I work for Net Force.”
“The net query, yeah. Nancy told me about that. She’s my manager — she’s the one who does all the Internet/web stuff.”
Kent nodded. “You sold a guitar to somebody who’s supposed to come in tomorrow to pick up.”
“Actually, I have five or six folks dropping by to collect instruments in the next few days.”
“You’d remember this one. The guitar went for ten thousand dollars.”
Cyrus smiled. “You say that number as if it’s amazing. I’ve got almost two hundred thousand dollars worth of guitars on display here, couple of ’em cost three times that much.” He waved an arm at the wall. “But I know the one you mean — the Stansell White Tiger, right?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Some guy bought it from Nancy, and paid for it up front, a bank transfer. Most of our customers I know personally, or by reputation. Some are referrals. I don’t know this one.”
“I’m not certain he’s the guy I’m looking for, but if he is, he’s a bad man, and we need to have a chat.”
“What’d he do?”
“Killed some people, among other things.”
“Really? Not something serious classical guitar players are usually into.”
“He’s not your usual player.”
Cyrus looked at Kent. He nodded slightly. “Okay. So what do you want me to do?”
The man didn’t seem particularly disturbed at the idea that he’d be dealing with a murderer. Kent looked at him with the unspoken question: Why so cool?
Cyrus rolled the protective sleeve down his arm, grinning. The Marine Corps logo was tattooed in blue on his upper arm. “Semper fi, sir,” Cyrus said.
Kent shook his head, and returned the grin. “Do I know you?”
“Not personally, but I was in First Expeditionary in Second Iraq — I saw you around a couple of times, Major.”
“Colonel, now,” Kent said. “Hell of an operation, that.”
“Yes, sir, it was. Glad I survived it. What’s the deal?”
“This guy shows up, you fill out forms or whatever you usually do and send him on his way. But if sometime during that procedure you could get to this”—Kent pulled a small cell phone from his pocket and put it on the counter—“and just push the ‘send’ button, right here, I’d appreciate it.”
Cyrus looked at the phone. “Yes, sir, I can do that. Then what?”
“Nothing happens in the store. I’ll know the guy if I see him. He leaves, I follow him, and somewhere, we get together.”
“No problem, Colonel.”
Once a Marine, always a Marine.
“Thanks.”
“You’ll let me know how it turns out?”
“That’s the least I can do.”
They both smiled.
The driver dropped Thorn off at his house and left. It was only one o’clock, but Thorn had some old business to deal with, business he would rather not do at the office.
He walked to the front door. It was a quiet neighborhood, not far from the University of Maryland. There were a number of college professors and even a dean or two living on his street. The tree-lined roads — mostly pin oak, but some elms and pear trees, too — were shady, the houses big and built mostly in the early part of the last century.
He thumbed the print-reader on the new lock he’d had installed, and stepped inside to do the same to the alarm system control panel, which went from red to green as it disarmed.
He set his case down next to the half-round table against the hall wall, and headed for the kitchen.
Lying on the kitchen counter was a single, long-stemmed rose. The petals were such a dark red that they seemed almost black.
Thorn smiled at the flower as he picked it up and sniffed it.
The rose smelled as good as it looked.
Who did he know who could get past a thumbprint reader lock and alarm system? And who would leave a black rose on his kitchen counter?
His smile got bigger. Oh, this was too much.
