Chapter 18
The view from the rooftop of Clara’s building was impressive, and even more so when she pulled a telescope out of that magical closet (her dirty clothes were still stacked up in there) and carried it up. I had initially planned to use it to see firsthand how the investigation into the “massacre by the lake”—as the papers were calling it—was going, but unfortunately the row of buildings across the street blocked most of Central Park. So instead I used it to focus on things at random and to kill time.
It had been three days since I’d fled from the park to Clara’s apartment, and except for the roof, I hadn’t gone anywhere. She was good enough to run out and pick up things for me—extra clothes, some food—everything but liquor. Apparently, at some point, I made an irrational statement about quitting for a while, and she had far more resolve about it than I did. She compensated with ridiculous amounts of sex. It was a fair exchange, and probably healthier, too.
“What are you looking for?” Clara asked. She was shivering behind me, in the open door. It was a particularly cold day. The threatening snow I’d seen from the Central Park bench had manifested the following morning, which I had to think made the murder investigation all that more hellish, and the thermometer hadn’t risen enough since to make a dent in the accumulation total. But it made the top of the city look nicer, which never hurt.
I’m always amused by the way people today react to snow. Six inches? Gimme a break. You want to talk snow? I lived through half an ice age, for Baal’s sake. Two feet on a good day. And I’m talking about in Northern Africa. Imagine what Europe was like.
“I’m just looking.” I was cold, too, but it was something I could tolerate. “This city is a marvel,” I lied.
“It was a marvel yesterday,” she complained.
I looked up from the eyepiece. “I won’t be long. Go on down if you like. Make some coffee.” It was the third time I’d offered a variation of this statement. Once more and she’d think I was hiding something.
Clara looked hesitant. “Yeah?”
“You worried I’m going to jump?”
“No… it’s just odd. Standing up here in the cold and eating raw mushrooms.”
“You want to try one?” I asked.
“God, no. Maybe fried.”
“They’re good like this.” Actually, they’re dreadful. Never liked mushrooms, even when I was foraging for a living. (Truffles I’m fond of, but you don’t much find those anymore.) I popped one into my mouth and made a happy face.
“I’ll take your word for it,” she said. “Okay, I give up. I’m going in. Don’t be long.”
“Only until sunset,” I said.
She backed in through the door and pulled it shut.
It was about time. I counted to ten and then walked to the edge of the roof.
“Iza?” I said in a normal voice. One might think it impossible, given their incredibly small ears, but pixies have good hearing. I put the bag of mushrooms down on the roof and waited. A moment later she alit beside the bag.
“There you are,” I said.
“Lady gone?” Iza asked. It had taken me fifteen minutes yesterday to explain to her that she couldn’t appear when Clara was around. Not that I didn’t trust Clara. Well, okay, yes, that was exactly why. I’ve never been able to get Nampheta’s betrayal entirely out of my head, so the first sign of dissembling and I turn into Secret Agent Man—even now, four thousand years later.
“She’s gone inside,” I said. “Is that for me?” Iza was carrying a small metal device.
“Uh-huh.”
I took it from her and flipped it around in my hand. It took a couple of minutes to figure out that I was looking at a digital recorder. My, but we’d come a long way since papyrus.
“How’s it work?” I might as well have asked the mushrooms.
“Don’t know,” she managed to say, her tiny mouth being full. There is a certain inexplicable fascination inherent in watching a pixie devour an entire bag of mushrooms. Like the ant carrying several times his body weight, pixies can consume astounding quantities of fresh vegetables. I suppose they burn it all off immediately. I’ve never seen a fat pixie.
After fiddling with the seemingly button-free recorder, I realized the entire front portion was hinged, and so I squeezed it and heard a little click, and then Tchekhy’s voice. I held it up to my ear.
He jumped right in. “Provided the information you have provided me with is accurate, the girl you met is indeed Clarabelle Wassermann. She was truthful as well regarding her status as a registered student at New York University, but according to her running transcript, she has not attended classes for two semesters. She is the fourth child of a very wealthy family from Connecticut, which pays for the credit card she uses exclusively.”
I didn’t even want to know how many laws he broke to find all that out.
“I cannot definitively ascertain whether she is the individual behind the MUD character we borrowed, but that account is still disabled, and I have seen no recorded attempts by the owner to access or reactivate the account. This would appear to parallel your request that she not contribute.
“As to your question regarding this Cult of the Immortal she spoke of, I did find a private chat room log bearing such a title within the MUD. The discussions there appear innocent, if not a bit banal. Based on certain anatomical speculations, it is apparent these persons have not met you.”
Nice.
“Another detail which might bear some interest. I found a monthly fee on her credit card for an organization called All-Mother. Based on their web site, it is some form of proto-feminist group. I did not probe too deeply as it appears they have a very persistent firewall, but I can if you wish. Beware militant feminists, my old friend.”
I found it hard to believe there was any firewall Tchekhy couldn’t get past with a little work. Could be he didn’t try hard enough. Or he thought it was a dead end. He was probably right.
“As to the other matter, I tracked the ownership of the MUD as far as I could. I am afraid I could not put a name with the email, but I can tell you the trail does end at Securidot to someone within that company with access to the email administrative files. And, as I am sure you are curious, other than the MUD I could not find anything connecting Ms. Wassermann to Securidot.
“If you need any additional information you may send this device back with your… pixie. Click thrice rapidly to record, once to stop. I hope this finds you well.”
So Clara checked out, Securidot was probably a dead end, and I should beware militant feminists. Not the kind of information I was hoping for but it would have to do, unless I felt like spending a week passing the tape recorder back and forth. I wasn’t going to risk visiting Tchekhy directly, not after almost leading a demon straight to
