Crisscross rj-8 Read online

  "Hey, jumpy tonight."

  Jamie shrugged.

  Timmy leaned in closer, elbows on the bar, and spoke in a low tone. "Listen, Schwartz's got his kid brother along tonight. In from Duluth. We figured we'd have the usual fun with him if you're up to it."

  Jamie didn't move her head. Instead she fixed her eyes on Ryan's reflection in the mirror. He had a Jay Leno situation going with his chin; he wore a dark suit, wrinkled, a striped tie, loosened, and a toothy grin, capped. He spent his days as a copywriter and his nights as a Parthenon regular, like Jamie and Schwartz, and Cassie and Frank, and about half a dozen others.

  She took a sip of her Dewar's and soda. "I don't know if I'm up to it, Timmy."

  She was feeling edgy. She could have sworn she'd been followed here. This comfy little bar in the West Sixties had been a nightly refuge for years. Had it been invaded? Had some Dementedists infiltrated the irregulars?

  She hated to think so. A good neighborhood tavern like the Parthenon was a place to be nurtured and cherished. She liked the feel of the bar's mahogany under her elbows, the give of the leather on the chairs and stools and booths, the drama and pageant of foam rising in a draft pint of lager or stout, the smell of what's been spilled, the rattle of the cocktail shaker, the murmur of conversation, the green glow of a football game on the TV screen.

  Where everybody knows your name . . . more than a theme song, it was the foundation of what made a tavern work. But Jamie didn't need everybody knowing her name to feel at home here, just a nod or a wave from a few of the regulars as she stepped through the door sufficed. And few things were better than Louie timing the preparation of her Dewar's and soda—her "usual"—so that it was homing in for a three-point landing on the bar as she slid onto her usual stool.

  Maybe she liked the place too much, maybe she spent too much time here. She definitely knew she drank too much.

  Which always reminded her of an old Scottish proverb: They talk of my drinking but never my thirst.

  And that pretty much nailed the situation. A thirst for something more than ethanol in all its various and wondrous permutations drew her to the Parthenon. If getting a load on were the sole objective, she could do it quicker and far cheaper by staying home with a bottle. She came for the embrace of kindred souls—who also just happened to like to consume ethanol in all its various and wondrous permutations—and for the camaraderie… a potion far more potent and alluring than distilled spirits.

  Timmy draped an arm over her shoulders. It felt good, a spot of warmth on this chilly night. She and Timmy had had a fling a few years ago—Jamie had flung with a number of regulars at the Parthenon—but nothing serious, just someone to be with now and then. Some nights the thought of going home alone to an empty apartment was simply too much to bear.

  "Come on, Jamie. Been a while since we heard a pinkie story. They're always good for a laugh."

  "Tell you what," Jamie said, putting on a smile. "Pay my bar tab tonight and you've got a deal."

  "You're on. After Frank finishes yakking about that new Lexus of his, I'll bring the kid over. So put on your thinking cap."

  He gave her shoulder a squeeze and moved off, leaving her alone.

  Alone…

  She didn't want to be alone tonight, but not for the usual reasons. Those Dementedist threats—of course, they never said they were Dementedists, but who were they kidding—and now this feeling of being shadowed were getting to her. Maybe she and Timmy could hook up for the night… just for old time's sake.

  She'd never liked the emptiness of her apartment—that was one of the reasons she spent so much time at the office—but she'd never feared being there. Maybe she'd just spend the night here at the Parthenon… entertaining the troops.

  Always good for a laugh…

  Yeah, that's me all right. Jamie the Joke Machine. Quick with the quip, the bon mot, the laugh-aloud girl, the—

  Christ, I hate my life.

  The Dementedism stories had been the first thing in years to fire her up, but now she sensed it turning on her. How could she enjoy writing pieces that kept her looking over her shoulder? She'd expected some negative fallout, but figured she could handle it.

  Well, you're sure doing a bang-up job handling it tonight, Jamie.

  She signaled Louie for another hit of Dewar's, then stared at the stub of her right pinkie. What tall tale could she come up with tonight? Yesterday she'd given that PI—what was his name? Robinson? Robertson? Something like that—the outboard motor story. But she'd already used that here at the Parthenon. Had to come up with something new.

  Only Jamie knew the real story… how she'd lost most of that finger to the love of her life.

  Never should have married Eddie Harrison. Her mother had known her college sweetheart was bad news and had warned her, but did she listen? No way. So right after she got her journalism degree she married him. It looked like a good situation at first, but it took him only a few years to morph from sweetheart to lushheart. And one night during year five he almost killed her.

  Eddie was such a sweet guy when he was sober, but the booze did something to him, made him mean, frayed his temper. Jamie had been a stringer back then, doing most of her writing at home. On the fateful night, for some still-unknown reason, the clicking of her keyboard set him off and he demanded that Jamie stop typing. When she told him she had a morning deadline and had to finish, he flew into a rage, went to the kitchen, returned with a carving knife, and tried to cut off her hands. Lucky for her he was so drunk he couldn't manage it, but the slashing blade did manage to connect with her pinkie. As she knelt on the rug, bleeding and moaning and trying to dial 911, Eddie carried the severed end to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. Then he passed out.

  The next day he was all anguish and remorse and contrition and full of promises never ever to drink again. But Jamie was not getting on that merry-go-round. She packed up, moved out, pressed criminal charges, and filed for divorce—all in one day.

  And hadn't had a long-term relationship since.

  She'd seen enough depressed people in her forty-three years to know she fit the clinical picture. She spent every waking moment riding depression's ragged edge. But she wasn't into pills. Her self-prescribed therapy was work. Filling the hours with relentless activity staved off the down feelings. And she produced an amazing amount of copy—for The Light, for various magazines under a pseudonym, even a chapter in a soon-to-be-published journalism textbook. If she got into a pill situation—started on Prozac or Zoloft or one of those—and it did its job, would the lifting depression take the writing drive along with it?

  She couldn't risk that. She'd found a formula that kept her from tumbling into the abyss: days spent either writing or researching; evenings here at the Pantheon, just a few blocks from her apartment, drinking and kibitzing with the regulars; and nights of exhausted sleep.

  Jamie wasn't so sure about the sleep situation tonight, though.

  She glanced around, looking for unfamiliar faces. There were always some. No secret that she was writing a derogatory series about the cult—she refused to call it a church—but did they have any idea that she might have discovered something that would embarrass the hell out of them and set their whole organization on its ear?

  Might . . . that was the key word here. She hadn't confirmed her suspicions yet, and so far she'd been stymied in finding a way to do so.

  But if the Dementedists knew of her suspicions, no telling what they might do. She'd have to—

  She jumped as someone tapped her shoulder. Timmy again. Damn it, she was edgy.

  Timmy introduced Schwartz's brother, who looked barely thirty and nothing like Schwartz. After a little small talk Timmy pointed out Jamie's short pinkie and said something about wait till you hear this… You just won't believe it. Schwartz and Cassie and Ralph and the others were gathered in a semicircle around her and Little Brother. She had an audience but no material.

  What the hell, she thought. Wing it.


  "Well, it was years ago, back in 1988, when I was in the Karakoram to—" She noticed the kid's perplexed expression, mirrored in the other listeners. Christ, was there anyone left who knew their geography? "That's a mountain range. I was in a mountain-climbing situation, preparing to tackle the Abruzzi ridge of K2—which the locals call Chogori—and I was looking for an ice ax…"

  14

  "I'm gonna get it from ya! Yes, I am! Yes, I am!"

  Clancy growled as he gripped the rawhide toy in his sharp little teeth and tried to pull it away from his former master.

  Kneeling on the floor, Richie Cordova was amazed that the little terrier still had this much play in him. He had to be ten years old, the equivalent to seventy in a man. Or so they said.

  Every so often Richie got this urge to see Clancy and play with him. The divorce agreement granted him visitation rights, but supervised.

  Supervised! It still rankled him. What'd the judge think he was going to do, run off with the pooch? Hardly.

  The worst part was that he had to visit Clancy in Neva's apartment. She was such a slob. Look at the place. Nothing where it should be and it stank of cigarettes.

  A place for everything and everything in its place, Richie always said.

  "Neva!" he called.

  Her scratchy voice echoed from the kitchen. "Yeah?"

  "C'mere a minute, will you?"

  She took her sweet time traveling the ten feet or so to the living room. She stood in the archway, wearing a housecoat and puffing a butt.

  "What?"

  "Don't you ever clean this place? It's a dump."

  Her face reddened. "I clean it just fine. I dare you to find a speck of dust."

  "I ain't talking about dirt. I'm talking about straightening things up. Everything's tossed every which way. And you've got mail on that table and keys on this table, and—"

  "Cram it, Rich. You're allowed to come here to visit Clancy, not bust my chops."

  "1 don't think Clancy should have to live in all this clutter."

  Shit, he loved this little dog! He never should have allowed Neva custody.

  "Clancy's doing just fine. Aren't you, baby?" She bent and slapped the side of her leg. Immediately Clancy forgot about Richie and ran over to her. She scratched his head. "Aren't you, snookums?"

  "And I don't think the secondhand smoke is good for his health."

  Neva glared at him. "Up yours, Rich. Don't you remember why we split? Not some other man or some other woman: you. You and your neatnik ways. You and your need to control. You make Monk look like Oscar Madison. Everything has to be just so, and yet you walk around—or maybe I should say waddle around—looking like the Goodyear blimp."

  Richie said nothing. He wanted to kill her. Slowly.

  This wasn't the first time. Every goddamn time he came here it was the same thing: He wound up wanting to wring her scrawny neck. He couldn't think of anyone else on earth who could piss him off this way.

  "You still studying those horoscopes every day?" she said. "What a laugh. A guy who wants to control everything and everyone around him thinks his life's being controlled by a bunch of stars a zillion miles away. It's a riot."

  "You got no idea what you're talking about. I use them for guidance, that's all."

  "Stars are pulling your strings. Ha! You believe in flying saucers too?"

  Hauling himself to his feet took a lot out of him. He had to lose some weight soon.

  "You're pushing it, Neva."

  "Yeah, well why not? You pushed me around for five years. About time someone pushed back."

  "Neva…"

  "I ain't afraid of you, Richie. Not anymore."

  "You should be." Feeling like he was about to explode, he took a step toward her. "You really—"

  Clancy bared his teeth and growled. The sound pierced him.

  You too, Clancy?

  "Fuck the both of you."

  Richie Cordova turned and left his ex-wife and his ex-dog to wallow in their shit hole.

  15

  After picking the lock to Cordova's office, Jack slipped a slim, flexible metal ruler between the door and the hinge-side jamb. He held the ruler against the plunger as he pushed the door open. Without letting the plunger pop, he replaced the ruler with the short length of duct tape he'd stuck to his sweatshirt. He let the outer inch of the tape stick out free in the hallway, then closed the door.

  Okay. He was in. First thing he did was pull on a pair of latex gloves. Next he flicked on his penlight and stepped through the reception area into the office where he went directly to Cordova's desk. Neat as could be—even the paper clips were lined up like soldiers in review. A single photo on the desk: a terrier of some kind.

  A dog… he kept a photo of a dog on his desk.

  Jack knelt and found the computer's mini-tower on the floor at the rear of the kneehole. He noticed a CD drive, probably a burner for backup. One CD could hold a ton of blackmail photos. He pulled out Russ's HYRTBU disk, inserted it into the floppy slot, then pressed the on button.

  As the computer whirred to life, Jack began exploring the office. Cordova wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but you didn't need an Oxford degree to know to store a valuable backup off premises. Not just to protect against theft, but fire as well.

  Jack started with the file cabinets. Just for the hell of it he checked for a folder labeled backup but didn't find one. So he combed through every drawer, every hanging folder in both cabinets but found no backup disk. Unlike the file cache Jack had found in Cordova's home office last September, these contained no blackmail material. Nothing but PI records. So he did a little floor crawling, looking for something taped to the underside of the furniture. Nope.

  He thought he'd struck pay dirt when he found a padded envelope be-hind the radiator, but it contained only cash. Money he d squeezed from his victims, no doubt. Jack was tempted to take it, just for spite, but he couldn't let Cordova know someone had been in his office. The success of this whole fix-it depended on that.

  He went back to the computer. The cooling fan was running, but the hard drive was silent. Russ's disk had done its job. Maybe.

  Jack removed the disk and pocketed it. He felt weird leaving the place without knowing for sure that he'd accomplished what he'd come for. Of course he could turn on the computer and, if it wasn't password protected, open a few files to check, but he might unknowingly leave some sort of trace that could make Cordova suspect someone had been here.

  Better to trust Russ and leave clean.

  He returned to the hallway and locked the door behind him. Then he yanked the duct tape free of the jamb. The tape would leave a little adhesive behind, but that couldn't be helped. Unless Cordova got down on his hands and knees and checked the plunger with a magnifying glass, he would never know.

  Time to head back to the Ritz. He needed his beauty rest. He was expecting an important call in the morning.

  WEDNESDAY

  1

  Jack spent an uncomfortable night at the Ritz Carlton. Not because there was anything wrong with the twelfth-floor park-view room—it was superb. The front desk manager hadn't blinked when Jack had declared that he didn't believe in credit cards and laid down three of a kind of Maria Roselli's thousand-dollar bills as an advance on his stay. But despite all the comforts he kept thinking he should be at Gia's place, watching over her, ready to jump should anything happen. By reminding himself that the Ritz was only a few blocks from Sutton Square—closer than his own apartment—he managed to drift off to sleep.

  He was up early, and showered and dressed before he called Gia to make sure she was okay. She was. No surprise there. If something had gone wrong, she had his room number and would have called.

  At eight-thirty room service delivered his breakfast and he turned on his Tracfone. Four minutes later, as he was digging into a pair of deliciously runny eggs Benedict—Gia would have made a face—the phone rang.

  "Mr. Farrell?" said a woman's voice.

  "Speaking."


  "Oh, I'm so glad I finally contacted you. I've been calling this number since yesterday."

  Jack smiled. Bet it drove your boss crazy that no one answered.

  "Who are you and why are you calling me?" Jack knew the answers, but Jason wouldn't. "If you're selling something—"

  "Oh, no! My name is Eva Compton from the New York City Dormental-ist Temple. I'm calling from the Grand Paladin's office and—"

  Jack let out a little gasp. "Dormentalist? I have nothing to say to you people! You threw me out!"

  "That's why I'm calling, Mr. Farrell. What happened yesterday was a terrible mistake. Please come back to the temple so that we can rectify this unfortunate error. We're all terribly upset here."

  "You're upset? You're upset? I've never been so humiliated in my entire life! You Dormentalists are awful, heartless people and I want nothing to do with any of you. Ever!"

  With that he thumbed the off button and glanced at his watch—8:41. Jack made a mental wager that they'd call back in twenty minutes.

  He lost. The phone rang at 8:52. Jack recognized the accented bass voice immediately.

  "Mr. Farrell, this is Grand Paladin Jensen of the New York City Dor-mentalist Temple. We met yesterday. I—"

  "You're the rude man who kicked me out!"

  "And I'm so sorry about that. We made an error—a terrible error—and we'd like to rectify it."

  "Oh, really." Jack drew out the word. He wasn't going to let Jensen off the hook easily. "You said I was a phony, that you ran a check on my name and found out I didn't exist. So why are you calling a man who doesn't exist, Mr. Jensen? Tell me that?'

  "Well, I—"

  "And why are you calling me 'Mr. Farrell' when you say that's not my name?"

  "I-I don't have any other name to call you. Look, if you'll just come back, I'm sure we can—"

  "You also said you don't allow lies in Dormentalist temples—only truth. If that's true, why do you want me back?"

  "Because… because I was too hasty." Jack could almost hear him squirm. "After you left I did some investigating and learned that your RT made several errors. Errors which would rightfully upset anyone."