Aphrodite (20 page)

“To ask me questions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You won’t believe my answers, you know.”

“Well,” Justin told him, “I’d like to give it a try. How about tomorrow?”

“Today, tomorrow, the day after, the day after that one, doesn’t make any difference to me. If there’s one thing I’ve got,” Lewis Granger said, “it’s time.”

There was a very definite chain of command

After Byron Fromm had passed his bad news along to Bert Stiles, Stiles made his own call, passed the same news along, and got reamed. The man who did the reaming was named Alfred Newberg. Newberg was paid over a million dollars a year to deal with bad news—to receive it and to pass it along to his employer. As expert a job as he did dressing down Bert Stiles, it was nothing compared to the verbal lashing he took over the phone. He did not defend himself, nor did he offer any excuses. There were none to offer. He was paid his handsome salary—as well as given enormous loans at almost no interest and provided with regular use of a private jet, an extremely comfortable and luxurious Challenger—to take such abuse and then go out and solve whatever problem had arisen. So when the spew of obscenities began dying down and he heard the words “This is a very, very delicate situation, you do understand that?” he knew the tirade was over and it was time for him to do his job.

“Yes, sir. I know exactly how delicate this is.”

“It’s a Chinese puzzle we’re involved in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what a Chinese puzzle is, Newberg?”

“Yes, I do, sir. Boxes within boxes.”

“Exactly. And do you know what happens when one box is removed?”

“The puzzle doesn’t fit together the same way.”

“It’s worse than that. Much, much worse than that. The puzzle, the thing itself, is altered. It’s not the same object. It becomes something different, something else entirely.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In other words, it’s destroyed.”

“I understand that, Mr. Kransten,” Newberg said. “I understand what’s at stake.”

“We are so close,” Newberg heard his boss say. “We are so goddamn close. After all these years …”

“Yes, sir, I know.”

“I don’t want to see it destroyed. I won’t
let
it be destroyed.”

“It won’t be.”

“Well, it might be if this goddamn policeman—what’s his name?”

“Westwood.”

“Well, whoever the hell he is, he can’t be allowed to come any closer. For God’s sake, what the hell is he trying to do?”

“He’s looking into what happened with Bill Miller.”

“Who?”

“Bill Miller, sir. The actor.”

“Right, right, right. What does he have to do with the policeman?”

“There was the incident with the woman. The reporter who wrote the obituary.”

“Oh, for chrissake, it’s ridiculous. Make him go away. Get rid of him.”

“I will.”

“Get rid of him
now
, before he pulls one of our little boxes away.”

“Consider him gone, Mr. Kransten.”

There was a long silence and Newberg thought, perhaps, that the line was dead. But he heard the faintest wisp of breathing and then he heard Kransten say, “You like using that plane, don’t you, Al?”

“I like it very much. And you don’t have to worry, sir. I like it too much to risk screwing this up. I just received a call from the manager of Leger. That’s the one in upstate New York, outside of Albany. He said that Lewis Granger received a call from his granddaughter.”

“Granger?”

“That’s right.”

“Does he
have
a granddaughter?”

“No. I’m certain it was the little girl who’s with the policeman. Her mother was the one who witnessed the … scene …in East End Harbor.”

“Careless. It’s all been very careless.”

“Yes, sir. But I’m sure Westwood’s going to see Granger. So we know where he’ll be very soon.”

“How’d he track Granger down?”

“Possibly through Helen Roag.”

“Goddammit.”

“Although it’s more probable it’s got nothing to do with her. He might have gotten on to Ed Marion.”

“Really?”

“Marion’s the link. Between the woman in East End Harbor and now this.”

“Where’d you take it last week, Al?”

“Excuse me?” Newberg asked, momentarily thrown.

“The plane. The Challenger. Didn’t you use it last week?”

“I did. Mexico. A resort south of Puerto Vallarta called Las Alamandas.”

“Nice down there?”

“Very.”

“Lot of nice places in the world, Al. A
lot
of nice places. I hope you get to see many more of them.”

“So do I. Believe me, so do I, Mr. Kransten. So don’t give the policeman a second thought. Or the witness. I promise you: They’re as good as gone.”

17

Ed Marion was confused and annoyed by the phone call from the manager of the Weston Mall. He was certain there was some mistake. Why the hell would anyone break into Growth Industries? And, if he did, what the hell was he going to steal? A bunch of used answering machines? A cheap fake-leather swivel chair? It didn’t make sense. There was nothing of value; there was no meaningful paperwork. There wasn’t even any indication of what the company did. But none of that mattered now because someone had been inside and he actually had to go there and check things out. He hated going into that office, stopped by only once a month, perfunctorily. He didn’t really need to do it, but he felt as if he should. He needed to reassure himself that things were untouched and safe.

Only now things weren’t untouched. And now things might not be safe.

The best he could hope for was that this was the work of some incompetent burglar. The worst he could expect was …

Ed Marion didn’t want to think about the worst. He knew that when it came to the realities of the game he was playing, he was in way over his head. The people he worked for were scary and they were nasty. They frightened him. They paid awfully well, though. And as long as they left him alone to do his work, he could live with what he was doing for them. His extracurricular duties were reasonably unobtrusive and not all that time-consuming. They were also extraordinarily valuable from a professional perspective. But he knew that if they ever decided he was a liability, if, God forbid, he ever fucked up, well—that was what he didn’t want to focus on. He didn’t like thinking about his wife being a widow or his kids going through the rest of their lives without a father.

He drove his nine-month-old Lexus out of the driveway of his two-story white colonial, turned left on his quiet suburban street, and headed past a series of manicured lawns and freshly painted houses, toward the mall. Marion paid no attention to the blue-gray Buick that started up and chugged along behind him. He was so lost in thought that when he stopped at the first stop sign he came to he didn’t even notice the man who was standing on the corner. He didn’t see the man step toward his car and tap on the passenger-side window. The man was holding a map and looked confused, so Ed Marion instinctively touched the button to his left, the one that automatically rolled down the passenger window. Ed was still so lost in thought it took him a full three seconds to register that instead of the map, the pedestrian had shoved a gun through the open window. The gun was pointing straight at him, Marion realized, and the man, perfectly calm—there was even the hint of a reassuring smile on his face—was saying, “It’s time we had a little talk, Ed.”

Justin had Ed Marion pull the Lexus over to the side of a quiet street, about three blocks from the man’s house. Deena pulled the Regal up behind them and cut the motor; she and Kendall stayed in that car, as Justin had instructed.

“Whatever you want,” Marion said, staring at the gun in Justin’s hand, “it’s yours. I don’t have a lot of cash but just take it. I have credit cards, a bank card, this watch is worth a few hundred dollars. Here, take the watch.”

“I’m not here to rob you, Ed.”

Marion studied him now, his eyes taking in Justin’s posture, his clothes, the serious expression on his face. “Oh my God,” Marion said, “you’re going to kill me.”

Justin decided to play things as they unfolded. This guy was clearly afraid. The question was, of what? Right now he was afraid of Justin. Might as well take advantage of that, give him some room and hope he’d lead the conversation somewhere worthwhile.

“I have some questions,” Justin said. “Why don’t you give me some answers and we’ll see how things go.”

“I don’t know anything about the break-in, I swear. I didn’t do anything to cause it.”

“No? How about the fuckup with the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The one you spoke to about Bill Miller.”

Marion looked genuinely confused. “I did what I was supposed to, didn’t I? I called Newberg, he called … whoever he calls. Maybe he called you. Then he told me to call the girl back, keep her calm, he was taking care of it.”

“By having her killed?”

“Look, I don’t ask about things like that. It’s not my business.”

“It is now. Somebody screwed up. There was a witness.”

“I know. I saw it on the news. But that’s not my fault.” Marion was sweating profusely now. “Look, I took care of my end. I was
told
to call her. They
told
me to give out the number. What happened there, it’s just not my fault. I never said a word. I mean, I’m not even supposed to be on this side of things. They said this kind of stuff would never happen. Let me just talk to Newberg. Let me talk to Kransten. I’ve done everything they want and I haven’t said a word to anybody. I swear to God, even the people I work with don’t know anything about Aphrodite. My
wife
doesn’t know!”

Amfer. Or Afro. That’s what Deena thought she’d heard Susanna’s killer ask about. Afro. Aphrodite? It made as much sense as anything else.

Justin wasn’t sure where to head next. He didn’t know any of the names Marion had just tossed out. And clearly he was supposed to. He wasn’t confident of his ability to draw out information. He needed the basics—who and why and where—but he didn’t have enough info to go the subtle route. And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep Marion on the hook. So he took the plunge and went direct. “Tell me about Lewis Granger,” he said.

“What?”

“What’s the connection between Granger and Bill Miller?”

“What? What do you mean?” Marion’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you know how old Miller was?”

“Who
are
you?” Marion asked. “How old is Lewis Granger?”

“Jesus Christ,” Marion moaned. “I know who you are. You’re the cop on the news.”

So much for direct. “I may not be who you thought I was,” Justin said, tapping his gun on his thigh, “but I can still pull the trigger. So answer the questions, Ed.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

“You work for the Ellis Institute. What do they research?”

“You’re the one who broke into the office. Oh my God, you don’t know what you’ve done.”

“What’s Aphrodite? Why do you think Susanna Morgan knew anything about it?”

The guy had his head in his hands now. Justin thought he might begin to rip his own hair out. “They’ll know you found me. Jesus Christ, they’re going to kill me now.”

“Who?”

“You’re gonna lead them right here. You’re definitely dead and so am I.” Marion glanced back at the Buick. “And so’s whoever you’re with.
Everybody’s
dead.”

“I can get you help,” Justin said.

“It’s too late now.”

“No it isn’t. But you have to talk to me.”

“I can’t,” Marion said. His words were barely audible now. They were coming out as half-gasps, half-sobs. “I can’t talk to you. They’ll know you got to me. You’re killing me.”

“Who?” Justin asked. “Who’ll know? Newberg? Kransten?” Marion just shook his head. His hands were shaking now. And he was biting his lower lip so hard that a thin trickle of blood was forming on his chin.

“What about the FBI?” Justin said suddenly. “Will you trust
them
?”

Marion stopped his moaning and keening just long enough to look up questioningly. Justin continued. “They can protect you, can’t they?”

Marion seemed to regain some color. “The FBI?”

“I can get somebody here pretty quickly.”

“They can help me?”

“Yes,” Justin said. “But you have to tell me everything that’s going on.”

“Not you. I’ll tell them. I’ll talk to the FBI.”

Justin raised his gun an inch but he knew it was an empty threat. So did Marion.

“Go ahead and shoot me,” Marion said. “If I don’t get to the FBI, I’m as good as dead anyway.”

Justin hesitated, then reached for his cell phone. He dialed, heard Gary answer at the East End station, didn’t even bother with a hello, just said, “Get Rollins.”

Thirty seconds later, the assistant director was on the line. “Where the hell are you?” was his opening line.

“You know, you’ve got to learn to vary your questions. I’m doing you a favor, Rollins. So try not to step on your own dick for a couple of minutes while I tell you something.”

“What kind of favor?” Rollins said.

“I’m with someone who can lead us to the guy who killed Susanna Morgan. And Brian Meves.”

“Who is it?”

“Slow down a second. The guy’s terrified. And for good reason. He thinks that whoever killed those two is also going to come after him. I said I could get FBI protection.”

“You’ve got balls, you know that, Westwood? You’ve got some real balls.”

“Rollins, there is some very weird shit going on which I will be happy to tell you about at some point. But in the meantime, my contact needs protection. In exchange for which he will answer any and all questions. Those answers should lead to the capture of a man who murdered a police officer. A police officer working on your investigation.”

Rollins sighed and said, “Where do we go?”

Justin turned to Ed Marion. “I need to tell him where to come. I have a motel room I can stash you in. Can I give him your name and that address?”

Marion thought for a moment, then nodded.

“His name’s Edward Marion. I’m going to put him in a room in a motel in Weston, Connecticut.” Justin gave Rollins the address of the motel near the mall. “You sending someone from there?”