Repairman Jack [08]-Crisscross (21 page)

Only two of the upper floors turned out to be interesting. The twentieth couldn't be accessed without a special swipe card. Here was Celebrityland. The entire floor had been converted to luxury suites for high-visibility visitors—the actors, rock stars, scientists, politicians, and so on who'd joined the Dormentalist fold.

But the twenty-first floor was altogether different. At the end of a short hallway lay a large open space with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides.

"This is the Communing Level," Jensen told him. "FAs can come here at any time of the day or night to meditate with their xelton and, if they're far enough along toward fusion, its Hokano counterpart."

Canned patter if Jack had ever heard it.

He looked around and saw about a dozen people scattered throughout the space, most in chairs facing the windows but a few sat on the floor with their limbs folded into something resembling the lotus position.

Not a bad spot to commune with your inner xelton, or your inner coleslaw, or inner anything. The 180-degree view was spectacular. The south wall was taken up by a row of booths.

"What are those for?"

"For those FAs who wish to commune in privacy."

Privacy? Jack doubted that. Privacy seemed a rare bird in the temple. He'd spotted video pickups everywhere Jensen had taken him.

He heard a latch click and saw someone step out of one of the booths and walk their way. His hair looked oily, face unshaven, and he was dressed in raggedy clothing. Looked like a squeegee man. As he passed, eyes averted, Jack caught his scent: major BO.

He also caught sight of a long nose with a bulbous tip.

Could it be?

"I didn't know you had homeless Dormentalists," Jack whispered as the raggedy man passed.

Jensen glared at him with a scandalized expression. "All Dormentalists are productive citizens. That man isn't homeless, he's a lapser."

At first Jack thought he might be referring to some sort of subsect, then remembered seeing the term on one of Jamie Grant's summary sheets. Couldn't remember what it meant, though.

"Lapser?"

Jensen sighed as if everyone should know this. "A Lapsed Fusion Aspirant. He engaged in LFP behavior and this was the punishment meted out by the FPRB."

"The same people dealing with my RT from yesterday?"

Jack congratulated himself. He was starting to get with the lingo.

"Exactly."

"That's his punishment? Sack cloth and ashes?"

"So to speak."

Just to be sure of that nose, Jack wanted another look at this seedy guy before he hit the elevators. He hurried after him.

"Wait," Jensen said behind him. "You can't—"

But Jack kept going. He couldn't let on that he recognized him—no way Jason Amurri would know Johnny Roselli—so he had to try a different tack.

He came abreast of the guy and said, "Excuse me?"

Yeah, that was the nose, and those were Maria Roselli's eyes flashing toward him, then quickly away. He'd found Sonny Boy.

Now what?

Jack was about to ask him his name, just to be absolutely sure, when he felt a big hand close around his arm.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jensen said.

Jack looked after the retreating Johnny Roselli who hadn't even broken stride.

"I just wanted to ask him what he did wrong."

Jensen shook his head. "He's not allowed to tell you, I'm not allowed to tell you, and you're not allowed to ask."

"Why not?"

"Because when you see someone dressed like that, it means they've been declared SE—a Solitarian Exile. He has to wear clothes he found in a trash heap and may not bathe or shave for the term of his punishment. He's an outcast, an untouchable who may not speak or be spoken to by another Dormentalist unless it's a Paladin or a member of the FPRB."

Jack made a face. "How long does that go on?"

"In his case, four weeks. He has about a week left."

"What's his name?"

Jensen's eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just curious. I might want to look him up after he's no longer an SE and ask what it was like not to bathe for a month. Must be awful." Jack smiled. "Although not as awful as for someone who has to live with him."

Jensen didn't seem to find any humor in that. "If you see him afterward, he can tell you all about it himself, if he so desires."

Jack knew an opening when he saw one.

He'd finished the first half of the Roselli job: He'd established that Johnny was here instead of wandering around Uganda or some such place as a Dormentalist missionary. And though he looked like an SRO hotel regular, he seemed healthy enough.

To finish the job he now had to get in his face and tell him to call Mama. That would mean finding out where he lived, which might involve getting into the membership files.

So Jack jumped on the segue Jensen had presented.

"Ah, yes. Confidentiality. I'm really impressed with how seriously you take that here. I assume your membership records are computerized."

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, you know, hackers, disgruntled employees. I'm a very private person and hate the thought of someone snooping through my file in your computer."

"Not to worry. We have state-of-the-art security and virus protection. Only Mr. Brady, myself, and the Overseers have full access."

"Excellent." He glanced at his watch. He needed to be up in the Bronx soon. "Oh, look at the time. I have a couple of family matters to attend to, so—"

Jensen held up a hand. "Before you go, Mr. Brady wanted me to register you for an EC."

"I love old comics!"

Jensen's face showed an instant of confusion. "It's an Entry Card that will pass you through the front entrance without signing in. It's highly unusual for an RC to be issued one, but Mr. Brady feels we owe it to you."

"Oh, you're too kind, but that isn't necessary."

"Oh, but we insist. Our pleasure."

Jack did not want this. It meant having his picture taken and entered into the computer. But how could he refuse without compromising his credibility?

Damn.

4

Jensen watched Jason Amurri sit for his photograph. He appeared upbeat about it, but Jensen sensed an undercurrent of unease.

Why? This was a unique privilege—one that Jensen had been against, but he'd been overruled—so why wasn't Amurri happy?

Just one more thing about this guy that didn't add up. He was supposed to be some kind of rich loner, but he didn't move like a guy who'd grown up deciding which silver spoon to put in his mouth. And his eyes… they didn't miss a thing. Jensen was sure he'd spotted some of the video pickups, maybe all of them, but he hadn't asked about them.

Of course he might have expected them as part of the security system, but wouldn't a guy so hooked on privacy have made some sort of squawk?

Then again, maybe Jensen was wrong. Maybe Amurri hadn't spotted the pickups.

Still, he was getting an itch about this guy—no red-flashing alarms or anything like that, just a feeling that something wasn't quite what it seemed.

He wouldn't tell Brady yet. The boss saw dollar signs when he looked at Amurri and would brush off Jensen's suspicions. So right now he'd keep them to himself and have Margiotta do a little more digging. And maybe have Peary follow him again.

Scratch an itch and sometimes you find a chigger.

5

A large Dunkin' Donuts coffee in one hand, the
Post
in the other, Richie Cordova elbowed his office door open and breezed through the reception area.

"What've we got today, Eddy?"

"New client at two."

He stopped in mid-breeze. "That's it?"

"Afraid so."

He shook his head. Christ, things were slow.

In his office he dumped his weight into the chair behind his desk, set down the coffee and paper, and pulled a bag containing a pair of glazed chocolate donuts from the side pocket of his jacket.

He hadn't been able to resist. Damn. He had everything else in his life pretty much locked down the way he wanted. His appetite was the only thing not under control.

Maybe tomorrow.

He hit the power button on his computer and gobbled one of the donuts while it warmed up.

He'd had a dream last night about that nun. A hot one. Must've been because he'd talked to her during the day. He knew what Sister Golden Hair looked like in her birthday suit and she was nothing great—sure as hell nothing like the faked-and-baked babes in the shots he downloaded from
teen-lust.com
—but she wasn't bad, and she was
real
. And he'd been there, watching in real time as he snapped shots. Last night he'd had that pale, hot little body sweating over him instead of Metcalf.

Richie entered his password and went directly to his photo files.

Photo-wise, he was moving away from film to digital. Eventually he'd be all digital, but old habits were hard to break. Photos of any kind had stopped being worth much in court these days. Too easily faked. Hell, even negatives could be faked. But things were different in the good old Court of Public Opinion. A compromising photo could still mess up a reputation.

Even if you came out and swore on a stack of Bibles that the pictures were fakes, those images stuck in people's minds long after the explanations had faded away.

He opened the SIS folder and double-clicked one of the jpeg files within. But instead of an image of Sister Maggie in a clinch with her fundraiser pal, he found only a string of flashing capital letters.

HOPE YOU REMEMBERED TO BACK UP!

Where was the photo? He closed that file and opened the next. Same message.

"Oh, my God!"

He opened more files and felt his mouth grow progressively drier as the same words popped up time after time. He moved to other folders, but all his jpegs carried the same message. He tried a couple of doc files and they were the same! Every goddamn file on his computer had been wiped clean and replaced by the same sneering message!

He was on his feet, hands clamped against the sides of his head. "This can't be! This can't fucking be!"

Eddy poked her head through the doorway. "Something wrong, Richie?"

"My computer! Someone's been in here and sabotaged my computer! Wiped out everything!"

"How is that possible?"

He went to the two windows and checked the contacts. No sign of tampering. And both were locked from inside.

"I don't know. I—" He jabbed an index finger at her. "You must've forgot to turn on the alarm."

Eddy shook her head and looked offended. "Not a chance. I put it on as I always do. And it was still armed this morning when I opened up."

"Bullshit!" he said as he charged her way. She had to back out of the doorway to allow him through. "If that's true, how did he get to my machine?"

Same story with the sealed window in the reception area. What was going on?

"Maybe he didn't," Eddy said. "Maybe he—what do they call it?—hacked into it. I've heard they can get into government computers, so why not yours?"

Richie didn't know much about hacking, but he knew one thing for sure: "A computer's got to be turned on before you can hack it, and I turn mine off every night."

He returned to his office.

Eddy said, "Well then, I don't know what to tell you besides the alarm was set." She frowned. "And then you've got to ask yourself, why anyone would want to sabotage your computer? I keep all the correspondence and billing records on mine. If someone wanted to hurt your business, they'd go after my machine, wouldn't they? And mine is fine."

Richie couldn't answer that. And suddenly he was thinking about the envelope.

"Okay, okay, we've wasted enough time jawing about it. Get the number of that computer place down the street. Call him and tell him I've got an emergency here and need him ASAP."

"Will do."

As soon as the door closed, he went over to the radiator. The envelope was still there. He yanked it out and checked the money—all there. He dropped it back into its hiding place and stumbled back to his chair.

Maybe no one had broken in after all. That was a relief. He'd moved his computer here for the security system. Rudimentary but better than nothing, which was what he had at the house. And since it came with the rent here, a hell of a lot cheaper than installing one.

He grabbed the
Post
and fanned to the horoscope page.

Gemini (May 21-June 21): Win points by accepting additional responsibilities. Extra hours ensure future financial security. If you are in negotiations, you know by now that the other side may not be taking things as seriously as you are.

Well, he was always in financial negotiations, and that nun bitch didn't seem to be taking things as seriously as she should, but nothing here about bad luck or watching your back. Cusp guy that he was, he read on to the next.