The Heaven Trilogy (49 page)

Kent had lost his interest in arguing the point. He was too busy trying to shake loose the fingers of heat climbing into his brain. The man had hit a nerve. Clark there could easily be him, drowning his failure in the bottle, bent upon pleasure and finding none. Except that he did not hate his son, like Pig-Head did. In fact he would have killed for his son—would've gladly given up every red cent for Spencer's life. The thought brought a sliver of light to Kent's mind.

Bono stood. He slid his glass across the counter and exhaled with satisfaction. “Yessiree. I'm telling you, this life is quite pitiful. No man can escape it.” He tilted his head and lifted his brows so that his green eyes bulged down at Kent. “Unless, of course, you understand what lies beyond the grave.” He smiled wide and slapped Kent on the back. “But then, I'm sure you know all about that, don't you, Kevin?” He sauntered from the pub without looking back.

The words echoed in Kent's head for an hour, and no amount of tequila quieted them. Kent drank for another hour by himself before wandering back to his hotel suite. Somewhere in that hour he began to miss Gloria. Not just
wish-she-were-sitting-with-me
missing, but
blurry-eyed-I'm-lost-without-her
missing. It was all these thoughts about the grave that the green-eyed Bono had deposited on him; they brought pictures of Gloria calling to him from some great unseen horizon. And what if there was some truth to all her babble of God? That thought shoved a fist-sized lump into his throat.

Well, Gloria was dead. Dead, buried, and beyond the grave, wherever that was. But there was Lacy—she too knew of the grave. And she knew of God. Still, Lacy could never be Gloria. Kent finally drifted off to sleep, his mind all mixed up with pictures of Gloria and Lacy.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

RATHER THAN take a room in another hotel, Kent found a furnished executive suite upon his return to Denver Friday afternoon. The agent had hesitated when Kent forked over the ten thousand security deposit in cash, but he had taken it, and Kent had moved in, an event that consisted of nothing more than stepping through the door with the keys in one hand and a single garment bag hanging from his shoulder.

The suite reminded him of the kind you see on futuristic shows, stark and shiny, decorated in black and white. The furniture was all metal, glass, or leather—rather cold for his tastes. But at least it was clean. More important, it was fully stocked, from a flat-screen entertainment center to place settings for eight.

Kent mixed himself a stiff drink, pulled an ugly-looking, black, wrought-iron chair out from under the glass table, and flipped open his laptop. The Toshiba had seen its share of activity over the last six weeks. He powered it up and logged on. Communication on the laptop was through a satellite connection—never a land line. He may have executed a few dumb moves here and there, but not when it came to computing. Here, at least, in his thieving and hiding, he had covered his tracks impeccably, thanks in large part to this baby.

The message box he'd left Bentley was indeed overflowing with messages. There were a dozen or so from Bentley, ranging from the earliest nearly a week old, insisting that he meet with them again, to the latest, left on Friday, screaming about lawsuits and counter lawsuits and what else Kent did not know because he spun quickly through the rest of the voice mail. Phase two was unfolding as planned. Let them sweat.

The last message was from an unidentified number, and Kent sat up when the voice spoke low over his speakers. A chill flashed down his spine. He knew the voice!

“Hello, Bob. You don't know me . . .”
Oh yes I do! Yes, I do
. “. . . but I would very much appreciate bending your ear for a few minutes on this case at the bank. Price Bentley told me I could reach you here. I'm a law enforcement officer working a few angles on a related matter. Please call me as soon as possible to set up a meeting. 565-8970. Thanks, pal. Oh, ask for Germy.”

A cop! Pinhead? Impossible! Germy? What kind of name was
Germy?
But he could swear he'd heard that voice before. And it was a cop.

Kent placed his hands over his face and tried to think. What if the cop was indeed on to him? But he'd already decided that was impossible. No theft, no thief, no crime, no problem. Only this
was
a problem, because he was sitting alone in his new apartment, sweating like boxer.

He should pretend the message had never come through. And risk raising the cop's curiosity? No. He should call the man and weasel his way out of an appointment.

Kent snatched up the phone and dialed the number. A lady answered. “Seventh precinct, may I help you?”

Seventh precinct! “Yes . . .” His heart was thumping in his ear. “I was told to call a cop at this number. A Germy?”

“Oh, you must mean the new guy: Jeremy. Hold please.”

Pinhead!

The receiver barked before Kent could do anything like slam the phone down. “Jeremy here. What can I do for you?”

“Ah . . . Yes. This is . . . Bob. You left a message for me.”

“Bob! Yes, of course. Thank you for calling back so quickly. Listen, I just have a few questions about this business at the bank. Do you have any time to grab a cup of coffee? Say tomorrow morning? Ten-ish?”

What could he say?
No, not ten-ish. Ten-ish is when I start on the bottle, see? How about never-ish?

“Sure,” he said.

“Great! It won't take but a few minutes. How about at the Denny's at Broadway and Fifth? You know where that is?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I'll see you at ten tomorrow morning.”

“Sure.”

The phone went dead. Sure? Gulp.

Kent did not sleep well Friday night.

HOW THE time managed to crawl by, Kent did not know, but it did, like a snail inching its way across a nine-foot razor blade. He awoke at five Saturday morning, although opened his eyes might be a better way to characterize the event, because he'd never really fallen asleep. A shower, a cup of coffee, a few shots of tequila for the nerves, and two miles of pacing across the black-and-white-checkered linoleum delivered him reluctantly to the appointed hour. He found himself parked outside of Denny's at ten o'clock without knowing precisely how he'd gotten there.

Kent slipped on his black shades and walked in. It might look ridiculous for a grown man to wear sunglasses indoors, but he'd decided sometime past midnight that ridiculous was better than incarcerated.

Detective Jeremy sat in a nonsmoking booth, staring at Kent as he entered. And it was indeed Pinhead. Complete with slicked black hair and wire-frame glasses. He was grinning wide.
“Hello, Kent. You
are
Kent, aren't you?”

Kent swallowed and crossed to the booth, mustering every ounce of nonchalance remaining in his quivering bones.

“Bob?” The detective half rose and extended a hand. “Good of you to come.”

Kent wiped his palm and took the hand. “Sure.” He sat. Pinhead smiled at him without speaking, and Kent just sat, determined to act normal but knowing he was failing miserably. The cop's eyes were as green as he remembered them.

“So, I guess you're wondering why I've asked you to meet me?”

Kent shrugged. “Sure.” He needed another word badly.

“Price Bentley tells me that you're investigating a robbery at the bank. You're a private investigator?”

“I suppose you could call me that.”
Cybercop,
he almost said, but decided it would sound stupid. “At this point it's strictly an internal matter.”

“Well, now, that depends, Bob. Depends on whether it's connected.”

“Connected to what?”

“To my investigation.”

“And what might that be, Jeremy?” That was better. Two could be condescending.

“That would be the bank fire a month or so ago.”

Every muscle in Kent's body went rigid. He immediately coughed to cover. “The bank fire. Yes, I heard about that. To be honest, arson was never my thing.”

“Mine neither. Actually I'm following up the murder. Do you always wear sunglasses indoors, Bob?”

Kent hesitated. “I have a light sensitivity in my left eye. It acts up on occasion.”

Jeremy nodded, still grinning like a chimpanzee. “Of course. Did you know the victim?”

“What victim?”
That's it—remain cool, Buckwheat. Just play it cool.

“The gentleman murdered in the bank robbery? You know, the fire.”

“Bank robbery? I didn't know there was a robbery.”

“So they say.
Attempted
robbery, then. Did you know him?”

“Should I have?”

“Just curious, Bob. No need to be defensive here. It was a simple-enough question, don't you think?”

“What exactly do you need from me, Jeremy? I agreed to meet with you because you seemed rather eager to do so. But I really don't have all morning to discuss your case with you. I have my own.”

“Relax, Bob. Would you like some coffee?”

“I don't drink coffee.”

“Shame. I love coffee in the morning.” He poured himself a steaming cup. “For some it's the bottle; for me it's coffee.” He sipped the hot, black liquid. “Ahh. Perfect.”

“That's wonderful. My heart is glad for you, Jeremy. But you're starting to annoy me just a tad here. Can we get on with it?”

The detective just smiled, hardly missing a beat. “It's the possible connection that has me worried. You see, whenever you have two robberies or
attempted
robberies in one bank during the span of six weeks, you have to ask yourself about the connections.”

“I hardly see the similarity between a common thief who happened upon an open door and the high-tech theft I'm investigating.”

“No. It does seem rather unlikely. But I always turn over every stone. Think of yourself as one of those stones. You're just being turned over.”

“Well, thank you, Jeremy. It's good to know that you're doing your job with such diligence.”

The detective held up his cup as if to toast the notion. “My pleasure. So, did you know him?”

“Know him?”

“The victim, Bob. The programmer who was killed by the common thief.”

“Should I have?”

“You already asked that. Yes or no would be fine.”

“No, of course not. Why should I know a programmer who works in the Denver branch of Niponbank?”

“He was responsible for AFPS. Were you aware of that?”

Kent blinked behind the shades.
Watch it, Buckwheat. Tread easy.
“It was him, huh? I figured it couldn't have been Bentley or Borst. So they cheated someone for that bonus after all.”

“All I know is that it was Kent Anthony who developed the system, pretty much from the ground up. And then he turns up dead. Meanwhile Bentley and company end up pulling down some pretty healthy change. Seems odd.”

“You're suggesting Bentley might have had a finger in the programmer's death?” Kent asked.

“No. Not necessarily. He had nothing to gain by killing Kent. I just throw it out there 'cause it's another stone that needs turning.”

“Well, I'll be sure to turn over my findings if they seem to shed any light on the fire. But unless Bentley and company are somehow implicated in the fire, I don't see how the two cases tie in.”

“Yes, you're probably right.” The detective downed his coffee dregs and looked out the window. “Which leaves us pretty much where we started.”

Kent watched him for a moment. By the sounds of it, Pinhead was not turning out to be such a threat after all. Which made sense when you thought about it. The theft had been perfectly planned. There was no way that anyone, including Detective Pinhead here, could even suspect the truth of the matter. A small chill of victory ran up Kent's spine.

He smiled for the first time, confident now. “And where would that be? Tell me, where did we start? I'm a bit lost.”

“With a crime that simply does not fit the players involved. If Bentley and Borst don't fit, then nothing fits. Because, you see, if you knew the man, you would know that Kent Anthony was not the kind of man who would leave a door unlocked for a pistol-toting thief. He was not nearly so stupid. At least not according to his friends.”

“Friends?” The question slipped out before Kent could hold it back.

“Friends. I talked to his girlfriend up in Boulder. She had some interesting things to say about the man.”

The heat was suddenly flashing though Kent's skull. “Anybody can make a simple mistake,” he said, knowing it sounded weak. He certainly could not defend a man he supposedly did not know. “In my experience the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. You have a body; you have slugs. He may have been an Einstein, but he's still dead.”

Pinhead chuckled. “You're right. Dead is dead.” He mulled that over. “Unless Kent is not dead. Now, maybe that would make more sense.” The man drilled Kent with those green eyes. “You know, not everything is what it seems, Bob. In fact I am not what I seem. I'm not just some dumb, lucky cop.”

Kent's face flushed red; he felt panic-stricken. His chest seemed to clog. And all the while Pinhead was looking directly at him. He was suddenly having a hard time forming thoughts, much less piecing together a response. The cop removed his gaze.

“My case and your case could be connected, Bob. Maybe we're looking for the wrong guy. Maybe your high-tech phantom and my dead guy are really the same person! A bit far-fetched but possible, don't you think?”

“No. That's not possible!”

“No? And why is that not possible?”

“Because I already know who did it!”

The cop arched a brow. “Who?”

“Bentley and Borst. I'm putting the finishing touches on the evidence, but within a week I can assure you, fraud charges will be filed.”

“So quickly? Excellent work, Bob! But I really think you ought to rethink the matter. With my theory in mind, of course. It would be something, wouldn't it? Kent alive and kicking with a dead man in his grave?” He dismissed the theory with his hand. “Ah, but you're probably right. The two cases are probably not connected. Just turning over every stone, you know.”