The Heaven Trilogy (48 page)
It was a simple question. Even awkwardly simple, because everyone knew that busy was better than lazy. But at the moment, Kent was having difficulty remembering why. It was possibly the booze, but it was just as possibly that he had never really known why busy was better than lazy.
He did what all good fools do when presented with a question they cannot answer directly. He raised his voice a tad and threw the question back. “Come on! Everybody knows that being lazy is stupid.”
“That’s what you said. And I asked you, why?”
Bono was no fool. He’d been here before. “Why? Because you cannot excel if you’re lazy. You will go nowhere.”
“Excel at what? Go where?”
“Well, now. How about life? Let’s start with that. I know it’s not much, but let’s start with excelling at that little event.”
“And tell me what that feels like. What does
excelling at life
feel like?”
“Happiness.” Kent raised his shotglass and threw it back. “Pleasure. Peace. All that.”
“Ahh. Yes, of course. I had forgotten about happiness, pleasure, and peace and all that. But you see, the average man has as much as the Wall Street yuppie. And in the end, they both go into the same grave. That
is
where they go, isn’t it?” The man chuckled.
It was then, at the word
grave,
that the buzzing had first started again in Kent’s skull. “Well, most have a good eighty years before the grave,” he said quietly. “You only live once; you might as well have the best while you do it.”
“But you see, that’s where you and the yuppies on Wall Street are mistaken,” Bono insisted. “It makes a fine fantasy, no argument there. But when you’ve had it all—and believe me, I have—wine still tastes like wine. You might drink it out of a gold chalice, but even then you realize one day that you could close your eyes and honestly not know whether the cold metallic object in your hand is made from gold or tin. And who decided that gold is better than tin anyway? In the end we all go to the grave. Perhaps it is beyond the grave where life begins. You know anyone who’s gone to the grave lately?”
Kent swallowed and flung back another shot. Lately? His vision doubled momentarily. He leveled a rather weak objection. “You’re too pessimistic. People are full of life. Like that man laughing over there.” He motioned to a man in a far booth, roaring with his head tilted back. “You think he’s not happy?” Kent smiled, thankful for the reprieve.
Bono gazed at the man and grinned. “Yes. Today Clark looks quite happy, doesn’t he?” He turned back to Kent. “But I know Mr. Clark. He’s a pig-head. Recently divorced and rather smug with the notion because he no longer has to deal with his brats. He’s got three of them—six, ten, and twelve—and he can hardly stand them. Problem is, he spends most of his waking hours feeling guilty for his remarkably selfish disposition. He’s been trying to wash it all away with the bottle for a year now. Trust me. He will leave this place tonight and retreat to a wet pillow, soaked in tears.” Bono took a sip from his glass, evidently satisfied for having made his point. “Look under any man’s sheets, and you’ll find a similar story. I guarantee it, certifiable.”
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.
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.”