The Placebo Effect (31 page)

Decker left Mike's place and walked along Plum Street. Without thinking why he tossed Mike's computer into the first Dumpster he saw. Down the road he stopped in front of a bizarre minaret-topped building, which, surprisingly enough, was a synagogue. Farther down the street he saw a large Catholic cathedral. He nodded—a smile creasing his face, “Good, yes, very good.”

Cincinnati presented the classic Midwestern anomaly. Overtly friendly people, deeply divided along racial and class lines—a profound belief that they were good people and a cliquiness that often went all the way back to high school. But in a pinch give me a Midwesterner. On a desert island he'll figure out how to read the stars, make a raft and get outta there. Their sense of their own goodness has been played upon by both pulpit and senate chamber over and over again. They were about the only white boys who fought in Vietnam—and they were believers, often marines, often signing up for second tours of duty even after honorable discharges and serious wounds.

If there's a fire, a flood, a hurricane or just a neighbour who
needs help—give me a Midwesterner… but there can be also a sub-rosa Midwestern small-mindedness and violence.

Left out of the mainstream of Midwestern thought altogether, African Americans forged their own culture. As blacks escaped the South they followed the great rivers north and brought their music with them, so that jazz sprung up in unlikely places along the shores of the Mississippi, Ohio and Missouri rivers. When Decker used to work in the regional theatres in Pittsburgh and St. Louis and Cleveland and Cincinnati, he always did his best to befriend black stagehands—there were few black actors hired at the time—so they could walk him into the jazz clubs. Without a black man to vouch for you, no Caucasian ever got into the inner sanctum of black culture—the smoke-filled, liquor-saturated jazz clubs.

It'd been many years since Decker directed in Cincinnati's Playhouse in the Park, and he didn't even know who ran that lonely artistic outpost now. But he did remember a young black apprentice to whom he'd given his first role on the main stage—Steven Bradshaw. Steven had taken him to see Etta James.

Half an hour after leaving Mike's apartment, a broad-smiling, gaptoothed Steven Bradshaw was shaking his hand and saying, “Got your e-mail. What brings you back to Cincy?”

“You up for a little acting, Steve?”

The man's smile outshone the sun.

“I'll be back in half an hour. I need you in a sports jacket and open-collar shirt. And I need you against a neutral background with enough light—natural light—to pick up the proper colour and contours of your face. Okay?”

“Sure. What kind of pants?”

“Any or none; we're not going to see them in the shot.”

“I'm just kidding, but at last I'm in front of the camera—good godamn!”

At the electronics superstore, Decker paid cash for a handheld digital camera and ignored the pitch to sell him the warranty. He
bought an extra memory card and was about to leave when he saw a gigantic plasma screen TV on the far wall. “Can I rent one of those?” he asked.

They quoted him an astronomical price.

Decker thought of the unusual minaret-topped synagogue on Plum Street and asked, “How's about if I rent three of them?”

“Three times the price,” the salesman said.

“Logical,” Decker muttered, and he paid cash for the rental of three of the huge screens. “You'll deliver them?”

“For a price.”

“Naturally. And they're wireless?”

“Everything's wireless now. Just plug 'em in and use the remote.” He reached behind the counter and handed Decker two remotes. “They come with the package. No charge but you have to leave a hundred dollars apiece as a deposit. You return the remotes—you get back your money. Fair?”

Decker nodded, “Sure, that's fair.”

The sales clerk clearly didn't know what the word “sardonic” meant. Much of the Midwest seemed to have missed the concept, so Decker repeated, “Sure, that's fair.” Then unable to resist he asked, “How about throwing in a portable DVD player?”

The salesman looked at him like he'd grown a second head.

He paid for the DVD player in cash as well and headed back to Steve's.

Steve had set up a wooden desk against a soft white background. Decker reoriented the table so that the light from the kitchen window slanted across Steve's lovely blue-black skin, then told him basically what he wanted him to say. Steve took it in and gave it a shot. It was quite good—centred and smart. “Okay,” Decker said, “let's get a sound level then put one down.”

Yslan Hicks pulled out her cell phone. “The little prick claims he's never seen or heard of Roberts.”

“Swell,” Harrison said from his Washington office.

“If Christ had turned this guy's piss to wine he'd claim he did it himself.”

Harrison stared at the wall of his office. It was covered with data about Henry-Clay Yolles. “Do you want to bring him in and sweat him, Yslan?”

“I'd prefer to crush his nuts and throw him out that big window in his boardroom.”

“He come on to you, Yslan?”

“Does the pope wear a dress?”

“To the best of my understanding he does. So how do you want to play this?”

“I think Yolles is behind what happened to Decker.”

“Did you tell him so?”

“No.”

“And you've had no sightings of Roberts?”

“No.”

“Roberts has to approach Yolles somehow. So use Yolles as the bait.”

“That's what I'm doing,” she said, glancing at her two guys. “Did you get anything on that guy at the bar back in the New York restaurant?”

“No.”

“I don't like it, sir. There are too many loose ends.” She didn't bother mentioning that some of the actions against Roberts didn't align. She didn't bother mentioning this since she wasn't sure how they didn't align or even exactly what she meant by things not aligning. It wasn't her way of thinking—and she was more than a little puzzled that that word came to her. She realized with a start that she'd been thinking differently since she'd kidnapped Decker Roberts.

“Can I ask about—?”

“No. Just find Roberts, Yslan. We need him.”

“Because of the—?”

He hung up the phone. The immediate danger from the Pakistani jihadi had been dealt with. Two other witnesses clarified which one of these bastards had been telling the truth and which had been lying. But the danger had only been pushed into the future. He took out a folder that had now grown to a substantial width. There were dozens of other terrorist suspects that he was anxious to have Decker Roberts listen to—and then tell him which of their statements were true.

“It's good Steve. Really good.”

“Thanks. It was fun. What're you going to do with it?”

“Use it, Steve.”
To get Henry-Clay Yolles to back off
, Decker thought. “So here's some cash for your time.” Decker handed him five hundred dollars. The young man looked genuinely hurt. For a second Decker thought he had not offered enough money, then he realized that Steve had done the work as a favour—a thank-you—and wanted no payment. “Sorry,” Decker mumbled. “How 'bout this then—I'll take you out for dinner or whatever you like?”

Steve smiled that smile again and said, “For guys like you who liked Etta, I got just the place.”

Yslan sat with her team at their makeshift command headquarters. Down the way she could see the Byzantine Isaac M. Wise Temple with its peculiar minarets. Farther down was the historic St. Peter in Chains Cathedral.
Lots of churches
, she thought. For a moment she flashed on a report of the area that Decker Roberts lived in, the Junction—lots of churches there too.
Why have houses of worship of different denominations and faiths side by side by side—all in the same area?
she asked herself. Then an answer surfaced from a silent place in her heart—to contain the evil here. She knew that Cincinnati was the sight of many of the most vicious riots in the history of the United States. Several before and right after the Civil War—with Kentucky just across the river many people in Cincinnati were torn in their loyalties to the Union. Several times blacks had been attacked by anti-abolitionists and
large riots had followed. But the worst riot had been eighteen years after the end of the Civil War, in 1883. It was famous in law-enforcement circles. Months earlier two men had been convicted of the murder of their boss but only one had been hung. The second was confined to jail, and the city rose as one angry thing in protest. Two deputies died protecting the jail—a statue of one, Captain John Desmond, stands proudly in the courthouse lobby. All told over forty Cincinnatians were killed and many score injured—but it was the remnants of the rioters' rage that continued to scar the city. Yslan could still sense it.

With a shock she realized that she had never before felt or thought like this. Had it been her time with Decker Roberts that had made her so sensitive?

She didn't know, but she no longer discarded it as a possibility.

So why all the churches? Go back to their nature. Of everything ask, what is its nature? What does it do?

Yslan flipped open her laptop and accessed her private NSA files. She had only a few synaesthetes in the entire country whom she considered to possibly have talents that could aid the NSA; one of them was serving time in Leavenworth Penitentiary. But she had a much longer list of silly synaesthetes—those with a gift that was quirky but not intrinsically useful. She quickly scanned the list and to her surprise found that one of those silly synaesthetes lived in Cincinnati and had been murdered three days ago.

“Let's go,” she said, grabbing her coat.

The angry black slam poet was finishing his set as Decker and Steve entered the club. A trio of musicians graciously completed the young man's unfinished thoughts with a fine discordant flourish that segued into the profound opening chords of Coltrane's “Blue Train.”

Decker and Steve took a seat at a side table. Steve ordered a pitcher of malt liquor. As offhandedly as he could manage, Decker asked, “You got any friends in the newspaper business, Steve?”

“I work for a local TV station—so sure.”

Decker smiled and handed him a folded piece of paper. “Could you get this to them? They might be interested in it.”

“Mind if I ask what it is?”

“It's a real estate item.”

“Sure. I got favours owed me all over this town,” Steve said, pocketing the paper.

“All over?” Decker asked.

“All over, Mr. Roberts,” Steve said with a smile.

Outside the unmarked club, in a rented Escalade, Emerson Remi watched the dot on his BlackBerry settle and remain still. A group of young black men sauntered past the Escalade and were about to cause a ruckus when Emerson turned his head toward them. The young men, seeing Emerson's eyes, decided there was easier prey than the weird white guy in the dumb car.

Henry-Clay was on the phone to Congressman Villianne. “And I want more info on this Yslan Hicks, before the sun rises. Got it? Good—now go get it.”

He slammed down the phone and called MacMillan. “Where are you?”

MacMillan responded.

“Mr. MacMillan, I need you—and some of your guys, posthaste.” He hung up and looked out the window. The Treloar Building carved a tooth mark in the low-hanging winter moon.

The band was finishing its number as a pretty black woman, dressed à la the young Lena Horne, stepped up to the old-fashioned mic. She took the thing in her elegant fingers and a shiver ran through every man in the room. The drummer dumped his sticks and took out his brushes.

The girl's voice was little more than a purr of sound and stirred the hearts of everyone in the room.

“Like her?” Steven asked.

“What's not to like?” Decker responded.

“Good,” Steve said. “She's my honey, Hialeah.” Decker looked at him. “Her daddy liked the horses.”

Decker noted that the room had suddenly filled and every eye was on Hialeah. He thought,
If this girl told them to jump over the moon, at least the men would give it a shot.
Decker nodded and whispered, “Thanks,” for the good fortune to a god he didn't believe existed.

“For what?” Steve asked.

“For her,” Decker said, but what he thought was,
Thanks for the final piece.

Yslan showed the building manager the photos of Decker Roberts.

The man looked at the photos, then looked at Yslan.

“Have you seen this man, sir? It's very important.”

“Well I think I have—but then again I think I haven't.”

“What does that mean, sir?”

“Are these recent photos?”

“Very recent.”

“Then I don't think I've seen him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well I saw someone like that with the Realtor but I think he was younger—maybe this guy's younger brother. He have a younger brother?”

“When did you see him?”

“Earlier today. Came to look at the dead guy's apartment.”

Twenty minutes later—and without a warrant—Mr. T stepped aside as Ted Knight opened the apartment door and Yslan stepped in. “Give me ten minutes.” The men looked at each other—this was new, too.

Yslan stood alone in Mike's apartment. She looked at the pieces of the broken statue on the floor, then pushing open the bedroom door she saw the computer peripherals statue of Mike.
She felt surrounded by input—important input—that she couldn't sort into any meaningful order. She closed the bedroom door, then headed toward the exit—completely missing the miniature statue on the windowsill of the Treloar Building.

Later that night Decker sat with Steve and Hialeah and made a request.

“No one's going to get hurt?” Steven asked.