Page 13 of The Children of Eve (Charlie Parker #22)

CHAPTER XIII

In Howie’s, I looked again at the single-word text message on Wyatt Riggins’s phone. The sender’s number was listed.

“Did you try calling the number it came from?”

“I got an out-of-service response,” said Zetta. “It was probably sent using an anonymizer app. One of my exes stayed in touch with his other girlfriends that way.”

I didn’t know how to respond so I said nothing, which seemed safest.

“And a boyfriend,” Zetta added. “Though I’m not judging.”

I waited for further relationship revelations. Thankfully, none were forthcoming.

“It may not have been an app,” I said. “The only reason for carrying around one of those old phones is to limit the possibility of being monitored. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s better than using a smartphone, unless the smartphone is heavily secured. A Nokia is a simpler, cheaper option. The fact that Wyatt kept it close and reacted decisively to the only communication he received suggests that it was a warning device, with the sender using a similar phone. It would make sense to be consistent and not risk compromising the system in any way by introducing apps. You’re sure you have no idea why Wyatt would be part of an arrangement like this?”

“None. I’d tell you if I did. I’m genuinely worried about him, and lying to you won’t help.”

“No,” I told her, “it won’t. Did you, by any chance, make a list of those earlier contact numbers?”

“I didn’t. I would have, had I thought something like this was going to happen.”

“Don’t let it bother you. I couldn’t have done much with the contacts anyway, not without going to a lot of time and expense. I doubt anyone would have answered had I called, or cooperated if they did.”

“Because whatever Wyatt’s involved in is presumably illegal, right?”

“Which doesn’t necessarily make Wyatt a criminal. He and at least one other individual—whoever sent the message—might have crossed paths with the kind of people who are better avoided. That can happen through bad luck alone, though it’s rare.”

Zetta touched the index finger of her right hand to an area of uninked skin on her left arm.

“I’d been thinking about getting his name tattooed here,” she said, “if things worked out between us.”

“Lucky you didn’t rush into it.”

“Actually, I might have stuck to initials. They’re easier to alter later. Will you look for him?”

I informed Zetta of my hourly rate and the weekly minimum. She didn’t blink hard or start laughing, which was always a good sign. She even offered payment in advance without being asked, putting her in the running for Client of the Year.

“I’ll need a list of friends, acquaintances, anyone with whom Wyatt had even passing discourse,” I said. “Did he use social media?”

“Never. He claimed only chumps put their lives online.”

I wasn’t about to disagree, but it removed what might have been productive lines of inquiry.

“I’ll also want to go through whatever he left in the apartment,” I said. “If you could put together any paperwork—bank statements, employment records, anything official or, better still, unofficial—that would be useful, along with a list of his email addresses, his regular cell phone number, his hat size—”

“He didn’t wear hats,” said Zetta, then frowned. “Oh. That was a joke, right?”

“Investigative humor. It kills at conventions.”

“I’ll bet. A lot of that stuff I already brought with me”—she patted her tote—“but call by the house whenever suits. We can even go there now if you like.”

She had a gleam in her eye. It signaled that if I were to make a move on her, she wouldn’t object. Zetta might have been worried about her boyfriend, but not that worried, even if I was old enough to be her father. She was one of those artistic free spirits. Trouble, in other words.

“Tomorrow morning will be fine,” I said. “How about after ten? I’m not an early riser.”

That sounded like an unfortunate double entendre under the circumstances, but Zetta managed to hide any disappointment she felt and no tears of regret stained the bar as she wrote down her address for me.

“After ten it is,” she said. “If I’m working, I may not hear the bell, so call my phone. I’ll see it light up.”

She ordered another gin and tonic. I left her to it. Outside, the evening wind was baring its teeth enough to nip but not bite. Across the street, an intoxicated man argued loudly with a marginally less inebriated woman, who walked away from him with her head high. Having no one else to argue with in her absence, he continued arguing with himself before heading after her. I shadowed him from the other side as he caught up, but he displayed no signs of violence toward her, nor she to him. I saw only some conciliatory gesture from the former and what might have been grudging acceptance from the latter. They walked on, together but apart, which was about as well as it could have ended.

I thought about calling Macy to see if she wanted to meet, but if I did, the evening would drift—not unpleasantly, it should be said—and perhaps the night as well, and I had things to do. I speculated on what it might say about me that I should opt for paperwork over the company of a woman who cared. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

I heard footsteps behind me, and Gibson Ouelette appeared. He hadn’t spent long in Howie’s. Gibson didn’t spend long anywhere except prison cells. I’d always gotten along okay with Gibson. He wasn’t a bad guy, just an unlucky one, and many worse men had never spent even an hour behind bars.

“How you doing, Gibson?”

“You know, getting by.”

He stared at the sky, which was cloudless and filled with stars.

“Beautiful night,” I said.

“Someone once told me all those stars were dead,” said Gibson, “but he was an asshole. It’s just old light, from thousands and thousands of years ago, that’s only reaching us now. We’re looking back in time, staring at fragments of the past scattered above our heads.”

Gibson was like that, a philosopher trapped in the body of a petty criminal. He could conduct a searching moral inventory while emptying a cash register. As I watched, he made a shape with his hands, creating a narrow rectangle.

“That was as much as I could see of it through the window of my last cell,” he told me. “Just that. But it was enough. All this”—he gestured at sky, land, river—“is too much.”

Gibson wished me good night and walked on. I guessed he’d be back in jail before the year was out—not because he wanted to be, but because after years spent in a room eight feet by six, the outside world was often too big, and the past too close. Departed, but still haunting the living.