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

CHAPTER XXII

Roland Bilas had always fancied himself a writer, so being asked to construct a plausible story about his recent buying trip to Mexico presented a welcome challenge. He had lots of ideas for novels, many of which featured a taller, funnier, more attractive version of himself performing impressive feats, some involving beautiful women in a state of undress, yet whenever he tried to write them down, the air went out of both him and his story. The ideas themselves had to be worth something, though. He had vague notions of hiring a hack to put words to them, said hack being so grateful to good old Roland for having done all the hard work of coming up with a plot that he’d consent to a thirty percent share for his efforts, or twenty-five if the idea was strong enough.

Unfortunately, in the absence of a hack writer hanging around Erica Kressler’s office with nothing better to do, Bilas was forced to wrestle his story into shape unassisted. But after some crumpling and many crossings-out, he had assembled a version of the truth he could stand behind. Kressler found thirty minutes in her busy schedule—which would be billed to Bilas as an hour because she didn’t do fractions—and she and Bilas went through it a couple of times, with Kressler testing for flaws and expecting Bilas to address them. He managed without great difficulty, as it was easy to leave out the middleman and establish a direct line of contact between Bilas and the seller. Bilas experienced minor guilt at the prospect of giving up associates, and a degree of shame since nobody liked a snitch. But no greater self-love had any man than that he lay down a few passing acquaintances to save his skin, as the Bible didn’t say—though it ought to, because a dime would get you a dollar that self-love was more widespread than self-sacrifice.

“Okay,” said Kressler, when they were done. “We now have something to offer the feds should they decide to play hardball. Meanwhile, I want you to think again about anything in your collection that you might have forgotten to mention earlier. And don’t bullshit me: If the aim is staying out of jail—Mexican, Peruvian, or American—then it’s going to cost you, and if you don’t feel the pain, it’s not costing you enough.”

Bilas nodded miserably. Even with the funds he had squirreled away, this whole mess threatened to bleed him badly. The only way he knew to make some of that money back was the very thing that would land him in prison if he was caught—and he would be caught, because his name would now be on every watch list from here to hell itself.

“I guess you can tell my mystery caller that Devin Vaughn has nothing to worry about,” said Kressler. “You can also share your new bedtime story with him, to set his mind at rest. While you’re at it, I’d appreciate your asking him never to pull a stunt like that with me again. You’ve had your shot, Roland, and I won’t be the messenger a second time. If it comes down to choosing between my license and your life, you don’t need me to tell you which way I’ll go.”

Bilas didn’t need her to tell him. He’d be sorry to lose Kressler as a lawyer once this was over but it couldn’t be helped. If she kept him out of jail, he’d send her flowers as a farewell.

He got up to leave. The authorities had seized his laptop, which was inconvenient, and his iPhone, which was more bothersome still. But beyond inconvenience, and straying into the potentially life-threatening, was the fact that they had also confiscated the red Nokia flip phone. When asked about it, Bilas told them he’d picked it up for its nostalgia value but also to use as a cheap backup device, because sometimes simplest was best. They hadn’t believed him, suspecting—rightly, as it happened—that the phone was a burner.

Because Bilas was wily, he didn’t use fingerprint or facial identification to open his laptop or smartphone. He might not have been a dangerous criminal, but he was still a habitual lawbreaker. He’d read up on his rights, including the prerogative, even under arrest, to decline to surrender passcodes or passwords to one’s devices. A suspect’s biometrics might not have been protected by the Constitution, but their mental processes were. If the authorities wanted to access Roland’s contacts and data, they’d have to obtain another warrant, which Kressler assured him she’d fight, even if she doubted she’d win. She could delay, not postpone indefinitely.

That was when Bilas had come closest to panicking. He had erred in returning to Mexico, and erred further by being apprehended on his return to the United States, but he had blundered on a cataclysmic level by allowing the Nokia to find its way into the hands of the law. Once opened, the Nokia would be found to contain a handful of numbers in its contacts list, each identified only by a letter. Bilas didn’t know all the names hidden behind those letters, but he was sure of a couple and could guess at more. He was also aware that each of those people possessed a Nokia similar to his, a phone that was never to be used to make or receive calls, only to send or receive short messages, with any follow-up call to be made on another device. Bilas, by his actions, had put that warning system at risk. It was still potentially rescuable, though. The process might already have begun, given that one of Devin Vaughn’s people had been in touch with Kressler, which meant Vaughn must have figured out that Bilas’s Nokia was either compromised or about to be. It would be a matter of ditching the old SIM cards, acquiring fresh ones, and circulating the new numbers. Bilas wouldn’t be Vaughn’s flavor of the month afterward, and would pay a price for his carelessness, as well as for failing to heed the injunction to remain north of the border. Bilas didn’t think Vaughn would have him killed, but he would certainly have him hurt.

“You mind if I use your phone before I go?” he asked Kressler.

“Yes, I do mind.”

“Seriously?”

“Roland, your parents are both dead, you’re an only child, and you have no friends, so whoever it is you intend to call, it’s almost certainly someone you shouldn’t, or not from my office. If you need a flight or hotel room booked, my secretary will handle it. Otherwise, go find a public phone or buy another burner.”

“Jeez,” said Roland.

Still, he had his wallet, including cash and credit cards. He felt miserable and alone, but he also needed to sleep and was in no state to drive all the way home to Palm Desert. The thought of a bed, even a cheap one, was irresistible, so on the way out he asked Kressler’s secretary to recommend the nearest place with clean sheets and a strong lock on the door, and was directed to a motel a few blocks away. The secretary even called ahead to ensure it had a room available and put together a care package of snacks, including chips, fruit, soda, and a protein bar. It was such a kind gesture that Roland came close to hugging her.

He decided to wait until he got to his motel room before settling on a means of getting in touch with Vaughn’s people. Because he no longer had his phones, he didn’t have any contact numbers—nobody remembered phone numbers anymore; Bilas could barely recall his own—so reaching out would entail leaving a message at one of Vaughn’s businesses and waiting for someone to get back to him. The motel was an upscale place with a tiki bar and a pool in back, and the rack rate was enough to make Bilas’s eyes water, but the room was comfortable and quiet, and more important, it had a phone. Bilas knew that Vaughn’s cannabis stores were all owned by a single corporate entity, DeVinarex Growth Services, and the motel’s receptionist looked up its head office number for him. The woman who answered claimed to have no knowledge of any Devin Vaughn, but Bilas told her to cut the shit and get a message to Vaughn or Aldo Bern. He left the name and number of the motel and hung up. Then he lay down and instantly fell asleep.

BILAS WAS WOKEN BY the phone. It rang three times before stopping, so he kept his eyes closed and drifted off again. Seconds later, the phone resumed ringing. This time, it got only as far as two rings before the noise ceased. Bilas heard a rattle as the phone was returned to its cradle. Someone was in the room with him.

He opened his eyes. To his left, on the other twin bed, sat a small man in a lightweight sky-blue suit. His longish gray-blond hair was brilliantined in place, and Bilas picked up the distinctive scent of chrysanthemum and jasmine, familiar from his father. Alongside it was another smell that reminded Bilas of the desert. The man didn’t appear to be armed, which was good. Perhaps Vaughn had sent him. If so, the messenger might have had the decency to knock instead of intruding on a stranger’s rest. Next time, Bilas thought, he’d make sure to put the safety lock in place and—

He realized he was babbling in his own head.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Seeley. I was waiting for you to wake, Mr. Bilas. I didn’t want to disturb you. You’ve had a trying time.”

Bilas ran through his limited options. He could shout for help, make ineffectual threats, or try to overpower the intruder. Before he attempted any of those things, though, it would be best to pose the obvious question.

“Who sent you?”

Bilas didn’t ask him straight out if it was Vaughn. No names . He might have been scared, but he wasn’t scared stupid.

“Who do you think?” Seeley replied.

“I’ll need more than that.”

Seeley tapped his fingers on his thighs and nodded to himself.

“Of course you will.”

He reached into his jacket, produced a small reinforced brown envelope, and handed it to Bilas.

“Open it.”

Bilas did. Inside were photographs of Antonio Elizalde. He looked dead. He was certainly blind: his eyeballs had been punctured.

“We’re going to talk, Mr. Bilas,” said Seeley. “And if we don’t like what you have to say, you’ll end up like your Mexican friend.”

Bilas threw the only thing close to hand, which was a pillow. It distracted Seeley momentarily, enough for Bilas to leap out of bed and sprint for the door. Only then did he spot the third person in the room, one who had been standing in the shadows throughout.

If we don’t like what you have to say…

Bilas managed to shout one word before Seeley leaped on his back and put a hand over his mouth. That word was please .