Page 126 of The Instruments of Darkness

“Yes,” he said, “tonight.”

CHAPTER LXXIX

I called Amara Reggio as Beth Witham drove away, Angel and Louis beside me. I felt sadness and anger on Witham’s behalf, not only because of her treatment at the hands of Stephen Clark but also for the fact that this bright, attractive woman was being sold short by life. Louis, had I mentioned it, would have dismissed this as my savior complex manifesting itself once more. What could I have said in reply? Nothing, except perhaps to point out that while not everyone could be saved, one had to behave as though they might be.

Amara had found nothing on her husband’s computer, but she wasn’t surprised by this; Mattia used DuckDuckGo as his default browser. She had gained access to their cell phone account and noted that Mattia, amid other calls, had contacted the same number three times on the night in question. It wasn’t one she recognized, and she’d been tempted to try it before deciding it might be better to share it with me first. I asked her to read it out, and I added it to the dashboard notepad.

“I’ll chase it down,” I said. “You discovered nothing else?”

“No, but that’s Matty all the way. When he dies, the paperwork won’t pay for a lawyer’s lunch.” She realized what she’d said, and followed it with “Dio mi perdóni.”

“He knows how to look after himself, Amara.”

“Not like he used to. I spoke to Mr. Castin. He said you were the best there is at what you do. I wish I didn’t have to rely on you because of how you’ve looked down on my husband, but I think Matty’s in trouble. His silence tells me so.”

I didn’t bother contesting what she’d said, or offer an apology. Neither would have been sincere.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything,” I said.

I hung up, but didn’t immediately call the number she’d given me. I didn’t like taking unforced steps into the unknown. First, I wanted to establish whom I might be calling. Sometimes, the simplest way to check for a user’s name was to look for the number on Facebook. It was surprising how many people linked their phones to their profile, but I was certain that Mattia Reggio didn’t move in those circles. My solution was to call David Southwood, who was the best reverse-look-up guy around. Most of the services that claimed to be able to trace cell phone users by their number were unreliable at best and scams at worst. Southwood was expensive, while much of what he did was illegal and therefore inadmissible in court, but his information was gold-standard. He answered on the first ring.

“What?”

Southwood wasn’t big on idle chitchat. I’d never met him, and neither had anyone I knew. I imagined him living in a basement surrounded by screens, although judging by the prices he charged, it was probably a basement in the Bahamas.

“It’s Parker,” I said.

“I can see that.”

I let the ensuing hiatus last for just slightly longer than a normal person might have found comfortable, but awkwardness was an alien concept to Southwood. In the background, I could hear fingers tapping at a keyboard, no doubt as intimate personal data passed before Southwood’s eyes.

“I’d like a number traced.”

“Give it to me.”

I read out the digits.

“Just the name and address,” said Southwood, “or do you want more? IRS, bank accounts, credit card records, vehicle registration?”

“It’s urgent, so I’ll settle for speed over depth.”

“It’s always urgent. If it wasn’t, nobody would ever call.”

I was shocked at what counted as unnecessary conversation. Compared to Southwood’s usual level of interaction, it was the equivalent of a Hamlet soliloquy.

“How long?” I asked.

“There’s a waiting list. Could be a few hours.”

“Move me to the top of the line.”

“There’ll be a premium.”

“It’s the nature of capitalism.”

Moxie would be good for the fee. He might complain, since it wasn’t as though the IRS was sympathetic to deductions for illegal activity, but if the intelligence brought us closer to Reggio, he’d suck it up.

“Five minutes,” said Southwood.