showed her the tape.
Renn-Jaa wasn’t impressed.
“He had you for free Friday night,” she said. “Why would he go off on some crazy elaborate scheme on Sunday? It doesn’t make sense. Plus, look at the guy. He can get laid three times before noon without even trying.”
“Yeah, but he can’t strangle them while he’s doing it,” Pantage said.
Renn-Jaa cocked her head.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Pantage did.
“Now, think back to Sunday night,” she said. “Do you see this guy there anywhere? Does he spark even the faintest recollection?”
Pantage opened her eyes.
“No but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“I think it does,” Renn-Jaa said.
“My memory’s gone.”
“It can’t be gone a hundred percent.”
“Trust me, it is.”
She stood up and grabbed her purse.
“Where are you going?”
“To find out who he is.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“No,” Pantage said. “I have this thing. I pick guys up, I get screwed like crazy and I leave. There are no names involved. There, I said it. It’s out. I don’t know his name but I know where he lives.”
She headed for the door.
“Hold on,” Renn-Jaa said. “I’m coming with you.”
“No, you have billables to worry about.”
“Screw the billables. I never knew you were such a slut.”
They ended up in Renn-Jaa’s car with the air on full and the radio on hip-hop, parking over on Bannock and then heading out on foot in search of a red brick “not very fancy” building. After ten minutes Pantage pointed and said, “That’s it.”
Renn-Jaa made a face.
“You screwed a guy who lives in that?”
“Not funny.”
“Does it have running water?”
She ignored it.
“He’s a photographer,” Pantage said. “He has the top floor.”
The lobby was an empty space with an elevator that looked like it hadn’t had a code inspection since the caveman days. Next to it was a stairwell with a steel door propped-open with a brick. The light was dim, provided by under-wattage bulbs screwed into minimal ceiling fixtures.
There was no directory or listing of names.
“Stay here,” Renn-Jaa said. “I’m going up.”
“No.”
“I’m just going to see if there’s a name on the door. I’m not going to knock or anything.”
“No, don’t.”
“Does he use the elevator or the stairs?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you came here Friday, how did you get up, the elevator or the stairs?”
“Neither,” Pantage said. “We used an outside fire escape.”
Renn-Jaa exhaled.
“Okay, I’m taking the stairs,” she said. “Keep a lookout. If you see him coming, get the hell out of here. Don’t worry about me. He doesn’t know me. For all he knows I’m here to see someone else.”
The woman disappeared into the stairwell and headed up, keeping her heels quiet.
Pantage shifted her feet.
Then she followed.
At the top level was a steel door with a painted number 701 but no name. The stairs continue up past a sign—Roof Access.
Pantage put her ear to the door.
No sounds came from behind it.
No TV.
No radio.
No nothing.
Then she put her hand on the knob and twisted, expecting to find it locked.
It turned.
She looked at Renn-Jaa, then pushed the door open an inch. No signs of life came from within.
35
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Drift pitched and flipped all night in some kind of not-quite-sleep netherworld before finally giving up at 4:48 in the morning and heading outside for a jog. The exuberance of walking out of September’s law office last night with the Van Gogh notes in his pocket was gone. In its place was a dull realization that he’d actually let himself get dirty and there was nothing in the world he could ever do to undo it.
The dirt was his.
He owned it.
The notes were on his kitchen counter next to his keys.
He hadn’t read them yet.
Nestled into the side of Green Mountain fifteen miles west of Denver, Drift’s
Renn-Jaa wasn’t impressed.
“He had you for free Friday night,” she said. “Why would he go off on some crazy elaborate scheme on Sunday? It doesn’t make sense. Plus, look at the guy. He can get laid three times before noon without even trying.”
“Yeah, but he can’t strangle them while he’s doing it,” Pantage said.
Renn-Jaa cocked her head.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Pantage did.
“Now, think back to Sunday night,” she said. “Do you see this guy there anywhere? Does he spark even the faintest recollection?”
Pantage opened her eyes.
“No but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“I think it does,” Renn-Jaa said.
“My memory’s gone.”
“It can’t be gone a hundred percent.”
“Trust me, it is.”
She stood up and grabbed her purse.
“Where are you going?”
“To find out who he is.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“No,” Pantage said. “I have this thing. I pick guys up, I get screwed like crazy and I leave. There are no names involved. There, I said it. It’s out. I don’t know his name but I know where he lives.”
She headed for the door.
“Hold on,” Renn-Jaa said. “I’m coming with you.”
“No, you have billables to worry about.”
“Screw the billables. I never knew you were such a slut.”
They ended up in Renn-Jaa’s car with the air on full and the radio on hip-hop, parking over on Bannock and then heading out on foot in search of a red brick “not very fancy” building. After ten minutes Pantage pointed and said, “That’s it.”
Renn-Jaa made a face.
“You screwed a guy who lives in that?”
“Not funny.”
“Does it have running water?”
She ignored it.
“He’s a photographer,” Pantage said. “He has the top floor.”
The lobby was an empty space with an elevator that looked like it hadn’t had a code inspection since the caveman days. Next to it was a stairwell with a steel door propped-open with a brick. The light was dim, provided by under-wattage bulbs screwed into minimal ceiling fixtures.
There was no directory or listing of names.
“Stay here,” Renn-Jaa said. “I’m going up.”
“No.”
“I’m just going to see if there’s a name on the door. I’m not going to knock or anything.”
“No, don’t.”
“Does he use the elevator or the stairs?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you came here Friday, how did you get up, the elevator or the stairs?”
“Neither,” Pantage said. “We used an outside fire escape.”
Renn-Jaa exhaled.
“Okay, I’m taking the stairs,” she said. “Keep a lookout. If you see him coming, get the hell out of here. Don’t worry about me. He doesn’t know me. For all he knows I’m here to see someone else.”
The woman disappeared into the stairwell and headed up, keeping her heels quiet.
Pantage shifted her feet.
Then she followed.
At the top level was a steel door with a painted number 701 but no name. The stairs continue up past a sign—Roof Access.
Pantage put her ear to the door.
No sounds came from behind it.
No TV.
No radio.
No nothing.
Then she put her hand on the knob and twisted, expecting to find it locked.
It turned.
She looked at Renn-Jaa, then pushed the door open an inch. No signs of life came from within.
35
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Drift pitched and flipped all night in some kind of not-quite-sleep netherworld before finally giving up at 4:48 in the morning and heading outside for a jog. The exuberance of walking out of September’s law office last night with the Van Gogh notes in his pocket was gone. In its place was a dull realization that he’d actually let himself get dirty and there was nothing in the world he could ever do to undo it.
The dirt was his.
He owned it.
The notes were on his kitchen counter next to his keys.
He hadn’t read them yet.
Nestled into the side of Green Mountain fifteen miles west of Denver, Drift’s
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