Some guy called Brent had been axed, something like that. So he smokes his speed, hops on the bus, gets off out in Henderson, and he’s wandering round calling “Brent, Brent, what happened, Brent?” And he’s getting absolutely nowhere, no answer from the ghost of Brent. So he goes home, can’t understand why he’s made no progress, fires up Google again, and this is classic, he finds, oh shit, it’s not Brent it’s Bret .’
‘You’re killing me.’
‘I know, right?’
Hale ended the call, then dialled Rowe’s landline.
‘Rowe residence.’
Not Alan: probably Beck stuck on morning duty.
Hale said, ‘Morning, Wayne.’
‘Is that Hale?’
‘It is.’
‘Mr Rowe isn’t up yet.’
‘Wake him for me.’
Beck put him on hold. The dial tone claimed the line for a moment, and then Rowe picked up. ‘It’s not even seven o’clock,’ he said.
‘My apologies.’
‘I hope you’re not calling to back out on me.’
‘I’m calling to tell you I’ll take the work.’
Rowe paused. An alarm chirruped and then cut out. ‘You said you’d call today.’
‘I did. This is the call.’
‘All right. Well, thank you.’
Hale didn’t answer. He picked up the photograph again and looked at it.
Rowe said, ‘What’s that you’ve got on in the background?’
‘Patti Smith.’
‘In person or CD?’
‘Vinyl.’ He set the photograph down. ‘I’m sorry about your daughter.’
‘You told me that already.’
‘I only just had a proper look at the photograph.’
Rowe went quiet. ‘You ever had something like that happen to someone you know?’
‘No. But I can understand what it’s like.’
‘Yeah.’ He paused, and Hale caught his breath on the line: soft aborted syllables, like he was struggling to phrase something. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take your word for it. You goingto check out this guy Earle?’
The name came up blank for a moment, before he recalled Rowe’s claim from that night: inmate Leland Earle, questioned for robbery leads.
‘You still there?’ Rowe said.
‘Where are they keeping him?’ Hale said.
‘Mount Eden Prison.’
Hale didn’t reply.
‘Can you get to him?’ Rowe said.
‘Maybe … I’ll see.’
‘I appreciate it.’
‘Yeah. I’ll be in touch.’
THIRTEEN
T UESDAY , 14 F EBRUARY , 7.13 A.M .
D evereaux woke to bad news: a voicemail message, with Lloyd Bowen’s name attached. The timestamp showed the call had come in at 4.37 a.m. Nothing at that hour was ever going to be cheery. He almost couldn’t bring himself to check it. Something foreboding in that neat glowing text. He could guess the gist of what lay in store.
He dialled his mailbox number and put the thing on speakerphone. Bowen’s clipped tone: ‘Sergeant, Lloyd Bowen. Unfortunately, I have to inform you that as of thirty minutes ago, Michael Porter has passed away—’
Devereaux deleted the message.
Michael Porter: his surveillance target from yesterday. His victim .
He dropped the phone on the nightstand and pushed the covers aside, sat on the edge of the bed. The floor yawed. He felt faint.
My victim .
He repeated it a few times. Maybe the first time he’d coupled those two words aloud. He ran a hand through his hair. The guy was dead. He tried not to think: an influx of pessimism might spark something rash. Let’s not be stupid.
The one thought he couldn’t suppress: marvel at this weirdlynovel horror. So this is what it’s like . A vision hit: a brief preview of the remaining forty-odd years he’d have to bear this new hard truth. He considered calling John Hale, but decided not to. He’d killed the guy unaided; he’d endure the guilt of it alone, too.
The phone rang, and he saw Bowen’s name light up again. Devereaux ignored it. He sat there a while, and then he went to take a shower.
The McCarthy meeting was scheduled for nine. Duvall arrived early, combed and squared away in dark attire: his funeral suit, replete with tie.
A constable met him and
‘You’re killing me.’
‘I know, right?’
Hale ended the call, then dialled Rowe’s landline.
‘Rowe residence.’
Not Alan: probably Beck stuck on morning duty.
Hale said, ‘Morning, Wayne.’
‘Is that Hale?’
‘It is.’
‘Mr Rowe isn’t up yet.’
‘Wake him for me.’
Beck put him on hold. The dial tone claimed the line for a moment, and then Rowe picked up. ‘It’s not even seven o’clock,’ he said.
‘My apologies.’
‘I hope you’re not calling to back out on me.’
‘I’m calling to tell you I’ll take the work.’
Rowe paused. An alarm chirruped and then cut out. ‘You said you’d call today.’
‘I did. This is the call.’
‘All right. Well, thank you.’
Hale didn’t answer. He picked up the photograph again and looked at it.
Rowe said, ‘What’s that you’ve got on in the background?’
‘Patti Smith.’
‘In person or CD?’
‘Vinyl.’ He set the photograph down. ‘I’m sorry about your daughter.’
‘You told me that already.’
‘I only just had a proper look at the photograph.’
Rowe went quiet. ‘You ever had something like that happen to someone you know?’
‘No. But I can understand what it’s like.’
‘Yeah.’ He paused, and Hale caught his breath on the line: soft aborted syllables, like he was struggling to phrase something. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take your word for it. You goingto check out this guy Earle?’
The name came up blank for a moment, before he recalled Rowe’s claim from that night: inmate Leland Earle, questioned for robbery leads.
‘You still there?’ Rowe said.
‘Where are they keeping him?’ Hale said.
‘Mount Eden Prison.’
Hale didn’t reply.
‘Can you get to him?’ Rowe said.
‘Maybe … I’ll see.’
‘I appreciate it.’
‘Yeah. I’ll be in touch.’
THIRTEEN
T UESDAY , 14 F EBRUARY , 7.13 A.M .
D evereaux woke to bad news: a voicemail message, with Lloyd Bowen’s name attached. The timestamp showed the call had come in at 4.37 a.m. Nothing at that hour was ever going to be cheery. He almost couldn’t bring himself to check it. Something foreboding in that neat glowing text. He could guess the gist of what lay in store.
He dialled his mailbox number and put the thing on speakerphone. Bowen’s clipped tone: ‘Sergeant, Lloyd Bowen. Unfortunately, I have to inform you that as of thirty minutes ago, Michael Porter has passed away—’
Devereaux deleted the message.
Michael Porter: his surveillance target from yesterday. His victim .
He dropped the phone on the nightstand and pushed the covers aside, sat on the edge of the bed. The floor yawed. He felt faint.
My victim .
He repeated it a few times. Maybe the first time he’d coupled those two words aloud. He ran a hand through his hair. The guy was dead. He tried not to think: an influx of pessimism might spark something rash. Let’s not be stupid.
The one thought he couldn’t suppress: marvel at this weirdlynovel horror. So this is what it’s like . A vision hit: a brief preview of the remaining forty-odd years he’d have to bear this new hard truth. He considered calling John Hale, but decided not to. He’d killed the guy unaided; he’d endure the guilt of it alone, too.
The phone rang, and he saw Bowen’s name light up again. Devereaux ignored it. He sat there a while, and then he went to take a shower.
The McCarthy meeting was scheduled for nine. Duvall arrived early, combed and squared away in dark attire: his funeral suit, replete with tie.
A constable met him and
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