shoved Scrabble tiles up their asses with a cattle prod. Yes, they were going to pay. If they all had to die. If the whole city of San Francisco had to die.
"I'll be downtown tomorrow afternoon. The Civic Center," Perry said.
"Tomorrow's Halloween."
His anger ignited so fast and hot that the room seemed to flare white. "Is that a crack about me?"
"What?"
He rubbed the lumpy trail of scar tissue that ran around his neck. "You calling me Frankenstein?"
"No, Jesus, no—I just thought, Halloween, maybe it's a holiday."
"At the courthouse? I'm dealing with the law, Levon—it never takes a holiday; you know that. It's always after your ass."
"Fuckin' A, boss."
His anger subsided. He thought for a moment. "We're at a tipping point. We need to move faster. A prosecutor's death, so public—it's going to bring a huge law-enforcement response."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Talk to the wide receiver again."
"Southern? He's a walking disaster zone. He can't cope."
"Give him one more chance. Let him know it's now or never. He gives us the information or that's it. He'll either be our source, or be an example to the others."
"An object lesson," Skunk said.
"Precisely."
"You got it, boss. What are you going to do?"
Perry placed the tiles on the board.
"Pray?" Skunk said.
"I don't do that anymore. No, I'm going to work out. Then meet with the lawyers. Then I think I'll play Scrabble."
He moved tiles around. Carjack, that worked. And—yeah, add letters here, triple word score. Exsanguination.
"Scrabble?" Skunk said.
It was time to cut off the call. Lingering on the phone any longer would be risky. Besides, this much talk was more than his throat could bear. Perry pressed the voice synthesizer one final time to his ruined larynx.
"Yes, Levon. I wish the rules let me turn cocktail into Molotov cocktail, but they don't." He dropped the rest of the tiles on the board. "That's up to you."
The U.S. Geological Survey in Menlo Park is measuring the earthquake at 4.1 on the Richter scale. We have reports of minor damage in the South Bay, so let's go to our traffic chopper—"
Jo punched the radio dial. She was ten miles up the freeway heading back to San Francisco, window open, hair batting in the breeze. A new station came in.
"... My cats sensed the quake coming, and they freaked out. If the Big One hits, I tell you, I'll know it beforehand—" Punch.
"... Some experts think this swarm of tremors is a sign of the coming apocalypse predicted in the ancient Mayan calendar—" Punch to the stereo.
Music poured out, a trancelike Sahara track in an odd key. Sunlight sparkled on the bay. She stared at the road and tried to stop thinking about Gabe Quintana. His cool, his warmth, his self-assured presence. His concern for her.
Her phone beeped. It was a text message from Lieutenant Tang. At Harding's autopsy. Important you come.
She was forty minutes from the medical examiner's office. She replied K, and sped up. The music was hypnotic and insistent. It was Cheb Mami, the singer who had recorded "Desert Rose" with Sting. She had started listening to this music after Daniel died. Back then, melody had become a minefield. Classical music choked her up in ten seconds flat. Rock reminded her of climbing trips and sleeping with
Daniel under the stars. And country music made her want to kill herself. It made her want to buy a gun so she could blow away any radio playing a song with slide guitar.
But this music carried her off, because it carried no memories. Nothing tied it to Daniel. And yet it caught her imagination and pulled her in, but somewhere exotic and safe. Childhood memory. All she needed was a magic carpet to take her away.
She touched her necklace, rubbing her fingers over her white-gold wedding ring.
Rock music had been playing on that last morning with him. She could still hear it clearly. The Police, "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic." That ascending baseline in a minor key. Seven thirty a.m. and Daniel
"I'll be downtown tomorrow afternoon. The Civic Center," Perry said.
"Tomorrow's Halloween."
His anger ignited so fast and hot that the room seemed to flare white. "Is that a crack about me?"
"What?"
He rubbed the lumpy trail of scar tissue that ran around his neck. "You calling me Frankenstein?"
"No, Jesus, no—I just thought, Halloween, maybe it's a holiday."
"At the courthouse? I'm dealing with the law, Levon—it never takes a holiday; you know that. It's always after your ass."
"Fuckin' A, boss."
His anger subsided. He thought for a moment. "We're at a tipping point. We need to move faster. A prosecutor's death, so public—it's going to bring a huge law-enforcement response."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Talk to the wide receiver again."
"Southern? He's a walking disaster zone. He can't cope."
"Give him one more chance. Let him know it's now or never. He gives us the information or that's it. He'll either be our source, or be an example to the others."
"An object lesson," Skunk said.
"Precisely."
"You got it, boss. What are you going to do?"
Perry placed the tiles on the board.
"Pray?" Skunk said.
"I don't do that anymore. No, I'm going to work out. Then meet with the lawyers. Then I think I'll play Scrabble."
He moved tiles around. Carjack, that worked. And—yeah, add letters here, triple word score. Exsanguination.
"Scrabble?" Skunk said.
It was time to cut off the call. Lingering on the phone any longer would be risky. Besides, this much talk was more than his throat could bear. Perry pressed the voice synthesizer one final time to his ruined larynx.
"Yes, Levon. I wish the rules let me turn cocktail into Molotov cocktail, but they don't." He dropped the rest of the tiles on the board. "That's up to you."
The U.S. Geological Survey in Menlo Park is measuring the earthquake at 4.1 on the Richter scale. We have reports of minor damage in the South Bay, so let's go to our traffic chopper—"
Jo punched the radio dial. She was ten miles up the freeway heading back to San Francisco, window open, hair batting in the breeze. A new station came in.
"... My cats sensed the quake coming, and they freaked out. If the Big One hits, I tell you, I'll know it beforehand—" Punch.
"... Some experts think this swarm of tremors is a sign of the coming apocalypse predicted in the ancient Mayan calendar—" Punch to the stereo.
Music poured out, a trancelike Sahara track in an odd key. Sunlight sparkled on the bay. She stared at the road and tried to stop thinking about Gabe Quintana. His cool, his warmth, his self-assured presence. His concern for her.
Her phone beeped. It was a text message from Lieutenant Tang. At Harding's autopsy. Important you come.
She was forty minutes from the medical examiner's office. She replied K, and sped up. The music was hypnotic and insistent. It was Cheb Mami, the singer who had recorded "Desert Rose" with Sting. She had started listening to this music after Daniel died. Back then, melody had become a minefield. Classical music choked her up in ten seconds flat. Rock reminded her of climbing trips and sleeping with
Daniel under the stars. And country music made her want to kill herself. It made her want to buy a gun so she could blow away any radio playing a song with slide guitar.
But this music carried her off, because it carried no memories. Nothing tied it to Daniel. And yet it caught her imagination and pulled her in, but somewhere exotic and safe. Childhood memory. All she needed was a magic carpet to take her away.
She touched her necklace, rubbing her fingers over her white-gold wedding ring.
Rock music had been playing on that last morning with him. She could still hear it clearly. The Police, "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic." That ascending baseline in a minor key. Seven thirty a.m. and Daniel
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