Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [55]
Gem’s handwriting was more like printing, only the slight serif on some letters and the right-hand slant hinting at individualism.
Sergei & Sophia–
Dmitri is dead. You are connected to this through the boy. There is danger for you. Dmitri kept records. For your own safety, we must meet. I will be in O’Bryant Square at the corner of Park and Washington on Monday afternoon, at 2:00 p.m. I will be wearing a bright-red jacket.
It was signed “Your Friend.”
Gem picked up a small can of compressed air. She sprayed the single sheet of paper thoroughly, using the gentle sweeping motion of a graffiti tagger, then folded it precisely in thirds. Next she opened a new packet of manila-colored Monarch-size envelopes—I could see they were the self-sealing type—and addressed one carefully. Then she inserted the letter, peeled off the strip to expose the adhesive, and rubbed her gloved thumb along the seam to make sure the seal was tight. The stamp came from a roll; a stick-on.
Gem slid the stamped, addressed envelope into a Ziploc bag and sealed it.
“If we mail it today—Tuesday—they will get it on Friday at the latest. That still gives us Saturday as a fail-safe.”
“If they check their box every day,” I reminded her.
She shrugged. I knew what that meant: they would or they wouldn’t—it was out of her hands. And there was always another Monday.
Later that day, I stood very close to Gem, holding the mailbox slot open and shielding her as she made the Ziploc spit out its contents.
“Do you know this town?” I asked her.
“Why? What is it that you need?”
“Unless you brought a red coat with you, it’s what you need.”
A smile played across her face. “I love shopping,” she said.
We found her a brilliant red coat—a hunter’s jacket, the guy in the store told her. She also found a pair of lace-up boots she fancied. And some other stuff.
We had a late lunch with Byron at a little restaurant he knew about. He held his lips in a whistling position as he watched Gem eat, but no sound came out.
“So you figure on me coming back no later than Sunday morning, okay?” he said.
“Perfect. Thanks.”
“Sure. Tell you what—drive me out to where I’ve got the limo stashed. I’ll take it back to Seattle; you keep the hot rod until I get back. The suite’s covered, no worries there.”
“You want me to meet you at the airport Sunday?”
“No need. There’s always plenty of cabs around at PDX. And that way, there won’t be any phone calls.”
“Speaking of …”
“How many you want?”
I spent the next couple of days prowling Portland. Knowing I didn’t have enough time to really learn the streets, but wanting to get a sense of the terrain. I’d checked the plaza where we’d set the meet—it was only a few blocks from the hotel—and I knew it couldn’t be boxed without a damn regiment standing by. The hotel was my trump—a place to duck into where I could just disappear.
Anyone interested might check the lobby, but no way the hotel was going to stand for a room-to-room unless it was the police asking. Whoever they might be considering for backup, I was sure the Russians weren’t bringing the law.
Gem always passed on coming along with me. Said she had some things to do. Sometimes she was there when I got back, sometimes she wasn’t. She must have found a greengrocer nearby—the living room smelled like a fruit stand from all the produce she had stacked in various spots. Refrigeration wasn’t a problem; Gem ate everything she scored the same day she brought it back. She asked me once if I wanted some pomegranates. I played