Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [79]
Inside, we stand in a massive foyer with wide white pillars reaching up to the vaulted ceiling and then slender brown wood columns supporting a second story. We follow the foyer until it empties into the Great Hall, where my shoes echo across the immaculate hardwood as I step into the open chamber. At the far end of the hall hangs an earth-toned tapestry that covers most of the wall.
I reach for Espy’s elbow. “Ready?”
I’m sensitive to the speed with which she pulls away from my grasp and walks back the way we came. As if we didn’t have enough baggage between us, now I’ve gone and ruined the whole thing with a single kiss. It’s a reminder that, once this sordid business is concluded, there’s something of greater importance which needs tending. Yet there’s little I can do about it right now. If she wants to sulk, I’ll just have to let her sulk.
At the end of the foyer is a stairway leading to the visitor gallery overlooking the main Committee Room, where one can see a portion of the legislative process in motion. It’s the most popular tourist destination, and I see at least fifty people ascending and descending the steep steps, which seem to open up toward nothing, reminding me of the proverbial Jacob’s ladder. I’m glad we don’t have to set foot on them, because my knee is complaining again. I haven’t walked this much in years, and my subpar leg is telling me it has no loyalties to anything beyond its own well-being.
I pull out my cell phone and dial the international number that came with the file from Duckey.
Someone answers on the first ring with an irritated “Yeah?” This tells me that the man I’m here to see is reticent about giving out this number—that there are a select few who would ring it.
“Hello, Mr. Manheim.”
A cruel part of me enjoys the brief pause that follows my greeting. As he struggles to place my voice and come to grips with the fact that he’s been caught off guard, I can almost smell the consternation via satellite.
“Who is this?”
As I think of how to respond—after days of travel, dead ends, and dead bodies—I harbor a desire for something direct, something akin to ripping off a bandage in one quick pull.
“This is Jack Hawthorne.”
What follows is a sound that might be an intake of breath, but I can’t be sure. What I do register is the look of surprise on Esperanza’s face. She doubtless assumed that we would engage in some sort of ruse for as long as we were able.
“I don’t believe I know a Jack Hawthorne,” the other man says, recovering.
“Did you enjoy your trip to Venezuela?” I ask. “I hear San Cristóbal is lovely this time of year.”
Esperanza is mouthing something but I ignore her. I can almost see Manheim clenching his teeth and drumming nervous fingers on his desk. Probably what he’s weighing now are the merits of maintaining obtuseness.
“What do you want?”
I can respect a man who, seeing the world crumbling around him, makes a desperate lunge toward salvaging the situation. Manheim did a rapid calculation of the particulars, for he understands that I’ve nailed him. And his response is unadulterated survival.
“There are a lot of things I want. A nicer car, a lighter class load.” I pause, then say, “And to find out why you want me dead.”
For a moment I think I’ve lost him. Finally he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” There’s a hoarseness in Manheim’s voice that I can only attribute to anger.
I don’t feel like playing games. I could stay on the line and string him along, maybe drop Ernesto’s name, the dollar figure, the email address. I have enough of the pertinent information to, if not prove in court that he set up the hit, then at least unnerve him enough to force his hand. Instead, I’m feeling a sudden sympathy with Esperanza, and with all of female-kind: I want closure.
“If you’re interested in talking, I’m in the lobby.”
Before he can answer I end the call and, for good measure, cut the power. It wouldn’t do to have Mr. Reese try to call when I’m in the middle of holding my own against a