Private - James Patterson [47]
“Or he was shoved across it in increments until he was airborne,” I said. “Seems more likely to me.”
“We’ve got some prints,” lab assistant Karen Pasquale said to Sci from the hallway. “Three sets so far.”
“Excellent,” Sci said. “Now. Where’s his computer?”
“What’s that?” I said, pointing to the briefcase almost invisible in the shadows, wedged between the desk chair and the wall.
Sci picked up the case with his gloved hands, set it down on the desk, and unsnapped the locks.
The case sprang open.
There was a tie on top of a laptop. A sheaf of papers in the side pocket.
And a cell phone.
“This’ll keep me busy,” Sci said. “Another no-sleep night.”
“Mind taking a look at the phone now?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
Sci opened the phone and said, “His battery’s almost gone, but I’ll give it a shot.”
I stood behind Sci, looking over his shoulder as he scrolled through messages. Suddenly he stopped as if he’d been turned to stone.
“Sci?”
He showed me a text message on Pilser’s phone that had been sent last Wednesday. It was short and to the point.
“Freek Night is on, Scylla. Get ready. You’re IT.”
It was signed by someone using the name Steemcleena.
I said to Sci, “Wait. Shouldn’t this be from Morbid? He’s the connection, right? Who is Steemcleena?”
Sci worked his jaw soundlessly a few times, then he said, “Who is Steemcleena? As brilliant as I am, I’m going to have to get back to you on that.”
Chapter 66
THE EXCLUSIVE AND astronomically expensive rehab center where Tommy was staying was called Blue Skies—some marketing person’s concept of hope, I guess.
The facility was in Brentwood, north of Sunset, spread out over a dozen acres and sited so it had a flat-out awesome view of the Santa Monica Mountains. You could stand at the administration office and look down into the canyon, see people trotting their horses on trails through their woodsy backyards.
I hadn’t seen Tommy since I’d checked him in to Blue Skies, and now I felt duty bound to make sure he was doing okay there.
I found Tommy in a lounge chair at poolside. He was wearing peacock blue swim trunks under a fluffy white robe.
He looked healthy and tan. Somewhat at peace. The rest was doing him good. I hoped so, anyway.
When my shadow crossed him, he squinted up at me, made a visor with his hand, and said, “Don’t think I’m thanking you for this, bro. I was just wondering how the hell to escape in a bathrobe.”
I took a seat in the chaise longue next to him. “Want to thank me for going to Carmine Noccia and handing him a cashier’s check for six hundred grand?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“It’s a loan, Tommy. Just so you know. And I didn’t tell Annie that the Mob was about to turn your car into a bomb. Or maybe blow up your house.”
“Don’t you ever get a headache? That halo up around your ears all the time.”
“I do, actually. You ought to let me be the evil twin for once. I’d like that.”
“Uncle Fred was here,” Tommy said. “He told me there’s something big waiting for me—if I clean up my act.”
“So what’s your problem with Fred? I never knew.”
“He put his hand down my shorts when I was a kid. Rubbed my little joint.”
“Fuck you, Tom.”
“He did. I swear to God, Jack. On our mother’s eyes.”
I stood up, grabbed Tommy by the lapels of his robe, and gave him a shot to the jaw that made my hand bones grind. The chair flipped over as Tommy went down hard.
A husky dude in a white jumpsuit looked up from across the pool and started running toward us.
Tommy raised a hand, indicating the situation was over. He picked himself up, choking on his own laughter.
“You’re so goddamn easy, Jack. It’s like, dangle the bait and you jump out of the water, right into the boat. Get off me. You’ll get your wings all dirty.”
“Take back what you said.”
“O-kay. I take it back. Maybe it was Dad who molested me. Or was it you?”
“How can you stand yourself?” I asked him.
“It was Fat Fred who told you about