The Tenth Justice - Brad Meltzer [40]
Unaccustomed to a close shave, Eric rubbed his face. “I’m not late,” he said. “You’re messed up because you set your watch ten minutes ahead.”
“Don’t even start with that,” Nathan said. “On my watch you’re fifteen minutes late, but you’re still five minutes late in real time.”
“I’ll never understand that,” Ober said. “If you know your watch is always ten minutes ahead, then what good does it do you?”
“Au contraire, my simpleminded friend. I don’t pay attention to the—”
“Who opened my mail?” Ben interrupted. He stood in the doorway, holding up the pile of envelopes.
“It was like that in the mailbox,” Nathan said.
“Was anyone else’s mail opened?” Ben asked.
“Just yours,” Nathan said. “You think it was Rick?”
Ben loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “I don’t know what else to think. He called me today right when I was leaving work. And he knew about our dinner tonight.”
“Were any of the letters important?”
“None of them. They’re all either bills or junk mail.”
“I don’t mean to be inconsiderate, but if we’re late for dinner, Aunt Katie will never let us hear the end of it,” Eric said.
“I’m not going to dinner,” Ben said.
“Why?” Eric asked. “Just because someone opened your mail?”
“No, because I’m terrified Rick was checking up on me.” Ben put his mail on the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass of water. “Maybe he was planning on breaking in here when we were gone.”
“If he wanted to break in, he would’ve done it when he opened your mail,” Eric said. “Don’t let him wreck your life like this. He’s just trying to make you crazy.”
“Then I’ll have to be crazy,” Ben said. “Go without me and tell Katie I’m sorry. I wouldn’t be any fun tonight, anyway.”
“Are you sure?” Eric asked.
“Go,” Ben said. “I’ll be fine here.”
Realizing that Ben wasn’t about to change his mind, the three friends walked to the door. “We’ll see you later.”
The moment the door closed, Ben picked up his mail again. Shuffling through the envelopes, he found the only one without a return address. He pulled the letter from the envelope and reread the five words written in thick black Magic Marker: TRUST YOUR FRIENDS? SINCERELY, RICK. As he stared at the short message, Ben wondered whether the letter was a taunting warning or a simple question. Feeling both guilty and regretful for not telling his roommates about the letter, Ben crumpled it in a tight fist. How the hell did I let him do this to me? he wondered. Now he’s got me suspecting my closest friends.
Ben threw the rest of the mail back on the counter, stepped into the dining room, and leaned on the large glass table. Don’t even think it’s one of them. There’s no way it’s one of them, he reassured himself. If I don’t trust them, who can I trust? Staring at his reflection in the smudged glass, he replayed all the important events in his mind. He thought about every piece of information Rick had. He recalled every other person who was also privy to the information. He then came up with a logical way for Rick to find out about each piece. If the house is bugged, he thought, he could’ve heard us talking about Aunt Katie’s dinner. And I told Nathan about the flowers. He could’ve overheard that as well. With a well-hidden microphone, Rick could’ve overheard everything. Staring down at the glass table, Ben nodded to himself. That’s the most logical explanation. That’s how he—
At the base of the glass table, Ben spotted a small dark object. On his knees in a matter of seconds, Ben closely examined the object. It was nothing. A clump of dirt from someone’s shoes. Undeterred, Ben tilted the table and searched under each leg for Rick’s microphone. Then he looked at each chair. He turned over the couches, lifted the cushions, squeezed the pillows, flipped the coffee table, ran his hands along the back of every picture frame, examined the television, turned over the VCR, inspected every videotape, pulled apart the closet, checked the pockets of every coat, opened every umbrella, peeked into baseball gloves, peered into tennis-ball cans, looked behind the toilet, cleared out the