The Placebo Effect (33 page)

Steve looked at Decker and said, “You changed my life the last time we met, and you're going to do it again.”

Decker closed his eyes briefly—three straight lines across his
retina. A truth—although an uncomfortable one for Decker. He didn't like the idea of having other people's lives on his conscience. “You brought your computer?”

“Here it is.” Steve held it out to Decker.

Decker took it and handed over his wallet and all his remaining cash.

“Whoa—what's that for?”

“Expenses and to pay you for your computer and for safekeeping. You're going to have to pay the Super Store for the amount remaining for the screens when they arrive, and you'll need help, and I want you to pay for that help—and pay yourself. And pay your cousin. Maybe buy him some groceries. He looks like he needs some.”

“Fine, but this is a lot of money.”

“Four thousand two hundred and ninety short of what it ought to be.”

“Wha—”

“Some guy on East Fifty-eighth owes me over four grand, and he better believe I'm going to collect.”

Steve looked at Decker and was about to ask what that was all about then decided against it. Instead he asked, “Don't you need some cash in the meantime?”

“Sure. Give me a hundred. It's all I'll need.”

Steve reluctantly took the money and pocketed the wallet—with Emerson Remi's card that had the electronic tracking dot on it. He headed out, but Decker called him back.

Decker showed him the two remote controls the store had given him. “Show me how these work.”

Steve gave a smile and showed Decker the basic commands.

Steve said, “So, it's tomorrow?”

“Right. Let's say we're set by eleven o'clock. Eleven thirty is half hour—midnight is curtain.”

“No problem. I'll get the screens delivered shortly after the evening service here is finished.”

“When's that?”

“Shabbos goy said just past nine.”

Decker was a little taken aback to hear the slander from Steve's lips but he managed, “Good.”

“Where you going to be until then, Mr. Roberts?”

“Far away from you. I've made your life complicated enough without me endangering you by being close. Remember, don't go home until this is all, all over.”

Steve nodded. “Cribs for me. Where you going to sleep tonight?”

Decker shook his head.

“Got it.”

A sharp whistle from behind the bimah drew both of their eyes.

Steve's cousin stepped forward. “Someone's coming.”

“Good luck, Mr. Roberts.”

“And back at you, Steve.”

It was only hours later that Steve realized that he had pocketed one of the remotes—it would change his life in ways he never expected.

As Steve and his cousin left the synagogue, an Escalade slowly pulled out from a side street and Emerson watched the dot on his BlackBerry move slowly across the street map.

Yslan received word that Steve had left his house for places unknown. Twenty minutes later she was standing in his kitchen with Mr. T at her side. “Tear it apart. I want to know everything this guy knows.”

“No computer,” Ted Knight announced.

“Laptop, no doubt, and he took it with him.”

“How do you know he has a computer at all?”

“Because this is 2009 and everyone has one.”

The two men nodded.

“Find him. Find him fast.” Then she noticed the picture in the side of the bathroom mirror—a pretty female singer, à la 1940. “And identify this girl.”

Decker fired up Steve's computer, went to the synaesthetes website, and, staying far away from the chat room, contacted Eddie. The coffee shop was about to close, and the counter girl was giving him the evil eye—he'd sat over that one cup of coffee for almost an hour.
Arrange a meeting for me, Eddie.

With whom?

Henry-Clay Yolles of Yolles Pharmaceuticals.

Sure
, he typed.
What's the meeting about?

Tell Mr. Yolles that if he wants the Treloar Building he'd better take a meeting with me.

Okay. When and where?

Decker gave him the time and the name of the synagogue.

Odd time, odd place, Decker.

He's an odd guy—likes to burn down people's homes.
He didn't bother adding “And killing people like Mike Shedloski.”

Okay—consider it done.

And Eddie—

Yeah?

Get me this asshole's e
-
mail address.

Eddie contacted Henry-Clay and told him who wanted to meet him and when and where and about what then shut his computer and grabbed for his dope stash. He rolled a bomber thicker than his thumb and dragged long and deep. Much later that night he awoke on the newly made bed and found the doll was on his chest and his damaged leg vibrating of its own accord in its brace. He couldn't stop its jackhammer action and it ached as it hadn't ached for many, many years.

Henry-Clay received the news from this Eddie person with equanimity. He'd faced many negotiations in his time. Yeah, the time and place were odd, but it was just a negotiation—and he liked negotiating. He took the hard copy of the e-mail he had from
Congressman Villianne and folded it carefully. He'd deal with this Yslan Hicks person later. Now he had to deal with this freak who could tell when someone was telling the truth.

In a way he admired Decker for having found him out—and then for taking the battle to him. He wondered for a moment if Decker had found out about Ratio-Man's demise, then he cast it aside. How could he? And even if he did—who cared? There was nothing there to link him to the murder.

He called for MacMillan and his men, then opened the safe in his room and took out the medical report he had received from Victoria, British Columbia, and the new agreement he'd signed concerning the bladder cancer treatment BCG.

He sat at his computer and typed a simple e-mail:
Track down the kid and be ready.
Then he pressed send—good. He was in motion again—it was always better to be in motion.

Decker was surprised how much a cheap room cost in Cincinnati—eighty dollars—and cheap hotels didn't bother with the charade that expensive hotels did. Expensive hotels wanted their customers to believe that they were the very first people ever to use the room, the toilet, the bed. Cheap hotels didn't bother with that.

Decker put Steve's computer on the table beside the lumpy bed and remembered to recharge the cell phone.

And dreamt of a filthy child in his arms—and cried in his sleep.

The morning dawned bright and clear—a cold December day in Cincinnati.

Hialeah made her final phone calls and prepared the signs for the march on Yolles Pharmaceuticals.

Steve's cousin rechecked the synagogue's schedule and informed Steve that all was clear for a nine o'clock delivery. He had six guys ready to help—for a price.

Steve relayed, verbatim, what Decker had told him to tell his
cousin. “Set up the screens, pay the guys, leave the side entrance of the synagogue open and the lights on in the two galleries, then take the money and get yourself something to eat.”

Steve's cousin laughed. “That Mr. Roberts concerned about my health?”

“He thinks you're way too thin.”

Yslan flooded the black sections of Cincinnati and northern Kentucky with agents and copies of the young black woman's photograph. At 11:45 they got a solid hit. Four minutes later they had an address, and within the hour they had broken down the door to her apartment—and found nothing of value, although they came across several love letters from Steve.

Decker tried to sleep the day away. There was nothing more he could do. The protest was scheduled for sundown. The delivery was at nine o'clock—the meet at midnight—
Midnight in the garden of good and plenty
, he thought. Then the disturbing refrain “one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong” rose in his mind and like a king cobra, flared its hood and slowly turned its dead eyes to face Decker.

Emerson had had enough of what he thought of as “following the dot.” Besides, Cincinnati bored him. Only Decker held some interest for him, and it had been days since he'd last caught a glimpse of him—and he was beginning to worry.

At five thirty Decker fired up Steve's computer and sent a quick message to Henry-Clay Yolles—
LOOK OUT YOUR WINDOW YOU CREEPY TURD!

Henry-Clay did as instructed and was surprised to see a gathering of almost a hundred African-Americans, all of whom were carrying signs. He blanched—not from the numbers of people but from what was on their signs: “I worked here” and “What's Your Ratio!” and, most concerning, “Who's Jumping Now?”

At seven o'clock an unusual group of worshippers entered Isaac M. Wise Temple for evening prayers. Not your typical elderly mix of men. And the young rabbi who usually worked his way through the prayers mechanically found his eyes flitting from his text to the unusually rough, short-haired, blond Scottish-looking men who kept craning their heads in various directions as the service proceeded.

The young rabbi breathed a sigh of relief when they got up and left, or at least he assumed they'd left since they moved into the darkness near the entrance. He would have liked to have concluded that this was God's work, but he knew better than that.

Shortly after their supposed departure the service ended and the place emptied of its few congregants. Steve's cousin reported, “The delivery truck is going to be on time—they just phoned to confirm.”

“And they have the screens?”

“Yes, cuz—be cool. We'll set them up like you wanted and then leave the side door open—just like you said.”

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“No you don't—you paid me just fine, cousin, but, Steve, you lock up when they're done. It's all got to be cleaned up before morning prayers, okay?”

“Got it.”

“You going to be there?”

“Later. First I'm going to see my girl.”

Yslan pulled the sign out of Hialeah's hand and said, “I need a word with you.”

“Do you really?” Hialeah challenged as many strong and angry black eyes turned in her direction.

Yslan held her ground. “I just need to know if you know this man.” She held up a photo of Steve.

Emerson was driving fast now. The dot was on the move—crazy fast—and jutting down alleyways and through garages. He followed and came out at what looked like a demonstration in front of Yolles Pharmaceuticals.

The crowd was moving in on Yslan, and despite the muscle she'd brought with her she knew she was in danger. Then she saw Emerson. Emerson! What the fuck was Emerson doing here? He was looking at his cell phone and turning his head. She followed his look—and there was Steve.

“Thanks very much, ma'am, for all your cooperation.”

Yslan knifed her way through the crowd and got to Steve as Mr. T was hustling him away.

Emerson approached with a broad smile on his face.

“Arrest him.”

Ted Knight pushed Emerson against the retaining wall and quickly frisked him. He threw Emerson's BlackBerry to Yslan, who scanned the map and surmised that there was a tracking device involved and the tracking device's signal was being generated from Steve Bradshaw.

Yslan turned on the young man but was surprised by the resistance she met. Even after they hustled him into a car he refused to offer up any information.

But when they searched him they found Decker's wallet and the remote control Steven had inadvertently pocketed.

“What's this for?”

“TV. I like TV.”

“You're in a world of trouble and you don't even know it!” Mr. T shouted.

Yslan looked at the thing. Way more complicated than most—then she saw the high def key, and the one that controlled the number of pixels, and knew that this was for a very modern, probably huge-screen TV. Not the kind of thing that most people could afford to own. She flipped the thing open and saw the
Super Store's label on it. “It's a rental. Get them on the line; I want to know where the monitors were sent.”

“Plural? Monitors?”

“The remote has an assign for up to four.”

“And sent as in they were sent somewhere?”

“They're too big to carry, so they must have been ‘sent' somewhere—I want to know where.”

Henry-Clay listened to MacMillan's report from outside the synagogue. “We'll meet him—we'll all meet him. I've never been in that place—should be interesting.”

“We might not all be able to get in there early without setting off alarms.”

“The place has good security?”

“Reasonable. It's been a logical terrorist target for a long time.”

“Okay. We'll go in when they let us in, and we'll all go in together at the appointed hour—except for you, Mr. MacMillan. Find a way to get in there, Mr. MacMillan, and report any doings there between now and our little meeting.”

MacMillan closed his cell phone and looked around. He'd already figured out how to sneak back into the ornate building. Hiding in there would be easy—and he was good at hiding.

MacMillan didn't have to wait long for things to happen. A panel truck arrived and six black men took three huge monitors out of the truck and walked them into the synagogue.

MacMillan slipped into the synagogue during the confusion of moving the monitors and reported the arrival of the three huge screens to Henry-Clay, who said, “Okay—weird but okay.” As an afterthought he said, “Get me details on the monitors.”

Decker arrived shortly after the truck left. He watched the men efficiently set up the huge monitors then leave the building. Decker smiled at Steve's cousin and said, “Get something to eat.”