Yesterday's Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller (18 page)

A month after the earthquake, the church had repaired the columbarium, and she’d returned to it in the middle of the night. With the proper tools, she’d popped open the niche, dumped out the contents of her urn, and put it back. She rotated it ninety degrees as a signal to Uncle Zaharia, but that seemed pointless. He’d know from the news coverage that she was here.

Taking a sip of coffee, she looked at the full-color photo in the paper. This widow, a Ms. Florence Adair, often caught Viviana’s attention. She not only had expensive jewelry, she rarely wore the same items twice. And she went out often—openings, operas, charity events.

Just for fun, Viviana used the internet and located her home: on the top floor of a secure, high-rise apartment building. Perfect. The socialite would feel invulnerable.

Viviana put her laptop down, went in through the sliding glass doors, and opened the hidden compartment she’d built into her closet. She unzipped the slim backpack and went through her tools. A glass cutter, lock picks, climbing rope, gloves, and a folding titanium grappling hook. All top-of-the-line and exceptionally light. She picked up each item and felt its quality. Too bad she would never use them.

No more heists. It was a disease, a compulsion. But maybe a little research. No harm in that.

* * *

Peggy came into my office and shut the door. “You got a rough one out there, boss.”

“Rough?”

“Yeah. A Mr. Garrett Jarmin.”

I frowned. I didn’t want any new clients, but I needed income. My big stock purchase of two days ago was a bust. “Never heard of him. How is he rough?”

“Skinhead, and I think he has a swastika on the back of his neck. He wants to thank you for something.”

Ah, yes. Our tussle on the Golden Gate suicide barrier played back in my mind. I opened a drawer and checked my revolver. “Send him in.”

Mr. Jarmin wore a polo shirt that bulged at the shoulder seams. The Extreme Force Gym’s logo stretched across his pectorals. He didn’t offer to shake hands, crossing his arms instead.

I thought back to that day on the bridge. He’d been a taciturn guy with slow thoughts.

“Thank you for saving my life.” He didn’t look me in the eye. “My shrink told me to come here. I’m, uh, sorry I beat you up. Tried to beat you up.”

Whoa!
So much for slow thoughts. These sounded like sped-up rap music. Not so depressed anymore.

“So, you’ve inspired me.” He sat down in my visitor chair, lurching back because of the spring I still hadn’t fixed.

“I inspired you?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I figured if a pip-squeak like you could beat me up, I needed to get serious about my fighting and I’ve been taking courses in fighting, several a week. Aikido, Krav Maga, Taekwondo, you name it, well, I name it, I named it—them. Named, named the fighting courses.” <
Named the famed courses, framed the famed named courses, of course, the coarse courses with driving forces. Extreme forces like hoarse horses. Mothafucka.
>

Okay, maybe bipolar disorder. Perhaps his depression hasn’t improved; he’s just in the manic phase today.

“I was glad to help, Garrett. You have a good shrink?”

“Yeah, she’s the best. She’s got me on, okay, let’s see, Tegretol 400 milligrams in the morning, 600 milligrams in the evening. They have me on Seroquel, 100 milligrams in the afternoon.” He counted each drug on his fingers. “Trazodone, 50 milligrams in the afternoon, Zyprexa, which is packaged with style, 2.5 milligrams in the morning, 5 milligrams at night, hydroxyzine, 2.5 milligrams three times—”

I put up my hands. “I get the idea. So, you’re happier now.” Definitely bipolar.

“Fucking right I am. Today, anyway. I’m the king of the world. I feel good. A little too good. I don’t always feel like that, no one does.” <
Don’t and won’t, as is not my wont and not my want, as says my aunt. I’m manic bananic but not in a panic. A wanky monkey and never funky. Motherfunker.
>

Wont?
He had a bigger vocabulary than I had suspected. “So, no more suicidal thoughts?”
Hold on, I’m not his shrink.

He stared at me. “Have you ever worked on a long-term project, like maybe a school assignment? You feel guilty that you haven’t done enough on it, maybe. Right? Or a work project? You worry about whether you can finish it. You have a lot of loose ends, and you’re struggling to tie everything up? The project is a struggle.”

“Sure. I’m working on something like that right now.”

“Right. And have you ever had a project like that canceled? All of a sudden, like, ‘Okay, kids, you know that term paper you’ve been working on? Well, we decided to scrap that. You no longer have to finish it.’”

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“All of a sudden, all your problems are solved. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “You know where I’m going with this?”

“Not really.”

“That’s like life. You’ve got all these things you worry about, past, present, and future. And you know what having that project canceled is?”

I looked at him. Now I knew where it was going.

“Suicide.” He nodded repeatedly.

“Well—”

“No, that’s exactly what suicide is. You cancel this project, this motherfucking life project that you’ve been struggling with. All of a sudden, just like that,” he snapped his fingers again. “all your problems are solved. Think you have insoluble problems? No. There’s always suicide. Always, always. But where do you draw the line? Girlfriend leaves you? Commit suicide. Miss the bus? Commit suicide.”

“Garrett—”

“But maybe you need someone else to cancel the project, the life project, for you. You think … you wish that you’d witness a robbery at a convenience store. You could go up to the guy with the gun. ‘Shoot me asshole, ’cause if you don’t, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.’ Maybe he’d cancel the term paper. Right?”

He was deeper than I’d given him credit for. I guess the swastika threw me off. We both sat there in silence. My out-of-balance ceiling fan made creaking noises.

“What’s the name of your psychiatrist?” I asked.

<
Dr. Gulata.
> He laughed. “Nice try. You’d call her up and tell her I’m big-time suicidal. They might lock me up. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll keep the suicide option open for now, fuck you very much. You don’t realize the comfort it gives me to always have that solution available. It helps me go to sleep at night. I’ve always got the suicide option. The canceled-project option.”

With that, he stood up and pulled out a card. “I’m giving this to your secretary and telling her to call me if you need help with something. Something that lets me use my new fighting skills would be appreciated.”

Since when did skinheads have business cards?

After he left I sat for a while then pressed the switch on my intercom. “Peg, could you locate a Dr. Gulata and get her on the line?”

I was soon speaking with a woman with a subtle Indian accent.

“How may I help you, Dr. Beckman?”

“I’m the man who—”

“Yes, I know who you are.”

I leaned forward over my desk. “I just wanted to—”

“Did Mr. Jarmin give you my name?” She sounded annoyed.

I thought shrinks let people talk instead of interrupting. “Not exactly. I just wanted to let you know that in speaking with Garrett, I—”

“I’m sure you’re aware, Dr. Beckman, that due to confidentiality, I cannot speak with you about his case.”

I took a breath and rubbed the back of my neck. “No, certainly not. I’m just letting you know—one-way communication here, you don’t have to say a thing—that he is still talking and thinking about suicide.”

“And how is it you know what he’s thinking?”

Right. Good question. “Well, of course I’m just inferring from what he said.”

“Are you a psychiatrist, Dr. Beckman?”

I generally enjoyed listening to someone speak with an Indian accent. Not this time. “No, I’m not a—”

“Well then, I do not think you are capable—”

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Gulata. I hope you will take what I said into consideration. He’s suicidal. I have an emergency here right now and am going to have to hang up right away.” I pressed the phone’s off button but held the handset in front of my face. “… That emergency being that I HAVE TO SCREAM BECAUSE I CAN’T STAND PEOPLE LIKE YOU!”

Peggy popped in and cocked her head.

I stood up and fluttered my arms as if trying to shake off water. “It’s okay. I’ve just been speaking with the world’s worst psychologist, and she was driving me crazy.”

Peggy nodded. <
Maybe not such a long trip.
> “Someone’s here to see you. Someone from the SEC.”

Whoa!
That pulled me in two directions. SEC wouldn’t be here if my stock hadn’t gone up, but also they wouldn’t be here if they weren’t suspicious of me.

“Give me a sec, Peggy.”

I brought up my financial app, which displayed the trading price of CDBX: $1.83 per share. What? I rubbed my eyes. An accompanying news note said, “Acquired by Sillman Corporation.”

I could have done the math in my head, but I was too shocked—didn’t trust myself. I put it in the onscreen calculator: one million shares at $1.83 per share, $1,830,000.00.

Almost two million. Holy crap!

Okay, hold on. How to act in front of SEC person? I’ll read his thoughts, know where things are going. I’ll be honest, to a point. No one did anything illegal. Technically. Maybe.

My surprise and shock were honest. “Thanks, Peggy, show him in.”

It was a her. A Ms. Ulla Yates. She was young—late twenties. Pinched face and fighting a losing battle with her waistline. She wore a conservative pantsuit.

I shook her hand, making no attempt to hide my trembling. “Excuse me, but I just found out about CDBX, I guess that’s why you’re here.”

“And why do you assume that?” <
Come on, hang yourself.
>

“Just a second. Please have a seat. I need to sell these shares before the price goes down. I’m not a sophisticated investor.” I sat down behind my computer and quickly executed the sell instruction in my financial app. The price had gone up a little more as we spoke.

“How much did you make, Dr. Beckman?”

I took some deep breaths. “A lot.” One point eight five million, minus fees. “Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Don’t be trying to escape.” <
This guy must be smarter than he seems.
>

I looked at her. Yes, she was joking. I think. Couldn’t tell from her thoughts.

I finished up in the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I went back to my desk and sat, putting on a big smile.

“Well, do I need a lawyer?”

She crossed her arms, “You tell me.” <
C’mon, hang yourself. I need this.
>

I chuckled. “I’m not surprised you’re here. Well, I’m a little surprised you’re here so quickly. As you know, and as I just learned now, I made a lucky bet, based on a hunch I had, and—”

“Dr. Beckman, this isn’t the first lucky bet you’ve made. Ten years ago—”

“Ms. Yates, I’ve read enough legal thrillers to know I shouldn’t say anything. But I can’t resist saying—no, I’m sorry, I have nothing to say. No comment.”

“I see. That’s too bad, Dr. Beckman.” <
I shouldn’t be over here. Jared would kill me if he knew.
> “Just know we are keeping an eye on you.” <
Oh, that was so stupid. Why did I say that? I shouldn’t have tipped our hand.
>

I buzzed Peggy. “My assistant can show you out.”

I put my feet up on the desk and thought about how this development could help me track down Viviana. A faster car wouldn’t hurt. And we could hire virtual researchers to chase down leads.

Peggy’s voice came over the intercom, telling me Craig was on the phone.

I put my feet back on the floor and picked up the phone. “Hey, Doc, how’s it going?”

“You sound chipper, what’s up?”

“I just made a lucky stock trade.” I smiled again at the thought.

“Did you use—”

“Hey, stop! I used that trading app I told you about. Yes.” Could the SEC be bugging the phone? Stupid, I shouldn’t have brought it up, and Craig should have known better.

“Gotcha. I told you that was a good app. I was just wondering whether you used it to, uh, make the trade. That’s what I was going to ask. About the app.”

Craig was never good at the acting thing.

He continued. “Uh, it doesn’t matter about the stock stuff, Eric. Are you sitting down? I got a call from our lawyer, and Biotronics has made a new offer for the EZ-Sleeper.”

“How much?” They’d offered us twenty million for our device in the past, but over Craig’s objections, we’d turned it down. I had been sure we could make much more than that. Then the lawsuit hit.