Nothing threatening yet. Relax.

  A server approached and bent to Raphael. “Your drink order, sir?”

  “Oh, a Stella, I guess.”

  The waiter nodded, straightened, and retreated.

  “I’m famished,” said Maisie.

  Maglio held up a finger. “Hold on there, waiter. We’ll want some appetizers.”

  “What do you recommend, Geo?” asked Maisie.

  “Everything’s good. Fabulous, in fact.”

  Raphael scanned the menu and swallowed hard. The prices were outrageous, but the smells: rosemary, saffron, drawn butter—Oh, I’m not that hungry, Addy. You get whatever you want. He looked up and around. The restaurant’s design was so cool. That little table in the corner would be perfect.

  “Sir?” said the waiter.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. I’ll have, um …” He scanned the dozens of appetizers.

  “Give our young man this,” said Maglio, turning his menu toward the server and tapping an item.

  The server took their orders and scurried away. They sat in silence for a moment, Maglio’s and Maisie’s eyes on him. A moment later, Raphael’s beer arrived.

  Maisie put her hand under her chin. “Why were you afraid to get in the car?”

  His shoulders stiffened. An alarm went off. Raphael sipped the beer, flipping through his cover stories to choose the blandest. “I wasn’t afraid. I sit all day. It’s exercise.”

  “You said can’t.” Maisie tapped her lip. “You could have, couldn’t you?”

  Raphael’s chest tightened. I felt sick. I forgot to walk my—

  “Perhaps Raphael shuns luxury vehicles. I see some proletariat in our young worker.”

  “Tantalizing,” said Maisie. “A Jacobin? Down with the system?”

  Raphael shook his head. “No, I’m not political.”

  The waiter brought the appetizers.

  “Wow, quick,” said Raphael.

  “Only for Mr. Maglio,” said the waiter, distributing the dishes.

  For Raphael, Maglio had suggested grilled Lake Tahoe shrimp stuffed with garbanzo beans and nettles. Raphael examined the dish set before him. It was interesting, different, with a muddy water smell.

  “May I get you anything else?”

  Maglio waved the wait staff away, then changed the cool gesture into beckoning. “Please, dig in.”

  Maisie’s eyes glittered, and her head dipped and swayed over her dish. She hadn’t pressed him. What did she care, anyway?

  Raphael searched for the appetizer’s advertised shrimp. Failing to find a single one, he forked up the rest of the ingredients, which tingled on his tongue. Something had to be off. Maglio would from time to time tour the Necrology Department, exchanging small talk with the End Men, but he didn’t extend dinner invitations. Maisie Sparod. Weblock. Web sites and advanced software. Did Maisie have anything to do with the droves of programmers showing up at Norval? He took a chance on gentle probing.

  “Is your company working with ours?” asked Raphael.

  “Consulting,” answered Maisie.

  “Cool. What kind?”

  “Let’s not get into that,” said Maglio, eyes narrowing.

  There were several minutes of silence as they finished their appetizers. Raphael avoided making eye contact with Maisie.

  “Tell us about Jason Klaes,” said Maglio.

  Raphael coughed and tapped his neck. “Garbanzo bean,” he rasped. Clearing his throat, he leaned toward Maglio. “Excuse me?”

  “What’s your take on Klaes?”

  Careful. “You entombed Jason Klaes,” said Raphael as if to remind Maglio of his own order. He glanced at Maisie.

  “I know,” said Maisie. “At Weblock, we purge. Entombment is charming.”

  Maglio speared a stuffed mushroom. “Raphael took a keen interest in Mr. Klaes.”

  “Klaes was a potential possum, which means—”

  “Someone fakes their death,” said Maisie.

  “Yes, right,” said Raphael. “He’s entombed. We’re not supposed to discuss him.”

  “I’m making an exception. Is he alive or dead?” asked Maglio.

  Raphael looked away. What game were they playing? His stomach pulsed. The beans? The nettles? “I’m not sure.”

  Maglio speared another mushroom. “Why do you think I closed the case?”

  “My supervisor told me—”

  Maglio’s forehead screwed up in annoyance. “The file you discovered.”

  “Personality—”

  “That file would have done to the Norval database what the locusts did to Egypt.” Maglio inhaled, then asked, “Do you know your Bible?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Zeroes and ones flashed on Maglio’s left eye. “‘Locusts covered the face of the whole land, so the land was darkened, and they ate all the plants in the land and all the fruit of the trees the hail had left. Not a green thing remained, neither tree nor plant of the field, through all the land of Egypt.’ Exodus 10:15.”

  “Jesus.”

  Maglio’s left eye enlarged as if it might pop out of its socket.

  “Your Klaes,” said Maisie, leaning into Raphael, “wanted to destroy Norval. Geo had me run the file by Weblock engineers who specialize in corporate sabotage.”

  Hard hot thumbs pressed on Raphael’s temples. “I worked my ass off to find that file. If Klaes wanted me to …” Oh, fuck.

  Maglio grabbed Raphael’s wrist. “Your Jason Klaes played you. He wanted you to find that file, but not too easily.”

  Raphael’s insides dropped. He had seen not a hint. Possums had tried to trick and manipulate him, but never in this way. Dig deep. Finish your painting. Find me. All to hack Norval? Some Digital Luddite spray painting fuck data on the corporate enterprise. His head wanted to explode. “But why would he sabotage us? Just to remain an undeclared?”

  Maglio released Raphael’s wrist, lifted his drink, and drained it. “Klaes has or had his own agenda. We have ours. Perhaps you see now why we removed you from the case and had Klaes entombed.”

  Raphael’s chest tightened. Damn thumb drive. He hoped to hell Matt’s assurances were solid. “Sure. No sense taking chances.”

  Maisie nodded. “Your Klaes tried to take down Weblock too.” She tapped a finger to her lips. “I’m not shedding tears over Klaes’s offing himself. Too bad it didn’t happen a little later.”

  Later? Why later? Why not sooner if she detested him?

  “Now, is Klaes dead or alive?” demanded Maglio.

  Raphael drew his hand across his forehead, hot and slippery. “He committed suicide. Blew his brains out.”

  Maglio nodded. “I know what the coroner reported, and I know what the world believes, but you’re the one who hunted him.”

  “My research wasn’t complete.”

  “At the point at which you stopped, which way were you leaning?”

  “I had much more to—”

  Maglio leaned into him. “Best guess.”

  “It’s not something I want to make guesses about.”

  “We want to protect our companies for the foreseeable future,” said Maisie.

  Why did Maglio care about his opinion? Raphael shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Maglio sat back. “Well, Raphael, finish up your appetizer and leave. Then see human resources tomorrow. You’ve been a fine employee, and it will be sad to lose you.”

  Swaying as if punched in the face, Raphael clasped the table’s edge. “You’re firing me?”

  “Your attempt to break into my office was gross insubordination, which warrants termination.”

  “You can’t do that,” Raphael insisted, his head throbbing as he tried to come up with an argument that would underpin his words: loyal employee, momentary lapse, never ever do it again. All excuses were feeble and crumbled before the certainty Maglio could do that.

  “Under other circumstances, I’d let it go with a slap on the wrist. However, Norval is about to announce a technological achievement that will not only put us on the map but be the map.” Maglio paused, wiped his lips with the napkin. “I don’t want Jason Klaes throwing a fucking monkey wrench into the works. Do you understand?”

  Raphael’s fingers slipped from atop to under the table. “This sucks, Mr. Maglio.” He felt the weight of the table. Lift it, turn the table over. Fuck the job. Fuck the hunt for Klaes.

  Maglio leaned forward. “But if you tell me your conclusion about Klaes, I might reconsider.” Maglio jabbed his fork into a stuffed mushroom. “These are damned good,” he said as he popped the biggest, greasiest one into his mouth. Between bites, he probed Raphael once more. “Jason Klaes—alive or dead? Is he gone?”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Fighting to keep down the appetizer and the main course that followed, Raphael made it to Third Street in time to bend and empty his stomach. Now, staring at the gutter’s steaming mess, he wiped his lips and straightened. It wasn’t the over-rich dinner—the force feeding of desserts—it was giving in to Maglio: “Klaes died on January 10.”

  He and Matt had joked a hundred times about handing in their notices, but when the untethering was real, Raphael had been flat out scared, imagining himself unable to pay his rent, evicted from the Tar Tower, out on the street, another of the teeming homeless.

  But more than losing the job, it was a second fear.

  To pursue Klaes required Norval’s technology. Klaes’s message to him may have been manipulation, but he clung to the promise: find me, complete your painting, be free of your phobia. To survive without that hope was unthinkable. He didn’t know which side of the river the physicist stood upon, but he lied and told Maglio, “Klaes is dead.”

  “He’s gone then?” persisted Maglio.

  “Yeah, gone.”

  “Well, then, we can forget about human resources. Drink up! Finish your appetizer and order dinner.”

  Their table was soon the loudest, happiest party in Corel’s. He had jumped into a metaphorical bed with Maglio and Maisie.

  But why were they so happy? Was it that Klaes had tried to sabotage Norval and Weblock? Good, the wicked hack is dead! But they hadn’t hinted at Klaes’s motivation nor what they hoped to get from him.

  Stomach emptied of the tainted fare, he walked west toward Fairfax, too disappointed in himself to skate. He wanted to pace the side streets and alleys of his prison, walk the yard. Wandering for an hour, he halted at the sound of footfalls behind him. Seeking the stalker, he found no one, yet there was the smell in the air of an unwashed body or perhaps a decaying one. Could it be his own? Were his boundaries the enclosure of a casket? The thought sent him in motion again. If he kept moving, if he didn’t slow down. Turn and churn. Churn himself into butter.

  On Third Street, he approached Pan Pacific Park, whose grassy sloped borders enclosed sports fields and picnic areas. In the center of the park, a group of people held lit phones above their heads as if at a concert. Someone stood on a table and addressed them. Halting on a winding concrete path, Raphael picked up his board. Smelling sulfur, he realized they brandished not phones but lighters, matches, and candles; and that a small fire burned at the crowd’s core. The glow of the raised lights and the impassioned faces made his neck tingle. The orator sang out.

  “Phones, pads, laptops—toss those four-sided Satans back into the fires which molded and bore them under the eyes of midwives Jobs, Wozniak, and Gates! Let them burn before you pour your mind, spirit, and soul into their voracious maws!” As the crowd drew out their devices and lifted their arms to follow his order, he screamed. “Wait! Wait! Before the performance begins, if you haven’t already, take out your batteries. Let’s not lose a face or arm.”

  Fanatics but not insane.

  As the people complied with the instructions, the orator raised his hand, “Save a few lithiums.”

  This was the park he’d come to as a boy with his skateboard, where the man who kept his distance showed him moves and Raphael would try to imitate. He stared back through time at the tall, slender man.

  Raphael stiffened at a vibration. He reached into his pocket and touched his phone. It was beeping.

  He dropped the board, pulled his gaze from the past, and slipped out his phone. He lifted the hem of his T-shirt, cradled the cell within the fabric to dampen the light—for the crowd below might find his technology offensive, rush him, and tear him apart—and pressed the pulsing message symbol. It was Alicia.

  Hey Raphael, Fergot i took couple pics that night. got 1 of the electrician. He’s the 1 leaning against the wall and eating a finger sandwich How rude, huh?

  Raphael enlarged the photo. The electrician’s face sent his heart pounding: square jaw, cracked cheeks and thin lips.

  It was the same man who had stood outside the Tar Tower and gave Raphael a cigarette. The man with the channel locks in his waistband and now wearing a full tool belt. Had he been waiting for Raphael?

  Was Raphael being surveilled by two men? One always in the shadows, the other in the open. A crafty stalker and an assassin?

  A skyboard promoting Godcoin, a new digital currency, floated above the park accompanied by an escort of drones. One zipped toward the assembly, hovering fifty feet above, and then bobbing closer. Shouts came from the crowd.

  “Corporate drones shouldn’t be doing that!”

  “Find rocks and bottles,” another yelled. “Get that fucker out of here!”

  People bent to the ground for the crude ammunition. The projectiles flew, a couple clunking on the underbelly of the machine, which rose out of range. From a few blocks away came the wail of a siren, and the crowd scattered.

  Raphael dropped his board and pushed off.

  Twenty minutes later and nearing home, Raphael took out his phone and again viewed the photo of the “electrician.” His chest tightened. The guy he’d spoken to outside the Tar Tower had murdered Miranda, so it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d shown up at Raphael’s apartment building. If Pink were right, and someone was out to kill him, the Electrician was the prime candidate. But why? Was he getting too close to something? The truth about Klaes? If so, Raphael didn’t know it himself. From a distance came a shout, a second, then a chorus. In front of the Tar Tower Plaza Medical Building, a crowd had gathered that looked similar to the Blanks at Pan Pacific Park.

  “Disburse!” someone ordered over a bullhorn.

  What the hell? He set down his board and pushed off. Powerful flashlights revealed twenty people carrying signs. Several police officers were shouting commands.

  “Hey,” cried a voice.

  Raphael kick-stopped and spun to see the Tar Tower’s elderly security guard, Albert, behind the wheel of a golf-cart-sized vehicle. “Stay right where you are!” shouted Albert.

  “It’s me, Albert. Raphael Lennon. Apartment 1127.”

  Albert braked and jumped out of his vehicle. A beam of light struck Raphael’s face. The guard tilted his head one way, then the other. The beam fell to the ground. Albert’s eyes lit with recognition, and he grinned.

  “Sorry, Mr. Lennon. I thought you were one of those PETA people. Making a ruckus all day outside the Medical Building.” A police helicopter appeared above the Tar Tower, wings beating as it descended toward the Plaza. Albert shouted, “Trying to storm Dr. Roar’s office. Calling him Dr. Death.”

  The name seemed familiar. “Dr. Roar?”

  “No, Dr. Royer,” said Albert with a laugh. “The one who shot those baboons.”

  Baboons? Royer? Raphael caught his breath. The third message: Dear Dr. Royer, Could you not see the roots of humanity in that family? Prepare to meet your maker. JK.

  It couldn’t be, but …

  “Here, I’ll show you,” said Albert, drawing out his phone, tapping twice, then holding up the screen for Raphael. A photo, time-stamped forty-eight hours ago, showed a man in a safari outfit posed with a family of dead baboons: mother, father, boy, and little sister. The sadistic hunter had clumped them together and took a selfie. They looked alive except for the holes in their chests and heads.

  The hunter’s face seemed like a memory from a dream. “That’s Dr. Royer then?”

  “Yeah. The ‘devil dentist.’ Royer posted the photo on Bangagram for his friends. It got reposted elsewhere, then everywhere. Drove people crazy. Those PETA folks have been raising hell all day, and he ain’t even in his office. Still over in Africa.”

  Dentist? Raphael pressed his tongue to his loosened tooth, which set off a ringing—clanging—in his head as if he had pushed a doorbell. He swayed, dizzy with the connection he made.

  If Dr. Royer was a dentist in the Medical Plaza, Raphael knew him.

  When he had been six or seven, his mother had taken him to the nearby Dr. Royer to treat a decayed baby tooth that wouldn’t fall out. The procedure had been bloody, agonizing. Worse, Royer’s office itself had terrified him. The mounted heads of a tiger, a wolf, and a rhinoceros had stared down from the wall of the waiting room—fierce guardians of dental health. Seeing this horror, Raphael had pressed his face into his mother’s side and begged her to leave.

  “Dr. Royer is a hunter,” his mom explained. “They’re trophies.” She patted Raphael’s head and whispered, “Grotesque, though.”

  He didn’t know that word but knew scary. “Can’t we go to a different dentist?” Raphael asked.

  “Dr. Royer is so convenient,” she responded. “Don’t worry, Raphy, dead things can’t harm you.”

  If the dead animals couldn’t, Royer could. The procedure was close to sadistic.

  It was impossible his Dr. Royer was one of Klaes’s targets. Could there be another Dr. Royer who hunted? But family was used in Klaes’s threat. He had killed a family of baboons. What had been Sherlock’s famous dictum? Impossible—yes: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. The scientist lived in Los Angeles, perhaps Klaes had been a patient or known someone who had gone to Royer. Klaes and Royer made sense. The random element was Raphael. Chance, just chance. Accept it and move on.