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Chapter Eleven
A thousand dollars later—give or take that twenty-percent tip—Jason let himself into Ono’s apartment.
He slid the deadbolt, found the entrance hall light switch, all the while still speaking on his cell.
“Hey, we said we’d talk later, but I just wanted to say, I know this is—isn’t easy. The news about Berkle’s possible accomplice.” He added awkwardly—because even after everything they’d been through, these types of conversations did not come naturally with Sam, “I’m thinking of you. That’s all.”
For God’s sake. I’m thinking of you? Why stop there? Why not send one of those singing e-cards. He looked at his cell screen trying to remember if there was any possible way to delete a phone message after you’d okayed it, but paused at the heavy knock on the door behind him.
A glance through the peephole offered the fish-eyed vision of a scowling Hugo Quintana.
“What the hell is your deal?” Jason muttered. He plastered on a pleasant smile and jerked open the door. “Yep?”
“Hanging items on or from any balcony violates the terms of your lease.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve got a beach towel hanging from the bedroom balcony. You can’t do that.”
Jason said, “I’m not hanging anything from the balcony.”
“Your beach towel is visible to everyone.”
“My—” Jason automatically glanced over his shoulder. The living room balcony was empty of so much as a hanging plant, let alone a beach towel. “Hang on a minute.”
He closed the door, locked it, and immediately Quintana began to knock—hard. What. An. Ass. Did he think Jason was making a run for it by rappelling down the side of the building?
Jason strode down the hall, poked his head inside the guest bedroom, and saw…nothing. He headed to the master bedroom, and sure enough—well, not sure enough because there was no beach towel, but there was a large violet and blue delta kite draped over the balcony like a huge broken wing. The kite’s snapped line had somehow snagged between the Plexiglas wall and stainless-steel railing.
Jason stepped outside the air-conditioned bedroom into the humid warmth of the evening. He spared a glance for the river of headlights winding through the city streets thirty stories down. Luckily, he didn’t have a problem with heights, but Sam wouldn’t care for this view. So far, discomfort with heights was the only weakness Sam had confided.
It took a minute or two to untangle the very long kite line, which whipped around in the breeze. He could hear the distant roar of traffic, the hum of air conditioners, and the bickering of the couple in the apartment below over who was supposed to pay the Netflix subscription.
No lie, it was a long way down.
At last, he had the line free. He carried the bundle of polyester and fiberglass poles to the kitchen, examining it briefly just in case there was a message or a threat written on the shiny material. He felt silly, especially when there was nothing there. He left the bundle on the floor and went to answer the door, which Quintana was still pounding on.
As he opened the door, Quintana demanded, “Is there some reason you don’t want me inside this apartment?”
“Is that a trick question?” Jason asked. “No, I don’t want you inside. Anyway, it wasn’t a beach towel. A kite got caught on the railing.”
Somehow this innocent explanation triggered greater suspicion on the part of Touchstone’s security officer. “How would that happen?”
“I couldn’t tell you. At a guess, some kid was flying a kite and the line snapped.”
“That doesn’t sound very likely.”
Jason sighed. “It’s more likely than me spending time at the pool or going to the beach. If you’d like the kite for evidence, I’m happy to hand it over.”
Quintana was unamused.
“You have a good evening,” Jason told him, and closed the door once more.
Quintana did not like him. Did not trust him. That didn’t mean Quintana himself was untrustworthy or up to no good. Safe to say, Touchstone’s entire security team would be on the defense these days.
He was staring down at the kite, wondering if its unlikely presence on his balcony had been some sort of ruse to get into the apartment—which would not make sense, given that anyone who planted the kite would surely already have access to the apartment—when Sam’s number flashed up.
Jason mentally replayed the message he’d left just a little while earlier, groaned, and answered his cell.
“Hey,” he said apologetically.
“Hey. What was that about? That message you just left.”
“I just… I realized I was pretty…oblivious yesterday.”
Sam said almost cautiously, “Were you?”
“I know this situation with Berkle has to be difficult for a bunch of reasons.”
“Yes. It’s frustrating we overlooked the obvious.” Sam was brisk and all business. “We can focus on our mistakes, or we can work to make up the lost ground. This time last year we didn’t have anything. So.”
That wasn’t what Jason meant at all, but he understood that Sam didn’t want to get into the personal implications for himself in the Roadside Ripper case. He respected Sam’s feelings, even if Sam didn’t want to acknowledge he had feelings.
Jason said doubtfully, “So everything’s okay?”
“Everything’s under control,” Sam said.
“Is that the same as okay?” Jason was only partly kidding.
Sam said with that note of indulgence he got sometimes, “Everything’s okay, West. You don’t have to worry.”
“I do worry about you. Believe it or not.”
“I know.” Sam hesitated, said, “It’s…nice.”
Jason smiled, wishing not for the first time—and definitely not for the last—that the nearly entire continental United States did not lie between them.
Sam said briskly, “How’s the case coming?”
“I’m still trying to decide if there is a case.”
“Meaning?”
