Page 26 of The Children of Eve

“A middleman in common, that’s all. He looked after the logistics for the Vaughn business, including transportation to the border, but had no idea of the cargo.”

“Not back then, but are you sure he hasn’t worked it out by now?”

Bilas was sure he had, because the middleman wasn’t dumb and had made it clear that the sale of the mantas and pottery represented the last dealings he and Bilas were likely to have until Christ returned to claim his kingdom.

“If he has, he didn’t say anything about it, or not explicitly,” said Bilas.

“Because he had the good sense not to raise it with you. He’s trying to pretend it never happened. If we offer sacrifices to the feds, can he be excluded without the whole narrative collapsing?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m an idiot for even suggesting it. You really are testing my patience, Roland. Whatever you tell the feds needs to hang together, which means it has to be tied by truths. They’re not amateurs. If you lie, they’ll spot it. Omissions, though, we can find a way to gloss over.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to sit in the lobby and put together a timeline and a list of names, with the middleman left out. You’re going to go through it over and over, and when you’re satisfied, you’ll come back in here and I’ll try to pick it apart. If it holds, we have something to offer the FBI. After that, I’ll burn the paper you wrote it on.”

She slid him a yellow legal pad and a pen.

“Now get to work. And Roland?”

“Yes?”

“When we’re done, you should find a new lawyer.”

CHAPTERXXI

I wasted three-quarters of an hour going through Wyatt Riggins’s possessions. I could have done it in half the time, but I didn’t want Zetta Nadeau to think I wasn’t trying. As she’d indicated, Riggins traveled light: any lighter, and he’d have been capable of levitating to wherever he needed to get to next. None of his clothes were new, though they weren’t so worn as to indicate he was struggling financially. He’d left behind one pair of good boots, one pair of dress shoes with leather uppers and rubber soles, and one pair of black Chuck Taylors. His wardrobe didn’t include a tie and leaned toward casual jackets, shirts, and jeans—a man after my own heart. I searched every pocket, checked the lining of his jackets, and shook out his footwear but found nothing, not even a spare nickel or crumpled store receipt. The two bags he’d arrived with were made of brown leather and had seen heavy use. They were empty too.

I tried the bathroom. A hanging toiletry bag from L.L.Bean had been folded and placed on the medicine cabinet. It held the usual male products, none fancy, a pack of generic ibuprofen, and a Tricare prescription box of Tofranil, indicating that it had been supplied two months previously by the Naval Branch Health Clinic in Kittery, Maine. I looked up Tofranil on my phone. It was a brand name for imipramine, an antidepressant that worked by altering naturally occurring chemicals in the brain to lift the mood, prescribed for those who, for whatever reason,couldn’t or didn’t want to take regular inhibitors like Zoloft or Prozac. Side effects could include anxiety and nightmares—and an increased sensitivity to sunlight, so it was unlikely that Riggins had been taking the pills while serving abroad. I pocketed the medication. My memories of attempting to get information out of the U.S. military were not happy, but that wouldn’t stop me from trying again. If we don’t have hope, we have nothing at all.

Downstairs, I found books—classic fiction, bought used, and a small collection of paperback volumes of military history, none dealing with any conflict more recent than Vietnam—and a white envelope containing $73.92. I went through all the books, flipping the pages, but nothing revealing fell to the floor: no mysterious maps, no matchbooks from private members’ clubs, no photographs of Riggins with a mystery woman or kids he’d neglected to mention to Zetta Nadeau.

Back upstairs, I stood at the window and watched sparks fly from the studio. Zetta had given me permission to search the room, and I was beyond embarrassment by this stage of my life, so I went through her closets, wearing disposable gloves out of politeness. Only a vibrator that could have been used to coldcock a burglar, excuse the pun, gave me any real pause.

But as I went, I tapped every surface and tested every piece of cabinetry, including the baseboards. I then returned to Riggins’s closet and did the same. Finally, I went to the bathroom and methodically worked my way over each surface. I found what I was looking for behind the toilet and beside the outflow. It made sense. Nobody went poking around there unless they had to or were being paid for it. Using the blade of my penknife, I eased away a section of baseboard.

Behind it, in a Ziploc bag, was a pistol.

CHAPTERXXII

Roland Bilas had always fancied himself a writer, so being asked to construct a plausible story about his recent buying trip to Mexico presented a welcome challenge. He had lots of ideas for novels, many of which featured a taller, funnier, more attractive version of himself performing impressive feats, some involving beautiful women in a state of undress, yet whenever he tried to write them down, the air went out of both him and his story. The ideas themselves had to be worth something, though. He had vague notions of hiring a hack to put words to them, said hack being so grateful to good old Roland for having done all the hard work of coming up with a plot that he’d consent to a thirty percent share for his efforts, or twenty-five if the idea was strong enough.

Unfortunately, in the absence of a hack writer hanging around Erica Kressler’s office with nothing better to do, Bilas was forced to wrestle his story into shape unassisted. But after some crumpling and many crossings-out, he had assembled a version of the truth he could stand behind. Kressler found thirty minutes in her busy schedule—which would be billed to Bilas as an hour because she didn’t do fractions—and she and Bilas went through it a couple of times, with Kressler testing for flaws and expecting Bilas to address them. He managed without great difficulty, as it was easy to leave out the middleman and establish a directline of contact between Bilas and the seller. Bilas experienced minor guilt at the prospect of giving up associates, and a degree of shame since nobody liked a snitch. But no greater self-love had any man than that he lay down a few passing acquaintances to save his skin, as the Bible didn’t say—though it ought to, because a dime would get you a dollar that self-love was more widespread than self-sacrifice.

“Okay,” said Kressler, when they were done. “We now have something to offer the feds should they decide to play hardball. Meanwhile, I want you to think again about anything in your collection that you might have forgotten to mention earlier. And don’t bullshit me: If the aim is staying out of jail—Mexican, Peruvian, or American—then it’s going to cost you, and if you don’t feel the pain, it’s not costing you enough.”

Bilas nodded miserably. Even with the funds he had squirreled away, this whole mess threatened to bleed him badly. The only way he knew to make some of that money back was the very thing that would land him in prison if he was caught—and he would be caught, because his name would now be on every watch list from here to hell itself.

“I guess you can tell my mystery caller that Devin Vaughn has nothing to worry about,” said Kressler. “You can also share your new bedtime story with him, to set his mind at rest. While you’re at it, I’d appreciate your asking him never to pull a stunt like that with me again. You’ve had your shot, Roland, and I won’t be the messenger a second time. If it comes down to choosing between my license and your life, you don’t need me to tell you which way I’ll go.”

Bilas didn’t need her to tell him. He’d be sorry to lose Kressler as a lawyer once this was over but it couldn’t be helped. If she kept him out of jail, he’d send her flowers as a farewell.

He got up to leave. The authorities had seized his laptop, which was inconvenient, and his iPhone, which was more bothersome still. But beyond inconvenience, and straying into the potentially life-threatening, was the fact that they had also confiscated the red Nokia flip phone.When asked about it, Bilas told them he’d picked it up for its nostalgia value but also to use as a cheap backup device, because sometimes simplest was best. They hadn’t believed him, suspecting—rightly, as it happened—that the phone was a burner.

Because Bilas was wily, he didn’t use fingerprint or facial identification to open his laptop or smartphone. He might not have been a dangerous criminal, but he was still a habitual lawbreaker. He’d read up on his rights, including the prerogative, even under arrest, to decline to surrender passcodes or passwords to one’s devices. A suspect’s biometrics might not have been protected by the Constitution, but their mental processes were. If the authorities wanted to access Roland’s contacts and data, they’d have to obtain another warrant, which Kressler assured him she’d fight, even if she doubted she’d win. She could delay, not postpone indefinitely.

That was when Bilas had come closest to panicking. He had erred in returning to Mexico, and erred further by being apprehended on his return to the United States, but he had blundered on a cataclysmic level by allowing the Nokia to find its way into the hands of the law. Once opened, the Nokia would be found to contain a handful of numbers in its contacts list, each identified only by a letter. Bilas didn’t know all the names hidden behind those letters, but he was sure of a couple and could guess at more. He was also aware that each of those people possessed a Nokia similar to his, a phone that was never to be used to make or receive calls, only to send or receive short messages, with any follow-up call to be made on another device. Bilas, by his actions, had put that warning system at risk. It was still potentially rescuable, though. The process might already have begun, given that one of Devin Vaughn’s people had been in touch with Kressler, which meant Vaughn must have figured out that Bilas’s Nokia was either compromised or about to be. It would be a matter of ditching the old SIM cards, acquiring fresh ones, and circulating the new numbers. Bilas wouldn’t be Vaughn’s flavor of the month afterward, and would pay a price for his carelessness, as wellas for failing to heed the injunction to remain north of the border. Bilas didn’t think Vaughn would have him killed, but he would certainly have him hurt.

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