Aphrodite

16

At 8 a.m. she knocked on his door. Justin cleared his throat, called out for her to come in. When she did, he saw that she was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Her legs and feet were bare. Instinctively he tried to cover up the glass of scotch he was holding.
“I meant to tell you this yesterday,” she said. “I want you to tell me how much all this grandeur”—she waved her hand around the motel room—“costs. You’re doing enough for us. So I just want you to know I’ll pay you back. I don’t know how long we’re going to have to be doing this, but whatever it is, I’ll pay my way. And Kendall’s, too.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I can cover it.”
“Is East End Harbor doling out six-figure salaries to their police force now?”
“I can afford it,” Justin told her. “You’ve got other things to worry about. But I appreciate it.”
She looked at him curiously, and he knew she was wondering about his secrets, but she didn’t say anything, then she gave her lopsided half smile and said, “I’m going to work out. You want to join me?”
“You mean, like …exercise?”
“Exactly like exercise,” she said, brushing one of the curls away from her face. “I thought maybe I’d give you a yoga lesson.”
“I don’t think so.”
“If you won’t let me pay you, at least maybe I can make you feel a little better.”
“I feel fine.”
“Is that why you’re drinking at eight o’clock in the morning?”
“I’ve already been up for three hours. So by my body clock, it’s really lunchtime.”
She just stared at him. Finally he put the glass down and said, “Okay. Let’s exercise.”
She led him nice and slow through a series of stretches as well as various sitting and standing positions with odd names like Downward Dog and Upward Dog. He felt extremely awkward and strangely vulnerable; he also was embarrassed because he knew he was out of shape. She kept trying to get him to repeat the Sanskrit versions of the names of the exercises, which he deliberately mangled to annoy her a little bit. Within ten minutes, he was dripping sweat onto the motel-room wall-to-wall carpet and feeling his muscles ache and his tendons stretch. She, on the other hand, wasn’t even breathing hard.
“You’re not in very good shape for a cop,” she pointed out.
“I haven’t been a real cop for a while. I’m a little rusty. And aren’t teachers supposed to be supportive of their eager students?”
“Stop stalling and get into squat position.” When he didn’t move, she said, “I know you know what that is. We just did it.”
“I know what it is. But if I squat right now, I’m just going to warn you that several of my body parts might never return to normal.”
“I’ll risk it,” she said.
So he made a face and contorted himself into a squat, his arms pointed straight up, his palms together. Then he was made to twist into two or three other positions he’d never dreamed existed. And he had to admit that she was a hell of a teacher. Using her body to position him gently, demonstrating what the poses were supposed to look like without showing off her superiority. She was extremely strong and extraordinarily limber. He liked listening to her too. Her voice had a way of lulling him into a spell, so the whole session took on a kind of vague otherworldliness. It was as if she were keeping the real world temporarily at bay, which he realized was not such a bad idea at the moment.
One of his cell phones rang half an hour into the lesson. He was relieved to be able to stand up and stop working his recalcitrant body. But he instantly missed the touch of her hand, the feel of her weight against him.
“Yeah,” Justin said into the receiver.
“I’ve got some information,” Gary said on the other end of the line. “What’s going on? You sound out of breath.”
“Don’t ask,” he said. “Where are you calling from?”
“The station. No one else is here.”
“Okay, what do you got for me?”
“Just about everything you wanted. You got a pen?”
“Go.”
“There haven’t been a lot of incoming phone calls to Growth Industries. I’ve got three in the last month, a total of eight in the past three months.”
“Eight phone calls in three months? For eighteen phone lines?”
“Yeah. Well, seventeen now. The one that Susanna Morgan called’s been disconnected. Even so, if they’re sellin’ something, I hope they’re getting a good price for it, ’cause they ain’t doing a lot of business.”
“You have the numbers of the incoming calls?” Justin asked.
“Yeah. They’re all from the Northeast. Massachusetts, Vermont, New York, one in New Jersey.” As Justin wrote, Gary read out each of the numbers of the incoming calls and matched them up to the Growth numbers they came in on.
“Okay,” Justin said. “Next.”
“None of the bills for the eighteen lines go to the Growth address. Nine of them are sent to a company called the Ellis Institute and nine are sent to something called the Aker Institute.”
“What the hell are those?”
“They’re research firms.”
“How do you know that?”
“I called ’em,” Gary said. “What kind of research?”
“Medical. Ellis is in New York. Aker’s in Boston.” He gave Justin the phone numbers and addresses for both firms.
“Do we know who the bills go to at the firms?”
“Yes, we do. Edward Marion at Ellis. Helen Roag at the other one. But listen to this: When I called both places, I said I wanted to talk about a bill that wasn’t paid. I used the names of companies that had called in to the phone machines.”
“And what happened?”
“I got the runaround. I couldn’t get past Marion’s or Roag’s assistants. They both said that those bills weren’t paid there. They’re always forwarded on to something called the Lobster Corporation for payment.”
“And what’s that?”
“No idea. They wouldn’t give me a phone number or address. They said they’d look into it but that’s as far as they’d go.”
“Son of a bitch,” Justin said. “I’m impressed as hell, Gary.”
“Thanks. But there’s more on Marion. I’ve got his home phone and address. He lives in Connecticut. His cell must be a company phone because I couldn’t track it.” He gave the information to Justin, then did the same for Helen Roag. “She lives in Boston. Actually, just outside Boston, in Marblehead. You did have the spelling right, by the way. It’s R-O-A-G. And I’ve got her cell number, too.” He passed that along, then verified it after Justin read it back to him.
“You did a great job, Gary. I want to thank you.”
“Don’t you want to know what else I got?”
“I didn’t ask for anything else. I can’t imagine anything else.”
“I know. But I figured you might be a little busy wherever the hell you are. So I called those numbers, the ones that made the calls to Growth Industries.”
“And?”
“And it’s pretty weird.”
“How weird?” Justin asked.
“Very weird,” Gary answered. “Every place that called? Every one of them’s an old-age home.”
Elron Burton had been feeling proud of himself ever since that secretary from Growth Industries had locked herself out of the office. There’d been a problem and he’d solved it. No fuss, no muss, no need to bother the big boss. So when that boss, Byron Fromm, came striding through the lobby that morning, Elron gave him a big smile and a wave and said, “Problem solved, bossman. Everything was A-OK last night.”
“What problem is that, Elron?” the chubby, Jell-O–like Fromm asked.
“The problem with the lady who locked herself out. I let her in, just like you said.”
“Let who in? And when did I ever say to let anybody in?”
“The lady from Growth. You know, up in 301. She got locked out and she called you and you told her to come see me. …”
From the look on Byron Fromm’s face, Elron had the sinking feeling that maybe he hadn’t solved the problem. Maybe he’d created the problem. He wished he’d kept his big mouth shut.
“You’d better tell me the story from the beginning,” Fromm said, and he looked mighty scary for someone with such a soft body.
“Yes sir,” Elron said. And he told.
“That’s amazing.”
Justin and Kendall were watching Deena finish her yoga exercise. Justin had just seen her execute a movement where she went from standing straight up, slowly bent over backwards, and kept going down until the top of her head was resting on the floor. From that position, she slowly lifted her head up again, then uncurled her back until she was absolutely straight. Now Deena was balancing herself on her hands while her legs were bent backwards and wrapped around her own neck.
“This isn’t an actual human position,” Justin said. “I never saw anyone make herself so small.”
“The point is balance,” Deena said, not even breathing hard. “Not size. I’m perfectly balanced.”
“You could also fit into somebody’s briefcase.”
“I don’t think you’re grasping the finer concepts of the practice.”
“No,” Justin agreed. “I think you’re going to have to work on it with me. I’m mostly focused on the fact that your feet are in a place I can’t even get my hands to.”
Deena now slowly unfurled her body and lay on the floor, rhythmically breathing in and out. She crossed her legs, bent her head forward until the crown touched the floor, told Justin that she was sealing the practice. It wasn’t until she’d lifted her head that Kendall asked, “So what do we do now?”
Justin looked at his watch and said, “Your mom’s gonna take a shower, you get to watch TV, and I’m going to start running up our phone bill.”
Byron Fromm sat in the office of Bert Stiles, the head of the Alexis Development Company. Bert had been silent for quite some time now. All he did, as Fromm sat there, was run an emery board across the tops of his fingernails. Occasionally he would pick up a nail clipper and use it to clean a nail or pinch off an untidy cuticle. The man was obsessed with his nails, was always buffing them or polishing them or neatening them. Watching him, Fromm began to fidget uncomfortably.
“Do you want to talk to Elron yourself?” Fromm asked when he couldn’t stand the quiet or the filing any longer.
Stiles shook his head, put his hands together, and placed the well-manicured fingers under his chin.
“Is there anything else you want me to do?”
Stiles nodded but still didn’t speak. He pulled his hands from under his chin, stared at the nails, and began filing again.
“What?” Byron Fromm asked. “What do you want me to do?”
“This Elton,” Stiles finally said. “Elron,” Fromm corrected. “It’s Elron, not Elton.”
“Byron,” Bert Stiles said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what his name is. What I want to know is if he has any idea who these people were.” When he raised his voice, he ran the emery board a little harder and faster.
“He doesn’t. But I do.”
“You?”
“I can’t be sure. I mean, I didn’t see them. But the guy, he sounds like someone who was around here two days ago. And then again yesterday. The first time, he was trying to get into the Growth offices. I didn’t let him in. The second time, he insisted on talking to me out of the office, said it was too confidential to discuss inside. But it was just bullshit. I decided he was a nut. But now I realize it was right around the time of the break-in. I went outside with him because he said he was a cop and I think he might be. Not local, though. He showed me his badge but it wasn’t from around here.”
“Where was he from?”
Fromm shook his head. “Long Island somewhere. He took the ferry over.”
“What about the woman?”
“I never saw her.”
“Do you remember the cop’s name?”
Fromm shook his head again. “But you can describe him?”
Fromm nodded this time. And, as Bert Stiles filed even harder and faster, Fromm described Justin Westwood as best he could. He was within two inches of the correct height, got the hair right and the body type, didn’t know the eye color. When he was done, Stiles asked Fromm to repeat the description and this time around took notes, holding the pen very carefully and gently between his delicate fingers. Then he thanked Byron Fromm for coming to him with the information.
As Fromm walked out of his office, Stiles stared at the three-line phone on his desk. He sat there silently for quite a while, maybe ten minutes, not even bothering to use the emery board, until he decided he couldn’t put off the phone call any longer. So he pushed down the button for line one, picked up the receiver, and dialed, the whole time thinking he’d rather have his fingernails pulled out one by one than have the conversation he was about to have.
Justin hung up the phone and turned to Deena and Kendall, who were both doing their best to look elsewhere.
“I’ll try one more,” he said.
“You’re not very good at this,” Kendall told him.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “I’m a little rusty at this kind of thing, too. And it’s not easy getting information out of people when you don’t even know what you’re trying to find out.” He turned to Deena. “I’m getting stonewalled. Whatever’s going on, either none of the people at these numbers know about it or they know not to talk about it.”
“You still don’t seem very good at it.” Kendall sniffed. “And it’s boring.”
“That’s her new word,” Deena explained. “Everything’s boring.”
Justin held out the phone to the little girl. “Would you like to try, miss?” When she smiled a somewhat haughty smile and took the phone, Justin began dialing. Before anyone could answer on the other end, he shrugged at Deena, as if to say: She can’t do any worse than I’ve done.
A moment later, Kendall was saying into the phone, “Yes, I’d like to speak to my grandfather, please.”
Justin stopped his shrug. He looked at Kendall as if asking: What are you doing?
Next they heard Kendall say, “I don’t really know his name. I just call him Grampy-gramps. But my daddy is Mr. Edward Marion.”
Now Justin looked at Deena. This look said: What the hell have you raised here?
There was a pause, then they heard Kendall say, “Yes, I’ll hold.” She turned sweetly to Justin and said, “He’s getting the manager.”
Both Justin and Deena held their breath until they heard Kendall saying, “This is Lucy Marion. I’d like to speak to my grandpa, please.” The girl listened, then said, “My daddy told me to call. It’s Grampygramps’ birthday.” The manager said something and Kendall responded, “No, he’s not here. I’m with the baby-sitter.” There was another pause while the manager said something into the phone; then Kendall broke into a huge grin. “Yes. That’s right. I guess I did know Grampy’s name. Lewis Granger.”
She flashed a triumphant smile at Justin, then her eyes widened and she looked confused. To the manager on the other end of the phone, she said, “Yes. I’ll hold.” She held the phone out away from her. “He’s getting the man,” she hissed at Justin. He nodded, said, “You’re my new hero,” and took the receiver. He waited for several minutes, then he heard an elderly man come on and say, “Hello?”
“Mr. Granger?”
“Who is this?”
“Mr. Granger, my name is Justin Westwood.”
“What are they talking about? My granddaughter’s on the phone? I don’t have a granddaughter. She died years ago.”
“Mr. Granger, I’m sorry, I’m afraid we lied about that. I just needed to talk to you and I didn’t know how else to get to you.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
Justin hesitated, then said, “Growth Industries.”
The old man’s tone got even sharper. More suspicious. “You work for them? What happened to that Ed Marion?”
“I don’t work for them. I’m trying to get some information about them.”
“What kind of information?”
“Just about anything you can tell me, sir.” There was no response from Granger. As the silence lengthened, Justin thought the old man had hung up. “Mr. Granger? Are you still there?”
“I’m tired,” the man said. “I’m very tired.”
“I can call you back another time, if you’d like.”
“I don’t mean I’m tired right this minute. I mean I’m tired. Tired of everything. Tired of life.”
“I’d like to come see you, if I can.”
“See me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nobody’s been to see me in years.”
“What about Ed Marion?”
“Oh yes. He comes. But he doesn’t count. He just asks his questions and gives me the shots.”
“Shots?”
“I’m tired of those damn shots. I’m tired of everything.”
“Can I come see you, Mr. Granger?”
“To ask me questions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You won’t believe my answers, you know.”
“Well,” Justin told him, “I’d like to give it a try. How about tomorrow?”
“Today, tomorrow, the day after, the day after that one, doesn’t make any difference to me. If there’s one thing I’ve got,” Lewis Granger said, “it’s time.”
There was a very definite chain of command
After Byron Fromm had passed his bad news along to Bert Stiles, Stiles made his own call, passed the same news along, and got reamed. The man who did the reaming was named Alfred Newberg. Newberg was paid over a million dollars a year to deal with bad news—to receive it and to pass it along to his employer. As expert a job as he did dressing down Bert Stiles, it was nothing compared to the verbal lashing he took over the phone. He did not defend himself, nor did he offer any excuses. There were none to offer. He was paid his handsome salary—as well as given enormous loans at almost no interest and provided with regular use of a private jet, an extremely comfortable and luxurious Challenger—to take such abuse and then go out and solve whatever problem had arisen. So when the spew of obscenities began dying down and he heard the words “This is a very, very delicate situation, you do understand that?” he knew the tirade was over and it was time for him to do his job.
“Yes, sir. I know exactly how delicate this is.”
“It’s a Chinese puzzle we’re involved in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what a Chinese puzzle is, Newberg?”
“Yes, I do, sir. Boxes within boxes.”
“Exactly. And do you know what happens when one box is removed?”
“The puzzle doesn’t fit together the same way.”
“It’s worse than that. Much, much worse than that. The puzzle, the thing itself, is altered. It’s not the same object. It becomes something different, something else entirely.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In other words, it’s destroyed.”
“I understand that, Mr. Kransten,” Newberg said. “I understand what’s at stake.”
“We are so close,” Newberg heard his boss say. “We are so goddamn close. After all these years …”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“I don’t want to see it destroyed. I won’t let it be destroyed.”
“It won’t be.”
“Well, it might be if this goddamn policeman—what’s his name?”
“Westwood.”
“Well, whoever the hell he is, he can’t be allowed to come any closer. For God’s sake, what the hell is he trying to do?”
“He’s looking into what happened with Bill Miller.”
“Who?”
“Bill Miller, sir. The actor.”
“Right, right, right. What does he have to do with the policeman?”
“There was the incident with the woman. The reporter who wrote the obituary.”
“Oh, for chrissake, it’s ridiculous. Make him go away. Get rid of him.”
“I will.”
“Get rid of him now, before he pulls one of our little boxes away.”
“Consider him gone, Mr. Kransten.”
There was a long silence and Newberg thought, perhaps, that the line was dead. But he heard the faintest wisp of breathing and then he heard Kransten say, “You like using that plane, don’t you, Al?”
“I like it very much. And you don’t have to worry, sir. I like it too much to risk screwing this up. I just received a call from the manager of Leger. That’s the one in upstate New York, outside of Albany. He said that Lewis Granger received a call from his granddaughter.”
“Granger?”
“That’s right.”
“Does he have a granddaughter?”
“No. I’m certain it was the little girl who’s with the policeman. Her mother was the one who witnessed the … scene …in East End Harbor.”
“Careless. It’s all been very careless.”
“Yes, sir. But I’m sure Westwood’s going to see Granger. So we know where he’ll be very soon.”
“How’d he track Granger down?”
“Possibly through Helen Roag.”
“Goddammit.”
“Although it’s more probable it’s got nothing to do with her. He might have gotten on to Ed Marion.”
“Really?”
“Marion’s the link. Between the woman in East End Harbor and now this.”
“Where’d you take it last week, Al?”
“Excuse me?” Newberg asked, momentarily thrown.
“The plane. The Challenger. Didn’t you use it last week?”
“I did. Mexico. A resort south of Puerto Vallarta called Las Alamandas.”
“Nice down there?”
“Very.”
“Lot of nice places in the world, Al. A lot of nice places. I hope you get to see many more of them.”
“So do I. Believe me, so do I, Mr. Kransten. So don’t give the policeman a second thought. Or the witness. I promise you: They’re as good as gone.”