“THOMAS?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Bill Clinton.”
“It is?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, hi. It’s good to hear from you.”
“How are things going?”
“They are going very well. I’m memorizing more streets every day. Have you been getting my updates?”
“Of course, of course. You’re doing very well. Just terrific work. Everyone’s amazed by what you can do.”
“Thank you so much.”
“But, Thomas, there is something I’m a little worried about.”
“Yes?”
“I understand the FBI came to see you the other day.”
“That’s right. Remember we talked about this? I think they were just making sure I was staying on task, you know?”
“Sure, sure. But you have to be very careful these days, Thomas, about who you talk to. FBI, CIA, even the Promise Falls police. Even people who are close to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just be very prudent about what you tell anyone. Never reveal anything very personal. For example, your father just passed away, and I understand that you might find that upsetting, but you need to present a strong front, or you might be perceived as being weak. This would be true for any traumatic incidents in your life. You keep them to yourself, and you move forward. Do you understand?”
“I believe so.”
“That’s good. And you also need to cover your tracks. Like erase your computer history—”
“I already do that.”
“And your call history, too.”
“Sure. I do all that, Bill.”
“I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of you, Thomas. Everyone at the agency is very impressed.”
“I won’t let you down. Since I have you on the line, I wanted to tell you about something. When I was memorizing the streets of New York, I saw—”
“Thomas, I have to go. Maybe next time, okay?”
“Okay, Bill. Okay. Good-bye.”
THIRTY-SIX
THOMAS wouldn’t tell me anything about his chat with the landlord after Julie left. He said he was too annoyed with me. He went back up to his room and closed the door. I could hear him in there, chatting with one of our former presidents.
So the following morning when he came down to the kitchen, rather than beg him for details, I asked nothing. Except for what kind of cereal he wanted.
Halfway through the bowl, as I was pouring myself a second cup of coffee, Thomas said, “Don’t you want to know about my conversation?”
“Who with?” I asked, figuring he meant Bill Clinton.
“With the landlord. Mr. Papadapolous.”
“If you want to tell me. You didn’t last night, so it’s up to you.”
“I think I woke him up,” Thomas said. “He seemed very angry. And I had some trouble understanding him. He had some kind of accent.”
“I’d bet Greek.”
“Why?” Thomas asked.
“Never mind. Carry on with your story.”
“I told him who I was, and that I am a consultant to the Central Intelligence Agency.”
I put down my coffee. “Jesus, Thomas, no.”
“I didn’t want to lie. And I think identifying myself that way made him more agreeable to answering my questions.”
I figured it was only a matter of time before the FBI returned. They might have overlooked Thomas bombarding the CIA with e-mails, but telling people he was working on behalf of a federal agency? This could only get worse.
“I asked him who had lived there before,” Thomas said.
“Go on.”
“Two women.”
“That’s what the woman down the hall said,” I reminded him.
“I asked if they were sisters, or a mother and daughter, or just friends, and he said they were roommates, but not very good friends, because sometimes one of them didn’t always pay her rent on time and the other one had to come up with the extra money.”
I nodded. “Good questioning.”
“He said their names were Courtney and…the other one I think he said was Olsen but it was hard to tell with his accent.”
“That’s a first name and a last name.”
“‘Olsen’ was a first name. I have the last names. I wrote them down. He said as far as he knew Olsen still hasn’t been found.”
I perked up. “Hasn’t been found? What do you mean, hasn’t been found?”
“That’s what he said. And I asked what he meant and he said the CIA must be pretty stupid if it didn’t already know all about that and I had to explain to him that the CIA has many branches and is a very large organization and—”
“So what did he tell you?”
“He said Olsen disappeared. And I asked him who was living in the apartment now, and he said nobody.”
“That’s what I said.”
“But,” Thomas said, holding up a finger, like he was Sherlock Holmes or something, “the apartment is being rented.”
“Who’s renting it?”
“Mr. Blocker,” Thomas said.
“Who’s that?”
“The man who’s renting the apartment.”
“I know, but who is he?”