We Know

"Because of the role you played in last week's sensitive affair, President Bilton wanted us to hear you out and ascertain if you have credible intel. You do not. Good night, Mr. Horrigan."

The line went dead. The man had spoken with such smoothness and confidence that I felt my own conviction shaken. Had I gotten it all wrong? Had I put together the fragments to form a reflection of my own paranoia? Either way, the chips were all on the table and the roulette wheel was spinning.

I didn't have to marinate long in slow-motion panic. The door opened, and Wydell entered, his lips thin with anger. He tugged a key from his pocket and unlocked my handcuffs.

"I don't know what kind of bullshit you pulled." He threw down the cuffs on the table with disgust and walked out.

The door was open. Tentatively I poked my head into the hall. A few workers, going about their business. Someone at a copy machine in a nearby office. I walked down the hall. The elevator doors were open, waiting-I assumed-for me. Sever was standing in the back, leaning against the metal rail. I was not surprised.

Hurwitz, Gregg

We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008)

"You got some friends in high places," he said.

I stepped into the elevator, and he hit the button for the lowest parking level.

He said, "Whatever black magic you worked on that phone call got you free and clear."

"Free and clear?" I hit the lobby button, and we whistled down in silence.

"You have a car?" he asked.

"No. I don't."

"I'll give you a ride."

Accommodating.

The elevator slowed, reaching the lobby.

Sever came forward, rested a shoulder against the panel of buttons. "Why don't you come to the garage with me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"There are always choices."

The doors slid open. Sever stiffened, coming off the wall. I stared out at the reception console, the street beyond the heavy glass doors. At the same time, I counted. One… two… three… four… five. Then the doors slid shut on my glimpse of freedom.

"I've been charged with recovering certain items," Sever said as soon as we were descending again.

"What items?"

"Whichever items you were planning on faxing at midnight."

"No one seems to know what those items are," I said, "but they're sure getting a lot done."

"Apparently they're classified."

"I doubt it," I said.

"Whether they're fucking classified or not, you're gonna tell me how we get them back."

"Can I drop you a line from Ketchikan, Alaska?"

The elevator doors dinged open. I stepped out into the dark garage, and Sever grabbed my arm. "It might not be that easy."

Behind us the elevator doors remained open. One… two… "I didn't figure," I said. Three… four… "Okay," I said. "Let's take a ride."

He smirked and let go of my arm. He stepped forward and I stepped back. Neatly, like a square-dance move. I punched the lobby button again, and the doors slid shut with Sever turning, baffled, five feet away, a red blush of anger coming up through the tan.

It seemed to take forever for the elevator to climb three stories. I bounced on my feet, urging it to rush. As soon as the doors parted onto the lobby, I slipped through, the rubber bumpers dragging across my shirt, and hustled past the security guards. One of the radios chirped, and he raised it from his belt, but I forced myself not to run, not until I was through the doors. Then I was sprinting. Across Figueroa, dodging headlights, and then along the sidewalk, flying around corners, passersby skipping out of my way.

I reached the grocery store's parking lot and took the keys from the wheel well my own damn self. I couldn't get into the car fast enough, couldn't stop checking the rearview. Blocks away I finally unclenched my claws from the steering wheel and allowed myself a full exhale. Flying along, I rolled down the window to let the wind blast me in the face. Cleansing night air, even a few stars through a murky L.A. sky I'd been unsure I'd ever see again.

There was no fax machine or motel room, but there remained plenty of loose ends to tie down.

Chapter 39

Homer was right where I might have guessed-in front of Hacmed's, sucking on a pint of Beam. I looked around before climbing out of the Jag, my wrists still tender from the cuffs.

He was halfway gone, lying on his side, his eyes pink, his lips-barely visible through the tangle of beard-twitching. On the ground next to his cheek was a small puddle of puke. Tracking my approach, he tipped up the empty bottle, letting the last drops fall. Then he threw it toward the Dumpster. It fell short, shattered with a pop.

He scooted himself back until he hit the wall and used it to shimmy up to a more or less seated posture. I crouched in front of him.

"You came in," he said. "For me. You came back." He shook his head in disbelief. "Why'd you'd do something so stupid?"

I started to answer, but he cut me off.