“He’s still my father. I have to respect him. I owe him that.”
“You owe him nothing. In this life or the next.”
It appears to be an old argument between them. Shanti shakes her head. “My whole life was pain and darkness. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t eat. I could barely drink. I thought I might die, and a part of me prayed for death. But then . . . this will be hard for you to understand.”
“Not at all. Then you started to pray to Krishna.”
She stared at me. “How did you know?”
“I pray to him as well.”
“How? I mean, why?”
“I’m not from around here, but that’s a long story. Please continue.”
“It’s hard to explain. In India we have what we call mantras. The mantra of a deity is supposed to be identical to the deity. Just saying Krishna’s name is supposed to bring his blessing. But we have a sacred book in India called the Bhagavatam that contains secret mantras that Krishna taught those close to him. One has always been very dear to me. I would repeat it for hours even before Juna attacked me.” She pauses. “This must all sound like eastern mysticism to you.”
“Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya.”
“That’s my mantra! How did you know?”
“I’ve studied the book you refer to.”
“But it has other mantras in it. How did you know I use that one?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, maybe Krishna told me.”
Shanti continues to stare at me. “You are not like a normal FBI agent.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Go on.”
“What happened next was a miracle. The vision in my left eye returned, and I was able to move around without help. And the pain began to go away. It didn’t stop completely, but then, I didn’t pray for everything to heal.” She smiles. “You must think me stupid.”
“Not at all. You found that when you were suffering, it was easy to think of Krishna. You were afraid that if all your suffering was taken away, you would no longer think of him as often.”
Shanti is astounded. “How can you know these things?”
“Let’s just say I have suffered as well.”
“And you worship Krishna?”
“‘Worship’ is such a big word. I think of him, that’s enough for me.”
Shanti nods. “I’m happy the FBI sent you instead of another agent. Maybe Krishna had something to do with your coming. When I was healing, and the IIC man came to my door, I thought perhaps Krishna had sent him.”
“Why?”
“Because he told me I could earn a hundred dollars a month doing next to nothing. If you’ve been to India, you must know how much money that is there. Suddenly I had enough money to take care of myself, although my father tried to claim it for himself.”
“The bastard,” Mr. Garuda muttered.
“Baba!”
“He’s a thieving bastard!”
“I’m afraid I must agree with your uncle on this point,” I say to Shanti. “But you keep dancing around my question. What do you do for IIC?”
“I close my eyes and answer questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“I don’t know. They don’t really make sense. Usually the man on the phone will spell out a list of letters and then ask for a yes or no. But I don’t answer by speaking aloud. I just push one for yes and two for no.”
“If you don’t know what the question is about, how can you answer at all?”
“I asked that when they hired me. They told me not to worry about what was being asked. They said I should just say what came to me in the moment.”
“How often do you answer their questions?”
“Once a week.”
“Always on the phone?”
“Yes. They gave me a special phone with headphones so I can listen to the questions without having to hold the phone to my ear. They said that way my arm wouldn’t get tired.” She pauses. “It’s real easy to do. Most of the time I feel like I’m doing nothing. The only hard part is when it goes on for a long time. Then I get restless. But that doesn’t happen too often.”
“Let me get this straight. Once a week they call and you put on your headphones and listen to a series of questions that make no sense. And you answer yes or no by pushing either one or two on your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Could these strings of letters be stock symbols?”
“I thought of that. I’ve never recognized any of the groups of letters. But that doesn’t mean anything. I don’t know much about the stock market.”
“Shanti, have you ever heard them talk about something called the Array?”
“No. What’s that?”
“We’re not sure yet, but it’s somehow connected to IIC.”
“They always send the check on time,” Mr. Garuda says. “They’re never late. To be frank, the money has been a blessing. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to take Shanti to physical therapy.”
“Whoever comes on the phone is always friendly,” Shanti says. “It’s hard to believe they would want to hurt me. I mean, I could see why they might want to fire me. I don’t know if I get many of their questions right. But why would they want to kill me?”
“I have no idea,” I say honestly.
We have reached a standstill. I don’t know what else to ask, because I have no idea what IIC’s up to, other than accumulating tons of money and targeting people for assassination. It appears unlikely Shanti has anything to do with their Array or their success in the market. Likewise, it seems ridiculous to think Shanti poses a threat to them.
Yet they want her dead.
Plus they see me as a threat, or at least as a “person of interest.” It’s possible—likely in fact—they sent the superhuman assassin to take me out. However, if they have access to killers like that, why do they hire men like Marko to do some of their dirty work? It’s difficult to see a pattern in their behavior. They’re clearly rich, powerful, but they seem to be kind of crazy.
I stand and check my watch—eight forty-five a.m. I have already made up my mind. I’m going to California, to Malibu, to have a talk with the principals at IIC face to face. It’s a weakness of mine, this impatience, to suddenly barge in where angels fear to tread. But I can’t help myself.
“I told you I’m going to assign agents to guard this house,” I say. “If you go out, Shanti, they’ll follow you at a discreet distance. They’ll work in shifts, and I’ll make sure they introduce themselves to you when they first arrive so you know who they are. But after that you’re to ignore them. Don’t feel you have to feed them or to let them use your restroom. These people are professionals. It’s their job to take care of you. They’ll be armed, but don’t let that intimidate you. They’re all highly trained. Like I said before, if a hit man checks out this block, he’ll see how well guarded you are, and he won’t be able to get out of town fast enough. You will be in absolutely no danger.”
Shanti also stands. “Will you find out why someone wants to hurt me?”
An overwhelming need to protect her sweeps over me. I’m not sure why. I squeeze her shoulder as I speak next. “I’m going to do nothing else but work on this case. I promise you, I won’t rest until it’s solved.”
Shanti hugs me. “Thanks, Jessica, and go with Krishna’s love. I feel he’s the one who brought you into my life.”
I remember how Krishna spared my life five thousand years ago.
“You might be right,” I say.
EIGHT
It’s noon before my flight lands at LAX. I rent a car—a Mercedes SL—and drive toward the Pacific Coast Highway and head north into Malibu. The day is bright and warm. The sea breeze feels invigorating. Along the way, I dial Lisa Fetch, the woman who visited me at my house and first told me about IIC.
I actually called her a couple of days ago, just to make sure she was all right. We ended up talking for hours. She’s a fascinating woman—she might even be classified as a ge
nius. She’s at her best talking about mathematics. Since the subject has never been one of my strong points, I’m intrigued by people who have an instinctive grasp of its subtleties.
For example, Einstein’s theory of relativity cannot be understood without an insight into the mathematics behind it, and Lisa is the first person I’ve ever met who was able to explain the necessary math formulas to me in a few short minutes, and in such a way that I could understand them. Her vision of how numbers and time and space all fit together opened a fresh door in my mind, and here I thought there was nothing else for me to learn. Lisa is as much an artist with her equations as Matt is with his music.
Unfortunately, today, the instant she answers I know she’s in trouble.
“Alisa,” she says, sounding tense. “I was just going to call you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It could be nothing. I’ve been unable to reach Jeff today. You remember him, he came to your house with me.”
“Of course, the policeman. Do you two live together?”
“We spend a lot of nights together, but he has his own place. Still, we talk every morning no matter where we sleep. We were supposed to have breakfast together. He never showed up, and he’s not answering his cell.”
“Have you been in to work today?”
“Yes. I felt too restless to stay. I’m worried about him—I don’t know what to do. I feel like I should call the police.”
“Don’t call them yet. I just arrived in LA—I might be able to help you. But it’s important that you stay away from work the rest of the day.”
“You’re really here?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I want to talk to the person in charge of IIC. Who should I ask for?”
“There are several principals. Tom Brutran is the president of the firm, but everyone knows his wife, Cynthia, is the real boss. I doubt either of them will see you without an appointment, and they won’t give you one on such short notice. They’re busy people.”
“I think they’ll see me. Remember, I’m listed as a ‘person of interest’ in their files.”
“That’s true. Should I go there and help introduce you?”
“No. That would be a mistake. Under no circumstances do you want to connect yourself to me. You haven’t spoken of your visit with me, have you?”
“No. Jeff hasn’t either. Oh, God, do you think something has happened to him?”
“I can only hope he is okay. The more I learn about your company, the more they disturb me.”
“What do you mean?”
I want Lisa afraid. Her fear may be the only thing keeping her alive.
“I looked into the disappearance of your ex, Randy Clifford. He was killed by a notorious hit man named Marko. The man usually works for the Mob, but IIC paid him a large fee to make Randy disappear. He also wiped clean all his computer files.”
“Where did you get this information?”
“My sources are impeccable. I strongly recommend that you come down with a serious case of the flu and don’t return to work for the next week. I need time to figure out what IIC’s up to.”
“I told you what they are up to. They’re making tons of money on Wall Street and funneling it through dozens of dummy corporations.”
“That doesn’t explain how or why they’re doing it. Lisa, do you know a girl named Shanti Garuda? She’s originally from India but she now lives in Texas.”
“No. Who is she?”
“Someone I had an interesting conversation with this morning. Have you found out any more about the Array?”
“No. I finally asked a few friends at work about it.”
“What did they say?”
“It’s what they didn’t say. They clammed up fast.”
“Interesting. Listen, I’ll be at your firm in a few minutes. I’m going to go now, but I promise to meet you afterwards.”
“Wait! I can’t just sit around here and do nothing.”
“Lisa, you’re the one who came to me and told me IIC was dangerous. Since then I’ve done plenty of research on my own and discovered they’re more dangerous than any of us realized. Stay away from work and stay away from Jeff’s house.”
“What’s wrong with Jeff’s house?”
She’s too strong-willed to simply obey. I have to use the power of my vampiric voice. Even before I speak, I let the tendrils of my will stretch out and envelop her. I speak in a clear but soft voice.
“Under no circumstances are you to go there until we meet up. This is very important. Do you understand?”
By her sudden change in tone, I can tell my words have penetrated deep into her psyche. “I understand,” she mumbles. “I’ll wait for you.”
“Good girl,” I say, and hang up.
IIC is located deep in Malibu, far north of the business heart of town. The area is mostly empty grass hills with an occasional twenty-million-dollar mansion thrown in for good measure, lest one forget the cost of local real estate. The firm is situated in a beautiful but modest-sized structure two miles from the coast, atop a manicured hill with views of the Pacific so wide I wouldn’t be surprised if Hawaii were visible on a clear day.
I admire the architecture because it breaks every rule in the book and somehow remains standing. Virtually solid glass, it stands four stories tall on a series of white support beams that make up an interlocking collection of rectangles, squares, pyramids, and yes, remarkably, spheres. Which leads me to believe it was designed by a model maker on acid. The building is not merely modern; it is from a generation not yet born. If IIC is trying to hide their money, they’re not trying too hard.
I park and casually enter the building. The welcoming secretary sits beside a busy switchboard. I say hello and tell her I’m there to see Cynthia Brutran. She asks if I have an appointment.
“Just tell her Alisa Perne is here,” I reply.
The secretary puts the call through, and I’m mildly surprised that my name alone does the trick. The woman tells me to have a seat, Ms. Brutran will see me in a few minutes.
The few minutes stretch into twenty, and I grow restless. I’m about to stand and strengthen my demands when a young woman with a three-year-old child enters the building and asks to speak to the firm’s official president, Thomas Brutran. She is also told to take a seat and ends up sitting across from me. The woman’s little girl is ridiculously cute, and I find my impatience evaporating.
“What’s her name?” I ask the mother.
“Athena,” the woman says. “Her father is obsessed with ancient Greece.” Mother has red hair like her child, green eyes, but whereas Athena will grow up to turn every male head in a room, Mom is still struggling with her postpregnancy fat and appears stressed. Indeed, we are talking less than ten minutes when she excuses herself and says she has to use the restroom. Standing, she gestures to her daughter and looks at me.
“Can you watch her a minute?” she asks. “She seems taken by you.”
The request is a little odd. Athena is trading grins with me, true, but we haven’t exactly bonded. The woman is showing a reckless amount of trust by turning over her child to someone who is essentially a complete stranger. But hey, this is Malibu—the woman probably needs the privacy of the restroom to swallow her half dozen prescriptions.
“No problem, I’ll take good care of Athena,” I say.
The woman collects her bag and hurries away.
“You must have a trustworthy face,” the woman at the switchboard observes, reading my mind.
“I thought the same thing,” I reply, following Athena out of the corner of my eye as she wanders toward the painting on a nearby wall. The art, like the architecture, is so modern that the artists apparently feel no need to learn how to draw or paint. Nevertheless, the bright colors appeal to the child. She points at a bright canvas.
“Heaven,” she says.
“Is that what heaven looks like to you, Athena?” I ask.
“Dad
dy’s gone to heaven.”
The secretary and I exchange a worried look.
“I’m sure he’s okay wherever he is,” I say.
Athena nods. “I miss him.”
“It’s okay to miss him. It just means you love him.”
Athena’s face darkens. “Mommy says he’s gone. That we’ll never see him again.”
The remark is so painful, I hardly know how to respond. “Wherever your daddy is, I’m sure he’s thinking of you, Athena.”
The remark appears to comfort the child, but it’s been a long time since I played the role of mom. I might have said the wrong thing, because one second Athena appears to be enjoying the brightly colored paintings and the next second she grabs a glass vase holding a rose from beneath one of the pictures and lifts it over her head. Before I can stop her—without switching into hyper mode—she breaks it on the glass table where it previously stood.
Athena howls in pain, her tiny fingers covered with blood and pieces of glass. Feeling like the world’s worst babysitter, I rush to her side. With my vampiric sight, I quickly identify five slivers of glass that have penetrated her skin, even through her blood. I’m picking them out, scratching myself in the process, when I hear the hysterical voice of the child’s mother.
“What have you done to my daughter?” she screams.
“Nothing. She broke a vase and cut herself. It looks worse than it is. If you’ll give me a minute, I can pick out the last few pieces of glass.”
“Get your hands off of her!” the mother cries, and runs over and yanks the child from my hands. The woman behind the desk stands.
“It was nobody’s fault,” she says in my defense. “Your daughter grabbed the vase before either of us could stop her.”
“Shut up!” the mother snaps.
The young woman frowns. “Pardon me?”
“You heard me,” she says as she turns for the door. “Just be happy I’m not suing you both. And tell your goddamn boss to shove his gold leaf investment program up his ass.”
The young woman goes to swear at her but manages to control her temper. She swallows. “I have bandages in the other room. If you could please give me a moment to fetch them . . .”