“Good job,” Mr. Merriam told Milo. “I can always count on you.”
Phone to his ear, Milo was fuming. So now Charlie and Stack got to sit around in the boss’s office. What was next? Lunches together? Milo couldn’t help but be jealous. He should be sitting in that office having lunch. Not those two losers. He held his tongue and didn’t tell Mr. Merriam how he felt, reminding himself that Lyra was more important, and he was doing this for her. Getting on the boss’s bad side might mess up his plan.
“I looked through every book in case the DVD was stuck in one of them, and I looked at every DVD, and they’re all like the labels say, just movies and stuff. I’m thinking your DVD got burned up in Rooney’s house.”
“I hope you’re right. Where did you find them?”
Milo wasn’t prepared for that question. “Where did I find them?” he repeated to stall for time. “In her grandmother’s garage.” Just in case Charlie and Stack had gone into that garage and looked for themselves, he blurted, “I was thorough in my search. They weren’t where anyone else could find them.”
“Excellent work,” Mr. Merriam said. “Bring them to the office tomorrow morning. I’ve got an appointment tonight, or I’d have you bring them now.”
“Bring what?”
“The books and DVDs.” Mr. Merriam chuckled. “What else did you think I wanted?”
Milo forced a laugh. “I was joking. See you in the morning.”
He disconnected the call and scratched his head. Now where was he going to find old books and DVDs?
THIRTY-TWO
LYRA WAS IN GOOD SPIRITS WHEN THEY GOT BACK INTO THE car. She had her subject for her film project now, and with Father Henry’s help getting the parents of the first graders to sign permission slips, she could start filming as early as next week or the week after, assuming she finished the script in time and met the first deadline.
“Did you see how happy those children were?” she asked Sam.
“I saw how happy Father Henry was when you handed him that check. I thought he was going to do a backflip in that dress he was wearing.”
She laughed. “It’s called a cassock.” The thought of the priest doing gymnastics made her laugh again.
“I also saw how much fun you were having with those children. What were they doing?”
“Playing a game they had made up, and I was having fun.”
“When do you have to have this film project done?”
“I reread the rules to be certain,” she said. “My script must be postmarked no later than the fifth. That’s a Friday. If it makes the top five, then I’ll be notified, and I have another week to send the film.”
Sam got on the entrance ramp to the highway. “How long do you have to wait to find out if you’re in the top five?”
“Up to six weeks. So I have to have a film ready.”
“At least this time you won’t have to breathe toxic fumes.”
“True, and I’ll have more fun with this one, too. I’m surprised Mahler gave me this opportunity. I’m hardly one of his favorite students.”
A few miles later, she asked, “Did anyone drive by the house last night?”
“No.”
“Were you watching?”
A quick smile, then, “Yes.”
“Why do you think they didn’t come back?” She said it as though a dinner guest had rudely not shown up.
“Maybe there was too much traffic coming and going at the house,” he said. He reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t worry. They aren’t going to disappear. They’ll be back.”
“That isn’t comforting news.” She crossed one leg over the other, and Sam automatically looked and appreciated how long they were. He remembered how they’d felt around him when he was inside her … He cleared his throat. How often did psychiatrists say a man thought about sex? Every ten seconds? Twelve? Since he’d met Lyra, it was simply all the time.
“Let’s concentrate on what we know,” he said. “We know there have been at least four different men trying to kill you. Two are in jail without bail, and then there are the two who broke into your apartment. They also could be the two who drove by Gigi’s house. Mind you, that’s just a guess.”
“I hope it’s true. Otherwise, I would have six men trying to kill me.” She looked up with a weak smile. “You don’t suppose someone’s out recruiting killers just for me, do you?”
He laughed as he switched lanes. “No, I don’t think so.”
Her expression turned somber again. “What did I ever do to any of them?”
“I’m sure it isn’t personal. We know the two in jail work for Michael Flynn.
“He’s an Irish immigrant, and he’s been head of an organized crime family in L.A. for a long time. They’re into money laundering, prostitution, graft, but no drug trafficking, as far as we know. Up until now, he’s been able to lawyer his way out of any charges leveled against him. Detective O’Malley told me Flynn is willingly going down to the station for questioning.”
“I want to be there when they talk to him. Is that possible?”
“I don’t see why not. You can watch and listen through the glass, but you can’t say anything to him or let him see you.”
“So shooting him would be out of the question.”
“That’s my job, sweetheart.”
“Do you think he’ll tell us anything?”
“No.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because Detective O’Malley wants to give Flynn some information. See what he does with it. We know who most of his business associates are, so maybe he’ll give us some leads.” Sam got on the phone and made arrangements for them to be there for Flynn’s interview.
When he finished his call, Lyra switched topics. “Why can’t I go back to my apartment? With a bodyguard at my side—”
“No.”
She prodded. “Why?”
“I want to sleep through the night without getting blown up. There are other tenants to consider as well. It’s better if no one knows where we’re staying.”
He had a valid point. She didn’t want anyone to get hurt. “Okay,” she said.
“Do you need something from your apartment?”
“No. I packed clean clothes from my closet at Gigi’s house.”
“So we don’t need to go back to campus?”
“Not today, but …” She knew he wasn’t going to like what came next. “I have to switch out the memory card at the park.”
“Hell, no,” he said. “We’re not going back there.”
“Sam …”
“I know you’re curious, and you want to find out who’s planting flowers—”
“It’s more than curiosity,” she argued. “I might want to do something with it in the future. A short film maybe. Just let me shoot another week.”
“No.”
“All I’m asking for is a week, and then I’ll dismantle and be done.”
“No,” he repeated, his voice firmer.
“What if I bought new camera equipment and replaced what I have at the park? I could get something with more memory and a longer battery life. It could record for a couple of weeks and I wouldn’t have to go back and forth so often.”
“Why didn’t you get that in the first place so you wouldn’t have to climb around in that garbage?”
“I wanted to use my camera. It takes such clear pictures. But I’m willing to change if you’ll just let me go to the park a couple of times.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Frustrated, she shifted in her seat. “Sam, I’m afraid I’m going to have to pull rank on you. A bodyguard’s job is to protect. He doesn’t set the schedule. I’m going to that park with or without you.”
He didn’t laugh at her, but she could see amusement on his face as he kept his eyes on the road. “Ah, that’s sweet.”
“What is?” she asked suspiciously.
“You, thinking you can pull rank.”
Okay, she had been bluffing, but
did he have to get such a kick out of it? Lyra stared out the window at the landscape while she made a mental list of what she could be doing to help the investigation. As they arrived in L.A., her thoughts kept returning to the yard sale. She firmly believed whoever was trying to kill her was somehow connected to that yard sale. The man the shooters worked for, this Flynn, must think she had something that belonged to him. When she mentioned that to Sam for a second time, he shook his head.
“There was nothing in those boxes that would warrant this, remember?”
“But maybe they think there was.”
Sam leaned his elbow on the armrest between them. She took his hand and traced the scars on his arm. “Did you get these when you went through the window to help Alec?”
“No, those are rugby scars.”
She thought he was making that up until he held up his other arm. “I got these scars when I went through the window.”
“This arm is much worse,” she said, touching his right arm. “You don’t play rugby anymore, do you?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s a great way to let off steam.”
“You’re too … calm, too relaxed to play such a rough game. Rugby players are aggressive. They’re …” She stopped before she offended him.
“They’re what?” he pressed as he pulled into the police station parking lot.
“Brutal,” she said. “On the field,” she qualified.
He laughed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Sam parked the car and walked close to her until they were inside.
“O’Malley’s upstairs,” a policeman who recognized Sam called out.
The second floor of the police station was wide open with desks in three rows. Detectives sat at computers. Some were taking statements from people who sat in front of them, and others were dealing with suspects handcuffed to their chairs. Two unsavory men sat against the wall with their hands cuffed behind their backs. They were conversing in a language Lyra didn’t recognize.
“Get those two in an interrogation room,” a detective shouted to no one in particular. “The Russian interpreter is on his way.”
Sam listened to the two men snickering and mocking the detective. Then one of them said something that made him smile. When Lyra slowed down to look around the large room, Sam took her hand and pulled her along. Detective O’Malley was in a glass office at the end. Spotting them, he hurried out. After asking Lyra how she was holding up, he turned to Sam. “Flynn should be here in about fifteen minutes. You’re early.”
“Good. Lyra can look at the footage from the campus security cameras.”
“No problem. I’ll pull it up.”
O’Malley went to his computer and brought the security video onto the screen. The parking lot came into view. It showed routine movement of people and cars, nothing unusual. O’Malley pointed to the upper-right-hand corner and said, “There he is.”
Lyra leaned close. The picture wasn’t clear, but she could make out a dark figure circling their car. His head was covered by the hood on his raincoat. He dropped down beside the car for a couple of seconds and then stood up and strolled away.
O’Malley reversed the video to the spot where the man had disappeared and said, “Here’s where he’s planting the bomb.”
Lyra shook her head. “I can’t see his face. I don’t know who he is.”
A policeman stuck his head in the door. “Flynn’s on his way up.”
O’Malley shut down the computer and led the way through the office.
When they walked by the detective who had called for the interpreter, Sam paused to read the name on the desk and said, “Detective Muren, those men you want to interrogate aren’t speaking Russian.”
Muren didn’t bother looking up. “I’ve got it covered. Thanks.”
Sam had a bit more vital information the detective should hear, but he didn’t tell him. He knew Muren would be coming around in a little while.
While O’Malley entered the interrogation room, Lyra followed Sam into the observation room and stood in front of the window. They watched two men enter. The taller man handed his card to O’Malley and introduced himself as Mr. Flynn’s attorney. He sat next to his client.
Michael Flynn was a strange-looking man. He had more hair sprouting out of his ears than on his head. Lyra didn’t know why she had assumed Flynn was an old man, but he looked to be in his fifties.
“Lyra, have you ever seen him before?” Sam asked.
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. Trust me, I’d remember.”
The gigantic ring on his pinky finger drew her attention to his manicured nails, and his suit appeared to be Italian, probably hand-tailored. He could be the poster boy for “Crime Pays,” she thought.
“He’s Irish,” she commented.
“Yes.”
There was a tap on the door, and the detective who had given Sam the brush-off entered the room. “Sir, do you have a minute?”
Sam turned to him. “Yes?”
“I’d like to apologize for being rude.” He put his hand out to shake Sam’s and introduced himself. “Detective Muren. Bill Muren. I know who you are. Three guys out there told me already. They also called me a …” He stopped when he realized Lyra was listening.
Sam shook his hand but didn’t say anything more.
“It’s been a bad day,” Muren said. “Those two creeps have given me a run for my money. If they’re not speaking Russian, then what are they speaking?”
“Czech,” he said.
“It sounded Russian. Could someone who knows Russian interpret?”
“Not necessarily. There are similarities in the two, but they’re different languages.”
“You wouldn’t happen to speak Czech, would you?”
“Yes.”
“My day just might be getting better. What do you do for the FBI?”
“I’m a language specialist.”
Muren started laughing. “This is now a good day.”
“I’ll make it even better. They know you have a key, but they don’t think you’ll figure out what it unlocks.”
“Did they say—”
“Pier twenty-three, locker seven. You might want to lead with that.”
Muren rubbed his hands together. “You’re right. Since I met you, this day just keeps getting better and better.” He opened the door and said, “When you’re finished here, do you think you could help me out with the interrogation?”
Sam nodded.
“Take as long as you need. They can wait.”
Nothing was happening with Flynn. No matter what the question, he consulted with his attorney before answering. Then he danced around the question and never really answered.
“If the detectives asked him if he likes the weather, I bet he’d talk to his attorney first,” Lyra said.
O’Malley had been civil and restrained up to now. He put two photos on the table in front of Flynn. “These men work for you, don’t they?”
“No, they don’t.”
“Have you ever seen either one of them before?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Those are the men who shot at us, aren’t they?” Lyra asked Sam.
“Yes.”
Ten minutes of evasions were enough for Lyra. She was about to suggest that Sam go help Detective Muren when the conversation in the interrogation room suddenly got interesting.
O’Malley was no longer polite; he had become hostile and antagonistic. He informed Flynn that he would probably need him to come in three of four times a week because he could never quite remember all the questions he wanted to ask. He told Flynn that he should be prepared to spend a lot of time at the station. O’Malley thought it would only take a month or two.
Flynn didn’t consult his attorney this time. The smirk gone, he started yelling at O’Malley, calling him a disgrace to the Irish community and threatening to sue him for harassment. Flynn’s attorney put a hand on his arm, but Flynn flicked it off.
“Do you know a
woman named Lyra Prescott?” O’Malley asked, undaunted.
Flynn’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but Sam saw it and so did O’Malley. “So you know who she is?”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“Your two goons,” he said, tapping the photos, “tried to kill her the other day. Tried to kill the FBI agent who was with her, too. That’s gonna get them a lot of years.”
The attorney stood. “We’re done here.”
“I’m going to connect you to those men, and when I do you’re going down with them,” O’Malley warned.
Flynn shoved the attorney to get him moving. “Michael, let’s leave.”
“See you boys tomorrow and probably the day after. I’ll let you know. Keep your schedule open.”
“I’m filing suit …”
“Go ahead,” O’Malley said.
Once Flynn and his attorney were gone, O’Malley opened the observation room door.
Smiling, he said, “Did you see that look on Flynn’s face when I mentioned Lyra’s name?”
“Why are you happy about that, Detective?” she asked.
“We think Flynn’s doing a payback or a favor for someone else. We can’t connect him directly to you any other way. From everything we’ve learned, you’ve had no interaction with any of Flynn’s crew.”
“A favor?”
“That’s what we’re hoping. If we can put enough pressure on him, he might get fed up. It looks like he’s got several men working on this. Two are in jail and at least a couple more are still out there. That’s a lot of payroll and not very cost effective for him, I’d say.”
“You think he’ll just quit?”
“No, we’re hoping he’ll now go have a chat with whoever wanted his help.”
THIRTY-THREE
LYRA WAS HAPPY TO BE BACK AT THE DUPLEX. FOR A HIDEOUT, it was quite comfortable; everything was brand new, and she hadn’t stubbed her toe once because, unlike her apartment, it was spacious. After her shower, she dressed in a silky gown and robe and went downstairs to the dining room table to work on her script. Now that she knew exactly what she wanted to do, the ideas came freely. According to the rules, the film couldn’t be more than ten minutes long, which didn’t sound like much, but to a budding filmmaker, it could just as well have been ten hours. Every second had to count.