Nowhere Land: A Stephan Raszer Investigation (21 page)

    
“That
poor, crazy boy, Emmett . . . ” She’d finished his sentence. Perfectly.

    
“Who
came wild-eyed and howling into the hall afterwards,” said Harry.

    
“But it
was
them
,” said Layla, shaking her
finger. “I know it,” she spat, taking hold of the black tuft of hair between
her legs, “like I know
this
.”

    
“
Them
,” said Raszer. “The same men who,
ah, introduced you to Johnny?”

    
“
Traded
her to Johnny,” said Harry.

    
“Traded
you,” said Raszer, his eyes still on Layla. “For what?”

    
“For the
girl,” Layla replied sulkily. “What did you think?”

    
“They
traded
you
,” said Raszer, “for Katy
Endicott.”

    
“Yes,”
she replied, shooting Wolfe a quick glance.

    
“And
then killed their trading partners,” said Raszer, catching the look. “Nice.”

    
She
crushed out her cigarette and crossed her arms over her breasts. “And the main
reason they haven’t killed me is that they have what they want. Still, I have
not left this building in over a year. I sleep here, I dance downstairs. Harry
brings me groceries, things I need. They are not fools. They only take you when
you are in the open—when no one is looking. When you go outside with no coat on.”

    
“Who the
hell are they?” asked Raszer.

    
“They
are . . . ” She turned to Harry for the right word.

    
“Operatives,”
said Wolfe.

    
“Operatives
for who? For what? A sex and drug cartel, or something else?”

    
Raszer
shifted his glance from Harry to Layla, then back to Harry again.

    
Harry
shrugged. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. It’s when you know who they are and what
they’re about that they have to hurt you. And that’s the sad story of Johnny
Horn and his posse. I happen not to want it to be my story. Johnny wanted in.
Johnny—”

    
“Johnny
had no clue,” said Layla, with what seemed like both contempt and pity and
maybe—just maybe—some remorse. “I can tell you this much, and no more.” She
dropped one bare knee onto the bed and leaned forward, her body within his
reach, her breath in his nostrils. She smelled of black opium, Turkish tobacco
and sex, rendered aromatic by a fourth scent. Something new. An oil—anise or
peppermint? Raszer found himself aroused again.

    
“The
drugs and the sex,” she continued, in a soft, dusky tone. “These are used as
weapons. Tools. Just as good as gold or daggers when you wish to bring down a
man, or a state.” She shook the curtain of hair from her eye and crept in
closer. “Look how much damage one girl on her knees did to an American
president.” She put her finger under his chin. “Think how much harm I could do
to you if I chose to.”

    
“I don’t
doubt it, Layla,” Raszer said. “Even as sweet-natured as you are.”

    
She drew
back a little and said, “But I will not. Because I like you.”

    
“From
what I gather,” Harry said with a caustic laugh, “and I don’t care to gather
much—these chaps never lose a match. The only way you win is to walk away. Far,
far away. That’s where the favor comes in. Might turn out to be a favor for you
as well, mate.”

    
“And is
granting the favor the condition of my release?”

    
“Nah,”
said Harry. “We’re gonna let you go. We just wanted a captive audience.” He
leaned forward. “Granting the favor is the condition of your survival, because
if you put these guys onto us, you can bet we’ll put them right back onto you.”

    
“Then
untie me and let me get dressed,” said Raszer. “If I’m going to be bartered
with, I’d like to have my pants on.”

    
Harry
raised an eyebrow toward Layla and then nodded. “All right, then,” he said.
“It’s not as if we haven’t frisked you.”

    
Raszer’s
captors each took a side of the bed and untied the knots, and as Raszer stepped
into his trousers, he asked, “If you went to so much trouble to keep all this
from the police and the FBI, why are you telling me? You could have sent me
walking without either the workout—nice as it was—or the information.”

    
“I
Googled you after you called,” said Harry. “You’re quite a character.”

    
“Christ,”
said Raszer. “This is getting really irritating.”

    
“Cops
have a way of creating blowback,” Harry continued. “The FBI is worse.
You
can’t afford blowback, because it’ll
blow your cover. And unlike cops, PIs only whore themselves for information.”

    
“I
suppose I should take that as a compliment,” said Raszer.

    
“Indeed
you should, mate
.
As for why I served
you up to Layla . . . well, what can I say?” Harry Wolfe chuckled. “She was
hungry.” He gave Layla a wink, and she ran her nails over his shoulder, the
first sign of affection Raszer had seen between them.

    
“Okay,”
said Raszer, pulling on his sweater. “What is it you need?”

    
“My dad
has a little fishing cottage in the Lake district of England,” said Harry. “Far
from the madding crowd. We can be safe there.
Layla
can be safe . . . if we can get there. But Layla’s here
illegally and, due to her past associations, is probably on a dozen watch
lists. I’ve overstayed my visa, and my British passport’s been revoked because
I once brought a suitcase full of Ecstasy through Heathrow. We’re stuck, you
see.”

    
“In a
stateless limbo,” said Raszer. “We’ll all live there one day.”

    
“A no-go
zone,” said Harry. “That’s what my namesake, Hakim Bey, calls it. We’re
invisible . . . until we show up at the airport. But if we can get down to
Costa Rica, I have friends from the old days who’ll arrange transport to the
U.K. We can get in by way of the Hebrides. Once I’m home, I’m home.”

    
Raszer
lit another cigarette and looked the pair over. “I have a hard time,” he said,
“picturing the two of you in a fishing cottage.”

    
“Look
closer,” said Harry, “and you’ll see the sword over our heads. Layla and I have
made mistakes, and sooner or later they’ll catch up. But we’re not such bad
people, not so undeserving of a little happiness. A fishing cottage will suit
us fine.” He rested his big left hand on the small of Layla’s back. “Isn’t that
right, my little cat?”

    
“I will
go,” she said quietly, “where Harry goes.”

    
“Besides,”
said Harry, “I miss my da.”

    
“So you
want me to arrange a flight to Costa Rica?” Raszer asked.

    
“Plane,
boat . . . ” said Harry. “Doesn’t matter.”

    
“And
what in return, aside from eternal gratitude and good karma?”

    
“The
best for last,” said Harry. “Once arrangements are confirmed.”

    
“We can
tell you where they have probably taken the girl,” said Layla.

    
“Well,
that seems fair,” said Raszer, stepping into his shoes.

    
He
picked up his cigarettes and offered his hand in farewell, but Harry Wolfe had
something else to say, and just when Raszer had begun to acclimate himself to
one skewed reality, they hit him with another.

    
“Listen,
er . . . ” said Harry. “I’ve got to pack up and get across town to feed my
dogs. Would you mind, Stephan, staying with Layla tonight? It would be—”

    
Raszer
squinted.

    
Layla
simply lowered her black lashes and smiled.

    
“I can
pay you,” said Harry. “For your trouble.”

    
Raszer
shook his head. “It won’t be any trouble.” He sat back down on the bed and
flopped against the pillow. “Not any more than it already has been.”

    
“Good,
then,” said Harry, and gave Layla’s hair a playful yank.

    
And with
that, the DJ was gone, and Raszer found himself alone again with a beautiful
woman who might, depending on her inclination, be either lamb or wolf.

Raszer awoke before dawn
with a buzzing in his head. A pinprick of indigo
light moved on the celing when he shifted his head. It took him a moment to
realize that its source was his eye. With the light came a sharpening of sense.
The breath of the sleeping woman beside him carried a scent he now distinctly
recognized as wintergreen.
    

“Argonauts.com,” said Monica, swiveling to face
Raszer as he came in.

    
“
What
?”

    
“You
left your little notepad in the bathroom,” she said. “With the
fill-in-the-blanks quiz.” She blew the bangs out of her eyes and leaned back.
“It’s that website for alternate reality gamers, remember? We found it when we
were on the Scotty Darrell case. Who’s Hazid?”

    
“I
dunno,” he mumbled, and closed the door behind him. “It was inscribed on the
toilet seat in Johnny Horn’s trailer. Along with the other letters. Nice work.
You
are
a woman who takes
initiative.” He leaned against the wall of her cubicle and rubbed his eyes.
“Jesus. Could Johnny and Henry have been into this stuff, too?”

    
“You
mean The Gauntlet, or just the role-playing thing?” she asked.

    
“I dunno
what I mean,” he said. “I think I need a shower and a nap.”

    
She
looked him over and wrinkled her brow.

    
“Where
have
you
been?” she said. “You look
like you spent the night in a cathouse. And your eyes are totally bloodshot.”

    
“You’re
the one who told me I should get laid.”

    
“Judging
by the way you look, you got more than that. Who was she?” Monica chewed on her
pencil and waited for the answer.

    
“How
badly do you want to know?”

    
“Badly,”
she said. “Another dancer?”

    
Raszer
plucked a daisy from her desktop vase and leaned over to park it behind her
ear. She looked as fresh and squeaky-clean as he did grotty and disreputable.
“In this case, your curiosity is justified. She was the former consort of
Johnny Horn, allegedly provided to him courtesy of the men who killed him and
kidnapped Katy Endicott, and now being sheltered by the DJ who did the rave at
the Coronado.”

    
Her jaw
dropped. “Holy shit, Raszer,” she said. “You got a triple play!”

    
“Maybe,”
he said. “But I have a weird feeling about this girl. She has a little too much
to hide.”

    
“Well, I
need to hear all of it . . . ” She wrinkled her nose. “After your shower.”

    
He
stumbled a little on his way through the office, and she giggled.

    
“She
really worked you over good,” Monica said.

    
“Yeah,”
Raszer said. “Just like a Waring blender.” Monica blinked. “Warrren Zevon,” he
explained, then peeled off his sweater and held it to his nose, remembering.
“About that website. Were there any secret drawers? Members-only stuff?”

    
“It’s
all password protected. I searched for
Hazid
,
but nothing came back.”

    
“Just
for kicks, try using all the variations on Scotty Darrell’s name as a log-in.”
He thought for a moment. “And using
Hazid
as a password. Fast work on the castration thing, by the way, and the
Revelations scan. Did you see the connections between that Russian sect and the
Witnesses?”

    
“A
hundred forty-four thousand of them,” she replied.

    
“And
every one a ‘virgin.’ I wonder—could we be looking at something where being
born again means being ‘virginized,’ giving up gender distinctions? Stay on it,
would you?”

    
“You’re
not thinking Katy’s abduction was an inside job, are you?” she asked. “Like she
was chosen by some high council of the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society?”