Aphrodite Part 14

"I never saw her."

"Do you remember the cop's name?"

Fromm shook his head again. "But you can describe him?"

Fromm nodded this time. And, as Bert Stiles filed even harder and faster, Fromm described Justin Westwood as best he could. He was within two inches of the correct height, got the hair right and the body type, didn't know the eye color. When he was done, Stiles asked Fromm to repeat the description and this time around took notes, holding the pen very carefully and gently between his delicate fingers. Then he thanked Byron Fromm for coming to him with the information.

As Fromm walked out of his office, Stiles stared at the three-line phone on his desk. He sat there silently for quite a while, maybe ten minutes, not even bothering to use the emery board, until he decided he couldn't put off the phone call any longer. So he pushed down the b.u.t.ton for line one, picked up the receiver, and dialed, the whole time thinking he'd rather have his fingernails pulled out one by one than have the conversation he was about to have.

Justin hung up the phone and turned to Deena and Kendall, who were both doing their best to look elsewhere.

"I'll try one more," he said.

"You're not very good at this," Kendall told him.

"Thank you very much," he said. "I'm a little rusty at this kind of thing, too. And it's not easy getting information out of people when you don't even know what you're trying to find out." He turned to Deena. "I'm getting stonewalled. Whatever's going on, either none of the people at these numbers know about it or they know not to talk about it."

"You still don't seem very good at it." Kendall sniffed. "And it's boring."

"That's her new word," Deena explained. "Everything's boring."

Justin held out the phone to the little girl. "Would you like to try, miss?" When she smiled a somewhat haughty smile and took the phone, Justin began dialing. Before anyone could answer on the other end, he shrugged at Deena, as if to say: She can't do any worse than I've done.

A moment later, Kendall was saying into the phone, "Yes, I'd like to speak to my grandfather, please."

Justin stopped his shrug. He looked at Kendall as if asking: What are you doing?

Next they heard Kendall say, "I don't really know his name. I just call him Grampy-gramps. But my daddy is Mr. Edward Marion."

Now Justin looked at Deena. This look said: What the h.e.l.l have you raised here?

There was a pause, then they heard Kendall say, "Yes, I'll hold." She turned sweetly to Justin and said, "He's getting the manager."

Both Justin and Deena held their breath until they heard Kendall saying, "This is Lucy Marion. I'd like to speak to my grandpa, please." The girl listened, then said, "My daddy told me to call. It's Grampygramps' birthday." The manager said something and Kendall responded, "No, he's not here. I'm with the baby-sitter." There was another pause while the manager said something into the phone; then Kendall broke into a huge grin. "Yes. That's right. I guess I did know Grampy's name. Lewis Granger."

She flashed a triumphant smile at Justin, then her eyes widened and she looked confused. To the manager on the other end of the phone, she said, "Yes. I'll hold." She held the phone out away from her. "He's getting the man," she hissed at Justin. He nodded, said, "You're my new hero," and took the receiver. He waited for several minutes, then he heard an elderly man come on and say, "h.e.l.lo?"

"Mr. Granger?"

"Who is this?"

"Mr. Granger, my name is Justin Westwood."

"What are they talking about? My granddaughter's on the phone? I don't have a granddaughter. She died years ago."

"Mr. Granger, I'm sorry, I'm afraid we lied about that. I just needed to talk to you and I didn't know how else to get to you."

"What do you want to talk about?"

Justin hesitated, then said, "Growth Industries."

The old man's tone got even sharper. More suspicious. "You work for them? What happened to that Ed Marion?"

"I don't work for them. I'm trying to get some information about them."

"What kind of information?"

"Just about anything you can tell me, sir." There was no response from Granger. As the silence lengthened, Justin thought the old man had hung up. "Mr. Granger? Are you still there?"

"I'm tired," the man said. "I'm very tired."

"I can call you back another time, if you'd like."

"I don't mean I'm tired right this minute. I mean I'm tired. Tired of everything. Tired of life."

"I'd like to come see you, if I can."

"See me?"

"Yes, sir."

"n.o.body's been to see me in years."

"What about Ed Marion?"

"Oh yes. He comes. But he doesn't count. He just asks his questions and gives me the shots."

"Shots?"

"I'm tired of those d.a.m.n shots. I'm tired of everything."

"Can I come see you, Mr. Granger?"

"To ask me questions?"

"Yes, sir."

"You won't believe my answers, you know."

"Well," Justin told him, "I'd like to give it a try. How about tomorrow?"

"Today, tomorrow, the day after, the day after that one, doesn't make any difference to me. If there's one thing I've got," Lewis Granger said, "it's time."

There was a very definite chain of command After Byron Fromm had pa.s.sed his bad news along to Bert Stiles, Stiles made his own call, pa.s.sed the same news along, and got reamed. The man who did the reaming was named Alfred Newberg. Newberg was paid over a million dollars a year to deal with bad news-to receive it and to pa.s.s it along to his employer. As expert a job as he did dressing down Bert Stiles, it was nothing compared to the verbal las.h.i.+ng he took over the phone. He did not defend himself, nor did he offer any excuses. There were none to offer. He was paid his handsome salary-as well as given enormous loans at almost no interest and provided with regular use of a private jet, an extremely comfortable and luxurious Challenger-to take such abuse and then go out and solve whatever problem had arisen. So when the spew of obscenities began dying down and he heard the words "This is a very, very delicate situation, you do understand that?" he knew the tirade was over and it was time for him to do his job.

"Yes, sir. I know exactly how delicate this is."

"It's a Chinese puzzle we're involved in."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know what a Chinese puzzle is, Newberg?"

"Yes, I do, sir. Boxes within boxes."

"Exactly. And do you know what happens when one box is removed?"

"The puzzle doesn't fit together the same way."

"It's worse than that. Much, much worse than that. The puzzle, the thing itself, is altered. It's not the same object. It becomes something different, something else entirely."

"Yes, sir."

"In other words, it's destroyed."

"I understand that, Mr. Kransten," Newberg said. "I understand what's at stake."

"We are so close," Newberg heard his boss say. "We are so G.o.dd.a.m.n close. After all these years ..."

"Yes, sir, I know."

"I don't want to see it destroyed. I won't let let it be destroyed." it be destroyed."

"It won't be."

"Well, it might be if this G.o.dd.a.m.n policeman-what's his name?"

"Westwood."

"Well, whoever the h.e.l.l he is, he can't be allowed to come any closer. For G.o.d's sake, what the h.e.l.l is he trying to do?"

"He's looking into what happened with Bill Miller."

"Who?"

"Bill Miller, sir. The actor."

"Right, right, right. What does he have to do with the policeman?"

"There was the incident with the woman. The reporter who wrote the obituary."

"Oh, for chrissake, it's ridiculous. Make him go away. Get rid of him."

"I will."

"Get rid of him now now, before he pulls one of our little boxes away."

"Consider him gone, Mr. Kransten."

There was a long silence and Newberg thought, perhaps, that the line was dead. But he heard the faintest wisp of breathing and then he heard Kransten say, "You like using that plane, don't you, Al?"

"I like it very much. And you don't have to worry, sir. I like it too much to risk s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g this up. I just received a call from the manager of Leger. That's the one in upstate New York, outside of Albany. He said that Lewis Granger received a call from his granddaughter."

"Granger?"

"That's right."

"Does he have have a granddaughter?" a granddaughter?"

"No. I'm certain it was the little girl who's with the policeman. Her mother was the one who witnessed the ... scene ...in East End Harbor."

"Careless. It's all been very careless."

"Yes, sir. But I'm sure Westwood's going to see Granger. So we know where he'll be very soon."

"How'd he track Granger down?"

"Possibly through Helen Roag."

"G.o.ddammit."

"Although it's more probable it's got nothing to do with her. He might have gotten on to Ed Marion."

"Really?"

"Marion's the link. Between the woman in East End Harbor and now this."

"Where'd you take it last week, Al?"

"Excuse me?" Newberg asked, momentarily thrown.

"The plane. The Challenger. Didn't you use it last week?"

"I did. Mexico. A resort south of Puerto Vallarta called Las Alamandas."

"Nice down there?"

"Very."

"Lot of nice places in the world, Al. A lot lot of nice places. I hope you get to see many more of them." of nice places. I hope you get to see many more of them."

"So do I. Believe me, so do I, Mr. Kransten. So don't give the policeman a second thought. Or the witness. I promise you: They're as good as gone."

17.