Chasing the Dime

7

The first thing Pierce did when he got back to the car was grab a pen from the ashtray and write Lilly Quinlan's address on an old valet parking stub. After that he pulled the dollar bill out of his pocket and examined it. It had been face down under the blotter. He now studied it and found the words Arbadac Arba written across George Washington's forehead on the front of the bill.

"Abra Cadabra," he said, reading each word backwards.

He thought there was a good chance that the words were a user name and password for entering the Entrepreneurial Concepts computer system. While he was pleased with the moves he'd made in getting the words, he was unsure how useful they would be now that he had gotten Lilly Quinlan's name and address out of the hard-copy file.

He started the car and headed back toward Santa Monica. The address of Lilly's apartment was on Wilshire Boulevard near the Third Street Promenade. As he got close and started reading the numbers on the buildings, he realized that there were no apartment complexes in the vicinity of the address she had written on the advertiser's information sheet. When he finally pulled up in front of the business with the matching address on the door, he saw that it was a private mail drop, a business called All American Mail. The apartment number Lilly Quinlan had written on the info sheet was actually a box number. Pierce parked at the curb out front but wasn't sure what he could do. It appeared that he was at a dead end. He thought for a few minutes about a plan of action and then got out.

Pierce walked into the business and immediately went into the alcove where the mailboxes were. He was hoping the individual doors would have glass in them so he could look into Lilly Quinlan's and see if there was any mail. But the boxes all had aluminum doors with no glass. She had listed her address as apartment 333 on the info sheet. He located box 333 and just stared at it for a moment, as if it might give him some sort of answer. It didn't.

Pierce eventually left the alcove and went to the counter. A young man with a swath of pimples on each cheek and a name tag that said Curt asked how he could help him.

"This is sort of weird," Pierce said. "I need a mailbox but I want a specific number. It sort of goes with the name of my business. It's called Three Cubed Productions."

The kid seemed confused.

"So what number do you want?"

"Three three three. I saw you have a box with that number. Is it available?"

It was the best Pierce could come up with while sitting in the car. Curt reached under the counter and came back up with a blue binder, which he opened to pages listing boxes by number and their availability. His finger drew down a column of numbers and stopped.

"Oh, this one."

Pierce tried to read what was on the page but it was upside down and too far away.

"What?"

"Well, it's occupied at the moment but it might not be for long."

"What's that mean?"

"It means there's a person in that box, but she didn't pay this month's rent. So she's in the grace period. If she shows up and pays, she keeps the box. If she doesn't show up by the end of the month, then she's out and you're in -if you can wait that long."

Pierce put a concerned look on his face.

"That's kind of long. I wanted to get this set up. Do you know if there's a number or an address for this person? You know, to contact her and ask if she still wants the box."

"I've sent out two late notices and put one in the box. We usually don't call."

Pierce became excited but didn't show it. What Curt had said meant that there was another address for Lilly Quinlan. This excitement was immediately tempered by the fact that he had no idea how to get it from the young man who had it.

"Well, is there a number? If you could call this woman right now and find something out, I'd be willing to rent the box right now. And I'd pay for a year up front."

"Well, I'll have to look it up. It will take me a minute."

"Take your time. I'd rather get all of this done now than have to come back."

Curt went to a desk that was against the wall behind the counter and sat down. He opened a file drawer and took out a thick hanging file. He was still too far away for Pierce to be able to read any of the documents he was going through. Curt ran his finger down one page and then held it on a spot. With his other hand he picked up the phone on the desk but was interrupted before making the call by a customer who had entered the shop.

"I need to send a fax to New York," she said.

Curt got up and went to the counter. From underneath he pulled out a fax cover sheet and told the woman to fill it out. He returned to the desk. He put his finger back on the document and lifted the phone.

"Am I going to be charged for faxing this cover sheet?"

It was the other customer.

"No, ma'am. Only the documents you need to fax."

He said it like he had said it only a million times before.

Finally, he punched in a number on the phone. Pierce tried to watch his finger and get the number but it was too fast. Curt waited a long time before finally speaking into the phone.

"This is a message for Lilly Quinlan. Could you please call us at All American Mail.

Rent on your box is overdue and we'll be re-renting it if we do not hear from you. My name is Curt. Thank you very much."

He gave the number and hung up, then came toward Pierce at the counter. The woman with the fax shook it at him.

"I'm in a big hurry," she said.

"I'll be right with you, ma'am," Curt said.

He looked at Pierce and shook his head.

"I got her machine. There's really nothing that I can do until either I hear from her or the end of the month comes and I don't. That's the policy."

"I understand. Thanks for trying."

Curt started running his finger down the columns in the binder again.

"You want to leave a number where I can reach you if I hear from her?"

"I'll just check with you tomorrow."

Pierce took a business card off a plastic rack on the counter and headed toward the door.

Curt called after him.

"What about twenty-seven?"

Pierce turned back.

"What?"

"Twenty-seven. Isn't that what three cubed is?"

Pierce slowly nodded. Curt was smarter than he looked.

"I've got that box open if you want it."

"I'll think about it."

He waved and returned to the door. Behind him he heard the woman telling Curt that he shouldn't make paying customers wait.

In the car Pierce put the business card in his shirt pocket and checked his watch. It was almost noon. He had to get back to his apartment to meet Monica Purl, his assistant.

She'd agreed to wait at his apartment for the shipment of furniture he had ordered. The delivery window was noon until four and Pierce had decided Friday morning that he'd rather pay someone else to wait while he used the time in the lab preparing the next week's presentation for Goddard. Now he doubted he was going to go to the lab, but he would still use Monica to wait for the delivery. He also now had another plan for her as well.

When he got to the Sands he found her waiting in the lobby. The security officer on the door would not let her go up to the twelfth floor without approval of the resident she was going to visit.

"Sorry about that," Pierce said. "Were you waiting long?"

She was carrying a stack of magazines for reading while she waited for the delivery.

"Just a few minutes," Monica said.

They went into the elevator alcove and had to wait. Monica Purl was a tall, thin blonde with the kind of skin that was so pale that just touching it might leave a mark. She was about twenty-five and had been with the company since she was twenty. She had been Pierce's personal assistant for only six months, getting the promotion from Charlie Condon for her five years of service. In that time Pierce had learned that the aura of fragility her build and coloring projected was false. Monica was organized and opinionated and got things done.

The elevator opened and they got on. Pierce hit the twelve button and they started to ascend, the elevator moving quickly.

"You sure you want to be in this place when the big one hits?" Monica asked.

"This building was engineered to take an eight point oh," he replied. "I checked before I rented. I trust the science."

"Because you're a scientist?"

"I guess."

"But do you trust the builders who carry out the science?"

It was a good point. He didn't have anything to say to that. The door slid open on twelve and they walked down the hall to his apartment.

"Where am I going to tell them to put everything?" Monica asked. "Do you have like a design plan or a layout in mind?"

"Not really. Just tell them to put stuff where you think it will look good. I also need you to do a favor for me before I leave."

He opened the door.

"What kind of favor?" Monica said suspiciously.

Pierce realized that she thought he might be making a move on her. Now that he and Nicole were no more. He had a theory that all attractive women thought that all men were out to make a move on them. He almost laughed but didn't.

"Just a phone call. I'll write it down."

In the living room he picked up the phone. There was a broken dial tone and when he checked messages there was only one and it was for Lilly. But it was not from Curt at All American Mail. It was just another potential client checking on her availability. He erased the message and tried to figure it out, finally deciding that Lilly had put down her cell phone number on the mailbox application forms. Curt had called her cell phone.

It wouldn't change his plan.

He brought the phone to the couch and sat down and wrote the name Lilly Quinlan on a fresh page of his notebook. He then pulled the business card out of his pocket.

"I want you to call this number and say you are Lilly Quinlan. Ask for Curt and tell him you got his message. Tell him his call was the first you'd heard about your payment being overdue and ask him why they didn't send you a notice in the mail. Okay?"

"Why -what is this for?"

"I can't explain it all to you but it's important."

"I don't know if I want to impersonate somebody. It's not -"

"What you are doing is totally harmless. It's what hackers call social engineering. What Curt is going to tell you is that he did send you a notice. Then you say, 'Oh, really? What address did you send it to?' When he gives you the address write it down. That's what I need. The address. As soon as you get it you can get off the call. Just tell him you'll come by as soon as you can to pay, and hang up. I just need that address."

She looked at him in a way she had never looked at him before during the six months she had worked directly for him.

"Come on, Monica, it's no big deal. It's not harming anyone. And it might actually be helping someone. In fact, I think it will."

He put the notebook and pen on her lap.

"Are you ready? I'll dial the number."

"Dr. Pierce, this doesn't seem -"

"Don't call me Dr. Pierce. You never call me Dr. Pierce."

"Then Henry. I don't want to do this. Not without knowing what I am doing."

"All right then, I'll tell you. You know the new phone number you got me?"

She nodded.

"Well, it belonged previously to a woman who has disappeared, or something has happened to her. I'm getting her calls and I'm trying to figure out what happened to her.

You see? And this call I want you to make might get me an address where she lives.

That's all I want. I want to go there and see if she's okay. Nothing else. Now, will you make the call?"

She shook her head as if warding off too much information. Her face looked as if Pierce had just told her he'd been taken aboard a spaceship and sodomized by an alien.

"This is crazy. How did you ever get caught up in this? Did you know this woman? How do you know she disappeared?"

"No, I don't know her. It was purely random. Because I got the wrong number. But now I know enough to know I have to find out what happened or make sure she's okay. Will you please do this for me, Monica?"

"Why don't you just change your number?"

"I will. First thing Monday I want you to change it."

"And meantime, just call the police."

"I don't have enough information yet to call the police. What would I tell them? They'll think I'm a nut."

"And they might be right."

"Look, will you do this or not?"

She nodded in resignation.

"If it will make you happy and it will keep my job."

"Whoa. Wait a minute. I'm not threatening you about your job. If you don't want to do it, fine, I'll get somebody else. It's got nothing to do with your job. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, clear. But don't worry, I'll do it. Let's just get it over with."

He went over the call with her once more and then dialed the number of All American Mail and handed the phone to Monica. She asked for Curt and then pulled off the call as planned, with only a few moments of bad acting and confusion. Pierce watched as she wrote down an address on the notepad. He was ecstatic but didn't show it. When she hung up she handed him the pad and the phone.

Pierce checked the address -it was in Venice -then tore the page off the pad, folded it and put it in his pocket.

"Curt seemed like a nice guy," Monica said. "I feel bad about lying to him."

"You could always go visit him and ask him out for a date. I've seen him. Believe me, one date with you would make him happy the rest of his life."

"You've seen him? Were you the one he was talking about? He said a guy was in there and wanted my mailbox. I mean, Lilly Quinlan's mailbox."

"Yeah, that was me. That's how I -"

The phone rang and he answered it. But the caller hung up. Pierce looked at the caller ID directory. The call had come from the Ritz-Carlton in the Marina.

"Look," he said, "you need to leave the phone plugged in so when the furniture comes, security can call up here for approval to let them up. But meantime, you're probably going to get a lot of calls for Lilly. Since you're a woman, they're going to think you're her. So you might want to say something right off like 'This isn't Lilly, you've got the wrong number.' Something like that. Otherwise -"

"Well, maybe I should pretend I'm her so I can get more information for you."

"No, you don't want to do that."

He opened his backpack and pulled out the printout of the photo from Lilly's web page.

"That's Lilly. I don't think you want to pretend you're her with these callers."

"Oh my God!" Monica exclaimed as she looked at the photo. "Is she like a prostitute or something?"

"I think so."

"Then what are you doing trying to find this prostitute when you should be -"

She stopped abruptly. Pierce looked at her and waited for her to finish. She didn't.

"What?" he said. "I should be what?"

"Nothing. It's not my business."

"Did you talk with Nicki about her and me?"

"No. Look, it's nothing. I don't know what I was going to say. I just think it's strange that you're running around trying to find out if this prostitute is all right. It's weird."

Pierce sat back down on the couch. He knew she was lying about Nicole. They had gotten close and used to go to lunch together all the times Pierce couldn't get out of the lab – which was almost every day. Why would it end now that Nicki was gone? They were probably still talking every day, exchanging stories about him.

He also knew that she was right about what he was doing. But he was too far down the road and around the bend. His life and career had been built on following his curiosity. In his last year at Stanford he sat in on a lecture about the next generation of microchips.

The professor spoke of nanochips so small that the supercomputers of the day could and would be built to the size of a dime. Pierce became hooked and had been pursuing his curiosity -chasing the dime -ever since.

"I'm just going to go over to Venice," he told Monica. "I'm just going to check things out and leave it at that."

"You promise?"

"Yes. You can call me at the lab after the furniture gets here and you're leaving."

He stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder.

"If you talk to Nicki, don't mention anything about this, okay?"

"Sure, Henry. I won't."

He knew he couldn't count on that but it would have to do for the moment. He headed to the apartment door and left. As he went down the hall to the elevator he thought about what Monica had said and considered the difference between private investigation and private obsession. Somewhere there was a line between them. But he wasn't sure where it was.