Simple Simon

Chapter Thirteen Pebbles

Art Jefferson came into the kitchen Friday morning, eyes tired, wanting coffee and answers. The former was waiting for him on the counter, along with a granola bar for breakfast. In search of the latter he sat in the nook across from his wife, who stared out the window at dawn breaking over the garden.

“Is he still asleep?”

Anne nodded and sipped at her own steaming cup of coffee, caffeinated unlike his, though that hadn’t kicked in yet.

“I need to ask you something,” Art said, and Anne turned his way. In her robe and barely awake, he felt awful having to probe her, but he had no choice. “Do you think Simon remembers what happened that night? Enough to tell me if I asked him?”

Hands wrapped around the warming mug, Anne’s mind worked behind quiet eyes, through the mental gears, coming up to speed. “Art, have you looked at his cards?”

“His cards? Not really. But what—”

“He doesn’t use E’s. In anything he writes he doesn’t use the letter E. The most common letter in the alphabet. Do you know why?”

He’d asked a tired woman a question and he was getting what he deserved. “No, why?”

“I don’t know. If you ask Simon, he can’t explain it, but it still is part of how he functions.” Anne sipped slow and set the mug down. “Not everything can be explained. Don’t expect too much.” She might have said ‘Don’t push too hard,’ but what she had seen develop between Art and Simon made that unnecessary.

It wasn’t how Art wanted to start the morning. But less than hopeful had more wiggle room than hopeless. “I’ve got to try. For his sake.”

Anne was about to take the mug in hand again when the tone of Art’s statement struck her. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Liar.”

Art took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Babe, you’re the doctor. Give me some pointers. I’m used to questioning bad guys and not giving a damn about their feelings.”

“Make him comfortable.”

“The rocker only worked for a night,” Art reminded her. “What’s comforting to him?”

She kissed his hand now. “I think you know.”

It took him a minute to realize she was, as usual, right.

Far later than usual, Brad Folger arrived at his office in the Chocolate Box and learned that he was needed immediately in Kudrow’s office. He told his secretary to let the boss know he was on his way, then went in his office and downed two shots of whiskey behind closed doors.

A few minutes later, feeling bolder if not better, he entered Kudrow’s office without knocking and sat on the couch, far too casually for his own good.

“Glad you could join us today,” Kudrow said, swinging his chair to face his assistant. “How was breakfast?”

“What, Rothchild have my office wired, too?” Folger gave the office a mock visual inspection. “How about yours?”

For now Kudrow would let the insubordination pass. For now. When all was again right with the world, Bradley Folger would be promoted out of Z on Kudrow’s recommendation. A nice, cushy spot somewhere in S, probably, overseeing security reviews. Or maybe T-Com. Somewhere, anywhere, just no longer here.

And after that, a car swerving out of control as he crossed the street one day. Who knew what could happen when one started his or her day?

But for the moment, Folger would have to join the team. “Brad, you’ll be replacing Dean in the Puzzle Center until this affair is cleared up.”

Still pressed into the cushions, Folger’s manner became instantly less cocky. “Why?”

“Craig Dean is no longer with us.”

Folger began to sit forward. “Why?”

“Our Mr. Dean was selling the store out from under us, Bradley. He gave away MAYFLY, and he was about to do the same with KIWI.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“A leak,” Kudrow said. “Dean was it.”

“Bull,” Folger said, coming to his feet and pacing once in front of Kudrow’s desk before facing the man, taking on the appearance of an animal that wanted to fight but knew better. “I don’t believe it.”

“I’ll make the tapes and photos available to you, if you require proof. And aside from those he admitted it to me, last night.”

Five feet separated Folger from his supervisor. He wondered if the contempt could be felt at that distance. He fervently hoped so.

“He was about to give KIWI away whole,” Kudrow said, making a minor effort to convince Folger.

“He doesn’t know KIWI whole. None of them do.” Folger gestured to a Picasso reproduction to the right of the Lichtenstein. “You’re the only one who has it whole, in that safe.”

“He had an idea who might.”

“And just who was he going to…” Folger’s words trailed off. “Had?”

Kudrow brought his hands together, fingertips touching, just below his chin. “You know, it wasn’t that difficult. I was surprised.”

Folger’s jaw went slack, his mouth suddenly as dry as cotton. “Nick, what have you done…”

“Do you know what the real lesson from all this is, Bradley?” Kudrow mused. “It’s that people can be manipulated just like the machines Rothchild plays havoc with. Dean taught me that. He was a willing participant in his own demise until just before the end, and he didn’t even know it. You tell a machine what to believe, like Rothchild does, and it believes it. And people believe the machines. If you give a person something to believe in, they will, even if it’s a lie.”

Folger backed toward the door. “Oh dear God, what have you done?”

“People and machines, Bradley,” Kudrow observed. “The similarities are striking.”

The thick, soundproof door stopped Folger, or he would have kept backing until his eyes could no longer see Kudrow. Then he would have run. But never, never now, would he turn his back on this man.

“Are Mary and the children prepared to live without you?” Kudrow inquired, then added before Folger could respond, “Or will they visit you in prison? What is the going sentence for running down an old woman when you’re drunk, Bradley?”

“So…it’s an outright threat now.”

“It’s manipulation,” Kudrow corrected to his own preference. “I made that unfortunate accident go away, Bradley. If it comes back, you will be on your own.”

The devil was calling in his chits, Folger saw. And what else would the new prince of darkness do? “Who else are you going to kill, Nick? Simon Lynch, once you have your hands on him?”

“Me? No. We need to know some things from him, and, oddly enough, thanks to Dean we’ll have the means to get what we need. Beyond that…”

All Folger could do was shake his head and ask himself over and over again how this had all happened. How had it come to this?

“Now, Brad, Patel has had a long night. He’s stayed over into your shift.” Kudrow picked up a file folder from his desk. “If you don’t mind, I have some reading to do.”

Folger watched Kudrow sit and go about his reading as if all was as it should be. He slid to the side and opened the door, backing out, surprising Kudrow’s secretary by hurrying past like a runner out of the starting blocks.

Already Breem was visualizing the larger office, the Georgetown residence, black tie events, but a question from Deputy United States Marshal Peter Kasvakis interrupted his pleasant interlude.

“All right, Breem,” Kasvakis began. “Why us? Why use my warrant service teams? You could have Lomax call him into his office and that’s it. No guns, no nighttime raid.”

Breem’s head shook slow from side to side. “I’m not taking any more chances on Bureau weak knees.” The image of Jefferson stalking away down the courthouse steps burned in Breem’s head. “He goes down at home, with the missus.”

What some sons of bitches would do to make a name for themselves, Kasvakis thought with distaste. He looked again at the arrest warrant signed just hours before by Judge Kinmont, flipping through the pages. “I can’t believe this. Jefferson is cleaner than any cop I’ve ever known.”

“Well he just got dirty,” Breem countered.

The Deputy U.S. Marshal slid the warrant back to Breem. “And Fiorello?”

“You get him, too. As soon as Jefferson has the cuffs on.”

Kasvakis shook his head once and left the office without another word. Passing the secretary’s desk, he gave the wall a solid punch and went off to make preparations for two warrant services that night.

Glasses off and set aside on the date blotter, Kudrow rubbed at his eyes and listened to Rothchild relate the latest information.

“Very good,” he said, and hung up the phone with Rothchild making some wisecrack at the other end. The day before he would not have done that, but the day before he had feared Rothchild. That was no more.

Kudrow slipped his glasses on and placed an internal call.

“Section Chief Willis.”

“Have the surveillance teams back off,” Kudrow directed. “Something will be happening this evening, and I want no exposure. Understood?”

“Yes.”

And that was it, Kudrow thought. The end was in sight.

His mistake was forgetting that with the culmination of most things, others quite easily began without warning, and in this case it wasn’t a true end at all by which circumstances could be measured. No, G. Nicholas Kudrow had ended nothing. He had done little more than toss a pebble onto a glassy pond, defining the center from which ripples were already spreading.