Free Signwave by Andrew Vachss Page A

rape-initiation gang, targeting the school’s low-hanging fruit by sniffing out absence of self-esteem like predatory bloodhounds. And MaryLou had believed her little sister was next in line.
    Dolly had used her local network to dig up some ugly truth; I’d used my past to put some heads up on stakes. The town had changed, and so had Swift.
    “I’d appreciate that,” I said.
    It didn’t even take that minute.
    “No. In fact, it even says that the fund is currently oversubscribed—they won’t be open to new shareholders for at least another year
after
it declares earnings. And, so far, they show nothing but some minor expenses. Not exactly an encouragement.
    “You could put yourself on an e-mail list, and they’ll notify you when they’re ready to sell more shares.
If
they ever are. I figured you wouldn’t want me doing that.”
    “You were right. Thanks.”
    “You…heard something?”
    “No,” I told the lawyer. “Neither did you.”
    —
    J ust one more set of questions for the ghost.
    You can put all kinds of security on a Web site, but if anyone with higher skills than yours was looking, your security would be about as effective as trying to dam a river with barbed wire. So I opened up my little machine.
|>HF capital? Share ownership?<|
    I didn’t expect an instant answer, so I disassembled the machine and went back to work on something I was building. I could feel Luc nodding his approval of my design…and that old man’s approval never came easy.
    It looked just like a golf bag. But I could unsnap the top and pull another bag out from inside it. The outside bag was gaudy, red and white, with some big logo on it. The inside one was black and gray, in a blotchy pattern. In darkness it had the trick-the-eye quality of the best
trompe l’oeil
.
    One pattern for transporting to and from the job, the other for actually doing it.
    The bottom of the workbag was a spongy foam that would safely cushion even a piece of fragile glassware dropped into it. The inside walls were a series of Velcro flaps, set so I could cover the first thing I dropped in with another flap, and close it as firmly as I needed each time. The top of that first flap would be ready to silence the next thing dropped into the bag, and so on, all the way to the top.
    I could carry a thirty-kilo load of loot with the shoulder strap, and the contents wouldn’t make a sound.
    That would leave one arm free. And both hands.
    —
    “H e followed her here. He says he’ll follow her no matter where she goes.”
    “And she doesn’t want that?”
    “Dell! Sometimes I don’t know what’s going on in your mind. Laura’s my friend. I was just telling you what she told me.”
    “Why tell you in the first place?”
    Dolly spun and walked away from me. I expected her usual three steps before she whirled and started in again, but I was wrong—it took four this time.
    “I said she’s my
friend
. Friends tell each other things.”
    “If she’s your friend, she knows you.”
    “I just
said
—”
    “I don’t mean know you like to say hello to, Dolly. I mean, if she’s a real friend, she knows
you
. Knows how you are inside.”
    “You think Laura wants me to do something—is that what you’re saying?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, throwing up my hands, palms out, to ward off whatever she was going to say next. “All I’m saying is, I don’t know how
well
she knows you.”
    “And…”
    “And that’s why I asked.”
    “Asked
what
?”
    “Dolly…Dolly, just sit down and listen for a minute. I know you really like Cordelia. I’m not saying anything against her.
Or
Laura. I’m just asking, how does this guy always manage to find Cordelia, every time?”
    “You think she…No! She’s a beautician. Or a hair stylist. Or whatever it’s called. But, to do what she does, she has to have a
license
, okay? She has to register with the state. That’s public information. He doesn’t exactly need CIA connections to look it