Free The Wrong Man by Jason Dean Page B

started playing and Bishop
     immediately recognized Joe Zawinul on keyboards and John McLaughlin’s delicate guitar. It was one of his favourite pieces
     of music and it felt good hearing it out loud again. He couldn’t see any speakers and figured theymust have been hidden somewhere.
     Maybe in the walls. Three years out of the world and the miracles of technology had already left him behind.
    They were in Aleron’s subterranean workshop in a modest house in downtown Brooklyn, five minutes’ walk from the park. A few
     people they’d passed on the way had greeted Aleron warmly and looked right through Bishop likehe didn’t exist. Which suited
     Bishop just fine. If it kept happening he might end up finding his prey sooner than he’d anticipated.
    The room was filled with a wide variety of industrial printers, as well as an impressive stockpile of printer toner, fuse
     boxes, paper samples of every weight and colour, and assorted accessories that only a specialist wouldrecognize. Bishop guessed
     Aleron needed them for his extracurricular work and was impressed by the man’s dedication to his skill.
    On the wall facing him, a large plasma TV with muted sound was tuned to a twenty-four-hour news channel. He recognized the
     US Attorney General being interviewed about something or other. There weren’t any accompanying mugshotsof Bishop, so he could
     only assume that whatever they were talking about was unrealated to him. Although that might change very soon.
    ‘Always put this on when I’m down here,’ Aleron said. ‘Helps me work.’
    Bishop turned and saw Aleron’s head swaying to the sparse sounds coming from the speakers.
    Bishop nodded. ‘It helped me sleepinside, too.’
    Aleron stopped typing and looked at him.
    ‘
In a Silent Way
,’ Bishop said. ‘Miles Davis. This second side, in particular.’
    ‘They let you have iPods in there, man?’
    ‘Never needed one,’ Bishop said and tapped a finger against his temple. ‘Shorter’s soprano comes in in about four seconds.’
    It was actually fiveseconds before the sax laid its sound over the other instruments like a spoonful of syrup, and Bishop
     could have listened to it for ever. Aleron smiled and turned back to his work. Bishop moved beside him, watching. It was always
     interesting to see a professional at work and Aleron clearly knew what he was doing.
    Aleron said, ‘Working on your new Social Securitycard at the moment. You got to realize I can supply you with all the essentials,
     but none of it will stand up to thorough investigation. You won’t be on any database under the name I’m giving you. This is
     just a cosmetic fix, like a toupee for a leukaemia patient.’
    ‘Most toupees I’ve seen looked like toupees,’ Bishop said, ‘and I’ve worked in California.’
    Aleron laughed. ‘Okay. Bad example, but you know what I mean.’
    ‘So what’s my new name?’
    ‘Eric Allbright. You like?’ He passed a pen over his shoulder. ‘Here, I’ll need a signature sample. Two L’s in Allbright,
     by the way.’
    Bishop used a pad at Aleron’s side to sign the new alias in his own handwriting. Then he pointed at thecircular colour spectrum
     currently taking up most of Falstaff’s screen. ‘Last time I saw something like that was at grade school,’ he said.
    ‘You never hear of CMYK values?’ Aleron asked and Bishop shrugged. ‘Printing in any magazine or newspaper is made up of just
     four colours mixed together. It’s all about illusion. All the colours you see on a page aremade up of cyan, magenta, yellow
     or black. Say you mix a hundred per cent of yellow with fifty per cent magenta. That gives you bright orange. Whack the magenta
     up to a hundred and you got warm red, you follow? That’s CMYK, man. All roads lead from those four bad boys.’
    Bishop nodded. The concept made sense and he knew better than most that very littleis as it seems on the surface. ‘So what’s
     the K stand for?’ he asked.
    ‘Key plate. Been