Free Upon A Pale Horse by Russell Blake Page A

to fifteen-thousand-dollar rarity. He supposed he would never know, but could understand why his brother wanted him to have it if anything happened to him. They’d both been rabid Stevie Ray Vaughn fans growing up, and had aspired to emulate the bluesy virtuoso’s talent as teens, before adulthood moved them away from their dreams and into the mundane world of grownups. A 1969 Stratocaster in the right hands sounded like nothing else in the world, and Jeffrey could remember playing it when he’d come to visit, along with several other guitars Keith had acquired over the years.
    The thought of jamming with his brother caused a lump to form in his throat, and he closed his eyes for the remainder of the ride, Keith’s ghost visiting him in his memories as the cab bumped its way north along the shabby streets.
     

NINE

    Memory Lane
    “He’s in the flat,” the driver reported, listening to the feed from the condo over his ear bud.
    “We’ll be there in two or three minutes,” his partner said. “Then it’s back to hurry up and wait.”
    “At least he showed up, as predicted. The old man would have gone ballistic if he’d just disappeared and we’d lost him.”
    “Nah. Like I said, the guy’s a civilian. He’s got no idea we’re on him.”
    “Probably true. Which is nothing but good for us.”
    “Roger that.”

    Jeffrey twisted the knob and inched the door open, hesitant to enter his brother’s abode. Even though he knew Keith was dead, it still felt like a violation of his privacy. He drew a deep breath and peered inside the gloomy foyer, then bit the bullet and stepped across the threshold, taking care to lock the door behind him.
    He glanced around, eyes roaming over the gleaming hardwood floor and contemporary furniture in the living room directly in front of him. A few pieces of Ikea art hung on the walls for color, framing the large flat screen monitor mounted above a stereo, with an adjacent cabinet containing at least two hundred CDs. Jeffrey walked over to where three guitars stood on stands in a corner and returned the Strat to its vacant stand, then slowly gazed around the room. Nothing surprising – typical Keith, a bachelor who prized music and minimalism. A few magazines sat on the coffee table in front of the inexpensive couch – a Guitar Player and a PC Weekly . Keith’s tastes obviously hadn’t changed much once in D.C., right down to steadfastly refusing to buy a car.
    Jeffrey moved into the bedroom and was struck by how neat and organized everything was; then reasoned that if someone had gone into his apartment back in the Bay Area they would have walked away with the same impression. Old habits died hard.
    The refrigerator contained a carton of milk that didn’t expire for another week, and Jeffrey found a glass and poured it full, more out of looking for something to do than thirst. He drank as he took a mental inventory of the condo’s contents, then when he was finished, carefully rinsed the glass and placed it in the sink, where several others sat – also rinsed, he noted.
    Jeffrey ferreted under the sink and found a box of dark green garbage bags, whipped one open, and proceeded to empty out the refrigerator. He wasn’t sure when he’d be able to make it back, given his work schedule, but it could be a while. No point in letting the place turn into a science experiment in his absence.
    A computer station caught his attention in the spare bedroom, which was set up as an office, and once he was done with the kitchen he walked in and slid open the file cabinet next to it. The computer was gone, which would make sense if Keith still toted a laptop everywhere, as he had as long as he’d been working. That was another habit Jeffrey and Keith shared. Of many.
    Bank statements, a brokerage account, bills, mortgage payment receipts – all were neatly organized in clearly marked folders. The sense of spying on Keith again swept over Jeffrey, and he almost closed the file cabinet