“We won’t stay long,” Emma says, and hands the black box to Juan. “We think it attaches to a computer.”
He nods. “Sure does. Connects right here, with a cable.” Out of courtesy he shows it to Miriam, who also nods. When I sneak a glance at Emma, a smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
“It’s an external hard drive,” Juan says.
“What does it do?”
“Whatever it’s told. Where’d you get this?”
We can’t tell him, not with Miriam hovering. She is intently curious about the reason for our visit; only high drama can excuse an interruption at this hour.
“It’s a long, messy story,” I tell Juan.
Emma pipes up: “Jack’s working on an investigation.” Words I never dreamed I’d hear her say.
Juan winks at me. I ask him if the hard drive will fit on my computer at work.
“Might,” he says, “but it’ll probably come up as gibberish on your screen.” He explains that the device is like a disembodied brain. “You can’t just plug it in anywhere and expect it to zap back to life. You need to figure out how it was programmed before you can find out what’s inside.”
And what’s inside that little box, I’m hoping, is the key to Jimmy Stoma’s death.
Emma says to Juan, “Can you give it a try?”
His eyes flick painfully from Emma to Miriam, and then to me. He says, “Um… not tonight. How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is fine,” I say.
He peers at my lumpy face. “Man, you all right? Looks like you fell down three flights of stairs.”
“Two,” I say with a crooked smile. “And would you believe I was dead sober.”
Miriam, the physician, feels obliged to let us know she isn’t fooled by our light bonhomie. “You’ve been beaten up,” she says sternly. “You’ve been punched in the face.”
“Yes, and elsewhere.” Suddenly I don’t feel so chipper. “Come on, Emma, let’s be on our way. These two kids need some shut-eye.”
Just as I’m approaching the car, the flagstones in Juan’s yard start dodging my feet. Emma orders me into the passenger seat, where I prop my clammy forehead against the window.
“Thanks for driving,” I say.
“Welcome.”
“You okay?”
“Better than you. Take a nap.”
“She’s a doctor. Miriam is.” For some inexplicable reason—or perhaps as an unfortunate side effect of the concussion—I decide Emma should know that Juan has high standards. He doesn’t screw just anybody. “A trained surgeon,” I add.
“Well, she’s very pretty.”
I hear myself saying, “Not as pretty as you.”
“Jack, you’re so full of shit.”
“Fine.”
God, do I feel wretched—this is the worst possible time to be alone with Emma. I’m liable to blow everything. When I ask her to turn down the volume on the stereo, she says, “Gladly.” It will be her final word on Stomatose.
As we pull up to her driveway, she snatches the car keys out of the ignition. “You’re in no shape to go home.”
“Give ’em here! I’ll be all right.”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
So I’m back on her couch, with a sweaty palmful of aspirin and a forehead packed under ice. She’s wearing an oversized Pearl Jam T-shirt and padding barefoot around the place, turning off lamps and checking the locks.
“Jack, wouldn’t it be something,” she’s saying, “if they’re trying to knock off the band?”
“Who?”
“Well—first Jimmy Stoma dies, and now Jay Burns. What if somebody’s killing off the Slut Puppies one by one?”
Emma slips into the bathroom, out of view. I can hear the assiduous brushing of teeth. “Fink a bow id,” she gurgles.
“I’ve heard of careers being murdered,” I say, “but never a whole band.”
When Emma returns, she smells like a mint. “Well, who’s left?”
“The lead guitarist died a few years ago, so there’s really just the two bass players.”
“What about a drummer?”
“Jimmy went through a dozen of ’em,” I say.
The apartment is dark except for a light on the nightstand in Emma’s bedroom.
“Maybe you should talk to them. The bass players,” she suggests.
“When—between dead rabbis?”
“Hey, didn’t I give you a week to crack the case.”