Game (Jasper Dent #2)(112)

During this same bout of research, Howie had discovered one other fact about his particular disease: Hemophiliacs tended to die young.

Which meant, maybe, that he should accomplish as much as possible while he still counted among the breathing.

Just cut the Gordian knot, Howie thought. It was one of his favorite bits of ancient history: Alexander the Great comes across this gigantic, complicated knot of rope and is told that whoever can untie it will rule the world. But no one has ever even come close because the knot is so friggin’ big and complex.

So Alexander just pulls out his sword and cuts the knot in half. Ta-da. No more knot.

Yeah, that works, he thought, and cranked the engine.





CHAPTER 51


It started raining as soon as they headed to the car.

It was a simple matter to find directions to U-STORE-IT-ALL online. They weren’t terribly far, but Morales refused to speed because if they were stopped, she would have to show her ID and then there would be a record of the two of them out to commit some sort of late-night skulduggery. Jazz champed at the bit in the passenger seat, strumming his fingers against the window.

“Calm down,” she told him. “At this time of night, the traffic’s on our side. GPS says we have clear roads all the way there. He’s got to take the subway and wait for a transfer. Plus, in this weather, I guarantee he’ll take a bus instead of walking from the subway, so he’ll have to wait for that, too.”

“We don’t know when he gave the cops the slip. He could be there already.”

“Being pissy with me won’t change that.”

“We need to stop off at a hardware store for a sec.”

“I thought you were in a hurry.”

“Just a little contingency planning.”

She pulled over for him to run into the first such store they saw and then they were back on the road right away. Soon Jazz saw a flickering sign for U-STORE-IT-ALL in the distance. He leaned forward as though he could add to the car’s momentum.

“I can’t flash my badge to get us in,” Morales told him. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Again, there could be no record of what they did here tonight. “Let me get us in.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You gonna break in?” The word again was unnecessary and unsaid.

“Not if I can help it. I’m going to try something else. Cut the lights and park on the street so that the guy in the booth can’t see you.”

The “guy” he referred to was a rent-a-cop sitting in a dimly lit booth framed out in what had to be bulletproof glass. Morales dutifully killed her lights and glided the car to a stop along the curb of the road. Ahead, a short driveway ran perpendicular to the street into a smallish parking lot jammed with rental vans, shielding them from the view of the booth. Beyond lay a chain-link fence ten feet tall with a sliding gate and a keypad. But Jazz only had eyes for the booth and the rent-a-cop.

Never break and enter when you can just plain ol’ enter, Jasper, Billy had said once.

“Do you have some paper? Anything will do.”

“Glove compartment.”

Jazz found a little notebook in there. He tore out a sheet of paper, wrote on it, then folded it and put it in his pocket.

“I think you scare the hell out of me,” Morales said. He shrugged and she called out “Good luck” as he slipped out of the car.

Jazz hmphed. Luck. Who needed it?

It was still raining, though it had tapered off a bit as he approached the gate and stood there, hesitant, for just a beat too long, just long enough to appear awkward, confused, out of place. Without checking, he knew that the security guard had noticed him. Peering from the gate to the keypad, he feigned exasperation with little bits of body language—a shrug, a tossed-out hand.

Then he turned as though to go… and pretended to catch sight of the guard for the first time. Even though he was sure the guard couldn’t see the finer details of his expression from this far away, he went ahead and widened his eyes, anyway.

Always keep the performance honest, even when no one’s watching, Billy used to say.

Jazz headed to the guard. By now he could see the man leaning forward already, in anticipation. Good. That movement told him something in advance.

The bulletproof shell in which the guard lived had a speaker grille set into it, as well as a small slot through which one could probably slip keys or a receipt or a credit card, but angled such that a gun would fire its payload down into the desk. Jazz stood as though he thought he had to speak directly into the grille.

“Hello? Sir? I need—”

“I can’t let you in unless you have a passcode or an account number,” the guard said gruffly.

Interrupting. Good. The man’s posture was vaguely aggressive. He was fat and resented getting up from his chair to speak. He wanted Jazz gone, and quickly.

People like that were actually easier to manipulate. They were focused on the end result of the conversation, not on the conversation itself. This guy was already imagining himself settled back in his chair, watching what appeared to be a reality-TV show in which scantily clad women lay out next to a pool for some reason.

He was also probably already anticipating Jazz’s next statement, figuring on something like “But please!” or “I lost my passcode” and readying his rote “I can’t let you in.”