Page 61 of Lone Wolf

“It’s almost as though you’re familiar with the condition.”

But Devine paid him no mind. “You’re a psychology professor from … Harvard. Doing a study on genius. All your subjects will be kept anonymous. For now you’re just seeking to understand … the nature of genius.” He sloshed another fifty-thousand-dollar pour in his glass and downed it in a single expensive gulp. “Problem is you don’t look like a professor.”

“I don’t look like anything. Which means I can look like anything.”

“The Nowhere Man. Last time it was a missing young man and woman. This time a seventeen-year-old girl. Doesn’t it get boring, doing the same simple little tasks in your simple little world?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t get it.”

“And why’s that?”

Evan let a bit more Bobby’s and tonic effervesce its way down his throat. “You haven’t faced it yet. All you children on your bumper cars, playing king of the hill.”

“What?”

“Your irrelevance.”

Devine broke eye contact, busied himself with his glass. It was such a rarity to see him forced to bring down the portcullis. “I’ll make the introduction when you’ve built an airtight cover,” he said coldly.

Evan finished the last of his gin and tonic and rose to leave. “That’s my next stop.”

32

Unsafe Ground

Rising to deplane the Cirrus Vision Jet at Van Nuys Airport, Evan dialed Melinda Truong.

When she picked up, she was screaming in her native tongue across a not-really-muffled phone, a not-uncommon occurrence at the vintage-poster restoration business she ran out of an industrial park in Northridge: “That is an intact limited-edition U.S. alternate one-sheet of A Clockwork Orange! And you screwed up the color match on orange, Vinh! It’s literally in the title!”

Melinda oversaw a hive of male workers, all of whom were entranced by her when they weren’t busy being petrified of her. No one could command the elaborate array of tools and technology with her skill, nor could they rise to the level of perfectionism she demanded. And yet they followed her every command with slavish devotion, motivated by no small measure of fear.

In a dark-walled photography room behind CraftFirst Poster Restoration, Melinda ran a second, more lucrative operation. She could forge anything from a U.S. passport to a Flemish masterpiece. He’d seen her mimic everything from holograms to embossments to security key cards using next-gen PKI.

She came back to the phone in flawless English: “What?”

“It’s Evan.”

A sea change in tone: “Sorry, ng ười yêu”—a term of endearment she reserved for him on occasion—“you know I’m cranky at the office.”

“Which is why I pretend I don’t understand Vietnamese.”

“Let’s prolong the charade to protect my delicate sensibilities.”

Nodding his thanks at Aragón’s pilot, Evan descended the set of rolling stairs, the night wind biting through his clothes. “Anything back on the severed ear?”

“Patience, Evan. It’s DNA sequencing, not instant ramen.”

“Thanks for working with Joey. She’s a handful.”

“Not for me.”

“No?”

“I’m a woman. She’s a girl. Game recognizes game, ng ười yêu.”