Void Moon by Michael Connelly

Author:Michael Connelly
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 0-7595-2211-1
Publisher: Time Warner

24

KARCH stood in front of the practice mirror adjusting the tie on his fresh suit. It was a Hollyvogue that had belonged to his father, with Art Deco spirals on it. He was wearing it with the two-tone gabardine Hollywood jacket and pleated pants he had picked up at Valentino’s in downtown.

His pager sounded and he picked it up off the bureau. He recognized the call-back number as Vincent Grimaldi’s. He deleted it, hooked the pager on his belt and finished adjusting his tie. He wasn’t going to call Grimaldi back. He planned to drop by in person to inform him of the progress he had made.

When he was done with the tie he went back to the bureau for his guns. He holstered the Sig and snapped the safety strap over it. He then picked up the little .25 popper. It was a Beretta he could fit in his palm. He turned back to the mirror and held his hands loosely at his sides, the .25 hidden in his right hand. He made a few moves and gestures, always sure to keep the pistol hidden from view. David’s right hand, he thought. David’s right hand.

He then went on to practice the finish, moving his apparently empty hands as if in conversation and then suddenly producing the gun pointed right at himself in the mirror. When he had practiced this enough he put the little gun back into the black silk magician’s pocket that he’d had a downtown tailor sew onto the inside rear belt line of his pants — every pair of pants he owned. He then held his hands palms out to the mirror and then brought them together as if in prayer. He bowed his head and backed away from the mirror, end of show.

On his way to the garage Karch stopped in the kitchen and took a mason jar out of one of the cabinets. He took the top off and dropped the two bullet shells from the desert into it with the others. He then held the jar up and looked at it. It was almost half full of shells. He shook the jar and listened to the shells rattle inside. He then put it back in the cabinet and took out a box of Honeycombs cereal. He was famished. He hadn’t eaten all day and the physical exertion in the desert had sapped his strength. He started eating the cereal right out of the box, handfuls at a time, careful not to get any crumbs on his clothes.

He stepped into the garage, which had been illegally converted into an office, and sat down behind his desk. He didn’t need an office in a commercial building like most private investigators. Most of his work — on the legitimate side — came in from out of state on the phone. His specialty was missing persons cases. He paid the two detectives who ran Metro’s missing persons unit five hundred dollars a month to refer clients to him.

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