Theaella

29

“Oh, right.” Matthew picked up the bottle, realizing too late that he was displaying it like a servile waiter. “This is a rye-based small-batch. You’ll taste a bit of smoke in it, a toasty charge on the tongue. It’s made in a distillery in northeast Minnesota on a farm built by Swedish immigrants a century ago, so it retains that plainspoken Finnish pedigree. The grain oil hits mid-palate, and if you pay attention, you can grab a hint of orange peel and lavender.…”

Everyone was staring at him in a manner that suggested they were captivated less by what he was saying than by the fact that he was saying it at all.

His voice lost steam. “The Castelvetranos are best with a flavorless vodka, something delicate.…”

Lorilee, evidently the only person worse at reading the room than he was, brightened above even her elevated baseline. “I like olives stuffed with red pepper.”

He suppressed a shudder. “It’s a martini. Not a tapenade.”

For reasons unclear to him, this remark caused a stir. Melanie tipped her mouth into her hand in an attempt to hide a smile. Peter flopped onto the table, kicking his legs to propel himself toward the center. He dug his dirty fingers into the nearest glass, retrieving a fistful of Grand Barounis.

“Peter, please,” Melanie said. “You look like you’re rooting for truffles.” She grabbed the rear of his belt and slid him back across the table, even as he shoved several olives into his mouth.

Hugh banged his empty coffee mug on the table, a judicial rebuke. “Please don’t make me regret lifting the child-attendance embargo, Ms. Hall.” His patronizing gaze found Matthew. “And if you consult Reg 13.8, you’ll see that alcohol is disallowed at these meetings.”

Matthew wondered how anyone got through an HOA meeting without alcohol but decided against raising that objection.

Hugh pointed to the sole empty chair at the table. “That spot is held for the snack docent.”

A familiar feeling of unease resurfaced, that Matthew was a traveler in a foreign land, observing native customs and rituals without understanding their purpose. Being concussed didn’t exactly clarify matters.

“That’s okay,” Matthew said. “Maybe someone else would like to—”

“Please sit down,” Hugh said.

Matthew sat.

He looked across the table at Melanie, who bit down a grin and rolled her eyes. She surreptitiously pointed at the lonely olive-filled glasses, untouched since Peter’s plundering, and mouthed, Nice nibbles.

“Before you swept in,” Hugh said, “we were about to vote on the new carpet initiative.” Wielding a clicker with lightsaber proficiency, he brought up a PowerPoint presentation comparing pile densities and anti-stain treatments.

As Hugh droned on about estimated HOA assessments, the air conditioner breathed a current of dry air onto Matthew’s neck. The room smelled like the cabin of an airplane. There were a jaw-dropping number of incredibly specific questions. Matthew found himself wishing that the ringing in his ears was even louder so it could drown out the deliberations.

He stared longingly at the bottle of Syv?, verboten by Regulation 13.8.

It took a moment for him to register that his right thigh was vibrating.

The Turing Phone.

He removed it from his cargo pocket and set it on his knee beneath the table.

A text from the Unidentified Caller he’d spoken to an hour before: I WILL FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE.

The letters blurred and then snapped back into focus. He could practically hear that voice, unrushed and hoarse with age, delivering promises of violence. The cool air at the back of his neck felt suddenly unnerving.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Johnny Middleton held up a hand, stubby fingers splayed. The overhead light illuminated his hair plugs, symmetrically planted like rows of corn. “Does the Emerald Forest Green come Scotchgarded?”

Lorilee cut in, waving a pad on which she was—for some reason known only to herself and God—taking notes. “What’s the tuft-twist rating on the Juniper Bloom?”

Peter tossed an olive into the air and tried to catch it in his mouth, but it bounced off his forehead and skittered across the table.

The Turing Phone vibrated again: I SHOULD WARN YOU, BOY. THIS ISN’T SOME DOGFIGHTING RING YOU CAN WALK INTO LIKE A THIRD-RATE GUNSLINGER. NOW YOU’VE GRADUATED. YOU HAVE MY COMPLETE ATTENTION. I HAVE NOTHING ELSE ON MY AGENDA EXCEPT YOU.

“—need to turn our attention to the most important matter at hand,” Hugh was saying. “I know we’re all enormously concerned about the incident that took place last night when Ida Rosenbaum was brutally assaulted.”

Now Matthew’s other pocket vibrated. He tugged out his RoamZone, rested it on his left knee.

It was an alert from the image search he’d run on Ida’s necklace. MATCH FOUND. He thumbed the link, opening up a Los Angeles Craigslist posting. “MINT beatifull silver + purpel necklace. $500. Dont waste my time w/ fake offers. Local only, cash handoff, text now. Jerry Z.”

Matthew tapped Jerry Z’s phone number into his RoamZone. Through his VOIP provider, Matthew was able to set his caller ID to any name or number in the world. It was currently programmed to identify him as Jean Pate with a San Bernardino area code. The French approximation of John Doe was a source of secret amusement for him.

LOVE THIS NECKLACE!! Matthew typed from behind the fake ID, cringing slightly at the double exclamation point required to stay in eager-buyer character. WANT IT FOR MY LADY. WILL PAY IN FULL. WHEN CAN YOU MEET?

“Mr. Smoak!” Hugh’s voice held an insistence that indicated that this wasn’t the first time he’d called Matthew’s name. “I implore you to pay attention. This is as severe a security challenge as we’ve faced at Castle Heights in my seventeen years as HOA president.”

As Matthew nodded, the Turing Phone went again. He flicked his eyes down to scan the text: I’M GOING TO HAVE MY MEN SKULL-f**k Jack MERRIWEATHER TO DEATH AND MAKE YOU WATCH.

Eyes back up to Hugh. “I understand the gravity of the situation,” Matthew said.