Read The Fear Artist for Free Online Page B

says.
    “Just a couple of California boys,” Rafferty says. “Under other circumstances we’d probably go surfing.”
    “This is a different world,” Major Shen says. “It’s no longer necessary to arrest people.”
    “It never really was,” Rafferty says. “Bullies in uniforms have always found shortcuts.”
    “This … posturing is not helpful, not to either of us.”
    “Possibly not. Let me go back to my earlier question. You want to know what’s really interesting?”
    Shen rubs his eyes with both hands, his first admission that he’s tired. “Not particularly, no.”
    “That you’re asking me who he was and what he said, but not who shot him.”
    Rafferty is rewarded with a blink. “That’s not a question that—”
    “I mean, if I had arranged the … whatever you want to call it—meeting, collision, whatever—then I should be a suspect, shouldn’t I? Accomplice at least. I brought him within range of the rifle, right?”
    Major Shen purses his lips and turns his head away from Rafferty, putting himself in profile to whoever is behind the window. It’s almost the same as saying,
Wouldn’t it have been nice if someone had anticipated this question?
    “You
know
who shot him,” Rafferty says. “Don’t you? And you know who
he
was, too.”
    Shen doesn’t seem to have heard a word. “Give me the woman’s name.”
    “Arrest me or I’m leaving, and then you’ll
have
to hold me.”
    Major Shen pushes both hands down on the tabletop as thoughto rise and opens his mouth, but there’s a
clack
that Rafferty identifies as a coin, or some other object made of metal, being rapped against the other side of the mirror. The major sits back in his seat, closes his eyes slowly, and opens them again, and he’s once more looking over Rafferty’s shoulder. “Of course we’re not going to hold you,” he says, and he produces a smile a lot less polished than the one Rafferty’s been seeing, the smile of someone who’s not very good at masking rage. “This is just a discussion.”
    Rafferty gets up, unsure of what’s happening. The rap of the coin changed everything. He says to Shen, “Don’t forget your shoes.”
    “And you, Mr. Rafferty.” Although Rafferty is now standing beside him, Shen does not turn his head but continues to address the chair Rafferty vacated. “If you think of the name, you’ll call me.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “That’s good, then. Well,” Major Shen says to the chair, “we’ll meet again.”
    “I’ll look forward to it.” Rafferty goes to the door and opens it, almost surprised to find it unlocked. “I’ll find my own way out.”
    “Wait—” Major Shen is pushing himself to his feet like he’s coming out of a trance, but he’s too slow to keep Rafferty from opening the door and going through it, into the short hallway beyond. There’s a door to Rafferty’s right, and he turns the knob and then kicks it open. It bangs against the wall, and two men leap to their feet in front of the trick mirror.
    The nearer man is thin all the way: thin body, thin lips, thin rimless spectacles clinging to a thin nose. He’s all verticals, just bones in a black suit. “Richard,” Rafferty says to him, “just to complete the thought, fuck you.”
    “You’re way too confident for your own good, Poke,” Richard Elson says. He sounds almost frightened.
    “What happened? Secret Service lend you to the Ghostbusters? Kind of a demotion, isn’t it?”
    “Hey
,” says the other man in the room, a ball of fat topped by a thatch of unruly reddish-gray hair that’s been slapped any old way on top of a fat red face. He’s much shorter than Elson, thirtyyears older, and maybe eighty pounds heavier. The loud, ragged Hawaiian silk shirt he wears above his worn-looking jeans is buttoned for dear life over a paunch the size of an elephant’s rump.
    “And you are?” Rafferty’s so angry his voice feels thick in his throat.
    The redheaded man shoulders Elson aside.