Micro. Michael Crichton

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       Chapter 5

      Waikiki

      27 October, 5:45 p.m.

      In his hotel room, Peter Jansen lay down on top of the bed, experiencing a sense of unreality. He didn’t know what to do next. Why hadn’t he told Watanabe who Alyson Bender was? He felt exhausted, but couldn’t rest. The video kept running through his mind. He saw Alyson holding something in her hand in the video, while watching Eric’s death as if it meant nothing to her. And then she had hurried away. Why?

      He began thinking about something Rick Hutter had said to him about Erika Moll. How to check up on somebody. He took out his wallet and began going through it, pulling out cards, money. There it was—the card Rick had given him, back in the lab, more than a week ago. It had Rick Hutter’s handwriting on it. Just the word JORGE and a number.

      The guy who could access telephone records. The MIT phone hacker.

      It was a Massachusetts area code. He called the number. It rang for a while. And rang some more. There was no voice mail, so Peter just let it ring. Finally it was answered, sort of, with a grunt: “Yuh?”

      Jansen identified himself and explained what he wanted. “I’m a friend of Rick Hutter. Can you get me a list of recent calls to and from a certain phone number?”

      “Yuh? Why?”

      “Rick told me you could do it. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

      “Money doesn’t work. I only do something if it’s…intriguing.” A faint Latino accent, a soft voice.

      Peter explained the situation. “A woman may be involved in my brother’s…my brother’s…death.” Death. It was the first time he’d used the word in connection with Eric.

      There was quite a long pause.

      “Listen—I have the phone number that the woman used to call me. Can you find out who else she talked to on that phone? I’m assuming it’s her phone.” He read out Alyson’s number.

      There was an emptiness on the line, a silence that extended. Peter held his breath. Finally Jorge said, “Give me—” pause—“a couple of hours.”

      Peter lay back on the bed, his heart pounding. He could hear traffic going past on Kalakaua Avenue, for his room faced mauka—inland, across the city and toward the mountains. The day lengthened; the sun began to go down; the room filled with shadows. Maybe Eric had reached shore; maybe he was suffering from amnesia and would turn up in some hospital; maybe there had been some terrible mistake…Peter had to hope, had to believe, that maybe Eric would turn up, somehow, somewhere—there was always a faint chance. Or had Eric been…murdered? Finally he couldn’t stand being in his room any longer, and he went outside.

      He sat on the beach in front of his hotel, watching the red streaks of the setting sun darken to black over the ocean. Why hadn’t he told the police officer that he recognized her in the video? It had been a kind of instinct to say nothing. But why? What had made him do it? When he and Eric had been younger, they had looked out for each other. Eric had covered for him. He had covered for Eric…

      “There you are!”

      He turned to see Alyson Bender approaching in the evening light. She wore a blue Hawaiian print dress and sandals, looking quite different than she had in Cambridge, when she’d worn a business suit and pearls. Here, she looked like an innocent young girl.

      “Why didn’t you call me? I thought you were going to call me right after you were done with the police. How did it go?”

      “It went okay,” Peter said. “They took me to that point—Makapu‘u Point—and showed me where it happened.”

      “Uh-huh. And is there any news? I mean, about Eric?”

      “They still haven’t found him. Or the body.”

      “And the boat?”

      “What about it?”

      “Did the police check the boat?”

      “Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “They didn’t say.”

      She sat on the sand beside him, put her hand on his shoulder. Her hand was warm. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Peter, it must have been awful for you.”

      “It was difficult. The police had a videotape.”

      “Videotape? Really? Did you see it?”

      “Yes.”

      “And? Was it helpful?”

      Had she really not seen the video camera in the hands of the couple seated just below her on the hillside? Was it possible she was only looking at the boat? Her eyes scanned his face in the twilight. He said, “I saw Eric jump…but he never came up.”

      “How awful,” she said softly.

      Her hand moved to squeeze his shoulder, rub it. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. The whole thing was incredibly creepy.

      “And what do the police think?” she said.

      “About what?”

      “About what happened? I mean, on the boat.”

      “They think it was a clogged—”

      His cell phone rang. He fished it out of his shirt pocket, flipped it open. “Hello.”

      “This is Jorge.”

      “One moment.” He stood, said to Alyson, “Excuse me a moment, I have to take this.” He walked some distance down the beach. Stars were starting to come out in the darkening sky above. “Go ahead, Jorge.”

      “I have the information you want for the phone number you gave me. The number is registered to the Nanigen MicroTechnologies Corporation of Honolulu. Attached to the number is the employee name Alyson F. Bender.”

      He looked back along the beach; Alyson was a dark shape on the sand. “Go on,” he said.

      “At three forty-seven p.m. yesterday afternoon local time, she called the number 646-673-2682 three times in a row.”

      “Whose number is that?”

      “It’s an unassigned number, for one of those junk phones you can buy and use until the prepayment runs out.”

      “She called three times?”

      “Yes, but very briefly—three seconds, then two seconds, then three seconds.”

      “Okay…Meaning she didn’t think she was getting through?”

      “No, she clearly got through, no answering message, it went right to the beep. She СКАЧАТЬ