“What’s with him, huh? I’m the one who could be in danger here, right? I’ve had potential dynamite strapped to me this whole time.”

I shook my head, unfolded the clipping, read it. Below the newspaper story in bold block letters Tim had written a name and put a question mark behind it. Jung leaned in, reading over my shoulder.

“Peter Langham? Who’s that?”

Langham. Spada’s deceased client. The owner of the house Vincent Darby was living in. The article was a short piece on a freak carbon monoxide accident that claimed the life of one elderly man, Langham. The story was made all the more tragic, the reporter noted, because Mr. Langham, the father of four and grandfather to twelve, had been in the late stages of pancreatic cancer and had been given just weeks to live. A faulty furnace had been cited as the cause of the carbon monoxide release. The grainy photo at the top of the piece captured firefighters standing around outside the house, while in the background a crowd of curious onlookers stood and watched. Why would Tim keep this? Hide it? Carbon monoxide. Faulty furnace. I stood up, slipped the clipping and the card into my pocket. “Get your things.”

“What is it? What’d you see?”

“Not sure yet. Let’s go.”

Jung picked up his shoes, grabbed his messenger bag. “Where?”

“I’m turning you over to the police.”

He stopped, dropped the bag. “What? You can’t do that.” “They’re looking for you. I’ll drop you off. You’ll go in, they’ll see that you’re completely clueless, and they’ll let you go and move on. Simple. If you continue to hide from them, they’ll make your life a living hell. Now get your stuff and let’s go.”

“Why can’t I stay here? All I need is a few snacks, some beer.” I eyed the door. “Yeah, about that. You might want to start looking for another spiritual home. I’m afraid you’ve burned your bridges with Swami Rain.”

Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Tim, Spada, Darby, Langham—of the four, only Spada was still alive; that either made him the luckiest so-and-so on God’s green earth, or somebody who knew a lot more than he was letting on. I rode the elevator up to his office to find out which was which.

Langham was in his seventies when he died, Tim more than fifty years his junior, hardly running buddies. But they were both Spada clients. That had to be important. I mean, it could be coincidental, but the odds would be extremely high. What couldn’t have been a coincidence was Vince Darby living in Langham’s house. I could see a circle forming. I could feel that I was getting close to something. I stared at the changing numbers above the elevator door, willing the slow car to climb faster, my mind busy.