The Big Sheep by Robert Kroese Page B

neared Élan Durham’s house, I decided to bring up something that had been bothering me.
    â€œDo you actually think Priya is in danger?” I asked.
    â€œAbsolutely,” Keane answered without hesitation. “I wouldn’t have taken the case if I didn’t think she was in danger.”
    â€œWe have no evidence anyone intends her harm, other than her own testimony.”
    â€œYou’re forgetting the letter from Noogus,” said Keane.
    â€œSeriously?” I asked.
    â€œYou saw the letter with your own eyes. She didn’t imagine it.”
    â€œYou realize it’s not difficult to write a letter to yourself, right? It’s a short step from imagining somebody is trying to kill you to writing yourself a letter warning you about it.”
    â€œIt is a step, though.”
    â€œI don’t follow.”
    Keane sighed. “A letter is a physical projection of an idea. Paranoia is inward-focused and self-reinforcing. Your classical paranoiac isn’t going to write a letter to herself warning about the conspiracy. There’s no need. The paranoiac has all the evidence she needs. It’s everywhere she looks.”
    â€œBut she’s not using it to convince herself. She’s using it to convince us .”
    â€œPerhaps. But that doesn’t fit the standard model of paranoia either. A paranoiac isn’t going to seek out strangers to tell them about the conspiracy. And she certainly wouldn’t manufacture evidence of the conspiracy to convince them. That’s a complete inversion of typical paranoid behavior.”
    â€œSo you don’t think she’s paranoid.”
    Keane shook his head. “No, she’s clearly paranoid. But she’s something else, too.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThere are two possibilities, as far as I can tell,” said Keane. “Either she’s genuinely in danger, or…” He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.
    â€œYes?” I prompted.
    â€œHuh?” said Keane, apparently unaware of having left his rumination unfinished.
    â€œShe’s in danger or…?”
    â€œOh, or she’s a whole new kind of crazy.” He grinned at me. “Either way, though, it’s exciting, isn’t it?”
    I shook my head. I was starting to think April was right. Priya Mistry needed professional help, and not from a phenomenological inquisitor. God knows how much damage Keane might do to the poor girl’s psyche by the time he had tired of toying with her. On the other hand, it wasn’t like I had the power to stop Keane from pursuing Priya’s case—and there was a possibility she really was in danger. Probably the best thing to do now was to follow Keane’s lead and try to step in if things got out of hand.
    We caught up to Pavel at the foot of the driveway. His beat-up Suburban, parked on the side of the winding mountain road, was completely out of place in this neighborhood. I gave him a quick debriefing, which didn’t amount to much: he had followed Priya’s limo to the DiZzy Girl set, hung out there for the day, followed it back to her hotel, and then followed it to Durham’s place. Security wouldn’t let him up the driveway, so he had parked and waited.
    Pavel was one of a handful of ad hoc operatives who were occasionally employed by Keane to do surveillance and other tedious legwork. Pavel was Keane’s favorite, because the man had no ambition whatsoever. The way Keane figured it, no ambition meant no complications. Pavel never asked for a raise, and there was never any serious threat he’d fall prey to a bribe or blackmail. Other than the occasional check from Keane and a little income from selling synthetic drugs on the beaches around Malibu, Pavel had no visible means of support. He slept in his car and spent the vast majority of his time surfing. He used the occasional assignment from Keane as an opportunity to test whatever black-market