Paint It Red, Black & Blue

Chapter 5

"Good morning, Mr. Jane."

His eyes popped open, and he was almost nose to nose with the deck. He had indeed fallen asleep, or slipped into unconsciousness or something similarly gratifying, and he shook his head to clear the heaviness. It didn't help. In fact, he felt worse, and he tried to straighten up to look Arlov in the eye, but found he couldn't. Couldn't even move.

Pathetic.

Orders in Russian, and rough hands grabbing his shoulders, hauling him backwards into his former position, the muscles in his back straining like young trees bent out of shape. He actually let out a gasp of air, and immediately cursed his weakness, for he could see Chiarli Arlov smiling at his discomfort. The man looked like a sailor today, navy polo shirt and white shorts. All he needed was the captain's hat. Of course, he had a tall ice-laden drink in his hand.

"I slept well last night. Did you?"

Jane gritted his teeth. Oh how his mouth wanted to run, to slice this man to ribbons with his tongue, to talk circles around him, bluff him, bluster him into confusion and bring him to his knees in intellectual defeat. But that would be loss, for the moment the first word came out, he'd be swimming. Then sinking. And that would be definitely counter-productive.

"You are not scared of me, are you, Mr. Jane?"

Jane shook his head, which was still spinning, tried to smile. No 'little rabbit' this time, just his name. Interesting.

The Russian waved for a deck chair, plopped unceremoniously in it, crossing his legs and sipped his tall glass. He cocked his head. "I find that very fascinating. I find you very fascinating. Why is that, Mr. Jane? Why are you so fascinating?"

Jane shrugged. It was a good question.

"24 hours for you, without one word. It has been hard for you, yes?"

Jane rolled his eyes. Arlov had no idea.

"Life is a game for you, yes? A funny, funny game…" This time, Jane made no response. That one couldn't be answered in pantomime.

"Because you have nothing left to lose…"

Again nothing. Jane was growing weary of this. It was counter-productive. He was growing weary of Chiarli Arlov and his petty mobster games. Of one man so self-assured that he could so easily usurp the basic dignity of another. It struck him that, what Arlov did with threats, he himself did with words. Of the two, words were far superior. But perhaps, he had to concede, a bit less deadly.

Arlov waved a hand and a buffoon trotted over, holding a manila envelope. Arlov reached in with delicate fingers, slid out what appeared to be a photo and put it on the deck, pushing it toward Jane's knees. It was an 8x10 snapshot of Teresa Lisbon, stepping out of a black SUV, sunglasses on, dark hair swinging in the breeze. Jane was immediately grateful for the sunburned face, the aching muscles, the spinning head. If he was going to play emotionally dead, Arlov had already given him the props.

"She is lovely, yes?" Arlov had stretched back in his chair, watching with his shark-like gaze. "So small, so sleek. Like a cat. You could crush her with one hand."

Jane tried not to grin. Arlov had never seen "the cat" take down a grown man at a dead run. She tackled like a quarterback. She grew up with brothers. She scrapped like a boy.

Arlov waved again, and a cell-phone was brought to him. Still watching Jane, he dialed eleven numbers and put the phone to his ear.

"May I speak to Agent Teresa Lisbon, please?"

Now that, thought Jane, was interesting. The man was audacious. He had no fear. Fascinating.

"Yes, tell her Chiarli Arlov is on the line. I have a message from Patrick Jane…"

____________________________________

"What??!!" Lisbon sat up from her position on the couch. She had been trying to channel the consultant, putting herself in "his shoes", or rather, in his couch, when the call had come in. "Arlov? Arlov has Jane?"

Van Pelt was standing at the door of Lisbon's office, holding Lisbon's phone in her hand. Her dark eyes were wide. "He wants to speak to you."

Arlov had been on the list, number 5 if she remembered correctly. The OCU didn't have a location for him, however. They'd been convinced he was somewhere in Fiji. Lisbon bolted off the couch, took a deep breath, and grabbed the phone. Get Andy Mack. she mouthed to Van Pelt, Trace this call, and put the phone to her ear.

"This is Agent Lisbon."

"How are you, Agent Lisbon? My name is Chiarli Arlov…" She had never heard the man's voice before, but it was everything she had imagined, cool, smooth yet dangerous at the same time. Like a growl. A warning, just in the music of it.

"Yes, Mr. Arlov. You have news of Patrick Jane?" She did her best to keep her own voice level. It was hard, given the racing of her heart. Lock it away, she thought to herself. You are a professional. This is just another case.

"Yes, he sends his regards."

"How is he?"

"A little bit sunburned, I'm afraid. He looks like a lobster."

"Is that all?"

"Would you like me to ask him?" There was a pause, and the rustle of fabric. "How are you feeling, Mr. Jane? How is your head? He bumped his head, Agent Lisbon. On the doorway of my boat. I think he is fine. Are you fine, Mr. Jane? You may talk now. One word."

And then she heard it, one word from what sounded like worlds away. One word. "Yes." Relief flooded through her body, and she felt the odd need to sit down. She lowered herself onto his couch. "Jane? Can you hear me?"

"He can hear you, Agent Lisbon. But he is busy right now. Sun-tanning."

"What do you want, Mr. Arlov?" Van Pelt was motioning – Andy Mack was tracing the call.

"Me? Want? No, no, you misunderstand. I have everything I want. I lack nothing. So you see, Agent Lisbon, my life, in that respect, is boring. Everything is boring. Possessions are boring. People are boring. Even beautiful women, they are boring. There is not much to amuse me anymore. But Mr. Jane…" There was a pause, the clinking of ice in a glass, the sound of swallowing. "I find him quite…amusing…"

This could go two ways, she thought. "Yes, he is that."

"And so, I invite him to my boat, you see. To find out what makes him tick. Is that the right word? Tick?"

She pursed her lips. "It's a good word."

"Ah, good. Very good. So I must ask you a personal question, Agent Lisbon, if I may?"

She took another deep breath. Van Pelt was standing two feet away. The call was being traced by Andy Mack and the Missing Persons Unit and recorded for the entire CBI to hear.

"Yes," she said. "You may."

"Agent Lisbon, do you make Patrick Jane tick?"

"Is that what he told you?"

"Just asking."

"No," she said firmly, aware of Van Pelt's eyes on her. "I do not make Patrick Jane tick. I'm his boss, he works in my unit, that's all. Nothing more. Is that clear?"

Her world was spinning, upside down, all over the place. Was that a threat, or had Jane implied something? To her chagrin, she heard the low rumbling chuckle of a bored man suddenly pleased. She tightened her grip on the phone.

"Mr. Arlov," she forced her voice into a growl of its own. "If you want to find out what makes Patrick Jane tick, you need to read his history. If you can't figure it out, then you deserved to lose that painting."

Silence now, and she swallowed hard, Van Pelt staring at her with wide eyes. She wondered, for a brief instant, if she hadn't just sentenced her consultant to his death.

"Very interesting, Agent Lisbon. Very interesting, indeed. I will think on these things. Perhaps I will call again soon." And the line went dead.

She looked up at Van Pelt, feeling for some odd reason like a pile of wet laundry. The junior agent tried to smile. "At least he's alive."

Lisbon swallowed again. "Did we get a trace?"

"Um…" She put a second phone to her ear. "Yes, we have a trace. International waters off the Monterey coast, exactly 1 mile outside our jurisdiction."

Lisbon nodded, let out another deep breath. At least it wasn't Red John. Chiarli Arlov was a killer, not a serial killer. And right now, she was thankful for anything she could get.

End of Chapter 5