The street was lined with distinctly unglamorous cars, the sidewalk cracked and gummy. The apartment windows were not open to the light and filled with plants, like in some of the city’s other areas. Most were heavily curtained. In the entry, there was an old intercom system that looked defunct. Dreyer’s name was not listed next to any of the buzzers, anyway. Only a couple names were. They got back in Larrabee’s van and punched Dreyer’s number on the speakerphone. The same machine answered as last time. “It’s Dr. Monks, Ray. Pick up if you’re there. This is important.” The phone clicked. Dreyer said, “Yeah?” in a tone that managed to sound both indolent and impatient. “I’m outside your place,” Monks said. “I want to come in and talk to you.” “What about?” “Eden.” “We talked about Eden. I got nothing more to say.” “Some new questions have come up,” Monks said. “You can tell them to my lawyer. You’re going to be talking to him anyway.” “I’m going to be talking to your lawyer?
