“I suppose I could come up with a reasonable excuse or better yet, attack your source,” he said, his voice getting clearer as he re-emerged from the kitchen, bottle in his hand. He sat and poured a very generous splash. He laid down an empty glass next to his. “You sure about that drink?”
I nodded.
He took a strong pull on the booze, carefully placing his tumbler on the coaster nearest.
“It was easy money,” he said after several seconds of silence. “What do you want me to say?”
“Besides the obvious?” I worked to keep my voice flat and atonal. “That by selling these pics you were betraying our clients, and risking my business, my livelihood?”
“These people betrayed each other,” he snapped. “Spare me the moral indignation. And business was good. We were good.”
“Stop talking like we we’re some sort of team. It’s my name on that door. You never had the guts to make anything, to build anything of your own. You were a hired gun. You worked for me, Francis. You’re a ticked box in that girl’s Excel spreadsheet every month.”
He glared. I let him. The silence was heavy, electric. I didn’t care. I was doing everything to keep my voice and hands steady.
“There was something else,” I said. “Tate told me they were missing a DVD. All their stock was carefully documented and accounted for. The Russians could be quite the sticklers, apparently.”
Ruddick took another slug from the glass.
“The Lisa Claymore DVD,” I said, my voice still holding. “It was swiped. They said they were a hundred percent about everyone they dealt with but you. They put up with it because your work was good and sold well. But she thinks it was you. She thinks you stole that disk.”
“What do you think?” he asked, and his own voice was a little thick now with whisky, and maybe a little fear.
“I think we’ve worked together for three years. So I’m going to give you the chance to be a fucking man and tell me the truth.”
He pressed two fingers, hard, into the bridge of his nose. “I stole it. I recognised Lisa in it from some society page. I sent it to Claymore. I was going to try and blackmail him but when I realised the Bravta were that furious that it had gone missing I decided to rethink my strategy.”
“And then Claymore hired me.”
He raised his glass in salute.
“You paid those guys to rough me up.”
He nodded. “I was trying to get you off the case. Not just because I was too close to it, either.” He took another drink.
“You figure?”
He fixed me with an edged stare. “You keep digging around in this world, you will not be welcomed. You will be eaten alive.”
“We’re done with you having my best interest at heart, Francis.”
“So what do we do now?”
“I’m calling the cops.”
“I would’ve thought you’d have done that by now. Why the wait?”
“I need you to tell me something.”
He leaned back, letting his head roll on his neck a bit.
“What’s that?” he said.
“I’m looking for a guy named Karl,” I said. “And you’re the last shot I have at finding him.”
He considered this for a moment. “No,” he finally said.
“This is not a request.”
“What are you going to do, Thaddeus? Beat it out of me?”
I slipped my hand into my other inner jacket pocket and pulled out Emerson’s gun. I laid it on the table in front of me, barrel pointing towards him.
“Oh, do come on,” he said.
“That was pointed at me tonight, but I’m getting used to it pointing the other way. Karl. The guy with the shoulder tattoos, the epaulets. Look like military insignia. Go.”
Ruddick gave me a hard stare, evidently trying to make up his mind about me based on our conversation tonight, three years on the job together, and the four shots of high-end scotch pounding his brainstem right now.
“You still seeing that Nora bird?” he asked.
“No matter what my social calendar holds, it pales next to yours, I’m sure.” I jabbed the air with my finger. “Karl. Now.”
“You think you’re better than me, and you might be right. But do you think you’re better than them, the people who hire us? The people in those photos? You’re not. You’re really not.” He paused here. “Stop lying to yourself.”
A moment of desperate forever hung in the air.
“I know what I am.” I tugged my notepad loose and slid it across the table, and held out my pen in front of him. He took it.
“If they found out I took that vid and gave you their address—”
“This isn’t about you,” I said. “Besides, I’m not in a rush to let it get around my number one associate was stealing from me and our clients.”
“Fair point.” He wrote down a name, address and phone number. He then stood, pulled an envelope from a sport coat hanging across a chair, and added that to the pile.
“Party invite. Hang on to that.”
I pocketed the pad and envelope without looking, pulled my phone loose and hit SEND from my outbox to Charlie’s number. She had full instructions to call the police and explain exactly why they were arresting a former colleague. “Here in five,” I said. “Maybe ten.”
We sat in silence for a minute or two. He poured a healthy splash of whisky into the glass in front of me and refilled his own. “One more, for auld lang syne?” He raised his glass.
I gathered my stuff, including the revolver. I stood and buttoned my coat.
“Anything else to do tonight?” he asked, trying to sound glib. I could hear it, though. The vein of fear running through his voice. It had a pulse now.
“No, nothing until tomorrow. Party, actually.” I twisted my scarf around my throat. “Christmas bash with a bunch of barristers, journos and Tories.”
“Well, look at you. Moving up in the world.”
We looked each over, one last time.
“I’ll wait outside,” I said, stepping to the door. “Good luck with it, Inspector.”
30
The next morning. I was half-awake and sprawled on my couch, still in last night’s clothes. The TV screen was blue and my DVD player still on. My phone snarled insistently on my hip.
“Yes,” I said finally, and more than a little impatiently.
“Morning,” Charlie said.
“It certainly is,” I replied, blinking through the sunlight squeezing through my venetians. “What’s up?”
“I’m at the office.”
“Again on a Saturday? You bucking for an exit bonus ahead of grad school?”
“The cops are here. The office is trashed.”
I rubbed my hands across my face, working something resembling a bit of circulation into my sallow, stubble-flecked cheeks. I grabbed a warm can of half-empty Diet Coke from the table and sipped it, sitting up.
“How bad?”
“You don’t sound that surprised.”
“I’m not. I had a feeling.”
“That why I pulled a bunch of your stuff last night?”
“Yes. And sorry about that. Hope your whole night wasn’t shot.”
“Well, it was, but by the time I got home there was an Ingrid Bergman marathon on.”
“Sorry I yelled at you.”
“You were under a lot of stress. And everyone gets one free pass.”
“That was mine?”
“Oh yes. Believe it. But we can move on. So, you coming in to talk to the police and maybe tell me a bit of what exactly is going on?”
“What time is it? I gotta shower. And get something to eat.”
“Food’s here” she said. I heard a rustle of a bag she had lifted near her mobile. “Skip the shower. Rough it.”
“Gimme a sec.”
I got up, stretched. After a moment I wandered over to my turntable. Apparently I was listening to Miles last night. Birth of the Cool. I re-dropped the needle and made my
way to my kitchen. There was some maybe-expired orange juice in my fridge I was willing to take a chance on.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“It’s not great,” she said. “Would you just get here? The cops won’t let me in until they can talk to you and confirm I am who I say I am.”
There was a knock on my front door. Three thuds, heavy and clear, and not too rushed.
“Hang on.”
I walked to the door and peered through my peephole. DI Calloway was shuffling his feet on the other side.
“Visitor,” I said. “Get out of there. I might be held up. I’ll call you back ASAP.”
I opened the door and ushered him in.
He gave me a once-over. “You look good.”
“Thanks,” I said, plopping back onto my couch. Calloway, uninvited, sat across in my worn but still serviceable easy chair. He shifted around a bit, a mix of energy and restlessness. He had either been up all night or just awakened.
“Coffee?” I tried to smooth my hair down a bit.
“I’m good, thanks.” His eyes swept the flat, taking my life in. “So, your boy Ruddick got picked up last night.”
“I should know. I called it in.”
“No kidding. I read the report. Said he had sold company evidence. You going to push this all the way? You’ll need to testify.”
“It won’t come to that. He’ll lose his license, and that’ll be that. I’m done.”
“Bit cold, isn’t it? Cutting him loose?”
I got up and walked to my kitchen and put on a quick pot of coffee for myself.
“I don’t know if I’d say that. He did break client confidentiality and did make money stealing from my company. I’d say that is sufficient reason to end a working relationship.”
“Still,” Calloway said, as I rinsed out a mug, “you guys worked together for, what, four years?”
“Three.”
“Hunh,” Calloway said, distractedly. “He said four.”
“Well, neither of us were absolutists. Or sentimentalists.”
“Evidently,” Calloway said as I returned to my couch.
“Look,” I said, taking a sip, “my job doesn’t work if people don’t trust me. So if people think they can’t count on me to keep their secrets, I’m out of work.”
“That’d be awful. Then you’d have to make an honest living somehow.”
“Great to see you again, too. So, are we done with banter?”
Calloway crossed his legs and leaned back. “Your partner getting pinched. That tied to the Claymore case?”
“Freelance associate,” I corrected. “And you can ask him. He’s the one with an established disregard for client confidentiality.”
“Your place got broken into and trashed. So we’re going to have a conversation about that, too. Because at the risk of sounding cynical, I think that might be connected to the Claymore thing, too.”
“I’m off that case. But again, if you want more info, ask Ruddick. He’s worried people are trying to hurt him, so I’m sure he’ll talk. He told me last night he now knows some bad people, so that should be of interest to you.”
Calloway had changed his mind, and after a polite inquisitive nod towards the kitchen, he was now up getting some coffee. I heard him rummage about a bit and return, stirring his mug.
He sat back down. “How long you been sober?”
I wasn’t expecting that. I felt my chest tighten.
“Couple of years.” I hoped I had masked my surprise and, of course, displeasure. “And it’s more like relative sobriety.”
“You should keep an eye on that.”
“Yeah, thanks. No offence, but how is that any of your business?”
“I was hoping you’d ask how I knew.”
“You’re a cop, you probably asked around about me after we met at the quarry.”
“Well, yeah. Plus you passed out on your couch but there are no bottles anywhere. Your fridge is blocked with Diet Coke and nothing else. So I’d say it’s a lock.”
“Reformed boozers love Diet Coke. Gives us something to do with our hands.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“Why does anyone? At some point, it’s just time. Plus it was a bit clichéd, wasn’t it? Private eye hitting the bottle too much?”
“That why your wife left?”
“Jesus, dude.”
“Just getting to know you a bit.”
“Why? We friends now or something?”
“Sort of.”
I arched an eyebrow.
He shrugged. “Four years for me, just about. Pills, mainly. But booze, too.”
“Well.” I felt a twinge of respect creep into my appraisal of Calloway. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He stood, and I walked him to the door. “Ruddick still has friends on the job. I know he knows more than he’ll give us. I also know he’s likely going to get cut loose pretty soon.”
I nodded.
“You still got my card?”
“You never gave it to me,” I replied.
“Right. Look, I know you’re not going to tell me more, and I get it. But if you get in trouble or get something you can talk about, give me a shout.”
“Thanks.”
He waved this away.
“You doing this because you’re a friend of Bill W, want to do your part to help a wayward soul?”
“No. But you more or less getting your act together did make me think you were maybe not quite just some hack mercenary smartarse. Plus, I like making new friends.”
“No offence, but I doubt that.”
“I’m devastated. But you’re right. I might be moving into Professional Standards.”
“Is getting moved into the rat squad a promotion for you?”
“Oh, you Americans,” he said, pulling another packet of Camels from his jacket pocket. “Always with the TV colloquialisms.”
“You offering me work?” I asked.
“Not directly, no. But I’m sure stuff will come up that could be of use to you. Straying officers, mistresses, resulting busted marriages. Police can be impulsive people, you know.”
“I’m learning. But to be honest, I’m thinking of changing stuff up a bit.”
“Why’s that?”
“All getting a bit samey. At some point, it’s just time. You know?”
Calloway shook a smoke loose from the soft pack and slipped it, unlit, into his mouth. With his other hand, he slid one of his cards into my jacket’s breast pocket. He saw something cross my face.
“Like I said: Just in case,” he said, turning to the hall. “Thanks for the coffee, Grayle. Talk soon, yeah?”
31
The Barbican, a bit later that night, lit up and looking suitably beautiful for the holidays. As I mentioned to Ruddick, I had decided to go the party Claymore invited me to. I liked to think it annoyed him, me hobnobbing with all that he ever wanted to be. Brits think Americans are free of class; that our country’s some rugged, go-get-’em meritocracy, but that’s not entirely true. We just understand it all a bit better. It can be flexible, and we just take the bits that work for us when we need someone to look down on. I had no illusions, however. I wasn’t a guest. I was a tourist.
I sipped from an ice-packed tumbler of cola and numbly chewed a wedge of mini beef Wellington. They had some live music, a string quartet, gently bleating the songs of the season into the air. People were moving about excitedly in that early party cycle, circling, wondering where to settle and not wanting to commit too soon to a conversation when other, more socially advantageous options may yet reveal themselves. I stood still and watched it all. I was determined to have something resembling a decent time.
“Enjoying yourself?” I heard over my shoulder. I turned and saw Nora, dark hair curled and chest flattered by a tastefully plunged neckline.
“Not really. But hey, chance to rub some shoulders with my betters and have their free food.”
“I never took you for a Christmas person,”
she said, her lips pulling upwards a bit.
“You should trust your instincts.”
She batted her eyelashes for comic effect, then reached out and gently touched the sleeve of my suit jacket, near the cuff. A small affection.
“Why are you here?” I asked. “Schmoozing?”
“Editor-in-chief is a former client. Firm handled some heavy libel action a few years back. He’s still very appreciative. He sent limos and everything.”
“And here I got my own cab like a sucker.”
“My turn: Why are you here?”
“Client invited me as well, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Even the rich screw around, you know.”
She sipped her own drink, champagne. Bubbles flirted with each other in the slender flute. “Obviously.”
We stood about, not looking at each other for a moment.
“I didn’t mean it to sound quite like that,” I said.
“No, it’s all right,” she said. “I should keep moving, though.”
“I’ve got a big thing coming up in a couple of days,” I said, with sudden urgency. “I’m out of town.”
“On Christmas Eve? Family stuff?” she asked.
“No. I don’t have any family here, Nora.”
“Right. Of course. You mentioned that before. Sorry.”
“S’all right,” I said. My food was done, but I still had the napkin in my hand. I didn’t know what to do with it.
“So, where you off to, then?” she asked.
I’m driving out to visit a Russian gangster who's an avid pornographer, probably a human trafficker, possibly homicidal, who is at the very least definitely very goddamn dangerous.
“Case. A loose end.”
And I’m shitting myself.
“Christmas intrigue. Someone’s presents go missing? Santa’s sleigh got hijacked?”
“Something like that.” I smiled wanly.
“I’m sure you’ll be all right,” she said, cheerily.
“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just, well. It’s a bit messy, this one.”
“Oh?” She was looking behind me, scanning the room.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sure you’ve got it under control.”
“We’ll see.”
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