by Robert Crais
Talley shook his head.
“You picked a bad house to hole up in, Dennis.”
“Two hundred thousand, cash, hundred-dollar bills, right in your pocket, no one needs to know.”
Talley didn’t answer. He wondered about Smith, what he did here in the middle of nowhere, here in the safe, anonymous community of Bristo Camino, with so much cash and information in his house that this kid was willing to die for it and the men in the car were willing to kill for it. Do you ever really know your neighbors?
“Give up, Dennis.”
Rooney wet his lips. His eyes flicked past Talley again, then back.
“You tryin’ to drive up the price? Okay, three hundred. Three hundred thousand dollars. Could you ever earn that much? You can have Mars and Kevin. Fuckin’ bust them. Make that part of the deal.”
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with. You can’t buy your way out of this.”
“Everybody wants money! Everybody! I’m not giving this up!”
Talley stared at him, wondering how far to go. If Rooney quit now, Amanda and Jane might pay for it. But if Rooney quit now, walked out right now, Talley would have the disks. Once the Watchman’s people arrived, Talley might not have the chance.
“This house isn’t what you think it is. You believe some guy has this kind of cash just laying around in his house?”
“There’s a million bucks in there, maybe two million! I’ll give you half!”
“The man you sent to the hospital, Walter Smith, he’s a criminal. That money belongs to him.”
Rooney laughed.
“You’re lying. What a crock of shit.”
“He has partners, Dennis. This is their house, and they want it. The way I’m offering is the only way out for you.”
Rooney stared at him, then rubbed at his face.
“Fuck you, Talley. Just fuck you. You think I’m an idiot.”
“I’m telling you the truth. Give up. Work with me here, and at least you’ll have your life.”
Rooney sighed, and Talley could see the sadness settle over him like a cloak.
“And what’s that worth?”
“Whatever you make of it.”
“I’ll go back in now. I’ll think about it and give you my answer tomorrow.”
Talley knew that Dennis was lying. Talley had a sense for when they would give up and when they wouldn’t, and Rooney had hold of something he couldn’t turn loose.
“Please, Dennis.”
“Fuck off.”
Rooney backed to the door, then stepped inside and pulled it closed. The darkness inside swallowed him like dirty water.
Talley turned back to the officers lining the wall and walked away, praying that Thomas had the disks and was safe. Rooney wasn’t the only one holding on to something he couldn’t turn loose.
20
• • •
Saturday, 12:04 A.M.
THOMAS
Thomas dripped with sweat. His knees were cut from the rafters, and, where streaks of sweat washed the cuts, they burned. Thomas didn’t care. He was excited and happy—dude, he was pumped!; this was the best sneak ever, better than any he’d made with Duane Fergus!
With the power off, Thomas didn’t have to worry about being seen on the monitors. He pushed through the hatch into his closet, and crossed the room to his computer. He took the computer apart and lugged it to the floor at the foot of his bed so that he wouldn’t be seen by the camera when the power returned. His hands were so sweaty that he almost dropped the screen and caught it on his knee.
The lights came on without warning. Thomas worried that the turds would probably come upstairs to check on him, so he hurried to load the first disk.
The file icon that appeared was unnamed. He double-clicked on the icon to open it. A list of corporate names appeared that Thomas didn’t know anything about. He opened a random file, but saw only tables and numbers. Thomas felt a stab of fear that he had snatched the wrong disks even though these were the only disks. Nothing that he saw made sense to him, but these were the disks Chief Talley wanted, so maybe the Chief would understand.
Thomas stopped in his work to listen for squeaks. The hall was quiet.
Thomas turned on his phone again, but this time the power indicator showed that less than half the power remained. He was down to barely a quarter of a charge.
Thomas pushed his redial button to call Chief Talley.
TALLEY
Talley climbed back over the wall where Martin and Hicks were waiting for him. Martin was angry.
“That was really dumb. What do you think you accomplished?”
Talley hurried away without answering her. He didn’t want her around when Thomas called. He radioed Maddox to recount his conversation with Rooney as he walked around the side of the neighbor’s house, and kept it short. He left out that Rooney had told him about the enormous store of cash in the house, as that would raise too many questions, and felt terrible about it. Talley was a negotiator. Another negotiator was depending on him, and Talley was lying by omission. Maybe that was why he kept the call short; he couldn’t stand himself for doing it.
His phone rang as he reached the cul-de-sac. He hurried into a neighboring drive, out of sight of the house, and stood by himself.
“I got’m!”
Talley forced himself to stay calm. He didn’t have anything yet.
“Good work, son. You’re back in your room now, right? You’re safe?”
“That big guy, Mars, he almost caught me, but I hid. What was that thing you blew up in the backyard? That was so cool!”
“Thomas, when we’re done with this, I’ll let you blow up one of those things yourself, you want. But not now, okay? I need to know what’s on those disks.”
“Numbers. I think it’s somebody’s taxes.”
“You’ve opened them?”
“I told you I could.”
Martin and Hicks came out of the neighboring drive and joined the other officers behind the police vehicles that filled the cul-de-sac, Martin working her way to Maddox. Talley moved farther away.
“You sure did, Thomas. Are those disks labeled?”
“Uh-huh. Just like you said, Disk One and Disk Two.”
“Tell me what you got when you opened them.”
“I got one open right now.”
“Okay, tell me what you see.”
Talley patted himself down for his pad and pen in case he had to write.
Thomas described a list of files named for companies that Talley didn’t recognize, anonymous names like South-gate Holdings and Desert Entertainment. Then Thomas mentioned two more companies: Palm Springs Ventures and The Springs Winery. There was the Palm Springs connection: Smith’s home had been built by a Palm Springs contractor. Talley had Thomas open the Palm Springs Ventures file, but from Thomas’s descriptions it sounded like a balance sheet or some kind of profit-and-loss statement without identifying the individuals involved. Talley scratched down the names on his pad.
“Open the files and see if there are any names.” After a second, Thomas said, “All I see is numbers. It’s money.”
“Okay. Open the other disk. Tell me what that one says.”
Even the few seconds that it took Thomas to change the disks seemed to take forever, Talley sweating every moment of it that the boy would be discovered. But then Thomas read off file names and Talley knew that this was the one: Black, White, Up Money, Down Money, Transfers, Source, Cash Receipts, and others. Thomas was still reading file names when Talley stopped him.
“That’s enough. The file named Black. Open that one.”
“It’s more files.”
“Named what?”
“I think it’s states. CA, AZ, NV, FL. Is NV Nevada?”
“Yeah, that’s Nevada. Open California.”
Thomas described a long table that went on for pages listing names that Talley didn’t recognize, along with dates and payments received. Talley grew antsy. This was taking too much time.<
br />
“Read off more of the file names.”
Thomas read off six or seven more names when Talley stopped him again.
“Open that one. Corporate Taxes.”
“Now there’s more numbers, but I think they’re years. Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, like that.”
“Open this year.”
“It’s a tax form that my dad makes up to send to the government.”
“Up at the top of the page, does it say whose tax it is, maybe a company name?” The boy didn’t answer.
“Thomas?”
“I’m looking.”
Talley glanced toward the cul-de-sac. Martin was watching him. She held his eye for a moment, then said something to Hicks and came toward him, hunched over to stay under cover of the cars.
“It says Family Enterprises.”
“But there’s no one’s name?”
“Uh-uh.”
Talley wanted to look at the disks himself; if he could see them he knew he could find what he needed instead of depending on a ten-year-old boy.
“Look for something like Officers or Executive Compensation, something like that.”
Martin had cleared the line of police vehicles and was out of the line of fire from the house. She straightened and came toward him. He held up his hand to warn her off, but she frowned and kept coming.
Martin said, “I want to talk to you.”
“In a minute.”
“It’s important.”
Talley moved away from her, annoyed.
“When I’m off the phone.”
His tone stopped her. Martin’s eyes hardened angrily, but she kept her distance.
Thomas said, “Here it is.”
“You found the name?”
“Yeah, there’s a place called Compensation to Officers, but there’s only one guy listed.”
“Who?”
“Charles G. Benza.”
Talley stared at the ground. The cool night air suddenly felt close. Talley looked at the house, then glanced at Martin. Talley had been wrong. Walter Smith wasn’t a mobster with something valuable in his house. The boy’s father kept Sonny Benza’s books. That’s what it had to be: Smith was Benza’s accountant, and he had Benza’s financial records. It was all right there in Smith’s house, enough to put Benza away and his organization out of business. Right here in Bristo Camino.
Talley sighed deeply, the breath venting from his core in a way that seemed to carry his strength with it. This was why people were willing to kidnap and murder. Smith could put them out of business. Smith knew their secrets and could put them away. The mob. The men in the car were the mob. The head of the largest crime family on the West Coast had Jane and Amanda.
Thomas’s voice suddenly came fast and thin.
“Someone’s coming. I gotta go.”
The line went dead.
Martin put her hands on her hips.
“Are you going to talk to me now?”
“No.”
Talley ran for his car. If the disks could put Benza away, so could Walter Smith. He radioed Metzger at the hospital as he ran.
THOMAS
Thomas heard the nail being pried from his door. He jerked the computer’s plug from the wall, then vaulted onto his bed, shoving the cell phone under the covers as the door opened. Kevin stepped inside, carrying a paper plate with two slices of pizza and a Diet Coke.
“I brought you something to eat.”
Thomas pushed his hands between his crossed legs, trying to hide the fact that he wasn’t tied, but the tape he’d stripped from his wrists was in plain sight on the floor. Kevin stopped when he saw it, then glared.
“You little shit. I oughta kick your ass.”
“It hurt my wrists.”
“Fuckit, I don’t guess it matters anyway.”
Thomas was relieved that he didn’t seem too upset. Kevin handed over the pizza and soda, then checked the nails that held the windows closed. Thomas worried that he would notice that the computer was in a different spot, but Kevin seemed inside himself.
Kevin made sure that the windows were secure, then leaned against the wall as if he needed the support to keep his feet. His eyes seemed to find everything in the room, every toy and book, every piece of furniture, the clothes strewn in the corner, the posters on the walls, the smashed phone thrown on the floor, the TV, the CD player, even the computer against the wall, all with an expression that seemed empty.
Kevin’s gaze finally settled on Thomas.
“You’re fucking lucky.”
Kevin pushed off the wall and went to the door.
Thomas said, “When are you leaving my house?”
“Never.”
Kevin left without looking back and pulled the door closed.
Thomas waited.
The nail was hammered back into the doorjamb. The floor squeaked as Kevin moved away.
Thomas tried to count to one hundred, but stopped at fifty and once more made his way to the closet. He wanted to know what they were planning. He also wanted the gun.
21
• • •
Saturday, 12:02 A.M.
Canyon Country, California
MARION CLEWES
The Canyon Country Hospital sat between two mountain ridges in a pool of blue light. It was modern and low, not more than three stories at its tallest, and sprawled across the parking lot. Marion thought it looked like one of those overnight dot-com think tanks you see in the middle of nowhere, sprung up overnight at a freeway off-ramp, all earth-colored stone and mirrored glass.
Marion cruised around the hospital, finding the emergency room entrance at the rear. Friday night, a little after midnight, and the place was virtually deserted. Marion knew hospitals that saw so much action on Friday nights they ran double ER staffs and you could hear screams from a block away. The Santa Clarita Valley must be a very nice place to live, he thought. He was liking everything he found about it.
The small parking area outside the ER showed only three cars and a couple of ambulances, but four news vehicles were parked off to the side. Marion expected this, so he wasn’t put off. He parked close to the entrance with the nose of his car facing the drive, then went into the hospital.
The newspeople were clumped together at the admitting desk, talking to a harried woman in a white coat. Marion listened enough to gather that she was the senior emergency room physician, Dr. Reese, and that tests were currently being run on Walter Smith. Two young nurses, both pretty with dark Toltec eyes, stood behind the admitting counter, watching with interest. Marion thought that this was probably very exciting for them, having the newspeople here.
Marion went to a coffee machine in the small waiting area and bought a cup of black coffee. A female police officer sat watching the interview. A young Latino man sat across from her, rocking a small baby while an older child slept half in his lap, half on the seat next to him. The man looked frightened in a way that let Marion think that his wife was probably the reason they were here. Marion’s heart went out to him.
“It’s like they’ve forgotten you, isn’t it?”
The man glanced up without comprehension. Marion smiled, thinking he probably didn’t speak English.
“That’s so sad,” he said.
Marion turned away and went back to the admitting area. A gate opened to a short hall, beyond which was a kind of communal room with several beds partitioned by blue curtains, and another hall with swinging doors at the end. Marion waited at the gate until an orderly appeared, then he smiled shyly.
“Excuse me. Dr. Reese said someone would help me.”
The orderly glanced at Reese, who was still busy with the reporters across the room.
“I’m Walter Smith’s next-door neighbor. They told me to pick up his clothes and personal effects.”
“That the guy who was the hostage?”
“Oh, yes. Isn’t that terrible?”
“Man, the stuff that happens, huh?”
“You never know. We�
�re worried sick. Those children are still in there.”
“Man.”
“I’m supposed to bring his things home.”
“Okay, let me see what I can do.”
“How’s he doing?”
“The doctor’s checking the CT results now. They should know soon.”
Marion watched as the orderly disappeared into one of the doors farther up the hall, then he stepped through the gate and walked up the hall just far enough so that the nurses at the admitting desk could no longer see him. He waited there until the orderly returned with a green paper bag.
“Here you go. They had to cut his clothes off, but there isn’t anything we can do about that.”
Marion took the bag. He could feel shoes in the bottom.
“Do I have to sign?”
“No, that’s all right. We’re not that formal around here. I used to work for County-USC; man, you had to sign for everything. Here, it’s not like that. These small towns are great.”
“Listen, thank you. Is there another way out of here? I don’t want to leave past the reporters. They were asking so many questions before.”
The orderly pointed to the swinging doors at the far end of the hall.
“Through there, then take a left. You’ll see a red exit sign at the end. That’ll bring you out the front.”
“Thanks again.”
Marion put the bag on the floor to go through Smith’s things. He did it right there. The bag contained jeans, a belt, a black leather wallet, white Calvin Klein briefs, a Polo shirt, gray socks, black Reebok tennis shoes, and a Seiko wristwatch. The clothes had all been split along the centerline. Marion felt the pants pockets, but found only a white handkerchief. There were no computer disks. Mr. Howell would be disappointed.
Marion tucked the bag under his arm and walked down the hall past the beds in the communal room. The beds were empty. Marion wondered about the Latino man’s wife, but stopped thinking about it when he found Smith in a room at the end of the hall. Smith’s left temple was covered in a fresh white bandage, and an oxygen cannula was clipped to his nose. Two nurses, one red-haired and one dark, were setting up monitor machines that Marion took to be an EEG and an EKG. That the nurses were only now setting up the monitors told Marion that the tests had just finished but the doctors were still waiting for results. That gave him time. When the doctors knew Smith’s true condition, they would either proceed with some additional intervention or move Smith into the main body of the hospital. A room there would make things easier, but surgery would make Marion’s job impossible. He decided not to take the chance.
