Indigo Slam (v1.1)

by Robert Crais

  “How long you been here?”

  “I left my position when you and Haines came out of the house.” You see? He’d seen everything.

  I let us in, put my overnight bag on the kitchen counter, took two Falstaffs out the fridge, gave one to Pike, then drank a long pull of mine.

  I turned on the kitchen tap and cupped the water to my face. I drank most of what was left of the beer, then took a deep breath and let it out. I had pulled the drapes when I left, and the house was dim and still from the close air. Dim and still was good. When it was dark it was easier to pretend that there weren’t three kids on the run from the Russian mob with a junkie for a father. Maybe that was why Pike never took off his dark glasses. Maybe it was easier when you couldn’t see so much.

  Pike said, “What’s wrong?”

  “His name isn’t Haines. It’s Hewitt, and he isn’t just your ordinary junkie. He’s on the run from the Russian mob, he used to be in the federal witness protection program, and he doesn’t have a clue that he or those children are in danger.”

  Pike nodded. “So where’s the surprise?” You never know if he means it.

  I opened the house, then poked around to see if anyone had been in while I was away. As I poked, I told Pike about Wilson Brownell and Reed Jasper and what Jasper had said about Clark. I described what had happened with the Markov brothers, and how I got the eye. When I told him about the Markovs, Pike’s head swiveled about a quarter micron. “He really Spetnaz?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “People say anything.” You could tell Pike was interested.

  “It’s the new world order, Joe. Equal opportunity crime.”

  Pike went to the glass doors and looked out. He slid back the glass and the silky mountain air rolled in. “This isn’t good.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not.”

  “It won’t matter what you told the Russians. They’ll figure you’ve got a line on Clark, and they’ll show up.”

  “That’s what I told Clark. I told him to leave town, or go back to the marshals. They’re still willing to help.”

  “Will he?”

  “I don’t know. I told him to call Carol Hillegas. He won’t be worth a damn to those kids until he’s clean, but who knows what he’ll do?” We went out to the deck and stood at the rail and looked down at the canyon. “Talking to Clark is like talking to your television. He doesn’t see that his actions have consequences.”

  Pike crossed his arms.

  “Also, he told me that our services were no longer needed.”

  The corner of Pike’s mouth twitched. He’ll never smile, but sometimes you’ll get the twitch. “Fired.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Another twitch. “How much money we make?”

  “Two hundred, less the cost of airfare and hotel. I’d say we’re down about three hundred.”

  Pike finished his beer.

  “But we picked up some frequent flyer miles.”

  Pike said, “You thinking it was the feds or the Russians who went through your house?”

  I thought about it, then shook my head. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. If these Russians had a line on Clark, they wouldn’t’ve bothered with me up in Seattle, and the feds would’ve just knocked on the door. Besides that, I think I’ve been followed by a guy in a gray LeBaron, and I’m pretty sure the following started before those kids came to my office.” I told him about the black guy in the LeBaron.

  “So maybe there’s still someone stalking you.”

  “Could be.” Always a pleasant thought. “You want to stay for dinner?”

  “No.”

  Pike watched a car move along the canyon floor beneath us for a time, then left without another word. No so long, no see you later. Just left.

  I finished the Falstaff, crimped the can, and tossed it in my can bag. Recycling. I unpacked, did laundry, and wandered through the house. I felt empty and unfinished, as if there were more to be done only I didn’t yet know what to do. Maybe I was bored.

  Clark was home, his kids weren’t alone anymore, and he was going to do whatever he was going to do. They would leave or they would stay, he would call Carol Hillegas or he wouldn’t, he would ask Jasper for help or not, and there wasn’t a whole helluva lot I could do about it short of putting a gun to his head. Life in a free society.

  I opened another Falstaff, then called Lucy Chenier at her office. “It’s the world’s greatest human being, calling for Ms. Chenier.”

  Lucy’s assistant, Darlene, laughed. “I see we’ve upgraded from the world’s greatest detective.”

  “They’re one and the same, are they not?”

  “Only when we’re talking about you, Mr. Cole.” To know Darlene is to love her. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Chenier isn’t in.” It was just before six in Baton Rouge. Lucy normally stayed in her office until six, unless her son, Ben, had a soccer game.

  “Is she at home?”

  “You could call her there and find out, I suppose.”

  I kidded with Darlene for a few more minutes, then hung up and phoned Lucy’s home. She answered on the first ring with “Hi, David!”

  “David?”

  “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Maybe we should hang up and start this conversation again.”

  Lucy laughed and said, “David is David Shapiro, who just happens to be the most experienced news talent attorney in New Orleans, and who also happens to be representing me.”

  “KROK made a firm offer?”

  She said, “Negotiations are officially under way.”

  The grin started deep and came out big. “Lucille, that is totally wonderful.”

  “It’s only their opening offer, and we have to counter, but we’re close, Elvis. We are really, really close, and this is going to happen.” You could hear the energy and excitement in her voice. “David thinks we’ll conclude by the end of next week. After that, it’s just a matter of waiting for Ben’s school year to end, and then we can move out.” The end of Ben’s school year was less than six weeks away.

  “KROK doesn’t have a problem with waiting?”

  “Not at all. They’ve even offered to put me in touch with a real estate agent to help us find a place to live.”

  We talked, and as we did the tension slowly seeped away with our sharing, and my home became my home again, warm and enveloping and no longer a place that had been invaded by another. The cat’s door clacked, and the cat walked over, bumped against me, and purred. Maybe he could feel the change, too.

  Lucy asked about the Hewitt children, and listened as I told her about my trip to Seattle, and the uncomfortable facts that I had learned about their father. She said, “You took it upon yourself to fly to Seattle to look for him?”

  “There’s a sucker born every minute, Lucille.”

  She sighed, and I could almost see her smile. I could see her in the big overstuffed chair in her living room. I could see Ben on the floor surrounded by Incredible Hulk comic books while he watched “Babylon 5.” I could smell the bay leaf and sassafras of the oyster gumbo simmering for their dinner in the warm safe house near LSU. Exactly the kind of house that Teri and Charles and Winona did not have. Or maybe I’d just drunk too much Falstaff and all of it was wishful thinking. She said, “You’re not a sucker, you nut. You’re the man I love.”

  “Thanks, Luce.”

  We talked for another hour, sharing our excitment and the evolution of our love, and then we hung up, Lucy promising to call with periodic updates on her status with KROK, and me promising to send her the real estate section from the Los Angeles Times, and both of us making those sugary kissing sounds. Sometimes I’m so schmaltzy I embarrass myself.

  I brought the remains of my beer out onto the deck and listened to the breeze ruffling the leaves and to the shush of the cars down in the canyon and to the silence in my home. The cat came out and sat with me. I said, “Lucy will be here soon. You’d best get used to it.”

  He rubbed his hea
d against my leg and purred.

  It hadn’t been such a bad day, after all.

  CHAPTER 13

  I woke the next morning telling myself that I should take a free day and relax. After all, I was officially unemployed, and when you get beat up by Russian weightlifters in Seattle you deserve time off. Teri and Charles and Winona were no longer my responsibility, and Clark had been warned, so there you go. Portrait of the detective with time on his hands. Unemployment had its advantages.

  I fed the cat, then worked my way through forty minutes of tae kwon do katas in the hot morning sun and considered my options: I could run along the Pacific Coast Highway with Joe Pike or drive up to the Antelope Valley to pick fresh peaches or lay on the deck all day eating venison sandwiches and reading the new Dean Koontz. These all seemed like ideal ways to spend a day, but by nine that morning I had shaved, showered, and made my way down the mountains to the Beverly Hills Public Library to learn what I could about the Markov brothers, and what Clark did to get them so pissed off.

  Being unemployed is easier said than done.

  The Beverly Hills Library is one of the more wonderful libraries in the city. It is clean and neat and Spanish in its architecture, smack in the heart of BH between the Beverly Hills Police Department and the BH City Hall. A slim woman with very short hair showed me how to use their on-line search service and helped me connect with the Seattle Times. I downloaded every article they had about the Markov brothers and Vasily Markov’s prosecution and subsequent sentencing, and when I printed the download it came to eighty-six pages. What’s a day at the beach when you can spend your time reading about the Russian mob?

  It was a crowded morning with no free tables, so I sat at a table opposite a couple of young women who looked about right for UCLA. I smiled at them when I sat, and they smiled back. One of them was tall and blond, with blue glitter nail polish and short, ropy hair. The other was short and dark and might’ve been Persian. Her nail polish was black. The blonde whispered something to her friend when I sat, and they giggled. I said, “No giggling.”

  The blonde frowned at me. “No one was talking to you.”

  “My mistake.”

  The first headline read: MOB BOSS INDICTED ON 39 COUNTS. The basic story was as Reed Jasper described: Vasily Markov headed an organization of Russian emigres who had long been suspected of involvement in counterfeiting, black marketeering, smuggling, extortion, and murder, but that it wasn’t until “an insider in Markov’s counterfeiting ring” turned state’s evidence that the grand jury could get an indictment. That insider was Clark Hewitt.

  The blonde and her friend giggled again, but when I glanced over they pretended to be studying.

  The articles described Hewitt as a professional printer who had been “coerced” by Markov into printing counterfeit U.S. dollars for export to the former Soviet Union. No mention was made of Clark’s family, and no mention was made that Markov suspected that Clark had been skimming and had targeted him for death. Other than minor details, there was nothing new or revealing in the first seventy-four of the eighty-six pages, and I was beginning to feel that I would’ve been better off reading the Koontz.

  More whispering, more giggling.

  I glanced over. Fast. “Caught you.”

  The blonde blinked at me with innocent eyes. “Now that you’ve caught us, what’re you going to do with us?”

  I turned red and continued skimming. Flirting can be an ugly business. Especially when your girlfriend is soon to move in.

  The blonde leaned toward me and looked at the downloads. “Why are you reading about criminals?”

  “Term paper.”

  “You’re not writing a term paper.”

  “You’re right. I’m with the library police, and I’m about to bust you for unlawful flirting.”

  Her friend said, “You started it.”

  Three pages later I came to an article that wasn’t about Markov, though the headline read MARKOV ONLY THE LATEST. It was a sidebar article about counterfeiting in the Pacific Northwest, and its star subject wasn’t Clark Hewitt. I sat up straight and I read the name twice, the second time aloud. “Wilson Brownell.”

  The blond girl said, “Excuse me?”

  I raised a hand and kept reading.

  The article labeled Wilson Brownell as “Seattle’s Master Printer” and described Brownell as a key figure in a funny-money ring operating in the late sixties and early seventies. The article said that Brownell had put together a printing operation in his garage and had developed a coffee-based aging process that enabled him to turn out fake currency that, except for the quality of the paper, was almost indistinguishable from the real thing. They estimated that he had placed almost ten million fake dollars into circulation before, in an attempt to acquire actual government currency paper, Brownell met with an undercover Treasury agent whom he believed to be a European paper supplier. The article finished by saying that Brownell had served eight years of a twenty-year federal sentence, was paroled, and was reputed to be living in the Seattle area, though he could not be reached for comment.

  I pushed back from the table, crossed my arms, and stared at the articles. The blond girl was concerned. “Is everything all right?”

  I shook my head, went back on-line, and tried to pull up more stories about Brownell, but none were available. Too far back.

  I thanked the librarian for her help, said good-bye to the tag team from UCLA, then drove to my office and phoned the North Hollywood Division of LAPD. A woman’s voice answered on the third ring. “North Hollywood detectives.”

  “Lou Poitras, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “The world’s greatest detective.”

  She laughed. “Sorry, bud. You’re talking to the world’s greatest.” These cops are something.

  “Tell him J. Edgar Hoover.”

  She laughed again and told me to hold on.

  I hung for maybe forty seconds, then Lou Poitras came on the line. “It’s gotta be you. No one else would have the balls.”

  “Hi, Louis. I need to find out about a guy in Seattle named Wilson Brownell. Got time to make the call for me?”

  “No.” He hung up. I never met a cop who didn’t think he was a riot.

  I called back and the same woman answered.

  I said, “This time tell him I’ve got pictures of the goat.”

  She said, “You sure you wouldn’t rather talk to me? I’ll bet I could help you.”

  “I’d rather talk to you, but Poitras owes me money and this is how he works it off.”

  “Hold on.”

  Poitras came on maybe ten seconds later and sounded tired. “Christ, I guess it’s go along or have my lines tied up the rest of the day. Beverly’s in love with you.”

  I could hear Beverly shriek in the background. “Jesus, Sarge, don’t tell him thatl”

  Poitras said, “What’s the guy’s name again?”

  I spelled it for him. Lou Poitras is a detective sergeant at North Hollywood Division, married, three kids, the youngest of whom is my godchild. He’s been pumping iron six mornings every week for as long as I’ve known him, and he is roughly the size of a Lincoln Continental. I’m pretty sure he could lift one.

  Poitras said, “You know, the taxpayers probably don’t like funding your research.”

  “At least they’re getting something for their money.”

  Poitras didn’t say anything.

  “Sorry, Lou. Just kidding.” Sometimes these cops are sensitive. “Brownell did time on a federal beef, but now he’s out. I need to know if he’s keeping clean or if the feds think he’s into something.”

  “You think he is?”

  “If I knew I wouldn’t have to put the arm on my friends for free information, would I?”

  Poitras said, “Free?”

  A kidder, that Lou.

  He said, “I’ll call you later.” Then he hung up.

  I pushed back in my chair, put my feet up, and thought about Wilson
Brownell and Clark Hewitt, and why Clark would risk returning to Seattle where both the Russian mob and the federal marshals were looking for him. It was obvious that Brownell and Clark were more than just friends. Brownell had probably taught Clark everything he knew about printing money, which is probably how Clark had gotten involved with the Markovs. If Clark was willing to risk going back to Seattle to see Brownell, it had to be because Brownell knew or possessed something that Clark needed, and that suggested Clark’s new business plan probably involved counterfeiting. Clark might be goofy, but he probably wouldn’t risk getting tagged by the Russians just to pal around with an old bud. Maybe Brownell was even going into business with him.

  I pulled out the two one-hundred-dollar bills that Teresa had given me and examined them. They were older bills, well worn and used, and they looked fine to me. I rubbed at the ink and held them to the light and examined the paper. They still looked fine, but I wasn’t an expert.

  I put them away and leaned back again when two men came through the outer door. The first guy was tall and black, with a shiny bald head and a plain navy suit and a grim demeanor. The second guy might’ve been a fashion model posing as a cutting-edge corporate executive. He was in his late thirties and in good shape, with immaculate dark hair and a conservative Brooks Brothers suit. I smiled when I saw the black guy because he was the same guy I’d seen in the gray LeBaron outside Teri Hewitt’s house. I smiled wider when I saw a thick bandage on the back of his left hand, and I kept smiling as I reached under my jacket, took out the Dan Wesson, and pointed it at them.

  The white guy said, “You won’t need that.” He had a light southern accent, and he didn’t seem concerned about the gun.

  I said, “That’s up to you. We might be here a while waiting for the police.”

  The black guy closed the door and leaned against it. I guess he wanted to make sure I couldn’t escape.