by Rex Burns
“I thought you were in a hurry for this, Dev.”
“I got held up.” He glanced at the Xeroxed pages. “Anything unexpected here?”
“Unexpected? No. But you might be interested in the cause of death.”
“Why’s that?”
“Doc says he bled to death. I kind of guessed that when there wasn’t much lividity.”
“You’re saying he was alive when they cut off his hands.”
“That’s what I’m saying. He could watch the whole thing. Maybe he passed out first. I like to think he passed out.”
Two uniformed officers entered the elevator on the second floor, and Kiefer and Devlin were silent until they were in the lobby. Kirk handed his visitor’s badge to the desk sergeant. He didn’t think Chris had passed out. His eyes were open and staring when he was found, and they still held the remnants of his knowledge of a new and unimaginable agony.
“You got anything to tell me yet?” Kiefer’s voice broke into Devlin’s thoughts.
“No. If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”
Kiefer got back on the elevator for a ride down to the underground parking garage. “Ah. Well, I hope you do that, Dev. I sincerely hope you do. See, I really want the son of a bitch who would do something like that. My guess is, it’s not the bastard’s first time. And my guess is, if I don’t get him, it won’t be his last. So you be sure you tell me anything you find out. Hear?”
Nodding, Kirk watched the elevator slide across the detective’s stiff face. Even if Kiefer didn’t get him, it was going to be the killer’s last time.
He finished reading through the pages of the forensics report on Chris and tried to frame words into a letter to his parents— words that would give some idea of their son’s death, yet hide the worst and offer what sympathy could be offered. Every sentence he put down seemed like a cliché, and none of the words said what he really wanted them to. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Newman—Your son was working for me in a dangerous job and a killer tortured him and cut off his hands and threw him in a sack to bleed to death. I’m sorry.” Sometimes you had to go around the edges of things instead of speaking clearly. That’s what, Uncle Wyn occasionally reminded Devlin, a college education was all about. And a man who had a year of law school shouldn’t have any trouble at all bending words. Uncle Wyn said that, too.
Finally he wrestled something into a rough draft and read it over a couple times to change a word here or rearrange a sentence there. He had a pretty good idea what would happen to this letter—the Newmans would place it in some paper mausoleum along with the other documents relating to their son’s death. Devlin still had the telegram notifying him of his father’s death. That, and the police reports and news articles. Why, he didn’t know, except that somehow all that stuff was a thread, admittedly tenuous, that kept the dead in memory and gave if not meaning at least an understandable cause for their destruction. So he knew that his words would be kept and read again and again. That knowledge made him prod them gingerly and with care. And copy the letter in longhand off the computer screen instead of printing it out.
The latter part of the day was spent peering at Jean Truman’s house. Her curtains were pulled open this time, and occasionally a dim figure moved past the windows with that busyness which foreshadows some kind of social activity. But there was no concealed avenue of approach to the condo’s window. The landscaping was designed to foil prowlers, and it kept him from moving closer with the camera. He hoped she was getting ready to come out, but she didn’t. Instead, a silver Chrysler convertible pulled to the curb and the blond man strode up the sidewalk that arced past the entries of Truman’s unit. In his late twenties, heavyset and with glistening hair that curled down behind his ears, the man rapped briefly and stood gazing around the neighborhood as he waited for an answer. Kirk had the camera ready when the door opened. But the woman stayed back in the shadows and the door closed quickly, and the click of the shutter was wasted film.
In about an hour, Kirk saw the pale blue smoke of a barbecue rise above the patio fence. If he listened hard enough, he could make out the tinkle of piano music from a stereo. But neither Devlin nor the camera’s telephoto lens could see a thing. As the evening drew toward that time when streetlights began to grow bright, a string of colored lights glowed softly under the arbor that covered part of the small patio. Later, the lights still glowing, curtains were pulled quickly over a dark window upstairs and a light shone briefly and then went out. Kirk gave it some more time, but the window remained dark and the tinkle of the piano continued. When he left, the Chrysler was still at the curb. It looked like Ms. Truman had found a cure for her migraines.
CHAPTER 12
ON HIS WAY back from the Broomfield interview, Bunch had been called to Humphries’ home. The man’s tense voice had rattled the car phone as he demanded protection.
“We had another prowler last night.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No. But I heard one. I did what Kirk told us to do—turned on lights, let him know we were awake. It must have scared him off. But I want additional protection—I want additional sensors and I want them now!”
Bunch drove slowly up the dirt lane that led to the ranch-style home at the crest of the gentle hill. Below, the shallow valley formed against the Front Range by Plum Creek was filled with sunlight and wind. Here and there groves of flickering cottonwoods or Lombardies marked clusters of buildings where executives played at ranching.
It wasn’t Mrs. Lucero but Mitsuko who waited for him at the door. “I heard your car.”
Bunch nodded hello to the smiling woman. She was braless, as usual, and the tight cloth of her slacks showed no furrow of underwear. He sighed. His rule was absolute: no involvement with the clients. “Your husband told me there was a prowler last night.”
“We think so.” She explained with exaggerated gestures that after they had turned off the television set and gotten ready for bed, Roland thought he heard noises behind the house. He turned on the back light and looked, but they saw nothing. Then he turned on the perimeter lights, as Mr. Kirk had instructed them to do, and crept around the windows trying to see if anyone was out there. “Roland was very brave. He told me where to hide and he went by himself to look through the windows.”
“Nothing?”
“He didn’t see anything. Actually, I didn’t hear anything, either, but Roland was certain he did.” She lit a cigarette which looked incongruous against the young smoothness of her face. “At about three in the morning, he jumped out of bed again, saying he heard more noises.” She shrugged. “I still heard nothing.”
“The perimeter lights were still on?”
“Of course. I’m sure the electricity bill will be very high.”
“If anyone tried to get in,” Bunch told her, “the alarms would go off. There’s no sign anyone tampered with the alarm feed.”
“As I said, I heard nothing. Roland hears things, but I usually sleep too well.”
“He said something about installing more sensors?”
“Yes. At the property line. He doesn’t like the idea of anyone walking all the way up to the house before an alarm goes off.”
Bunch looked out the window at the wooded acres surrounding the rambling building. “That’s a pretty expensive job, Mrs. Humphries.” He glanced at her. “That is your name, isn’t it? Mrs. Humphries?”
The cigarette paused. “Why?”
“I understand you’re also known as Miss Watanabe.”
“You’ve been detecting!” She clapped her hands and laughed. Bunch could almost count the silver notes that rose to the ceiling. “I am Miss Watanabe!”
“Not Mrs. Humphries?”
“Not officially.” She drew a last puff on the long cigarette and stubbed it out. “Perhaps not ever.” She held the door open for him to slide past her outthrust body. “Now, about those sensors … .”
Bunch could take a hint. He started a tour around the house, eyeing the windowsills and doorf
rames for tool marks, the soft earth at the house foundation for fresh footprints. The woman followed him, her glossy black hair cascading smoothly down her back to end just above the taut swell of rounded flesh.
“Is Mr. Lucero here today?”
“No. Just his wife. Do you need to talk to her?”
Bunch shook his head. Lucero would be the one to notice if anything around the grounds was disturbed.
“Do you know I’m only a little taller than your elbow?” She posed beside him to show the level of her head. The softness of hip and shoulder pressed against his side in two warm spots.
“How did you and Mr. Humphries meet?”
“In Japan. He was at an electronics conference that my father also attended. I saw him there.”
“Your father’s name’s Watanabe?”
“Hiroge Watanabe. A very wealthy and important man.”
“So you came with Humphries to America?”
“Oh no! My father gave me a trip to America when I graduated from the university. I applied to graduate school at Columbia, was accepted, and spent a year in New York. Roland and I saw each other there occasionally.”
“How did you get here?”
She shrugged. “Roland asked me to come. I said, ‘Why not?’ I’d never been to Colorado.” She tossed her long hair and looked around at the vista across the shallow valley to the Front Range. It rose in a series of blue-green ridges against the clear sky. From somewhere in the house came a rattle of dishes and the muted ranchera music that Mrs. Lucero liked. “It’s very pretty. But frankly, it’s boring. I expected to see Indians and cowboys.”
“They all got trampled by roaming buffalo. Humphries calls you his wife.”
Mitsuko shrugged again and looked away. “It’s what he thinks he wants. And it doesn’t bother me.”
“Thinks?”
“He doesn’t really know. Sometimes I believe that if I said I would marry him, he wouldn’t want me anymore.” Her black eyes glanced at him. “This way, I’m like a toy he’s borrowed and knows he has to give up someday.” She sighed, smiling again. “I don’t know why things have to get so complicated. Do you?”
Bunch didn’t. “How long do you plan to stay with him?”
She leaned back against the stretch of blouse and slacks, and that little tingle was in the air. “Why?”
“Just a professional question, Watanabe-san.” He led the way back to the front door, satisfied that no one had tried to force entry into the home. “Maybe somebody’s jealous of Humphries’ good luck. Maybe somebody wants to get rid of him so they can have you.”
“How romantic! But who could it be? I don’t know anyone in Colorado except Roland and Mr. and Mrs. Lucero. And Mr. Kirk and you.”
“Somebody from New York? Any possibility of someone following you out here?”
She shook her head, seeing that Bunch was serious. “I don’t think so. I had an affair or two back there, but it was nothing. Uncomplicated, you know?”
Bunch knew. “Maybe I’d better check it out anyway. Want to give me the names?”
She hesitated. It was the first time he’d seen caution in the woman’s dark eyes. “Is it really necessary? Roland doesn’t know about them.”
“If they haven’t followed you out here, he doesn’t have to learn about them.”
“And if someone has?”
“I thought you weren’t planning on a long-term relationship?”
The shrug was quicker this time, irritable. “What I don’t want to do is cause any unnecessary complications. Roland would be very upset if he learned about those others.” The irritation disappeared in a bright smile. “He is not as mature as I think you are, Mr. Bunch. Besides, I’m certain neither of them followed me out here. Neither had any reason to.”
“But it should be checked out.” Bunch could be equally stubborn.
Her expression doubted the necessity of it, but with a slow nod of acquiescence she gave him the names. He verified the spelling and jotted them in a small notebook.
“You’re leaving already?”
“Humphries wants his sensor field installed as soon as possible. I’ve got to get the equipment.”
In the Bronco’s rearview mirror, he saw her lean against the doorframe as he bounced down the drive. Until the road turned and pinched the house out of sight between stands of pine trees, the isolated flicker of white stood motionless and staring after him.
“They’re not married?” Devlin looked up from the letter that had just come in over the fax machine. Allen Schute from Security Underwriters had not been overwhelmed by the videotape of Zell mowing his lawn. It would make a stronger case for the jury, he wrote, if Kirk got pictures of the man using his back more strenuously. Devlin had an idea, but it involved breaking and entering, which meant illegally obtained evidence. He had been reluctant to try it, but they’d wasted enough time on Zell.
Bunch rummaged through the large closet that had been fitted up with shelving and a worktable and served as the storage room for his electronic equipment. “Mitsuko Watanabe, not Mrs. Roland Humphries. And probably never Mrs. Roland Humphries.”
“Why not?”
“I think she wants him to marry her, but she knows he’s not going to.” He shrugged. “I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s a lot going on they haven’t told us, Dev.”
That was Kirk’s reading too. “Could their relationship have anything to do with the prowler?”
Bunch told him about Mitsuko’s New York flings. “Think Percy can find out if one of them’s been out here recently?”
Percy was an ex-Secret Service agent who had his own P.I.. business in New York City. He and Devlin did favors for each other. But lately the balance had been against Kirk and Associates, and Devlin was reluctant to tip it any further.
“Hey.” Bunch poked his head out the closet door. “It’ll take him, what, a couple phone calls to find out if these guys took any time off from work? Christ, it can’t cost that much. Put it on Humphries’ bill—I can cover it in the cost of setting up the electronics.”
“Why not just list it?”
“She doesn’t want Humphries to find out about these guys. Says it’ll just cause problems.” He stacked sensors and electronic eyes on the floor and started coiling wire. “So I promised her I’d keep it quiet.”
Devlin picked up the telephone. As usual, Percy wasn’t at either his office or his home. A recording at his pager number said to leave a message and if it was vital, a representative from the Percy Ahern Agency would call back within the hour; if the message wasn’t vital, the representative would return the call as soon as possible. Thank you.
Devlin waited for the beep. “Percy, Devlin Kirk and it’s about seven p.m. our time. Please check two names for us to see if they’ve come to Denver in the last three weeks: Daniel Chaney and Lawrence Kosman. I’ll fax the information to you now.” He hung up and fed the papers with names and last known addresses, compliments of Miss Watanabe, into the machine, which peeped its gratitude.
“Somebody else I’d like to call while we’re at it, Dev.”
“What’s this ‘we’ shit?”
“Okay—’you.’ Call Yoshi. See what he can find out about Watanabe and her old man. He’s supposed to be a big bowl of rice in Tokyo—Hiroge Watanabe.”
Devlin considered that. Every now and then Bunch came up with a good idea. “How much can you cover in that electronics bill?”
“Hey, Humphries wants the best. If it doesn’t cost enough, he’ll be disappointed.”
Kirk hoped Yoshi Kamakura wouldn’t charge Tokyo prices for his time. With the exchange rate, even Humphries couldn’t afford much of that. Devlin wouldn’t call, though. He’d use the fax machine. On the other side of the world, Yoshi would be sleeping—or at least out of his office.
By the time Devlin drafted the inquiry and sent it beeping on its way, Bunch had lugged a pair of oversize gym bags out of the closet. “I got another good idea, Dev. You know how we’re falling behind
on electronics? How the state of the art is moving away from us?”
Devlin didn’t know that. “What are you trying to say?”
“There’s a new nonlinear junction detector out. Top-of-the-line stuff. It’s something we should have if we’re going to bid seriously for security sweeps.”
“How much?”
“About twenty-five.”
“Hundred? Maybe after Reznick’s next check—”
“Thousand. But that’s with all the extras.”
“Twenty-five thousand? Jesus Christ, Bunch!”
“Hey, we can cover it on the bid or hold off on some of the extras.”
“We try to keep bids down so we win them, Bunch. And we can hold off on the whole damned thing! What’s wrong with the junction detector you have now?”
“Nothing yet. That I know of. But listen, I warned you we’d have to update every few years. Listening devices get more sophisticated, detectors have to get more sophisticated too.”
Kirk tapped the pile of mail that had fluttered through the door slot earlier in the afternoon. “You know what’s in these envelopes, Bunch? Any idea what’s in these envelopes?”
“I know—I know. But think of it as an investment, Dev. You want to be the best in industrial security, you got to have the best detection equipment. You know that.”
“And I know a lot of these new electronics features are cosmetic! Just tell me honestly, Bunch—honestly, now: will the equipment you now have do the job? Because if it won’t, I’m not going to bother writing up that Broomfield bid.” He added, “We do not have twenty-five thousand dollars for some new nonlinear whosis, especially if we don’t really need the damn thing.”
“Well, yeah, I guess I can do a good sweep with the one we got. It’ll take a little longer, that’s all.”
“Then take longer. I’ll figure the bid with you taking longer. I’ll be goddamned if I’m borrowing twenty-five thousand when we don’t really need it.”
“We don’t need it yet. But you better figure it in the budget, because it won’t be long before the opposition finds a way around the stuff we do have.” Bunch shook his head as he closed the door. “Some of the things the Japs are coming up with now …”
