Body Guard

by Rex Burns

  Bunch stretched, fingers brushing the ceiling. He felt the stiff muscles pull against each other. Honesty, Bunch was convinced, was not only the best policy, it was—in the long run—the easiest. But Vinny, who was lazy in every other facet of his life, had never discovered that. Instead, he focused all his energy on the challenging task of looking after himself in the most underhanded ways possible. Not that Bunch didn’t have his own degree of self-interest; he didn’t know anyone who lacked it. But with Vinny it was a religion: every thought, every move was based on the question What’s in it for Vinny? Well, maybe this time the little puke would get something he hadn’t been planning on.

  “Devlin.” Bunch looked up as Kirk came in, spilling a waft of cold air from his jacket as he shrugged it off. “What’s the word on Eckles?”

  The tall man poured himself a cup of coffee from the hot plate resting on the metal filing cabinet. They were always talking about moving it so if it spilled, it wouldn’t drip into the drawers full of papers. But they hadn’t done it yet. “There’s smoke. Maybe there’s fire. Nothing definite yet, but it’s worth digging deeper.” They talked a bit about how to do that, the leads and possibilities that could be followed up tomorrow when offices were again open for business. Then Kirk asked what his partner had come up with for Minz.

  Bunch carefully brought a cluster of wired equipment from his workroom. “Here’s a little jewel I kind of modified from an early-model remote infinity listening device.”

  “Jesus. It looks like a Rube Goldberg bomb.”

  Bunch held up the small black box with a series of wires leading to a plastic case and a large dry-cell battery. “Better than a bomb—much better. Usually these things run off the power in your telephone wires. That’s how you spot them: you get a drain bigger than what you’re using. If Minz knows what he’s doing—and he hasn’t been caught yet—he probably runs a sweep of his lines every day. I can’t imagine any big-time dealer not checking his phones. Hell, maybe he has a permanent monitor set up. Anyway, I rigged a self-powered device and added a storage tape on it, too. It doesn’t drain power from the telephone lines—it runs off its own batteries. And it only sends when we want it to, which means it can’t be picked up too easy by a transmitter detector.”

  “How’s it work?”

  “Like an infinity device. It hears everything near a telephone and puts it on the tape. Then what we do is trigger a playback from a remote when we’re sure nobody’s listening for a transmission except us. Two o’clock in the morning, say.” He stared at the awkward collection of wires and units and dry-cell batteries. “Trouble is, it’s too damned big.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Hey, where’s your confidence?”

  “Uh huh. Now tell me we have to plant this monstrosity in his house.”

  “Well, yeah. That’s another problem, all right.” Bunch smiled. “But it can’t be traced to us—no wires.”

  The feds were touchy about wiretaps and other illegal electronics. A lot of detective agencies, including Kirk and Associates, turned down bugging jobs a couple times a month for just that reason. But there were those situations when no other type of surveillance was possible. Kirk tended to draw a line—admittedly thin and erratic—between using electronics for someone else and using them only for the agency. He doubted that a federal judge would accept an ancillary plea like that, however, and twenty years was a long time to spend in jail for violating a dope pusher’s right to privacy.

  “Hey,” said Bunch, “we’ll be careful. I’ve been doing a little background on Minz. Here’s how we can work it.”

  Minz’s office address and telephone had been on the car lease agreement. His legal occupation was commercial real estate, and his secretary told Bunch he was out showing a property. He would return to the office about six to get any messages. His home number had taken a bit more sleuthing—it was in the telephone book—and Bunch’s call to that number had been answered by a tape-recorded message. It was one of those comedy routines complete with the roar of a jet plane and a butler’s voice announcing that Arnold Minz had just flown off to Tahiti and would return shortly. Please leave any message with James. Beep. Bunch figured that the real comedy of the message was its expression of Minz’s fear—latent or admitted ironically—of being on the run from the police.

  The East Jewell address turned out to be a sprawling complex of large and expensive condominiums built around a series of courtyards. Each multi-bedroom unit was angled for privacy and the least amount of shared wall space. High fences painted gray-green like the rest of the buildings formed secluded little patios attached to each unit. On the west side of the complex, rows of double garages provided parking for residents. Visitors were offered islands of parking around the periphery of the condos. Minz’s garages were empty, and no metallic-blue BMW sat near the walk leading to his unit. Devlin backed the newly rented van to the curb and, wearing coveralls, he and Bunch carried large toolboxes to number 8.

  Bunch asked again, “He still didn’t answer the phone?”

  The last call had been from a public telephone two minutes away. “Just his machine.” Devlin turned his back to the door and surveyed the network of tall fences and shrubbery that offered privacy—and concealment—to the units’ entries. Behind him, half hidden, Bunch quickly worked a pick into the lock.

  It clicked and swung open. “It’s clear.”

  Devlin followed him in, noting the unused chain dangling beside the deadbolt lock, another indication that Minz wasn’t home.

  But just to be certain, they glided through the rooms for quick glimpses at the carpeted and multi-leveled spaces which looked both warm and open under skylights that punctured the ceilings.

  “I’ll set it up in the basement,” whispered Bunch. “Take about five minutes.”

  Nodding, Devlin settled in the kitchen, where the windows overlooked the walkway through the patio to the garages. The latex gloves made his fingers squeak on the shiny tile of the countertop, and—emphasizing the silence—a tall clock in the living room steadily counted each second. Whatever Vinny was plotting—even if it had nothing to do with the Advantage case—could mean trouble for Kirk and Associates. A little insurance wouldn’t hurt and might help a lot. But if he was arranging some kind of deal that involved Martin and Atencio, it meant Vinny had learned something. He knew when, maybe even where, the next shipment would arrive. It also meant that either Martin had brought Vinny in on the deal or Vinny was planning to force himself in somehow. Maybe the latter, maybe not. Eddie Visser said he went through middlemen to move his cut. But Minz wasn’t just a middleman. He was a major source. He was somebody who dealt in large quantities and who took a big bite out of the profits. Vinny could only afford a bite like that if he was going to get the whole pie instead of just a sliver.

  “Okay, Dev.” Bunch had come silently from the basement, and they went quickly to the front door. A woman, passing by with arms full of plastic shopping sacks, glanced their way as the door opened.

  Bunch leaned back into the room. “If it gives you any more trouble, Mr. Minz, call us. We take pride in our work!”

  “Afternoon.” Devlin smiled. The woman smiled back and disappeared around a bend in the brick walk.

  Bunch quickly relocked the deadbolt on the door.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE EQUIPMENT CHECKED out. Bunch called from a pay phone and listened to the recording of the now familiar jet noise followed by the orotund voice stating that Arnold Minz had just taken off for Tahiti. When the message cleared the line, he dialed another number—one the phone company didn’t know about—tooted a multi-tone whistle to activate the tap’s transmitter, and listened to the recording play again.

  “Where’d you hide it?” asked Devlin.

  “Couldn’t hide it too well. I put it in a dark corner behind the heater and moved some empty suitcases in front of it.” Bunch thought a moment. “Did you look at his telephones for a voice scrambler?”

  “I didn’t n
otice any black boxes.”

  “Me, I was in the dope business, I’d use an encryption unit. Expensive as hell, but so far, they can’t be beat. You can tap them but it won’t do any good.” He shrugged. “Besides, fifteen, twenty thou, that’s pocket change for a guy like Minz.”

  “And now you’re going to hit me up for an anti-encryption unit? Say, thirty thousand dollars’ worth?”

  “If they made them that cheap, Dev, I’d do it. But so far, you’re safe.”

  Apparently the phone tap was safe too. For the next couple weeks, either Bunch or Devlin was hauled out of bed at late hours by the clock radio to dial the number on Minz’s tap and tweet the whistle that started the playback of his calls and the snatches of conversation that took place within sound of the telephones. These last were few—and, as Bunch said, thank God Minz wasn’t the partying type. A couple hours’ whooping and hollering would fill the whole reel. One consistent caller was a woman named Louise whom Minz was dating. She would call to tell him about theater tickets or concerts that would be fun, or just to talk about what had happened to her since they’d been together last—usually eight or ten hours ago. Minz’s replies gradually grew shorter and his voice more polite as the days passed. Other voices, men and women, ranged from cryptic messages about precise times and vague places to inquiries about commercial real estate. Both Devlin and Bunch suspected that the prices quoted were often for property that wasn’t anchored to the earth. There was nothing from Vinny on the telephone tap. And the daily reports Kirk now insisted on having from the man were a constant litany of “Nothing yet, Kirk.” Consequently, there was nothing Kirk could tell Reznick when he called the executive.

  “Nothing? Jesus H. Christ, Kirk. It’s going on a goddamn month and you’re telling me you people haven’t found out a thing yet?”

  “We’re dealing with a very sophisticated organization, Mr. Reznick. And a very cautious one—there’s a murder charge floating around. They haven’t made any moves that we know of, but they haven’t closed down their operation either.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “For one reason, the suspects are still working for you. Despite having enough money to live very comfortably.”

  “Jesus.”

  “For another, our agent. He’s made a contact and he’s waiting to hear about the next shipment.” It wasn’t what Vinny told Kirk but what he did that provided the slim foundation for that statement. Devlin hoped Reznick wouldn’t ask more about it, and was relieved when he didn’t.

  “How goddamn long’s that going to be?”

  “That’s up to them—it has to be. But my guess is, it can’t be much longer. If they take too much time, they’re going to start losing customers. People with habits have to get their dope. If a pusher can’t supply, they’ll shop somewhere else. I think Atencio and Martin will be under pressure from their supplier, too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “A lot of dealers work on margin. They don’t have the cash to pay up front, so they put money down and pay the rest after they’ve marketed it. But suppliers don’t like to wait too long; trust doesn’t go very far in the dope trade.”

  “All right, all right. I get the picture. You people stay on it, then. But by God, I want to know the instant something happens. The very instant, understand me?”

  “You’ll know as soon as I do.” He didn’t tell Reznick that an operation this big and complex probably paid in full at time of delivery. No sense giving the man grounds for more worry. Besides, no matter how restless Reznick and Kirk grew, it was still Martin and Atencio who set the pace.

  At least there were other files to service. Bunch had the security bids, Kirk had Eckles, and they both had the evasive Ms. Truman.

  “I think it’d be cheaper if we just moved in next to Truman’s condo, Dev. Be a hell of a lot more comfortable, too.” Bunch twisted his shoulders hard against the stiffness of his spine and felt the vertebrae crackle deep in the muscles of his back. They’d been taking turns again on surveillance, but the only view either had of the woman was once when she limped out of the house in neck brace and walker to wait for a taxi to take her to a doctor’s appointment. As she waited she stared down the block to where Bunch lounged low against the seat back and tried to find relief for his cramped legs. And it was possible that, as the taxi pulled to the curb and the driver opened the door for her, she smiled and nodded a brief hello to the white Subaru.

  Kirk was having better luck with Eckles. The realtor whose name was on the sign in front of the empty home didn’t mind answering any question she could about her client.

  “He started out asking far too much for the house.” The woman was in her late thirties, smartly tailored, and had red-gold hair whose tight curls spiraled out in a wide aura around a tanned face that smiled a lot. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted. He said he could always lower the price but he’d feel like a fool if someone out there would have paid the higher figure.”

  “It didn’t move, obviously.”

  “No. And he waited too long to drop the price. Buyers who had been initially interested found other sellers—Denver’s a buyer’s market right now. And no one new came on the scene.”

  As with a lot of realtors, the woman’s world was divided into three parts: buyers, sellers, and financiers. Kirk asked about the third. “Do you know if Eckles was having any kind of money troubles? Did he tell you why he was selling the house?”

  “He was moving to San Diego. A new job, I believe.” She picked up the telephone. “I can find out about his payment history, if you want to wait a couple minutes.”

  He wanted to and did. The realtor talked briskly with a mortgage company in Texas. When she hung up, the smile had been replaced by a frown. “He’s delinquent in his payments—six months. He’s paid a little each month, but nothing like what he owes. And it’s getting worse with the reverse amortization.”

  “So he’s trying to dump the house.”

  Her blue eyes studied the papers from Eckles’s file. “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” In the silence, he could see the woman wonder what this development would mean for any sale.

  Well, that was her headache. Kirk had his own problems with Eckles. He stood and thanked her— “Oh, thank you, Mr. Kirk. I wouldn’t have found out about this if you hadn’t come in”— and drove to Arvada, one of the bedroom communities in the northwest suburbs of Denver. Eckles’s sister, a Mrs. Sybil Matson, was a short, heavyset woman whose straight gray hair had been clipped into a tight-fitting cap around her head. Her speech was equally no-nonsense.

  “You’re investigating an insurance claim my brother made? He didn’t tell me about any claim.”

  Kirk showed his identification and the letter of authorization from Security Underwriters. It looked even better attached as it was to the clipboard full of papers with her brother’s signature. “I’m authorized to make an inventory of his personal effects, so we can determine the extent of his loss, Mrs. Matson. I wonder if before he moved, he brought any property over here for storage.” He smiled. “You know, until he and Sharon got settled into their new place in San Diego.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, he did. I guess you know they’re in an apartment right now and don’t have much room.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Kirk lied. “Mr. Eckles told me. Is it still here?”

  “In the storage house out back. Mostly boxes.” The hair flipped as she jerked her head to point somewhere behind the house. “I suppose you’ll want to look at them.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ll need to. The inventory should be as complete as possible.”

  “Well, let’s do it then. I’ll get the key.”

  She led him through a living room that was rigorously decorated with dark furniture, family photographs on the walls, and rugs set at precise angles to chairs and doorways. The wooden floor gleamed. The kitchen, small for the rest of the house, was equally at attention. The secluded backyard, with its two apple trees, two peach t
rees, and two plum trees, had been mowed and clipped from the high hedge on one side to the tall board fence on the other. At the end of a flagstone walk that went past a birdbath sat a small barn-shaped storage building painted and trimmed like the house.

  “It’s in here. Ralph said it was stuff he didn’t want to leave in the rental place.”

  “What place is that, Mrs. Matson?”

  She looked up from the dial of the combination lock. “The storage rental place where he took the other stuff that we couldn’t fit in here. My husband helped him unload it.”

  The door with its Z-shaped brace swung open. The crowded storage barn was lined on one side by racks for tools and garden chemicals, and on the other side by two-by-four framing that held plywood shelves. Half a dozen cardboard boxes were placed on the top shelf.

  “Those are the ones. You need to open them up, right?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  He did. The woman stayed to watch as he inventoried the contents and filled out a list on his clipboard. One of the boxes held the missing sterling flatware and serving bowls, carefully wrapped in felt cloth and packed with small sacks of desiccant. The other boxes contained clothing and stereo components. Kirk finished his notes and resealed the boxes. “Do you know the address of the storage rental your brother used?”

  “No, afraid not. My husband might remember, but he’s out on the road right now. He’s a drug salesman. Not,” she added quickly, “the illegal kind. He works for Stuart Pharmaceuticals and sells to the medical profession.”