Red Heroin

by Jerry Pournelle

  I sat down. It was hard to realize that she was dead. I still didn't believe she was anything more than it looked like, a kid who got too involved with saving the world. They'd let her carry the mail and then killed her. Shearing was still talking.

  "We thought they might have somebody watching this place," he was saying, "and Louis and the Treasury people insisted that the heroin had to be seized as soon as it got here. I persuaded them to let you off. Seemed like a good idea at the time, because if you were in custody I couldn't talk to you without letting the connection get out to too many people. I still can't figure out why they did this. They must have sent a prime case to watch your place, and when he saw all that stuff being taken downtown he pulled this. That would mean at least some of them don't know Wahlke took the junk off with him. Have you got anything to drink?"

  I didn't really hear him, but some part of me did and got up. I took out a bottle of Scotch and poured each of us a big slug. Shearing drained his off and said, "At least, I think that's it. If the guy wasn't after the junk, it means they thought the kid knew too much and might have spilled some to you, so they wanted you both out of the way. Damn it, I don't even know which of you they wanted, if they wanted either of you. The kid stuck up for you."

  "Yeah, she did, and I let her, and I let them take her out to that car . .."

  "What in hell do you mean, you let them take her?" Shearing demanded. "Get off the martyr crap and talk sense. You didn't have a damn bit of control over what happened here. Turned out neither did we, but you sure as hell didn't. Now are you going to sit there and drink Scotch and feel sorry for yourself, or are you going to help me get this job done? We've still got work to do, and if you're interested in doing something about the people who killed the girl you'll help. Let's get on with it."

  "Work? How? You mean catching Nancy and Dick? I told you all I know about them. I still don't know why Alessandro was so surprised. I marked the lock papers the way you told me to."

  "Sure you did," Shearing said. "But Louis never got the message because I never passed it on. He'd want to arrest them. You have to remember, the Treasury people are only interested in stopping the flow of narcotics. The FBI has a counterespionage mission, but they have to play by the rules, and when the Treasury and Secret Service boys yell loud enough Louis has to roll over and play dead. You don't need to worry about Wahlke. I had a man at Western when you let them off, and I'll find out who Wahlke hands the stuff to. He'd probably want to get rid of it before you even got to shore, so my people ought to know something right now. Our problem now is that Louis won't wait to pull off this big cleanup campaign of his. He'll organize the roundup when he gets back to his office, so we don't have much time to try to connect the dope people to the ChiCom agents. Much as I like Louis, why the hell couldn't he have been in that car instead of Carruthers?"

  It was still hard for me to think. I kept remembering Carole, and I kept expecting her to come in the door. Her jacket was lying there in the middle of the dining room, and I took it in and hung it up with some of her other things in my closet.

  I poured myself another shot of Scotch, and told Shearing, "You know, I still don't know that there was anything in those packages but film. I wonder if they weigh any different from when I handled them in Victoria?"

  "There was something. That guy wouldn't have tossed a grenade over some war pictures. Come on, use your head. I know you're shook up, but we have things to do. Look here."

  He had a whole sheaf of photographs. As he handed them to me he said, "The Mountie in Victoria took them. Everybody in the terminal when she got the stuff. Your chick got the films out of a dead drop, but sometimes these guys like to be clever and watch the pickup. A real pro wouldn't, but there's nothing that says pro about this operation so far. See if you recognize anybody.

  The pictures were of the ferry dock in Victoria. There were several dozen, all obviously unposed, and as I went through them I began to think I recognized half the faces, but of course I didn't. Then one stood out.

  "Roger Balsinger?" I said. I mean it was a real shock.

  "You know him? Who is he? You never mentioned any Balsingers that I can remember."

  I told him about Roger and where I'd seen him last.

  "I wonder about you. Crane. I really do." Shearing shook his head and made a face. "Here a guy practically pushes the chick into your boat for the trip and you don't think it's worth reporting. Jeez, if they'd just give me a decent operation so I didn't have to use all those amateurs." He took another drink. "Sorry, Paul, I don't really mean that. You've done a pretty good job all told. Hell, a damn good job." He picked up the telephone and dialed the headquarters number. "Shearing. Yeah, the lost sheep got found, and I'll see you next Groundhog Day. I think we've got him. Balsinger, Roger Balsinger. Playboy type. Six-two, about 180, sandy brown hair, cut short. Dresses in conservative suits or sports coat and tie. Drives a TR4, silver. Address 5348 University Way, an apartment there, number unknown. Hangs around the University District a lot. Frequents coffeehouses, taverns. Works in an insurance brokerage house, may have his name in the firm title. Family lives out near Sand Point somewhere—yeah, it's those Balsingers. They're presumably not involved. I want this guy. I want him alive, and I don't want anyone else to know we've got him. The Friendly Neighbors are starting their drive—yeah, okay, so you got the word. We need this Balsinger type before then if we can get him. We want any papers he might have, anything at all. I'm proceeding to his apartment now. Send an expert; I want that place taken apart. Yeah, I'm that sure. He's got to be it. May be a big one. Okay, go at it." Shearing hung up. "Paul, you've earned your way into it if you want. Want to come with me? Might make it easier for me to get in that place if he's home."

  "Sure, but I can't see Roger as a master spy. He's a clod. And what in hell would he do it for? The only thing he likes is himself. He sure wouldn't be loyal to anything."

  "How should I know?" Shearing remarked. It seemed a reasonable statement. "We do know he was in Victoria—right where the stuff was handed over—which makes him the cut-out man between whoever furnished the stuff and the delivery agent. He's valuable enough to get out of carrying the mail when they're desperate for it. He shows up to look you over and gives the chick the word that she's to go. He associates with money and his family's rich so he can handle good-sized amounts without anything special being thought of it. If we're wrong we'll apologize, but I don't think we are. Do you?"

  Chapter Nine

  While Shearing watched, I got out the little five-shot .38 Chief's Special they'd given me and clipped its holster on my belt. I put some extra cartridges in my pocket, and pulled on a trenchcoat I hadn't worn for years. It would look a little conspicuous, because even in the rain in Seattle we generally don't wear raincoats, but it might keep anybody from recognizing me when we went out. I also pulled on a hat, and we went out the back way. I left the Barracuda sitting in front of the curb and we took Shearing's Impala.

  It isn't far from my place to the apartment where Roger lived. Shearing seemed to know his way around the District, cutting through residential streets rather than going up University Way where there are people and traffic lights. We went in the back way and through the hall to the mailboxes. Roger lived on the second floor. This was a nice apartment building, a new one, but designed with inside halls and outside balconies for the apartments. It kept people from seeing who was visiting you unless they opened their doors, and I wondered if that was why Roger had chosen it.

  Nobody answered the bell. Shearing took out a little plastic ribbon and tried it on the door, but nothing happened. He put it back in his pocket and looked at the door again. "That's interesting," he said. "Any other door in the building I could open with this, but he's done things to his lock." He took out a flat leather tool roll from his coat pocket. I hadn't noticed it before, so he must have brought it from the car. It still took him about five minutes, with me worrying that somebody would see us and call the police, but finally the
re was a splintering sound and the door opened. Shearing had his pistol out as he went in. A little self-consciously, I drew mine. There wasn't any need for it. Nobody was in the place.

  "Let's see what we have here," Shearing said after he closed the door. "You watch the door. If he comes in, let him. Say something nice to him. Get him inside and we'll take him." I sat down facing the door but off to the side where you wouldn't be able to see me immediately if you came in, and Shearing began to go through the place.

  He was very systematic. He started with the desk, and looked at every paper, book and object in or on it. As he finished with each item he put it in one of three piles he was making. I noticed that one pile had all the books he found, which presumably meant they would be examined again for codes or something. When he finished with the loose objects, he took drawers out of the desk and looked at both sides, measured their depth inside and outside, and looked into the holes they had come out of.

  He was about finished with the desk when there was a knock at the door. Shearing stood against the wall on one side, and I moved to the other. The bell rang, then there was another knock. Then the door opened, and a man about my size came in. Shearing relaxed.

  "George, this is Paul. George is on our side. Okay, Paul, you go back to watching. You got somebody outside?" he asked George.

  "Janie. There's nobody else," he went on when Shearing gave him a funny look. "I've got to keep liaison with the Neighbors, and I've got everybody else either tailing Wahlke and Snow to see what they do with the stuff, or out looking for your chum Balsinger. Incidentally, Wahlke's got the junk on him, or it looks good anyway. He's carrying a little briefcase around and I can't think why, the places he's going. May be distributing. Got some names and addresses for you."

  "Good. Now let's take this place apart," Shearing told him. George went in the other room. They searched for over an hour and Roger's nice playboy apartment would never be the same when they finished with it. They tore furniture apart, slashed the linings out of luggage, took any solid object they could apart, and generally wrecked the place. Then George called from the bedroom, "Here's something." He came in with a little cheap black-bound financial journal such as they sell in dime stores. "Inside the headboard of his bed. Neat little box in there, would have missed it if we weren't taking the place apart."

  They looked at it, and I watched over their shoulders. It had mostly strings of numbers, with a few words that didn't seem to mean anything. I couldn't make any sense out of it, but they didn't seem to be able to either.

  "Must be a pretty simple code," Shearing said. "He wouldn't have it if it didn't mean something to him, and nobody can keep that much in his head. Unless he's got a computer."

  "Hey," I said. "What about his insurance office? It might have an office computer. If it's a simple code, he might be able to use that, those office machines don't have a big memory capacity but they will handle a lot of bookkeeping."

  "Good thinking," George told me. "I'll check it out, shall I?"

  "Later," Shearing told him. "Right now I want Balsinger. You stay here and keep watch on this place. See what else you can find. I'm taking Janie off the outside, so be careful. Let's go, Paul."

  On the way out, Shearing used some of Roger's Old English Scratch Remover furniture polish to hide the damage to the door. When he finished, you'd have to look close to see that it had been forced, and they fixed the lock so that it would work again. George stayed inside and we went down the stairs and out.

  Outside, the mist made halos around each street light. Shearing signaled with his arm, and a couple of minutes later Janie joined us in his car. We turned the lights out and sat watching the apartment building while we talked. Shearing tuned in a station on the radio and we waited for the news.

  "How much did George tell you?" Shearing asked Janie.

  "Most of it, I guess. The grenade business, Balsinger, and Alessandro's orders. Is there anything else?"

  "No," he said. "We've got maybe until dawn before the word gets out about the roundup. Louis will do it right and try to get everybody he can at one time, and he's got sense enough to keep anybody who knows about it away from a telephone." I remembered that I hadn't been out of sight after I heard Alessandro's instructions, and wondered if he meant that for me.

  "What do we do, just wait?" I asked. "There must be something better we can do. Why don't you want anybody to see me?"

  "Because you may be officially dead, and while I don't right now know how I can use that I don't throw anything away for nothing. Listen," Shearing said.

  The record droned off and we were spared further laments about the teenage girl watching from the sky. A newscaster came on. "The latest word about the explosion in the University District seems to be that there was a definite attack on a police car. Black Power literature was found scattered at the scene, and police have refused to answer any questions put by reporters. One reporter has announced that eyewitnesses saw a Negro apprehended at the scene of the explosion, but police refuse to comment on that as well.

  "There were at least four persons killed in the explosion, which seems to have been caused by a hand grenade. At least two were police officers, and there is speculation that the other two, one of whom was a woman, were prisoners under arrest. Police are withholding the names of the victims pending notification of next of kin.

  "Speculation further has it that the police had arrested two members of the anti-war committee of the university and were about to take them to police headquarters when the car was attacked. It is not known whether the attack was related to the arrests or was a separate incident. For further bulletins, stay tuned to this station. Next regular news at eleven o'clock."

  Janie switched off the radio. "We know Balsinger's in this. Is there anyone else we can try to pick up before Louis' dragnet gets them?"

  "I don't know," Shearing answered her. "George found what may be a record book. If it is, and we can decode it in time, there might be. I'm going to run it down to headquarters and roust up what talent I can find. What do you think you and Crane could do before morning?"

  "Well," she said, "we could go look for Balsinger around the District. Paul could take me to the places he might go."

  "What do you think Paul? I can't see any real reason for reporting you dead. Nobody knows the Halleck girl is dead either, except whoever sent the hophead to watch your place. They won't know about you and where you fit in, and somebody might take an interest tonight. By tomorrow there won't be anything to do but round up the pieces, if Louis leaves any. If we don't get Balsinger, or crack this code, I doubt we'll get any top people and I'll be back where I started. They'll still have money, Balsinger will go to ground, and I won't have a lead on the espionage net."

  "Won't you be compromising Janie?" I asked.

  "They know I'm connected with you one way or another, we made that obvious," she said. "If they know which side you're on, they'll know about me as well. If they don't, being seen with you won't hurt anyway."

  "Yeah, that's all great," I told them, "but what in hell do I say about Carole? It may not seem funny to you characters that a girl goes off on a weekend trip with a guy and turns up dead, but normal people might sense a connection. I for one would wonder what in hell Paul Crane was doing walking the streets with another girl when his chick had just been splattered all over the landscape in front of his house." They were so damn calm, and I wanted to scream.

  Shearing shook his head. "It wasn't in front of your house, it was in the middle of the next block. You lie, is what you do. You tell them Carole brought back some films and took them out to give somebody, and you haven't seen her since. You tell them you weren't home when the bang happened. You act a little worried about her, but not too much because you had a fight with her on the way back. Hell, you use your judgment. If you don't like that, you could try going fishing and get out of the way while we try to get something out of this fouled up mess."

  "You cold-blooded son of a bitch," I told him
. It was getting to me. "I know what I can do. I can go out and try to find out who gave a moron with a grenade and a fistful of Black Power literature the job of watching my house. Those bastards were laying for Carole and me, and if you aren't interested in who wanted that done, I am." I opened the door of the car and got out. I thought Shearing might try to stop me, but all he did was nod at Janie. She got out too, and Shearing drove away, fast.

  "What in hell do you think you're doing?" I asked her.

  "I'm staying with you to make sure you don't warn anybody about Louis Alessandro's show tomorrow morning. And incidentally to have somebody available to vouch for me, too. You don't think he'd leave either one of us alone tonight, do you?"

  "What's to keep me from running out on you, doll? You can't keep up with me."

  "Nothing, Paul. But you'd be in a hell of a mess if somebody does let it leak and you had left me, wouldn't you?"

  I started to walk to my house, but remembering that she didn't like to walk fast, I kept the pace down. I couldn't help remembering a girl who could keep up with me.