by Davis Bunn
Val went to the Yahoo.com Web site. The screen address had come back to him while he had been seated in the hotel lobby. Just another shard of memory, another fleck of another guy’s past. Val punched the button for e-mail retrieval, then typed in his screen name and password.
A long sweep of e-mails filled the screen. Val went through them carefully. The names and the messages formed imperfect mental fragments. Some e-mails asked him to get in touch with them if he was able. Most held the formal air of concerned business colleagues. After reading each one, Val hit the “keep as new” tab, so there would be no record of his having stopped by for a read. What he found there revealed no reason to go back.
Then a screen name leapt out at him. She used her own name, of course. Audrey d’Arcy. A very direct woman, surrounded in Val’s mind by candlelight and sorrow of his own making.
Val hit the key to open her e-mail.
My beloved Valentine,
I can’t believe this time you’ve left me for good. Now I’m alone and sinking inside the void where a heart used to be. Asking questions to a night that threatens to swallow me whole. I prayed for nothing more than to connect with you. Why was I doomed to fail with the one man I ever truly loved . . .
Val masked the letter and glanced around. No one paid him any attention. He stared at the front window and the night beyond, seared by her words.
He rose to his feet and went back to the counter. “Can I print something out?”
The guy still refused to glance his way. “Dollar a page.”
“Fine.”
The server keyed his register. “Just hit print. The pages come out back here.”
Val returned to his keyboard and clicked on the print button without looking directly at the letter. He wanted to read the rest of what Audrey had to say. He had to. But not now.
Val stood by the register, keeping himself close enough to ensure the clerk would not take time to read. But the guy showed no more interest in the pages than he had in Val. Val paid and returned to the computer and began the process of shutting down.
The screen showed an instant-message e-board. The message struck him with five furious bullets.
You vile, despicable, evil worm.
The return address was the same as the letter stowed in his pocket. Before he could gather himself to respond, Audrey shot another assault.
Here, let me help. You stole Val’s password in one of your noc-turnal forays. And now you’re checking things out. Making sure there’s nothing to tie you to your appalling deeds. But I know. I know.
Val felt the yawning gap of all he wanted to leave behind. The prospect of becoming reconnected kept him unable to respond.
The screen blasted through one more blow.
Murderer.
Val took a sharp intake of breath. His hands moved from his heart’s volition. He typed in, It’s me, Audrey.
He sat and waited. He could see her now, the strong features and piercing ice-blue gaze. The hair of burnished copper, which she hated because of its impossible waves. The direct manner of speech, the overlarge mouth, the features that were sparked to animation by the slightest hint of emotion.
Like the anguish he had caused her any number of times.
The screen remained blank. So he typed in, Really. It’s me. Val.
Another long pause, then, You’re not dead?
The world thinks so. I intend to keep it that way.
The screen slapped him again.
Oh, Val, Val, you terrible beast of a man, I have wept for twenty solid hours. Couldn’t you possibly have let me know? Is that so very much to ask?
Audrey, I’ve had an accident. I— She broke through with yet another question. Where are you?
New York.
You can’t possibly.
Yes.
Val, listen to me. Hide yourself.
You are the only person who knows I’m alive.
You have to get out of there. Out of the country, if possible. Come here, if you can, but don’t travel under your own name. Can you do that?
Why?
The answer was slow in coming.
Because my brother thinks he has killed you. And if he learns you’re alive, he will try again.
AS THEY DROVE AWAY FROM VAL’S, TERRANCE TURNED HIS CELL phone back on. The message signal began flashing almost instantly. Terrance scrolled through a number of calls from financial players. He said, “Two o’clock in the morning and I’m still fielding calls from Wall Street.”
“Bound to happen. People wired into breaking news want to check our pulse before the markets open.” Passing headlights reflected off Don’s face as if his features were sprayed with oil. “I’m thinking we should head back to the office, camp out there.”
Terrance gave a mental shrug. He would not sleep much wherever he lay down. He continued to scroll through his messages, then stopped. He recognized the former policewoman’s voice with the very first word. “I got something with explosive potential. Call me.”
He pressed the phone to his chest. How should he play this? He had seen Don at work. But he was not Don.
“What’s up?”
“Wally wants a word.” He pushed the redial button.
She answered on the first ring. “Don?”
“No. Terrance here.”
“A change like this,” the woman declared, “is a very bad idea.”
Suzanne Walton had been a highflier in the Baltimore police force until Internal Affairs caught her taking a bribe from a local vice czar. The woman loved to gamble beyond her means. The woman also lost. The money had to come from somewhere. Because she was one of the first women to earn a detective’s shield, the force had let her quietly resign.
“We don’t have any choice,” Terrance replied.
“Explain that one to me.”
There had been nothing the press could pin a story on. Which of course was what the Baltimore police had wanted. But they let word slip out quietly. When Don had come up with the idea of hiring Wally Walton, it had taken Terrance’s sniffer hounds less than a day to come up with the goods. Walton was dirty. The Baltimore authorities had spread the quiet word far and wide. Walton was bad news.
Terrance replied, “Things are in motion now. The exec who actually pulls the corporate strings has to be the key player.”
“Meaning Don Winslow.”
Don stopped at a traffic light and stared at him. Terrance said to the phone, “That is correct.”
“So he won’t have time for me.”
“Precisely. Plus, one of us must stand watch over Jack Budrow. I can’t. He despises me.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never quite been able to figure that one out.”
“This way you’re talking,” Wally said. “Does this mean you’re going to play it straight with me?”
“I can’t think of any other way to work this through.”
She mulled that over, then decided, “I guess I can live with that.”
“So what do you have?”
“Maybe nothing. You haven’t heard anything from Haines, have you?”
Terrance’s chest was clutched by a titanium vise. “What?”
“Val Haines,” she repeated. “Any word from the guy?”
“You have got to be joking.”
Don was watching Terrance now more than the road. “What’s going on?”
Terrance waved him to silence as the woman continued. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing. But he didn’t spend the night in the hotel.”
Terrance turned his face to the side window, concentrating fully. “Are you sure?”
“I got a couple of friends on the force up here. You’ll be hearing from somebody later today. The official word is, the guy is history. But they went into the hotel yesterday afternoon and found that the guy’s bed wasn’t touched.”
The car turned into the office building’s parking garage and halted in the executive space. Don cut off the motor. And waited.
Terranc
e was unable to move. “This is confusing.”
“Maybe not. You told me the guy was a night creature.”
“Yes.” Terrance laid his forehead upon the cold glass. “Particularly when he’s up there.”
“Right. So maybe he got lucky. Found himself a more pleasant place to sleep.”
His thoughts emerged in congealed lumps. All the documents had been structured to point at Val as the thief. Outside counsel and the auditors had been brought in. The files were now in the hands of the authorities. The scheme was in public play. Terrance forced himself to straighten. There was a damp spot where his forehead had rested on the glass. “We have to be certain.”
“NYPD is setting up a citywide alert.”
“They can’t find him.”
“Yeah, well, like I said. Most likely he’s not anywhere to be found.”
“No. You don’t understand.” Terrance’s breath was so constricted he could only find air for one word at a time. “The authorities cannot find Val Haines.”
WHEN VAL REENTERED THE HOTEL, THE CLERK WATCHED HIS approach with an impersonal gaze. Vince’s hair was cropped as close to his head as his graying goatee. The bones of his temple, jawline, and cheeks were as pronounced as his steely muscles. His skin was pocked from beneath his left eye to his ear, like he had been whipped with a chain or scarred by buckshot. He wore a dark-gray suit and a white shirt, with a tie as matte-black as his eyes. The muscles of his thick neck formed a slanted decline to massive shoulders.
“Mr. Smith.” Vince showed him nothing. Not in the gaze, nor the greeting. “What’s going on?”
Val forced himself to meet the man’s eye. The walk through the New York night back to the hotel had solidified his thoughts into a single focused objective. Val asked, “Did you mind me listening to what went on earlier?”
“That depends. You a cop?”
“Definitely not.”
“No, I don’t think so. You come in here all beat up, your clothes a mess. Only thing you’re carrying is a shopping bag full of new clothes. And you’re wearing those now.”
“You’re observant.”
“Comes with the territory. Actually, you know what you look like to me? You look like a sucker.”
Behind Val, the old man now camped out on the sofa wheezed a chuckle. Vince leaned to one side so as to look around Val. “Hey, why don’t you take a hike upstairs.”
“I ain’t bothering nobody.”
“That so? Well, I’m telling you it’s time to hit the sack.” Vince waited until the old man shuffled into the elevator and disappeared. Then he returned his attention to Val. “You were watching what went down with those guys.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“You’re a loan shark.”
“Don’t call it that. I’m a service provider. I’ve helped out a lot of people. They come to me when nobody else is gonna do a thing for them, except maybe break their legs.”
“What happens if they don’t pay you back?”
Vince did something with his eyes. The voice maintained its flat calm. But the eyes opened into bottomless pits. “Oh, they always pay me. Always.”
“I believe you.”
“Personally, I got a soft spot for suckers. I know what it means to be down and out.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“What I need to know is, are you trouble?”
“I told you, I’m not a cop.”
“That’s nice to hear and all. But I got to know. Somebody comes into my place of business, all beat up, pays cash, no plastic, no nothing, now he comes up to me like he’s wanting to do business. I got to know what’s going on with this guy.”
“It’s like you said, I got beat up and arrested.”
“You got any ID?”
“All I’ve got is a driver’s license. And it’s fake.” Val fished it out. “It says Iowa. But I’m from Florida.”
Vince inspected it carefully. “Nice work.” He handed it back. Vince moved like a boxer, his motions smooth and economical. Balanced constantly on his toes. His fingers rested lightly on the countertop. But he put no weight there. He leaned on nothing. “An honest out-of-town sucker. You get rolled?”
“Almost. I was in the process when the cops arrived.”
“So why’d they arrest you?”
“They say I attacked them. I don’t remember.”
“You hit a cop? In this town? Man, you’re lucky to be alive.”
Val touched the bandage on his temple. “They gave me this.”
“That ain’t nothing. That’s a love tap. Where I was brought up, that’d be a cop’s way of saying hello.” He cocked his head. “You know what I see? I see a clean-cut kinda guy, never been in trouble, never done time. No tattoos, am I right?”
“No.”
“Show me your arms.”
“What?”
“Roll back your sleeves. Yeah, like I thought. No tracks. Okay, you can roll ’em back down. People say they want some ID, what they’re telling you is, show me you’re street. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Guys doing heavy drugs, they hear that every time they hit on a new source. Show me your ID. What they want to see are needle tracks. Undercover cops won’t have tracks. They do, they’re one step from turning.”
“I told you—”
“I know, I know. You’re not a cop. You’re just a guy in trouble.”
“Right.”
“You’re not street. You don’t have idea one. And you’re being straight with what you’re saying.”
“As much as I know how.”
“See, normally to do business with me, you got to have an introduction. This ain’t about, what you call it, a résumé. Somebody brings you in, tells me you’re good for what you want to borrow, say you’re after twenty thou like that guy. You don’t pay, you skip town or get hit by a bus or whatever, this guy brought you in here? He’s got to be good for the loan and the vig.”
“That’s hard.”
“Welcome to life uptown.” Vince turned away to deal with the phone. Back again. All business. As impersonal as a robot. “So what are you after, anyway? Money? Blow? Something special in the meat department?”
“A passport.”
“You want paper. That’s tough. Tough and expensive. Since the terrorist thing they been cracking down on the paper handlers.”
“Can you help?”
“Maybe. Yeah, I might. Like I said, I got a thing for suckers.” A flick of a smile. There and gone. “You got money to pay for the work?”
“Can you give me some idea how much it’ll cost?”
“You want a new name too?”
“No.”
“So this Jeffrey Adams you just showed me on the ID, it ain’t real.”
“No.”
“For a passport, good work, I’d call it four, maybe five thou.”
“I’ve got that much.”
“Then yeah, maybe I can help you out. But I got to know up front, what’s in it for me?”
Val wiped his hands up and down his trouser legs. What choice did he have? Vince simply stood and waited. Facing a sweat-stained man at the moment of decision was nothing to this guy.
Val unstrapped the watch from his wrist. “I can give you this.”
Vince held the watch up to the light. Squinted and inspected carefully. “Cartier tank. Twenty-carat frame. With the alligator band. Nice. This hot?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“What, it was a gift? Got some sentimental value?”
“Not anymore.”
“I like that. Cutting all ties. Neat and tidy.” Vince made the watch disappear. “Okay, Jeffrey or whatever your name is. Let me make a few calls. I’ll get back to you.”
He stared at the pocket now holding his watch. “Can I wait?”
“Not a chance. I don’t like the sound of heavy breathing when I’m working. Go do like the old man, use the bed you’re payin
g for.” Vince reached for the phone. “I’ll let you know when it’s time for round two.”
TERRANCE WAS SO DEEP IN A MIDNIGHT COMA HE COULDN’T even tell if the pinging sound was a nightmare.
He rolled over and landed on his office floor. His eyes were open now. He crawled to the ringing cell phone perched on the corner of his desk. “What?”
“It’s Wally.”
“Wait one.”
Terrance forced himself to his feet. He crossed the hall to the bathroom and washed his face. He had never slept in the office before. He had laid down thinking he could at least remain prone for the two hours until dawn.
Terrance returned to his office. His watch lay on the coffee table. He did not need to check it. He picked up the phone and said, “All right.”
“What I’ve got, it’s not the best news.”
Terrance went from stupor to as awake as he had ever been in his life. Liftoff in three seconds flat. NASA should take lessons.
Terrance raced out of his office and down the side corridor in his T-shirt, pants, and socks. No belt. His front was still damp from splashing himself.
“Are you there?”
“Yes.” He hit the stairwell door with his shoulder. The steel handle struck the wall like an angry gong. “What do you have?”
“Like I told you earlier, I’ve still got some buddies up here in the force. I had them keep an eye out for me. Which has been expensive. You hear what I’m saying?”
“Spend what you need.” He took the steps three at a time. Ripped the door open.
“I’m spending. Believe me. Spending isn’t the question here. It’s getting paid.”
He sped down the hall. “We’ll take care of you.”
“You better.”
“Haven’t we always?” Terrance burst into Don’s office. The man was dead to the world. Terrance kicked the sofa. Again. Don lifted his head but didn’t open his eyes.
Terrance said to the phone, “You’re telling me Val Haines is definitely alive?”
Don did a human catapult off the sofa. He crouched before Terrance, his face a rictus snarl.
“Not definite. Nothing definite about this case. But the evidence is definitely not in our favor.”
“Tell me what you have.”
