Deadlock

by Robert Liparulo

  Hutch shook his head. “I’m not a hero.”

  Page squinted at him. “I wish you weren’t. There’s a special kind of pain a person feels when someone is called a hero for killing your child.”

  The tension between them felt as thick as the smoke over Page’s head.

  Page said, “You’re here to gather intelligence, to find out what you can about me. You assume I invited you here to learn what you know.”

  Or to scare me off, Hutch thought, but he said, “That’s not why you invited me?”

  “I don’t care what you know. I wanted to know who you are, what kind of person I’m dealing with.”

  “And?”

  “You’re obsessed,” Page said. “I know what it looks like.” He relaxed into the sofa. “I know what it feels like. There’s a simplicity to obsession that frees you from other responsibilities. Most people don’t understand that. They don’t realize that laser focus means everything else is out of focus, unimportant. There’s something refreshing about that.

  “You’ve had a rough time. Lost a few friends. Divorce. You see your kids only every other week. You’re struggling to make ends meet. Oh, don’t look so violated. You know I have access to that information. And you should have learned enough about me to know I don’t go into any situation unprepared.”

  He set the cigar in an ashtray. He picked up his glass, swirled the liquid, and drank. He said, “With everything else in your life in shambles, you needed an obsession. I’m all you can think about. Isn’t that right?”

  Hutch said nothing.

  Page continued. “You need to take a deep breath and reprioritize your life. I should not be at the top of your list. I should not be on your list at all. Go do something else for a while. You’ll see.”

  “You’re saying I need a hobby?”

  “Not a bad idea,” Page said. “Have you hunted lately?”

  “Not animals.” Hutch let his words hang between them.

  Page finally bent his lips into a full smile. He said, “I don’t like being the object of obsession. Let me put it to you plainly: Get off my back. Stop sniffing around my companies, my employees, my former employees. This will end badly for you.”

  Hutch rose. He said, “You can’t suppress the truth forever.”

  Page thought about it. Finally, he sighed and stood. He stepped around the coffee table. He touched Hutch’s shoulder, gently nudging him toward the door. On the way he gestured toward the diorama. “Did you have a chance to examine my war model?”

  “I noticed you sitting on the horse.”

  Page laughed. “Wonderful, isn’t it? Napoleon’s greatest battle, Austerlitz. Some say tactically it was the most stunning military victory of all time.”

  “I’m partial to David and Goliath, myself,” Hutch said.

  Page ignored the comment. He said, “Smart commanders know when they’re outnumbered, when they’ve been outmaneuvered. They realize when it’s time to give up. Are you familiar with Demosthenes, the Athenian orator and statesman?”

  When Hutch didn’t respond, Page continued. “I’m surprised, given your fondness for famous quotations.”

  Is there anything about me this guy doesn’t know?

  “In August of 388 BC, Demosthenes was an infantryman at the Battle of Chaeronea, where the Macedonians slaughtered the Athenians. But Demosthenes ran away. When people asked him why he hadn’t stayed on the front line and died with his countrymen, he answered, ‘To live and fight another day.’” Page stopped, allowing Hutch to continue alone toward the door. “Find a different bad guy, Hutch. I’m not your man.”

  Hutch turned. “I call them as I see them.”

  He could tell Page was considering a catalog of responses. In the end, the man said only, “Don’t forget to pick up your tape recorder on the way out.”

  At the door, Hutch turned around. Page was leaning over Napoleon’s grand moment. He pushed his equestrian effigy closer to the opposing forces, acting as though Hutch had already left, as though he had never been there.

  “May I . . .” Hutch said, hating to ask this man for anything. “May I speak to Julian, just to say hi?”

  Page didn’t look up, but he paused, thinking. “Nanya will escort you down.”

  Nanya opened a door onto a flat rock patio. Hutch brushed past her and stepped onto the field.

  Julian was sitting on the brown grass, his head down. He noticed the glares the others threw at Hutch and looked over his shoulder. He smiled, rose—painfully, it seemed to Hutch. He started for Hutch at a fast walk.

  Hutch barely knew the boy, but somehow they shared a connection. He suspected Julian admired him for standing up to his brother, for staying to fight instead of running, as he could have. Well, as someone, not Hutch, could have. He just didn’t have it in him to turn his back on human suffering. And that was part of it as well: Hutch thought Julian saw in him qualities that were lacking in the male role models in his life. They were qualities Julian felt in himself, but they were dying from not being affirmed.

  Julian, if you only knew, Hutch thought. I’m not the hero you think I am.

  Julian reached him and, to Hutch’s surprise, kept coming. He pressed himself against Hutch, embraced him, one tight squeeze. The boy broke away and glanced up at his father’s office window. Hutch did too. The milky opacity was gone, but Page was nowhere in sight. Julian’s eyes flicked to Nanya, hovering a few feet away. He frowned, but when his eyes returned to Hutch, he smiled.

  Julian said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question. Your dad and I . . .” He was going to say “had some business to discuss,” but the idea of doing business with Page turned his stomach. He thought Julian would respond the same way. “I came to talk to him. How are you doing? You look good.”

  “Except for the black eye and bloody nose.”

  Julian’s short-cropped hair gave Hutch a clear view of a horizontal scar spanning the boy’s forehead.

  Hutch nodded toward it. He said, “Why do all my friends have scars?”

  Julian ran his fingers over the thin, raised tissue. “Unlucky, I guess.”

  “Lucky, more like it,” Hutch said. “Means you lived through something that tried to kill you. I saw you sparring. Looked pretty rough.”

  “Nothing new.” He nervously rubbed a twine bracelet between his forefinger and thumb. He sidestepped to put Hutch between himself and Nanya. He lowered his voice to say, “Are you still after Dad?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Keep doing it.” His eyes became shiny with tears. “Don’t stop.”

  Hutch heard Nanya crunching over the grass, stepping closer. He said, “How can I reach you?”

  Julian shook his head. “I wanted to talk to you, but I don’t have access to e-mail or a phone.”

  An idea struck Hutch, one of those Wanna-bet-I-can-jump-to-that-balcony? impulses that smart people ignore. He gripped the boy’s shoulder. His other hand slipped into his jacket’s inside pocket and pulled out his mobile phone.

  Julian took his cue from Hutch’s intense stare and kept his eyes locked on Hutch’s.

  “Are they hurting you? I can get family services out here.” He realized how lame it sounded as soon as he said it.

  “Are you kidding?” Julian said, a twisted smile on his lips.

  Hutch tucked the phone into the folds of Julian’s keikogi. He knew it would slide down his stomach and stop where the belt was tied. He whispered, “Turn it to vibrate.”

  Nanya stepped so close, her shoulder touched Hutch’s.

  Hutch ignored her. He said, “What’s going on here? I’ve heard things.”

  Nanya said, “Mr. Hutchinson, it’s time to let Julian get back to his studies. Julian?”

  “I’m sure your ears are fine,” Julian told Hutch. “It’s good to see you.”

  “To be honest, Julian,” Hutch said, “I wish I h
adn’t seen you. Not here.”

  The boy shrugged.

  Hutch said, “You take care of yourself.”

  Julian slowly returned to the sparring circle. He sat and looked back. They exchanged a nod, and Hutch turned and strode away.

  EIGHTEEN

  Hutch climbed into the Pacifica and slammed the door. He sat looking through the windshield at Page’s headquarters building. The odor of the man’s cigars clung to him. He felt as though a patina of smoke covered him from head to toe. Still, he got the sense that it was having been in Page’s presence, and not simply the smoke, that made him want to take a shower.

  Page was slick, no doubt about it. There could be no shadows without light. The man knew how to blind people with candor while keeping secrets in the shadows his truthfulness did not reach. It was a tactic practiced by all great manipulators: tell the truth 90 percent of the time, and people tended to forget about the other 10 percent. But lethal things can be hidden in slivers of darkness.

  In dealing with Page, Hutch vowed to remember that.

  Their conversation had not provided much new information. It merely confirmed what he’d already known or suspected: the charisma, the directness born of confidence and power. Still, the visit had proved worthwhile in ways he could not have imagined. He’d found a reference to Genjuros, probably the very drawing that had put the word in Nichols’s vocabulary. Hutch had work ahead of him to uncover its meaning, but he believed he’d made an important inroad.

  And Julian. The boy’s head had to be filled with details that, with the research Hutch already had on hand, were bound to paint a gruesome picture of the debonair Brendan Page. Hutch already felt regret seeping into his consciousness. The phone put Julian at risk, he was sure of it. Hutch ached at the thought of Julian being caught with it, especially if Hutch’s motivation was nothing more than furthering his own investigation.

  No, he told himself, somehow, someway, I can help him. If he wants out, I’ll try to find a door. If he wants a friend, I’ll be there.

  The phone’s battery wouldn’t last long. They’d have to connect soon and figure out how to reach one another beyond the life of the phone.

  He started the car and drove to the main guard shack, where he surrendered his passes. He pulled forward and stopped at the cross street. Up the road a ways, the Mustang he’d seen broken down earlier was parked at the curb. The driver was looking at him through a pair of binoculars.

  Surely Page’s money could buy better surveillance than that. Even the car wasn’t what he would have expected. It was old and worse for wear. Maybe that was part of the gimmick, to use a vehicle that no one looking for a tail would suspect. But then why be so obvious with the binocs? Perhaps that had not been so intentional; the driver brought them down.

  Hutch pulled onto the street, heading away from the car. In the mirror, he saw it pull away from the curb, and then a hill blocked it from view.

  NINETEEN

  Hutch sat on the edge of his motel bed. He moved the motel phone from the nightstand to his lap and dialed Logan’s mobile phone number. He had arranged for Laura to use it during her visit, since she had left her satellite phone in Fiddler Falls.

  When she answered, he said, “I’m done.”

  “How’d it go?”

  He groaned and went on to describe the meeting.

  “He flat-out told you to get off his back?” Laura said.

  Her voice sounded thin. From concern or a bad connection, Hutch couldn’t tell.

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “In his way. He said if I continued my investigation, it would end badly for me.”

  “Sounds like a threat to me,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

  “What I’m not going to do is get off his back.” He pushed himself farther onto the bed and leaned against the wall. “I spoke to Julian.”

  “There, at Outis?”

  “That was my reaction. He’s working out with the recruits. He wasn’t happy. He said he can’t even make phone calls.”

  Her silence conveyed more than words.

  Hutch said, “I gave him my cell phone, so don’t call it. Tell the kids not to call either. I think he’ll be up the creek if they discover him with it.”

  “I hate to think what ‘up the creek’ means in a place like that.”

  Hutch closed his eyes, trying not to think about it. He said, “Is Logan angry I wasn’t there when he got up?”

  “More like disappointed. I told him something really important came up.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said, ‘What else is new?’”

  Hutch swore. “Sorry. Put Logan on. I’ll try to explain.”

  “They’re outside playing. How about calling back before bedtime?”

  “I will, but tell him I’ll make it up to him.”

  “I did.”

  “I’ll make it up to all of you.”

  “I know,” Laura said. “I took them to the zoo, got them thinking about real monkeys, not the ape their dad can be.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “We had a nice day,” she assured him. “I made breakfast, and we had lunch out. We’re going to make cookies tonight.”

  “I appreciate it, Laura. I know this isn’t what you had in mind for your visit.”

  She said, “Well, the bright side is that I’m getting to know your kids better.” She paused. “Are you glad you went?”

  “I found out enough to keep me busy for a while,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it when I get home.”

  “I wish you could have booked a flight tonight. I don’t like you being in Page territory.”

  “He has a long reach,” Hutch said. “I’m not sure any place is safe from him. I think he had me followed.”

  “What?” Frightened now. “Hutch, you gotta get out of there. Go straight to the airport, get on standby.”

  “I’m not going to run scared. Page is just making a point. Killing me would draw more attention to him than he wants. That’s what this meeting was about. He’d rather scare me off than resort to more drastic action.”

  “Like what happened to that doctor’s family?”

  Hutch’s stomach rolled over on itself. “I’m not saying the man’s incapable of . . . of doing something like that. But he’s smart enough not to, not in this case.”

  Silence.

  “Laura?”

  Laura’s voice was quiet but firm. “Just get back here.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” he said, as cheerfully as possible. “I promise.”

  Two hours later he was still on the bed, typing notes into his laptop. He had the room’s phone cradled under his cheek. It had taken Randall Cunningham, an acquaintance at the Denver Museum of Art, only an hour to track down information about the sketch Hutch had seen in Page’s outer office. Giovanni Cavalcaselle—Hutch had thought the last letter was an O—was an obscure Renaissance artist who’d lived in Florence. He was known as a chronicler of the city’s dark side. His paintings depicted murder, double dealings, child abuse. According to art historian Raffaello Sanzio, Genjuros in Primo Luogo Assassina was commissioned as a painting but never completed. The preliminary sketch of it was last sold at auction for a modest sum.

  “Okay, but what does it mean?” Hutch said impatiently.

  “The title?” Randall said. “Genjuros’ First Murder.”

  Hutch waited for more. He glanced around the dark room, realizing night had descended without his noticing. He switched on the bedside lamp. “What’s Genjuros?” he asked.

  “Apparently the word is derived from the same Latin root from which we get justice and juror. It was a secret division of the city-state’s security force established by Pietro de’ Medici in 1435.”

  “Security force?” Hutch said. “That sounds right. What did it do?”

  “Only one function,” Randall said. “Supposedly, its members answered solely to Medici, and its missions were limited to the confines of Florence itself.”

&n
bsp; “What, like a police force?”

  “More of an execution squad. It was used against Florentines who were perceived enemies of the Medicis, and they had plenty. Normally citizens of a jurisdiction, then as now, are accorded a trial when accused of a crime. But criminal courts don’t address noncriminal offenses. Say, political or romantic rivals, or getting your feelings hurt, for that matter. That’s when a Genjuros-type group would come in handy.”

  “Assassins,” Hutch said.

  “Ready whenever you wanted them,” Randall agreed. “Private, secret, and not at all finicky about whom they kill.”

  Someone knocked at his motel door.

  “Randall, I have to go,” Hutch said. “I owe you one.”

  “Anything for you, Hutch.”

  Hutch hung up. He called, “Who is it?”

  No answer. He cracked the door and looked through. The motel was a single-story U shape. The light next to each door appeared to be controlled as one, and they were all on now. Each room opened onto a concrete walkway and faced the parking lot. When he’d come to the motel in the late afternoon, having picked up dinner at McDonald’s, only three vehicles were in the lot. His had made four. Since then, more cars had arrived, but there was no one standing at his door.

  However, someone had placed a festive gift bag directly outside. It was the kind of bag you used when you didn’t have time to wrap a present. He’d heard of bombs with mercury-controlled switches. As soon as someone moved them, they exploded. He heard Laura telling him that’s how Page makes a point and shut the door. Who would leave a bag for him? No one knew he was there. Laura. Larry. The kids. Page—certainly he would be keeping tabs on him.

  That brought to mind the beat-up Mustang. Hutch opened the door again and poked his head out. Slowly, he scanned the parking lot and saw it. It was parked on the right, at the end of the hotel’s short wing. Only its bumper, hood, and part of its windshield were visible. Then the trees behind it flashed red, and Hutch knew someone inside had touched the brake pedal.

  Again, Hutch thought Page could afford more professional surveillance, but what did he know? His knowledge of such things came almost exclusively from television shows. Maybe real PIs were so crass and confident, they didn’t concern themselves with nice cars or stealth.