Don't Look for Me: An Amos Walker Novel (Amos Walker Novels)

by Loren D. Estleman

  Her head turned my way. “Collect your things, Mr. Walker. At this point I don’t consider you a security risk. You will, of course, tell no one about this discussion, or of our presence here.”

  “Can I write a spy novel? I’ll change the names. From now on you’re Esther Rosenblatt. I’m still working on Leibowitz. He may wind up a Jack Russell terrier.”

  “Of course you’re joking, but if you were to attempt such a thing, what you wrote would never see print.”

  “Censorship or murder? I don’t want to influence your answer, but over here we take freedom of the press pretty seriously.”

  “It would depend on when we learned of the manuscript’s existence.”

  I got up, clipped the Chief’s Special to my belt, and distributed the rest of my personal property among the assigned pockets. “Okay if I finish what I started? Even if it crosses your trail again?”

  “You are asking permission?”

  “Doing you a favor. It’s just plain silly following me all over town, burning Arab gas, when you know what I’m up to and where I’m going.”

  “If as you say our trails cross, and you fail to share whatever you learn, we will talk again, and the result will be different. Asa, drive Mr. Walker back to his car.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take a cab. I’ve got an image to protect. I can’t be seen riding around in a car with a broken window.”

  “Perhaps you’re afraid I am not a woman of my word.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of calling a kidnapper and torturer a liar.” I went to the door and palmed the knob. “You should switch to filtered. Those straight-ends will kill you someday.”

  A pair of shallow creases appeared at the corners of her mouth. I wouldn’t call them dimples, exactly, and I sure wouldn’t say she was smiling. “Are you aware of the life expectancy of a person in my profession?”

  “If Leibowitz means anything, you’ve got twenty years coming.”

  “I disagree. The captain has been in intelligence five years. I was recruited at sixteen. Statistically speaking, I have been living on borrowed time for two years.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Cutlass sat clean and shining—where the primer didn’t show—outside the car wash exit. I paid the cabby, got in, and drove off without looking back. Next visit I’d tip the attendant for the broken glass he’d had to sweep up. You never know when you might need to play the same trick a second time.

  I didn’t know where else to go, so I pointed the hood toward the river and called Alec Wynn.

  “I was thinking of hiring another private detective to look for the private detective I hired,” he said.

  “Reporting just slows down an investigation, but I admit it’s been a spell. I’m in a corn maze. I take it you haven’t heard from your wife.”

  “No. What’s a corn maze?”

  “I mean a tangle. I grew up in a farming village. Can we meet?”

  “Can’t you report over the phone?”

  “It tells better in person.”

  “All right. I have an appointment, but I’ll move it. The dining room in twenty minutes?”

  “Better make it your office, and send your secretary out on an errand.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “I’d walk out on it if it were a movie, put it that way.” I broke the connection.

  *

  The fishes had the river to themselves; the rotten spring weather had driven even the diehard modern Phoenicians back indoors. This time the big man in gray sprang up from his seat in front of the window and crossed the yellow-green carpet to intercept me at the halfway point. The lines in the tan face were deeper and he seemed to have lost weight, but it hadn’t been long enough since we’d seen each other for that to show. He’d deflated was all. He hung on a second longer than necessary, as if we were fellow skydivers and his rip cord had failed.

  “I was worried before,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you I’m frantic now. I was sure she’d be in touch before this. I only hired you because I never take anything for granted. It’s gotten me where I am. Please tell me everything. Wait.”

  He went back to the desk, pressed a button or flicked a switch, and a section of blue wall slid open opposite the window. Glass shelves filled a recess and a dozen bottles filled the shelves above a stainless-steel sink. A shaker and ice bucket in matching copper stood on the drainboard among an assortment of glasses. He even had one of those leaded-glass jugs that clowns use to spray each other.

  “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Not just now, thanks. I had high tea downtown.”

  “I wish I knew what you were talking about half the time.” He crossed in front of me, dashed a fistful of ice into a highball glass, and filled it to the rim with Jack Daniel’s Black Label. He drank it halfway down in one long draft.

  I said, “That’s no way to treat premium bourbon. It might as well be Old Liver Eater.”

  “Please resist the temptation to joke. Is Cecelia alive or not?”

  “There’s no evidence she isn’t. I’d better give you the works.”

  He led the way to a conversation grouping in a corner, where we sank into full-grain leather. Enough had happened that I couldn’t remember what I’d told him and what I hadn’t, so I gave him all of it, except Israeli military intelligence. Major Dorn had managed to spook me with her concrete cell, but more than that I didn’t know where she and Leibowitz fit in, or if they did, and I don’t like being asked questions I don’t know the answers to. Even without it, the story belonged inside rubber walls. I didn’t believe a word of it even as I was talking. It was like making up a lie, embellishing all the way to shore it up.

  His glass was empty long before I finished, with the ice returned to its original state. He sat there a half-minute before he got up, dumped the water into the sink, and built another drink, this time with more ice. He waited until he was seated again before drinking, a social sip this time. “She’s dead. She must be. Why else would anyone go to the fuss of trying to throw you off with her double?”

  “I’m going on the theory someone didn’t want me rooting around Elysian Fields. Why they’re worried about that, with cops already all over the joint, I don’t have a clue, except maybe what the cops find interesting about it isn’t what they want so much to cover up.”

  “Such as what?”

  “The woman I told you about, if she’s in the picture, is ten times smarter than I am and twice as insane. Make that three times: I don’t think the world’s against me, just the authorities, half the underworld, and my ex-wife. Sing’s always a dozen moves ahead of anyone else, and I don’t know what the game is. If I try looking at it from the other angle, I might end up right next door to her in the loco house.”

  “She sounds fantastic. Something out of an old serial. A few days ago I’d have accused you of making her up.”

  “Make it ten years ago, before we started wading hip-deep in criminal masterminds out to bring down Britney Spears and the U.S. Constitution. Now she’s just one of the pack.”

  “Where does this Mafioso fit in?”

  “‘Mafioso’s’ a bit grand for Yummy. He’s the one the dons send out for coffee. I think he and his cousin were just as surprised to find Alison Garland in that bed as I was. The cops have him. Pretty soon they’ll have the cousin.”

  “The cousin could be in Canada by now.”

  “Maybe. It’s not as easy as it was before you needed a passport to cross over. In his place in the food chain, arranging a fake that would pass muster with Canadian Customs would take a while. Don’t believe what you read in Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Wynn. The police are smart and they run a tight ship. He’ll turn up.”

  “So you’re throwing in the towel.”

  “I don’t have much experience with that. I’m giving you the chance to cut your losses. If you don’t want to take it, I have a couple of threads I could tug on. That’s why I’m here, to make the pitch. I’ll have that drink now, if the offer’s still good.”


  “Help yourself.”

  I got up and took inventory. He had Johnnie Walker Blue, which some people dismiss as the drink of choice of Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and other fables. I didn’t think I’d earned it, though, so I poured three fat fingers of The Glenlivet into a rocks glass and added two cubes for ballast. I went back to my seat and nibbled at the Scotch. It’s not good policy to pour high-octane into a motor accustomed to regular unleaded. “I’d rather not say what direction I’ll go. If it doesn’t work out, I won’t look so good. I’d prefer to give you a refund on the time wasted, no questions asked.”

  “By God, you’re honest. I thought your kind went out with three-piece suits.”

  “And here I have one on order with my tailor.”

  “Speaking of that, what happened to your suit?”

  I reached down and tried to pull the wrinkles out of my pants legs. They sprang back: Polyester blends have memories, like warped wood. “I got caught in a shower. I’d’ve changed before coming over, but this is the only good decent one I have. I lied about the tailor. I get them at T.J. Maxx.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “There’s no reason you would. I’ve been hanging out a lot lately with people who don’t share my world.”

  “I’ll write you a check for what you need to continue the investigation. Feel free to spend part of it on a good man with a needle. Mine owes me a discount. I order my suits ten at a time.”

  “Thanks, but it would cost me business in the neighborhoods. I don’t need anything just now, Mr. Wynn. We’ll settle up when I hand you my final report.”

  Which was whistling past the graveyard. If I were as honest as he thought I was, I’d have confessed I had no idea where to proceed from there.

  *

  My cell rang as I was unlocking my car door: The theme from Man of La Mancha. It had come with the phone, and I hadn’t figured out how to change it: I’m not as stuck on myself as some might think.

  “Billy-Bob’s Bait Shop and Fine Dining. Walker speaking.”

  “Jesus Christ, do you answer like that all the time? No wonder you buy your paper clips on the installment plan.”

  “I haven’t bought a paper clip since Jimmy Carter. I run into traffic to scoop one off the pavement. What’s the score, John?” Alderdyce’s cell phone number had come up onscreen.

  “Not so good, but I’m looking for a full-court press in the third quarter. Yummy’s clammed up tight, no surprise there. I got more reaction out of a Playboy centerfold when I was fourteen.”

  “Too much information, John.” I waited.

  “I didn’t call you to revisit my adolescence. The department switchboard got a call twenty minutes ago from Tony Pirandello, Yummy’s cousin. He wants to turn himself in.”

  “So let him. What am I, your spiritual advisor?” But something buzzed in the soles of my feet, and it wasn’t the 455 under the hood. I hadn’t turned the key.

  “Cut the comedy. The offer came with a kicker. You’re the man he asked to haul him in.”

  I dealt myself a cigarette and punched in the dash lighter. That was good for two minutes of introspection.

  “Nice try,” I said, when I had the butt burning. “We’re a week short of April Fool’s Day. How long since Alison Garland made the evening news?”

  “We’re still sitting on it. This is legit, Amos: It’s Tony, not a nut looking for his fifteen minutes. He thinks you’re the only man who’ll make sure he gets jail instead of a tray downtown. He’s calling us back at six.”

  I looked at my watch: 5:27. “Where are you, the precinct?”

  “Where am I ever? How soon can you get here?”

  “That’s me going through the metal detector.” I twisted the key, yanked the lever into first, and stepped on the pedal. The rumble became a roar and the world tore away from under my tailbone. I scraped the dust off a hundred fenders switching lanes, got the royal fanfare from as many horns. I waved off the one-finger salutes and tore all the teeth off the shifting gears. When Alderdyce called me Amos, I knew I had green lights all the way downtown.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The old second precinct, where Homicide hangs its holster, looks like a neighborhood high school—red brick, flat roof, and tinted windows—but it has a few more police officers hanging around. None of them paid me much attention as I left security and headed for the inspector’s office.

  I detoured when I spotted Alderdyce standing in his shirtsleeves in front of a large-scale city map mounted on a wall. The shirtsleeves were heavy linen and dusty pink, the tie clipped to the placket liquid silver. Dressing like a cop only gets you so high on the blue ladder, and he hadn’t come out of the training course intending to retire with the rank of sergeant. He held a black coffee mug embossed with the gold seal of the police department.

  I said, “If you’re looking for a place to spend your vacation, you should look beyond Eight Mile Road.”

  He pointed the rim of his mug at a cluster of flag magnets west of downtown. “Each one of those is a city bus driver assaulted by passengers for showing up late at the stop. Half the fleet’s in the garage waiting for parts, but the mechanics don’t have to deal with the public. Yesterday I caught a detective third-grade putting together an office pool on when a driver would fall into Homicide’s jurisdiction. Is it just us? Do they race plague bacilli at Henry Ford Hospital to break up the monotony?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I always take my gunshot wounds to Detroit Receiving.”

  “Still being tailed?” He turned away from the map, blowing steam off his coffee.

  “That turned out to be my imagination. Yummy talking yet?”

  “What do you think? He lawyered up five minutes after we booked him.”

  “Where was Pirandello calling from?”

  “It just came up ‘cellular call.’ Burn phone, probably.”

  “Does Yummy know?”

  “No, and we’re going to keep it that way as long as we can. Tony’s not connected—kid-stuff priors, no jail time—so maybe he’ll cave if there isn’t a lawyer waiting when we bring him in. I told him we’ll deal if he rolls over on his cousin, but he’s got the family allergy when it comes to cops. Figures a civilian witness will keep him from being shot resisting arrest.”

  “Why me specifically?”

  “He didn’t say, but if Yummy was shadowing you they must’ve talked about you. You’re not known to spray a lot of information around. That’s a virtue in their world.”

  “Everyone else’s, too, except cops. Where am I taking his call?”

  “My hole. I shouldn’t have to tell you to keep him on the line as long as you can. I’ve got it set up with the gadget-jockeys at Thirteen Hundred to start triangulating the second you pick up. I’d rather we handled the delivery. He might change his mind later.”

  His office always looked like someone had tipped it up by one corner and given it a shake, then set it back down. The pictures and citations hung at all angles on the walls and the duty rosters and arrest reports were piled on every flat surface sticking out every which way. Either it was a psychological ploy to put suspects at a disadvantage or he was just a slob.

  “Cup of coffee’d be nice,” I said as he was closing the door.

  “I smelled the liquor before I saw you. You used to wait till Sesame Street came on.”

  “It was work-related. People get suspicious when they’re drinking and you’re not. Is it a machine, or do I just toss something into the kitty?”

  “Kitty. Over by the windows, between the thumbscrews and the iron maiden.” He glanced at the clock. “Six minutes. Don’t stop for cream and sugar.”

  “That stuff just slows down the poison.” I went out, stuffed a buck into a jar the medical examiner used to park vital organs, stacked two cardboard cups for insulation, and poured out a stream of black liquid thick enough to spread with a knife. It might have been steeping since the midnight-to-eight shift. Alderdyce’s phone was ringing when I let myself back
into the office.

  “Early,” I said.

  “Scared. I’m starting to think you’re right about somebody setting them up. Otherwise Yummy’d be offering to deal.” He picked up.

  I cleared a spot in the mare’s nest on the desk to set down my cup. There was no place to sit except the inspector’s lap, so I remained standing while he established who was on the other end. He put the phone on speaker and laid the receiver on top of a picture of Boris Badenov from the Identi-Kit.

  “This Walker?” I recognized the voice from the one time I’d heard it before. It needed more breath.

  “Yeah, Tony. Okay if I call you Tony?”

  “Who gives a shit? You the guy busted into my place with the cop?”

  “We didn’t bust in, but yeah.”

  “Listen, I don’t know nothing about that dead woman. We was out all day. We just got in and saw the stiff when you showed up.”

  “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Come in and sign a statement throwing it all on Yummy’s back.”

  “Listen, Marty almost shit worse’n I did when we saw what was in that bed. He can’t fool me. I know him since we was kids. Somebody planted it there.”

  “Who’d do that, Tony?”

  “Forget that. I know the cops are trying to trace this. You know Fort Wayne?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “The car warehouse. Eleven o’clock tonight. We’ll talk, and if I like what I hear, I’ll come in with you.”

  “Is it all right if I come alone?”

  “Joker. I see you throwing more than one shadow, I’m out of there.” He wanted to bang the receiver in my ear, but cells don’t understand drama. There was just a click.

  “That was a relief,” I said. “I was afraid he’d say midnight.”