“Oh.”
“However, his prints are on file at Quantico. A copy was faxed here this morning.”
“Why was Blyleven printed?”
“He was in the Army. I’ll send you what I have. What’s your number?”
“My address is—”
“Your fax number.”
“Oh? I’ve been meaning to get one of those.”
He heaved a bureaucratic sigh. “I’ll put it in the mail.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
After I hung up, I phoned Armis again. Still busy.
Shit. No way out of it now. I slung the bag over my shoulder and tromped down three flights of stairs to the basement of the grand old house.
It’s a bit creepy down there—weak lighting, squeaky linoleum floors, sickly yellow plaster walls. There’s a short hallway with four white wooden doors, each sprouting a brass filigreed doorknob. They open, respectively, into a small apartment (vacant); an immense combination furnace room and storage area (including a solid cedar closet, where Mrs. Finch’s mother no doubt hung her fur coats in the summer); another small apartment (old George the handyman); and the laundry room.
Actually, it’s more than a laundry room, but all Mrs. Finch allows us to use are the washer and dryer. At the far end there’s a locked cabinet and a work table equipped with a vise and a circular saw—the province of old George. One long wall is filled with shelves, mostly empty. By this fall, though, they’d be loaded with Mrs. Finch’s preserves: beets, pickles, peaches, and raspberry jam.
I heaved my bag onto the counter beside the washer and began pulling out dirty clothes, dark things in one pile, light things in another.
One good thing about this type of work is that it frees your mind…
I discounted the idea that the midair explosion had to do with Lawrence Foster. Everyone liked him and he led a happy life. Besides, it was Blyleven who supposedly had returned from the grave, not Foster. And it was Blyleven who was beginning to look suspicious: arriving very early at the airport, being met in Tucson by a non-church-owned limo, and fretting about an earthquake in Mexico City.
I could see two sets of premises. One, Blyleven was alive or he was dead. And two, Blyleven put the bomb on the plane or somebody else did. Put these together and you get four possibilities. I looked at each one.
First, Blyleven was dead and he brought the bomb on the plane.
In a word, suicide. For whatever reason. Although, I’ve always believed there was only one reason why people take their own lives. Depression. They’ve lost their jobs or their loved ones or their health or their self-respect, and life seems worse than whatever might follow, if anything. On the other hand, maybe Blyleven brought the bomb on the plane for some other reason, and it went off accidentally. Yeah, sure, he always goes to Tucson with his toothbrush and his C-4 explosives. Not likely. And I also doubted suicide. Blyleven was happy and healthy with a good job and a nice family. Why kill himself?
The second possibility was that Blyleven was dead and someone else put the bomb on the plane.
Murder. This seemed impossible, for one very good reason. According to the FBI, the bomb had gone off right in Blyleven’s face. How could a murderer get him to cooperate? Give him a package with a card: Do Not Open Until Take-off? Besides, Blyleven didn’t bring any packages on board. Just a small flight bag and a briefcase.
The third possibility was that Blyleven was alive and he had put the bomb on the plane.
On the face of it, this was the most suspicious scenario. Not only to me, but to the FBI, Donald Warwick, and Pioneer Insurance. Martin Blyleven had faked his own death, possibly so his wife and child could collect four hundred thousand dollars. And perhaps so he could return four years later and claim it. Although this sounded farfetched.
And of course, once you looked into this theory, you had problems. How did Blyleven get off the plane and get somebody to take his place? How did he get Foster to cooperate? Because certainly nothing could be done on that small plane without the knowledge and participation of the pilot. And assuming Blyleven could smuggle someone on board, how the hell could he get him to hold a bomb in his lap and set it off? And do it while Foster was calmly flying the plane. And bail out without a parachute. Hard to believe.
So was the fourth and last possibility, that Blyleven was alive and someone else put the bomb on the plane. Same problems. How do you get Blyleven off the plane, and someone else on, then blow up the plane—all under the eye, if not the approval of the pilot? And who was the stand-in? Warwick said he and the FBI had done thorough background checks on Foster and Blyleven and had found nothing suspicious, no close friends or associates who’d suddenly disappeared.
So I had four possibilities and all of them were impossible.
Except, perhaps, the first. Blyleven had brought the bomb on board and committed suicide, never mind why.
Then who was the man trying to blackmail Roger and Vivian Armis? And more, how could he so thoroughly convince Vivian that he was Blyleven, back from the dead?
All I could do was guess. In fact, that’s all I’d been doing since—
I heard voices.
“… laundry room to your right and… well, this door is supposed to be closed.”
A young woman entered the laundry room just ahead of Mrs. Finch. She was a knockout, and I don’t mean Finch. Late twenties, I’d guess, wearing yellow shorts and a tank top that was filled to capacity. She was tanned the color of creamed coffee, and her blond hair fell to her shoulders. Cascaded, actually.
She gave me an open smile and said, “Hi.”
“Hello there,” I said, as cool and nonchalant as could be. Holding an armload of damp laundry. I tossed it in the dryer. “Please tell me you’re the new tenant.”
She laughed. What a great laugh. Or maybe I’d been spending too much time alone.
“I’m Sharon Hoffman,” she said.
“Jake Lomax. Pleased to meet you.” I waved a hand at the concrete walls and empty shelves. “This is my place, and welcome to it.”
She smiled. A terrific smile. “Do you do everyone’s laundry?”
“We could probably work something out.”
“You’re supposed to keep that door closed,” Mrs. Finch spat, taking the shine off my brilliant repartee.
I should explain that Mrs. Finch does not appreciate tenants of the opposite sex getting too chummy with one another. She considers it scandalous. Perhaps even incestuous. After all, this is her house and she is the matron and we are all her, well, stepchildren. Which can be a real pain in the ass. I stay, though, because the rent is cheap, the location great, and you never knew who might move in across the hall from her.
“How many times do I have to tell you to keep that door closed, Mr. Lomax?”
“Eleven?”
Another great smile from Sharon Hoffman.
“That is not funny.”
“Sorry,” I said.
Mrs. Finch snorted at me, then turned her attention to Sharon Hoffman, laying down a few rules. The washer and dryer could be used any day except Monday, no earlier than eight in the morning and no later than nine at night, and they both must be left absolutely clean. (A quick, hard look my way.) The shelves are not to be used. George’s worktable and tools are not to be used. And above all, the door is to be closed at all times. (A long, hard look my way.) She ushered Sharon toward the door.
Sharon turned and said, “I’ll be seeing you.”
“I look forward to it.”
Mrs. Finch asked her to wait in the hall, and then she scuttled toward me, stopping in the center of the room. She skewered the air with a gnarly finger and said, “I’ll talk to you later.”
Gulp.
She turned on her heel and bustled out, eager to tell Sharon what a despicable scoundrel I was and Lord knew why she continued to let me live under her roof.
I spent the next two hours washing and drying and folding. Then I carefully packed my bag, made certain that the door was
closed, and trudged up the three flights of stairs to my apartment.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Something hard and heavy smacked me in the head.
11
IT’S FUNNY HOW YOUR mind sometimes works. My first thought was that Mrs. Finch had finally gone over the edge and decided to beat the crap out of me.
No such luck.
I slumped forward into the arms of a bear of a man, who held me away from him with one hand and drove his fist into my stomach. I dropped to my knees, feebly grabbing at him.
He rumbled, “One more, Jack” to someone behind me.
I took another smack on the head. Lights out.
When I came to I was sitting in one of my kitchen chairs, face down on the table. My skull felt as if it had been cracked open like an egg, spilling my gray-matter yolk down the side of my face. I hoped it was only blood. My arms hung down between my legs, and my wrists were bound together with what felt like tape. I didn’t move or open my eyes. Someone was sitting near me at the table—I could hear him breathing—and at least two other guys were searching my apartment. Their voices carried from the bedroom.
Guy One: “Look in all the pockets, jackets and pants.”
Guy Two: “I know what I’m doing.”
Guy One: “Then act like it.”
Guy Two: “Hey, there’s a safe in the back of the closet.”
Guy One: “Wait a minute.” Sounds of movement. “Locked. Go see if he’s awake yet.”
Footsteps, then Guy Two, clearer now, probably standing in the doorway: “Wedge, Manny wants to know if he’s awake.”
Wedge said, “I’ll just check.” He sounded like the bear-man who had punched me in the stomach. Now he grabbed my ear and twisted. It hurt like hell.
I moaned.
“He’s coming around.”
Guy Two, his voice somewhat muffled: “He’s awake, Manny.”
Sounds of approaching footsteps.
Manny said, “Sit him up.”
Hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back in the chair. I moaned again, for effect. Also because the sudden movement made my head feel as if part of it were still lying on the table. I blinked my eyes against the light.
The bear-man named Wedge was sitting at the table with me, as if he’d just dropped by for coffee. He wore a billowy Hawaiian shirt with red and yellow flowers and enough fabric to pitch a tent. His close-cropped black beard was flecked with gray, and it framed rosy cheeks and a round, red nose. Just like Santa. Except Santa didn’t have scars and calcium deposits on his knuckles. He laid his beefy, hairy forearms on the table, folded his thick hands, gave me a sad smile, and said, “How was your nap?”
“Peaceful.”
“You hear that, Manny? Peaceful.”
Manny looked down on me from a few feet away. He was an oily-looking character with smooth olive skin and black hair moussed back and tied in a little tail. He wore a dark-green silk shirt buttoned at the neck and the cuffs, gray slacks, and black alligator slippers. His lips were curved into a cupid’s bow, sensitive, almost feminine. His eyes, though, were hooded and cold. Snake’s eyes.
I didn’t believe for a minute that these characters were burglars here to crack my safe. Nor did I think they were friends of the two brawlers I’d cue-sticked last night at the Adobe Bar. If they’d come here just to beat me up, they would have done it by now and been gone.
This was something more serious. And it didn’t take long to find out what.
The guy standing behind me said, “Where’s Martin Blyleven?”
“Who?”
He tapped me on top of the head with something small and hard. Given the present condition of my noggin, it felt like he’d used an engine block. Purely out of reflex, I spun out of the chair to get my hands on the son of a bitch. My ankles were taped together. I nearly fell down. Wedge grabbed a fistful of my shirt and shoved me back in the chair.
At least I’d gotten a look at the head-banger. He was short and stocky with brown hair cut close on the sides and wavy on top. He wore a black polo shirt and shit-eating grin. There was a tiny diamond in his left earlobe.
“First things first,” Manny said. He looked down on me with cold, expressionless eyes. “What’s the combination to the safe?”
“There’s nothing in there you’d want, believe me.”
“The combination.”
“It’s not even my safe. It was here when I moved in and I’ve never had it open.”
“Jack?”
An explosion in my head. I slumped forward, nearly blacking out, just getting my bound hands up in time to keep from flattening my nose on the table.
Manny spoke from half a mile away. “Not so hard, Jack. He’s no good to us if his brains are scrambled.”
Hands pulled me upright in the chair. My head was roaring and my vision was blurred. I blinked my eyes, finally focusing them on Wedge, still seated across from me, still wearing a sad smile.
Manny said, “I’m not sure how much of this you can take, Jake.” Jake. As if we were old pals. “There’s always the chance of brain damage. You should probably just give me the combination.”
I gave it to him.
“Watch him,” Manny said, and left the room.
The only things I kept in the safe were my two handguns, about two thousand dollars in mad money, and the title to my Olds. It didn’t take long for Manny to find that out and return to my side.
“I was hoping I’d find something useful in there, so I wouldn’t have to rely on your word. But now I have to ask you. Where is Martin Blyleven?”
“Marvin who?”
Manny smiled, without so much as putting a crease in his smooth, oily skin. “Martin,” he said. “Blyleven.”
“Oh, him. He’s dead.”
“Don’t lie to us,” Wedge rumbled. “You know he’s alive because you told—”
“Wedge, please,” Manny said. Then he looked at me. “We can make this hard or easy, it’s up to you. Where’s Blyleven?”
“Crown Hill Cemetery. That is, the pieces of him they found in a desert in Arizona.”
“Wait,” he said quickly, holding up his hand. Not to me, but to Jack. “Don’t hit him. I want him conscious. There are other ways to do this.” He glanced down at me and curled up one corner of his mouth. “More unpleasant ways, I’m afraid.” He turned his back on me and started pulling open kitchen drawers. The third one he got to held the silverware. And the knives. He rummaged around inside.
“Listen,” I said, “Blyleven’s dead. Everybody knows that. The feds, the insurance companies, they’ll all tell you the same thing.”
“But you seem to believe he’s alive,” Manny said. He came back to the table and set down a knife, just out of my reach. It was a paring knife with a stubby wooden handle and a short, very sharp blade.
“No,” I said, “I don’t believe that at all. I was hired by a Canadian insurance company to look into the circumstances of his death. Do you understand? Death. As in dead.”
But Manny didn’t seem to be listening to me. He was going through the cupboards, actually humming to himself, as if he were searching for the ingredients to bake me a cake.
“Ah, here we are.”
He came back to the table with a small cardboard box of toothpicks—the good kind, tapered at the ends and thick and square in the middle. Nothing but the best in the Lomax kitchen. Manny selected one and held it up, as if he were a jeweler examining a stone. Then he picked up the knife.
“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about Blyleven, as if—”
“For the insurance company.”
“—as if you’re trying to find him.” He started shaving one end of the toothpick with the knife.
I’m ashamed to say that I was tempted to tell him to go ask Vivian Armis, let her and her husband deal with this. Besides, she knew more about Blyleven than I did. Of course, she might be reluctant to talk, and there was no telling what Manny and Wedge and Jack would do to her to c
hange her mind.
“I told you, he’s six feet under.”
Manny blew on the end of the toothpick. “Yes, that’s what you’ve told us.” He tested the point with the tip of his finger. “But now you’re going to tell us the truth. Wedge?”
Wedge reached for me.
And with nothing to lose, I launched myself backward out of the chair, knocking it over, twisting as I did so, reaching for Jack’s throat. Of course, it would have been more effective if my wrists and ankles hadn’t been wrapped in duct tape. As it was, I got Jack by the shoulder. He stumbled back in surprise, pulling free, and I fell to the floor, where I could do little more than flop around like a hooked fish. Wedge straddled me and drove his fist into my kidney. Then he dragged me gasping back to the table.
He kicked aside the chair, lifted me to my knees, and pulled my arms straight out across the table. He put his hands across my forearms and leaned his considerable weight on them, pinning me there. Just to make certain I wasn’t going anywhere, Jack crouched behind me and wrapped his arms around my head and neck in a figure-four hold.
“Don’t choke him,” Manny said calmly. “I want him awake.”
“Don’t worry.”
Manny tucked his prized toothpick behind his ear, then reached for my hands. I bunched them in fists, suspecting what was coming. But he managed to pry loose the little finger on my left hand. He bent it back, not trying to break it, just holding it there, separating it from the others. Then he retrieved his needle-pointed toothpick.
“I’ll ask you again. Where is Martin Blyleven?”
“As far as I know he’s dead. I—”
Pain flamed through my hand, up my arm, and across my chest.
All Manny had done was jam the toothpick under my fingernail halfway to the cuticle. It felt as if he’d shoved in an ice pick all the way to the handle. I tried to jerk away, but Wedge held me firmly in place. And I couldn’t even cry out because Jack had me in a stranglehold. I breathed heavily through clenched teeth. The pain slowly ebbed, pooling in my wrist and hand.
Manny still held my little finger in his fist, but he’d let go of the toothpick. It stuck out from under my nail like the bowsprit of a model ship.
Grave Doubt (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 5) Page 6
