Body Slam (The Touchstone Agency Mysteries)

by Rex Burns

  “Yes. Of course. Nonetheless, you must realize that since Wampler Agency feels it must maintain relations with a customer as old and valued as Technitron Corporation, our bid will necessarily be considerably lower than yours.”

  “That’s your decision.”

  “I mean, miss, that Wampler Agency is willing to bid at a palpable loss in order to maintain our account with Technitron.”

  “And if we withdraw our bid, you won’t have to lose money?”

  “We do have some smaller accounts we might be willing to, um, relinquish. Accounts that you might find more suitable to an agency of your more limited range of services.” He continued, “I won’t press you for an answer now. I’m sure you need to confer with your employer… . It’s a Mr. Raiford, isn’t it? But I will be calling again soon, miss. I do hope we can find a mutual accommodation that will be profitable for us both.” He hung up without waiting for Julie to reply.

  She set the receiver down and stared at it as if her gaze could carry its heat all the way to the other end of the line. Then she brought up the Technitron home page on Google and began to study the print. She had thought she understood Lidke’s anger at being squeezed out by the FWO, but Mr. Welch had just made that abstract understanding far more concrete. In fact, she might be able to bring Touchstone’s own bid down a little more—trim a profit margin here, double up on equipment there. Even if Touchstone didn’t get the job, she damn well intended to submit the lowest numbers she could find.

  She was recomputing hourly costs when the telephone rang again. This time it was Detective Wager returning her call. “What can I do for you, Miss Campbell.”

  “Just a couple of questions, Detective.” She added, “And I have some information for you in return.”

  “I caught a certain homicide Saturday night and I’ve wasted all morning in court. I hope your questions are good.”

  “Have you turned up any links between the Pomarico killing in New York and Palombino?”

  He was silent a moment, then, “Report I got is, it was a local turf war. Pomarico tried to push some Haitian dope dealers out of what he called his territory and they pushed back. Why do you want to know?”

  She told him what they had discovered about Chertok’s connections. There was a long silence.

  “How reliable is that?”

  “Bernie Riester.” That was all she had to say. “You’ve never heard any rumors about Chertok? No ties to organizations?”

  “No. He’s been in Denver only a few years, though. No local police record. He got bonded with no trouble—promoters have to be bonded—but that’s the only paper I found on him.”

  “It adds a new wrinkle to Palombino’s killing and the threats to Lidke.”

  “Uh-huh.” Then. “I’ll check with vice, see what they’ve heard. I’ll give you a call later.”

  “I’d be happy to buy you lunch,” she said sweetly.

  By the time Raiford made it back to the office in midafternoon, Julie was gone. A note said she was at the gym. He figured he’d had his daily workout and dialed a number from his cell-phone memory. The now-familiar voice answered and Raiford told her who it was. “I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time after work. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t extremely important.”

  She hesitated.

  “We can meet wherever it’s convenient for you,” Raiford urged. “If you feel more comfortable talking to another woman, you can meet with my partner.”

  “No—I just … I pick up my children after work.”

  “It’s very important or I wouldn’t be so insistent. You say where and when, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “When” was forty-five minutes before her official quitting time so she wouldn’t be late for her children—Chertok apparently was out of the office for the afternoon—and “where” was a restaurant and bar on the corner of Fillmore and Second Avenue in the Cherry Creek area. The neighborhood was an upscale district for shopping, sampling restaurants, and the enjoyment of gracious living. Segments of streets had been blocked off to become short pedestrian malls sprinkled with name boutiques, kiosks, and festive with trees, fountains, and hanging baskets of flowers. Restaurants took advantage of the autumn warmth to claim sidewalk space with bright umbrellas and metal tables for al fresco dining. Even with the crowds of pedestrians and automobiles jammed into one-way lanes, the sense of people with time and money to spend gave a relaxed feel. Raiford, early for the appointment, paused a moment to enjoy the display of bright yellow and red chrysanthemums surrounding a flower vendor.

  “Flowers for your lady? Buy some flowers for your lady?” The man, mentally handicapped in some way, smiled and held out a rose.

  He glanced at his watch and then nodded; a single rose wouldn’t seem too calculating. The man studied the bill a moment and then awkwardly, his lips forming the numbers, counted out Kirk’s change. “Thank you, sir,” he said with a wide smile. His crooked and ill-cared-for teeth said he was too poor to afford dentistry. He had probably been among those cut from state health care when the Congress shifted funds from poor people who needed help to rich people who wanted to pay less tax.

  Raiford waved his change away. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too!”

  Carrying the rose into the restaurant’s lounge, Raiford chose a table where he could see the entry and lowered himself into a chair. It was one of those places that tried to make unescorted females feel comfortable. Even this early, women, in pairs or clustered in larger groups, sat scattered at tables talking and laughing. Their clothes marked them as business or professional. The barstools held mostly men, a few of whom sat with their backs to the mirrored shelves of bottles, and, while pretending to look for friends, casually studied the room. Here and there, a woman’s eyes caught at Raiford, sizing him up and saying that he was interesting. But women weren’t openly hustled, even those looking for action, and the two waitresses in slacks and long-sleeved white shirts with black string ties moved briskly between tables to take orders.

  He saw Chertok’s secretary hurry past the large window and then appear in the entryway to gaze over the room. She seemed close to Julie’s age, no more than five years older, anyway, and drew lingering glances from the male watchers at the bar. Several seated women, too, studied her long black hair and sculpted face, her lithe figure, her clothes, carriage, and makeup.

  Raiford stood to be seen, and she smiled with cautious relief when she saw him. As he held her chair, her name, he found out, was Caitlin Morgan.

  “Traffic slowed me up—it seems worse every year.”

  “Just got here myself,” Raiford lied. “And I’ve enjoyed people-watching.”

  She looked around. “I haven’t been here often. But it’s the only place I could think of when you called.”

  A waitress took their orders—Chardonnay for her, another beer for Raiford—and he handed her the rose. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

  She hesitated, then accepted the flower with a simple “thank you.” After toying with it for a moment, she said, “It’s very pretty. But I don’t understand why you insisted on this meeting. What’s so extremely important?”

  “May I begin by asking a couple of questions about Mr. Chertok?” He quickly added, “Of course you don’t have to answer. In fact, if anything I ask makes you feel uncomfortable, please say so.”

  “I feel uncomfortable being here, Mr. Raiford. It seems … in a way … disloyal.”

  “I don’t want you to feel either uncomfortable or disloyal. Here’s why I need to ask questions: my client believes Mr. Chertok’s denying him an opportunity to start his own wrestling promotion. Mr. Chertok swears that’s not the case, and I believe him—I do. But maybe some of Mr. Chertok’s business associates have in some way caused my client to feel intimidated. Mr. Chertok may not even be aware of it. That’s what I need more information about: his business
associates, the people he works with, anyone who might have—without Mr. Chertok knowing and maybe without intending it—caused some very serious harm to my client.”

  “Who is your client and what kind of harm?”

  “Otto Lidke. Have you ever heard the name mentioned? Or heard about a new local wrestling promotion?”

  “No.”

  “I’m certain Mr. Chertok knows nothing of this,” he said again. “But someone has convinced local arenas not to rent space to him. Then my client received a threat—that’s when he hired me. Then the threat was carried out.”

  “Carried out?”

  He told her.

  “Murdered?” The violet eyes widened. “His partner was murdered?”

  “Perhaps you heard about it on the news.” Raiford twisted his beer glass. His eyes were on the circle of cold water at its base seeping into the coaster, but his attention was on the woman across the table. “He was thirty-four years old. He had a wife and two young children.” Raiford looked up into those deep eyes, trying to read the edge of worry he saw there. “That’s what’s so important, Mrs. Morgan. A man has been killed.”

  Her reply was slow in coming. “And you do suspect him, don’t you? Mr. Chertok?”

  It wasn’t a reply Raiford expected, and he felt that little tingle of conviction: she was guarding something, something he wanted to know. The waitresses were moving faster now as the tables began to fill with more of the thirsty after-work crowd, and the shrill noise of competing female voices closed around them. “Chertok told me he has no reason to interfere with Lidke’s plans. I have no reason to doubt the man, Mrs. Morgan. But,” he smiled, “and maybe here is where you can help me, I do have the feeling Mr. Chertok hasn’t been entirely forthright.” He waited for objection but none came. “I don’t mean he has any direct involvement with Lidke, but maybe he suspects that one of his business associates might have been more … defensive.”

  It was her turn to study the swirl in her glass, worry bringing a small frown. “I don’t know much about any partners or associates, Mr. Raiford. As far as I know, he runs and owns the agency himself.”

  “But he does share the profits with someone else, isn’t that right?”

  A slow nod. “He has me make quarterly reports to someone. But who they go to, I’m not sure. He mails them himself. And he handles the budget himself.”

  “Perhaps mailed to Chicago?”

  The sudden paleness of her cheeks heightened the deep color of her eyes as she stared at him. “You know something about him you’re not telling me.”

  “I’m only guessing at a few things, Mrs. Morgan.” He smiled again. “I think Sherlock Holmes calls it ‘deduction.’ I also deduce that you’re not entirely comfortable working for him.”

  “Why?”

  He leaned across the table and spoke more seriously. “Because my line of questioning brings up worries you’ve already had.”

  The color came back into her face accompanied by a wry expression. “Am I that transparent?”

  “You’re not a practiced liar, Caitlin. May I call you Caitlin? Perhaps if you tell me what worries you, I can set your mind at ease. Or even help.” Another smile. “My first name’s Jim.”

  Her slender shoulders rose and fell slightly. “I don’t know that it has anything to do with your client. It’s just … what you’ve told me—the man who was killed—it just reminded me of something that happened right after I began working for Mr. Chertok.”

  “Please tell me.”

  She looked down at her glass again, straight black hair swinging against her slender neck. “It was a few days after I was hired. He gave me a sealed envelope to put in my desk and told me it held two names. He said that in a week or two I’d read in the newspapers about two unsolved murders—I was to see if the names of the victims were the same as those in the envelope.”

  “He had some business with those people?”

  “He didn’t say so. I’m not sure he even knew them. I think he wanted me to understand that he was acquainted with people who did. He’s that way—he likes to impress people. To give the impression that he knows much more than he’ll tell. That he’s arranged deals for important people, and that important people will do him favors if he asks.”

  “What happened?”

  “The bodies were found somewhere in Kansas. In a field. Apparently, a gang execution, the newspapers said.”

  “And the names were the same?”

  “Yes. The article said they had been dead for three days.” The violet eyes, openly worried now, lifted to Raiford’s. “When I read it, I seriously thought of quitting. But …” She shrugged. “I managed to push it away. Not forgotten—I just managed to ignore it.” Her voice dropped. “I guess I didn’t want to think of it because I need to keep this job.”

  “Has Chertok done anything like that again?”

  “No. He seemed satisfied he’d made his point. And I’ve kept from thinking about it until now.”

  “Are there other things about the office that disturb you?”

  She considered for a long moment. “He—Mr. Chertok—is not an easy person to work for. He’s a very … vain man. He thinks he’s very attractive to women.”

  “Especially women he hires?”

  A curt nod. “None of which is anything new to the world, is it? Fortunately”—again that wry smile—“we’ve managed to reach an understanding.”

  “He doesn’t bother you, and you don’t tell your husband?”

  “No. He doesn’t bother me and I don’t quit.” She said factually, “I’m a very good office manager. Perhaps the best he’s had. And, as I’ve found out, he’s had a large turnover of office help in the past, which hasn’t done his business any good. It took me a long time to get his books and procedures into some kind of order.”

  “But with your skills, you should be able to find another position. Why do you stay?”

  “He pays very well, Mr. Raiford. Better than any other work I could get. My last job was as a waitress, which is where I met Mr. Chertok. When he offered this job and told me the salary, I couldn’t believe my luck.”

  “What does your husband think of it?”

  “I’m divorced.”

  “Ah.”

  “Unlike waitressing, this job leaves my evenings free to be with my children.” That thought brought a glance at her wristwatch. “I’m not totally naïve, Mr. Raiford. I realize I’m fairly attractive and that sometimes he takes me to lunch to show me off to his clients. Occasionally, we drop in on a production so he can show his clients off to me.” She added, “And I have to admit, it is exciting to go backstage and meet name performers.”

  “Mrs. Chertok doesn’t mind?”

  “I suspect she’s made her accommodation to him over the years. Besides, I am his secretary, we do transact business, and—aside from a few unsubtle hints now and then—he does behave himself.”

  Raiford had his own ideas about how long that behavior would last. “Can you tell me the names of any people who visit the office frequently?”

  She thought a moment. “Ron Hensleigh drops in a lot. He’s a regional booking agent for a music promoter in Los Angeles. And Paul Procopio. I’m not certain what he does. Something in public relations or advertising, I believe. Vic Schmanski—he produces the local wrestling shows.”

  “Do the wrestlers come to the office?”

  “Oh, no! They’re not allowed there. They only talk to Mr. Chertok at the arena. Actually, he doesn’t have much to do with any of the performers—only with their booking agents and managers.”

  “Any other names you can think of?”

  She shook her head. “There are a few others, but I don’t know their last names. They don’t come by often. Most of the work’s done by phone. But Mr. Chertok has a lot of people he sees at lunch or dinner. He likes that—being seen in good
restaurants.”

  “And being seen with his attractive secretary.”

  “That, too,” she said a little bit stiffly.

  “Caitlin, any man would be pleased to be seen with you. You’ve helped me a lot, and I’m very grateful. In fact, I owe you. If you ever need anything from me, here’s my card—anytime.”

  She took the small pasteboard and read each printed word. “Do you really believe Mr. Chertok has nothing to do with that man’s death?”

  Raiford’s eyes traced the smooth line of her face from the high cheekbones down the soft curve of flesh, to a delicate jaw that held the slightest hint of a cleft. She was a lovely woman. She had that accented beauty found in chiaroscuro photographs, combined with a dangerous fragility.

  “I’d like to be able to say I believe that absolutely, Caitlin. I’m sure he had nothing to do with it directly. But whether he knows who might be involved, I can’t say.”

  “I feel a bit frightened.”

  “Then don’t tell him you’ve spoken with me. If you have any reason to suspect anything, quit the job. The Touchstone Agency can find something else for you.”

  “I do look after myself, Mr. Raiford.”

  “I don’t doubt it. You’ve shown that already. My doubt is about Chertok. The moment we know anything at all, my partner or I will get in touch with you. Is it all right if we call you at work? Or would you rather we used your home number?”

  She paused before saying the work number was all right. But Raiford took her home number just in case.

  12

  Raiford reached his office early the next morning, but he didn’t get much work done. Instead, he swiveled his chair away from the littered desk to gaze out his arc of window. Over the flat roof of the old warehouse across the street, past the thick fringe of trees lining the South Platte River, he could see, between the high-rises, the trees that shaded the homes west of Denver in Highland, Edgewater, and the more distant Lakewood neighborhoods. Low rises of earth stepped away in waves of fuzzy green and tiny rooftops. Then, miles beyond the suburbs, the earth finally tilted upward in the shallow slopes that led to the two mesas hiding the town of Golden. Next came the steeper mountains of the Front Range where, on their flanks, morning sun sharpened the contrast between ragged shadows of pine forests and tawny fields of dry grass and brush. Finally, above tree line and etched crisply against cloudless blue, was splintered rock with, here and there, snowfields shading from pale gray to glimmering white.