“Understand?” I said.
“It used to be Duke and now it’s you,” he said neutrally.
It wasn’t him who had found my stash.
“I’m looking out for their welfare,” I said. “Including Mrs. Beck’s. That game is over now, OK?”
He said nothing. I was getting a sore neck from looking up into his eyes. My vertebrae are much more accustomed to looking downward at people.
“OK?” I said again.
“Or?”
“Or you and I will have to go around and around.”
“I’d like that.”
I shook my head.
“You wouldn’t like it,” I said. “Not one little bit. I’d take you apart, piece by piece.”
“You think?”
“You ever hit an MP?” I asked. “Back in the service?”
He didn’t answer. Just looked away and stayed quiet. He was probably remembering his arrest. He probably resisted a little, and needed to be subdued. So consequently he probably tripped down some stairs somewhere and suffered a fair amount of damage. Somewhere between the scene of the crime and the holding cell, probably. Purely by accident. That kind of thing happens, in certain circumstances. But then, the arresting officer probably sent six guys to pick him up. I would have sent eight.
“And then I’d fire you,” I said.
His eyes came back, slow and lazy.
“You can’t fire me,” he said. “I don’t work for you. Or Beck.”
“So who do you work for?”
“Somebody.”
“This somebody got a name?”
He shook his head.
“No dice,” he said.
I kept my hands in my pockets and eased my way around the machine gun. Headed for the door.
“We straight now?” I said.
He looked at me. Said nothing. But he was calm. His morning dosages must have been well balanced.
“Mrs. Beck is off-limits, right?” I said.
“While you’re here,” he said. “You won’t be here forever.”
I hope not, I thought. His telephone rang. The outside line, I guessed. I doubted if Elizabeth or Richard would be calling him from the house. The ring was loud in the silence. He picked it up and said his name. Then he just listened. I heard a trace of a voice in the earpiece, distant and indistinct with plastic peaks and resonances that obscured what was being said. The voice spoke for less than a minute. Then the call was over. He put the phone down and moved his hand quite delicately and used the flat of his palm to set the machine gun swinging gently on its chain. I realized it was a conscious imitation of the thing I had done with the heavy bag down in the gym on our first morning together. He grinned at me.
“I’m watching you,” he said. “I’ll always be watching you.”
I ignored him and opened the door and stepped outside. The rain hit me like a fire hose. I leaned forward and walked straight into it. Held my breath and had a very bad feeling in the small of my back until I was all the way through the forty-yard arc the back window could cover. Then I breathed out.
Not Beck, not Elizabeth, not Richard. Not Paulie.
No dice.
Dominique Kohl said no DICE to me the night we had our beer. Something unexpected had come up and I had to rain-check the first evening and then she rain-checked my makeup date, so it was about a week before we got together. Maybe eight days. Sergeants drinking with captains was difficult on-post back then because the clubs were rigorously separate, so we went out to a bar in town. It was the usual kind of place, long and low, eight pool tables, plenty of people, plenty of neon, plenty of jukebox noise, plenty of smoke. It was still very hot. The air conditioners were running flat out and getting nowhere. I was wearing fatigue pants and an old T-shirt, because I didn’t own any personal clothes. Kohl arrived wearing a dress. It was a simple A-line, no sleeves, knee-length, black, with little white dots on it. Very small dots. Not like big polka dots or anything. A very subtle pattern.
“How’s Frasconi working out?” I asked her.
“Tony?” she said. “He’s a nice guy.”
She didn’t say anything more about him. We ordered Rolling Rocks, which suited me because it was my favorite drink that summer. She had to lean very close to talk, because of the noise. I enjoyed the proximity. But I wasn’t fooling myself. It was the decibel level making her do it, nothing else. And I wasn’t going to try anything with her. No formal reason not to. There were rules back then, I guess, but there were no regulations yet. The notion of sexual harassment was slow coming to the army. But I was already aware of the potential unfairness. Not that there was any way I could help or hurt her career. Her jacket made it plain she was going to make master sergeant and then first sergeant like night follows day. It was only a matter of time. Then came the leap up to E-9 status, sergeant major. That was hers for the taking, too. After that, she would have a problem. After sergeant major came command sergeant major, and there’s only one of those in each regiment. After that came sergeant major of the army, and there’s only one of those, period. So she would rise and then stop, whatever I said about it.
“We have a tactical problem,” she said. “Or strategic, maybe.”
“Why?”
“The pointy-head, Gorowski? We don’t think it’s blackmail in the sense that he’s got some terrible secret or anything. Looks to us more like straightforward threats against his family. Coercion, rather than blackmail.”
“How can you tell?”
“His file is clean as a whistle. He’s been background-checked to hell and back. That’s why they do it. They’re trying to avoid the possibility of blackmail.”
“Was he a Red Sox fan?”
She shook her head. “Yankees. He’s from the Bronx. Went to the High School of Science there.”
“OK,” I said. “I like him already.”
“But the book says we should bust him right now.”
“What’s he doing?”
“We’ve seen him taking papers out of the lab.”
“Are they still doing the sabot?”
She nodded. “But they could publish the sabot design in Stars and Stripes and it wouldn’t tell anybody anything. So the situation isn’t critical yet.”
“What does he do with the papers?”
“He dead-drops them in Baltimore.”
“Have you seen who picks them up?”
She shook her head.
“No dice,” she said.
“What are you thinking about the pointy-head?”
“I don’t want to bust him. I think we should get whoever it is off his back and leave him be. He’s got two baby girls.”
“What does Frasconi think?”
“He agrees.”
“Does he?”
She smiled.
“Well, he will,” she said. “But the book says different.”
“Forget the book,” I said.
“Really?”
“Direct order from me,” I said. “I’ll put it in writing, if you want. Go with your instinct. Trace the chain the whole way to the other end. If we can, we’ll keep this Gorowski guy out of trouble. That’s my usual approach, with Yankees fans. But don’t let it get away from you.”
“I won’t,” she said.
“Wrap it up before they get done with the sabot,” I said. “Or we’ll have to think of another approach.”
“OK,” she said.
Then we talked about other things, and drank a couple more beers. After an hour there was something good on the jukebox and I asked her to dance. For the second time that night she told me No dice. I thought about that phrase later. Clearly it came from crapshooters’ jargon. It must have originally meant foul, like a call, like the dice hadn’t been properly rolled. No dice! Like a baseball umpire calling a grounder over the bag. Foul ball! Then much later it became just another negative, like no way, no how, no chance. But how far back in its etymology was she mining? Had she meant a plain no, or was she calling a foul? I wasn’t
sure.
I was completely soaked when I got back to the house so I went upstairs and took possession of Duke’s room and toweled off and dressed in a fresh set of his clothes. The room was at the front of the house, more or less central. The window gave me a view west all the way along the driveway. The elevation meant I could see over the wall. I saw a Lincoln Town Car in the far distance. It was heading straight for us. It was black. It had its headlights on, because of the weather. Paulie came out in his slicker and opened the gate well ahead of time so it didn’t have to slow down. It came straight through, moving fast. The windshield was wet and smeared and the wipers were beating back and forth. Paulie had been expecting it. He had been alerted by the phone call. I watched it approach until it was lost to sight below me. Then I turned away.
Duke’s room was square and plain, like most of the rooms in the house. It had dark paneling and a big Oriental carpet. There was a television set and two telephones. External and internal, I guessed. The sheets were clean and there were no personal items anywhere, except for clothes in the closet. I guessed maybe early in the morning Beck had told the maid about the personnel change. I guessed he had told her to leave the clothes for me.
I went back to the window and about five minutes later I saw Beck coming back in the Cadillac. Paulie was ready for him, too. The big car barely had to slow. Paulie swung the gate shut after it. Then he chained it and locked it. The gate was a hundred yards from me, but I could make out what he was doing. The Cadillac disappeared from view beneath me and headed around to the garage block. I headed downstairs. I figured since Beck was back it might be time for lunch. I figured maybe Paulie had chained the gate because he was heading on down to join us.
But I was wrong.
I made it to the hallway and met Beck coming out of the kitchen. His coat was spotted with rain. He was looking for me. He had a sports bag in his hand. It was the same bag he had carried the guns to Connecticut in.
“Job to do,” he said. “Right now. You need to catch the tide.”
“Where?”
He moved away. Turned his head and called over his shoulder.
“The guy in the Lincoln will tell you,” he said.
I went through the kitchen and outside. The metal detector beeped at me. I walked back into the rain and headed for the garage block. But the Lincoln was parked right there at the corner of the house. It had been turned and backed up so its trunk faced the sea. There was a guy in the driver’s seat. He was sheltering from the rain, and he was impatient. He was tapping on the wheel with his thumbs. He saw me in the mirror and the trunk popped and he opened his door and slid out fast.
He looked like somebody had dragged him out of a trailer park and shoved him in a suit. He had a long graying goatee hiding a weak chin. He had a greasy pony tail held together by a pink rubber band. The band was speckled with glitter. It was the kind of thing you see on drugstore carousels, placed low down so little girls will choose them. He had old acne scars. He had prison tattoos on his neck. He was tall and very thin, like a regular person split lengthwise into two.
“You the new Duke?” he said to me.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m the new Duke.”
“I’m Harley,” he said.
I didn’t tell him my name.
“So let’s do it,” he said.
“Do what?”
He came around and raised the trunk lid all the way.
“Garbage disposal,” he said.
There was a military-issue body bag in the trunk. Heavy black rubber, zipped all along its length. I could see by the way it was folded into the space that it held a small person. A woman, probably.
“Who is it?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“The government bitch,” he said. “Took us long enough, but we got her in the end.”
He leaned in and grabbed his end of the bag. Clamped both corners in his hands. Waited for me. I just stood there, feeling the rain against my neck, listening to it snapping and popping against the rubber.
“Got to catch the tide,” he said. “It’s going to turn.”
I leaned down and took hold of the corners at my end. We glanced at each other to coordinate our efforts and heaved the bag up and out. It wasn’t heavy, but it was awkward, and Harley was not strong. We carried it a few steps toward the shore.
“Put it down,” I said.
“Why?”
“I want to see,” I said.
Harley just stood there.
“I don’t think you do,” he said.
“Put it down,” I said again.
He hesitated a second longer and then we squatted together and laid the bag on the rocks. The body settled inside with its back arched upward. I stayed squatted down and duck-walked around to the head. Found the zipper tag and pulled.
“Just look at the face,” Harley said. “That part’s not too bad.”
I looked. It was very bad. She had died in extreme agony. That was clear. Her face was blasted with pain. It was still twisted into the shape of her final ghastly scream.
But it wasn’t Teresa Daniel.
It was Beck’s maid.
CHAPTER 9
I inched the zipper down a little more until I saw the same mutilation I had seen ten years previously. Then I stopped. Turned my head into the rain and closed my eyes. The water on my face felt like tears.
“Let’s get on with it,” Harley said.
I opened my eyes. Stared at the waves. Pulled the zipper back up without looking anymore. Stood slowly and stepped around to the foot of the bag. Harley waited. Then we each grasped our corners and lifted. Carried the burden over the rocks. He led me south and east, way out to a place on the shore where two granite shelves met. There was a steep V-shaped cleft between them. It was half-full of moving water.
“Wait until after the next big wave,” Harley said.
It came booming in and we both ducked our heads away from the spray. The cleft filled to the top and the tide ran up over the rocks and almost reached our shoes. Then it pulled away again and the cleft emptied out. Gravel rattled and drained. The surface of the sea was laced with dull gray foam and pitted by the rain.
“OK, put it down,” Harley said. He was out of breath. “Hold your end.”
We laid the bag down so the head end was hanging out over the granite shelf and into the cleft. The zipper faced upward. The body was on its back. I held both corners at the foot. The rain plastered my hair to my head and ran into my eyes. It stung. Harley squatted and straddled the bag and humped the head end farther out into space. I went with him, inch by inch, small steps on the slippery rocks. The next wave came in and eddied under the bag. It floated it up a little. Harley used the temporary buoyancy to slide it a little farther into the sea. I moved with it. The wave receded. The cleft drained again. The bag drooped down. The rain thrashed against the stiff rubber. It battered our backs. It was deathly cold.
Harley used the next five waves to ease the bag out more and more until it was hanging right down into the cleft. I was left holding empty rubber. Gravity had jammed the body tight up against the top of the bag. Harley waited and looked out to sea and then ducked low and pulled the zipper all the way down. Scrambled back fast and took a corner from me. Held tight. The seventh wave came booming in. We were soaked with its spray. The cleft filled and the bag filled and then the big wave receded and sucked the body right out of the bag. It floated motionless for a split second and then the undertow caught it and took it away. It went straight down, into the depths. I saw long fair hair streaming in the water and pale skin flashing green and gray and then it was gone. The cleft foamed red as it drained.
“Hell of a riptide here,” Harley said.
I said nothing.
“The undertow takes them right out,” he said. “We never had one come back, anyways. It pulls them a mile or two, going down all the way. Then there’s sharks out there, I guess. They cruise the coast here. Plus all kinds of other creatures. You know, crabs, s
uckerfish, things like that.”
I said nothing.
“Never had one come back,” he said again.
I glanced at him and he smiled at me. His mouth was like a caved-in hole above the goatee. He had rotten yellow stumps for teeth. I glanced away again. The next wave came in. It was only a small one, but when it receded the cleft was washed clean. It was like nothing had happened. Like nothing had ever been there. Harley stood up awkwardly and zipped the empty bag. Pink water sluiced out of it and ran over the rocks. He started rolling it up. I glanced back at the house. Beck was standing in the kitchen doorway, alone, watching us.
We went back toward the house, soaked with rain and salt water. Beck ducked back into the kitchen. We followed him in. Harley hung around on the edge of the room, like he felt he shouldn’t be there.
“She was a federal agent?” I said.
“No question,” Beck said.
His sports bag was on the table, in the center, prominent, like a prosecution exhibit in a courtroom. He zipped it open and rummaged inside.
“Check this out,” he said.
He lifted a bundle onto the table. Something wrapped in a damp dirty oil-stained rag the size of a hand towel. He unfolded it and took out Duffy’s Glock 19.
“This all was hidden in the car we let her use,” he said.
“The Saab?” I said, because I had to say something.
He nodded. “In the well where the spare tire is. Under the trunk floor.” He laid the Glock on the table. Took the two spare magazines out of the rag and laid them next to the gun. Then he put the bent bradawl next to them, and the sharpened chisel. And Angel Doll’s keyring.
I couldn’t breathe.
“The bradawl is a lock pick, I guess,” Beck said.
“How does this prove she was federal?” I asked.
He picked up the Glock again and turned it around and pointed to the right-hand side of the slide.
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