The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  She was right; it takes an asshole to shoot an employee. Yet there had to be more to it than a simple divergence of views. “What kind of business is he in?”

  She gave me an odd look. “You don’t know?”

  “Why should I?”

  She sighed and pulled a face. “He’s supposed to be in construction – he has a site just outside Charlotte. That’s the work I do for him, although it’s not much. But that’s just a sideline now. You want something that doesn’t come from Wal-Mart, Gus can get it.”

  “You mean stolen goods?”

  “I guess,” she said quietly. “He sells weapons.”

  “What – pistols? Rifles?” I figured somebody had to.

  She winced at the tone in my voice. “Bigger.”

  “Machine guns? Mortars?” I was actually joking, but Lilly-Mae jumped in her seat.

  “Mortars.” She stabbed the air with a decisive finger. “I’ve heard him say mortars once. And rocket launchers.”

  Holy Moses. Mortars and rocket launchers were used in theatres of war. No wonder Frank hadn’t liked it. Suddenly I was squarely in the frame with an arms dealer. I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and studied the sticky note.

  “What about this D. Selecca?” I asked. No doubt he’d be into aircraft carriers and intergalactic star ships. I wasn’t far wrong.

  “The same,” confirmed Lilly-Mae. “Only bigger.” She shivered as if someone had walked over her grave. “I met him once. He gave me the creeps. He calls himself Dwight, but Gus said his real name is Diego. He pretends he’s American, but he comes from down south. Colombia, I think.”

  Colombia. Colombia meant coffee. And drugs.

  “What are you going to do with that?” she continued.

  I fingered the envelope again. We needed to get away from here. But I needed to do the job I’d been paid for.

  “D’you have to?” said Lilly-Mae, reading my thoughts. “I don’t think anyone would hold you to it.”

  She was right, of course. But maybe I’m old-fashioned. I stood up. “Let’s go to the airport.”

  We took a shuttle flight to Palm Springs. I hadn’t got a definite plan, but was coasting on instinct to see where it led. All I knew was, I couldn’t simply leave and go back to England without finding out what had happened. Don’t ask.

  When we cleared arrivals I rang the Krasky house. If anyone had found Frank by now, the place would be teaming with murder squad detectives bawling at each other to get results from the lab like yesterday and did anyone bring coffee and bagels? Well, that’s how they do it on Columbo, anyway. There was no answer.

  We took a cab into Palm Springs which, with its lush green lawns, broad, tidy streets and low-rise, stylish buildings, was slumped gracefully in the sun like a dozing salamander.

  The Hyatt Regency was on North Palm Canyon Drive in the downtown area. I paid off the cab, and while Lilly-Mae found somewhere to wait nearby, I walked into the cool interior.

  “May I help you, sir?” the receptionist turned away from chatting to a man in a suit and gave me a full-wattage smile.

  “I’ve a delivery for Mr Selecca,” I said.

  To my surprise she passed the envelope to the man in the suit. He wore Clark Kent spectacles and had a build to match, and looked at me with a faint air of suspicion. The girl faded into the background.

  “There’s no name on it,’ he said, taking the envelope and turning it over.

  “There was,” I replied. “Look, I have to go—”

  But he stepped aside and gestured for me to go towards the stairs. “What’s your hurry?”

  There didn’t seem any point in arguing, so I walked ahead of him until we reached the first floor. He indicated a door and led the way inside.

  Sitting by the window was a neat, compact man in golf slacks and a sports shirt. He was wearing an unbelievably bad toupee. I wondered if he realized it looked like a piece of road-kill.

  “Who’s this?’ he breathed harshly, staring at me with coal-black eyes and licking his lips like a lizard.

  They say that in the presence of real danger you can feel a change in temperature, as if the spirits are warning the unworldly of impending doom. All I got was a click of metal. When I turned my head, Mr Muscles was holding a very large automatic pistol pointing vaguely in my direction, like he wanted to use it but was reluctant in case he made a mess of the carpet. With his free hand he handed Selecca the envelope.

  “He brought this.”

  “Sorry about Paulie,” said Selecca, flapping a vague hand. “He watches too many bad movies. You want a drink?”

  After seeing the size of Paulie’s cannon, what I needed was a pee. But I decided to go for a hasty withdrawal instead. “No, thanks,” I said politely. “If I can see some ID, though, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He looked mildly surprised, but reached into his back pocket and produced some credit cards all in the name of D. Selecca. One was an Amex.

  “That will do nicely,” I said. Before I could move, he had the envelope opened and slid a data stick into his palm. It was two inches long by half an inch wide. He turned it over a couple of times like he’d never seen one before. Then he peered into the envelope as if expecting to find something else. In the distance I heard the whoop-whoop of a police car. The atmosphere in the room was very still.

  “What’s this?” he asked, looking at me with those cold, dark eyes.

  “It’s what I was given to bring here,” I said, “by Gus Krasky.”

  The police siren came closer, the noise beginning to overlay Selecca’s breathing and the rustle of the envelope.

  “Krasky? He said bring it here? To me? Why?”

  “That’s right,” I replied carefully. “I don’t know why.”

  Selecca flicked the stick to Paulie and pointed to a laptop on a side table. “Check it.”

  Paulie inserted the stick with his free hand and tapped the keys while keeping the gun pointed at me. “It’s a bunch of letters,’ he said finally. “Letters from you to Jean-Francois Aboullah.”

  Selecca’s eyes bulged as if he’d swallowed snake bile. Then the phone jangled, making us all jump. I hoped Paulie’s finger wasn’t curled too tightly around the trigger. Accidental discharges can kill you.

  Selecca snatched up the phone. “Yeah?” He looked at me. “Sure – he’s here. Who is this?” Then he handed me the phone with an irate snarl. “What’s this – a family business? You got your sister keepin’ tabs on you? We ain’t finished, you and me.” He flicked the torn envelope away from him and stomped across to the window.

  I wondered if I was in a bad dream and any minute I’d wake up in bed at home, safe from all this. I don’t have a sister.

  “Jake . . . get out of there!” It was Lilly-Mae. There was a background clutter of traffic noise and a man’s voice issuing orders. “You’ve got less than two minutes!”

  “Wha-who . . .?” The phone went dead. Suddenly I didn’t want to be here. Call me sensitive.

  “My sister – Emma,” I said, snatching for a name. “She’s a worrier . . . says we have to catch a flight out in the next hour. I’d better go.” I started towards the door and found Paulie in my way, his gun at head height. Then a police siren gave a whoop right outside before being choked off in mid-stream. Instantly Paulie jumped towards the window and looked down. He cursed and looked at Selecca.

  “There’re cops everywhere!”

  It was all the opportunity I was going to get. I was across to the door and through it before they could stop me, and running along the corridor towards the stairs. I had no idea what the police activity was about, but after Lilly-Mae’s warning I didn’t want to stay and find out.

  Halfway down the corridor was an ice machine. I grabbed a plastic bucket and filled it with cubes just as the door at the end opened and two men in suits appeared. Behind them was a uniformed cop. They didn’t even spare me a glance, but hurried by, the uniform holding the door for me. Whoever they were here for, it ev
idently didn’t include guests bearing ice buckets.

  Downstairs another cop was blocking the fire door to the outside. This one didn’t look like he would let me go by so easily, so I veered towards the reception area and wandered through as casually as possible, keeping as far from the receptionist as possible. Then someone grabbed my arm, nearly upsetting my ice-bucket all over the floor.

  It was Lilly-Mae.

  “Keep walking,” she hissed, and steered me towards the front door, chatting away excitedly about what a wonderful time we’d have on the aerial tramway and how we could take a hot-air balloon out over the desert or maybe drive out to the Indian Canyons. By the time we reached the outside and I ditched the ice-bucket, she almost had me believing we were newly-weds.

  Five minutes later we were in a Mex-Tex restaurant a few blocks away, facing each other over margaritas with a good view of the street.

  “We could head for the airport,” I suggested. First rule of not being caught: run away quickly.

  “Uh-uh.” Lilly-Mae shook her head. She looked wonderful, as if she’d been relaxing on a beach all day instead of rescuing inept Englishmen from the clutches of Mafia-type gunmen. “We’re safe enough.”

  “We are?”

  “Sure. Selecca won’t set the police on you . . . he’ll be too busy trying to worm his way out of trouble. With his record, that won’t be easy.”

  “Having a man with a gun in his room won’t help.”

  “That’s Paulie.”

  It reminded me that she probably knew a lot about people like Selecca and Paulie. I felt depressed. Why couldn’t I meet someone normal?

  “You phoned just in time,” I said. “Thanks.”

  She gave me a no-problem look. “What did Selecca say?”

  “He wasn’t expecting the package.” I told her about his reaction to the contents of the data stick. “He was about to quiz me when you rang. Then the siren went off.” I paused as a knowing smile spread across her face. “Was that you, too?”

  “Yup. Lil’ old me.”

  “And the police?”

  She looked puzzled about that. “No. They were already on their way. But I guessed where they were going and was worried you’d get picked up with Selecca.”

  “Quick thinking.”

  “Thank you. After I spoke to you, I thought maybe I should start a diversion. I saw this police cruiser out back with nobody in it, so I let it whoop.” She rolled her eyes and flapped her hand as if she had been shocked breathless. “Gosh, loud, huh?” I didn’t ask how she knew where to find the siren button in a police car.

  “Good job you did. I think Paulie was about to shoot me. You saved my life.”

  She made a face, dropping into a cornball drawl. “Aw shucks, really? Where I come from, that means I own you. Gee, I ain’t never owned nobody before.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. There was something about Lilly-Mae that veered erratically from sophisticated and elegant to plain screwball. Whichever was real and which was the put-on I couldn’t tell, but right now it didn’t matter. Still, there was something bothering me about the envelope. “I’m still confused,” I said, looking Lilly-Mae straight in the eye, “about the envelope being on the mailbox. It wasn’t there when I arrived.”

  Lilly-Mae looked blank. “You didn’t see anyone in the area?”

  “Only the pool man. At least, that’s what he said he was.”

  When I described him, Lilly-Mae nodded. “That’s Billy. He’s the pool man, all right.”

  “Well, someone must have dropped off the envelope after I’d gone to the house. But why leave it there? What if I’d taken one look at Frank and run for the airport and home?”

  “Unless . . .” She chewed her lip. “Unless you got there earlier than expected.”

  We let that one settle between us for a while. She was right: I had been hoping for an early departure. “So whoever left it there didn’t know I was already inside, but counted on me seeing the envelope when I arrived and automatically bringing it to Palm Springs, because I’d know all about it, seeing as I’d already been paid.”

  Lilly-Mae’s eyes went wide. “But that could have only been—”

  I nodded. “Gus Krasky.” I wondered if it was Gus who set the police on Selecca.

  “If we could look at the computer,” said Lilly-Mae, “we could see what was downloaded to the data stick. We could go back to the house tomorrow.”

  Great. This was turning into “Mission Impossible”. “You’re kidding.” What had been exciting at first was wearing off like the coating on a cheap Singapore watch. Anyway, I already knew what was on the stick.

  “But I have a key,” Lilly-Mae insisted, before I could explain. “And I know a back way in through the woods.”

  See, this is what comes of raising girls on Nancy Drew mysteries. They forget quilting and want to conquer the world instead.

  “Two things,” I said. “First, the stick held copies of letters from Selecca. So we don’t need to look any closer. Second, I want to try something.” I led her over to a phone and dialled the number. While it rang, Lilly-Mae crowded in on me so she could listen. She smelled fresh and soapy, and I remembered what she had looked like in that backless sundress. Then someone picked up the phone.

  I waited for them to speak, but all I could hear was wheezy breathing and the mouthpiece rasping against stubble. Definitely not a cleaning lady. Lilly-Mae pressed closer, eyes like dark liquid pools and her arm sliding round my waist.

  “Gus?” I said finally.

  “Who is this?” It was a man’s voice. In the background came a burst of radio static. I felt the hairs move on the back of my neck. Cops. I put the phone down. I could see Lilly-Mae had reached the same conclusion. “They must have found Frank.”

  “And now they’ve got Selecca – and the data stick.” Lilly-Mae chewed her lip.

  Back at our table, I said, “Have you ever heard of a Jean-Francois Aboullah?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Because the letters on the stick were from Selecca to Aboullah. If it’s the Jean-Francois Aboullah I’m thinking of, Selecca’s been corresponding with a man who tops probably every Western government’s list of people not to talk to. He’s an African warlord.”

  “Oh, gosh,” said Lilly-Mae, her voice tiny.

  “What?”

  “I know Gus wasn’t happy with Selecca,” she said. “They used to be really thick, always cooking up deals together. But a few days ago I heard Gus telling Frank about having evidence that would put Selecca out of the picture, if he needed it.”

  “What sort of evidence?”

  Her eyes were like liquid pools. “Stuff about arms deals. He mentioned Africa, and something about a State Department blacklist. Is that serious?”

  “If it’s an official one, yes,” I said. “And there’s Gus.”

  “Huh?”

  “Across the street.” I pointed through the window to where the inbred Twins, Jesse and Dino, were lumbering by on the other side. They were followed at a discreet distance by a casual and surprisingly chipper-looking Gus Krasky.

  I grabbed Lilly-Mae in time to stop her going after him. “Wait.”

  “But what’s he doing here?”

  “What else? He’s come to make sure his plan goes right.”

  “Plan?”

  “Think about it. He pays me to drop off a package for Selecca. The same night he has an argument with Frank about something that could ‘get us all killed’, and Frank mentions the police and me. Frank gets shot. Gus can’t let me near the house, so he leaves the envelope at the gate, knowing I’ll see it, knowing it will end up with Selecca, because that’s what I do. I deliver stuff. And he wants Selecca out of the way.”

  “So it was him who called the police? But that could implicate him, too – especially if you’d been arrested.”

  “Not necessarily. The instructions were for me to leave the envelope at reception. It was just bad luck that Paulie wa
s there when I arrived.” I went over to the phone and re-dialled Gus’ number. The same husky voice answered.

  “In the main room,” I said softly, “there’s a desk with a laptop.”

  “What? Who is this?” The man sounded annoyed, like a cop with a headache.

  “Just tell me and I’ll explain. The laptop.”

  “Laptop? There’s no laptop here.”

  “How about the blood in the hall?”

  “Blood?” He sounded really irate now. “What blood? Look, fella, we had a call about an intruder, but the place is empty. And clean. Who are you?”

  I cut him off and looked at Lilly-Mae. Gus had cleaned the place up. “There’s no laptop and no blood. I bet there’s no Frank in the pool, either.” I stared up at the ceiling, thinking it through. If the letters were genuine – and I guessed they were – they were bad news for Selecca. He’d have a hard time explaining them to the Federal agencies. Somehow Krasky must have obtained copies. All he had to do was sit tight and feign ignorance, no matter what Selecca tried to throw at him in exchange for a deal. None of it could be traced back to Gus. As for me, I was a complete unknown, who’d happened to walk conveniently into the middle of a takeover bid. Clever.

  Lilly-Mae looked sick. “He used us,” she said, her voice faint. “He killed Frank, he lied and ran out on me, and he nearly got you shot or arrested with Selecca. And all for what?”

  “It’s called competition. Get rid of Selecca and he’d pick up all of the business going. It must have been worth his while. But risky, as Frank tried to tell him.” Frank must have threatened him with the police and paid the price.

  Thirty minutes later we were at the airport waiting for a flight out. Lilly-Mae had been very quiet since leaving Palm Springs. She turned to me. “Are you married?”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Just making conversation. I was wondering if there was a Mrs Jake waiting at home, that’s all.”

  “There was once,” I said truthfully. “But she moved on. How about you?”

  “Me, too. He was in the navy. It didn’t work out.”

  “So how did you come to be with Gus?”