“Maybe. But suppose, in his ignorance, he'd managed to get you killed anyhow—if, say, Andy Foster had hit you a time or two with his .45—who'd be around to contest Cimarron's unenforceable claim?"
Romanelle blinked, then nodded, smiling. “Very interesting. Good point, Scott. I like that. Well, it's academic now. As soon as Worthington finished doing his thing for me, and both Spree and I signed the trust document, it was nailed down: If Alda killed me after that, all my Golden Phoenix stock—and everything else—would go to her, and there was no way Alda could grab it. Of course, I still had the same problem I just mentioned, conveying this vital intelligence to Alda without getting killed before I convinced him. If I managed that, if everything worked out and I remained among the living, I meant to see that Spree got half, and I'd keep the other half—wouldn't want to wind up alive and kicking but penniless and on welfare, would I?"
“Somehow I don't think that would happen. I can follow your reasoning that Cimarron isn't likely to kill you if that would mean losing his chance at thirty or forty million bucks, or even ten million. But what's to prevent him—once he knows for sure the stock is lost to him for good, it's gone, kaput—from killing you for the hell of it?"
“Because Alda isn't about to let that kind of money get away from him if there's even a slim chance to grab it. And he knows as long as I'm alive he's got a chance for it. That's why I set it up the way I did, so he couldn't afford to waste me. I know that big slob. Besides, it's worked already."
“Worked how?"
“When Groder and Keats grabbed me, they took me to the Medigenic. Alda and Bliss were already there. But before they tried ruining my brains..."
He stopped, as though involuntarily, turning his head to one side, his features sort of flattening as he stretched his lips wider. Obviously, he was thinking back to those “electricities” shooting through his head, and just as obviously even the memory of it still affected him painfully.
He moistened his lips, shook his head rapidly. “Sorry. That ... treatment, Bliss turning the little goddamn dial, it was hellish, it was godawful, I don't like to even—where was I? Yeah ... Lucky for me, Alda had his boys snatch me this time instead of blowing me away because by then he'd cooled off some and there were a lot of questions he needed answers to. Somehow he'd found out—don't ask me how—I'd been visited twice at the hospital by Worthington, so he wanted to know what the hell that meant. And he wanted to know for sure who I'd bought all those extra GPXM shares from, and when, and exactly how many hundred thou, in what names, if ownership had legally been conveyed through the company's transfer agent, a whole mountain of crap he wanted from me. And I was the only one who could tell him."
“I suppose you told him."
“Absolutely. No question. I couldn't wait. Hell, even before they started trying to force me to talk I was already singing like the entire feathered population of Birdland—because I wanted Alda to understand, number one, that the little agreement of his I'd signed way back was pure ape diarrhea, not enforceable if he killed me, no more weight to it than a flea's fart—"
“Romanelle, in the interest of expediting this, could you perhaps—"
“—and, second, that I'd already signed papers guaranteeing that every share of GPXM in my name, in cover names, everything I owned, would go to my kid if I was suddenly croaked or even died slowly of protracted middle age."
“Apparently you convinced him."
“Eventually. It wasn't easy—even with the copy of the trust agreement I finally got him to read all the way through. I think Alda just didn't want to believe it, he thought I was pulling some kind of con on him—"
“Wait a minute. Are you saying you had with you your copy of the agreement Worthington drew up, with your signature on it, the works?"
“Of course. Worthington left a copy with me in Scottsdale Memorial Sunday night, and this was the first time I'd been out of the hospital. So I had the document in my pocket when I got home. Keats took it from me, after conking my head, I guess. At least he had it, my wallet, everything I'd had on me. And, yeah, it was the works—except for Spree's signature, since this all happened Tuesday night."
“That wasn't enough for Cimarron?"
“Not at first. Like I said, he thought I was pulling some kind of con, which in truth I had been known to do in the past, in relatively innocent ways. So they turned on that goddamn machine and...” He winced, closed his eyes and shrank back slightly, went on, “used it on my head for a time. After a ... time, Alda was finally convinced I'd given him straight goods. He knew, by then, I wasn't lying. But, well, there was all the rest he wanted to know about—besides which, that psycho enjoyed doing it to me, watching it—so they used that contraption on my head a while longer.” He grimaced, but at last opened his eyes again. “I don't really know how long."
“I gather you gave Cimarron most of what he wanted."
“All. Not most, all. Everything I could think of or remember—while I could remember."
“Including hiring me, talking to me on the phone."
“You bet. Everything. And then ... well, it all got crazy after a while. I might have told them things that never happened. My head felt..."
He put both hands alongside his skull, rubbed the temples with his fingers. “Can't explain it, Scott. At first, it was like hurting, but in a different way, different kind of hurt. When it got worse, well, it plain scared the crap out of me. Paralyzed me, couldn't move, thought I was—dead. That's what I thought, they'd killed me, and if that was what being dead was like I wanted to die one more time and get out of there."
He lowered his arms to his lap again. “No way I can describe how it really was. In the beginning, before I blacked out for good, I would come back and know some of what was going on. Alda would ask me a question and I'd tell him the truth, but he'd say I was lying and they'd have to give me another shot. Then he'd nod at Doc Bliss and Doc would turn that little black dial higher, and put those round metal things against my temples ... I remember yelling, screaming, swearing I'd told them everything straight, and then—"
He stopped, staring at me but not seeing me, his eyes vacant and haunted. His expression, combined with what he'd said and all that must have been left unsaid, made me shiver. I actually was slightly nauseated for a moment, felt a soft clenching around my solar plexus.
But then Romanelle seemed to pull himself together again. “I must have conked out for good Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. I remember a little about you showing up at Medigenic earlier today—only I didn't know then where I was. And you pushing me in that roller coaster at midnight, throwing me at a car, gunshots, a couple of them in my ear. All very hazy, like part of what had gone before, part of what Alda and Doc did to me. Then the first really clear impression, sharp and real, was sort of coming to right here with a guy I never saw sticking needles in me and putting drops of something into my mouth. It was—queer. Very queer."
“I didn't really understand all you'd been through, Romanelle,” I said. “And that, after just getting out of the hospital. You're a pretty tough old buzzard."
“Yeah. Sure. But if you'd seen me up there with those goddamn paddles against my head, you'd have thought I was a little girl, grabbed by the bogeyman. You seize, you know."
“What? Seize?"
“Yeah, when a good shot hits your brains you have a seizure, a fit. Convulsions. God, it was ... It's funny.” His eyes took on a trace of that vacant, haunted look again. “Everything we've ever done, thought, read, whatever we are, all our loves and hates and dreams and ... it's all up there in our heads. In our brains. Or somewhere in there, in us. And when you can feel it going ... feel everything slipping away ... it's as if you're dissolving, melting, and there'll be nothing left of you. Just a puddle. Nothing..."
I got up, wanting to stretch my legs, move, shake off a kind of uneasiness Romanelle's words had built in me. I paced back and forth for half a minute, then said to him, “Let's get back to here and now. There are
still several things that have to be taken care of."
“Right,” he said. “OK. But first, well, I told you, for some reason I've always had trouble thanking people. Seems like that's all I've been doing with you. And I guess I want you to know I'm ... indebted to you, I mean for finding the doc, Midland, and having him work on me here. I don't know where you got him, or how, but ... thanks for that, you big white-haired bastard. OK?"
“OK,” I said, smiling. “I called a friend in L.A. and he gave me Midland's name. I guess we're both lucky it was him instead of somebody else. But back to here and now, Romanelle. I've seen the document Worthington drew up for you. And you just told me Cimarron read a copy of it—probably Tuesday night, right?"
“Not long after they grabbed me at home. Sometime Tuesday night, I'd say. But I'm not real sure of the times on anything past the first hour or two after they grabbed me."
“Close enough. The way I see it, with your signature already on the document, Cimarron knew if he killed you right then, all your assets—including the Golden Phoenix stock—would go to your daughter, and he'd be out of luck. Unless—and this is what's starting to stick me—unless he killed her first."
“I already asked you once if you think I'm an idiot, Scott. Apparently you remain unconvinced I'm not. If you read the trust document, you saw the little kicker saying if my daughter predeceased me the entirety of the trust's assets would go to a named charity."
“Sorry, Romanelle. I do remember that now. At the time I was looking for other things."
“So was Alda Cimarron. But I made sure he noticed that kicker and knew nothing had better happen to Spree. I mean, I made sure while I was still able to make sure of anything. Before all the lights in my head went pfft I realized that Alda, once convinced he couldn't afford to kill Spree, would sure as hell try to keep her from signing the document, because when that was accomplished he'd be out in the icebergs. And I told you, my kind of survival logic says she must have signed. If she hadn't—if I was the only party Alda had to deal with, since he already had me in a highly cooperative state of mind—I'd be a dead Claude. By now, one way or another I'd have transferred everything to Alda—with consideration this time—and you wouldn't have found me at Medigenic. But here we are. What happened? I can't believe Alda missed that angle."
“He didn't. But I guess he had to spread his people a little thin.” I told him most of what had happened Wednesday night, Foster and Cowboy at the airport, the rest of it.
He was silent for a few moments, then said, “So it really was just Keats and Doc Bliss in my house when you and Spree got there. Well, Bliss is chickenshit, no balls at all. He would have been there in case somebody got shot—somebody besides you, of course."
“Of course. I was supposed to be shot."
“I admire your powers of deduction. I'd guess you also figured out why only Keats and Bliss were there, instead of half a dozen guys."
“Besides the troops being spread a little thin, I'd say they didn't expect me to get as far as your home."
“Absolutely brilliant,” Romanelle said. “You must also be absolutely damned lucky. Keats never got taken out before, and I know of at least five guys he killed. Got to be plenty others I never heard about."
“Lucky, sure,” I said. “But your daughter's the reason I wasn't blown right out into your patio. Spree kept Keats busy, distracted, just long enough. She's got the same kind of—fire, maybe, that I'd guess you've got in you."
He looked at me, nodding slightly, not saying anything but looking pleased.
I paced to the door and back, just moving aimlessly, thinking, for half a minute. Then I stopped before Romanelle and said, “There's still one way Cimarron can make out, get what he wants and screw up all your plans. I suppose you're aware of that."
He smiled oddly. “One way. I thought maybe you'd missed it, Scott."
“It's not a question of missing the way out for him. Obviously Cimarron will have thought of it by now. His problem would be execution, making it work."
“On the mark. But I told you, I know that musclehead—not that he's dim-brained, he's maybe too goddamned smart. If there's one chance in a thousand, he'll try to make it work. And the odds aren't all that long. If he could get his hands on me again, and on Spree, both of us at the same time, and bring in Worthington to do the legal officiating, he could make it work. He could for damn certain force both Spree and me as cotrustees to transfer all shares of the stock owned by the trust—and that's two mill now—over to Cimarron himself, or to Al Capone's heirs, or back to the company as treasury stock ... and you bet it could work.” He was silent for a few seconds, then added slowly, “Of course, he'd kill us both then. After that, he'd have to."
“Well, fortunately, he doesn't have either of you now."
“And, Scott,” Romanelle said deliberately, “it's your job to see it stays that way."
“No argument there. But I think it's time to bring in the law. So, understand, when I call the cops they're going to put me away. I mean, I'll be out of circulation until several ... questions are answered by me."
“I don't think I want you out of circulation, Scott. Besides which, Alda's got a lot of people beholden to him, maybe even on his payroll. I can name, for example, two police officers. If I can name two, there are probably more."
“I've had that possibility in mind for a while myself. But we're at the point where that doesn't matter as much as getting police protection for you and Spree. Even if it means I'll be in jail for a while."
“You mean for shooting Keats?” Romanelle asked.
“That, and half a dozen other things. I've stepped over the line on this one, Romanelle.” I walked to the table the phone was on, pulled a chair over, and sat down. “I'm going to make a couple of calls, then we'll decide together. You're still the client."
“You calling Spree?” he asked me.
“No. Worthington first, then another guy. Just testing the waters before I jump in."
“Worthington, yes. Good thinking. I'd like for him to be current on all developments."
I dialed Worthington's office, got his personal secretary, and identified myself.
When I asked for Bentley, she said, “He's in court, Mr. Scott. But there's a message from him for you."
I heard a rustling sound, as if she was flipping a notebook's pages, then she said, “I'll read it to you as it was dictated to me."
“Please do."
“The note is for you, that is for Mr. Shell Scott, and the text is: If the police have not yet arrested you, be advised they are making strenuous efforts to do so. It is alleged that they have in their possession a tape recording made by you in which you confess to commission of the Frederick Keats homicide and several other serious crimes. I will be in court until about five p.m. I advise that you take no independent action until we have discussed this matter."
While listening to the soft voice reading Bentley's note, I went through a complex array of emotions and physical reactions. I started getting hot, my skin actually flushing, then I got cold, a chill rippling over my flesh like a sudden wind. At the end I was getting hot again, both physically and mentally.
I tried to keep the anger out of my voice as I asked, “When did Bentley leave this message for me?"
“He phoned from the courthouse, Mr. Scott, and dictated the message about half an hour ago. At, let's see ... 3:03 p.m. Twenty-five minutes ago."
I checked my watch. Right on: 3:28.
“All right,” I said. “And thank you very much. It's important—very important—that I talk to Bentley soon. Would you give me your name? When I call back, I'll ask for you."
“Of course. Lucille. Lucille Weathers, Mr. Scott."
We hung up. Within five seconds I was dialing Exposé, Inc., and in ten seconds more Steve Whistler was on the line saying, “Shell? Where the devil are you? I wanted to get in touch but didn't know where to call you."
“Never mind that now. How come—” I stopped, started over. �
�I'm just curious to know if there's anything new concerning our ... mutual interests."
“There's hell to pay. Shell, that information you had me record...” He paused. “Damn, I hate to tell you this. The police have it. Correction. They've got a copy of it. Identical. But not the tape I made."
“How would the police get the thing, Steve? And what do you mean, it's not the tape you made?"
“I don't know how. But, look, I heard everything you said while it was being taped, remember. And that was damaging stuff—even though I can understand why you might have wanted it on the record. So the minute you rang off, I took that tape out of the recorder, replaced it with a blank reel, and locked your tape in my office safe. I'm on your side, in case that's slipped your mind."
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Locked it in your safe—it's still there?"
“Of course it's still there. I checked, naturally."
“How did you find out about this, Steve, and when—how long ago?"
“I got a call here from a police officer who is, let's say, sympathetic, to our work. He told me about the tape recording, plus the fact that there's a local call going out on you—going out then, so it's on the air by now—and an all-points bulletin. Just about the same as if you were the new Dillinger. And that was just after three. Five minutes after three, or almost half an hour ago."
“Wonderful. Do those bulletins suggest that the suspect is armed and dangerous and should be shot on sight?"
“I don't know what they said. I just know ... hell, it's a mess. Shell, I'm sorry, but I swear that tape hasn't been out of my office safe."
“Who else knows the combination?"
“Besides me, only Bren—Bren Finnegan, the man I was with when you barged into my office this morning—and Kay."
“Finnegan and Kay Dark, huh? After the job Kay did on me, I suppose it's natural that I might wonder—"
“Don't wonder, Shell. Maybe she wasn't on the level with you but she's loyal to Exposé and me. More important, I haven't left the building, I've been here since we talked. Nobody could have gotten to that tape."
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 30
