Dance for the Dead jw-2

by Thomas Perry

  The next morning Jane checked out of the hotel and drove up the freeway toward Los Angeles. The coast of California had always made her uneasy. The air was lukewarm, calm and quiet, as though it were not outdoors. On the left side of the road the blue-gray ocean rose and fell in long, lazy swells, looking almost gelatinous where the beds of brown kelp spread like a net on the surface. The low, dry, gentle yellow hills to the east always made her sleepy because they were difficult for the eye to define, not clear enough to tell whether they were small and near or large and far. Behind them she could see the abrupt rising of the dark, jagged mountains like a painted wall.

  The land along this road always looked deserted. She had to remind herself that it had been the most densely populated part of the continent when the Spanish missionaries and their soldiers arrived. The Indians here had not been at war for centuries the way the Iroquois had, so they weren't fighters. The first Europeans they saw herded them into concentration camps where they forced them to build stone missions and work the fields, and then locked them up at night in barracks, the men in one and the women in another. They were chained, whipped, starved, tortured, and executed for infractions against the priests' authority, and they died from diseases that flourished in their cramped quarters until they were virtually exterminated.

  California was a sad place, a piece of property that had begun as a slaughterhouse and could never be made completely clean. It was perpetually being remodeled by new tenants who could not explain why they were doing it. They bulldozed the gentle hills into flat tables where they built hideous, crowded developments that encrusted the high places like beehives. They gouged and scraped away at the surface and covered it with cement so that every town looked like every other town, and the rebuilding was so constant that every block of buildings in the state seemed to be between ten and twenty years old and just beginning to show signs that it needed to be bulldozed and rebuilt again.

  Jane drove along the Golden State Freeway for three hours until she came to the Hollywood Freeway, took the exit at Vermont, then swung south again for the few blocks to Wilshire Boulevard, where the tall buildings that sheltered corporations instead of people rose abruptly out of the pavement.

  The things that had been happening had a very impersonal quality to them: a respected corporation had managed an account, and it had decided it was time to file a petition to declare a client deceased. But somewhere behind the opaque and anonymous veneer there was a person. Money was stolen by human beings. Sometimes thieves worked together and sometimes separately, but most successful embezzlers worked alone. It was time to find the man.

  12

  In the late afternoon, Jane began to watch the Hoffen-Bayne building from the window of a restaurant across Wilshire Boulevard. It was small for this part of Los Angeles, only five floors. The bottom floor was rented out to a travel agency and a coffee shop, and the second floor was a reception area for Hoffen-Bayne. After an hour she moved to the upper tier of the parking ramp for the tall insurance building beside Hoffen-Bayne and studied the upper windows to determine which ones were small, functional offices for accountants, brokers, and consultants, and which ones were big pools for bookkeepers and secretaries. She paid special attention to the desirable corner offices.

  At six p.m. when she saw people inside taking purses out of desk drawers and turning off computers for the day, she strolled along the quiet side street near the driveway and studied the men and women who came out and got into cars in the reserved-for-employees spaces in the parking lot. She wrote down the license numbers and makes and models, and matched the cars to the people she had seen in the windows.

  Tall-Thin-and-Bald wanted to be noticed. He drove a gray Mercedes 320 two-door convertible that retailed for about eighty-five thousand and was too sporty for him. Woman-with-Eye-Trouble, who had the habit of putting on her sunglasses while she was still inside the office, drove a racing-green Jaguar XJ6, which was only about fifty thousand, but she was still a possibility, as was Old Weight-Lifter, who drove a Lexus LS 400, which sold for even less. Eye-Trouble might have chosen her car because it was pretty, and Weight-Lifter might be the sort of person who bought whatever the car magazines told him to.

  Jane made four grids on a sheet of paper to represent the windows of the upper floors, labeled them "N,"

  "S,"

  "E," and "W," and made notes on each window about who had appeared in it and what went on when he did. A supervisor might pop in on a subordinate, might even deliver sheets of paper to the subordinate's desk, but when several people met in an office, it was usually the office of the ranking person.

  An hour later, after the upper windows were dim but there were still people in the coffee shop and travel agency, she went into the lobby, took the elevator to the second floor, and stood outside the locked glass doors to the Hoffen-Bayne reception area. She was looking for a directory of offices posted on the wall, but there was none. The reception area was all smooth veneer and expensive furniture that made it look like a doctor's waiting room. There was no easy way into the complex, and there was a small sticker on the glass door that said "Protected By Intercontinental Security," and under that, "Armed Response." She didn't particularly want to bet that she could fool the sort of security system a company that handled money for a lot of rich people might consider a good investment, so she turned and went back to the elevator and took it to the basement of the building, on the level with the parking lot, and found a door with a no admittance sign. The door had a knob with a keyhole to lock it and it wasn't wired, so she had little trouble slipping her William Dunlavey MasterCard between the knob and the jamb and pushing the catch in. Inside the room were circuit breaker boxes and a telephone junction box. She opened it and studied the chart pasted inside the door. It gave the extensions of the various offices in the building, so she copied them and returned to her car.

  She checked into a hotel two miles down Wilshire Boulevard and compared her office chart with the telephone extensions. Some of the offices must be the big ones she had seen through the third-floor windows, where people sat at computers and worked telephones in a pool. Nobody important had a single number with fifteen extensions. The offices she wanted were on the fourth and fifth floors, so she concentrated on them. She dialed each number and listened to a computerized voice-mail system telling her what part of the company it belonged to - investment, property management, billing, accounting - but not the name of the person. She used the information to eliminate more of the offices. The person who had been robbing the trust fund would have to be in a position to exert power over where the money was placed and how the company kept track of it. He didn't share an office, or send out bills for services, or manage real estate, or answer other people's phones. She consulted the resumes that Mr. Hanlon had sent her, and filled out more of the chart before she went to sleep.

  The next morning Jane went to the Hollywood lot of the car-rental agency, told them Mr. Dunlavey didn't like the car he had rented in San Diego and that he had instructed her to exchange it for a different model. She drove out with a white Toyota Camry and sat on the side street watching the west side of the building while the Hoffen-Bayne executives arrived for work.

  She watched and worked on her chart of the company for three more days. Each morning she turned in the car she had rented the day before and went to a different agency to rent a new one under a new name. Each evening she would choose one of the likely executives and follow him home when he left the office. Each night she slept in a different hotel in a different part of the city.

  On the afternoon of the fifth day, Jane was reasonably sure that the man she was after was Blond Napoleon. His name was Alan Turner, and he had the office on the southeast corner of the fifth floor. This afforded him the best view of the city and made people walk a long way to get to him, past secretaries and intermediaries. The car he drove, a dark blue BMW 7401, cost about sixty thousand dollars. It was not the most expensive, but like only four others in the lot, i
t had a license plate holder from Green Import Auto, a leasing company in Beverly Hills. To Jane this meant that he was one of only five people who were entitled to company cars.

  Whoever had been robbing Timmy would have needed to be high enough in the hierarchy seven years ago to make decisions about the Phillips trust's portfolio without much fear of second-guessing. He would also need to remain in that position long enough to see the cover-up through to the end. Of the five people who drove company cars and occupied the right sort of offices in the building, two had joined the firm within the past four years. Of the others, one was a tax attorney and another the head of the Property Management Division. There was nothing in either man's resume to suggest that he had ever served in another capacity or had the background to handle a trust fund. The only one who had been with the company long enough and who had a specialty that sounded promising was Alan Turner, head of the Investment and Financial Planning Division.

  Jane decided to test-drive a car from Green Import Auto. She selected a gray Mercedes with a telephone in it and drove directly to the side street below the southeast corner of the Hoffen-Bayne building. She waited until three o'clock, when even the important people were back from lunch meetings and the sun was on the west side of the building so that Turner's blinds would be open. She turned the corner off Wilshire and cruised toward the building, dialed the number of Mr. Hanlon, the salesman, and set the receiver in the cradle so she could use the speaker and keep her hands free.

  "Hanlon." he said. She knew he was at his desk on the other side of the building.

  "This is Marcy Hungerford. We spoke a few days ago, and you sent me some material." She pulled over and parked on the quiet, tree-lined street.

  "Yes. Did you have a chance to look it over?"

  "I did, and I think yours is one of the firms I should talk to." She wanted to make it clear there was no commitment. She was not in the bag yet.

  "Good," he said. "I've been thinking about what you've told me, and I think I'd like to get you together with one of our partners for a talk." Salesmen didn't make decisions like that; partners did. He had told his boss about her call. "Are you back in Del Mar?"

  "No," she said. "I won't be back for another week. I just thought I should tell you I got your information and am still considering it."

  Hanlon went on cheerfully as though he hadn't heard her. "The man I'd like you to meet is very experienced. He's been with the company for twelve years, and he's knowledgeable about all aspects of personal management."

  Jane listened carefully. While she had been investigating them, they had been investigating Marcy Hungerford. The name had rung some bell or other. She had chosen well, but from here on she had to be cautious. They knew more about Marcy Hungerford than she did. She decided to stop flirting. It would do her no good to convince people Marcy Hungerford was an idiot. "Fine," she said. "I'll be happy to drive up there and meet him as soon as I'm back in California. Can you connect me with whoever keeps his calendar?"

  "Let me see if he's free to talk to you himself right now. I know he'd like to if he can."

  "Even better."

  She heard a cascade of annoying music pour out of the speaker, and watched the man in the corner window. She saw him pick up the receiver. He talked to Hanlon for a few seconds, reached across his desk, picked up a file, opened it, and then pushed a button on his telephone.

  "Hello, Mrs. Hungerford," he said. "My name is Alan Turner."

  "Hello," she said. She started the car and pulled away from the curb.

  "I understand you're considering us to manage your assets."

  "Yes, I am," she said. She drove up the street away from the building, turned right at the corner, and kept going west. "I'm considering several companies. I'd like to find someone who will take responsibility for handling things."

  "Well, that's what we're in business to offer," said Turner. "We have experts on the staff in every aspect of financial management, and - "

  "I know," she interrupted. "Mr. Hanlon said the same thing. But let me explain. I want to know who would be the one person coordinating everything. I don't want to have to call thirty people every time I have a question."

  "I understand perfectly. With your approval, I would manage your account myself. I don't do much of that anymore, but I still have a few."

  "That's very kind."

  "Here's what I propose. I'll sit down with you when you return from Palm Beach. We'll take an inventory of your current assets. I'll examine what you have and come back with a hypothetical portfolio that's sufficiently diversified to ensure you a good income. We can arrange to have it continue in perpetuity for your heirs, if you wish."

  Jane had to be sure. "That sounds like a trust fund."

  "That's what it is," Turner said. "In my experience, people who are busy - as I know you are, with your charity work and so on - don't want to waste their lives micromanaging their wealth. Over the years I've helped quite a few of our clients establish trusts, and so far we've done very well for them."

  Now she was sure that they'd had Marcy Hungerford investigated. She had never mentioned charities. "What do you charge for all this?"

  "Our commission is five percent of income," he said. "Of course there would be incidental fees from time to time for brokers, front-end loads on certain purchases, and so on, but you're familiar with those and they don't go to Hoffen-Bayne. They might be quite high in the first year while we're developing a group of haphazard assets into a coordinated portfolio, and there will be legal fees if you choose to establish a trust, but the costs taper off as the years go by."

  "That all sounds good," said Jane. "What you've said in the last few minutes has done a lot to convince me that you're the one I'm looking for. I'll call you as soon as I'm back home."

  "Wonderful," he said. "I look forward to meeting you."

  "Goodbye," she said, and tapped the button to disconnect, then drove the Mercedes back to the dealer's lot. She looked at a few more models, then let the salesman know that she hadn't found anything she was really comfortable in. She got back into her rented Honda Acura and drove over the pass to the Hilton on the hill above Universal City and took another room. It was a comfortable hotel, and she didn't mind staying there a few days while she did the paperwork. After she was settled and had dinner she left instructions with the concierge to have both the morning and evening editions of the LA. Times delivered to her room each day, and went for a walk.

  She strolled around the complex of buildings at the top of the hill and across the parking lots to a row of pay telephones outside the gate of the Universal Studios tour. She reviewed what she was about to do. There was no way anyone could trace to Jane Whitefield a call made from a public telephone at a place that had millions of visitors a year. It was safe. With the three-hour time difference, she would catch him just after he had come home. She felt a little uncomfortable. She had told herself that she was doing it now because she was afraid of waking him up early in the morning, and there was no point in calling while he was out. But she also knew that if he had decided to do something other than come home from work, this would be the time a person might call and find out. She had no choice but to behave the way she would if she were trying to check up on him, and she hated that. She pushed a quarter into the slot and dialed Carey McKinnon's number. The operator came on to tell her how many more quarters were needed, and she dropped them in.

  "Hello?" he said. His voice seemed a little thin, as though he were winded.

  "Hi, Carey." she said. "It's me."

  "Well, hello," he said. He sounded delighted, and she felt glad. "Are you back from your trip?" When she noticed he had not yet said "Jane," it occurred to her that there might be a reason.

  "No, I won't be able to get through this job right away. I just felt like hearing your voice."

  She wanted him to say "And I felt like hearing yours," maybe because if he said it she would know there wasn't another woman in the room with him. The thought made her
feel contempt for herself. He said, "My sentiments exactly. I must have just missed you the other day. When I came in there was your message on my machine. When will you be back in town?"

  "I'm not sure."

  She heard the beep-beep-beep of his pager in the background. "Oh, shit," he said. "That's my pager."

  "I heard it."

  "Look, give me the number where you're staying, and I'll call you when I'm back from the hospital."

  "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I'm out and I don't have it with me. I'm never there anyway. I'll have to try you again in a day or so, when things cool down."

  "Do that."

  "Goodbye."

  "For now," he said.

  As Jane stepped away from the bank of telephones she had to dodge a group of Asian teenagers who swept past laughing and talking. She wished that she didn't have the kind of mind that always suspected deception. She reminded herself that it was ridiculous even to think of Carey that way - as though she had a right to expect that he would never see another woman. He had offered, and she had not agreed, had only said "We'll talk about it." There was no proof that a woman was in the room with him, anyway. She was just inventing a way to make herself miserable. As she walked back to her hotel, she wished that she hadn't known that when a pager was clicked off and then on again, it beeped to signal that it was working.

  She spent the late evening trying to think about Alan Turner, but found her attention slipping back to Carey McKinnon. She was angry at herself for being suspicious, and angry at him for being the sort of person who made her suspicious. He was probably innocent, and if she cared about him enough to be this uncomfortable, what was she doing thousands of miles away from him, forming agonizingly clear pictures of what he might be doing with some other woman? She should be there. She was surprised by the strength of her urge to be with him. She wondered why it was stronger now than it had been yesterday. Was it because his voice had triggered some unconscious longing for him - maybe love, but maybe just some crude sexual reflex, the equivalent of Pavlov's dogs' hearing a bell and salivating - or because it had set off an even cruder instinct to gallop back and defend her mate from the competition? Twice she was tempted to call the hospital to see if he was on duty but fought down the impulse.