Ah, Treachery!

by Ross Thomas

  “S’all right, General. Going to L.A., huh?”

  “A brief vacation. And you?”

  “Business. You in first class?”

  The General shook his head. “Afraid not.”

  “Too bad,” Kite said. “I thought if you were, maybe we could switch seats with somebody and sit together.”

  “That would’ve been pleasant,” the General lied just as the shuttle veered left, giving him an excuse to turn away, grab a vertical pole and avoid Kite for the rest of the flight.

  All the first-class passengers except Emory Kite were gone by the time General Winfield made his way from far back in the 747's crowded economy section to the LAX arrival-departure area. He noticed Kite still hanging around or perhaps even loitering with intent. Winfield wasn’t sure what the loitering phrase meant precisely, but it sounded as though Kite would be good at it.

  The General then saw the white shirtboard sign with the neat black Magic Marker lettering that read: “Winfield.” The sign was displayed with no trace of self-consciousness by a man in his early forties who wore a blue suit, white shirt and tie.

  Winfield shifted his carry-on bag to his left hand, walked over and said, “Major Partain?”

  “ ‘Partain’ will do, General.”

  The General smiled, offering his hand. “Do you mind ‘Twodees’?”

  “ ‘Twodees’ is fine,” Partain said and ended the handshake just as Emory Kite, still wearing his Dodgers cap and Raiders sweatshirt, sidled up to Winfield and said, “Need a lift into town?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kite, but I have a ride.”

  Kite examined Partain. “You a limo driver?”

  Partain shook his head.

  “Mr. Partain is a friend of a friend,” the General said. Kite stuck out his hand. “Emory Kite. I do investigations outta Washington.”

  After a brief handshake, Partain said, “Federal?” “Private,” Kite said. “You live in L.A.?” “I grew up in California.”

  “Yeah? Then maybe you could recommend a nice hotel.” “They say the Peninsula's a nice hotel.” “What's a room go for?”

  “I’d guess two-eighty, three hundred. Around in there.” Kite nodded neutrally. “Sounds about right. Where's it at?” “Beverly Hills.”

  Kite seemed to like the location, too, because he smiled up at the General and said, “When you get some free time, gimme a call and we’ll have a drink and some lunch. My treat.”

  “Thank you,” Winfield said. “I’ll see how my schedule works out.”

  “I’ll be at the Peninsula,” Kite said, smiled his good-bye, turned and walked away.

  Before Partain could ask, Winfield said, “He shares office space with us at VOMIT.”

  “You and Nick must really need the money.”

  “Yes,” the General said. “We really do.”

  They were in the Lexus coupe, heading north on the 405, when the General said, “Perhaps you could recommend a hotel more moderately priced than the Peninsula.”

  “Mrs. Altford would like you to stay at her place.”

  “That's very kind of her, but—”

  Partain didn’t let him finish. “She thinks her daughter and I need a chaperone.”

  “I’ve never in my life been a chaperone.”

  “And I’ve never needed one. But she said if that argument didn’t work, I should try the second and more compelling one. The room's free. Or as she put it, free-gratis-for-nothing.”

  “There really is a room?”

  “You get the master bedroom. It has its own bath. Jessica Carver and I share a bath.” “How is Jessie?”

  “Broke and looking for work. Or thinking about looking for it.”

  “How’d she take the death of her—what? Boyfriend?” “Try lover,” Partain said. “She took it okay. She even may’ve been a little relieved.”

  “When you called me late last night or, I suppose, very early this morning, you said you were virtually sure David Laney was a nephew of General Walker Hudson.”

  “Now I’m absolutely sure,” Partain said. “The Laneys and Hudsons are two old California families who sometimes intermarried. Dave's mother was Ruth Ellen Hudson. She married Gerald Laney. General Walker Laney Hudson is Ruth Ellen's brother. General Hudson got Laney as a middle name because his father and the father of Gerald Laney—Dave's dad—were best friends.”

  “How’d you discover all that?”

  “I didn’t. I set Jessie down in front of her mother's computer and turned her loose. An hour later she had it all wrapped up. Jessie likes stuff like that. Says it reminds her of market research.”

  “How was Laney killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Partain said. “I saw his body just after they dumped it out on Mrs. Altford's driveway. The cops say they won’t know what killed him until after the autopsy.”

  The General nodded thoughtfully, waited a few moments, then asked, “Ever know a young captain in Salvadoran intelligence called Trigueros?”

  “Jose Trigueros Chacon,” Partain said. “What about him?” “He and his wife were shot dead in Washington yesterday afternoon. A professional job, I’m told.” “Who told you?” “The police.”

  “Why would the cops tell you how Trigueros was killed?” “Because the investigating homicide detective is a member of VOMIT.”

  “He tell you why the Captain was killed?”

  “The detective's a she and she didn’t know why,” Winfield said. “But earlier yesterday the Captain offered us—Nick really—the names of some Americans who were connected to the murder of those six Salvadoran priests, their cook and her daughter. The Captain claimed he had proof of the connection and wanted five thousand dollars for it.”

  “But got killed before you could raise the money and make the buy.”

  “That's not at all how it happened. We raised the money and then went to see the Captain. Nick and I. But when we offered the money he said it was no longer possible to sell us the proof. I thought he looked, well, terrified. So did Nick. Less than an hour after we left, Trigueros and his wife were murdered.”

  They rode in silence for half a mile before Partain said, “I’m sorry they’re dead. He was a nice kid, if not overly bright.”

  After another lengthy silence, Winfield asked, “Does it seem either likely or possible that they could all be connected somehow—the murder of Trigueros in Washington, Laney's murder here and the attempt on Millie Altford's life?”

  “Something that wires them all together?”

  “I’d settle for a common thread.”

  A mile later Partain said, “Well, there's me. I’m a common thread. But that's only if you’re looking for a person. Some inanimate common threads might be money, greed, politics, revenge or treachery.”

  “Ah, treachery!” the General murmured, his voice soft yet curiously orotund. “One of history's favorite shortcuts.”

  “Right up there with assassination.”

  “You may be right about yourself,” the General said. “By chance or choice you know or have met most of the players—General Hudson, of course; Colonel Millwed; the late Captain Trigueros; the equallylate David Laney and his lover, Jessica Carver—and her mother, Mil-licent Altford. You know Nick Patrokis, of course, and now me. You even know the former resident CIA bagman in El Salvador, Henry Viar.”

  “I haven’t thought of Viar in months,” Partain said.

  “Why would you? But now I’ve almost convinced myself that you and the aforementioned treachery are the most likely common threads that run through everything.”

  “Well, you could yank on the thread and see what unravels,” Partain said. “But there's a surer way to find out if I’m the guy.”

  “What?”

  “Wait till somebody tries to kill me.” “Or succeeds,” the General said.

  CHAPTER 19

  Late that same January afternoon, Millicent Altford sat cross-legged on the high hospital bed, wearing her red silk robe with the small golden dragons and watching a C-Sp
an rerun of a call-in show that featured three Washington-based reporters. The reporters were listening with barely concealed dismay to a call from a retired Army master sergeant in Flagstaff, who was pressing them on whether the Trilateral Commission would exert as much evil influence on the incoming administration as it had on the outgoing one.

  Altford missed the reporters’ response because Liz Ball, the night nurse, entered the corner room and asked, “You wanta talk to some sixteen-year-old college professor who claims he sits at the right hand of your guy in Little Rock?”

  “He offer any proof?”

  Ball shrugged. “What he showed me looks okay.” “Send him in.”

  Marvin Gipson was about what Altford expected: Medium height. Thirty or thirty-one. A runner's lean frame. Tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses over smart blue eyes. Stubborn mouth beneath a know-it-all-nose. Bony chin atop a long, long neck and lots of light brown hair. He came wrapped in a tweed jacket, white button-down shirt, chinos, a tie that looked borrowed and penny loafers with a fresh shine, which, she suspected, he had sat still for when he changed planes at Stapleton International in Denver and found himself with time to kill.

  Gipson smiled at her with his generation's perfect teeth and said, “I’m Marvin Gipson, Ms. Altford, and probably your greatest fan.”

  “Thank you kindly, Marvin, and would you please be good enough to hand me that phone over there?”

  Gipson handed her the phone and she tapped out eleven numbers from memory. Once her call was answered, she said, “It's Millie. Have you guys sent me a Marvin Gipson?” She listened to the reply, then asked, “What's he look like?”

  Staring at Gipson, she said “uh-huh” several times as the description came over the phone. Gipson at first stuck his hands in his pants pockets and jingled some keys. But after a frown from Altford, he removed his hands and, following a moment's indecision, clasped them behind his back. They were still there when Altford said, “Thanks, Phil, just checking,” hung up the phone, examined Gipson thoughtfully, then slipped off the bed and glided toward the mini-refrigerator. Over her shoulder she asked, “Want a beer, Marvin?”

  “A Diet Coke, if there is one,” he said.

  Altford took a bottle of beer and a can of Diet Coke from the small refrigerator, handed him the soft drink and said, “Let's sit over here.”

  Once they were seated, he in an armchair, she on the dark blue couch, Altford drank beer from the bottle, leaned back and waited for Gipson to say what they had told him to say.

  He dutifully swallowed some Coke first, placed the can on the coffee table, cleared his throat, smiled deferentially and said, “You’ve had such a long and varied career, I was wondering whether—”

  Altford interrupted. “Phil tells me you teach at Sewanee. What d’you teach?”

  “Political science and economics.” “You on leave?”

  “A year's sabbatical. But the reason I’m here—”

  “I know why you’re here, Marvin. You’re here because somebody dumped a dead body on my driveway and that's got Little Rock worried. Not terrified. Just worried. You’re here to find out how bad it might be. If you decide it stinks out loud, you’ll fly back and recommend that they move my name to the bottom of the true-blue-and-faithful list, or maybe strike it off altogether.”

  “They’re primarily concerned about your health, Ms. Altford. All of us are.”

  “That's bullshit. If they were really worried about my health, they’d’ve called Draper Haere here in L.A. and asked him to drop by and see whether I’m dying or playing possum. So it's not my health they’re worried about. It's about that dead guy on my driveway who was shacked up down in Mexico for a year with my daughter.”

  “A Mr. Laney, I believe,” Gipson said.

  “Dave Laney.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose if there is anything about Mr. Laney's past activities that could somehow, you know—” “Pose a problem?” Altford said. Gipson gave her a grateful nod. “Exactly.”

  “I didn’t shack up with Laney, my daughter did. Or is her mistake reason enough for Little Rock to dispatch a member of its watch-and-ward squad?”

  “Mr. Laney's reputation does trouble us,” Gipson said. “It makes us wonder whether he somehow could’ve been involved in your fund-raising activities last year.”

  “He sent me a check once.”

  Gipson leaned forward. “For how much?”

  “Twenty-five bucks, I think. But that was about four years ago, not last year.”

  Gipson leaned back, more disappointed than relieved. “Then he wasn’t involved in your fund-raising in any way?”

  “He was in Mexico, for Christ sake. In Guadalajara. Why would you guys even think I’d let him handle anything—especially money?”

  “I didn’t say that, Ms. Altford.”

  She drank from the green bottle again, gave him a long stare and said, “You think he might’ve been my Mexican laundry, don’t you?” “We really don’t know what to think.”

  “Then think about this: I raised a lot of money for Little Rock—a whole hell of a lot—and Little Rock was ever so grateful and said so. After the election, the mentioners started mentioning my name for some kind of appointive job. Nothing grand, of course. Maybe ambassador to Togo. Assistant Secretary of Commerce. Crappy jobs like that. But still it was kind of flattering even though nobody's ever asked me if I’d accept anything. If they had asked, I’d’ve said no thanks. So here's what you tell ‘em when you get back to Little Rock, Professor.”

  She placed the beer bottle on the coffee table and rose. Gipson started to rise but noticed her grim expression and decided to remain seated. She stared down at him for a moment or two before she spoke.

  “One,” she said. “Tell ‘em Millie's not interested in any government job so don’t bother to offer her one. Two. Tell ‘em Millie insists that Little Rock stop poking around in her personal affairs. And three, tell ‘em Millie still knows all the plot numbers by heart.”

  “Plot numbers?” Gipson said.

  “At the political cemetery,” she said, as if explaining to a slow-witted child. “Where they bury the dead bodies.”

  “Aw, hell,” Gipson said, then rose with a regretful sigh. “We’ve been a little clumsy, haven’t we?”

  “About average,” said Millicent Altford.

  General Winfield stood almost at attention that evening in the condominium living room as the cashiered Army Major circled him slowly, picked a microscopic bit of lint from the right shoulder of Winfield's midnight-blue suit, then held it under the General's nose for inspection before flicking it away.

  “New suit?” Partain asked.

  “Nine years old. What I buy lasts.”

  Jessica Carver looked up from an ad-fat Paris Vogue and asked, “Where’d you and Ma decide to go?”

  “She made a reservation at a place called Morton's,” Winfield said. “I’d suggested Chasen's but she informs me that that's where all the ghosts dine.”

  “Morton's is noisy,” Jessica Carver said. “But the food's okay.”

  Winfield looked at his watch, then at Partain. “Anything I should know about the car?”

  “It drives itself,” Partain said. “Jack the doorman's bringing it up from the garage. If you have any questions, ask him.”

  “He's the actor?”

  “Right. Tom, the day doorman, is the surfer.” Winfield turned to Jessica Carver. “Are you sure you two won’t join us?”

  “For God's sake, Vernon,” she said. “You’re heading for a hot date, not a family reunion.”

  Partain escorted the General to the foyer, then reentered the living room to find Jessica Carver at the big window, staring out at the lights. Without turning, she said, “What's on the menu tonight—Salisbury steak?”

  “We’re going out,” he said.

  “No kidding? Where?”

  “Westwood.”

  “Want me to call a cab?”

  “We’ll walk,” Partain said.

  “
Walk?” she said, turning from the window.

  “Why not?”

  “Ever hear of drive-by shootings? Don’t misunderstand me. I like to walk. But I don’t want to be a slow-moving target for some teenage crackhead.”

  “We’ll walk to Westwood and take a cab back.” “Who's buying?” she said. “I am.”

  “The meal and the cab?”

  Partain stared at her without expression.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I must’ve spent a year too long with Dave.”

  As he and Jessica Carver came out of the Eden's front entrance, Partain noticed the shimmer in the air near the exhaust of the black stretched Lincoln limousine. It was parked at the curb across Wilshire Boulevard in front of a 21-story condominium building someone had named the Castillian.

  Partain turned to Jack the doorman and asked, “How long's the limo been there?”

  “Maybe forty-five minutes. An hour.”

  “With its engine running?”

  “It's cold out.”

  “It's fifty-five, maybe even sixty.” “That's cold,” Jack said.

  “Why don’t they park it in the Castillian's drive?”

  “Maybe because it's a long wait and the driver doesn’t want to block the driveway. Some limo drivers are thoughtful that way. Maybe one out of a hundred.”

  “Don’t the cops bother them?”

  “The cops’ve got other stuff to do. Besides, what if the limo's waiting for the girlfriend of the indy prod at Paramount who's almost promised to look at the TV series treatment the cop wrote?”

  “Could you call us a cab?” Partain said.

  “Sure,” Jack said and turned away as Jessica Carver gave Partain a questioning look.

  “Let's wait inside,” Partain said and took Carver by her left elbow as Jack headed for the outside phone. Just before they reached the Eden's glass doors, Partain glanced back at the limousine and noticed a lowered rear window and the dull glint of something metallic. He gave Jessica Carver a hard shove that sent her sprawling to his right. Partain dropped to the concrete, rolling from there to his left.