by Thomas Perry
She jabbed again, this time bouncing her fist off his shoulder.
“Again, good.”
“Good because I missed your ugly dumb face?”
“Because you’re looking, turning this into a fight. Dodge, weave, keep my punches from connecting the way you’ve been doing, but always keep looking for your chance to hurt me.”
She saw his next jab coming, moved her head to the side slightly so his fist went over her shoulder, and brought her left into his face just as she pushed off with her right foot. The blow went to his cheekbone, and he moved his head to her right to evade it, straight into her right hook. He dodged the next punch.
“Great,” he said, and hit her with a few quick taps. “Your eyes were wide open all the way, and those shots were good.”
“Thanks, you patronizing jerk.”
“If you don’t like it, do something.”
She launched a quick attack, her arms moving as she advanced, jabbing at his eyeline with her left to blind him, and launching body blows with her right.
He defended against her attack without counterpunching, letting her feel her blows landing, watching her work out the ways to press her advantage.
The bell on the timer rang, and she let her arms hang limp, stepped into him, and leaned on him.
“That was a great job,” he said.
“My arms are so tired. I don’t think I could lift them again if I had to.”
“That’s good too,” he said. “When you’re fighting, use everything you have. Don’t save anything. There’s not going to be a better use for your energy later.”
She smiled and looked up at him. “Remember you said that later.”
“No need for intimidation tactics.” He took off his practice boxing gloves and then untied and pulled off her right one so she could untie the other.
She said, “That was a pretty good fight, though.”
“I never fight with my wife. That was a workout.”
“Let’s go up and get a shower. We’ve got to meet Mr. Hemphill.” She popped up and kissed his cheek.
They stepped off the thick gym mat, hung up their gloves, and put their shoes into the cubbyholes along the wall, then went to the stairs.
As they climbed, she said, “Thanks for being my practice dummy.”
“I prefer the term ‘sparring partner.’”
“I suppose you would.”
David Hemphill arrived at the parking structure, found a space on the roof, and got out of the Lincoln Town Car the company leased for him. He noticed that two aisles away, both front doors of another car opened and a couple emerged. Hemphill didn’t look straight at them, but he kept them in the corner of his eye as he leaned into the backseat to retrieve his suit coat and then put it on. They were both dressed in business attire, but from here he couldn’t tell more than that. They seemed to be looking at him, but it didn’t make him self-conscious about his appearance. His appearance was his best quality.
David Hemphill looked like an ambassador to some important country. He wore conservative suits in blue, gray, or black, perfectly pressed shirts, and ties held fast by subtle clasps. He seldom used slang or rough speech. Because of the way he presented himself, the company often used him as its representative in meetings that required discretion and tact but no technical knowledge or strategic expertise. In reality he was only a bureaucrat raised a little above the middle range because of long tenure. He was in charge of personnel administration for a single section. That was the title in his personnel file—Human Resources Director, Research Section. Not mentioned in his file was his keen ability to sense when things around him were not as he had expected, and the coincidental arrival of two people had made him watchful.
He stood by the open door of this car and pretended to be checking the seat for some lost object while he waited for the man and woman to reveal which way they were going. They were walking toward him. It occurred to him that getting involved in a murder investigation might not be entirely safe. Then he wondered what he would do if this were some kind of unfriendly approach.
“Mr. Hemphill?” said the woman.
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m Veronica Abel.” She smiled fleetingly and gave his hand a shake. “This is Sid Abel.”
Another shake from Sid, this one a much larger, stronger hand, but the same duration and intensity. The couple looked like a pair of high school teachers, the sort who had seen everything at least five times, and hadn’t been particularly disturbed by it the first time.
The woman, Veronica, was talking again. “We noticed that the restaurant was a little crowded and noisy, so we picked another one on the next street over.”
The man, Sid, said, “This stairwell over here.” Hemphill went with them. He had not really been given a choice, but he wasn’t sure whether he should mind.
The alternative restaurant was a revelation. It was called Anthony’s, and it was old, with dark wood panels and a bar that ran the length of the eighty-foot dining room. There was a lunch crowd, but it looked to Hemphill to be about half composed of men who talked in guarded voices and raised their eyes frequently to be sure nobody was close enough to overhear, and couples who behaved the same way. A large man with a shaved head saw them enter and said, “Ronnie, Sid. I’ll put you over here,” and led them to a booth by the back wall.
They sat, and Hemphill suspected that the Abels had never intended to meet him at the Merinal restaurant. The last-minute change had simply prevented anyone at his office from knowing in advance where this meeting would be. Were there suspects already? A waiter came a few seconds later and gave them menus. When he had gone, Ronnie Abel said, “So. Would you like to explain your problem to us?”
“It’s about a colleague of mine at the Intercelleron Corporation. Or really, about his murder.”
“You said he was murdered a year ago?” said Sid.
“Just over a year ago. The body was found on March sixth during a rainstorm. It was the last big rain of the year. There was a great deal of water in a short time. I don’t know if you remember. There was a pond forming in North Hollywood at Interlaken and Grimes, and they couldn’t clear the drains. They had to open the sewer and remove a clog of foliage and trash that had caught there. In that mess was the body of James Ballantine.”
“What was the official cause of death?”
“The medical examiner who did the autopsy found two bullets in Mr. Ballantine’s head. I don’t expect you to take all this information from my memory. I have a very thick file in my car. It’s got all the details the police detectives would give the company, as well as copies of the newspaper articles, insurance reports, and so on.” He reached into his inner coat pocket. “I brought a few things here with me. Here’s a copy of a Los Angeles Times article that gives a pretty good overview. It was printed about two days later.”
He set it on the table. The Abels glanced down at the photograph of James Ballantine at the top and then at each other. Ronnie picked it up and scanned it.
Sid said, “I assume that the reason you’re here is that a year has gone by and the police don’t seem to be making progress.”
“It’s not just our impression,” said Hemphill. “After a few months of work, the detective on the case—his name was Kapp—died in a car accident. Other detectives had the case added to their workload, but no real progress has been made. A police lieutenant spoke with one of the company’s directors recently and confided that the police have run out of things to check. They seem to have done everything they could think of over the past year, and now all they can do is wait for something to change.”
“What division was Detective Kapp?” asked Sid. “North Hollywood?”
“Yes.”
Sid looked at Ronnie, but she didn’t say anything. Instead she turned to Hemphill. “Who’s on the case now?”
“The detective’s name is Fuentes. Miguel Fuentes.”
“I worked with him for a while,” Ronnie said. “He’s very good. Did he tell you nothing
was happening?”
“I haven’t spoken with him. What I’ve told you came to me from the board of directors.”
“What’s your job at Intercelleron?” asked Ronnie.
“I’m the personnel director for the research section.”
“Does your company do research for the government?” asked Sid.
“Some, but it’s not the sort of thing that—”
“Do people have security clearances?” Sid asked.
“Some do, but not everyone. I don’t, for instance.”
Ronnie said, “Right after the murder, were there any investigators from the federal government? FBI or military?”
“Early on, there were two agents who came to look around and talk to a few people. I wasn’t one of them, and the agents were gone in about a day. I believe they didn’t find any indication that Mr. Ballantine’s death had anything to do with his work.”
“What can you tell us about his work?”
“He was a research scientist. He had a PhD in chemistry from the University of California at Berkeley. He had been a professor at Indiana for a few years before he came to Intercelleron. He was with the company for about four and a half years. I don’t know much about his projects, because I’m not a scientist. I was told that he had been trying to synthesize compounds that would result in additives to make food more nutritious. There was nothing directly connected to the military.”
“Why does your board of directors want to hire outside investigators now?” asked Ronnie.
“That’s interesting,” said Hemphill. “Professor Millikan, the man who recommended you, asked the same thing.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I think they’re not entirely sure themselves. They feel it would be wrong to let the murder of one of our people go unsolved. Since he asked, I’ve thought more about it. I think that people don’t want to believe that events are random, that a person is born and raised to adulthood, then educated at great expense and effort, only to die for no reason. And I think that people who are highly educated and successful are probably more susceptible to this fear than the rest of us.” He smiled. “That’s not the kind of answer you’re looking for, but it’s true. People like the board members don’t want to think that their lives are vulnerable to a chance encounter with some lunatic or petty thief, or that their own high place in the world might be due to luck. They want the answers to make sense—a certain kind of sense that they’ll find palatable.”
Ronnie said, “We’re capable of doing a competent homicide investigation, even on a cold case. But we can’t guarantee you or them that a murder will make sense. Most of them don’t accomplish anything that couldn’t have been done in an easier way.”
“I imagine so,” said Hemphill. “What the board would like is everything—the identity of the murderer, his methods, motives, and proof of his guilt. But what they’ll take is whatever it’s possible for you to find out.”
Sid said, “We also like to make clear that the services we offer have limits. If we find the killer, we won’t administer some kind of justice. I hope you can find a tactful way to let the board know that.”
“That should be assumed,” said Hemphill.
“You’d be surprised at how seldom it is,” Ronnie said. “We collect and provide information only. If it’s information the police should know, we give it to them too.”
“The board will want me to discuss the fee for your services.”
Sid took a set of folded papers out of the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it across the table to Hemphill. “Here’s the standard contract. We charge a daily fee seven days a week, plus itemized expenses. We work one case at a time. If we need to travel or hire outside experts, there will be additional charges.”
“I’ll take this to the board,” said Hemphill. “But I’m sure they’ll agree. Once they decide to act, they’re pretty impatient. I’ll let you know very soon.”
Ronnie gave an indulgent, motherly smile. “No rush. We’ll use the time to decide whether we want to work for them.”
3
Sid and Ronnie Abel liked to shoot at a small range in an industrial area down near the airport. It wasn’t usually very crowded, and there was plenty of parking on the street because it was the sort of the neighborhood where it wasn’t a good idea to leave a car parked after dark. Ronnie parked the car while Sid pocketed his phone.
Ronnie said, “What have you found out about them?”
“Not a lot,” Sid said. “The company is about forty years old, which seems good.”
“Right,” she said. “If they haven’t been caught at illegal or morally repulsive acts in that time, then there’s some chance they might not be doing any.”
“They also haven’t gone bankrupt, so their checks probably won’t bounce,” said Sid.
“That’s a nice change.”
Ronnie led the way into the building. They stopped at the counter in the anteroom to pay the tall, spectacled young man with long, curly black hair for admission and two boxes of ammunition and give him their identification. They placed their Glock 17 pistols on the tray inside the small door so the range master could examine them and give them back once they were inside. When they reached the steel entrance door Ronnie leaned into it to open it with her shoulder. “Anything else?”
“That last call was Winters over at UBS. I asked him about them, and he advised us to invest.”
“Good enough,” she said. They took their pistols and stepped to the big workbench for their earphones and safety glasses. Ronnie took two fresh paper targets to an empty stall on the range, clipped them to the overhead wires, and pressed the buttons on the pulley mechanisms to make them skitter down to the seven-yard mark.
As cops they’d both been habitual bonus shooters, taking advantage of the department’s policy of giving police officers who requalified once a month at Marksman level and above a slight bump in pay.
In order to requalify with the Glock 17 each month the standard test was forty rounds, all in timed-fire sequences at 7, 10, 15, and 25 yards. The highest possible score was 400, which required placing all rounds inside the 10 circle. Expert was a score of 380, Sharpshooter 340, and Marksman 300. The Glock 17 was light, simple, reliable, and accurate at those distances, but it wasn’t designed for competition. It was a fighting weapon, the one they had both trained on and carried for many years. They put loaded magazines into their pistols, charged them, and each set two more loaded magazines out on the counter at the firing line.
Ronnie went to her spot on the firing line, set the clock, and said, “Ready?”
They fired their first four-shot sequence in three seconds. They ran through the rest of the qualifying session without speaking—firing, changing the targets and distances, reloading and firing the next sets, down to the seventh at 25 yards. At the end of forty rounds, they left their pistols on the counter with the breeches open, and pushed their earphones down around their necks. They examined their targets.
“How did you do?” Sid asked.
“Looks like three eighty,” Ronnie said. “You?”
“Three sixty.”
“Pretty fair,” she said. “If I were a man I would be embarrassed if my wife was that much better than I was, but marksmanship’s probably not that important.”
“A cynical use of my own presumed sexism against me? Assuming I’m sexist would be sexist itself, and not at all like you.”
She gave him a smile. “If you’re satisfied that your shooting will be good enough to save us in a fight, then I’m satisfied too.”
“You know that as long as every round is inside the body outline on the target, the guy goes down.”
“A shot in the ten ring means he didn’t survive to fire again at your lovely wife, or to get up and sue us for pain and suffering.”
“Very humane of you to say so,” he said.
She shrugged and put her pistol in the holster under her jacket. “I’m only interested in your happiness.
It’s up to you. It’s not my manhood that’s at stake.” She stepped toward the steel door.
“Where are you going?”
“Down the block to that coffee shop. I’ll save you a seat. I assume you’ll want to hang around here long enough to fire a box of ammo for practice and then try to get a better score. See you there.”
As soon as the door closed behind her, Sid returned to the firing line. He reloaded three magazines with a total of forty rounds, set the clock, and ran the requalifying sequence again. This time he scored 383. He loaded another magazine and put his pistol into the holster covered by his jacket, folded up his target, and brought it with him.
When he arrived at the coffee shop he could see Ronnie at the table by the window typing something on her cell phone, then moving it around with her finger. He saw she had bought two cups of coffee and one of them was by an empty seat. He sat down beside her and sipped the full cup.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Hemphill called to say they’ve signed the contract. It’s in the mail.”
“And that?” He pointed at the display on her screen.
“I’m playing with an ad. I thought we might like to offer a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction in this case.”
Sid shrugged. “What the hell. It’s been a year and nobody’s said anything so far.”
“You mean it’s a waste of time?”
“No, I mean it’s a great idea,” Sid said. “We’ll never have to pay off.”
“What do you think—ten thousand?”
“Make it twenty-five,” he said. “It’s more eye-catching, and we can easily afford to not pay a much larger amount.”
She typed a line on her phone, and then pressed something that made an electronic whoosh. She said, “There. It’s done. It will be published tomorrow.” She put her phone into her purse. “How did you do in your remedial shooting?”
He handed her his paper target, and she examined it carefully. “Not so bad. I make it about three eighty.” She set it aside.
“Three eighty-three.”
“Right,” she said. “About three eighty.”
