The Enemy Inside

by Steve Martini

  If Alex was here, it would be a great help. A simple drive-by and he might be able to recognize the place.

  As it is, I do the next best thing. A Google Earth satellite check of both addresses shows one of them to be a definite possibility. It has a very big yard, what you might call grounds, much of it covered by the canopy from trees and a large pool in the backyard, oval in shape, same as Alex described when we questioned him. If I could only zoom in and look through their windows I would know more. I will have to wait for the next generation of Google for that one.

  I head out by myself in the car, a task I would usually assign to Herman. But then he’s gone, too.

  By the time he got to the steps leading up to the condo, Herman was sweating like a bull and was out of breath. He had done the three blocks since stepping out of the cab in record time. He didn’t want the cab pulling up to the front door. He rested for a few seconds at the foot of the stairs, if for no other reason than to regain his composure. Body odor was one thing, anxiety was another. It wouldn’t do for Alex to smell the scent of panic on the man who was hired to protect him.

  He climbed to the second floor and used the key in the door.

  “That you?” Alex was in the second bedroom down the hall to the rear.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Did you get it? What’d they say?”

  “Nothing special,” Herman lied. “Just checking in. They do have a new location for us, however. We’re gonna have to move.”

  “Why’s that?” Alex popped his head around the open door and looked down the hallway at Herman standing in the entry. “Jeez, you’re all sweaty. Why don’t you take a shower? At least get comfortable. Why are we moving?”

  “They found a better location,” said Herman.

  “Where is it?”

  “I’ll know in a few minutes. I’ve gotta make a local call, some arrangements. But you can start getting your stuff together.”

  “OK.” Ives disappeared back into the bedroom. “Won’t take me long.”

  They were both living out of suitcases. Herman went into the front bedroom and closed the door. He took out his cell phone, pushed a few buttons, put it to his ear, and waited for somebody to answer. On the third ring there was a pickup.

  “It’s me,” said Herman. “I need some help now! We gotta move and do it quietly and quickly, quick as we can.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere but here,” said Herman. The problem was that the arrangements for the condo had been made before Graves was killed, in the panicked hours following the fiery crash at the gas station in San Diego. There was no way to be sure what kind of surveillance they might have been under, even at the Iveses’ house. The only way to be certain was to move to a new location where no one knew where they were, not even Paul or Harry. There was a reason why fugitives, narco kings, and the rest never slept in the same location two nights in a row. Herman was beginning to feel that same urge now.

  The guy on the other end asked Herman if there was some emergency.

  “I don’t know. For now I’m just tryin’ to be safe. Fill you in when you get here. How soon?”

  The man told him twenty minutes. Herman said, “See you then,” and hung up.

  He went into the bathroom, grabbed his shaving gear and a shirt that was drying on a hanger. He looked in the mirror and realized that Alex was right. He needed a shave and a shower. His face was drawn, tired. In his hand was the skull shaver he used to maintain his shiny dome. Herman wondered how much gray would appear if he allowed it to grow out again. He didn’t dwell on the thought. Instead he went back into the bedroom and put the shaving gear in his bag, folded the shirt and laid it in the open suitcase on the floor.

  He started to walk away, stopped for a second, thought about it and went back to the suitcase. He reached under a stack of shorts and felt around until he found what he was looking for. He pulled it out—Springfield Arms .45 semiauto pistol, the ultra-compact with the short barrel. The whole thing, from hammer to muzzle, was no more than six inches. Flying in a private plane and landing on a dirt strip had its advantages.

  He unzipped the mesh bag mounted along the inside of the suitcase and felt around until he found the heavy clip. There were two of these. Fully loaded, they carried seven rounds each. Eight, if you popped one in the pistol’s breech after sliding the clip into the gun’s handle.

  Herman quietly slipped the clip into the gun and gently pushed it home until it clicked. He didn’t rack a round into the chamber as he didn’t want the telltale sound traveling through the common wall into Alex’s room. He put the loaded gun under the top pair of shorts in the open suitcase and headed out toward the kitchen to grab a bite to eat while they still had time.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The residence belonging to Rufus Alexander Becket is indeed lavish if its outward exterior is any indication. I can see where this might have put Alex off from the instant he stepped out of his car. From the street, it sits behind an immense southern live oak tree that must be at least two hundred years old. Its sprawling and arching branches cover what looks like half a football field of front yard, some of them touching the ground.

  Around the tree in a semicircle are boxed hedges lining a circular driveway. Behind all of this is what looks like a two-story French provincial house, though I cannot see all of it. It appears to be something right out of Burgundy or the Loire Valley, as if it might have been plopped down here from a hot air balloon complete with its slate roof. The roof alone is something I am guessing would cost close to a million dollars, given the sprawl of the place.

  If I had to guess, I would say none of this is new construction. From the look of it, it probably dates back to the thirties, one of the old estates still left from the golden age when a handful of tycoons developed the area and built the Thoroughbred horse racing track that is, as the crow flies, little more than a mile away.

  I park on the other side of the street and study the place for two or three minutes from my Jeep. I don’t dare sit here for long. This old vehicle with its partially singed and now-discolored ragtop is certain to raise eyebrows in this neighborhood.

  I step out, quietly close the door, and cross over to the driveway on the other side. There is a brass plaque near the edge of the curb. It’s a historical marker. “This Diegueño Oak is believed to be nearly five hundred years old and is thought to have stood on this spot in 1542 when the Portuguese explorer Juan Cabrillo landed at Point Loma.”

  I was wrong. It is more than two hundred years old. And from the looks of it, the cables supporting the branches and the carefully manicured and tended ground around its trunk, it may be here long after my bones have turned to dust.

  I head up the driveway. A long walk. It takes several minutes to make it to the front of the house, up the white brick steps to push the brass knob for the doorbell. I don’t hear a thing. I am guessing that the oak on the front door may be older than the tree out front, and perhaps thicker. Finally it’s opened by a man in livery, formal attire not seen in many places these days.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Becket.” I hand him a business card.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Can you state your business?”

  “It’s private,” I tell him.

  “Just a moment.” He closes the door all the way until I hear the heavy lock snap shut.

  I wait for what seems like forever, standing on the stoop with my hand in my pocket trying to look casual so that no one will think I’m waiting here to hold someone’s horse should they come trotting by. Finally the door opens again.

  “If you’ll come this way,” he says.

  I follow the manservant into the house, down a long broad entry of gleaming dark hardwood. There is a massive crystal chandelier overhead, doors on both sides trimmed out in white antiqued paint. Or perhaps it’s just authentically old, I think. He leads me to the second door on the left and knocks.

  “You can
come in.” The voice on the other side.

  He opens it and I step through. Inside is an ornate study, two levels of walls lined in books on shelves with a narrow catwalk on the second story. There is a banister all around this and a wooden spiral staircase trimmed out in bird’s-eye maple leading to the upper level.

  Before I can take it all in, the man behind the desk has already moved around it. He has a smile on his face and his hand extended. “Hello. I’m Rufus Becket. How can I help you?” He is short, maybe five foot six, what you would call rotund, chubby cheeked with jowls cropping up below his jawline. His face tan, the only giveaway that he probably doesn’t spend all of his time in this room. Probably a golfer, I am guessing.

  “Paul Madriani, and I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No problem,” he says. “Can I offer you a drink? Something cold?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Some iced tea,” he says. “I can ring the kitchen.”

  “Sure. Why not.” An excuse to sit down.

  He pushes a button on the phone, orders up two iced teas, and is back to me in a flash. “Have a seat,” he says.

  I take one of the client chairs on this side of the large partner’s desk, something European and old. He settles into the other client chair and turns his jovial eyes on me as if, perhaps, whatever he was doing before I arrived was not as interesting as my interruption.

  “The reason I’m here is that I have a client who is in some difficulty at the moment.”

  “What lawyer doesn’t?” He laughs and looks at my business card. “What type of law do you practice?” he asks.

  “Criminal.”

  “Ah.” This sobers him up a bit.

  “My client says he was at a party, that the location was a large home in this area. He was given the name Becket. My client is out of town right now but I’m sure he’ll be back in a few days. If I were to bring him by he might recognize the house,” I tell him.

  “When was this party?” he asks. “We have a number of events each season.”

  I give him the date.

  “There’s no need to bring him by. Does he work in the industry?”

  “What industry is that?”

  “Defense,” he says. “We had a large gathering here at the house that evening for one of the trade associations. Part business, part fund-raiser. You know, candidates pressing the flesh, working the crowd for money come campaign time. It’s not exactly fun, but necessary. If you understand my meaning.”

  “Of course.”

  “Must have had three or four hundred people here that evening. Parking was a madhouse. Pissed off some of the neighbors. I can tell you that. We invited most of them to the event to try and keep them happy. But then you always miss a few. What’s your client’s name?”

  “Alex Ives,” I tell him.

  He thinks for a moment. Shakes his head a little. “I don’t think I know the gentleman. But then I didn’t know two-thirds of the people who were here.”

  “What type of business are you in?” I ask.

  “Contracting. My company does work for the Defense Department, the military, other government agencies. They have needs, we supply them.”

  “That’s a broad field.” I’m hoping he will narrow it.

  Instead he says, “Some of it is classified,” and slams the subject shut.

  “Looks like it pays well.” I gaze about at the cache of leather-bound books, the house and its palatial furnishings.

  “I have no complaints.”

  There’s a rap on the door.

  “In,” he says.

  A waiter in a white linen jacket enters with a large silver tray, a full pitcher of iced tea, and two tall glasses already iced. The waiter drops a linen cloth along the edge of the desk and puts the tray on top of it. He pours two glasses. Becket takes one. I take the other. Becket thanks the waiter and the man leaves.

  “Sugar?” he says.

  “Not for me.”

  “You’ll like this tea. That is, if you’re a tea drinker. I am,” he says. “And you’re right, sugar ruins it. It’s an herbal black currant. I think you’ll enjoy it. What exactly is this difficulty your client is having? I hope he didn’t drink too much? The night of the party, I mean?”

  “No. That’s the one thing I can certify. He wasn’t drunk. But he does have a problem. It seems that when he left here he was not functioning under his own power, you might say. And he can’t remember anything after that. Not for some time anyway.”

  “Does he have some kind of health issue? A medical problem?” Then Becket’s eyes suddenly light up. “He’s not the young man?” he says. “The one who passed out?”

  “Then you saw him?”

  “No. No. But I heard about it,” he says. “That’s what this is about.” He says it like he’s relieved. Puts down his glass and slaps his hands together. “I thought it was something serious. I didn’t see it happen, of course. But I heard all about it,” says Becket. “I was in the house when it happened. My assistant told me that a young man went down over near the rose garden in the back. Toppled over like a cement statue, according to what I was told. They assumed he just had too much to drink. Some friends apparently helped him up and out to his car. I didn’t know who he was. By the time I got outside he was gone. So I never actually saw him. My assistant took care of it.”

  “Is your assistant available?”

  “As it happens, he’s on vacation.”

  “Do you know who helped him out to his car?”

  He shakes his head. “Apparently they left with him. I don’t imagine he was in any shape to drive. From what I was told, I was led to believe that they all came together. That they knew one another. I assume no one was hurt?”

  I don’t tell him about Serna and the accident out in the desert. Or our belief that somebody slipped Alex a roofie. If he hasn’t read about Serna in the newspapers by now, I suspect the minute I leave he’ll be doing research under Alex’s name. At which time he’ll clam up, thinking, like Graves, that I’m here to spread the benefits of civil liability.

  “What about your wife? Maybe she saw something?”

  “I’m afraid not. She was with me.”

  “The household help?”

  He’s shaking his head. “Other than my assistant, I doubt anyone else was involved. They were all in the house. The only people working the party that night were the caterers.”

  “Do you recognize the name Benjawan Tjahana?” I change the subject. “I think I’m pronouncing it correctly. Her nickname was Ben, I believe. A young woman, very pretty, probably Indonesian. I think she went to school in the area. May have worked in a club down in San Diego?”

  Before I even finish the question he is casually shaking his head once more. “No. Should I? Was she here that night?”

  “I don’t think so. You didn’t tell anyone that they could invite strangers to the party, did you? I mean people off the street.”

  “What do you think I’m running, a frat house?” he says.

  “I didn’t think so. Who catered the party?”

  “I’d have to check. I can’t recall who it was that night. We use several different companies depending on the size of the crowd. I’m sure my wife would have that information. Give me a moment.” He gets up and goes to the phone. Makes a call, I suspect on the intercom since he only presses one button. Hushed voices as he explains to her why I’m here and asks for the name of the caterer. “Ah, yes. That’s right.” He writes it down on a Post-it note from his desk. “Thanks, dear. Listen, I’ll be up in just one minute. I know. I know. I’m running late.” Then he hangs up.

  “What would we do without wives?” he says. “Are you married?”

  “My wife died some years ago.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. I don’t know what I’d do without Doreen,” he says. “Here it is. Trousdale and Company. They’re a very good firm. We’ve hired them before. Do a great job. They set it all up. Clean it up when they’re done. A few hours after the crow
d leaves you wouldn’t even know anyone had been here. They show up with two or three large trucks and an army of help. Chairs, tables, food, beverages, everything, the linens and glasses, the works.”

  “I don’t imagine you have a list of the personnel working with them that night?”

  “No. You’d have to get that from them,” he says. “Listen, I’m sorry. I wish I could stay and talk longer, but I have to go. My wife’s upstairs and I’m on the clock. We have an engagement this evening and I’m running late.”

  I take a gulp of tea. He takes the glass from my hand and sets it on the tray. It’s obvious the meeting is over. “I hope you understand.” He starts ushering me out of the chair and toward the door.

  “Of course, and I want to thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I hope so,” he says. “Anything I can do, just call.” Then he says, “Oh, here.” He reaches for a card on the desk and hands it to me. It has his name and number on it. No address, no e-mail, nothing else.

  “What’s the name of your company?”

  “I own several different entities. None of them are publicly traded,” he says. He offers nothing more.

  “Just one more question. Would it be possible to get a copy of the guest list for the party that night?”

  He stops in midstride and looks at me, the smile fading from his face. “Oh, I’m not sure I can do that,” he says.

  “Is there some problem?”

  “Well, sure. There were all kinds of people here that night, members of Congress, people from some of the regulatory agencies, state and local elected officials, registered lobbyists, a lot of candidates looking for campaign money. You know how that goes,” he says.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Well, be glad of it,” he says. “I get twenty envelopes a week with invitations to fund-raisers. Buy a table here. Buy a table there. If you bought every table they wanted you to, you’d be bankrupt. People will drive you crazy. And if you don’t give, they’ll slam the door in your face the next time you show up to try and do business. Take a political science course at the university and they tell you the money only buys access. Spread enough of it in the right places and it buys a hell of a lot more than that. But giving you a list of those at the party could be a problem. You see, it’s up to them to report their activities. I wouldn’t want to get crosswise with any of them. If they fail to report to the appropriate regulatory agency, and I show them as being here, they’re in trouble, and so am I. Besides, I’m not even sure we have the list anymore. I’d have to check with my assistant when he returns from vacation.”