Grisham, John - The Client

by The Client [lit]

  "No," she lied. "Why?"

  "He's missing."

  She hesitated for a step, then continued. "What do you mean, he's missing?" She was surprisingly calm. She's probably just numb to all this, McThune thought. He gave her a quick version of Mark's disappearance. They stopped at the window and looked at downtown.

  "My God, do you think the Mafia's got him?" she asked, and her eyes watered immediately. She held the cigarette with a trembling hand, unable to light it.

  McThune shook his head confidently. "No. They don't even know. We're keeping a lid on it. I think he just "walked away. Right here, in the hospital. We figured he might have tried to contact you."

  "Have you searched this place? He knows it really well, you know."

  "They've been searching for three hours, but it looks doubtful. Where would he go?"

  She finally lit the cigarette and took a long drag, then exhaled a small cloud. "I have no idea."

  "Well, let me ask you something. What do you know about Reggie Love? Is she in town this weekend? Was she planning a trip?"

  "Why?"

  "We can't find her either. She's not at home. Her mother ain't saying much. You received a subpoena last night, right?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, Mark got one, and they tried to serve one on Reggie Love, but they haven't found her yet. Is it possible Mark's with her?"

  I hope so, Dianne thought. She hadn't thought about this. In spite of the pills she hadn't slept fifteen minutes since he'd called. But Mark on the loose with Reggie was a new idea. A much more pleasant idea.

  "I don't know. It's possible, I guess."

  "Where would they be, you know, the two of them together?"

  "How the hell am I supposed to know? You're the FBI. I hadn't thought about that until five seconds ago, and now you're asking me where they are. Give me a break."

  McThune felt stupid. It was not a bright question, and she was not as frail as he thought.

  Dianne puffed her cigarette, and watched the cars crawl along the streets below. Knowing Mark, he was probably changing diapers in the nursery or assisting with surgery in orthopedics, or maybe scrambling eggs in the kitchen. St. Peter's was the largest hospital in the state. There were thousands of people under its varied roofs. He'd roamed the halls and made dozens of friends, and it would take them days to find him. She expected him to call any minute.

  "I need to get back," she said, sticking the filter in an ashtray.

  "If he contacts you, I need to know it."

  "Sure."

  "And if you hear from Reggie Love, I'd appreciate a call. I'll leave two men here on this floor, in case you need them."

  She walked away.

  By eight-thirty, Foltrigg had assembled in his office the usual crew of Wally Boxx, Thomas Fink, and Larry Trumann, who arrived last with his hair still wet from a quick shower.

  Foltrigg was dressed like a fraternity pledge in his pressed chinos, starched cotton button-down, and shiny loafers. Trumann wore a jogging suit. "The lawyer's missing too," he announced as he poured coffee from a thermos.

  "When did you hear this?" Foltrigg asked.

  "Five minutes ago, on my car phone. McThune called me. They went to her house to serve her around eight, but couldn't find her. She's disappeared."

  "What else did McThune say?"

  "They're still searching the hospital. The kid spent three days there and knows it very well."

  "I doubt if he's there," Foltrigg said with his customary quick command of unknown facts.

  "Does McThune think the kid's with the lawyer?" Boxx asked.

  "Who in hell knows? She'd be kind of stupid to help the kid escape, wouldn't she?"

  "She's not that bright," Foltrigg said scornfully.

  Neither are you, thought Trumann. You're the idiot who issued the subpoenas that started this latest episode. "McThune's spoken twice this morning with K. O. Lewis. He's on standby. They plan to search the hospital until noon, then give up. If the kid's not found by then, Lewis will zip to Memphis."

  "You think Muldanno's involved?" Fink asked.

  "I doubt it. Looks like the kid strung them along until he got to the hospital, and at that point he was on home turf. I'll bet he called the lawyer, and now they're hiding somewhere in Memphis."

  "I wonder if Muldanno knows," Fink said, looking at Foltrigg.

  "His people are still in Memphis," Trumann said. "Gronke's here, but we haven't seen Bono or Pirini. Hell, they might have a dozen boys up there by now."

  "Has McThune called in the dogs?" Foltrigg asked.

  "Yeah. He's got everyone in his office working on it. They're watching her house, her secretary's apartment, they've even sent two men to find Judge Roosevelt, who's fishing somewhere in the mountains. Memphis PD has the hospital choked off."

  "What about the phones?"

  "Which phones?"

  "The phones in the hospital room. He's a kid, Larry, you know he'll try to call his mother."

  "It takes approval from the hospital. McThune said they're working on it. But it's Saturday, and the necessary people are not in."

  Foltrigg stood behind his desk, and walked to the

  window. "The kid had six hours before anyone realized he was missing, right?"

  "That's what they said." " "Have they found the lawyer's car?"

  "No. They're still looking."

  "I'll bet they don't find it in Memphis. I'll bet the kid and Ms. Love are in the car."

  "Oh really."

  "Yeah. Haulin' ass."

  "And where might they be haulin' ass to?"

  "Somewhere far away."

  At nine-thirty, a Memphis policeman called in the tag number of an illegally parked Mazda. It belonged to one Reggie Love. The message was quickly sent to Jason McThune at his office in the Federal Building.

  Ten minutes later, two FBI agents knocked on the door to apartment Number 28 at Bellevue Gardens. They waited, and knocked again. Clint hid in the bedroom. If they kicked the door down, .then he would simply be sleeping on this lovely and peaceful Saturday morning. They knocked the third time, and the phone started to ring. It startled him, and he almost lunged for it. But his answering machine was on. If the cops would come to his apartment, then they would certainly not hesitate to call. After the tone, he heard Reggie's voice. He lifted the receiver, and quickly whispered, "Reggie, call me right back." He hung up.

  They knocked the fourth time, and left. The lights were off and the curtains covered every window. He stared at the phone for five minutes, and it finally rang. The answering machine gave its message, then the tone. Again, it was Reggie.

  "Hello," he said quickly.

  "Good morning, Clint," she said cheerfully. "How are things in Memphis?"

  "Oh, the usual, you know, cops watching my apartment, banging on the door. Typical Saturday."

  "Cops?"

  "Yeah. For the past hour, I've been sitting in my closet watching my little television. The news is all over the place. They haven't mentioned you yet, but Mark's on every channel. Right now, it's simply a disappearance, not an escape."

  "Have you talked to Dianne?"

  "I called her about an hour ago. The FBI had just told her he was missing. I explained he was with you, and this calmed her a bit. Frankly, Reggie, she's been shocked so much I don't think it registered. Where are you?"

  "We've checked into a motel in Metairie."

  "I'm sorry. Did you say Metairie? As in Louisiana? Right outside of New Orleans?"

  "That's the place. We drove all night."

  "Why the hell are you down there, Reggie? Of all the places to hide, why did you pick a suburb of New Orleans? Why not Alaska?"

  "Because it's the last place we'd be expected. We're safe, Clint. I paid cash and registered under another name. We'll sleep a bit, then see the city."

  "See the city? Come on, Reggie, what's going on?"

  "I'll explain it later. Have you talked to Momma Love?"

  "No. I'll call her right n
ow."

  "Do that. I'll call back this afternoon."

  "You're crazy, Reggie. Do you know that? You've lost your mind."

  "I know. But I've been crazy before. Good-bye now."

  Clint placed the phone on the table, and stretched on the unmade bed. She had indeed been crazy before.

  35

  Barry the Blade entered the warehouse alone. Gone was the swaggering strut of the quickest gun in town. Gone was the smirking scowl of the cocky street hood. Gone were the flashy suit and Italian loafers. The earrings were in a pocket. The ponytail was tucked under his collar. He'd shaved just an hour ago.

  He climbed the rusted steps to the second level, and thought about playing on these same stairs as a child. His father was alive then, and after school he'd hang around here until dark, watching containers come and go, listening to the stevedores, learning their language, smoking their cigarettes, looking at their magazines. It was a wonderful place to grow up, especially for a boy who wanted to be nothing but a gangster.

  Now the warehouse was not as busy. He walked along the runway next to the dirty, painted windows overlooking the river. His steps echoed through the vast emptiness below. A few dusty containers were scattered about, and hadn't been moved in years. His uncle's black Cadillacs were parked together near the docks. Tito, the faithful chauffeur, polished a fender.

  He glanced up at the sound of footsteps, and waved at Barry.

  Though he was quite anxious, he walked deliberately, trying not to strut. Both hands were stuck deep in his pockets. He watched the river through the ancient windows. An imitation paddle wheeler hauled tourists downriver for a breathtaking tour of more warehouses and perhaps a barge or two. The runway stopped at a metal door. He pushed a button and looked directly into the camera above his head. A loud click, and the door opened. Mo, a former stevedore who'd given him his first beer when he was twelve, stood there, wearing a dreadful suit. Mo had at least four guns either on him or within reach. He nodded at Barry, and waved him on. Mo had been a friendly guy until he'd started wearing suits, which happened about the same time he saw The Godfather, and he hadn't smiled since.

  Barry walked through a room with two empty desks, and knocked on a door. He took a deep breath. "Come in," a voice said gently, and he entered his uncle's office.

  Johnny Sulari was aging nicely. A big man, in his seventies, he stood straight and moved quickly. His hair was brilliantly gray, and not a fraction of the hairline had receded. His forehead was small, and the hair started two inches above the eyebrows and was slicked back in shiny waves. As usual, he wore a dark suit, with the jacket hanging on a rack by the window. The tie was navy and terribly boring. The red suspenders were his trademark. He smiled at Barry and waved to a worn leather chair, the same one Barry had sat in as a child.

  Johnny was a gentleman, one of the last in a declining business being quickly overrun by younger men who were greedier and nastier. Men like his nephew here.

  But it was a forced smile. This was not a social call. They'd talked more in the past three days than in the past three years.

  "Bad news, Barry?" Johnny asked, knowing the answer.

  "You might say so. The kid's disappeared in Memphis."

  Johnny stared icily at Barry, who, for one of the few times in his life, did not stare back. The eyes failed him. The lethal, legendary eyes of Barry the Blade Muldanno were blinking and watching the floor.

  "How could you be so stupid?" Johnny asked calmly. "Stupid to leave the body around here. Stupid to tell your lawyer. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid."

  The eyes blinked faster and he shifted his weight. He nodded in agreement, now penitent. "I need help, okay."

  "Of course you need help. You've done a very stupid thing, and now you need someone to rescue you."

  "It concerns all of us, I think."

  Johnny's eyes flashed pure anger, but he controlled himself. He was always under control. "Oh, really. Is that a threat, Barry? You're coming into my office to ask for help and you're threatening me? Are you planning to do some taUdn'? Come on, boy. If you're convicted, you'll take it to your grave."

  "That's true, but I'd rather not be convicted, you know. There's still time."

  "You're a dumbass, Barry. Have I ever told you that?"

  "I think so."

  "You stalked the man for weeks. You caught him sneaking out of a dirty little whorehouse. All you had to do was hit him over the head, coupla bullets, clean out his pockets, leave the body for the -whores to trip over, and the cops would say it's just another cheap murder. They woulda never suspected anybody. But, no,1 Barry, you're too dumb to keep it simple."

  Barry shifted again and watched the floor.

  Johnny glared at him and unwrapped a cigar. "Answer my questions slowly, okay? I don't wanna know too much, you understand?" " "Yeah."

  "Is the body here in the city?"

  "Yeah."

  Johnny clipped the end of the cigar and licked it slowly. He shook his head in disgust. "How stupid. Is it easy to get to?"

  "Yeah."

  "Have the feds been close to it?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Is it underground?"

  "Yeah."

  "How long will it take to dig it up or whatever you have to do?"

  "An hour, maybe two."

  "So it's not in dirt?"

  "Concrete."

  Johnny lit the cigar with a match, and relaxed the wrinkles above his eyes. "Concrete," he repeated. Maybe the boy wasn't quite as stupid as he thought. Forget it. He was plenty stupid. "How many men?"

  "Two or three. I can't do it. They're watching every move I make. If I go near the place, I'll just lead them to it."

  Plenty stupid, all right. He blew a smoke ring. "A parking lot? A sidewalk?"

  "Under a garage." Barry shifted again, and kept his eyes on the floor.

  Johnny blew another smoke ring. "A garage. A parking garage?"

  "A garage behind a house."

  He studied the thin layer of ashes at the end of the cigar, then slowly placed it between his teeth. He wasn't stupid, he was dumb. He puffed it twice. "When you say house, do you mean a house on a street with other houses near it?"

  "Yeah." At the time of the burial, Boyd Boyette had been in his trunk for twenty-five hours. Options were limited. He was near panic, and was afraid to leave the city. It wasn't such a bad idea at the time.

  "And these other houses have people living in them, right? People with ears and eyes?"

  "I haven't met them, you know, but I would assume so."

  "Don't get cute with me."

  Barry slid an inch in his chair. "Sorry," he said.

  Johnny stood and walked slowly to the tinted windows directly above the river. He shook his head in disbelief, and puffed his cigar in frustration. Then he turned and walked back to his seat. He placed the cigar in the ashtray and leaned forward on his elbows. "Whose house?" he asked, stonefaced and ready to explode.

  Barry swallowed hard and recrossed his legs. "Jerome Clifford's."

  There was no eruption. Johnny was known to have ice water in his veins, and took great pride in staying cool. He was a rarity in this profession, but his level head had made him lots of money. And kept him alive. He placed his left hand completely over his mouth as if there were no way he could believe this. "Jerome Clifford's house," he repeated.

  Barry nodded. At the time, Clifford had been skiing in Colorado, and Barry knew this because Clifford had invited him to go. He lived alone in a big house with dozens of shady trees. The garage was a separate structure sitting by itself in the backyard. It was a perfect place, he had thought, because no one would ever suspect it.

  And he'd been right-it was a perfect place. The feds hadn't been near it. It was not a mistake. He'd planned to move it later. The mistake had been to tell Clifford.

  "And you want me to send in three men to dig it up, without making a sound, and dispose of it properly?"

  "Yes sir. It could save my ass."

 
"Why do you say this?"

  "Because I'm afraid this kid knows where it is, and he's disappeared. Who knows what he's doing? It's just too risky. We gotta move the body, Johnny. I'm begging you."

  "I hate beggars, Barry. What if we get caught? What if a neighbor hears something and calls the cops, and they show up, just checkin' on a prowler, you know, and, son of a bitch, there's three boys diggin' up a corpse."

  "They won't get caught."

  "How do you know! How'd you do it? How'd you bury him in concrete without getting caught?"

  "I've done it before, okay."

  "I wanna know!"

  Barry straightened himself a bit, and recrossed his legs. "The day after I hit him, I unloaded six bags of ready-mix at the garage. I was in a truck with bogus tags, dressed like a yard boy, you know. No one seemed to notice. The nearest house is a good thirty yards away, and there's trees everywhere. I went back at midnight in the same truck and unloaded the body in the garage. Then I left. There's a ditch behind the garage, and a park on the other side of the ditch. I just walked through the trees, climbed across the ditch, and sneaked into the garage. Took about thirty minutes to dig a shallow grave, put the body in it, and mix the concrete. The floor of the garage is gravel, white rock, you know. I went back the next night, after the stuff had dried, and covered it with the gravel. He's got this old boat, and so I rolled the boat back over it. When I left, everything was perfect. Clifford never had a clue."

  "Until you told him, of course."

  "Yeah, until I told him. It was a mistake, I admit."

  "Sounds like a lot of hard -work."

  "I've done it before, okay. It's easy. I was gonna move it later, but then the feds got involved and they've followed me for eight months."

  Johnny was nervous now. He relit the cigar and returned to the window. "You know, Barry," he said, looking at the water, "you've got some talent, boy, but you're an idiot when it comes to removing the evidence. We've always used the Gulf out there. Whatever happened to barrels and chains and weights?"

  "I promise it won't happen again. Just help me now, and I'll never make this mistake again."

  "There won't be a next time, Barry. If you somehow survive this, I'm gonna let you drive a truck for a while, then maybe run a fence for a year or so. I don't know. Maybe you can go to Vegas and spend a little time with Rock."