Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery

by Jeffery Deaver

  His maiden voyage in the wheelchair. He had insisted on piloting himself and Weiser hadn’t objected though she said it was against the rules. He had a feeling that Weiser knew what the hospital could do with their rules and probably told them so frequently. Buffett shoved off hard from the doorway of his room. But his arms were stronger than expected and he had lost control, caroming off a water cooler and a candy striper’s backside before he got the feel of the chair.

  They had wheeled, and walked, down the corridor, Buffett considering whether to tell Weiser about the night with Nina Sassower. It was the sort of thing that she probably ought to know; it might help with his therapy. But he kept mum. He hardly wanted Nina to get into trouble. Anyway, if he didn’t blow the whistle there was always the chance she might come back again.

  He wondered if he could do it three times in one night.

  The lounge consisted of a dozen Formica tables, bright blue and chipped. Against one orange-painted wall were old, battered vending machines, for coffee and hot chocolate, for candy, for soda. Some bulbs in the soda machine were burned out. The front said, OCA OLA.

  She asked what he wanted.

  Buffett said he’d have an ’oke.

  Laughing hard, she said, “I’ll have an ’iet ’oke.”

  “How come? You got a great ’igure.”

  They laughed some more and she walked over to the snack machine. She bought a pack of peanut butter crackers. “Dinner,” she said. And he almost asked her out then—casually, thinking he would just wonder out loud if sometime she’d like to grab a bite with him. But the Terror nuzzled him viciously and the opportunity to ask the question suddenly closed. Then she was at the table, lighting, inhaling on, and stubbing out the cigarette.

  He was slightly disappointed when she took a manila folder out of her attaché case. This made the meeting more professional, less social. She set it in front of her but did not open the file.

  “Donnie, you’re out of spinal shock now. There has been good restoration of sensation and control to many of your functions. I think bladder and rectal control will be almost normal. And, as I told you, there’s no reason that I can see that sexual functioning won’t ultimately be fine . . .”

  Buffett was clamping down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Ultimately.”

  “It’s clear now that the most serious and permanent damage will be to your legs. There may be some improvement but most likely it’ll be along the line of faint response to external stimuli. As far as walking again, on your own, well, it’s the way I told you before, Donnie.”

  She offered him a cracker. He shook his head. She ate it then sipped the soft drink.

  “There’s a lot of research going on now in this area; most of it’s trying to isolate substances—some are like hormones and some are structural proteins . . .”

  He smiled to himself as he felt himself sinking into the brilliant quagmire of her brain.

  “. . . that affect how the neurons reach and talk to their receptor cells—”

  Donnie nodded and appeared, he believed, to be interested.

  “. . . something called FNS.”

  “Feminine . . . ?” He wanted to make a joke, but his mind went blank.

  “Functional neuromuscular stimulation.” Her eyes sparkled as they always did when she spoke about science and she explained about some contraption that you hooked up to your leg muscles to send in jolts of electricity to stimulate them in a certain order. Eventually, using this device, you could propel yourself in a jerky fashion by using canes or a walker.

  She kept talking but Donnie Buffett stopped listening. He was deciding that whatever FNS was exactly he’d never get hooked up to anything like that. Buffett knew he could sit in a wheelchair for the rest of his life and maybe cry sometimes and maybe scream and he could see himself pitching a lamp through the TV set after watching Jeopardy! or Wheel of Fortune one too many times. And he could picture himself wheeling out of the house and getting a job. Learning to do wheelies, learning to go over curbs by himself, developing huge, ball-buster arms and a fifty-inch chest. But no machines. Just like, if he were blind, he would use a cane but never rely on a dog. He couldn’t explain what this distinction was exactly but to him it was real and it was the difference between his heart being alive and being cold dead.

  He noticed that Weiser had stopped talking and it seemed as if she had asked him a question. He didn’t feel like asking her to repeat it. He said, “Would you go out with me?” He added, “I mean, have dinner.”

  When she declined, as he had somehow known she would, it wasn’t with a shocked or, what would have been worse, maternal smile. She looked at him with the intrigued gaze of a married woman at a party, propositioned discreetly by a man she finds attractive.

  A pleasant regret, not an astonished surprise.

  She added, “We should stay friends, you know.”

  And when she said that, the Terror nudged Donnie Buffett once, hard, bringing sweat to his forehead, but then it curled up somewhere inside him and, for the time being, fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  Chapter 25

  “THERE’S A MAN to see you, sir. He says his name is Pellam.”

  “Pellam? Do I know him?” Philip Lombro said, running a chamois over his Bally shoes.

  “He knows you, sir.”

  “I’m busy. Take his card.”

  Lombro sat back in his leather chair and stared at the floor. Dense clouds passing by outside would cast diffuse shadows on the green carpeting then a moment later the harsh sunlight would return.

  The intercom clicked again and startled him. The electric voice said, “He says it has to do with the late Mr. Bales.”

  Lombro cleared his throat. “Send him in.”

  Pellam walked into the office. He looked around at the somber burgundy and navy books—business books, lawyer books. The desk. The pattern of cloud shadows on the verdant carpet. The view out the window, the smooth deco designs on the old brick building across the street.

  Pellam sat down, uninvited, in the chair directly opposite Lombro’s. “Your hit man is dead.”

  Lombro swallowed and folded the square of chamois carefully. Yes. It was him. The one with the case of beer, the man who’d seen him. “You’re the witness.”

  “The witness.” Pellam said the word slowly, tasting it, letting the sibilant draw out over his teeth.

  “Mr. James?”

  “No, it’s Pellam.”

  Lombro shook his head at this, confused. Then he said cautiously, “You cheated me.”

  Pellam frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  “You took my money and you still went to the U.S. Attorney. I heard the news conference.”

  “What money?”

  “The fifty thousand? The money Ralph gave you . . .”

  The voice faded and Pellam obviously came to the conclusion that was setting prominently into Lombro’s mind. They shared rueful smiles.

  Lombro said, “I see.”

  “The quality of your hired help leaves a little bit to be desired.”

  “So it seems. He’s dead, you say?”

  “An accident.”

  “I see. Are you here to kill me?” This he asked in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “No,” Pellam said.

  “I swear I forbade Ralph to hurt you. All he was going to do was pay you to—”

  “But, he came to the Federal Building yesterday with a gun. You knew that.”

  Lombro’s mouth closed and he touched some strands of silver hair at his temple.

  “I want to know why you had Gaudia killed.”

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “No.”

  “But you have a microphone on you.”

  Pellam took off his jacket and turned out the pockets of his shirt and jeans. Lombro, eyes fixed on the grip of the Colt in Pellam’s waistband, took the bomber jacket and felt through the pockets.

  “I just want to know,” Pellam said sincerely.

  Lombro
crossed his legs and gripped his ankle with his right hand, rubbing his fingers along it. He did not sort through his thoughts. This was a story he had planned to tell for some time. Perhaps to his prosecutor. “I love my nieces like daughters. I’ve never been married. Never had children. Have you?”

  Pellam didn’t answer.

  “One niece of mine was eighteen. She was a sweet, sweet girl. But she was somewhat heavy, unsure of herself. She was going to school and working part-time as a waitress in a restaurant that Vincent Gaudia would sometimes eat in. Gaudia was a generous man with money. He would give her twenty-dollar tips. Then it was a fifty-dollar tip. And after that it was the promise of a hundred-dollar tip. I suppose you can guess what happened.

  “They spent a few nights together, and then Gaudia simply forgot that she existed. But the poor child believed she’d fallen in love with him. I tried to convince her otherwise but she was inconsolable. He refused to take her calls and answer her letters. Finally she went to his home. It was late at night, after she got off work at the restaurant. She left his house at two in the morning, and on the way home, drove through a red light. Her car was hit by a truck and she was killed. She had been drinking and had had sex just an hour before. The evidence indicated the sex was of a sort I choose not to describe.”

  “One of the two thousand,” Pellam mused.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve heard Gaudia had his share of women. She was a conquest.”

  “Just so.”

  “The police said the accident was her fault but, of course, it wasn’t. It was Vincent Gaudia’s. He seduced my niece. It’s as if he murdered her. This is what Gaudia did to my family and when my brother refused to do anything about his daughter’s death, I decided to.”

  “Old World revenge.”

  “If you will.”

  “You knew that Bales or his partner killed the woman who was with Gaudia too. They shot that cop. And a friend of mine.”

  Lombro shook his head. There was alarm and sorrow in his face. “This has all gone so wrong. So wrong! I should have done the manly thing. I should have killed him myself and taken the consequences. I’m not a coward. I just didn’t understand how these things worked. Have you called the police?”

  “Not yet, no,” Pellam said. He looked around the office, at the paneling, the prints on the walls. He asked, “What’re you worth?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Money, you know. How much do you have?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “A million?” Pellam suggested.

  Lombro smiled. “More than that. Why are you asking?”

  Pellam said, “What does that mean? ‘More than that.’ ”

  “I don’t exactly know,” Lombro said stridently.

  “You’re in the real estate business?”

  Lombro reached toward his knee and picked a piece of lint from his slacks. “And I’ve been in that line long enough to understand when an offer is about to be made.”

  “You know,” Pellam said, “they have this service in some states. It’s called the crime victims’ reparation fund or something like that. You ever hear about it?”

  “No.”

  “When someone’s mugged or raped they get some money. Somebody gets killed, the family gets it.”

  “And you’re suggesting I pay you something.”

  Pellam hesitated, then he laughed. “Yep. Exactly.”

  “How much?” Lombro opened his drawer. Then, perhaps deciding a check might not be the way to handle something like this, closed it again.

  “I’m thinking mostly of the policeman that got shot.”

  “Whatever. How much did you have in mind?”

  “He’s paralyzed, the cop. He’ll never walk again. Life’s going to be pretty expensive for him. Housekeepers, special cars. And by the way, I got fired thanks to you.”

  Lombro looked up from his shoes, which he now planted on the carpeting. “I am being very honest when I tell you that I didn’t want you hurt and that I didn’t want anyone to die except Gaudia. I hope you agree I had a . . . well, an honorable motive for doing what I did. I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”

  “No,” Pellam said, “I don’t have any intention of hurting you.”

  “You can, of course, go to the police and tell them what happened. But what it really comes down to is my word against your word. I’ve been involved in plenty of litigation. Lawyers call cases like this a liars’ match. Who believes whom? I think I stand as good a chance of being believed as you do. I’m influential in this town. I’m one of the few businessmen still able to pay taxes, which I do in great abundance. I’m well known in the assessor’s office and in city hall, too. So, although I sympathize with you and your friend, you don’t really have much leverage. I’d consider ten thousand for each of you.”

  “Nope, that’s not enough.” Pellam took a small cloth square from his pocket and dropped it on the desk. “Take a look.” Lombro unfolded the handkerchief and looked at the business-card case inside. He opened it up, shrugged, and dropped it back on the handkerchief. Pellam scooped the case up and put it in his pocket.

  “And who,” Lombro asked, “is Special Agent Gilbert?”

  “A former FBI agent. He’s the man buried in the foundation of one of the buildings you’re putting up. A project outside of St. Louis. Foxwood. I get a kick out of those names for condominiums. Stonehenge. Windcrest. Do people really—”

  “What? There’s no one buried in—”

  “And sad to say, he’d been shot with a gun that’s buried in your yard at home.”

  “Impossible. I don’t own a gun.”

  “I didn’t say you own a gun. I just said the gun was buried on your property.”

  “This is nonsense.”

  Lombro’s silver face flushed and his eyes darted. A distinguished man made common. A powerful man, impotent. “Your policeman friend. Is he helping—” Lombro stared at Pellam’s jacket pocket. He whispered, “And I just put my fingerprints on his ID card, didn’t I?”

  “Not to say they’d convict you. But Agent Gilbert was involved in the Gaudia murder. He threatened me and my friend.” Pellam added, “And I’d feel obligated to cooperate, being a personal acquaintance of the U.S. Attorney. I’d feel it was my duty.”

  Philip Lombro looked out the window at the brick of the building across the way. He glanced down, licked his finger, and lifted a fleck of paper or dust off the heel of one of his shoes, black cherry, tasseled Ballys, polished like dark mirrors. Pellam started to speak but didn’t. He paused, staring at the shoes, frowning, as if he’d seen them somewhere before but was unable to remember exactly where.

  TONY SLOAN WAS still not, in general, speaking to Pellam but he made an exception to explain that because the machine guns had been released and the ending of the film was successfully in the can, half of Pellam’s fee would be released. The rest Sloan was retaining to help defray the cost of the delay.

  “You want to play it that way, Tony, then I’ll see you in court.”

  Sloan had shrugged and taken up the vow of silence again, returning to the editing van, where close to five hundred thousand feet of film, and an extremely discouraged editor, awaited the arrival of the director’s artistic vision.

  Pellam had gone directly downstairs to the Marriott’s Huck Finn Room to crash the wrap party.

  There he drank Sloan’s champagne and ate the catfish tidbits and hush puppies, while he chatted with the cast and crew, all of them so exhausted from the trials of the final days of shooting that they did not know, or care, if he was still an untouchable.

  He looked over the crowd. He saw the makeup artists in the corner; Nina Sassower was not among them.

  Pellam wandered over to Stace Stacey, as exhausted as anyone but still retaining his unflappable good spirits. Pellam handed over the unused wax bullets and the empty .45 casings Stace had loaned him. Pellam nodded at them. “Wouldn’t mention this.”

  Stace pocketed the munitions
and touched his lips with a forefinger.

  Pellam told him about Sloan’s holding back his fee. Now on his third or fourth cuba libre Stace was pretty loose. “Trying to squeeze you, is he? That man is a hundred percent son of a bitch,” the arms master said, using the strongest language Pellam had ever heard him utter.

  “But you’ll work with him again.”

  “Oh, you betcha. And you’ll be in line right behind me.”

  “Probably,” Pellam said.

  A woman appeared in the doorway of the banquet room. Pellam recognized her as one of Sloan’s secretaries. She urgently waved a slip of paper at him. He wondered if Sloan had changed his mind and was reluctantly releasing the rest of the money. Not that it truly mattered. Fifty thousand dollars had just been transferred from Philip Lombro’s investment company into Pellam’s account at a bank in Sherman Oaks.

  “You got this fax, John. It’s from Marty Weller in Budapest.”

  And was apparently just about to be transferred out again, to finance Central Standard Time.

  She handed it to him and headed back toward a cluster of actors but got no farther than Stace Stacey, who encircled her waist and rose on tiptoe to whisper something in her ear. She giggled.

  Pellam unfolded the fax. It took a whole page of producer-babble for Marty Weller to break the news to him that Tri-Star was going to be picking up Paramount’s fallen standard and financing the terrorist script, which Weller would be producing in lieu of Central Standard Time. The Hungarians were going to Tri-Star with him. They asked Weller to say hello to Pellam, whom they felt they knew already and whom they had dubbed the American Auteur. They hoped that perhaps in the future they all might work together on a “clever-scripted, hey knock-em-dead cult film noir project.”

  Pellam folded the paper and slipped it into his back pocket. He lifted another champagne off a passing tray. He closed his eyes and rubbed the cold flute over his forehead.

  Stace returned a moment later. He was without the secretary but the expression on the arms master’s face was not that of a rejected man. He smiled agreeably and said to Pellam, “Tomorrow morning, let’s you and me go shooting, what do you say? We’ll take the Charter Arms and the Dan Wesson and shoot up some cans. Maybe they even have rattlesnakes around here.”