by Thomas Perry
Brayer looked both angry and confused, but said, “No. Who told you to do that?”
“The auditors. Hoskins and Tollar from the FBI.”
Brayer sprang from the chair and picked up the telephone, his face now set in a look of maniacal concentration. He dialed a number and almost shouted into the receiver, “Ray, do you have two agents named Hoskins and Tollar?”
Elizabeth searched her memory. She’d seen their identification cards, hadn’t she? No, she had seen them flash something in the FGE office at some frightened civilians. She hadn’t seen the cards herself. She started to feel light-headed.
But Brayer was saying, “Then we need an all-points bulletin on two men as soon as you can get it on the wire. Here, I’ll put someone on who can give you a description.” He handed Elizabeth the phone. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she could get through this, through these moments, and even through the next hour. But sometime, she knew, she was going to be by herself, and then she was probably going to cry.
22The faces in the room were not accusing. They were empty and cold and attentive like the faces of the men around the green felt tables downstairs. They weren’t judging her for what had happened, she kept telling herself. But each time she tried to believe that, she remembered that she had already been judged by each of them in the first seconds and forgotten. They weren’t thinking about what had happened except as it revealed to them what they must do next. It was just a fact, something that had to be taken into account—an agent had been lost because he hadn’t followed standard procedures. A second agent had been stupid enough to hand over essential evidence to two men she’d never seen before because they looked like FBI agents.
Everyone was waiting for Martin Connors to speak. It was his prerogative as the head of the Department of Justice’s Organized Crime Division, senior to everyone else in the room by virtue of his rank and his white hair, but also because he had been the last to arrive, taking a special flight from Washington because one of his units was onto something big and blowing it.
Connors sat back in his chair and puffed hard on his pipe. “All right, I think I understand the situation. The element that seems to connect the murder of the Senator and this man Veasy is Fieldston Growth Enterprises. Then this lawyer, Orloff, is killed in front of Fieldston. An examination of the tax records seems like an interesting enough idea to warrant study, but two impostors steal the company’s files: I guess that’s clear enough. The question, then, isn’t whether FGE was the place to look for the evidence that would connect the murders of Veasy, Senator Claremont, and Orloff, but whether it still is.”
“That’s right, Martin,” said Brayer.
“That’s not too good,” said Connors. “Bad showing by both sides, I’d say.” He sucked his pipe again, and said, “There’s not much reason to doubt that whatever was on the premises that would help us is gone—they selected the files themselves.” Elizabeth could feel herself blushing.
The FBI Las Vegas field headquarters chief interjected, “Of course we might find the two men, and we’ll probably be able to put some of it together in other ways.”
“True,” Connors nodded. “But it wasn’t that kind of move. They were buying time, and they’ve got it, as far as I can tell. What are the chances you’ll get them? I mean ever, not just while the files are still in their possession?”
The FBI man shrugged. “Not much, and every minute means it’s less likely. They could have parked the car in one of the hotel lots with the files in the trunk and it’d take a week to find it. And every third man in Nevada looks like a football player.” He looked a little like a quarterback himself, thought Elizabeth.
Connors said, “Right. So for now we’ve got to forget what we’ve missed out on, and concentrate on what they’ve given us. What they’ve done is conceded that FGE is the connection. Somebody very important is, or was, vulnerable in at least two ways. First, the lawyer Orloff knew something—maybe just who the silent partner is. That’s a dead end because they got to him. Second, the company records held some information they thought we could use. The point is, they got it in a very special way. They took a hell of a chance, for one thing. They should have been spotted going into the building. Why weren’t they, by the way?”
Brayer answered, “Just a screw-up, Martin. Our surveillance team saw Waring and figured the men with her had to be FBI, and the FBI thought they were ours.” He looked embarrassed. His superior stared at him but didn’t say anything to reassure him.
Instead Connors turned to Elizabeth. “All right, Waring. You’ve been in on most of this. What do you think is their next move?” Elizabeth stared at the carpet. She had to admire Connors’ perception. Always ask the lowest-ranking person first, because the others won’t be afraid to contradict. Once you ask a person’s boss, you won’t hear a peep out of him.
“I’m not sure, Mr. Connors,” she said. “I agree that they’re trying to break a connection. If that’s true there are several people we ought to look for. The first is Edgar Fieldston. The others are the ones who have been doing the killing. And I think the murder of Castiglione ought to be included in this.”
“Why?” asked Connors. “Of course we’re interested. We’ve got a lot of people on it, but he wasn’t the silent partner.”
“Because it’s an enormous event for the people we’re interested in. Why did it happen just now, and in this town? It doesn’t make any sense unless it has some connection with these other murders.”
Connors shrugged and puffed on his pipe. “Give me a hypothesis.”
“All right, here’s one. Castiglione was using FGE as a front for various operations, including a cover for professional killers. He had dealings with other powerful people—maybe heads of the other families. When the Senator’s committee made inquiries Castiglione had him killed. The others whose dealings with him could have come out got nervous and decided to get rid of him and the company’s lawyer and the company’s records.”
“Plausible,” said Connors.
“Of course it’s plausible,” said Brayer. “Everything is plausible if you haven’t got the answer. You have to go on what we know. What we know is this: somebody killed Claremont and Veasy and Orloff, and FGE is the common denominator. Somebody also killed Castiglione. Maybe it’s connected, and maybe not. In any case the hits were all done by professionals, and the chances are we won’t get professionals unless we get very lucky. So what’s left?”
“You tell me,” said Connors, “And make it good, because when we’re through here I’m going to have to either ask the. Attorney General’s office to authorize the expenditures you’ll need to pursue it or tell him I’ve scrapped the operation.”
“But it’s not that simple, Martin,” said Brayer, his hands now clenched on the arms of his chair.
“I know. But this is an expensive operation, and what have we got to show for it? You’ve lost a man and spent a lot of time and money.”
Elizabeth could stay silent no longer. “That’s not how to figure it, Mr. Connors,” she said. “What we’ve got is nothing but FGE. What we might have in a week is the man who killed a United States senator. Something big is going on, and this is just the start. They can cover their trail on FGE for a time, but we’ll know more eventually. What we ought to be doing in the meantime is watching all of the candidates to see if we can catch one while he’s trying to cut off the links with FGE.”
“Martin, look,” said Brayer. “They’re shooting each other down on the street over this. If we watch closely enough we’ve got a hell of a chance, and it won’t be tax evasion or stock fraud.”
Connors sat immobile, still puffing little clouds of smoke into the room. Finally he spoke. “I suppose there’s no alternative. I’ll speak with the Attorney General himself if I have to.” He stood up and nodded to the others in the room. “John, my plane leaves in an hour, and I’d appreciate a ride to the airport. I’ll arrive in Washington at nine thirty, and I’ll expect a call with a list of what you’ll
need. You might as well include what it would take to find Edgar Fieldston and if necessary extradite him from wherever he is. I expect he’s probably dead, but the extra funds will give you some leeway.”
HIS EYES OPENED and he was alert and present, as though he’d stepped through a doorway from sleeping to waking. It had been years since he’d allowed himself the luxury of even momentary uncertainty about where he’d been when he’d closed his eyes. Had he heard something? No, it was just his instinct telling him it was time. The shadows in the room had deepened and melted together into darkness. He sat up and strained to see the dial of his watch. It was six thirty; the old man had been gone for over five hours.
He stood up and listened to the breathing of the empty house: the faint hum of the furnace in the cellar, the soft substantial sound of the clapboards standing up to the bitter wind. It brought back the feel of the house in Pennsylvania when he was a child, not so far from here, but too many years ago. It was as though he’d walked out, and when he looked back that world had been gone for so long that there wasn’t anyone else left who even remembered it. The house was probably still standing, like this one was, but now someone else lived there.
“It’s a safe house,” Eddie had said. “Nobody talks about it because they might have to use it someday. But I know. People have gone through that door and nobody’s ever seen them come out the other side. For all I know he turns them into niggers.”
He heard a sound outside the house. He drew out the Beretta and floated slowly and carefully into the kitchen, his ears tuned to the pitch of the first noise. It was the sound of footsteps making their way to the back door. He crouched at the kitchen door and leveled the pistol on the back hallway. He heard two pairs of feet, one scraping the pavement—probably the old man—and another harder and faster, clicking on the walk. That had to be the woman, taking shorter steps. But he didn’t move. What was to keep the old man from selling him? In five hours he could have found out who the buyer was.
The key turned in the lock and the old man called into the darkness, “It’s me,” then opened the door.
“Come on in,” he said, and stepped back behind the doorway away from the sound of his voice. The light came on in the kitchen and he could see them. While the old man was struggling out of his overcoat, he studied the woman. She looked right. She was about five feet eight, not tall enough to be noticeable and not too small. She was pretty, he decided, but she was smart enough to be the kind of pretty that didn’t strike the eye at first glance—she had done something to herself. It was the hair and probably makeup. The dark, shining hair was cut short and then waved so the angles of the face were softened into a kind of unremarkable pleasantness. He couldn’t tell much about her figure, but she seemed slim even in the thick coat she was wearing. As long as the coat wasn’t hiding gigantic breasts or a seventeen-inch waist she’d do—an attractive schoolteacher or maybe a secretary traveling, but not the kind that traveled with the boss—a secretary on vacation with her husband.
“This is Maureen,” said the old man.
He nodded to her, and she acknowledged it but said nothing. He said, “She looks okay. When do we leave?”
The old man said, “That’s not up to me. I’m going in the other room to watch a little television while you work that out. After that I’m going to bed. Just leave my two thousand on the counter and lock the door when you go. If it’s there when I get up tomorrow morning I never heard of you.” He walked through the kitchen door and closed it behind him.
“We can go any time now,” said Maureen. “Everything I need is in the car.”
“I’ll get my suitcase,” he said, and went back into the living room. The old man was gone, but he could hear the television in the bedroom. His suitcase was in the front hallway where he’d left it. When he returned to the kitchen he set the two thousand dollars on the counter and placed a coffee cup on top of it.
He let her out first, and followed her into the cold night wind. She took a different way, up the driveway and past a tiny garage. On the far side of the garage was another garage and a driveway leading to the street behind. He followed her to a three-year-old Chevrolet parked at the curb.
She handed him the keys and waited while he stowed the suitcase in the trunk. He let her in and took the wheel. The car’s engine sounded well-tuned and healthy, and he could feel the heater warming the interior. As he pulled away from the curb and down the street, he could tell that it had gotten colder by the way the tires wobbled and crunched over the ice chunks.
“Do you know where you’re going?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Good. Then we can talk while you’re driving. You don’t have to tell me anything. That isn’t part of our deal. But if there’s anything that will help I’d like to hear it.”
He thought for a moment, then made his decision. She was in all the way already. Even if she had an inclination to betray him she would know they probably wouldn’t be able to get him without taking her out too. He decided to clinch it. “I had a deal with a man who was working for somebody else. After I delivered, they killed him but made me think I was going to get my money anyway. I got out. That was two days ago. It could have been anybody, but Carlo Balacontano was there when I was.”
“Carl Bala,” she said. “Shit.” She was lost in thought for a moment. Then she said, “I just have to know one more thing, and I won’t ask any more. How bad do they want you? Is it just the money or do they have some reason to be afraid of you? The old man said you were a pro.”
He looked over at her, but her face was obscured by the shadows. He drove on through the night. After a few minutes he found the entrance to the expressway and swung the car up the ramp into the rushing stream of southbound vehicles. It was over an hour before either of them spoke again. She asked if it was all right if she smoked, and he said it was.
23Elizabeth studied the report. It could hardly be called a report, because it told her nothing she hadn’t known for a week; in fact, there were two paragraphs that she had handed in as field notes for the Ventura police. Veasy, A. E. Death by detonation of explosives carried in vehicle. Probable murder. No suspects, no motive, no identification of the source of the explosives, no witnesses to the wiring of the truck, no similarities to other cases. Projected course of investigation: none. They were cutting it loose. No case with a report that said Murder by Persons Unknown could ever be closed, but the report had the neat and polished appearance of a document done for the archives. They knew this was a sheaf of paper they were going to have to live with. Damn.
She turned to the Senator’s file. It was already five or six hundred pages of field reports, chemical analyses, interviews, and transcripts from consulting agencies. It wasn’t really different from Veasy’s file. It would just take longer before they could give up. But already the additions were beginning to take on that peculiar archival quality. Here and there she could see notations that said substance not traceable or checked without result instead of investigation in progress. It was just time, that was all. A week for a machinist, and how long for a senator? A month? A year? It didn’t matter, because in another week or two the real investigation would have ended—maybe it had already. If there was evidence about the murders it had to be at Fieldston Growth Enterprises. And that meant it was gone. Because of Elizabeth Waring.
When Elizabeth looked up, Brayer was back. She returned to her work without speaking to him. Since Connors had left, the sight of John Brayer had been an irritant. She had placed him in a vulnerable position by her mistake, and he had accepted it and supported her. Now he was an irresistible temptation, the only possible source of approval that could assuage the guilt and humiliation of the last twenty-four hours, and she couldn’t ask for it or even take it if it were offered. It wouldn’t be offered because then he wouldn’t be John Brayer, who approved what was efficient and productive, and disapproved of everything else.
The file had been kept up. After she’d left Denver the
FBI had even followed up on Elizabeth’s theory that the killer would have multiple sets of reservations. If he had, he’d been clever. He’d used more than one name, and possibly even used other blinds nobody had thought of. He was home free, she thought. He could run for senator himself, now that there was a vacancy.
“Elizabeth,” said Brayer. His voice sounded normal—happy, almost. She closed the file.
It couldn’t be, she thought. They hadn’t caught Tollar and Hoskins.
“We’ve got some action. I just got a call from the Flamingo. They’ve asked for a bellhop in Toscanzio’s suite. It looks like he’s headed for home.”
HE WOKE UP and looked at Maureen. She was still moving the car down the highway, her eyes peering through a pair of saucer-shaped sunglasses at the traffic. She’ll do, he thought. Even if all she knows is driving a car and staying awake when I can’t. I’m a respectable businessman on a trip with his wife.
The first stop would be the one that would tell him how to handle the rest. He’d worked in Detroit. There were people who knew him by sight. It had to be first, it had to be the test. He looked out at the bleak, rolling hills, a few trees between patches of old gray snow. Even like this it was familiar—especially like this. It reminded him of the man standing alone on the hillside, a man so alone he could have been lost on the surface of Jupiter or drifting in the darkness and silence at the bottom of the ocean. And as soon as the man had seen his face he’d known. The man had been a numbers runner, or was it a bookie? But the man had come up short. He’d been given chances, but he hadn’t used them. But as soon as they’d gotten close enough for their eyes to meet, the man had known that this wasn’t a warning. That was when the rest of the world had dissolved and he’d become the man alone on a hillside, a dark, motionless vertical object standing on the gray, empty snow. He hadn’t bothered to say, “Wait, I can pay.” He hadn’t bothered to say anything, because when he saw who they’d sent to meet him he’d known that restitution and repentance and even money were things that pertained to people on a world a million miles away from him, a world that he was no longer a part of. He had stood there and then the bullet had smacked into him and toppled him over. The man lay there against the empty hillside, already dead with his blood leaking out into the snow, and he’d stood over the body and pumped the trigger until the clip of the big .45 automatic was empty. Later he’d dropped the gun in the river, a heavy military-model .45, inaccurate beyond a few feet, all square edges and with a kick that jerked his forearm when he fired it.
