“Where were you before that?”
“I was a student at the University of Phoenix.”
“That’s some sort of Internet school, isn’t it?”
“No, but it’s a for-profit university.”
“What did you study there?”
“I got a bachelor’s in economics and an MBA.”
“How old are you, Mr. German?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Where are you from?”
“I was born in Phoenix. I’ve lived there all my life.”
“Where are your parents from?”
“My father was born in East Germany, my mother in Russia.”
“Are you acquainted with something called the Russian Mafia?”
“Only from bad television shows. I’d like to claim Mr. Smolensky’s body.”
“Does he have any living relatives?” Gonzales asked.
“No—at least, not according to his employment records.”
“Wife?”
“No, he was single.”
“Was he gay?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Was he screwing anybody in the office?”
“Not to my knowledge. It’s a small office. There’s only one woman working for us, and she’s married. How do I go about claiming the body?”
Sanders removed a list of names from his folder and slid it across the table. “This is a list of people who checked out of Shutters on the morning that Mr. Smolensky was murdered. Do any of them ring a bell?”
Todd looked at the list: at the top was Billy Burnett. “No, none of them rings a bell. Now, how do I claim Mr. Smolensky’s body?”
“We’ll give you a document,” Sanders said. “You give that to a funeral home, and they’ll pick up the body from the city morgue. After that, what’s done with him is up to you.”
“Was there an autopsy conducted?”
“Yes. The cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head. There were no other signs of violence on the body.”
“Will this murder be solved?”
Gonzales sighed. “I’d say the chances are about fifty-fifty, under the circumstances.”
“What are the circumstances?”
“Out-of-town visitor, no local connections, no witnesses, no DNA, no forensic evidence, except for the bullet that killed him.”
“So you have nothing at all to go on?” Todd didn’t really care, but he thought he should make a show of it.
“That’s about the size of it,” Sanders said. “We were hoping you might give us something to go on. Why was Smolensky in L.A.?”
“I don’t know—he left without telling me, said he’d be back in a couple of days. I don’t know of a business reason for his trip. It could have been personal, I guess.”
“Did Smolensky know a woman here, or a man?”
“I have no idea.”
Sanders took a document from the file folder on the table, signed it, and handed it to Todd. “This is what you need to claim the body.” He gave Todd a card. “Please call us if any further information comes to light.”
“I’ll do that,” Todd said, then he got out of there.
He entered the address of the funeral home into the GPS unit and drove there. He was seen immediately by a gray man in a black suit.
“How may we help you?” the man asked.
“An associate of mine was murdered. His body is at the city morgue.” Todd handed him the document. “I’d like you to collect the body, have it cremated, and deliver the ashes to me at Shutters, a hotel on Santa Monica Beach. What is your customary fee for such services?”
The man took a form from his desk drawer and began checking off items. “Hearse, pickup, body preparation, cremation container … Would you like to see a selection of urns?”
“No, thank you, just use whatever container is customary.”
“An urn is customary.”
“Do you have such a thing as a cardboard box of an appropriate size?”
“Yes.”
“That will do.”
The man added up some figures with a small calculator and wrote a number at the bottom of the page. “Twelve hundred and seventy dollars,” he said, sliding the paper across the desk.
Todd counted out the money in cash and was given a receipt. “When will I have the ashes?” he asked.
The man looked at his watch. “By noon tomorrow.”
Thank you,” Todd said, and left as quickly as possible. Back at the hotel, he booked himself on an early afternoon flight to Las Vegas.
Stone, Dino, and Mike Freeman had dinner together in the dining room of the house at The Arrington. It was raining outside.
“I met Billy Burnett,” Stone said. “Or rather, Billy Barnett—it seems that Peter got the name wrong.”
“You know,” Mike said, “changing your name by one letter can be a very effective means of not being found. Most of the legwork in tracing people these days is done by computer. If you enter ‘Billy Burnett,’ maybe he turns up with a telephone listing or even an address, but computers are literalists: enter ‘Billy Barnett,’ and it will look for that and only that.”
“That’s interesting, Mike,” Stone said, “but Billy whatever-his-name-is is not Teddy Fay.”
“Why do you sound so certain?”
“Because Billy is younger, slimmer, fitter, and has more hair and a firmer jaw than Teddy.”
“Well, slimmer and fitter can make you look younger, and so can a face-lift. Hair can be transplanted and a firmer jaw can be gained with implants, usually slivers of cadaver bone. How about height?”
“I think Billy is taller than Teddy.”
“Losing weight can make you look taller, so can lifts in your shoes.”
“You’re not going to let go of this, are you?” Stone asked.
“I’m just pointing out the obvious,” Mike said. “I’m willing to accept that the two men are not the same person.”
“There’s something you’re both forgetting,” Dino said.
“Okay, what’s that?” Stone asked.
“You’re forgetting who Teddy Fay is.”
“Who is he?” Mike asked.
“He’s a guy who spent twenty years or so outfitting intelligence agents so that they would be unrecognizable as who they are. That means passports, driver’s licenses, credit cards—all the paper that a person usually carries. One of our computer kids at the NYPD told me that it’s possible, even easy, if you’re a good enough hacker with good enough equipment, to go into other computers and manufacture credit reports with long histories of charge accounts, addresses, loans, et cetera. He posits that if a hacker were really, really smart, he could hack into State Department computers and create passport records that would be indistinguishable from the real thing, so that a fake passport wouldn’t set off alarms at an airport.
“Now, if he could do all that for CIA agents in the field, he could do it for himself, couldn’t he? And if you start looking for him, how are you going to get past all that custom-created background?”
“Fingerprints or DNA,” Mike replied.
“When Teddy left the Agency,” Dino continued, “he erased his fingerprint records from the CIA and FBI computers and erased every photograph of him on record.”
“That makes it tougher.”
“And who are you going to compare his DNA to? One of his old identities? Somebody who doesn’t exist anymore?”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mike said, “I’d really like to hire this guy.”
Stone and Dino burst out laughing. “I don’t think he’s job hunting,” Stone said.
• • •
Todd German woke late, had breakfast in bed, and watched an old movie on TV. At eleven-thirty, a package was delivered to his room. He took it into the bathroom, opened it, and looked at the contents: a gray, pulpy substance. He emptied the box into the toilet and flushed it. “Sorry, Igor,” he said aloud. “Think of it as a burial at sea.”
He got dressed a
nd packed and drove to LAX to catch his flight to Las Vegas.
• • •
Todd had just checked into his room at the New Desert Inn when the phone rang. “Yes?”
“This is Majorov. Come up to my suite now.” He gave him the room number and hung up.
Todd changed into fresh clothes and went in search of the suite. He rapped on the door, and it was opened by a large man in a suit.
“You German?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
The man jerked a thumb in the direction of the next room. Todd walked into a book-lined study and found a man sitting behind the desk, reading a document.
“Sit,” Majorov said, then he looked up and gave Todd a long, appraising once-over. “Tell me about Los Angeles.”
Todd gave him a concise account of the events of his visit there.
“So the police have no leads?”
“No,” Todd said. “And I don’t think they’re going to find any.”
“Why not?” Majorov said. “I thought American policemen never let go of murder cases.”
“There isn’t anything to find. Billy Burnett doesn’t exist, at least, not anymore. He’s somebody else, now.”
“We have an airplane tail number,” Majorov pointed out.
“He’s already figured out that we’re trying to trace it, and he has, no doubt, already changed it.”
“Is it so easy?”
“With stick-on numbers, available at any graphics shop.”
“I see. I want you to find this man.”
“I don’t think I want that job,” Todd said.
“Your mother would be shocked.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your mother and I are first cousins,” Majorov said. “How do you think you got this job? With a degree from that … university?”
Todd was shaken. “She told me that all her relatives are dead.”
“She lied,” Majorov said. “Now tell me why you don’t want Igor’s job.”
“I would be very pleased to have Igor’s job, but not the job of finding this Billy Burnett.”
“Tell me why.”
“Just look at what’s happened so far: he’s killed two of what Igor said are your best men and made them vanish from sight.”
“Igor found them.”
“Only because he knew where to look. And now Igor is dead, too. Burnett is smarter than Igor, or he would be dead and Igor still alive. I have to ask myself why you have become obsessed with finding this man. Is it just revenge over this hotel thing?”
“In my business you don’t allow people to take advantage of you, and that’s what Burnett has done.”
“And he will go on taking advantage of you until you stop looking for him. In fact, what he will do, if you continue to annoy him, is to cut the process short by simply killing you.”
“You think he could do that?”
“I walked in here without being searched,” Todd said. “I could be armed with a gun or a knife. Why do you think you are invulnerable? Igor thought that.”
“You have a very smart mouth,” Majorov said. He was becoming irritated, not least because he knew the younger man was right. “Igor was paid four times as much as you,” he said, controlling his temper. “If you want Igor’s job, go do his job.”
Todd stared at him but did not reply.
“Now, I will give you a gift,” Majorov said. “There is a woman who works in this establishment who knows Billy Burnett, who spent a night in his bed at this Shutters place. She says she doesn’t know how to contact him, but she is lying. Her name is Charmaine.” He scribbled something on a sheet of paper. “Here is her address, her phone number, and the number of her room in this hotel, where she rests between shifts.” He stapled a photograph to the sheet. “And here is what she looks like.” He shoved the paper across the desk.
Todd picked it up, looked at it, and stood up. “All right,” he said. “I’ll need some cash.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
Majorov took a small pad from his desk drawer, wrote the amount on it, and signed it. “The casino cashier will give you the money.”
Todd took the chit and left the suite.
Teddy worked until three, then went home and spent an hour going through his Barnett identity, cleaning up details, until he was satisfied that everything stood up. Something was nagging at him, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.
Then he sat down with the latest issue of Flying magazine and on the last pages it came to him. He was reading an article that praised the work of Hawthorne Aircraft Painting, based at Hawthorne Airport. He picked up the phone and called them.
“My name is Barnett,” he said. “I have an airplane parked at Hawthorne that I’d like partially repainted.”
“Where is the airplane?” the man asked.
“At Million Air. It’s a JetPROP.”
“I’ll run over there and have a look at it,” the man said. “What did you want painted?”
“The airplane is red over white, with black striping. It’s fairly new, but I’ve never liked red.”
“So you want just the top color changed?”
“That’s right.”
“What color would you like?”
“I think a dark green, and I’d like the tail number in white and the stripes in a metallic gold.”
“All right, Mr. Barnett. I’ll call you back in an hour.”
Fifty minutes later, Teddy and Hawthorne Aircraft Painting had a deal, and since the shop had had a cancellation, it would be done quickly. That little bit of anxiety had vanished, and he felt much better.
He called Charmaine on her throwaway number.
“Hey,” she said. “How are you?”
“Just fine,” he replied. “I’ve got a part-time job that I’m enjoying.”
“Doing what?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“When will that be?”
“As soon as you like.”
“I’ve got a long weekend off, starting Friday.”
“What time will you leave Vegas?”
“About four.”
“Then we’ll meet at seven, like before?”
“That’s fine. Where?”
“I’ll call you when you’re on the way. Any noise from Genaro?”
“He invited me to a meeting with Majorov. You were the subject. I didn’t give them anything.”
“Good girl. Do you own a red scarf?”
“Yes, a silk one.”
“If you think you’re being followed, wear it around your neck, then go to the restaurant as planned and have a drink at the bar. I’ll catch up with you, or call you with a new location.”
“Got it,” she said. “I’ll call you around five on Friday. Do you have a new number?”
He gave it to her. “See you Friday.” He hung up.
• • •
Todd found the hotel room where Charmaine spent her rest periods and tapped lightly on the door.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice called out.
“Hotel services. I have to change the lock on your door.” He smiled into the peephole.
“Just a minute,” she answered. “Let me get decent.”
He waited patiently until the door began to open, then he pushed it hard, knocking her back a few paces. She was wearing a hotel robe, and her hair was wet. She seemed too shocked to scream.
Todd swung hard and struck her cheek and ear with the flat of his right hand, knocking her nearly unconscious. He grabbed her hair and jerked her to her feet, then he stripped off the robe, pushed her onto the bed, and sat on her. Holding his left hand over her mouth, he reached into a back pocket, retrieved a switchblade, and held it to her face. “Scream, and I’ll cut you, understand?”
She nodded.
He moved his hand from her mouth to her throat. “This is how it is,” he said quietly, but with threat in his voice. “I want to find Billy Burnett, and I know you k
now how to do that. If you don’t tell me right now, I’m going to fuck you a few times, then cut your throat. There won’t be a second chance, so you’d better get it right the first time. Go.”
“All right,” she said. “All I have is a new phone number. He called only a few minutes ago.” She gave him the number.
“Where does he live?”
“He told me that when he left Shutters he was going to find a place in Santa Monica. The last time I talked to him, he said he had found a place, but he wouldn’t tell me where. He’s very cautious.”
“I told you there wouldn’t be a second chance,” he said, pressing the sharp blade to her face.
“I swear to you, that’s all he would tell me. He wants me to come to L.A. on Friday, but we’ll meet at a restaurant, the way we did last time, then go to his place. He’ll call me en route with the name of the restaurant.”
He squeezed her throat. “There’s something else. Tell me.”
“That’s all I know, I swear it.”
“When do you leave on Friday?”
“At four.”
“Pick me up in front of the hotel. I’ll ride down to L.A. with you.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Don’t bother going to Genaro,” he said. “Genaro sent me. You’re being watched. Fuck with us, and you’re a dead girl. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
He got up, walked to the door, and left the room, without another word.
Charmaine opened the bedside drawer and removed a .25 caliber pistol that she was licensed to carry in Nevada. She ran to the door, opened it, and looked up and down the hall. He was gone. She closed the door and found her throwaway cell phone but stopped before making the call. If the man hadn’t been lying, her room might be bugged; her car, too. There might even be a camera.
She took a few deep breaths, dried her hair, got dressed, and went to work, as usual. All evening she gave a performance, one that said everything was normal. She smiled at Genaro when she saw him on the floor, and he smiled back.
She had to hang on until Friday, she thought; she had to keep it together. If they were watching, she would betray nothing. But on Friday, she would be wearing that red scarf.
Teddy was working on a Winchester 73 when his boss, Jim Garver, came into the workroom, pulled up two chairs, sat down in one and offered Teddy the other.
“I’m impressed with your work,” Jim said. “How’d you like to come to work full-time here?”
Doing Hard Time (Stone Barrington) Page 11
