Traces

by Paul Jr. Logan

  Dr. Bane was silent again, flipping through the papers. Karlsen wanted to know how much of the varied information stamped in small black letters on the thick sheets was deposited in the visitor's mind at this moment. Had he learned that Dr. Bane had time to read everything from the first to the last line, the fat man would not have been very surprised.

  On the last two pages Dr. Bane lingered a little longer.

  - The material isn't accurate enough, Mr. Karlsen, he said sharply. There's too much speculation.

  - This is America, the fat man explained phlegmatically. If you want something definite, you'll have to measure the Great Wall of China. But as long as you're in L.A., you play by the rules here. Nothing is certain in this country, doctor. Things change too fast.

  His gaze shot out of his narrow, impassive eyes like a blade of a knife. But whatever effect Dr. Bane hoped to achieve, he was disappointed.

  - There's enough here about Ruell's scam with Vaughn Bank stock, Bane's voice didn't soften, but from the sound of it Karlsen knew at once that the visitor had given up and taken his grievances. But almost nothing is said about the people the banker hired. I need to know as much as I can about them.

  Karlsen grinned.

  - You ordered a report on Craig Ruell, Mr. Bane. It's in front of you. If you want to know the color of someone else's underpants, you have to pay separately.

  The visitor's sturdy, lacquered wood fingers closed the folder, and it was placed neatly in his lap. That subject was settled.

  - I'll pay whatever it takes, Dr. Bane said. When can you give me the information I need?

  Stephen Karlsen grinned even wider. The money was beginning to flow to him a small trickle for now, but then, who knows...

  - I don't need time, he answered. Unless it's for printing out materials. I was born and raised in this town, he lied here, and I know a lot of people.

  - Tell me, and all this time Dr. Bane made no attempt to make himself comfortable. Apparently, he was happy with the position he was in. If I have anything to write down, I'll do it myself.

  Steven Karlsen climbed deeper on the stool and nodded.

  - These are two local high-class gangsters. They've been doing business in Los Angeles for seven years and have a solid reputation in business circles.

  - They work for the Mafia?

  Karlsen frowned at his visitor. And they say that in the East people know how to wait and listen.

  - They are paid by those who have money, he replied. More you pay, higher is the chance that they will take on the case. They're usually called in when the police don't want to get involved-blackmail, conflicts within the known families, kidnapping, that sort of thing. Would you like a drink?

  Dr. Bane's head twitched a little, then his muscles relaxed again.

  - No, he answered.

  As good as your English is, that last sentence stumped you for a moment. Karlsen smirked, staggered off his chair, and waddled around the counter. These Asian guys are so easy to confuse only by quickly changing the subject.

  - I'll have a drink, Karlsen reached for the bottles and stared at them thoughtfully. Yeah. Michael Stuart Hammond comes from a very wealthy family, and it was his parents' connections that helped him make a name in the business pretty quick. His mother and father are in the oil business, and their company is headquartered in the suburbs. He has a stake in the business, but the economics don't appeal to him.

  Stephen lovingly retrieved a bottle of martini from the row and placed it on the counter.

  - He graduated from the University of Los Angeles, studied literary history or something if you don't like vague language, that's your problem. When he got his degree, he hid it away and opened a conflict resolution shop. Most of his work is based on his knowledge of human psychology- calculating the actions of others several steps ahead.

  The long story bored Stephen, and he paused for a martini.

  - It's dangerous to get involved with him, because he has powerful corporations behind him, almost every one of which owes him something, he continued. And, then again, Daddy and Mommy aren't exactly pork rinds. Heidi Moss, on the other hand, she's a valley girl.

  - Who? Dr. Bane moved forward a little. Where did you learn English, buddy?

  - It means middle class, Karlsen explained. When you're in town, pay attention to the low-lying neighborhoods and ones who live on the hills. Her parents died early and she was brought up by an aunt, I think. Got a pretty good law degree at Yale, and worked for several years in two

  big law firms. But then Hammond invited her to join him, and she accepted, you bet she did, the money they are charging.

  - I'm no slouch either, and you'll soon find that out, Confucian.

  - She's still a member of the bar, but she's rarely in court, and only on cases she's co-defending with Hammond. Pretty smart and a creepy pest I don't know why, I guess Mickey-boy gets to her, Karlsen hummed thoughtfully, wanting to add some color to his story. For the rest of his life, Dr. Bane had never been able to figure it out. They rarely have many clients at the same time, as the circle of potential customers is limited to a high financial bar, but the business smelling of money is never abandoned by this couple. They even say the couple used to fly to Washington and help the president from time to time, Steven winked slyly and leaned over the counter, but between you and me, I'm sure Michael pays people to spread such rumors about him.

  Stephen Karlsen raised his body-humidity quotient again and set the glass on the counter.

  - They live in a little mansion with about twenty rooms. With a park, of course. They have an office there, too. It's in an upscale neighborhood, but not out in the open. Away from the madding crowd, as they say.

  Stephen Karlsen liked to unobtrusively insert quotations into his speech, so that his interlocutors gradually imbued it with respect for his erudition. In this case, however, he decided, there was no point in beating about the bush.

  - I don't know what the relationship is between the two of them, he summed up, climbing back on his stool. - The complete printed material with names, dates, and addresses could be ready in an hour and a half. My men will bring it to the address you name.

  Dr. Bane put his hand in his inside pocket.

  - I'll go get the papers myself, Mr. Karlsen. Tonight or tomorrow. There's no need for haste.

  - Although I'm giving you two new files, you'll get them for the price of one, since you're my wholesale customer, the fat man chuckled. They'll cost you the same as the Craig Ruell file.

  The sharp sound of the phone interrupted him, and he turned around. Stephen Karlsen was not pleased with himself, nor with the way things were going. This doctor had something very significant in mind, since he was preparing the ground so thoroughly. There was a lot of money to be made on it, a lot of money. But Karlsen still hadn't figured out how.

  Dr. Bane pulled out a small leather wallet, and his fingers closed on several large bills. The fat man was obviously fooling him the crumbs he'd got weren't worth that kind of money. But years of experience had told him that this was no time to be petty.

  Fat Steven kept grunting into the receiver, which made little drops of moisture appear on the microphone. When he had finished his brief conversation, he turned again and looked at the visitor with a questioning look. Now you're in my hands, buddy.

  Shall I tell him at once, or wait to see how events unfold? The further away, the more money I can get. But it's too dangerous to wait. He'll go back to his Chan-dong-land and you can remember him in a Chinese restaurant later.

  Stephen Karlsen made himself comfortable on his stool and reached for his empty glass. His short finger dabbed at a small button hidden from view by the trim of the counter. He was thirsty again.

  - There's money in here, Mr. Karlsen.

  Dr. Bane was still clutching the bills in his hand when two men came forward to his right and left. The small muzzles of their guns were as impassive as Bane's eyes. The fat man chuckled again.

  - You'll pay me a
lot more than that, he said ingratiatingly. His visitor had long ago broken the bad habit of surprise, but at that moment he was struck by the stiffness and determination of the fat man's large, loose face.

  - Are you going to rob me? Dr. Bane asked disdainfully.

  - Oh, no, Karlsen fluttered his hands, which resembled chicken drumsticks. I'm not a bandit. But you pay me to give you information about other people. And now it's time to pay me not to tell anyone about you.

  His interlocutor's face remained impassive, but it meant little to Stephen Karlsen. He knew what he was feeling now.

  - You were at Miguel the Spaniard's last night, weren't you? The fat man asked. And I know why you paid him so much money. In fact, I can think of a dozen people who would give me a lot of money for that kind of information. You can give me the whole pack at once, Doctor.

  28

  Inspector Herrmann was still standing in the doorway.

  - What warrant, the banker squeaked. He probably intended to roar the phrase, but somewhere in his throat the servants suddenly refused to obey their boss.

  - Show the document to the counselor, Herrmann turned to his companion, a short black man with a stringy mustache and an even stringier beard. He took a few steps toward me, shoving the paper, and Herrmann grimaced. Heidi stood up, and her slender fingers closed on the document.

  - On what grounds is the warrant issued? I asked sharply. It wasn't the smartest question to ask, but at that moment I was glad I could do it. Just a few minutes ago I'd been pouring my heart out to Warren Vaughn, telling him that his nephew was safe. And then the cops come in and haul the kid off to jail.

  - You're entitled to ask that question, Herrmann nodded agreeably. And I'd be glad to answer it.

  Heidi returned the piece of paper to his companion. I looked at it and realized that the document was authentic, and that only a third-generation mole would be able to make a dent in it. Well, I'd hoped Herrmann had brought a bag of chips instead of a warrant.

  - My nephew is innocent, Inspector, the banker said sharply. You yourself know he spent that night in the house of his friend, this Ruell. You have his testimony.

  Herrmann grinned so wide that if his smile had been any bigger all his teeth would have come out. He was clearly enjoying this conversation.

  - You're quite right, Mr. Vaughn he replied. And that's why we didn't consider your nephew a suspect for some time. But when we read his friend's testimony more closely, we realized that it didn't give him a 100% alibi for the time of the murder.

  Your nephew may well have left the house undetected, gone to Miss Davis's house, killed her, and returned. You'd be surprised at the cunning tricks we have to contend with.

  I looked at Heidi again. In her briefcase was a new edition of Craig Ruell's testimony, which did not contain the hole the inspector had mentioned.

  But I knew there was more to it than that.

  - That's ridiculous, Inspector, the banker brushed him off. You wouldn't argue that the absence of a full alibi is grounds for a murder charge.

  - Of course, Mr. Vaughn, of course the teeth did not come out of Herrmann's mouth, though, and I could only regret it. But, you see, the thing is, we've got some new witnesses.

  I confess I hiccupped at this point. Perhaps it was the Inspector's words that made such a strong impression on me, or maybe it was the breakfast that was to blame but, as the Spaniards say, what happened is what happened.

  Herrmann looked at me perplexedly, apparently expecting a sequel, but fortunately there was none.

  - You were talking about witnesses, Inspector, Heidi's voice was like the smell of coffee beans. Herrmann turned to her.

  - Two people came to see us this morning, Counselor, he said. They'd been out of town for the last ten days, so they didn't know anything about the murder that happened. They were right outside Miss Davis's bungalow that night. It was a romantic moonlight date, Herrmann companionably raised his eyebrows as if he were telling an indecent joke, and at about half past one a.m. they saw a car pull up in front of the house. There were two people sitting in it. Both witnesses assured me that they immediately recognized Amber Davis and Rowan Vaughn from the photos in the paper.

  - This can't be regarded as an official identification, I muttered.

  - Of course, we'll do all the necessary procedures, and Mr. Vaughn's lawyers including you, Counselor can see that all the rules are carefully followed," the inspector turned away from Heidi, and continued to speak into space. An hour or so later, witnesses saw Rowan Vaughn leave the lodge alone. He passed the car parked in the driveway and headed for the main road. As you can see, we have probable cause to make an arrest. So are you going to get your nephew, or are we going to have to look for him ourselves?

  The banker looked at me helplessly, and I sent him the confident smile of a man who was in control.

  - Do you have a witness who claims to have driven my client from Miss Davis's bungalow to Mr. Ruell's house? - Heidi asked.

  It was the old children's game of truth or lie. Herrmann's witnesses were lying - they could not tell the truth, for Rowan Vaughn had left Davis's bungalow, accompanied by Ruell and two of his underlings. But neither Heidi nor I could convict the crooks of lying without revealing that they themselves had spoken falsehoods.

  - We have no such witness, Herrmann answered. His smile grew a little smaller, but not because the absence of a chauffeur gave him any meaningful concern. His facial muscles were tired. But there's nothing strange about that. After all, Mr. Ruell's house isn't that far from the coast. Rowan Vaughn might have walked that distance. If he had just committed a murder, he would hardly have wanted to show up on the road. Not surprisingly, he returned on foot, wanting to think about what had happened and get some air.

  If there was any phrase I should have uttered at that moment, it didn't occur to me. Inspector Herrmann took a few more steps forward and found himself in the very center of the room, opposite the bewildered banker. They were almost the same height, and, standing side by side, gave the impression of being siblings-almost twins. It must be the way the power to control the destinies of others works, no matter whether it was a million-dollar investment or the glitter of a police badge.

  To the banker's credit, he still had the strength to do the deed: he craned his neck with a martyr look and told the butler to come over.

  - Ah, Inspector, a voice from our right made me turn around. I knew at once who it belonged to, and was now deciding whether it was good or bad.

  - Mr. Vaughn, Herrmann turned on the spot, like a traffic controller at a busy intersection. Good morning, isn't it?

  - The inspector has a warrant for your arrest, Rowan, the banker squealed. I didn't think he had time to decide if that was right or wrong, either. After his nephew had refused to transfer his share of the family stock into his uncle's name, last night - who knows, a little time at the police station would do him any harm. There, he might wise up.

  -Really? Rowan's face contorted into what he must have thought was a sardonic smile. - And you're so sure of yourself, Inspector?

  - My job is to gather evidence, Mr. Vaughn, the venom with which Herrmann imbued his words before releasing them into the atmosphere was clearly beginning to wear off. And who could accuse an honest policeman of that? I'm afraid you'll have to come with us.

  - I'm not afraid of you or your evidence, Vaughn Jr said cheerfully. You should know that I have strong evidence of my innocence.

  With these words he crossed the hall and stood beside the inspector. I thought he was quoting some scene from a film about the French Revolution.

  Herrmann said something back to him, but I wasn't listening. I had plenty of time to study his manner of expression. My concern at that moment was something else entirely what evidence was Rowan talking about? I recalled my phone conversation with Warren Vaughn this morning, in which the financier had described to me the scene of his nephew's refusal to put his life-saving signature on the documents.

  My eye
s darted to Heidi, who was having the same thought.

  - I can provide ample evidence at any moment, Rowan proclaimed, and he looked triumphantly at his entourage.

  I frowned and moved closer to him. The black-haired policeman fidgeted and hurried to the rear of his patron, fearing we might not start pushing the inspector around.

  - I have enough facts, Rowan said, but this time there was less confidence in his voice. Isn't that right, Heidi ?

  The people around me that day were clearly going to throw me off my game. I turned spectacularly toward the door through which Rowan had entered, subconsciously expecting it to open again, and a certain Heidi to come out and provide the evidence Rowan had announced. You may not believe me, but Inspector Herrmann did the same thing.

  After a few seconds I realized to whom the younger Vaughn was referring. He had called her Heidi ! Since when had there been such a close relationship between them?

  At the same moment another thought occurred to me- Rowan Vaughn was going to extract all the evidence from my inside pocket.

  Inspector Herrmann gingerly touched the sleeve of the arrestee, the latter nodded proudly and strode to the door. The black-haired policeman kept pace with his boss-they were still in the dangerous enemy territory. Heidi nodded to me, and her high heels clattered across the parquet. Warren Vaughn opened his mouth to say something, but I valiantly prevented him from doing so.

  - We'll keep you posted, I said cheerfully, and hurried out of the room with the others.

  29

  The sense of danger hasn’t left him since last night. For years he had had to mingle with people and read his death sentence behind friendly smiles. And every time, the honed instincts of a large predator told him from which side to expect a precisely aimed blow.

  But now Warren Vaughn was indecisive.

  Perhaps he was beginning to grow old. He had been subconsciously dreading it ever since the moment he began to truly grasp the depth of the responsibility his father had placed upon himself in running such a large bank. And now he was as old as his father had been then.