Blood Hunt

by Jack Harvey

  “Mr. Allerdyce,” he said, “I think you’d better get dressed.”

  They went to the old man’s bedroom. It was the smallest room Reeve had seen so far, smaller even than the bathroom which adjoined it.

  “You’re a sad old bastard really, aren’t you?” Reeve was talking to himself, but Allerdyce heard a question.

  “I never consider sadness,” he said. “Nor loneliness. Keep them out of your vocabulary and you keep them out of your heart.”

  “What about love?”

  “Love? I loved as a young man. It was very time-consuming and not very productive.”

  Reeve smiled. “No need to bother with a tie, Mr. Allerdyce.”

  Allerdyce hung the tie back up.

  “How do the gates open?”

  “Electronically.”

  “We’re walking out of the gates. Do we need a remote?”

  “There’s one in the drawer downstairs.”

  “Where downstairs?”

  “The Chinese table near the front door. In a drawer.”

  “Fine. Tie your shoelaces.”

  Allerdyce was like a child. He sat on the bed and worked on the laces of his five-hundred-dollar shoes.

  “Okay? Let me look at you. You look fine, let’s go.”

  True to his word, Duhart had come back. The car was parked outside, blocking the gates. His jaw dropped when he saw the gates open and Reeve come walking out, dressed like something from a Rambo film, with Jeffrey Allerdyce following at his heels.

  “Get in the back, Mr. Allerdyce,” Reeve ordered.

  “Jesus Christ, Reeve! You can’t kidnap him! What the fuck is this?”

  Reeve got into the passenger seat. “I’ve not kidnapped him. Mr. Allerdyce, will you please tell my friend that you’ve come with me of your own volition.”

  “Own volition,” Allerdyce mumbled.

  Duhart still looked like a man in the middle of a particularly bad dream. “What the fuck is he on, man?”

  “Just drive,” said Reeve.

  Reeve cleaned up a bit in the car. They went to Duhart’s apartment, where he cleaned up some more and put on fresh clothes. Allerdyce sat on a chair in a living room probably smaller and less tidy than anywhere he’d ever been in his adult life. Duhart wasn’t comfortable with any of this: here was his idol, his god, sitting in his goddamned apartment-and Reeve kept swearing Allerdyce wouldn’t remember any of it.

  “Just go get the stuff,” Reeve said.

  Duhart giggled nervously, rubbed his hands over his face.

  “Just go get the stuff.” Reeve was beginning to wish he’d given Duhart a dose of birdy, too.

  “Okay,” Duhart said at last, but he turned at the door and had another look at the scene within: Reeve in his tourist duds, and old man Allerdyce just sitting there, hands on knees, like a ventriloquist’s dummy waiting for the hand up the back.

  While Duhart was away, Reeve asked Allerdyce a few more questions, and tried to work out where they went from here, or rather, how they went from here. Allerdyce wouldn’t remember anything, but the two guards would. Then there was the corpse of the dog to explain. Reeve didn’t reckon Mr. Blue Öyster Cult had heard much, if anything, of his short dialogue with Allerdyce. So all they’d know was that there’d been an intruder-an intruder who’d fucked with Allerdyce’s mind. They’d be wondering what else he’d fucked with.

  Duhart was back within the hour, carrying a shoe box. Reeve opened it. Smothered in cotton wool, like a schoolboy’s collection of bird eggs, were listening devices of various shapes, sizes, and ranges.

  “They all work?”

  “Last time I used them,” Duhart said.

  Reeve rooted to the base of the shoe box. “Have you got the recorders to go with these?”

  “In the car,” Duhart said. “So what about Dulwater?”

  “I want you to keep tabs on him.”

  Duhart shook his head. “What am I into here?”

  “Eddie, by the time you’ve finished, you’ll have so much dirt on our pal here he’ll have to give you a senior partnership. Swear to God.”

  “God, huh?” Duhart said, staring at Allerdyce.

  Duhart brought his car to a stop beside the entry / exit ramp of the Alliance Investigative building. Reeve told Eddie Duhart to stay in the car, but not to leave the engine idling. They didn’t want him stopped by nosy cops. It was four in the morning: he’d have some explaining to do.

  “Can’t I come with you? Man, I never been in there.”

  “You want to be the star of Candid Camera, Eddie?” Reeve turned in the passenger seat. Allerdyce sat so quietly in the back it was easy to forget him. “Mr. Allerdyce, does your building have security cameras?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Reeve turned back to Duhart. “I don’t mind them seeing me; Allerdyce is already going to have a grudge against me. Do you want him to have a grudge against you, Eddie?”

  “No,” Duhart said sullenly.

  “Well, okay,” said Reeve, picking up his large plastic carrier bag and getting out of the car. He opened the back door for Allerdyce.

  “Which way would you usually go in?”

  “Through the garage and up the elevator.”

  “Can you open the garage?”

  Allerdyce reached into his coat and produced a chain of about a dozen keys.

  “Let’s do it,” Reeve said.

  He briefed Allerdyce as they walked the few steps to the garage entrance. “I’m a friend, in from England, if anybody asks. We’ve been up drinking half the night, tried but couldn’t sleep. I asked you to show me the offices. If anyone asks.”

  Allerdyce repeated all this.

  “The only guard is in the lobby,” Allerdyce said, “and he’s used to me coming in at all hours. I prefer the building when it’s empty; I don’t like my staff.”

  “I’m sure the feeling’s mutual. Shall we?”

  They stood in front of the garage’s roller door. There was a concrete post to one side with an intercom, a slot for entry cards, and a keyhole to override everything. Allerdyce turned the key, and the door clattered open. They walked down the slope into the Alliance Investigative building.

  Allerdyce was right: there was no guard down here, but there were security cameras. Reeve put an arm around Allerdyce and laughed at some joke the old man had just told him.

  “The cameras,” he said, “are the screens up in the lobby?”

  “Yes,” Allerdyce said. Reeve grinned again for the cameras. “And do they just show or do they record as well?”

  “They record.”

  Reeve didn’t like that. When the elevator arrived and they got in, Allerdyce slotted another key home.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Executive levels. There are two of them-offices and penthouse. You need a key to access them.”

  “Okay,” Reeve said as the doors slid closed.

  Reeve guessed the security man would be watching the elevator lights. At the second story from the top, the elevator opened and they got out. Allerdyce’s office door was locked by a keypad. He pushed in four digits and opened it.

  Reeve got to work. There were no security cameras up here-the senior partners obviously didn’t like to be spied on. Reeve placed one bug inside the telephone apparatus and taped another to the underside of the desk. The phone rang suddenly, causing him to jump. He answered it. It was the front desk.

  “Good evening,” Reeve said, drawing out each word, like he’d had a few.

  “Mr. Allerdyce there?” the man asked, pleasant but suspicious, too.

  “Would you like to speak to him? Jeffrey, there’s a man here wants to speak to you.”

  Allerdyce took the phone. “Yes?” he said. He listened, Reeve listening right beside him. “No, it’s just an old friend. We’ve been drinking, couldn’t sleep. I’m showing him around.” A pause to listen. “Yes, I know you have to check. It’s what I pay you for. No trouble, good night.”

  Reeve took the receiver and
put it back in its cradle.

  “Nice one, Jeffrey,” he said.

  “These security men,” Allerdyce said, yawning. “I pay them too much. They sit on their asses all night and call it working.”

  “We’re finished in here,” Reeve said. Then he saw the headed letter paper on the desk. “No, wait-sit down, Mr. Allerdyce. I want you to write something. Will you do that?” He lifted a pen and handed it to Allerdyce, then placed a sheet of the elegant paper in front of him. “Just write what I tell you: ”I invited Mr. Gordon Reeve to my home and took him on a tour of my business premises. I did these things of my own free will and under no restraint or coercion.“ That’s all, just sign it and date it.”

  Reeve plucked the paper from him and folded it in four. It wasn’t much-he wasn’t even sure it qualified as insurance-but if the cops ever did come asking, at least he could make things a bit sticky for Allerdyce…

  They took the elevator down a couple of floors to where Alfred Dulwater shared an office. The door was locked, but Allerdyce had a key for it.

  “Do you have keys to all the offices?” Reeve asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you ever come here at night and rifle everyone’s drawers?”

  “Not everyone’s.”

  “Jesus, no wonder you’re a PI.”

  Reeve opened his bag, took out the shoe box and tool kit, and got to work again. Another bug in the telephone, another under Dulwater’s desk, and one for good measure under his colleague’s desk. There was nothing in the room about either James or Gordon Reeve, nothing about Kosigin or CWC, which was what he’d expected. Like Allerdyce had said, Dulwater reported directly to him. As little in writing as possible.

  They started downstairs again. Reeve had another idea. He told Allerdyce what to do, and then pressed the button for the lobby. The two of them marched up to the front desk. The guard there stood up and straightened his clothes; he was obviously in awe of Allerdyce. Allerdyce went to say something, but yawned mightily instead.

  “Late night?” the guard said with a smile. Reeve shrugged blearily.

  “Donald,” Allerdyce said, “I’d like the video of tonight.”

  “The recording, sir?”

  “Alan here has never seen himself on TV.”

  The guard looked to “Alan.” Reeve shrugged again and beamed at him. Allerdyce was holding out his hand. “If you please, Donald?”

  The guard unlocked a door behind him, which led to a windowless room with nothing but screens and banks of video recorders. The man ejected a tape, put in a fresh one, and came back out, locking the door after him.

  “Thank you, Donald,” Allerdyce said.

  Reeve dropped the cassette into his bag. “Thanks, Donald,” he echoed.

  As they walked back towards the elevator, he heard the guard mutter: “The name’s Duane…”

  Outside, Duhart was waiting for them.

  “Any trouble?” Reeve asked.

  “No. You?”

  Reeve shook his head. “I just hope those bugs are working.”

  Duhart smiled and held up a cassette player. He punched the Play button.

  “Good evening.” It was Reeve’s own voice, tinny but clear.

  “Mr. Allerdyce there?”

  “Would you like to speak to him? Jeffrey…”

  Reeve smiled an honest smile at Duhart, who began laughing.

  “I can’t believe we just did it,” he said at last, wiping tears from his eyes. “I can’t believe we just bugged the buggers!”

  Reeve shook the shoe box. “There are a few left.” He turned to the backseat. “Let’s take Mr. Allerdyce home…”

  They were aware, of course, that the Alliance building was swept top to bottom for bugs quite regularly. They were aware because Mr. Allerdyce told them so in answer to a question. The last debugging had been a week ago. The building would be swept again, of course, if Allerdyce discovered he’d paid this middle-of-the-night visit to his offices-but that would depend on the guard mentioning the visit. Allerdyce himself wouldn’t remember a damned thing about it, wouldn’t even know he’d left his own house. And the night-duty guard, Duane, might not mention the incident to anyone. It wasn’t like it was going to be public knowledge around Alliance that Jeffrey Allerdyce had been drugged and used in this way.

  No, Allerdyce wouldn’t want anyone to know about that.

  Reeve didn’t want either of the guards at Allerdyce’s home to see Duhart, but at the same time they couldn’t leave the car outside for too long. A private police patrol cruised the vicinity once an hour, so Allerdyce said, so they took the car in through the gates and up the gravel drive. Duhart came with them into the house, and Reeve warned him not to go into one particular room downstairs, not to say anything, and not to leave his fingerprints. Duhart made the sign of zipping his lips.

  They took Allerdyce upstairs to his bedroom.

  “Mr. Allerdyce,” Reeve said, “I think you must be exhausted. Get undressed and put your pajamas back on. Go to bed. Sleep well.”

  They closed the bedroom door after them and went to the office, which Reeve unlocked. Inside, they bugged the telephone, the underside of the desk, the underside of the photocopier, and the leg of the sofa.

  Downstairs, they bugged the other telephones but none of the rooms-they’d run out of bugs. They got back into the car and started down the driveway.

  “What the hell is that?” Duhart gasped.

  It was a dog, its mouth, front and back legs taped, jerking across the lawn towards the driveway.

  Reeve pushed the button on the remote and the gates swung silently inwards. After they’d driven out, he used the remote to close the gates, then rolled down his window and tossed the thing high over the stone wall.

  He hoped it would miss the dog.

  PART SEVEN. CONFESSIONAL

  EIGHTEEN

  REEVE DIDN’T HANG AROUND for the aftershock.

  He flew out to Los Angeles that morning, grabbed a cab at the airport, and told the driver he wanted a cheap rental service.

  “Cheapest I know is Dedman’s Auto,” the cabbie declared, enjoying showing off his knowledge. “The cars are okay-no stretch limos or nothing like that, just clean sedans.”

  “Dead man’s?”

  The cabbie spelled it for him. “That’s why he keeps his rates so low. It’s not the sort of name would leap out at you from Yellow Pages.” He chuckled. “Christ knows, with a name like that would you go into car rental?”

  Reeve was studying the cabbie’s ID on the dashboard. “I guess not, Mr. Plotnik.”

  It turned out that Marcus Aurelius Dedman, the blackest man Reeve had ever seen, operated an auto-wrecking business, and car rental was just a sideline.

  “See, mister,” he said, “I’ll be honest with you. The cars I get in here ain’t always so wrecked. I spend a lot of time and money on them, get them fit for battle again. I hate to sell a car I’ve put heart and soul into, so I rent them instead.”

  “And if the client wrecks them, they come straight back for hospitalization?”

  Dedman laughed a deep, gurgling laugh. He was about six feet four and carried himself as upright as a fence post. His short hair had been painstakingly uncurled and lay flat against his head like a Cab Calloway toupee. Reeve reckoned him to be in his early fifties. He had half a dozen black kids ripping cars apart for him, hauling out the innards.

  “Nobody strips a vehicle quite like a kid from the projects,” Dedman said. “Damned clever mechanics, too. Here’s the current options.” He waved a basketball player’s arm along a line of a dozen dusty specimens, any of which would be perfect for Reeve’s needs. He wanted a plain car, a car that wouldn’t stand out from the crowd. These cars had their scars and war wounds-a chipped windshield here, a missing fender there, a rusty line showing where a strip of chrome had been torn off the side doors, a sill patched with mastic and resprayed.

  “Take your pick,” Dedman said. “All one price.”

  Reeve s
ettled for a two-door Dodge Dart with foam-rubber suspension. It was dull green, the metallic sheen sanded away through time. Dedman showed him the engine (“reliable runner”), the interior (“bench seat’ll come in handy at Lover’s Point”), and the trunk. Reeve nodded throughout. Eventually, they went to Dedman’s office to clinch the deal. Reeve got the feeling Dedman didn’t want the project kids, no matter what their mechanical skills, to see any money changing hands. Maybe it would give them ideas.

  The office was in a ramshackle cinder-block building, but surprised Reeve by being immaculately clean, bright, air-conditioned, and high-tech. There was a large black leather director’s chair behind the new-looking desk. Dedman draped a sheet over the chair before sitting, so as not to dirty the leather with his overalls. There was a computer on the desk with a minitower hard disk drive. Elsewhere Reeve glimpsed a fax and answering machine, a large photocopier, a portable color TV, even a hot drinks machine.

  “Grab a coffee if you want one,” Dedman said. Reeve pushed two quarters into the machine and watched it deliver a brown plastic cup of brown plastic liquid. He looked around the office again. It had no windows; all the light was electrical. The door, too, was solid metal.

  “I see why you keep it padlocked,” Reeve said. Dedman had undone three padlocks, each one barring a thick steel bolt, to allow them into the office.

  Dedman shook his head. “It’s not to stop the kids seeing what’s in here, if that’s what you’re thinking. Hell, it’s the kids who bring me all this stuff. They get it from their older brothers. What am I supposed to do with a computer or a facsimile?” Dedman shook his head again. “Only they’d be hurt if I didn’t look like I appreciated their efforts.”

  Reeve sat down and put the cup on the floor, not daring to sully the surface of the desk. He reached into his pocket for a roll of dollars. “I’m assuming you don’t take credit cards,” he said.

  “Your assumption is correct. Now, there’s no paperwork, okay? I don’t like that shit.” Dedman wrote something on a sheet of paper. “This is my name, the address here, and the telephone number. Anyone stops you, the cops or anybody, or if you’re in a crash, the story is you borrowed the car from me with my blessing.”