Booked to die cj-1

by John Dunning

  He had been home, then, for some time.

  I didn’t know what to expect: I just hoped I was ready for it. I had my gun in my hand with my jacket folded over it. Now I had to walk across thirty yards of open space to reach the house. The windows were dark: any of them were perfect hiding places for a sniper. I took a breath and went: walked up to the front door just like the Fuller brush man. There, I flattened against the wall and listened. The house sounded exactly like it had the last time I had been here, nine hours ago: in other words, there was no sound at all. I started around it, stopping at every window. I peered down the hall and saw nothing. Moved on to the next window. Kitchen. No help. A ray of sunshine was starting to peek through the clouds. It cast a beam almost like a rainbow through the kitchen window. I eased my way to the back of the house. Turned the corner. The next window looked into his den, and there he was, sitting at the desk, his back to the window. He wasn’t doing anything. I thought maybe he was asleep: that’s how still he was. But suddenly he moved: dropped his feet, fumbled, lit a cigarette. He sat there smoking and I stood outside, not two feet from the back of his head, wondering what to do next.

  There were really only two choices. I decided to play it straight. I walked around the house, went to the front door, and rang the bell.

  I heard him coming immediately.

  He jerked open the door and started to say, “It’s about fuckin‘ time.” He got most of it out before he realized that it wasn’t about time at all.

  “Who the hell’re you?”

  “Detective Janeway. I talked to you at your uncle’s house, remember?”

  “Yeah, sure. What’re you doing here? Hell, it’s only eight o’clock.”

  “Let me in and I’ll tell you.”

  “Look, I’m expecting somebody. I don’t have much time.”

  “That’s okay, I won’t take much.”

  Reluctantly he moved away from the door. I went in, keeping the gun handy under the jacket. You never knew what might happen with people.

  We went into the living room. It looked vaguely like a place I’d seen before. He asked if I wanted some coffee. I wanted some badly, but I said no. One of my rules is to never eat or drink with people who might want to kill me.

  He didn’t look the part somehow: he was dressed well, in dry clothes: his hair was combed, and in fact he looked bushy-brained and sharp, like a lawyer about to go into court for a big case. He must’ve been sizing me up too. “You look like you’ve been through a war,” he said.

  “I have.”

  “I’ll bet it’s interesting as hell, but like I said, I’m expecting company. What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me what you know about your uncle’s books.”

  He was a lousy liar. He looked away and tried to shrug it off. “What’s there to tell? We went all through this.”

  “We went through something but it wasn’t this. Look, you’ve got things to do and so do I. D’you want to tell me about it, or shall we wait till Mr. Rubicoff gets here and we can all go through it together?”

  It was a sucker punch and he almost fell off his chair from the force of it.

  “Why don’t you get the hell outta here right now?”

  “Fine. It’s your house. But I’ll be back, and I’ll tell you something, Ballard. You’re gonna have to be a lot better lawyer than I think you are to get yourself out of this mess.”

  I got up to leave.

  “What mess? What’re you talking about?”

  “Oh, I think you know. Let’s not waste time with this.”

  “Wait a minute. There’s no sense being mean about it. We can get along. I mean, can’t we get along?”

  “I can.”

  “Sit down.”

  I eased myself down into the chair.

  “How’d you know about Rubicoff?” he said.

  “I’ve got ways. Sometimes they’re slow and ponderous but I usually find out in the end. For instance, I know about Rubicoff but I don’t know everything. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  We were fencing. This could go on forever. I groped for the words to break us out of it.

  “Let’s pretend I don’t know anything; I’ll like it better that way. You tell me who Rubicoff is and how you got mixed up with him.”

  “He’s a dick I hired.”

  “Keep going. What’s it got to do with the books?”

  “I hired him to help me find the sons of bitches.”

  “Let me get this straight. First you all but give the books away. Now you hire a guy to help you get ‘em back.”

  “I didn’t know then what I know now.”

  “Which is what?”

  “They’re worth a fortune, that’s what. And they’re still mine, pal, make no mistake about that.”

  “You sold ‘em. You signed a bill of sale.”

  “Doesn’t matter what the hell I signed: that deal was done on a fraudulent premise. The guy knew something I couldn’t be expected to know. You just let me find those babies, we’ll see who winds up owning them in a court of law.”

  “How’d you find out about them?”

  “About three weeks ago, a guy came and told me.”

  “Uh-huh. A guy named Peter Bonnema.”

  “I didn’t know his name then; didn’t know anything about him. I got a call out of the blue. The guy said I’d given away a fortune and he knew where the stuff was. He had some of it himself, and if I wanted it all back I’d meet him in a cafe on East Colfax at nine that night.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He didn’t show up. I waited till ten. I don’t know what there was about it…something told me it was for real. Then when he didn’t show I said screw it, some silly bastard wasting my time. But he called me back the next day. I started to hang up on him, but there was something about it…I don’t know which end is up when it comes to books, and I couldn’t care less, but I knew there was something to it. Sometimes you just have a hunch.”

  I nodded.

  “So at nine o’clock that night I’m in the same skuzzy cafe, and this time the guy comes in and sits down at my table. He was a goddamn bum, a tramp, for Christ’s sake. I almost got up and walked out. Then he opens this box and takes out a book. It looks like any other book to me. Who gives a damn about a stupid book? But the guy says, ‘Look at this,’ and he takes out a little booklet, a catalog from some book dealer in Boston. ‘Look at this,’ he says, and he shows me in the catalog what the asking price is for a copy of the book he’s holding. Six hundred mazumas, buddy! I damn near lost my supper. One fuckin‘ book, six hundred big ones. Then he takes out another book and another catalog. Three-fifty. Do I need to tell you that by now he’s got my attention?”

  “What did you do?”

  “Asked what he wanted. He wanted one-third, a three-way split. I guess he’d done his homework. Anyway, he knew there was that third party involved.”

  “Your sister.”

  He waved that off with an impatient grimace. “Let’s just say that the guy knew what was involved. Before he’d tell me what happened to the books, I’d have to draw up an agreement and have it signed by…you know. Then I’d have to sign it myself and we’d have to have it notarized. I didn’t care. The damn thing wouldn’t be worth the paper it’s written on. Anybody could break a document like that when it’s based on blackmail or fraud. So I said sure, I’d have it all drawn up, nice and goddamn legal. He’s playing in my ballpark now. You don’t sheist the shysters, Janeway, and I’m not nearly as bad a lawyer as you think I am. You bet I’d sign it. We’d see what happened later, in court.”

  “But then the guy got killed.”

  “Yeah. I knew I was onto something then.”

  “So you hired the gumshoe.”

  “That’s right, and a lot of good it’s done me so far.”

  “What’s he been doing?”

  “Nothing exciting, you can bet on that. He can’t find his ass with both hands, if you
want my opinion.”

  “Where’d you go last night, Ballard?” I said suddenly.

  “How’d you know I went anywhere?”

  “Tried calling you a couple of times.”

  “I went driving around. I couldn’t get ahold of Rubicoff. I called his office, called his house—I did everything but go through City Hall, and I couldn’t get anything but that friggin‘ answering service. I’m paying this guy more money than a lawyer makes, and I can’t get him on the phone. Then I finally did get him and he couldn’t see me. I couldn’t believe it. He’s got another case he’s working on, and that pissed me off. He’s gonna be out of town all day today, can you beat that? A whole goddamn day I’m losing while this keyhole-peeper is chasing down another guy’s wife in Santa Fe. He says all he can do for me is see me for a few minutes this morning on his way to the airport. Can you believe that? Eight hundred dollars I’ve paid that clown, and maybe he can squeeze me in at eight o’clock on his way to catch a plane for somebody else.”

  “So you went driving around…”

  “Yeah. No place special, just workin‘ off steam. What’s the big deal?”

  “Maybe nothing. I wanted to talk to you about your uncle’s house.”

  “What about it?”

  “I may be interested in buying it.”

  “You’re kidding.” Suddenly he was a pussycat.

  “I’m not kidding, but I don’t have a helluva lot of money to throw around.”

  “You won’t need a lot for my half.”

  “That’s what Ms. Davis said. It may be the only thing you two have ever agreed on.”

  “What’s your offer?”

  I shrugged an apology. “Fifty.”

  “I’ll get the papers drawn up this weekend. I want to be done with it.”

  “That’s fine,” I said pleasantly. I asked if the house had had a recent appraisal done, if it had been inspected for termites, if there’d been any plumbing problems. I chatted and blabbed, went through all the stalling tactics I could muster, and a few minutes later Rubicoff arrived. W?e heard his car pull into the yard and the door slam. Ballard’s kettle boiled over again. “Just watch what the son of a bitch says!” he shouted. “He won’t have time to talk, he’ll be in a hurry now ‘cause he’s late for his flight. Eight hundred I pay this jerk and this is what I get.”

  He went to the door and threw it open. Footsteps came up the walk. I moved slowly forward, the gun still under my jacket. I saw a shadow pass the window.

  Their voices blended. Rubicoff was saying he was sorry, he’d get back on the case in a day or two but right now all he had was a few minutes. Ballard shouted him down. “As far as I’m concerned, pal, you can fuckin‘ stay in Santa Fe! Gimme my money back, you goddamn crook!”

  There was a scuffle: Ballard had thrown a punch. It couldn’t be much of one because two seconds later he was flat on the floor. The guy had decked him without breaking stride. I walked around Ballard, who was struggling to sit up, and I stared into the face of the dick known as Rubicoff.

  No turtle face. No flaring nostrils. He was short and bald. He looked like anything but a private detective who had just put his client down for the count.

  “You want some too?”

  “Not me, bud,” I said. “I’m just the lady from the welcome wagon.”

  I eased my way past, went down the road, and got in my car.

  49

  Rita came out of the restaurant carrying a newspaper and a steaming bag of goodies. “Well,” she said, “I don’t see any murderer shackled in the back seat.”

  “Don’t push me, McKinley. Get in.”

  I headed north toward Denver, up Santa Fe Drive into the heart of the rush hour. She had brought me a king-size cup of coffee and a sweet roll loaded with cinnamon and sugar. She fed it to me while I drove, in tiny morsels between sips of coffee.

  “This stuff will kill you,” she said. “It’s probably half and half, cholesterol and cancer-causing preservatives. You can have mine too if you want it.”

  “Thanks but no thanks. One dose of death’s enough for a morning.”

  She ate the second roll herself.

  We were in heavy traffic, halfway to Denver, when she opened the newspaper. “Interesting item this morning. Your friend Mr. Newton got himself chopped up. I see you were the main witness, as usual. How come you don’t tell me the interesting stuff in your life?”

  “You get too excited. Read it to me while I drive.”

  “Sure.” She folded the paper over and read.

  Nothing I didn’t know, except that Crowell still hadn’t talked to police and Newton was listed as serious but expected to make it. Jackie’s altercations with police, including his continuing troubles with me, were summarized at the end.

  I thought of Barbara with a flash of guilt.

  “I guess it proves something,” I said. “You can drive anybody to murder.”

  “It proves something else,” Rita said. “Murphy’s law.”

  “Which one?”

  “Time wounds all heels.”

  Ruby lived on Capitol Hill, in the 1300 block of Humboldt. I parked out front on the street, and told Rita to stay put.

  The apartment was on the third floor. Ruby’s face was still full of sleep as he opened the door. “Who the hell’s this? Dr. J?” He was in that early-morning fog common to nighthawks, trying valiantly to jump-start his heart with a third cup of coffee. He waved me to a chair, handed me a coffee cup, nodded to the pot simmering on the stove, and disappeared into the John. I heard water splashing and a moment later the toilet flushed. I poured myself a cup, looked around, and sat in the chair. It was a neat place, which surprised me. I could see back into the bedroom, which was also neat except for the unmade bed. It was a plain apartment, almost stark, with high ceilings and old-fashioned radiator steam heating. There were framed nudes on the walls, four lovely Weston prints that added to the bare landscape. I liked it: could’ve lived there myself.

  Ruby came out, fastening his shirt. He still looked foggy, disjointed. He sat and sipped his coffee and only gradually seemed to remember that he had company.

  “What’s goin‘ on? What’re you doin’ out here this time o‘ day?”

  “How long’s it take you to wake up?”

  “Hour… two. I don’t get started till the day’s half gone. Gotta open the damn store this week. Neff’s supposed to be opening, but he still don’t feel good. I think he wants to stay away from there, if you ask me. This thing’s got him scared plenty. Want some coffee?”

  “Got some.”

  “Oh.”

  I leaned toward him, the cup clasped in my hands, warming them. “I want to ask you a few more questions.”

  At that point I had only one essential question. But an idea had begun forming in my mind.

  “Tell me about those books again, Ruby.”

  “What books?”

  “The ones Neff bought in Broomfield the day Peter and Pinky were killed.”

  “Like what more do you want to know?”

  “It was a woman, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Lady moving out of town.”

  “Did you talk to this woman?”

  “On the phone, sure.”

  “Recognize her voice?”

  “Why should I? I never met the lady.”

  “Did her voice sound like anybody you might know?”

  “Jeez, I can’t remember. I wasn’t thinking in that context. She was just a voice on the phone.”

  “How much did the buy cost you?”

  “Fifteen hundred. And if you think that wasn’t a bitch to get up on the spur of the moment…”

  “How did you get it up?”

  “Well, there’s still a guy or two who’ll loan me money. We wholesaled a few items. Neff borrowed the rest.”

  “How much did each of you borrow?”

  “All’s I could get was a couple of bills. We wholesaled a couple of books for three. Neff had to come up with a grand.”
/>   “Where’d he get the grand?”

  “Hell, he’s got his friends, I’ve got mine.”

  “How’d you hear about this woman in the first place?”

  “She called us cold. Saw our name in the phone book.”

  “When was this?”

  “That same morning.”

  “So you must’ve put the deal together in an hour or two.”

  “We had to, else the books be gone. You know how it is when you get a crack at this kinda stuff. You gotta move now.”

  “How’d you know the stuff was good?”

  “Sometimes you can just tell, Dr. J. What do we have to lose driving up there? The lady seemed to know her books. I mean, she knew ‘em inside, outside, six ways from Sunday. None of this chickenshit ’what’ll you give me‘ stuff. She reads off the titles and says what she wants, and she gives us plenty of room to make out on the deal. She knew exactly what she was doing. When you get somebody who talks to you like that, you’ve got to assume she’s got what she says. If she don’t, you bring your money back home.”

  “So you had the deal done by when?”

  “We had the money together by, oh… two o’clock.”

  “Then what happened? Did you call her back?”

  “She wouldn’t give us a number: said she’d already turned off her phone and she’d have to call us.”

  “Which she did.”

  “Yeah, just a few minutes after we got the dough together. She calls up and says she’ll meet us in Broomfield at three.”

  “That’s when she talked to you?”

  “Yeah, just for a minute. I answered the phone. But most of her dealing was with Neff.”

  “When you answered the phone, she asked to speak to him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And they agreed to meet… and Neff went right after that.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He left around what… two-thirty?”

  “I guess it was around then.”

  “And got back around five.”

  “Yeah. The deal took no time at all. The woman had just what she said, and it was all top-grade primo stuff. All Neff had to do was look at the stuff and hand her the dough, then drive back here.”