The Rule of Nine

by Steve Martini

  “God, Uncle Harry, gimme a minute. Let me get my purse.”

  Harry was guiding her by the arm.

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re a penny pincher?” she said.

  “Yeah, matter of fact, most of the women I’ve dated. Probably why I never got married.”

  “I can understand that,” said Sarah.

  For the moment all Harry wanted to do was put distance between themselves and the tarp-covered trailer in the parking lot behind the restaurant. If they were lucky, the driver was headed to Mexico. Then Liquida could follow it home.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I’m sorry to hear about your daughter’s friend. I don’t think I have to tell you that. I think you already know. You’re in a great deal of trouble with this Liquida.” Joselyn looks at me over the rim of her wineglass as she sips a little Chardonnay. “What exactly did you do to make him so angry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on. You can tell me,” she says. “It’s just the three of us sitting here and I’m willing to bet that Mr. Diggs already knows.”

  “If I knew I would tell you. But I don’t.”

  “Why don’t you tell me the truth?” she says. “Or else…”

  “Or else what? You’re going to get your crystal ball out, smack me in the head with it, and do another mind meld?” I say.

  “If you like. We can do that.”

  The three of us, Joselyn, Herman, and I, are seated in a dark corner of the lounge at the Brasserie in the Crowne Plaza Hotel on Century Boulevard, a stone’s throw from LAX.

  “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about the last time we met?” she says.

  “You mean before you turned white and slid under the table?” I ask.

  “Yes, before that.”

  “As I recall, you wanted to know whether I talked in my sleep?” I say.

  “And you said you didn’t know. As I recall, because there were no witnesses.”

  “Actually, it all depends.”

  “On what?” she says.

  “On the other thing we talked about.”

  “Which was?”

  “You may be clairvoyant but you have a bad memory,” I say. “The question was whether you wanted me for my mind or my body.”

  Herman is fondling the beer bottle in front of him nervously, as if he’s wandered into the middle of a conversation on birth control.

  “I’ve had some time to think about this,” I tell her.

  “Have you?” She looks at me over the glass, feline oval eyes and a sultry grin. “And what did you conclude?”

  “That if you wanted me for my mind, I’d probably put us both to sleep. But if it was my body you were after, I doubt if I’d talk.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I don’t think I’d get much sleep.”

  “Yes, but you might talk,” she says. “It would depend on how I tied you to the bed.”

  “Interesting hypothesis.”

  “Perhaps we need to conduct an experiment,” she says.

  “I take it you have a lab upstairs,” I say.

  “I do.”

  Herman clears his throat. “You guys wanna get a room, don’t let me get in the way,” he says. “I’ll just go out front, stand in the fountain for a while. Maybe light up a cigar so’s I can ask you how it was for both of you when the experiment’s over.”

  “Perhaps you should join us,” she says.

  “No, thanks,” says Herman. “I draw the line at that.”

  “You could take notes,” I tell him.

  She laughs. “I think we’ve embarrassed him,” she says. “We were joking.”

  “We were?” I give her a crestfallen look.

  “Of course. I think so. Anyway, we have business to discuss,” she says.

  “You mean that wasn’t it? Glad to hear it.” Herman, for all of his earthiness, is a prude.

  “I’m sorry about getting sick the last time,” she says. “You can imagine my shock when I saw Thorn’s face in that photograph.”

  “Now we’re down to talking points,” I tell her. “What else do you know about Thorn?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you tell us anything more about him? Did he ever say anything that might have given away where he was from? Any associates of his you might have met?”

  “You want information?” she says.

  “If you can help us, yes,” I tell her.

  “And do you mind if I ask, what are you offering in return?” she says.

  “My body,” I tell her.

  “We’re back to that. No. I mean of value,” she says. “Do you have anything of value to offer in return?”

  “That’s pretty mercenary,” I tell her. “Besides, you probably don’t have much on Thorn. Not that’s current anyway. It’s been what, ten years since you saw the man. Still, you might have something, some small item that might help us run him down.”

  “And why would you want to find Thorn?” she says.

  “He’s the key to Liquida,” says Herman.

  “I see. Thorn is in the picture with Jimmie Snyder. Jimmie is killed by Liquida. And you know that because his fingerprint is found on your card in Jimmie’s wallet. Is that right?”

  “Thumbprint,” I tell her.

  “Excuse me. His thumbprint. And of course the authorities know this because they have one of Liquida’s matching prints from an earlier crime scene in Southern California. What was the name of that case again?” She looks at me. “You remember? Your partner was just about to say the name when you stopped him.”

  “Tell you what,” I say. “You tell me everything you know about Thorn. And I’ll tell you what I know about Liquida and the earlier case. How’s that?”

  “You know what I want?” Joselyn gives me an exasperated look. “I want your testimony concerning what happened at Coronado,” she says. “Both of you. All the information you have about the nuclear device and the Russian who was killed outside the base. Agree to go public with that and I will help you in any way I can with Thorn and Liquida. That’s the price. Don’t forget, I have some very good sources of information.”

  “Can’t do it,” I tell her.

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Why, because you think the FBI, your friend Zeb Thorpe, might keep Liquida off your back?”

  “What do you know about Thorpe?” I say.

  “I know he headed up the investigation following the attack at Coronado. That he provided protection for you, your daughter, your partner, and Mr. Diggs here for the better part of three months. But it didn’t have anything to do with Liquida. All he wanted was to keep you quiet. To keep you away from the press.”

  Joselyn knows more than I thought.

  “Then what makes you think that Thorpe’s involved in any way with Liquida?”

  “Give me a break,” she says. “Liquida killed Afundi. That’s your earlier case. The one with Liquida’s matching thumbprint.”

  “Whoops,” says Herman.

  “She’s right,” I tell him. “She does have good sources.”

  “So stop lying to me,” says Joselyn. “I know everything already. It’s just that I’m not a percipient witness. Everything I have is secondhand, from reports and documents, and other sources,” she says. “I don’t have copies, but I’ve been allowed to look at them. Problem is it’s all hearsay. But you, you both saw it, the bomb and everything that happened. More than that, you can corroborate each other.”

  “We saw a device,” I tell her. “Neither of us is an expert. We can’t verify that it was nuclear.”

  “What, does it have to go off before we know this? You talked to the Russian.”

  “He didn’t speak English,” I tell her.

  “But his daughter did. And she told you it was nuclear. She knew it was. Her father was the guardian of that device. We know that. I’ve even heard him referred to as the ‘Guardian of Lies.’ He was the expert, right from the hors
e’s mouth.”

  “Sounds like she knows everything already,” says Herman. “So the only question is whether we’ll talk.”

  I look at him. “What do you think?”

  “Feds aren’t giving us anything anyway,” he says. “Of course, they might try and throw us in the slammer.”

  “Not after you go public,” says Joselyn. “They wouldn’t dare. It would look like the biggest cover-up in history, which is exactly what it is.”

  “Okay, but it depends on what you can give us in return. If the information you provide leads us to Thorn and Liquida, I’ll talk. Otherwise no.” I look at Herman.

  “That’s good by me,” he says. “Let’s hope your sources are better than Thorpe’s. They don’t seem to have squat on Liquida.” He looks at Joselyn. “Of course, if what you got is ten years old and cold as a witch’s tit it probably ain’t gonna help us much anyway.”

  “Then we have an agreement?” she says.

  “Agreed. But the information has to net Liquida,” I tell her. “If we bag Thorn in the process, great. But Liquida’s the key. If the information we develop results in his arrest and conviction…”

  “Or his death,” says Herman.

  “Or his death, then we’ll go public, in any forum, any way you want to do it.”

  “Agreed. One other thing,” she says. “Some of my sources are confidential. Not all, just some. And on those I can’t disclose their identity. Is that understood? I can assure you the information is golden.”

  I look at Herman. He nods. “Agreed,” I tell her.

  “Good. Then I have some information for you,” says Joselyn.

  “Already?” I say. “Just like that. Damn it.” I look at Herman. “She probably would have given it to us anyway. Wouldn’t you?” I put it to Joselyn.

  “I don’t know. You weren’t looking terribly pathetic today. I’m not sure. But based on what I know, Thorn is very big on planes. Which I already knew. Apparently he’s qualified to fly commercial aircraft, large jets. That I didn’t know. According to my information, over the years he’s purchased more than one plane from places called commercial boneyards. Out in the desert, here in California, Arizona, and New Mexico. I have a list of names and addresses for these.”

  “I assume this is from one of your confidential sources?” I ask.

  “No, as a matter of fact it came from Bart Snyder. I got an e-mail from him a few days ago.”

  “Where did he get it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. He just said he got it from unidentified sources.”

  “And this is your golden information?” I look at her.

  “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to find out.”

  “Maybe you could call him and find out who his sources are and whether they’re reliable before we chase all over the Southwest?” I say.

  “If you want, I can do that,” she says.

  “Why didn’t he copy us on this e-mail?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. You want me to ask him?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps it’s your demeanor,” she says.

  “What’s wrong with my demeanor?”

  “You tend to put people on the defensive. Like right now, you’re angry because you think you might have gotten this tidbit for nothing. You need to drain some of the lawyer juices.”

  “Snyder is a lawyer. So are you,” I tell her.

  “Yes, but I’ve had time to develop a soft side and shed the bristles.”

  “That’s true. You slid under the table like a slinky, in that clingy, soft sweaterdress. Certainly nobody could call that abrasive. That must be why he communicated with you. What else did he say? In the e-mail, I mean.”

  “Now you sound jealous,” she says.

  “Why would I be jealous?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Did you like the dress?”

  “Very nice.”

  “It’s up in my luggage. I packed it in case I needed it again.”

  “You wear it like a weapon, do you?”

  “Only if I need to.” She’s already searching the Web on her phone. “One of the boneyards is in Victorville, north of here. We could cover that one by car, and then book flights to Arizona and New Mexico if necessary. I have copies of the pictures of Thorn, the ones Snyder showed us. He scanned them into his computer and sent them attached to his e-mail. I printed them out.”

  “I’ve got copies in my briefcase too. I got them when he was at the office,” I tell her.

  “See, he didn’t withhold everything from you,” says Joselyn.

  “We could split up, but I don’t think we ought to fly,” says Herman. “It’d be a long drive to Arizona and New Mexico, but we’ll have to use the car.” He winks at me. We have already ditched the tracking device from my car, and Herman took care of the other two, the one from his Chevy and the one from Sarah’s VW. By now they are crisscrossing the country on the back of sixteen-wheelers, so Liquida must be getting dizzy.

  “If you and I split up, we don’t save that much time. If the place in Victorville turns out to be a dead end, whoever is headed to Arizona wouldn’t be that far ahead,” I tell him.

  “I could fly to Arizona,” says Joselyn. “Besides, why would we want to drive? It could take a week or ten days to cover all that ground.”

  “And what if you do get lucky and run into Thorn by yourself at one of these places?” I ask.

  From the look on her face, she hadn’t thought about that.

  Herman opens the flap of his jacket and shows her the butt of his pistol. “Bertha gets airsick,” he says. “And I’d rather not leave her behind.”

  “I understand,” she says.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Nine o’clock at night and Liquida was angry. He had a naturally short fuse, and Madriani and his buddies had taken nail clippers to it by sabotaging his eyes in the sky.

  Liquida knew something was wrong when all four of the devices started moving at once. He was pretty sure the girl’s Volkswagen bug was still in the garage at the house.

  Then he received word from the satellite-monitoring company that clinched it. They told him that one of his GPS tracking devices was found on the trailer of a big rig when the driver went to deliver his load in Phoenix. The trucking company wanted to know who had put it there and why. Liquida typed an e-mail back, telling them he didn’t know, that someone must have stolen it and was using it to play games. He knew that if Madriani found one of them, the others would be turning up soon.

  Faster than snot on a kid with a cold, Liquida headed for Madriani’s law office. He found the place dark and buttoned up tight, with a sign inside the glass on the front door saying CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  Obviously the lawyer, or somebody helping him, had thought this thing through. Liquida began to wonder if the FBI was involved. Maybe killing the blonde was a mistake. He should have killed the daughter and taken his chances on Madriani going to ground. The lawyer would have had to hang around at least long enough to go to his daughter’s funeral. Otherwise people would talk. Liquida could have popped an IED in the open grave. Some Simex and a detonator wired to a cell phone, one-button quick dial and they could have shoveled them all into the same hole as soon as they picked all the pieces out of the trees.

  Liquida was furious. The two lawyers, the daughter, and the investigator were gone, and now he couldn’t find anybody in the office to kill.

  He checked the windows and the doors; the office was wired, and probably monitored by a security service from a central location. Through one of the windows he could see motion detectors, at least two of them on the ceiling in the reception area. He could toss a potted plant through the window. Security would call the police and then whatever number they were given for the client. If it was Madriani or his partner, they would tell security to have the window boarded up and to reset the alarm. They might even hire security to be posted inside. If security called one of the employees, it wasn’t likely that they would show up at the of
fice, not if Madriani had sent them home and told them why. Even if Liquida could get into the office, he weighed the prospects of finding anything useful there and decided it would be better to case Madriani’s house before trying the office. What he wanted was some clue as to where they were hiding. There had to be something.

  Liquida suspected that the two lawyers didn’t get rid of the tracking devices immediately. The online data from the satellite company showed continuous travel of the two cars from the point of departure at the house for Madriani and the location in San Diego for the partner. He couldn’t be certain regarding the partner’s vehicle, but Liquida had seen Madriani and the investigator drive away from the house. The tracking data showed him going north on I-5. The first time the vehicle stopped was a few miles south of Santa Ana. According to the tracking data, the vehicle was still traveling north on I-5, but was now somewhere near Medford, in Oregon. It was probably on the back of a truck. Liquida was guessing that they dumped the tracker at their first stop. And they could have been going north, just to throw him off. But there was a chance that if Madriani was going north, his destination was in that direction.

  The other tracker was more problematic. Assuming it was still on the partner’s vehicle when it left San Diego, the partner and Madriani’s daughter were headed east. They took I-8 and didn’t make any stops for more than a hundred miles, until they reached El Centro. That would be a long way to go just to throw somebody off your track.

  By the time Liquida reached Madriani’s house, it was almost ten o’clock. He parked his car down the block in front of the same old For Sale sign. The place was beginning to feel like home. He grabbed a small black day pack from the backseat, stepped out, and closed the car door. He didn’t lock it in case he had to beat a hasty retreat. Then he casually strolled across the street and down the sidewalk. The neighborhood was dark except for interior house lights and the blue haze from a couple of television sets. Liquida reached into the bag and pulled out a black ski hood and a pair of gloves. By the time he arrived in front of the house, a half block down, he had the gloves on his hands and the hood rolled up on top of his head like a hat. He looked for security cameras, the big ones that cities sometimes mount on lampposts. He didn’t see any. He walked slowly up the driveway toward the backyard, no furtive moves, very calm and deliberate, as if he owned the place. At the same time he rolled the hood down over his face and head. He checked the neighbor’s windows to make sure nobody was looking out, and then stopped for a moment to glance toward the front porch. He was looking for any small security cameras that might be tucked up under the porch roof, not that he could see them even if they were there. Some of the new cameras were not much bigger than an eraser on the end of a pencil. He wanted to flash his little pen-size Maglite up under the eaves for a better look, but the bright beam might draw attention.