Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  Mitch relaxed. The meter ticked slowly.

  “Is that her?” asked the driver.

  “Yes.”

  “What now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, we found her, didn’t we?”

  Mitch followed her movements and said nothing. She poured coffee for a man sitting alone. He said something, and she smiled. A wonderful, gracious smile. A smile he had seen a thousand times in the darkness staring at the ceiling. His mother’s smile.

  A light mist began to fall and the intermittent wipers cleaned the windshield every ten seconds. It was almost midnight, Christmas Day.

  The driver tapped the wheel nervously and fidgeted. He sank lower in the seat, then changed stations. “How long we gonna sit here?”

  “Not long.”

  “Man, this is weird.”

  “You’ll be paid.”

  “Man, money ain’t everything. It’s Christmas. I got kids at home, kinfolks visiting, turkey and wine to finish off, and here I am sitting at the Waffle Hut so you can look at some old woman through the window.”

  “It’s my mother.”

  “Your what!”

  “You heard me.”

  “Man, oh man. I get all kinds.”

  “Just shut up, okay?”

  “Okay. Ain’t you gonna talk to her? I mean it’s Christmas, and you found your momma. You gotta go see her, don’t you?”

  “No. Not now.”

  Mitch sat back in the seat and looked at the dark beach across the highway. “Let’s go.”

  At daybreak, he dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, no socks or shoes, and took Hearsay for a walk on the beach. They walked east, toward the first glow of orange peeking above the horizon. The waves broke gently thirty yards out and rolled quietly onto shore. The sand was cool and wet. The sky was clear and full of seagulls talking incessantly among themselves. Hearsay ran boldly into the sea, then retreated furiously when the next wave of white foam approached. For a house dog, the endless stretch of sand and water demanded exploration. He ran a hundred yards ahead of Mitch.

  After two miles they approached a pier, a large concrete structure running two hundred feet from the beach into the ocean. Hearsay, fearless now, darted onto it and ran to a bucket of bait next to two men standing motionless and staring down at the water. Mitch walked behind them, to the end of the pier, where a dozen fishermen talked occasionally to each other and waited for their lines to jump. The dog rubbed himself on Mitch’s leg and grew still. A brilliant return of the sun was in progress, and for miles the water glistened and turned from black to green.

  Mitch leaned on the railing and shivered in the cool wind. His bare feet were frozen and gritty. For miles along the beach in both directions, the hotels and condos sat quietly and waited for the day. There was no one on the beach. Another pier jutted into the water miles away.

  The fishermen spoke with the sharp, precise words of those from the North. Mitch listened long enough to learn the fish were not biting. He studied the sea. Looking southeast, he thought of the Caymans, and Abanks. And the girl for a moment, then she was gone. He would return to the islands in March, for a vacation with his wife. Damn the girl. Surely he would not see her. He would dive with Abanks and cultivate a friendship. They would drink Heineken and Red Stripe at his bar and talk of Hodge and Kozinski. He would follow whoever was following him. Now that Abby was an accomplice, she would assist him.

  _____________

  The man waited in the dark beside the Lincoln Town Car. He nervously checked his watch and glanced at the dimly lit sidewalk that disappeared in front of the building. On the second floor a light was turned off. A minute later, the private eye walked from the building toward the car. The man walked up to him.

  “Are you Eddie Lomax?” he asked anxiously.

  Lomax slowed, then stopped. They were face-to-face. “Yeah. Who are you?”

  The man kept his hands in his pockets. It was cold and damp, and he was shaking. “Al Kilbury. I need some help, Mr. Lomax. Real bad. I’ll pay you right now in cash, whatever you want. Just help me.”

  “It’s late, pal.”

  “Please. I’ve got the money. Name the price. You gotta help, Mr. Lomax.” He pulled a roll of cash from his left pants pocket and stood ready to count.

  Lomax looked at the money, then glanced over his shoulder. “What’s the problem?”

  “My wife. In an hour she’s supposed to meet a man at a motel in South Memphis. I’ve got the room number and all. I just need you to go with me and take pictures of them coming and going.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Phone taps. She works with the man, and I’ve been suspicious. I’m a wealthy man, Mr. Lomax, and it’s imperative I win the divorce. I’ll pay you a thousand in cash now.” He quickly peeled off ten bills and offered them.

  Lomax took the money. “Okay. Let me get my camera.”

  “Please hurry. Everything’s in cash, okay? No records.”

  “Suits me,” said Lomax as he walked toward the building.

  Twenty minutes later, the Lincoln rolled slowly through the crowded parking lot of a Days Inn. Kilbury pointed to a second-floor room on the back side of the motel, then to a parking space next to a brown Chevy van. Lomax backed carefully alongside the van and parked his Town Car. Kilbury again pointed to the room, again checked his watch and again told Lomax how much he appreciated his services. Lomax thought of the money. A thousand bucks for two hours’ work. Not bad. He unpacked a camera, loaded the film and gauged the light. Kilbury watched nervously, his eyes darting from the camera to the room across the parking lot. He looked hurt. He talked of his wife and their wonderful years together, and why, oh why was she doing this?

  Lomax listened and watched the rows of parked cars in front of him. He held his camera.

  He did not notice the door of the brown van. It quietly and slowly slid open, just three feet behind him. A man in a black turtleneck wearing black gloves crouched low in the van and waited. When the parking lot was still, he jumped from the van, yanked open the left rear door of the Lincoln and fired three times into the back of Eddie’s head. The shots, muffled with a silencer, could not be heard outside the car.

  Eddie slumped against the wheel, already dead. Kilbury bolted from the Lincoln, ran to the van and sped away with the assassin.

  18

  After three days of unbillable time, of no production, of exile from their sanctuaries, of turkey and ham and cranberry sauce and new toys that came unassembled, the rested and rejuvenated lawyers of Bendini, Lambert & Locke returned to the fortress on Front Street with a vengeance. The parking lot was full by seven-thirty. They sat fixed and comfortable behind their heavy desks, drank coffee by the gallon, meditated over mail and correspondence and documents and mumbled incoherently and furiously into their Dictaphones. They barked orders at secretaries and clerks and paralegals, and at each other. There were a few “How was your Christmas?” greetings in the halls and around the coffeepots, but small talk was cheap and unbillable. The sounds of typewriters, intercoms and secretaries all harmonized into one glorious hum as the mint recovered from the nuisance of Christmas. Oliver Lambert walked the halls, smiling with satisfaction and listening, just listening to the sounds of wealth being made by the hour.

  At noon, Lamar walked into the office and leaned across the desk. Mitch was deep into an oil and gas deal in Indonesia.

  “Lunch?” Lamar asked.

  “No, thanks. I’m behind.”

  “Aren’t we all. I thought we could run down to the Front Street Deli for a bowl of chili.”

  “I’ll pass. Thanks.”

  Lamar glanced over his shoulder at the door and leaned closer as if he had extraordinary news to share. “You know what today is, don’t you?”

  Mitch glanced at his watch. “The twenty-eighth.”

  “Right. And do you know what happens on the twenty-eighth of December of every year?”

  “You have a bowel movement.”<
br />
  “Yes. And what else?”

  “Okay. I give up. What happens?”

  “At this very moment, in the dining room on the fifth floor, all the partners are gathered for a lunch of roast duck and French wine.”

  “Wine, for lunch?”

  “Yes. It’s a very special occasion.”

  “Okay?”

  “After they eat for an hour, Roosevelt and Jessie Frances will leave and Lambert will lock the door. Then it’s all the partners, you see. Only the partners. And Lambert will hand out a financial summary for the year. It’s got all the partners listed, and beside each name is a number that represents their total billing for the year. Then on the next page is a summary of the net profits after expenses. Then, based on production, they divide the pie!”

  Mitch hung on every word. “And?”

  “And, last year the average piece of pie was three hundred and thirty thousand. And, of course, it’s expected to be even higher this year. Goes up every year.”

  “Three hundred and thirty thousand,” Mitch repeated slowly.

  “Yep. And that’s just the average. Locke will get close to a million. Victor Milligan will run a close second.”

  “And what about us?”

  “We get a piece too. A very small piece. Last year it was around nine thousand, on the average. Depends on how long you’ve been here and production.”

  “Can we go watch?”

  “They wouldn’t sell a ticket to the President. It’s supposed to be a secret meeting, but we all know about it. Word will begin drifting down late this afternoon.”

  “When do they vote on who to make the next partner?”

  “Normally, it would be done today. But, according to rumor, there may not be a new partner this year because of Marty and Joe. I think Marty was next in line, then Joe. Now, they might wait a year or two.”

  “So who’s next in line?”

  Lamar stood straight and smiled proudly. “One year from today, my friend, I will become a partner in Bendini, Lambert & Locke. I’m next in line, so don’t get in my way this year.”

  “I heard it was Massengill—a Harvard man, I might add.”

  “Massengill doesn’t have a prayer. I intend to bill a hundred and forty hours a week for the next fifty-two weeks, and those birds will beg me to become a partner. I’ll go to the fourth floor, and Massengill will go to the basement with the paralegals.”

  “I’m putting my money on Massengill.”

  “He’s a wimp. I’ll run him into the ground. Let’s go eat a bowl of chili, and I’ll reveal my strategy.”

  “Thanks, but I need to work.”

  Lamar strutted from the office and passed Nina, who was carrying a stack of papers. She laid them on a cluttered corner of the desk. “I’m going to lunch. Need anything?”

  “No. Thanks. Yes, a Diet Coke.”

  The halls quietened during lunch as the secretaries escaped the building and walked toward downtown to a dozen small cafés and delicatessens nearby. With half the lawyers on the fifth floor counting their money, the gentle roar of commerce took an intermission.

  Mitch found an apple on Nina’s desk and rubbed it clean. He opened a manual on IRS regulations, laid it on the copier behind her desk and touched the green PRINT button. A red warning lit up and flashed the message: INSERT FILE NUMBER. He backed away and looked at the copier. Yes, it was a new one. Next to the PRINT button was another that read BYPASS. He stuck his thumb on it. A shrill siren erupted from within the machine, and the entire panel of buttons turned bright red. He looked around helplessly, saw no one and frantically grabbed the instruction manual.

  “What’s going on here?” someone demanded over the wailing of the copier.

  “I don’t know!” Mitch yelled, waving the manual.

  Lela Pointer, a secretary too old to walk from the building for lunch, reached behind the machine and flipped a switch. The siren died.

  “What the hell?” Mitch said, panting.

  “Didn’t they tell you?” she demanded, grabbing the manual and placing it back in its place. She drilled a hole in him with her tiny fierce eyes, as if she had caught him in her purse.

  “Obviously not. What’s the deal?”

  “We have a new copying system,” she lectured downward through her nose. “It was installed the day after Christmas. You must code in the file number before the machine will copy. Your secretary was supposed to tell you.”

  “You mean this thing will not copy unless I punch in a ten-digit number?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What about copies in general, with no particular file?”

  “Can’t be done. Mr. Lambert says we lose too much money on unbilled copies. So, from now on, every copy is automatically billed to a file. You punch in the number first. The machine records the number of copies and sends it to the main terminal, where it goes on the client’s billing account.”

  “What about personal copies?”

  Lela shook her head in total frustration. “I can’t believe your secretary didn’t tell you all this.”

  “Well, she didn’t, so why don’t you help me out.”

  “You have a four-digit access number for yourself. At the end of each month you’ll be billed for your personal copies.”

  Mitch stared at the machine and shook his head. “Why the damned alarm system?”

  “Mr. Lambert says that after thirty days they will cut off the alarms. Right now, they’re needed for people like you. He’s very serious about this. Says we’ve been losing thousands on unbilled copies.”

  “Right. And I suppose every copier in the building has been replaced.”

  She smiled with satisfaction. “Yes, all seventeen.”

  “Thanks.” Mitch returned to his office in search of a file number.

  At three that afternoon, the celebration on the fifth floor came to a joyous conclusion, and the partners, now much wealthier and slightly drunker, filed out of the dining room and descended to their offices below. Avery, Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke walked the short hallway to the security wall and pushed the button. DeVasher was waiting.

  He waved at the chairs in his office and told them to sit down. Lambert passed around hand-wrapped Hondurans, and everyone lit up.

  “Well, I see we’re all in a festive mood,” DeVasher said with a sneer. “How much was it? Three hundred and ninety thousand, average?”

  “That’s correct, DeVasher,” Lambert said. “It was a very good year.” He puffed slowly and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

  “Did we all have a wonderful Christmas?” DeVasher asked.

  “What’s on your mind?” Locke demanded.

  “Merry Christmas to you too, Nat. Just a few things. I met with Lazarov two days ago in New Orleans. He does not celebrate the birth of Christ, you know. I brought him up to date on the situation down here, with emphasis on McDeere and the FBI. I assured him there had been no further contact since the initial meeting. He did not quite believe this and said he would check with his sources within the Bureau. I don’t know what that means, but who am I to ask questions? He instructed me to trail McDeere twenty-four hours a day for the next six months. I told him we were already doing so, sort of. He does not want another Hodge-Kozinski situation. He’s very distressed about that. McDeere is not to leave the city on firm business unless at least two of us go with him.”

  “He’s going to Washington in two weeks,” Avery said.

  “What for?”

  “American Tax Institute. It’s a four-day seminar that we require of all new associates. It’s been promised to him, and he’ll be very suspicious if it’s canceled.”

  “We made his reservations in September,” Ollie added.

  “I’ll see if I can clear it with Lazarov,” DeVasher said. “Give me the dates, flights and hotel reservations. He won’t like this.”

  “What happened Christmas?” Locke asked.

  “Not much. His wife went to her home in Kentucky. She’s still there. McDe
ere took the dog and drove to Panama City Beach, Florida. We think he went to see his mom, but we’re not sure. Spent one night at a Holiday Inn on the beach. Just he and the dog. Pretty boring. Then he drove to Birmingham, stayed in another Holiday Inn, then early yesterday morning he drove to Brushy Mountain to visit his brother. Harmless trip.”

  “What’s he said to his wife?” asked Avery.

  “Nothing, as far as we can tell. It’s hard to hear everything.”

  “Who else are you watching?” asked Avery.

  “We’re listening to all of them, sort of sporadically. We have no real suspects, other than McDeere, and that’s just because of Tarrance. Right now all’s quiet.”

  “He’s got to go to Washington, DeVasher,” Avery insisted.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll get it cleared with Lazarov. He’ll make us send five men for surveillance. What an idiot.”

  Ernie’s Airport Lounge was indeed near the airport. Mitch found it after three attempts and parked between two four-wheel-drive swampmobiles with real mud caked on the tires and headlights. The parking lot was full of such vehicles. He looked around and instinctively removed his tie. It was almost eleven. The lounge was deep and long and dark with colorful beer signs flashing in the painted windows.

  He looked at the note again, just to be sure. “Dear Mr. McDeere: Please meet me at Ernie’s Lounge on Winchester tonight—late. It’s about Eddie Lomax. Very important. Tammy Hemphill, his secretary.”

  The note had been tacked on the door to the kitchen when he arrived home. He remembered her from the one visit to Eddie’s office, back in November. He remembered the tight leather skirt, huge breasts, bleached hair, red sticky lips and smoke billowing from her nose. And he remembered the story about her husband, Elvis.

  The door opened without incident, and he slid inside. A row of pool tables covered the left half of the room. Through the darkness and black smoke, he could make out a small dance floor in the rear. To the right was a long saloon-type bar crowded with cowboys and cowgirls, all drinking Bud longnecks. No one seemed to notice him. He walked quickly to the end of the bar and slid onto the stool. “Bud long-neck,” he told the bartender.