Body Guard (8 page)

In the background, Devlin could hear a blather of voices and an occasional telephone bell, the routine sounds of a squad room. “Okay, here we are: Visser, Edward Leonard … two felony raps and a misdemeanor sheet going back to juvenile. Spent time in Buena Vista … was a guest in Canon City … rape and assault with a deadly. Off parole last year. Looks like your everyday scumbag, Kirk. But right now he’s a rehabilitated citizen with all the rights and privileges thereof. What’s going down?”

“We have a security problem in the plant where he works. I’m checking out everybody in his section.”

“I’d say you found your problem. And if it’s on private property, I don’t want to hear any more about it. We’re understaffed and we got shit up to our ears.”

“How about Scott Martin and John Atencio?” He added quickly, “Then I won’t bother you anymore.”

“Hang on.” An audible sigh and more background noises. “I got two Scott or Scotty Martins, one in Canon City right now and one with a couple knocks for dealing. Nothing big locally, but he did a stretch in Illinois for burglary. No cross- reference to Visser in the known-associates file. Atencio I can’t help you with unless you got a birth date or his Social Security number. I got maybe fifteen John or Juan Atencios.”

Kirk could get that information from the man’s personnel file and call back. “Thanks, Sergeant. I owe you a bottle.”

“Make it Johnny Walker. Black label.”

Kirk would, and on the Advantage expense account. The electric clock on the wall—placed there for Bunch’s convenience because his wrist was too big to wear a watch—marked ten after three. Though Kirk was eager to find out what Chris Newman had learned at work today, it was best not to call him at the plant. For one thing, it was against company policy for workers to get personal calls. Worse, it would draw attention to him. Kirk would have to be patient until five-thirty, when Chris was due to telephone his daily report. And since Bunch wouldn’t be back in the office until later, that left Kirk a block of time for a much needed sweat at the A.C.

Bunch was sweating too. The afternoon sun fell through the windshield of the cramped Subaru and burned across his lap. Zell had another half hour and that was it. Bunch had promised to convoy Humphries back from Colorado Springs, and the ride down to the Broadmoor would take an hour and a half. In fact, he should have started fifteen minutes ago, but Devlin wanted an eye kept on Zell’s house. He had a theory that the man would be out mowing his goddamn grass one of these days. That the lawn was ratty was true enough. What wasn’t true was that Zell would mow it himself. Bunch didn’t think the man was that stupid; he wasn’t going to show the neighbors how healthy he was. No, what he’d do was hire a kid to mow it, and all this extra surveillance would turn out to be one more goddamn waste of time.

Bunch swigged at the thermos of stale coffee and shifted to find a different cramp for his jammed legs. Fifteen minutes more. That’s all. Whether or not Dev got here in time to relieve him. Fifteen minutes.

Bunch shifted again, forcing his heavy eyelids to stay open against the day’s heat and the long night. He consoled himself with the idea that he was probably doing just as much good here as anywhere else, and the fact that he’d be driving his Bronco to the Springs made him feel better. That led to a consideration of what kind of game Humphries might be playing. He and Dev had talked things over and done some basic background on the man, but it hadn’t turned up much. There was no marriage license in their names issued in Colorado. But that left only forty-nine other states and the rest of the world where they could have been married. Humphries’ credit rating, as expected, was excellent, and the list of references he used on his home loan application would make an investment counselor salivate. No criminal record. No loans other than the tax-deductible mortgage. His credit card purchases showed fairly routine entries: a number of restaurant bills, clothes, travel expenses. He traveled a lot, but given his business, that was to be expected. The only odd thing was an absence of any charges in the name of Mitsuko Humphries. Apparently she paid cash.

But the man’s check was good, and as long as he was willing to pay the bill, Bunch was willing to give him his fill. Though that would be a hell of a lot more fun with Mitsuko-san. And wasn’t she the little tease? Bunch knew the commandments of P.I.-dom, the first of which was: Thou shalt not sleep with the clients. Devlin had forgotten that once, and it cost them both a lot. Still, it was hard to watch that saucy little tail switch around the room without having visions of romps on the futon dance through his head. He sighed and scratched at his sun-warmed groin. It was no surprise the woman flirted with him—big, handsome, gum-chewing stud that he was. A few people had it, a lot didn’t; Bunch knew he was among the select few. And he’d run across plenty of women, newly married or not, who agreed enough to want to find out. That’s how he read Mitsuko: knowledgeable about the world of men and sex, yet still eager and excited to learn more. To compare men, perhaps. And already bored with Humphries. Just as she would be bored after she sampled Bunch. Which was okay with him: a quick roll in the hay and a “heigh-ho Silver” was all he wanted anyway.

He glanced at the dash clock and was about to start the car when a movement caught his eye. The garage door was opening to show the rear of a new Ford Taurus—another benefit of Zell’s claim. A few seconds later, the man himself worked a lawn mower past the car’s gleaming chrome and bent to start the machine. Goddamn Devlin was right again. Bunch grabbed the camcorder and aimed as Zell pulled the rope several times, until the mower bucked with a puff of blue smoke. Like a distant insect, it began to hum. Bunch taped a series showing the man push against the handle as the blades churned through the high, thick grass. When the mower jammed, the camera followed as Zell bent to free something from the blades and restart the engine; when it reached the end of a row and had to be swung in a different direction, Zell’s body heaved against the mower and Bunch caught that, too. For a man whose back had made him a permanent invalid, he was pretty spry. After the lawn was scalped, Bunch cruised past with the camera braced across his arm to get a close-up of the man’s face. Then, satisfied, he quickly headed back downtown to drop the film off at the photo lab that did Kirk and Associates’ work. Devlin would be pleased to express the videotape to New York. Bunch was pleased too—one less suspect to watch from the cramped front seat of the Subaru.

Devlin made it back to the office about a quarter after five. Comfortably loose from the stretching and lifting, he felt more awake than if he’d slept for a few hours. There were times when working out seemed like too much of a burden and he’d be tempted to let it go for a day or two. Tell himself that he’d make up for it with a real sweat when he finally got over to the gym. His self would answer that he’d better go now even if he didn’t feel like it, because it was an investment in his line of work. The day might come when he’d have to bench-press a malefactor. But the real reason he would groan and heave himself to his feet to face the gleaming machines and the running track was because he knew he would feel better after it was over.

This afternoon was no different, and his sense of well-being was added to by the good news waiting on the answering machine in Bunch’s voice. The Zell case was close to payoff. All in all, it was a very satisfactory day. That satisfaction was in his voice when, at exactly five-thirty, he answered the telephone. Hurriedly, Chris told him Atencio said that Visser was pissed and worried, that the man had come to work angry and thoughtful, and that he—Atencio—wasn’t sure what it was all about. But Visser wanted Atencio to tell him every word Chris had ever said to him.

“Did Visser make any threats?”

“No.” Chris poured himself a beer from the small refrigerator. It sat on a shelf in the kitchen alcove that wasn’t much bigger than the machine. “I hardly saw him all morning. I wanted to eat lunch with Johnny and he said we better not. That’s when he told me about Visser. But get this.” He paused and waited until Devlin asked what. “Visser came up to me just before quitting time and said he wants another meet with you.”

It was strange not just because Chris wasn’t expecting it after what Devlin said last night but also because Visser seemed almost happy. He even smiled and smacked a hand on Chris’s shoulder like they were the best of buddies.

“Where and when?” asked Kirk.

“He said he’d let me know in a day or two.”

Kirk wasn’t sure what it meant either. “All right. As soon as you hear, call in.”

Kirk spent the next morning watching Truman’s house. Maybe their luck with Zell would spill over. After an early breakfast, he cut across town before the six a.m. traffic began to build into a rush hour. He figured Truman might be one of those people who got out of the house before the rest of the world was awake, since she never seemed to come out during normal hours. In the gray of dawn, the condominium was silent and dark. He parked in the street, facing away from the house, and adjusted the rearview mirror. Slowly, the neighborhood came to life. A milk truck made its stops to let the driver run clunking up and down the long sidewalks linking the clusters of four- and six-unit condos across green widths of carefully tended lawns. Shortly after the blue and white milk van pulled out of sight, the first of the day’s workers backed from garages and parking slots to turn into the gleam of rising sun. Then the pulse of the neighborhood picked up with the main migration of cars leaving the condominiums. After that, traffic slowed to the occasional school bus, followed by housewives, salesmen, and delivery vans. And a few people—like Kirk—who seemed to have no reason for being there. No Jean Truman this morning. He pulled out into the small increase of traffic that came with noon. The street wound through the trimmed common areas and past privacy fences that marked each unit’s own attached patio. He found an Arby’s restaurant and dawdled over the hot bread and beef with his legs fully stretched out. Then he drove back to sit again and wait for Truman to do something.

That kind of waiting makes for long days, and it was with relief that as the return migration of evening began to peak he headed back to the office. He’d be back later this evening. Maybe those drapes would open enough to show her walking without the brace. Maybe she’d put on her dancing shoes and trip the light fantastic down the sidewalk. She was attractive in a dark and intense way, and Kirk had seen a blond man visit the address occasionally. Woman does not live by neck brace alone. But how long it would be before she slipped up, Kirk couldn’t say. Still, that possibility—like an angler’s faith in a fish’s hunger—was what made surveillance bearable.

Chris, too, had found the day a long one despite the extra janitorial work caused whenever a large shipment of components came in. Visser hadn’t called last night, and today neither Visser nor Johnny Atencio said a word to him. In fact, they avoided him. If they saw him coming, they headed suddenly in another direction down a warehouse aisle. It was puzzling— especially Johnny, who had seemed like a nice enough guy and who enjoyed telling Chris about his amateur boxing career. Chris stripped off his sweaty wool socks and padded barefoot to his bathroom to splash cool water across his face. He was due to make his daily report in fifteen minutes and he’d ask Devlin about it. He was half undressed for a shower when a knock rattled his door.

Through the peephole, he saw Scotty Martin on the landing, half smiling at the little fisheye of glass. Surprised to see the man at his door, Chris quickly unlatched the security chain. This was it—the contact.

He started to say hello to Martin when a large figure, as big as Devlin, moved quickly from the wall to the doorway. It was a face Chris thought he recognized—maybe the one in the car the other night. Up close, the face was chiseled with hard lines around the eyes and mouth, and it was dark with heavy tan. Chris looked at Scotty half hidden behind the big man’s shoulder. Scotty looked back at him with distant, expressionless eyes. It was the same look Chris had seen on cowboys at branding time when they threw a calf and, hooked castrating knife clutched in a fist, approached the bawling and helpless animal.

A
N ACCIDENT SOMEWHERE
up near the Mousetrap had turned the rush hour Valley Highway into a miles-long parking lot. Devlin and the Subaru, caught between exits, crept and braked while the cheery babble of a radio talk-show host kept telling commuters how bad the traffic jam was. By the time he could pull off the interstate and work his way along crowded side streets through downtown, the hour for Chris’s report was long past. He finally reached the office and dialed the young man’s home number, but there was no answer.

It didn’t mean anything—Chris often called in from wherever he happened to be. And maybe what he had to say, he hadn’t wanted to leave on the office’s telephone answerer. Kirk walked from his office over to Larimer Square for an early dinner while Josephina’s Restaurant was still uncrowded, then came back half expecting something on the answerer. But there was nothing. He settled down to the paperwork that had piled up, bringing expense sheets up to date, answering correspondence that required reply, filing those letters that didn’t. Sometime later, he turned on the desk lamp and tried Chris’s home number again. Still no answer, and Kirk felt a twinge of irritation: Chris was over two hours late in making his report. Kirk called the telephone answerer at his own home, but a playback of messages held nothing. He was finishing up the last routine office chores and a cup of coffee when Bunch came dragging in. His afternoon had been spent wandering around Humphries’ half acre, and then the three of them went out to dinner. Humphries and wife enjoyed a menu that unfolded stiffly to four large pages of ornate hand-letteringhand lettering and had a flocked maroon cover with a gold tassel. Bunch ate McDonald’s in the Bronco.

“Humphries swore he heard something in the bushes next to the house after I left last night, so I made a tour around the place.”