Dead and Gone (13 page)

“Maybe it wasn’t about money
or
sex,” I probed.

“What, then?”

“They, the parents, they knew how to find the … guy who got shot in New York. If they were players in the Russian mob, maybe washing money, the snatch could have been a message.”

“It’s possible, I suppose. But nothing like that came up when they were being investigated. Look, that kind of case, you have to eliminate all the possibilities. You know how many kids are killed every year by their parents, or the boyfriend of the mother, or …? Dumped in some vacant lot, reported missing. And the perps go on TV crying crocodile tears and ask everyone to help them search for their precious baby. Something like this, you
have
to check the parents, see if maybe
they
weren’t the perps.”

“Like they did in Boulder? With JonBenét Ramsey?”

“This isn’t Boulder,” Clancy said, his voice as stony as his eyes.

“Sorry. The parents, they came up clean?”

“They did. And it wasn’t because the job was sluffed. Everybody got talked to. Teachers, their pediatrician, their housekeeper, neighbors; you name it. Not one person had the slightest suspicion of the parents. No history of child abuse. Not even a hint of booze, or drugs. Or domestic violence. The parents themselves were asked about enemies, and they said they hardly even
knew
anybody over here.”

“What about an old grudge? From the old country?”

“It’s possible,” he said again, the
“anything’s
possible” unspoken, but clear on his face.

“The reason I ask … I’m guessing that nobody on your side could have known about any connection to the Russian mob back then. No way they could have.”

“You’re right.
If
there was a connection back then, it didn’t show up anywhere in the investigation.”

“Okay.”

“I got a friend in the Bureau,” he said, dropping his voice. “We’ve got photos of the kid from just before he disappeared. There’s a computer program, factors in everything known about the subject, right down to his genetic makeup. Anyway, this program ‘ages’ the subject. He’d be, what, fourteen or so now? The kid you saw when the thing went down—would you recognize him?”

“Not a chance. It was dark. I never really got a look at his face. He started shooting right away.”

“Wolfe’s good people,” he said, out of the blue.

“I know.”

“Is she in this?”

“You spoke to her. What did
she
say?”

“She said she’s known you a long time. Sent along your sheet, but said it didn’t tell the whole story, so she filled in a lot of the blanks. Asked me if I’d do her this little favor.”

“So …?”

“So Wolfe doesn’t ask for favors. She trades. Unless it’s personal. She didn’t say anything about herself, just about you. So it comes out like you and her …”

“No.”

“Right,” he agreed. Too quickly. “She said as much. Said you and her … you weren’t going to be together. That you were a criminal in your heart.”

“But …?”

“But somebody has a bull’s-eye painted on you, and you needed to get off first.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Never is. Look, I’ll see you later. Midnight, one o’clock, how’s that?”

“Fine with me. I’ll be at the hotel …?”

“Sure. That works. Me, I got a date.”

I
slipped the blue lens on the mini-Mag, played the light over the keypad to the in-room safe all good hotels provide nowadays. I didn’t want to open the safe—I wanted to see if anyone else did. The safe is programmed by the hotel guest. You pick whatever combination of numbers you want. But a pro knows what to do. Clean the keypad thoroughly, apply a thin coat of wax. When the mark opens “his” safe, he
leaves
marks. Most people pick a three-digit combo. They do that, it takes just a minute to box the trifecta, cover all six possible combinations. Of course, you do this
after
you’ve tried the mark’s birthday, if he’s left that info lying around.

It’s hard to tell if a hotel room’s been tossed. Some maids pick up every scrap, straighten every edge, put things away for you. Some don’t. The usual tricks—a hair pasted across an opening, a paper match wedged between two abutting layers of clothing—are a waste of time in hotels. But the safe … that will usually tell you if someone with access has been poking around. I carry what I need every time I go out—cash, passport, ID, tools—so if things go bad I never have to return to the room. Losing the gun would be no tragedy. It doesn’t trace to me, my prints aren’t on it. And the cash would always get me another.

The safe’s keypad was untouched.

I was kicking back in the room’s easy chair when the tap came at the door.

Clancy.

He walked in, pulled a chair away from the desk, carried it over to where I’d been sitting.

“How old do you think she is?” he asked me, as soon as I sat back down.

“She?”

“Marushka.”

“Thirty-five, forty?”

“She’s twenty-seven.”

“Okay.”

“Twenty-seven and frightened. Fear’ll age you quicker than booze.”

“But not overnight.”

“No. Not overnight.”

“So she was just a kid when she first came here.…”

“Yeah. She sends money home. There’s no jobs, she says. So she’s supporting her whole family.”

“Not so bad. She lives in a beautiful house, has a nice car all her own, plenty of time on her hands.…”

“Plenty of time to think, too. She gets deported, her whole family goes down.”

“Why should she get deported?”

“She’s sponsored. The people who own that house, all they need to do is withdraw.”

“She’d still have options.”

“What options? She’s got no special skills. No way she’d get an exemption.”

“You think the people who brought her here are threatening her?”

“No. I don’t think she has any contact with them.”

“She forwards their mail.…”

“I think that’s right. Almost has to be. But there’s no communication coming the other way. Her phone records—no long-distance calls, in or out. She’s got a cellular, too. Those are the best. For us, I mean. So long as the target uses his phone, you can find out where he’s using it
from
. I don’t mean the
exact
location, like Lojack or anything, but which city for sure. And sometimes right down to a tight grid. Anyway, her cellular, every call’s been made from the local area.”

“Did the people who own the place have cellulars?”

“They did. But they terminated service more than two years ago.”

“So that thread has snapped.”

“Yeah …” he said, dragging the word out. “Burke?”

“What?”

“She’s not in this.”

“Who?”

“Marushka.”

“I understand.”

He stood up. I packed my stuff while he waited. If he noticed the plastic-wrapped package I stowed in my duffel, he gave no sign.

Clancy dropped me off at the bus terminal on Harrison. I reached over to shake his hand.

“Thanks. For everything.”

“It was for Wolfe,” he said, keeping everything clear. “Besides, I figure, you get lucky, we may find the kid yet.”

“I know,” I told him, pulling a thick manila envelope from my coat pocket. I handed it to him.

His face flushed and his eyes went alligator on me. “I told you—”

“It’s for Licensed for Life,” I said.

He took a deep breath. Let it out his nose, slowly.

“I need a receipt,” I told him. “You’re a 501(c)(3), right? This is a charitable contribution.”

“You
file with IRS?”

“Wayne Askew does.”

He reached into the back seat of his Nissan, found the right box, extracted a pad of receipts.

“Make it out for twenty-five hundred,” I said.

“That’s too—”

“There’s twenty large in that envelope,” I cut him off. “But Wayne Askew doesn’t earn the kind of money that he could donate that big to charity, so …”

“Christ!”

“It’s good to have something to believe in,” I said.

I took my receipt and got out. Clancy hauled my duffel out of the trunk. Stuck out his hand again. This time, his grip transmitted.

I
bought a ticket to L.A. Round-trip, in case anyone was watching—in person or at an anonymous computer somewhere. A real bargain for two hundred bucks. The woman behind the barred window didn’t even look up as she slid it through the slot.

I had almost an hour before the bus left. Plenty of time. I finally found what I wanted—a tall, rawboned man with a lined Appalachian face. He told the guy on the bench next to him that he was going home. To West Virginia. Chicago was just another bitch who hadn’t kept her promises.

I slipped my cell phone into one of the big plastic bags he was carrying. The working class may be able to afford decent luggage now, but the out-of-work class has to improvise. I figured he might use the phone once he discovered it, but more likely he’d sell it. Either way, if anyone was wired in, good fucking luck to them if they thought they’d located me.

W
e chugged away around two in the morning, set to arrive L.A. just before nine the night after the next one coming—a few hours under two full days.

The bus was more than half empty. I settled in, grateful for the privacy.

Although it was a much longer run than Philly to Chicago had been, we made only one stop. Las Vegas, on day two, a half-hour layover. Just enough time to pick up all the high rollers who’d left their return plane ticket in the same pawnshops where they’d left their jewelry.

You could see it stamped on their faces—if they’d had just one more shot, they would have flown from Tap City to Fat City, nonstop. That wheel was about to turn, the slot they fancied was warming up, the dice couldn’t
keep
breaking against them.…

I
was a crowded, morose trip into East L.A. And, from there, maybe a dozen miles and half an hour to another planet. Beverly Hills.

“Nice to see you again, sir,” the bellman at the Four Seasons said. Faking it, figuring he couldn’t lose even if he was wrong.

I carried my own bag.

The smartly dressed young man behind the front desk didn’t blink at my field jacket and two-day growth—people in the movie industry are special, right? He found the reservation in a minute.

“You’ll be with us three nights, is that right, Mr. Jones?”

“That’s right.”

“Great! Now, if we could just have your credit card for an imprint …”

“It should all be direct-billed.”

“Let me see.… So it is! We have a lovely large room for you, sir. On the sixth floor, overlooking the back gardens. Will you be needing any help with your luggage?”

“I can manage,” I said, taking the white paper folder with the key, patiently waiting while he explained about the honor bar, the gym, my choice of newspaper in the morning.…

The room was fresh and clean. I was tired. And down in minutes.

W
hen the phone rang in the morning, I picked it up without saying anything.

“Everything all right, honey?”

“Perfect,” I told Michelle. “That corporate-credit-card thing worked like a charm.”

“I charm everything I touch, baby.”

“That’s the truth.”

“Are you okay?”

“Didn’t you already ask me that?”

“What if I did? A real answer would be nice.”

“I don’t know anything yet. I’m going up to Vancouver tomorrow, if I can hook up with …”

“I spoke with him. He says anytime you want.
Anything
you want.”

“He’s got a good memory.”

“So do I, sweet boy. Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I know I’m working blind.”

“I
s it really you?” the tall, slender man with the cream-in-coffee complexion asked. I knew he was a few years past my age, but he looked twenty years younger.

“It’s me, Byron.”

“Sounds like … you. Mind talking some more, just so I can be sure?”

“When’s the last time you flew a four-engine Connie?”

His face didn’t twitch, but his eyes flashed. Flashed
back
. To the tiny airstrip on the Portuguese island of São Tomé. To a big plane loaded to the brim with stockfish from Iceland—the maximum amount of nourishment for its space and weight. Then the frantic run over black water and even darker jungle, hoping the Nigerian jets with their hired-killer pilots wouldn’t get lucky. No parachutes on board. Everybody riding had their own reason for risking death, but none of them was willing to risk being taken alive.

It was the tail end of 1969, just before the breakaway country of Biafra fell to Nigeria’s overwhelming military superiority. Already at least a million dead. Mostly kids. Mostly from starvation.

Biafra was nothing more than a dream for whoever was left then, a tiny jagged piece of jungle, as vulnerable as a crippled cat in a dog pound. By that time, it was fully landlocked. Their leader had fled to the Ivory Coast. A Red Cross plane had been shot down. Even the media was gone.

Tribalism on full amok. If the Biafrans kept fighting, actual genocide was a real possibility. No point running guns in there anymore, but without food nobody would live long enough to surrender. For a landing field, there was only a dirt track cut into the jungle. We came in, guided by a radio until we got close. Then they fired the string of flares on the ground. A thirty-second window.

Byron set the big plane down softly. Before he could shut off the engine, people charged out of the jungle, desperate the way only starvation can make you. One man ran right into one of the still-whirling propellers. At least his terror died, too.

In a short while, the plane took off. I stayed on the ground.

It was maybe ten days later—I think I already had malaria by then, and things were fuzzy—when it happened. Byron was standing off to the side of the plane, watching the unloading, anxious to get back into the sky. But there were enemy planes in that sky. Huge chunks of ground blew up all around us from whatever they were sending down. No point in running—the blasts were completely random. And nobody ever used that foul tunnel they called a bomb shelter twice.