Fair Game (2 page)

The phone rang again, and she roused herself from her reverie to answer it.

* * * *

Timothy Martin strolled into his office and set his Styrofoam cup of muddy coffee on the scarred desk. Thin spring sunlight filtered through the film of dirt on the leaded windows of the precinct house as he loosened his tie and tossed his coat on a chair. The walls of his office were painted institutional green and everything within them was made of metal: the desk, the chair, the filing cabinets, the trash can, even the arc lamp positioned to shine its light over his shoulder. The police force was utilitarian in its approach. Metal didn’t crack and it didn’t burn, and if treated with sealant it didn’t even rust. The room resembled its counterpart on the other side of the law, a prison cell, similarly appointed and just as practical.

Martin was so used to the cheerless surroundings, however, that he didn’t see them, concentrating instead on the pile of paperwork waiting for his attention. He was staring at it morosely, debating where to begin, when his frosted-glass door popped open and a head of red-gray hair appeared. The face below it was grinning wickedly.

“Well?” Martin said, eyeing his boss warily. Experience had taught him that Captain Rourke wearing this impish expression was never delivering good news.

“Got a job for you, Timmo,” Rourke said happily.

Martin waited. Rourke explained himself in his own good time.

“Special assignment,” Rourke announced, handing him a typewritten sheet of paper. “They practically requested you by name.” He stood back, rubbing his hands together, savoring the younger man’s response as he scanned the letter.

Martin perused a few lines and then looked up from the page. “Gerry, what is this?” he demanded.

“You can still read, I hope,” Rourke replied. “They need two men to act as bodyguards to the good Senator while he’s on the campaign trail in his home state. He’ll be on this tour for a couple of months, and the Philadelphia Metropolitan Police Force has been selected, for its outstanding record of service, to give up a couple of its own for the effort.”

“Gerry...” Martin said slowly, aware of what was coming.

“You’re elected,” Rourke said triumphantly. “So to speak.”

“Like hell I am,” Martin said flatly, tossing the letter in his wastebasket with a flick of his wrist.

“Didn’t you see what it said?” Rourke inquired, wide-eyed, his lips twitching. He retrieved the paper from the trash and read aloud. ‘The officers should be between five-ten and six-two and between 170 and 200 pounds.’ They’re describing you, boyo.”
 
He reached up and patted Martin’s cheek. “They want you should look nice on TV.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. Pack a suitcase and take an unmarked car. You’re attached to the Senator like lint on his suit for the next two months.”

“I won’t do it,” Martin said, meeting his superior’s amused gaze.

“Oh, yes, you will. Orders from the top. Go on, take Capo with you. It’ll be like a vacation.”

“Come on, Gerry. It’s baby-sitting.”

“Sure it is. So go sit with the baby. Is this place gonna fall down while you’re gone?”

“I’ve got the Carson murder cooking. The stakeout starts tonight.”

“Jensen can handle that for you. I’ll have him take over your cases while you’re away.”

“Jensen!” Martin snorted. “He couldn’t supervise a Girl Scout Jamboree. By the time I get back, everything will be in chaos.”

“Timmo, get used to it. You’re the man for this job.” Rourke grinned. “The Senator’s daughter is traveling with him, heading up his campaign staff. She’s a civil rights lawyer. You can have a nice discussion with her about how hard she works to spring the criminals we take off the streets.”

Martin threw him a dirty look.

“Now, don’t pout,” Rourke said cheerfully. “I hear the daughter isn’t bad looking. Great legs, Carmino says.”

“What does he know?” Martin said scornfully.

“He saw her at the hotel when they arrived yesterday.”

“Then send Carmino,” Martin shot back.

“But Timmy, he’s a little too short and a little too fat to match the stated requirements,” Rourke observed, batting his lashes. “They want a couple of pretty boys. Like you and Capo.”

“Capo will go nuts when he hears this,” Martin warned.

“He’ll do what he’s told,” Rourke said gruffly, sending the message to Martin as well.

“What’s it matter what we look like, anyway?” Martin asked, irritated, certain that he was doomed but still trying, out of habit.

“Photo opportunities, Tim. Don’t you read the papers? They want a couple of clones for the Senator. If you’re too tall you make him look like a dwarf, very bad for image. If you’re too short, he’s the jolly green giant by comparison. You just don’t understand politics, son.

“I don’t understand you, sending me on this... this...”

“Modeling assignment?” Rourke suggested, deadpan.

“Go on, yuk it up, old man,” Martin said bitterly.

Rourke chuckled agreeably. “You’ll have a ball, hobnobbing with all those high-tone, ritzy types.”

“The only person I’ll be hobnobbing with is Capo, and we’re already sick of each other.” Martin tried a final, desperation measure. “Look, can’t you send a couple of rookies? They’d be easier to spare than Capo and me.”

“Oh, but they wouldn’t have the polish, the finesse, that refined quality you experienced officers project so beautifully,” Rourke replied solemnly. “Good public relations is my life.”

“I’m glad you’re getting such a charge out of this,” Martin said. “Why does Fair need bodyguards, anyway?”

“Standard operating procedure. Every candidate attracts a few wackos. This one is no exception. Fair has his own people, but they like to remain in the background. They need a couple of blues around to boost confidence. The commissioner wants us to ‘cooperate fully.’”

“So what does that involve?” Martin said, sighing resignedly.

“You hang around and watch him, go where he goes, no big deal. They’ve sent us the file on the great man, and I’m having it Xeroxed right now. There are copies of questionable letters, transcripts of nut phone calls. No death threats yet, but some nasty messages. The Senator is a flaming liberal, as you may know, and he attracts the sort of lunatic fringe who think his fondness for social programs is going to sell this great country of ours down the river. In other words, the usual political stuff.”

“Isn’t this a job for the feds?”

“Not unless something actually happens. And nothing will. Don’t sweat this one; it’ll be a walk in the park.”

Martin was still wearing a remarkably unfestive expression.

“Look, Tim,” Rourke said in a serious tone, “you could use a rest. You practically lived here during that Donelly case, and your vacation isn’t coming up until August. You can’t breathe this job twenty-four hours a day. You need some relaxation. A hobby, an outside interest. A woman.”

“I had a woman. She left me,” Martin said quietly.

Rourke skirted that delicate subject, wishing he hadn’t brought it up, and said instead, “My point is, this is an opportunity for you to take it easy for a while. Go hold the Senator’s hand, stand on the sidelines and scare off the crazies, play poker with Capo while Fair catches forty winks. What have you got to lose?”

“Am I to understand that I’m being selected for other than cosmetic reasons?” Martin asked directly.

“Let’s just say that you fit the bill in more ways than one. You’re the right size and shape, and you need the down time.” Rourke raised his bushy ginger brows. “Who breaks this to Capo, me or you?”

“I’ll tell him,” Martin said.
      

“Fine. He follows you around like a puppy anyway. This will give him an excuse to do It. He’s out on a call now, so you can go home and get your stuff, then catch him later.”

“Right. When does it start?” Martin asked, as if anticipating a death sentence.

“Today.”

“Today?” Martin repeated, staring.

“You’re scheduled to meet Senator Fair and his daughter this afternoon at two.”

“Thanks for giving me advance notice, Gerry,” Martin said dryly.

“What do you need notice for? To pack some underwear and socks? Now, here’s the address of his hotel,” Rourke said, handing Martin a slip of paper. “You just stick with Fair and the girl wherever they go. They’ll have a printed itinerary ready. There’s a woman named Drummond on the staff; she’ll handle all the hotel arrangements. She said that the Senator wants the senior man with his daughter, so when they split up, you go with her and Capo can take Fair.”

Martin nodded sourly.

“And Tim, be on your best behavior. No swearing, no spitting, no gum on the shoes. Pretend you’re on a SEPTA bus.”

Martin smiled thinly. “I’m going to get you for this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rourke replied, laughing. “Don’t be a stranger. Keep in touch.” He waved and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

Martin looked after him for a moment, then sighed heavily, picking up his coat again.

He’d better go back to his apartment and pack.

Peter Ransom gazed up at the conference-room window from the safety of his rented car. There was nothing unusual about it; the window looked like every other window in the Pittsburgh hotel. It was still as ordinary as it had been when he first checked it, before dawn several hours earlier. He got out of the car, strolled through the parking lot around to the front of the hotel. The doorman, busy flagging cabs in the morning rush hour traffic, didn’t notice him as he examined the brick facade closely, hands in pockets in a casual posture. When the doorman paused in his labors and glanced around, Ransom drifted past him, ascending the stone steps and passing through the revolving door into the lobby.

He noticed everything, fading into the wallpaper himself, passing through the flow of hotel guests like a wraith. He was dressed for obscurity in light gray slacks and a dark gray jacket. His blond hair was short, neatly and conservatively styled, and he wore dark sunglasses that hid his eyes and disguised his expression.

No one paid any attention to him.

Peter Ransom was not his real name. He remembered his real name, which had been made up by the nurse who found him, but he rarely thought about it, the way he rarely thought about old weapons he had discarded for newer, more useful ones.

Ransom stopped at the foot of the main staircase and pretended to peruse one of the magazines left for the entertainment of the guests. He checked out the bank of elevators and the activity at the registration desk, then dropped the magazine and walked up the curving main staircase.

He avoided elevators as a matter of practice.

Ransom turned the corner to the second-floor corridor, then fell back and glanced around it, his hand going to the pistol nestled in the small of his back.

It probably wasn’t a setup, but his almost supernatural caution had kept him alive more than once.

The hushed, carpeted hallway was empty.

The conference room was at the end of the hall. He walked toward it slowly, checking out the closed doors all along the way, trying the handle of a service closet as he passed. He finally paused before the conference room door, listening, and then knocked on it, his hand still in position to draw his gun if necessary.

“Come in,” a male voice called.

Ransom accepted the invitation. He opened the door halfway and looked inside, then entered the room.

There were three men, dressed in suits, seated at a large oval table. The man in the middle had a stack of manila folders at his place, and his heavily veined hands were folded on top of them. The men on either side of him, one short, one portly, wore identical sober expressions.

Ransom glanced at his hosts, then around the room. He had checked it out before they arrived, going back to his car to watch each of the men come to the hotel separately.

Everything seemed to be in order. He relaxed marginally, eyeing the leader.

“Please be seated,” the spokesman said.

Ransom hiked one leg up onto the edge of the table and waited.

The leader cleared his throat. “You know the purpose of this meeting,” he said in a soft, modulated voice. “It was explained to you when this was arranged that we represent a group with quite a large stake in preventing Senator Fair from coming to power. We feel that we are unable to run the risk of the forthcoming election....”

Ransom raised his hand, interrupting the speaker. “I don’t care why you want it done,” he said flatly. “Your politics and your motivations are of no interest to me.”

The leader fell silent, watching him.

“I think you are familiar with my terms, but I’ll go over them again just so there is no misunderstanding,”

Ransom continued. “These terms are not negotiable. They will be met or I will not take the job.”

The men waited.

“First, I’ll require half of the stated fee up front, and the second half on completion of the assignment. You will not contact me at all after today, and you will not discuss me or my assignment with each other or anyone else outside of this room. If I discover during the course of preparation that you have not complied with these terms, I’ll keep the money I have and consider the order terminated. If I complete the job and the second half of the fee is not deposited in the numbered account I have indicated within three business days of completion, I will come after each of you. Personally. Right now I know you only as nameless customers, through my contact, but I’ll find you. Believe me.”