In the Blood (2 page)

Moments later the stranger with the attache case stood at the foot of Palmer's bed.

He was a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive, if drab, silk suit. His skin was
pallid, even by today's melanoma-conscious standards. He looked like a man who
spent a lot of time indoors.

"Mr. Palmer? Mr. William Palmer?"

"Yeah, that's me. Who're you?"

The stranger's mouth smiled, but his eyes did not join in. "My name is Renfield.

And I believe I can be of some service to you, Mr. Palmer."

"That so? You a lawyer?" Palmer motioned him to a metal folding chair next to the
bed. Renfield lowered himself into the seat. His movements were so rigid and
stylized that he reminded Palmer of an animated mannequin.

Renfield's mouth curled into another simulated smile. "Not exactly. I am a

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representative for a third party who has an... interest... in your case."

"Look, Mac, I don't know what it is you're getting at. Say what you have to say and
get it over with, okay?'

You are innocent, are you not? Of the crime they accuse you of, I mean. You did not
murder, nor did you conspire to murder, Samuel Quine. Is that right?"

You got it." Palmer wished he had a smoke. This pasty- faced suit was making him
nervous.

"Would you care for a cigarette, Mr. Palmer?" Renfield leaned forward, pulling a
pack from his breast pocket. Palmer was surprised to see a flat, red-and-white case
of Sherman's Queen-Size Cigarettellos in the man's pale hand.

"Yeah, don't mind if I do." He eagerly accepted one of the thin, unfiltered brown
cigarettes.

"Go ahead, take the pack."

"Uh, thanks." He stared at the cigarettes, then back at Renfield's blandly smiling
face. "How did you know I smoke this brand?"

"There is a lot we know about you, Mr. Palmer."

Palmer looked up from his cupped palms as he lit the Sherman. "We?"

"Meaning my employer."

"Exactly who is this guy interested in my well being?"

"That is not important, for now. What is important is that he can- and will,
providing you agree to work for him-clear you of all charges with the district
attorney. He can also get your private investigator's license reinstated."

"What is this? Some kind of joke? If so, it's not a real knee-slapper."

"Joke?" Renfield's brow creased. "I never joke, Mr. Palmer."

"I should have guessed. Okay, let me rephrase what I just said. What's going on?

Who sent you and what exactly am I to him that he's willing to pull those kind of
strings? You're not Mafia, are you?"

"I assure you, Mr. Palmer, my employer has no need of such petty power brokers.

All I need to know is whether you are amenable to certain terms of employment in
exchange for your freedom." Again the smile. Palmer felt a sudden urge to grab the
drab little bastard and shake him by his lapels.

Palmer shrugged. "If your boss can spring me like you said, I'll walk on my hands
all the way to Timbuktu, if that's what he wants."

"I doubt that will be necessary. Then you accept my employer's offer?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?"

Renfield nodded and closed his eyes. "It is done." It sounded like a verbal signal.

Palmer wondered if the creep was wired for sound. Renfield stood up, straightening
the creases in his suit. "You will be hearing from us shortly. Good day, Mr.

Palmer."

"Yeah. Sure. Hang loose, dude."

Palmer lay back in the bed, arms folded behind his head, puffing thoughtfully on his
cigarette. Who the hell was this Renfield geek? He didn't like the whey-faced
bastard, but if he was telling the truth... Well, it wouldn't be the first time he had
shaken hands with the Devil.

He glanced at the pack of Shermans resting atop the bedside table.

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There is a lot we know about you, Mr. Palmer.

Twenty-four hours after his initial meeting with Renfield, Palmer was standing on
the street outside the Criminal Justice Building, blinking at the late afternoon sun.

It had been over two months since he'd last been outside. He was still a bit weak
from the gunshot wound that had creased his heart, but, all in all, he felt pretty
damn good. Freedom was an amazing tonic.

I'll be damned. The little wonk said he could do it, and whatever else he might be, he

sure as hell isn't a liar.

Palmer hefted the plain canvas tote bag the prison quartermaster had given him
before jettisoning him back onto the streets. Inside were what few possessions he
could call his own, salvaged from his apartment by his erstwhile public defender
before the landlord changed the lock. Hardly the most auspicious of new beginnings.

Palmer glanced at his wristwatch. He'd received a note from Renfield just prior to
his release telling him to wait on the corner. But for what? He'd been waiting fifteen
minutes already__

A stretch limo, black and shiny as a scarab, pulled up to the curb, its windows
polarized against prying eyes. The rear passenger door opened and Renfield leaned
halfway out, motioning for him to climb in.

"You seem surprised, Mr. Palmer."

"Dazed is more like it. How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Pull that trick with the DA's office? They said something about Loli's diary
turning up."

Renfield shrugged. "My employer is not without... connections, Mr. Palmer.

Besides, what does it matter, so long as you are cleared?"

Palmer wanted to press the issue, but there was something in the way Renfield
smiled that made him keep silent. Renfield may have saved him from a jailhouse
welcome-wagon party, but that didn't mean he had to like the guy. In fact, Palmer
felt uncomfortable sitting next to him. He couldn't help himself; there was
something inherently loathsome about Renfield that he couldn't quite peg.

"Where are we going?"

"We are going to meet my employer. He is as interested in seeing you face-to-face as
you are in meeting him. You should relax, Mr. Palmer. It will be some time before
we reach our destination." Renfield leaned forward and opened the liquor cabinet
built into the back of the front seat. "Help yourself."

A hour later the limo coasted to a halt. The time passed in silence, except for the
occasional rattle of ice as Palmer replenished his bourbon and coke. Renfield drank
nothing but bottled mineral water, and that sparingly.

The driver moved from behind the wheel of the car and opened the door for
Renfield. Palmer slid out after him, feeling a bit more tipsy than he'd realized.

It was dark outside the car-early evening out in the country. At least to Palmer it
looked like the country. They were at the end of a long, crushed gravel drive,
standing outside a spacious ranch-style house with handsomely manicured lawns
and artfully concealed exterior lights. No doubt there was a nice big redwood deck

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and a hot tub out back. Palmer followed Renfield up the front walk.

Before they reached the porch, one of the shadows detached itself from the
shrubbery and blocked their path.

The shadow was a big son of a bitch armed with an automatic weapon that looked
like a child's toy in his massive hands. He towered over Renfield and Palmer, his
shoulders wide enough to block out the sky. Palmer guessed him to be close to seven
feet tall, if not an inch or two over. And the bastard was
ugly,
too. The giant's long,
horselike face was made even more unattractive by a complete lack of facial hair,
including eyebrows and eyelashes. The guard said something to Renfield in a
register so low it was close to subvocal.

"It's all right, Keif. He's been cleared."

The guard didn't take his eyes off Palmer as he made a strangely delicate motion
with his free hand that was either sign language or his pantomiming breaking a
twig.

Renfield shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary. Like I said, it's been
arranged. Now get on with your job. We must not keep the doctor waiting."

The guard nodded and returned to his post. Palmer could feel the giant's eyes on his
back as they entered the house.

The living room was right out of a prime-time soap, with a high ceiling, tastefully
arranged Danish furniture and a handful of modern paintings scattered along the
walls. It was obvious no one spent any time living there.

"This way." Renfield led Palmer down a narrow hallway to the back of the house.

He stopped outside a door at the end of the corridor and rapped lightly.

"Bring him in, Renfield."

The room behind the door was lined with books and smelled of old leather and
moldering paper. Seated behind an antique roll-top desk was a handsome man in
his middle years, his dark hair touched with silver at the temples. Despite the dim
wattage cast by the Tiffany lamp atop the desk, the older man wore a pair of green-tinted aviator shades.

"Ah, Mr. Palmer! Pleased to make your acquaintance at last!" He rose from the
antique swivel chair and extended his hand to the detective. He was dressed in crisp,
white cotton pants, a white cotton shirt, loosened at the collar with the sleeves rolled
up past the elbows, and a pair of old-fashioned red leather suspenders. Palmer was
reminded of Spencer Tracy in
Inherit the Wind.

Palmer winced at the strength behind the older man's cool, dry grip. "I'm told I
have you to thank for arranging my freedom, Mister..."

"It's Doctor. Dr. Pangloss. Pleased to be of some service." He grinned, revealing
pristine bridgework that made Palmer's nicotine-stained teeth look like a
demilitarized zone.

"Uh, yeah..."

Pangloss motioned for Palmer to seat himself, then nodded to Renfield, who was still
standing at the door. "That will be all for now, Renfield. Have the cook prepare a
tray for Mr. Palmer."

Renfield nodded and retreated, leaving them alone.

"You must forgive me for not dining with you." Pangloss smiled. "I've already

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eaten. May I offer you a drink?" He pulled a bottle of bourbon, its seal intact, from
one of the desk's pigeonholes. Palmer recognized it as one of his favorite brands,
when he could afford it. "Oh, and help yourself to the cigarettes," Pangloss added,
nodding to a Chinese lacquer box resting on the table next to Palmer's chair.

The cigarette case was, like practically everything else in the room, an antique. A
Chinese dragon, looped around itself, adorned the lid. Inside were Sherman's
Queen-Size Cigarettellos.

Palmer lit his Sherman with a Fabergé cigarette lighter, admiring how the light
from the Tiffany lamp played across the jeweled platinum scrollwork. "Look, Dr.

Pangloss, it's not that I'm ungrateful for what you've done... but what the hell is
going on? I mean, who are you, and what am I to
you
that you would go so far as to
spring me out of jail?"

Pangloss flashed his teeth as he handed the detective a highball glass, but it was
impossible to tell if the smile extended to his eyes. "You've got a legitimate right to
know, and I respect your forthrightness, Mr. Palmer. I really do. I appreciate men
willing to speak their minds. The fact of the matter is, I am in dire need of your
services."

"That's flattering, Doc, but there are hundreds of perfectly good private
investigators in this country. Some I'll even admit are better than me. I'm hardly
Sam Spade, especially in light of the shit both you and I know I've recently been
through."

"You underestimate yourself, Mr. Palmer. Or may I call you Bill?"

"Call me Palmer. Everyone else does."

"Very well-
Palmer.
You have tracked down missing people before, have you not?"

"Yeah, sure. I've traced a couple of skips and runaways. Most PIs have, sometime
or another-it's part of the job. Why?"

"Because there is someone I want you to find for me. A girl. It's very important that
she be located. I'm willing to pay you what it's worth."

Palmer sipped at the bourbon. It had been a long time since he'd been able to afford
liquor this good.

"Keep on talking, Doc. I'm listening."

"It won't be easy, I'm afraid. She doesn't want to be found and has been highly
successful at avoiding my... field operatives. She recognizes them on sight and does
her best to... avoid them." Pangloss's handsome face grew dark. "She's a wild
woman, Palmer-crafty, shrewd, fiercely independent and more than a little crazy.