Parts Unknown (27 page)

It was enough to loosen my grip and he twisted, swinging again, and pulled away. The pipe came down on my crossed wrists this time and I shoved his arm high and stepped in with a solid, cutting thrust of knuckles under his ribs and heard the man’s breath drive from his body. Something was clawing at my back, and fingernails dug into my shoulders and neck, and I swung a high elbow back to thud solidly into something and then came forward again with the blade of my hand across the bridge of the first man’s nose. Before I could drive the splinter of bone up into his brain with the heel of my hand, he dropped out of sight, rolling and kicking, and scrambled somewhere.

I couldn’t tell where because the one behind me wrapped an arm across my neck and began to squeeze, hammering at my face with his other fist. It was reflexive, the response good training instills: I reached behind his back and grabbed the flailing elbow and, with my right hand, yanked on the man’s pants at knee height to pivot him across my hip. Stepping forward through his body, I lifted his leg and threw him over in a head-dive onto the graveled earth. A quick kick to his temple and he lay making uh-uh noises and scratching one foot in the dirt.

I looked around for Bunch in time to see his large shadow leap into the air with a flying front kick that caught his target in the chest and drove him, arms flailing a length of chain, back against the building’s wall. He bounced, falling forward into a side kick from Bunch that dropped him. A skitter of flying gravel whirled me around in time to see three figures running for the street.

Bunch, breathing heavily, said with satisfaction, “God, I needed that. I hate surveillance!”

We dragged the fallen warrior up to the office. While I dabbed Merthiolate along the already swelling fingernail scratches on my neck and shoulder, Bunch closed the blinds and sat the groggy man down in a wooden chair tipped back against the wall. Like the rest, he was fully bearded and wore jeans and steel-toed motorcycle boots and a sleeveless vest—the familiar uniform that expressed his freedom from stifling convention and a dedication to colorful individuality. He also wore a swollen right eye and fresh blood and snot that glistened in the gummy hairs under his nose.

“Dev, I told you and I told you: get away from those throws and holds. Use the punching techniques.”

I winced as the medicine burned into raw flesh. “I like my way, Bunch.”

“Yeah—and look what it gets you. Cut. Me, I come out clean.”

“Looks like a mouse under your eye.”

He touched the purpling flesh. “Well, almost clean. But you look like you tangled with a tom cat—maybe you better get some rabies shots.”

The owners were dirtier than their dogs, that was certain. I buttoned my torn shirt and turned to the man in the chair, whose open eye had begun to show he was awake. “What’s your name?”

“Fuck you.”

Bunch smiled. “The name does fit the face. But before we have a major misunderstanding, dickhead, let me explain something.” He picked up the length of chain the biker had used, and twisted it into a knot. His broad fists turned first red, then white. “It’s really easy to understand. We ask you questions, you answer them.” The chain snapped and Bunch dangled the broken link in front of the man’s wide eye. “Or I’ll unbutton your goddamn spine like this. Now what’s your name?”

He ran his tongue across his lower lip and stared at the chain. “Benny.”

“Benny. A fine name—I like that name, don’t you, Dev? Benny. Now, Benny, who was it tried to kill my partner here in the tunnel?”

“What?”

Bunch wagged a finger close under the man’s soggy nose. “I said we’d ask—you answer. One of you people tried to kill my partner up in Clear Creek Canyon, and we want to know who it was.”

“I don’t know. Nobody tried to kill the son of a bitch up there. When you came out sneaking around the ranch, sure. What the hell you expect, sneaking around like that?”

“Then, who was it broke into our office, Benny?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. It wasn’t none of us—this is the first time we been here.”

“Benny, Benny, Benny—you’re not being helpful. We like you, Benny. We want to save you some hurt.” The big man leaned close to Benny, who pressed back in his chair. “But I will twist your fucking arms off at the elbows if you don’t start telling me the truth!”

“It is the truth! Swear to God—nobody tried to kill anybody up in Clear Creek. And we didn’t come anywhere near your goddamn office except tonight. I swear to God!”

“Is this what you literary types call an inveterate liar, Dev?”

“Sad but true, Bunch.” I smiled at Benny, who didn’t like what he saw there. “How much do you think we can get for his bones and blood?”

“What you mean? What you people talking about?”

Bunch shook his head. “Not much. They’re in pretty shitty condition.”

“And they’re going to get worse.” I smiled again.

On the quiet street outside, a sound of motorcycle engines cruised through the darkness. Benny’s eye lit up. “You fuckers better let me go. You don’t let me go, they’re coming back here.”

“You really believe that?” asked Bunch. “Come on, Benny, you believe they’re coming back for you?”

He said nothing, Adam’s apple bobbing dryly.

“I wish they would. But they’re not that dumb, Benny. You’re here all alone with us. Just you. Now, who tried to kill my partner? I want a name.”

“It wasn’t us! The only time we seen you is when you came sneaking around the ranch. We want to know what the fuck you’re doing that for—what the fuck you took our dog for!”

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

The eye blinked. “Well, you was messing with us.” He added, “You mess with us, we kick the shit out of you.” It made sense to him.

“Like tonight?”

“Yeah, well, you jumped us. You was ready for us.”

“Was Billy Taylor with you tonight?”

“Who?”

Bunch hooked his foot under the chair and pulled it out from under the man, who crashed hard to the floor. Then he placed a large shoe on the man’s shin and pressed down. “You heard me. Yes or no?”

“Ow—goddamn, you’re breaking my leg!”

“Answer, scumbag. I’m tired of playing with you.”

“Yes! Goddamn, yes—get off!”

Bunch lifted him by his leather vest and stood him against the wall, hauling him off the floor high enough to be eye level. Outside, the motorcycles made another slow pass, but Benny wasn’t listening. “We got your goddamn dog. You want him back, you tell Billy Taylor to come get him. Hear?”

“I hear!”

“Tell Taylor to come on his bike and come alone.”

“Where?”

“We’ll call you and say where and when. What’s your phone number?”

He told us, voice hoarse from his weight pressing his throat against Bunch’s fists.

We walked him down the stairs to the parking lot. Somewhere at the far end of Wazee Street we could hear the motorcycles. They seemed to be stationary, waiting, trying to decide what to do next.

“Benny,” I said, “I don’t believe that crap about you people not trying to kill me. In fact, I bet you were the one.”

“No, man! It’s the truth—nobody I know of did anything like that.”

“Benny, if they do try again, they’d better do it right. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I understand. But I’m not giving you no shit, man. We didn’t do it. That’s the truth.”

“A pleasure talking to you, Benny. Give our regards to Taylor.”

We watched him stumble quickly toward the sound of the motorcycle engines. A short time later, they popped and roared and faded into the night.

I asked Bunch, “What’s this about giving Taylor the dog?”

“Hey, it came to me right then! All we got to do is set it up right—it’s a chance, Dev.”

Hell, it was the only chance. “You think Benny was lying about the shooting?”

“Sure.” Bunch added, “But he was convincing, wasn’t he?”

“Why not? He’s had a lifetime of practice.”

I
T TOOK TWO
or three days before Sergeant Kiefer got back to me. For one thing, I was far down on his list of chores somewhere below “Miscellaneous,” but still above “Circular File.” For another, he didn’t have much good to tell me. “Dev, I’m not going to be able to help you much.”

“Why’s that?”

“I asked a few questions here and there, trying to find out things about Antibodies Research. This morning I got a call from the DA’s office. An assistant over there—he tells me to lay off.”

“They’re working up something?”

“No. He tells me I’m on the verge of harassing a respected businessman and causing material damage to a legitimate business that, according to all the evidence available, has broken no laws.”

“The DA pulled you off it?”

“This assistant did. Art Maddox. I made a couple calls anyway, and Dev, I got to tell you, the people who own stock in Antibodies are some of the biggest names in town. They’re making a potload of money and they don’t want to see anything bad come down about it.”

“Do they have any idea what’s going on?”

“I doubt it. My guess is they don’t look past the profit statements. I know for certain they don’t want anybody—that is, me—asking anything that might embarrass the company and shake these profits. I’ve been told to stop nosing around unless I have indisputable evidence of criminal activity. Period.”

I couldn’t ask Dan to put his career on the line. Not yet, anyway. “Gilbert swings a big stick.”

“More likely, whatever stockholders he talked to. I checked him out, by the way. No criminal record.”

“I’m sorry to get you in hot water, Dan.”

“Hey, I’ve backed off. No trouble.” He went on, “But if you do get something ‘indisputable,’ I’d like to shove Maddox’s nose in it. All the way up to his goddamn eyebrows.”

“All I have is circumstantial. It won’t help much.”

“Well, like I say, I can’t do anything more. But you keep poking around and I’ll keep a quiet ear out. Somebody’s sweating for some reason, and it’s interesting.”

It also took some time to set up our meeting with Taylor; Bunch muttered something about arranging a meet and took off. I called Schute and gave him the news that we should have something definitive on Taylor in three or four days.

“That’s cutting it goddamn close, Kirk. Will it do the job for us?”

“It should,” I said. The quiver in my mind didn’t quite make it to my voice. “My associate’s arranging the—ah—situation right now.”

“I don’t want to hear about that part of it. Just send me the results.”

“Will do.”

Jerry Kagan finally called too. “According to my friend at Empire State Hospital, the donor—a Mr. Martinez—was on life support when the transplant took place.”

“He was still alive?”

Jerry paused. “Technically. Perhaps he even had some brain activity. But he wasn’t expected to live and his next of kin must have signed the donor form.”

“What did he die of?”

“I heard it was a drug overdose, but couldn’t confirm it.”

“He was flown to New York on life support?”

“Apparently so. I don’t know for certain. It was an interesting operation—the blood was so rare, they had to give it to the recipient as a transfusion. Took it out while the kidney was being removed.”

“What about the corpse? What did they do with it?”

“I don’t know. Routine disposal, I guess. Or returned it to next of kin.”

“What if there were no next of kin?”

“Then I’m not sure. Most hospitals send the cadaver to potter’s field or use it for medical study.” He added, “I didn’t ask my friend about that. He was reluctant enough to tell me as much as he did.”

“All right, Jerry. This is a big help and I owe you more than a dinner.”

Bunch returned to assure me that Schute would be happy soon. “I called those scumbags, Dev. I told Taylor where to be and when.”

“You talked to him?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “At least he said it was him.”

The location was a little-used county road in a small canyon between Golden and Boulder. “Think he’ll show up?”

Bunch nodded. “He’ll show up. But he won’t be alone.”

“Fine,” I said. “This time we’ll be ready.”

And finally, late in the afternoon, I heard from Percy.

“I managed to talk to this Dr. Rosenberg, Devlin. If talk is the name for something so brief.”

“Not much help?”

“Oh, he said he did the operation, all right. Was justifiably proud of it, in fact. But who the donor was, where he came from, and what happened to him afterward was downright irrelevant to his interest in the case. His concern was with the living recipient and only a local corner of the recipient at that. He’s a specialist, you see.”

“Did he know what happened to the body?”

“He didn’t. But I located a nurse on the team. The remains were cremated.”

“Cremated?”

“There was this generous act by the next of kin, Devlin lad, that allowed the hospital to recover what other organs they could and cremate the remainder, thereby saving the hospital the cost of shipping the corpse back for burial.”

So much for any dental records or other positive proof of identity.

“The nurse said it wasn’t all that unusual. Out-of-town donors are often cremated and sent home in a tin box. It’s known as getting your ashes hauled.”

“But he had no relatives, Perce.”

“All I know is what she told me: that she saw the authorization form and saw the orderlies remove the body after the operation.”

“There’s a paper trail on the cremation?”

“Of course! This is New York—everything aboveboard and honest. In fact, I took the liberty of photocopying the death certificate and cremation authorization. I can fax them out if you want.”

“Yes—send them on.”

“Will do.”

It took about twenty minutes for the documents to be processed through a system that was always crowded at the end of New York’s working day, and I faxed a photograph back with one final chore for Percy. When the machine stopped chirping, there they were: a copy of the New York State certificate of death for one John Martinez and an authorization for disposal of remains by shipping them back to Antibodies Research, who would return them to the Martinez family. The signature on the line for next of kin was Mary Martinez. It was a name I didn’t recognize and apparently wasn’t supposed to. There was, however, a notary seal witnessing Mary’s signature. The name of the notary was Phyllis Whortley, and that was familiar … Whortley—on a nameplate … a brass nameplate on a desk: small letters perched on the corner of Gilbert’s secretary’s desk.