The Butcher's Boy (23 page)

"So what makes it look interesting?" asked Elizabeth .

" Garfield's people started poking around, doing groundwork for the committee. They came up with some odd facts. Edgar Fieldston started the company in 1971, so they began with him. He looked good. An old California family. They owned ranch land that got bought up in the thirties. They took a loss, but it didn't matter much because the money involved was still enough to make them as rich as anybody needs to be, and in those days nobody would have believed what the land would be worth in fifty years, or cared much either.

Fieldston looked fine, except for one thing, and it wasn't much. In 1969 and 1970 his income taxes were in arrears. He was building up penalties."

"So he started a business in 1971," said Elizabeth, "and came out okay."

She shrugged.

"Right," said Brayer. His mouth turned up into something like a smile, but colder and harder. "He couldn't pay his taxes for two years. In the third year he had enough money to pay the taxes, penalties and all, and start a business with an initial investment of, let's see—" he glanced at the notebook. "Four hundred and sixty thousand dollars."

"A silent partner?" said Elizabeth .

"Has to be." Brayer closed the notebook and slipped it back into his breast pocket. "And nobody got suspicious. He was the scion of an old family with money. Maybe he sold some land they had left somewhere, maybe a rich aunt died, maybe a friend loaned him the money. The rich have rich friends. Nobody asked any questions."

"Until the name of the company started turning up around murders," said Elizabeth . "Until they got careless." She was warming to the hunt now, her mind racing ahead for the next stage of it, but Brayer stopped her.

"No," he said. "Just the opposite. Until Garfield ’s computer spit it out by accident. I think Fieldston's silent partners got wind of it somehow and reacted 111

to protect the company. Garfield ’s people weren't light-footed. They did credit checks, talked to bank officers, and so on."

"But they wouldn't do that," said Elizabeth . "No. It doesn't make sense.

We're off the track." She was up now, pacing the hotel room. "First, there's Veasy. A machinist in Ventura, California . He might have been a threat because he was critical of the union's investment in FGE, but not much of a threat unless he got in touch with the Senator's committee, and there's no way he would have known about it. And if by some chance he did, the last thing they'd do is kill him because that would bring the police and maybe the FBI." She walked back and forth, as though each step brought her closer to what she was looking for. "And killing the Senator wouldn't do it either because there was still the committee, and Orloff was their man, their lawyer. No, John, it has to be something else.

Something is missing." She stopped and stared at him, but he was smiling that strange, cold smile, still sure.

He said, "You're right about part of it, but wrong about the rest. Veasy was the first in time, but not in logic. That's what you're missing. The Senator was the main thing. If they got rid of him, the committee wouldn't go after FGE, because he was the only one interested in it. Garfield told me today the information on Claremont's inquiries has already been packed away. At the end of the next term it would have been shredded because it wasn't part of an official, permanent record and it wasn't part of an ongoing project. And nothing had happened yet. There was no reason for anybody to wonder if the Senator's death was linked to FGE, certainly not the police, because the only ones who knew he'd ever heard of FGE were the committee staff, and they'd never hear about Veasy or Orloff or the rest of it. All they'd ever know was that it was one of a hundred or so that they were supposed to check out for a hearing months from now."

Elizabeth was still shaking her head. She said, "There has to be more. A lot more. They knew they wouldn't get caught, agreed. But that was because no reasonable stretch of the imagination would connect them with the Senator—but that's still true. Because nobody would kill a U.S. senator just because he might subpoena their books or call clean, upright Edgar Fieldston to testify."

"I'll go the rest of the way for you," said Brayer. "And they wouldn't kill a machinist in Ventura because he was criticizing his union's investment in a company he'd never even seen the outside of." But the smile was still there, still sure and maybe even a little smug.

"And there's still Orloff," said Elizabeth . "That has to be something different."

"It's all the same," said Brayer. "It doesn't matter how it was done or in what order. The time doesn't matter at all for now. They were plugging leaks, getting rid of every liability they could think of at once. Maybe it was all done to protect something that was very important to them and might come out as soon as any government agency started to look closely at the company. Something close to the surface."

"What?" asked Elizabeth . "It can't be the silent partner. And yet it has to be."

"There's a vulnerable point somewhere, and they knew it. And right now they're trying to cover it up. They'll succeed if we don't get to it soon. The one thing we've found that fits the pattern is that they've got a number of complicated investments—subsidiaries, really. One is an oil consulting firm. We're concentrating on that one for the moment. It'll take time to track everything down."

"Why that one?" asked Elizabeth .

"Because it involves moving people and small amounts of sophisticated equipment from one place to another. A lot of it to other countries. There are a hundred possibilities: smuggling, a money-laundering operation, drugs, or maybe just an excuse to have somebody in particular on the payroll with a legitimate reason to travel."

"A hit man!" said Elizabeth .

"Don't jump to conclusions," said Brayer. "That's the least likely of a hundred possibilities. For one thing, it would be the hardest to spot, and whatever they're worried about is more obvious. Maybe it's just an excuse to have bank accounts or investments in foreign countries."

Elizabeth sat down again. "So that's why you're here," she said. "It's a full-court press, isn't it? You're going to put the pressure on and watch to see who squirms. Who else is in on it? The FBI?"

Brayer's smile broadened a bit as he nodded, but then it disappeared. "I'm afraid it's a little bit different this time," he said. "It's a full-court press all right. I didn't know you liked basketball, by the way, but it fits. The only thing is, we can't let them see all of it at once."

She could tell that something was bothering him. It was a moment before she realized what it was. She said, "And they've already seen me."

He nodded. "They've already seen you."

She sat there for a moment, thinking about it. Then she stood up, straightened her skirt, and said, "All right. What do I do first?"

"We've already requested a subpoena for their ledgers. It should be ready by morning. It lists you as officer of the court."

The trees lifted naked branches toward a sky that seemed to be made of stone.

Now and then an icy gust of wind would tear down the street bringing with it a scurrying herd of wrappers and dead newspapers. He had been on this street before. Three, maybe four years ago. That time he hadn't stopped, just checked to be sure he had the right address and then driven on. He'd been alone that 113

day too, and he'd had some time and had promised Eddie he'd look. Eddie had been careful enough to last for a long time. It would have been stupid not to do what Eddie said. "This is an address you might need sometime, kid. Don't ever write it down. Go there when you're in Buffalo and remember where it is.

Chances are if you ever need to see him you're gonna be in a hurry."

Most of the snow had been pushed off the sidewalks into the gutters, so he had no trouble walking if he avoided the thin patches of ice near the curb.

There were only a few bundled figures leaning into the cruel wind as they walked. They scuttled close to the storefronts for shelter, veering outward only to avoid each other, their faces turned down out of the wind. Sliding steel cages accordioned across the doors and windows of the buildings. No business was open on Sunday morning on this stretch of Grant Street . He moved more quickly. The coat he'd bought last night was warm, but his ears were already numb. The collar wasn't high enough to do anything for them.

One more block. He wished for a moment that he still had the car. But that would have been foolish. He wouldn't be here until tomorrow night or the next day at the earliest—and in a car with Nevada plates. You couldn't drive through places like St. Louis and Cleveland in a car with Nevada plates and not attract attention.

There were houses now and he knew he was getting close to it. The houses were set farther back from the street and he missed the shelter of the storefronts. There it was. 304. He remembered what Eddie had said. "Knock and ask for directions to someplace. It don't matter where. Don't ask for him or you won't get in the door."

He made his way up the icy walk and then up the steps to the porch. He knocked and listened, but the wind was the only sound. "His name is Harkness,"

Eddie had said, "and he's a nigger. Don't hang around out front for too long because your white face will attract attention." There was still no sound, but the door swung open.

An old black man in a white shirt that was buttoned to the collar stared out at him, saying nothing.

"I wonder if you could tell me how to get to the Albright-Knox Art Museum," he asked.

"It's cold out there," said the man and stepped back. He followed him inside into the dark, warm hallway. The floor was carpeted but underneath he heard the creaking of hardwood floorboards where he stepped. Along the wall to his right there was a row of rubber boots; above them a row of pegs where thick, damp coats hung like effigies. It was quiet here, so quiet that he sensed there must be others in the house, waiting.

"Who told you to ask me?" said Harkness.

"Eddie Mastrewski told me to ask here if I got lost," he said.

The old man stared at him, then spoke quietly. "How is Eddie?"

"Dead," he said.

The old man only nodded, then walked on into a large, dark living room 114

and lowered himself into an overstuffed chair. The old man looked like a shrunken child in the dark embrace of the chair. After a moment Harkness said, deliberately, "I know you."

He waited, and the quiet voice came again from the half-invisible man in the chair. "I know who you are." He shrugged. "I can pay."

The quiet voice said, "I know you can. What do you propose?" Suddenly he knew why it had all seemed so familiar —this house, this old man, the furniture—it was the formal, quiet way his grandfather had moved and talked when he was a child. It was the way the men of that time discussed serious business.

He said, "I'm in a lot of trouble—"

Harkness interrupted, not harshly, just talking into his sentence. "You don't need to tell me that. Nobody comes here except he has his troubles. What you want from me?"

"I have to disappear, but I have to do some traveling first. It may take time."

The old man sat motionless and silent, staring at him. "I see," he said.

Then he said, "It'll cost twenty thousand dollars. More if it's longer than a month.

That's if I can do it at all."

He waited and the old man went on. "Only two thousand is for me. The rest is to keep you alive while you go."

"Why so much?"

"I said I know you. I don't want to know why you have to disappear, but I know it's not the law. If anybody found out how you traveled, the ones who helped you wouldn't go to some nice warm cell."

"What do I get for it?"

"A bodyguard. Enough cover, if they're not too eager to find you."

He frowned. "A bodyguard? Hell, I can't travel with a bodyguard. They'd spot us."

"You can with this one. She's the best I know of."

All it amounted to was going in with the FBI's auditors and taking possession. You just handed the subpoena to whoever was there and let the auditors do the hard part. They'd know where to look and what to look for. That was what Brayer had said. "Just stay out of the way. Don't worry. Those guys know exactly what they're doing. Pick up the search warrant and meet the auditors at the FGE office."

She wondered what one wore to a raid. That's what it added up to. She got out of bed and tested the shower. The stream of water was hot and strong—

where did the water come from in the middle of a desert? Oh, yes. Lake Mead .

She slipped out of her nightgown.

The telephone rang and she turned off the shower— seven a.m. —it had to be Brayer.

Brayer's voice said, "Elizabeth, are you awake?"

"Yes, barely," she answered. "What's new?"

"I just wanted to check. I don't want anything to interfere with the schedule. It looks good so far. They haven't got the slightest idea what's going on. The place has been watched since yesterday morning, and nothing has been moved out or destroyed."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. We've been through their garbage and their outgoing mail.

There are only about four employees who work weekends, and they left empty-handed."

"You've thought of everything."

"Yes, I have," he said. There was no irony in his voice. "Just take care of your part of it and we'll be fine. Even if there isn't anything in the company records the raid's got to trigger some action from the silent partner. He'll have to wonder if there is."

Elizabeth returned to the shower. She'd had just enough time to get wet and enjoy the sensation of waking up when the telephone rang again. She wrapped a towel around herself and scampered out into the bedroom. Brayer had changed his mind about something, no doubt.

"Agent Waring," said an unfamiliar male voice. "This is John Tollar, FBI Las Vegas." It sounded like an address. God, they were a humorless bunch.

“Yes?" she said.

"We've been informed of a change. Can you meet me at the front desk as soon as possible, please?"