12
Connor Harrigan knelt at the edge of the bathtub in Tanner
Burke's suite, grunting as he worked his fingers over the
dead man's pockets and the lining of his uniform. Behind
him, Baker stood quietly, apparently indifferent to Harri
gan's work. Now and then he would stare thoughtfully at his
own image in the washstand mirror.
The more Harrigan searched, the more certain he was
that he had not executed a New York City police officer. The
man's second weapon, a gas pistol equipped with either
killing or tranquilizing darts, tended to argue in that direc
tion, but the possibility remained, however dim, that he was
a legitimate cop moonlighting as a contract killer. Possible, but not at all likely, he thought. The man carried nothing. Not a label. Not a scrap of paper except the blank sheets of
his notebook. Only a single coin.
He was not likely to be an associate of Stanley Levy, who
worked alone except for accompanying muscle, or any other
criminal hireling. Contract killers rarely, if ever, bother to
strip themselves of traceable documents and never of cash.
Too much of an inconvenience for a useless theatric that
would cause only a modest delay in their identification. Nor would the ordinary hoodlum worry much about protecting
his patron's anonymity once he himself was cold meat. Even
religious killers seemed unwilling to pass anonymously to
their reward these days.
What abut Sonnenberg? Could he be another of Son-nenberg's spooks? Probably not. Sonnenberg, in his arro
gance, would have laid a masterful trail of false paper
before he'd do anything so banal as a stripping of docu
ments. The coin, Connor. Why a coin? Coins are for tele
phones. You were going to call someone, weren't you, you
rascal.
Suddenly, very suddenly, Harrigan felt a change inside him. It was a curious surging. An emotion. An anger. And
then it passed. He waited for a moment, thinking it might re
turn, but it did not. There was only the sensation of Baker behind him. Baker was moving.
A glance over his shoulder told him that it was not dan
ger that he felt. Baker made no move toward him. The tall
man's eyes were upon the policeman's black notebook,
which lay on the tile floor.
Harrigan pushed to his feet. He threw a towel across the
dead man's face and closed the heavy shower curtain. A
drawer slammed shut in the other room and some wooden
hangers clattered across a closet rod. Tanner Burke was dressing. The sound seemed to disrupt whatever it was that
disturbed Jared Baker. His face softened. Baker glanced once in the direction from which the sound had come and
then toward the bathtub, and his eyes saddened. Harrigan
could almost read his mind. What was she feeling? he was
wondering. What could she be thinking, knowing that she'd just held doors open so that the first corpse she'd likely ever
seen could be carried in and dumped in her bathtub? Harri
gan knew because he wondered those things himself. And
what of you, Baker? he thought. Harrigan turned to study
him, idly picking up the policeman's notebook as he did so.
The two men had barely spoken. Harrigan's response to
Baker's return of his greeting was only to take a weary
breath and to reach for the feet of the dead policeman, indi
cating the heavier end as Baker's portion. “His eyes” was all
that Tanner Burke had whispered, and Jared Baker bent to
close them. Jared Baker the family man. Jared Baker the
suburbanite from green and tranquil Connecticut. For most
of his life, his bigger problems included whether his lawn
had enough lime on it and what to do when the shit backed
up from the septic tank. Now it's a year and a half later, and he can stand around a bathroom daydreaming after almost
getting shot, after meeting a guy who's been dogging him
for months, and after carrying two hundred pounds of dead
beef through a hotel corridor with a movie star, for Christ's
sake, trotting ahead of him. What does it take, Baker? What
does it take for you to say fuck this, I can't handle it,
and
then give the job to your friend I saw in Dayton? I want to
see that, Baker. I want to see you do it right up close and
then I want to know how.
“Does the woman know what you are?” Harrigan asked quietly.
Baker straightened.
“
The woman? If you mean Ms.
Burke, the answer is no.”
“God save us.” Harrigan blinked. ”A feminist Franken
stein.”
Baker ignored the remark. His eyes fell upon the note
book turning in Harrigan's hands.
“If she doesn't know, she must damn well be curious
after seeing you do your tricks in the park.”
“She didn't see that.” Baker kept his voice low. “Not clearly, anyway. She didn't even know my last name until
she heard you say it. Ms. Burke is not a part of this, Harri
gan.”
Harrigan jerked his thumb toward the shower curtain.
“Can I assume that's why you sent in your scrub team
against our friend in there? If it is, your consideration for the
lady's sensitivities could have gotten all goddamned three of us killed. In fact, Mr. Baker, it seems that she's a hell of a lot
handier in a brawl than you are.”
A smile tugged at Baker's mouth and he looked away.
The thought seemed to please him. Harrigan made a dis
gusted face. So much, he thought, for provoking Baker by impugning his virility. The pain in the ass is proud of her.
She dances in with those dumb little kicks that she probably learned from some picture she did, kicks that wouldn't have knocked a zit off the cop except they surprised him, and he's proud of her. He lets her do the fighting while all the time he
could tear the guy in half, but instead he holds on for dear
life like he learned to do in the fourth grade and . . . Ohhh,
Baker ... stupid me.
“She's going to know, Baker. She's going to read the pa
pers this afternoon.”
Baker turned away. Toward the mirror. Slowly, hesitantly,
he reached for the hot water tap and turned it on. Next, he
reached for a hotel towel, which he held under the running
water for several moments before bringing it to his face.
Harrigan tensed. He lowered his hand and placed it over the
gas pistol, which lay on the tub's edge. With one finger, he
quietly worked back the bolt so that part of the chambered
dart could be seen. It was yellow. A tranquilizer dart. Three
cc's were enough for a water buffalo, and there would be
more in the pistol's butt. Harrigan eased off the safety.
But it wasn't happening. What he'd seen happen behind
a towel in a Dayton, Ohio, boxing ring wasn't happening. No swelling sensation. No cooling of muscles. If anything,
Baker seemed to be softening.
“Charley?”
No answer.
”I feel her, Charley. I feel her thinking my name. What is
she thinking about me, Charley?”
“scared.”
“Scared of me?”
“scared, telephone.”
“She's afraid of the telephone?”
“afraid to call, afraid to not call, abel says don't let her
call”
“Never mind what Abel says.”
“now she thin
ks
,
don 't call police, don 't get baker in trou
ble.”
’
“Never mind that either. Charley, what's in that note
book? Why do I keep wanting to look at that black note
book?”
telephone number, i saw a phone number there and you didn't.”
“Whose number, Charley? Why is it important?”
“ask abel.”
“Tell me, Charley.”
“abel says don't tell you. abel says send him out now.
there are more bad people outside, abel says don't tell you
who because you don 't send him anymore when i tell you.
abel says you should have called him on the stairs before.
abel says that's why I told you those men were there, i told you so you could send him and you didn
’
t
.
”
“Charley, damn you
...”
“Jared?” Tanner Burke's fingers reached from the door
way and touched his arm. Harrigan saw the towel fall away
from his face and he saw the face harden again. All but the
eyes. The eyes took on a smitten look as they absorbed the
lovely young woman who'd entered. She had changed into a
brown tweed jacket, slacks, and a yellow turtle neck that
made her natural coloring seem all the more healthy and
clean. Tanner wore no jewelry save the simple gold studs in
her ear and a single topaz ring. She was dressed to go out.
Harrigan relaxed his grip on the gas pistol and smoothly
tucked the weapon under his coat.
“Jared,” she said quietly, not looking at the older man,
“are you going to tell me?”
Baker half-turned and reached out a hand. She took it ten
derly and held it in both of hers.
Oh, Jesus, thought Harrigan. And now we have the bride
of Frankenstein. We don't have enough trouble already.
What's worse is, if he gets away from me, he's going to try
to tell her. He won't show her, but he'
d
tell her. And he prob
ably hasn't sense enough to tell her a decent lie.
“Jared,” she said, her voice firmer now, ”I sat in there
staring at the phone. I came this close to calling the police and telling them that one of their officers is in my—”
“He's not a policeman.” Baker shook his head. “There's
nothing in his pockets except a coin and a phone numb—” Baker caught himself too late. Out of the corner of his eye
he could see the wave of astonishment that crossed Connor Harrigan's face. By the time he turned fully, the notebook was in Harrigan's hand again and Harrigan was riffling through it a second time. And then he saw it. The light was right and he saw it, not in the notebook but written in ink
across the spine of the black vinyl cover. There were ten dig
its. And they were written backward.
Baker watched as the astonishment faded and a small sat
isfied smile began to take its place.
”I think we'd all better have a chat,” said the older man.
“Here's the thing,” said Connor Harrigan, squeezing a tea
bag over his cup. He was speaking to Tanner Burke. ”I wish
with all my heart that you were not involved. I wish it even
more than Mr. Baker—”
“Could I ask who you are first?” Tanner interrupted.
Harrigan wiped his fingers on a Kleenex and reached for
his small cowhide case, which he opened and passed to her.
“The name is Connor Harrigan. The card you're reading
says that I'm with the Department of the Treasury. I am, but
loosely. There are other cards in that case saying that I'm a
lot of different people doing a lot of different things. Those
are false. The absolute truth is that I am indeed Connor Har
rigan and that I am in the permanent employ of the General
Accounting Office of the United States Government.”
Tanner looked blankly at him. Baker seemed to be barely
listening.
“Disappointed, aren't you?” Harrigan smiled pleasantly.
“You wanted James Bond or
some such
.”
“What I wanted,” she said evenly, “was to be told who
you are and what your interest is in Jared Baker.”
Harrigan shrugged and gestured toward Baker, inviting
Tanner to ask his confirmation. Ask the man, he thought.
Let's both find out what Baker knows.
Baker met his eyes and held them. Harrigan thought he
saw a twinkle, as if Baker was letting him know that he un
derstood the game. Baker turned to face Tanner Burke.
“It's true as far as it goes,” he said. “Harrigan's an inves
tigator. He can investigate any department he pleases if the
use of federal funds is involved. His base is the GAO be
cause no one can fire him if he steps on the wrong toes in the
course of any of the special jobs he takes on.”