1 Runaway Man (7 page)

“What kind of questions?”

“Where do you live? Do you have a girlfriend? What exactly do we do here at Golden Legal Services?”

“She’s under the impression that I’m a lawyer.”

“Not a problem, Bunny,” Mom assured me. “We were purposely vague. And if you ask me she’s very nice. Not to mention a total knockout—even if she is related to Al Posner. I think you should call her.”

Rita clearly didn’t. Her disdainful silence told me so.

I said, “I’ve found Bruce Weiner, in case anyone’s interested. He’s staying at the Warfields’ weekend place on Candlewood Lake.”

“Excellent,” Mom said brightly “I’ll call Seymour and tell him.”

“Not so fast, Mom. Before we throw Bruce to the wolves I’d like to take a run up there and make sure he’s okay.”

She frowned at me. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Sara told me he tried to hang himself in high school. And Chris said he’s very upset about his relationship with Charles. The guy’s not answering his phone. For all we know he may have swallowed a bottle of pills.”

“We were hired to find him, period. I’ll pass your concerns along to Seymour.”

“Sara did me a huge solid, Mom. And she’s worried.”

“Which I can understand. But Sara’s not our client. Seymour is. And you’ll be running a huge risk if you drive up there. He might rabbit on us.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”

“How, by tying him to a chair?”

“By telling him that Sara sent me. I promised her everything would be okay. I have to make sure it is. It’s the right thing to do.”

Mom let out a sigh. “Sometimes I wish we hadn’t raised you so well. Fine, go ahead. But call me the second you make contact so I can tell Seymour. I want to button this up tonight.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“And don’t call me boss.”

Rita printed me out the most direct route to the Warfield place on Candlewood Lake. I stuffed it in my daypack and took off. Left my duffel on the office floor right where it lay. Didn’t bother to change out of my SUNY–Binghamton outfit. Just got the Brougham out of the garage and took off. It was nearly 4:00
P.M.
I was hoping to beat the evening rush hour traffic out of town. Thought I had beaten it, too, until I got onto the Cross Bronx and ran into a bumper-to-bumper crawlfest.

I was sitting there at a standstill when my cell rang. It was Sara.

“I was just going to call you, cuz. Thanks for backing my play with Chris.”

“No big, cuz. What’s up?”

“Bruce went to Chris’s house on Candlewood Lake. Charles is planning to join him there tomorrow.”

“God, that sounds
so
romantic. But why isn’t Brucie answering his phone?”

“That I don’t know. I can fill you in later. I’m heading up there as we speak to check it out.”

“Benji, where are you at this very second?”

“In da Bronx, why?”

“You can pick me up on your way, dat’s why. I’m coming with you.”

“That’s a big no, Sara. I can’t take you along.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Just for starters, Candlewood Lake’s in Connecticut. It’s against the law for me to transport you across state lines unless you’re accompanied by a parent or legal guardian.”

“The age of consent is seventeen in New York. In Connecticut it’s sixteen. Try again, liar mouth.”

“Okay, it’s like this: I’m a licensed private investigator. I’m going there on official investigative business. And you’re
not
coming with me, understood?”

“Jeez, Benji, you don’t have to go all butthead on me.”

“Sorry, you left me no choice.”

“This is my big brother we’re talking about. Will you call me when you get there?”

“Count on it.”

After I rang off I reached for my iPod and inched my way along in the gathering darkness to the original Broadway cast recording of
South Pacific
with Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza. Took the Hutch to 684, which led me into the northern exurbs of Armonk, Mount Kisco and Croton Falls. By the time I was closing in on Brewster, I was getting bleary-eyed. I needed to stretch my legs, too. Pulled off at a big highway rest station there and went inside for a cup of what they alleged to be fresh-brewed gourmet blend coffee. I milled around the fast food court and sipped it, eyes wide open. I’d had a bad feeling ever since I’d left Manhattan. The same feeling I’d had last night in Willoughby. I sensed I was being tailed. Not that I’d spotted anyone. But I still felt a tickle on the back of my neck. And I’ve learned to respect that tickle.

I got back on the road. At Brewster I picked up Interstate 84, which took me over the state line into Connecticut—where I understand the age of consent is sixteen. I got off the highway at Danbury and relied on Rita’s coordinates to navigate me through the narrow, twisting back roads to Candlewood Lake. The roadsides were banked high with plowed snow. It was desolate and pitch black out. I put my high beams on and kept them on. Absolutely no one else was out on the road. For sure not on my tail.

I couldn’t see the lake as I made my way around it. All I saw out there was blackness. Almost all of the lake houses were dark. City folk used them as summer places mostly. During the winter hardly anyone was around, particularly in the middle of the week. Just an occasional light revealed the million-dollar waterfront homes that were nestled there.

A quaint wooden sign at the edge of the driveway marked the Warfield place on Candlewood Lake Road. It was a circular driveway that was plowed regularly. The snow banks were piled at least three feet high. But it hadn’t been plowed since yesterday. Two or three inches of fresh snow blanketed the driveway. A black Honda CR-V with New York plates was parked there under that same blanket of snow. It was Bruce’s black Honda CR-V, according to the plate numbers. Apparently, he hadn’t gone out today. I pulled in behind his car and got out.

Lights were blazing inside of the Warfield house, which was a nice old shingled cottage that looked as if it had been added on to about six times. A glass-walled great room looked out over the frozen lake. Floodlights gleamed off of the pure white snow cover that sloped down to their dock. The snug guest cottage that Chris had lent Bruce was next to the dock. Footsteps in the snow led down to it. Lights were on inside. Wood smoke came from its stone chimney. It smelled good in the frigid country still of night.

I tromped my way down there. The cottage’s front door was half open. I could hear the television blaring inside. Bruce was watching the Canterbury-Syracuse game. Syracuse was ahead 42-38 with less than a minute to go in the first half.

“Bruce, my name’s Benji Golden!” I called out. “Sara asked me to stop by!”

He didn’t answer me. I heard no response. Just the ball game on the TV.

I glanced around, wondering if he’d gone up to the main house for firewood or whatever. I called out his name again. Again I heard nothing. I pushed the cottage door farther open—or tried to. It wouldn’t budge. I pushed harder. Stuck my head through the open doorway to find out why.

I found out why.

Bruce lay on the floor just inside the doorway in the fetal position with his eyes wide open. He’d been shot three times—twice in the chest, once in the forehead. The entry wounds were just like the ones I’d found once in a fifteen-year-old runaway from Raleigh named Jennie Faries. The weapon that made those wounds had been her pimp’s Glock 9-mm semi-automatic handgun.

He was still warm. Still bleeding out onto the hooked rug. It had
just
happened. Within the past ten minutes someone had pulled in, shot Bruce Weiner dead and taken off. Quickly, I looked around the cottage. It had only one room with a loft bed. A tiny bath. French doors out to a deck, bolted from the inside. There was no sign that anyone had forced open the front door. Bruce had invited his killer in. It didn’t appear to be a robbery gone bad. The flat-screen TV had been left behind. So had the Rolex on Bruce’s left wrist. Yet his laptop was missing. No way he’d be cramming for the Gauntlet without it. And I didn’t see his cell phone anywhere either.

I went back outside with a sick feeling in my stomach and headed up the path to the circular drive, stepping carefully now so as not to disturb any crime scene evidence. I fetched my flashlight from the glove compartment of the Brougham and flicked it on. Followed my tire tracks back to the road, searching for any other tire tracks that might be there in the fresh snow. Bingo. Someone else had pulled in over by the main house, parked and gotten out. I could see footprints in the snow. One set. A lone gunman. His shoe prints led from the car down to the guest house and then back again. The prints weren’t any bigger than my own. Possibly even a bit smaller. The guy was no behemoth, whoever he was. I followed his tire tracks back toward the road. He’d made a sharp left when he pulled out of the driveway, meaning he’d headed north from there toward absolutely
nowhere.
There was only one possible reason for him to head north—so he wouldn’t bump into me.

He’d
known
I was heading there. I was the one who’d led him to Bruce. I’d been his bird dog. That explained the tickle.

But how had he shadowed me?

I returned to the Caddy, climbed in ass backwards and shined the flashlight on the wiring underneath the dashboard, studying it inch by inch until I found it—a flat square plastic disc held in place with adhesive putty. I yanked the damned thing out of there. It was a voice-activated three-watt UHF transmitter. A bugging device capable of sending a radio signal roughly a mile for every watt of power. Which meant he could have been three miles behind me on the Cross Bronx and still heard every word I’d said to Sara on the phone. It was sophisticated equipment. Ran about a thousand bucks. Plus you’d need a receiver, too, and those didn’t come cheap. He must have planted it in the Brougham while it was tucked away in the garage. But that still didn’t explain how he’d known which way I was heading when I left the city. Because I
didn’t
have a tail. I got out and knelt under the car with the flashlight until I located it. A web-based GPS tracker was attached to the rear axle with magnets. The bastard had been following me by laptop. This was no goon. This was a pro who knew his trade.

I stood there in the snow, boiling with rage. We’d been set up, used, chumped, punked—whatever you want to call it. Golden Legal Services had been hired to locate Bruce Weiner so he could be taken out by a hit man.
Why?
Was his love affair with Charles Willingham
so
toxic that this harmless college kid had to be gunned down?
Who?
Was Peter Seymour behind this? Had the patrician law firm of Bates, Winslow and Seymour given the scruples-free Leetes Group the green light to murder Bruce? As I stood there, my hand clenched around the bugging devices, I asked myself what would have happened if I hadn’t stopped for that cup of coffee in Brewster. What if I’d gotten here ten minutes sooner? What if I’d been inside of that cottage with Bruce when the killer showed up? And, God, what if I’d let Sara come with me?

I smashed both devices under my heel, went out to the road and flung them deep into the woods. Then I pulled my cell out of my coat pocket. For all I knew they were bugging my calls. But I needed to use it. Besides, the damage was done.

“Did you make it up there okay?” Mom asked me when I got through to her on the office line.

“I made it.”

“Did you find Bruce?”

“I found Bruce.”

“You sound strange, Bunny. What’s the matter?”

I told her. How I’d found Bruce dead. How I’d led his killer right to him.

“Why, that no-good WASP shithead!” she erupted when she was done listening. “I am going to get him on the other line right now. Hang on, Bunny. I’ll put him on speaker.”

The lawyer’s number rang twice before I heard his burgundy baritone intone: “This is Peter Seymour.”

And heard mom say: “It’s Abby Golden. We found the Weiner boy up at Candlewood Lake.”

“You people move fast, Mrs. Golden. I’m impressed. I was just sitting down to dinner. Could we continue this after I’ve?—”

“He’s dead. Somebody shot him.”

Seymour fell silent. “Dear God.…”

“But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Whatever do you mean by that, Mrs. Golden?”

“I demand to know who your client is.”

“That’s privileged information. You know that.”

“Here’s what I know,” she shot back. “You won’t get away with this. We won’t take the fall for you. My mother didn’t raise no patsies. And Benji’s mother sure as hell didn’t.”

“Madam, I assure you that I have—”

“Don’t ‘madam’ me, you
momser
. You played us. Benji found the bugs in our car.”

“Has he spoken to the Connecticut State Police yet?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I’d appreciate it if he kept our firm’s name out of this—as a professional courtesy.”

“Not a chance. We’re telling them chapter and verse.”

“I wouldn’t advise that, Mrs. Golden.”

“Guess what? I don’t take advice from lying snakes. I didn’t like you from the second you walked in this office. I just liked that nice, fat check from your so-called Aurora Group. I should have smelled it for what it was—blood money.”

“Does that mean you’re returning it?”

“Hell, no. We earned every penny of it.
And
the twenty-five thou bonus you promised us. I’m expecting a certified check for the full amount on my desk by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. If it’s not here, I’m suing your ass. And don’t
ever
call us again, hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Mrs. Golden. Are we done now?”

“We’re done. What are you having for dinner?”

“Steak au poivre.”

“I hope you choke on it.” She hung up on him. “Bunny, are you still there?”

“Still here,” I said, standing there in the frigid snow.

“Have you phoned it in?”

“Not yet.”

“Make the call. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

CHAPTER THREE

“LET’S GET ONE THING STRAIGHT RIGHT AWAY,
tough guy. I don’t like anybody trying to tell me how to run my investigation.”