Body Guard (17 page)

Kirk was having better luck with Eckles. The realtor whose name was on the sign in front of the empty home didn’t mind answering any question she could about her client.

“He started out asking far too much for the house.” The woman was in her late thirties, smartly tailored, and had red-gold hair whose tight curls spiraled out in a wide aura around a tanned face that smiled a lot. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted. He said he could always lower the price but he’d feel like a fool if someone out there would have paid the higher figure.”

“It didn’t move, obviously.”

“No. And he waited too long to drop the price. Buyers who had been initially interested found other sellers—Denver’s a buyer’s market right now. And no one new came on the scene.”

As with a lot of realtors, the woman’s world was divided into three parts: buyers, sellers, and financiers. Kirk asked about the third. “Do you know if Eckles was having any kind of money troubles? Did he tell you why he was selling the house?”

“He was moving to San Diego. A new job, I believe.” She picked up the telephone. “I can find out about his payment history, if you want to wait a couple minutes.”

He wanted to and did. The realtor talked briskly with a mortgage company in Texas. When she hung up, the smile had been replaced by a frown. “He’s delinquent in his payments—six months. He’s paid a little each month, but nothing like what he owes. And it’s getting worse with the reverse amortization.”

“So he’s trying to dump the house.”

Her blue eyes studied the papers from Eckles’s file. “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” In the silence, he could see the woman wonder what this development would mean for any sale.

Well, that was her headache. Kirk had his own problems with Eckles. He stood and thanked her— “Oh, thank you, Mr. Kirk. I wouldn’t have found out about this if you hadn’t come in”— and drove to Arvada, one of the bedroom communities in the northwest suburbs of Denver. Eckles’s sister, a Mrs. Sybil Matson, was a short, heavyset woman whose straight gray hair had been clipped into a tight-fitting cap around her head. Her speech was equally no-nonsense.

“You’re investigating an insurance claim my brother made? He didn’t tell me about any claim.”

Kirk showed his identification and the letter of authorization from Security Underwriters. It looked even better attached as it was to the clipboard full of papers with her brother’s signature. “I’m authorized to make an inventory of his personal effects, so we can determine the extent of his loss, Mrs. Matson. I wonder if before he moved, he brought any property over here for storage.” He smiled. “You know, until he and Sharon got settled into their new place in San Diego.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, he did. I guess you know they’re in an apartment right now and don’t have much room.”

“Yes ma’am,” Kirk lied. “Mr. Eckles told me. Is it still here?”

“In the storage house out back. Mostly boxes.” The hair flipped as she jerked her head to point somewhere behind the house. “I suppose you’ll want to look at them.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll need to. The inventory should be as complete as possible.”

“Well, let’s do it then. I’ll get the key.”

She led him through a living room that was rigorously decorated with dark furniture, family photographs on the walls, and rugs set at precise angles to chairs and doorways. The wooden floor gleamed. The kitchen, small for the rest of the house, was equally at attention. The secluded backyard, with its two apple trees, two peach trees, and two plum trees, had been mowed and clipped from the high hedge on one side to the tall board fence on the other. At the end of a flagstone walk that went past a birdbath sat a small barn-shaped storage building painted and trimmed like the house.

“It’s in here. Ralph said it was stuff he didn’t want to leave in the rental place.”

“What place is that, Mrs. Matson?”

She looked up from the dial of the combination lock. “The storage rental place where he took the other stuff that we couldn’t fit in here. My husband helped him unload it.”

The door with its Z-shaped brace swung open. The crowded storage barn was lined on one side by racks for tools and garden chemicals, and on the other side by two-by-four framing that held plywood shelves. Half a dozen cardboard boxes were placed on the top shelf.

“Those are the ones. You need to open them up, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

He did. The woman stayed to watch as he inventoried the contents and filled out a list on his clipboard. One of the boxes held the missing sterling flatware and serving bowls, carefully wrapped in felt cloth and packed with small sacks of desiccant. The other boxes contained clothing and stereo components. Kirk finished his notes and resealed the boxes. “Do you know the address of the storage rental your brother used?”

“No, afraid not. My husband might remember, but he’s out on the road right now. He’s a drug salesman. Not,” she added quickly, “the illegal kind. He works for Stuart Pharmaceuticals and sells to the medical profession.”

“When will he be back?”

“Tuesday afternoon. You’re welcome to call then.”

He might not have to. A glance through the Yellow Pages under “Storage—Residential and Commercial” identified a dozen self-storage lots that were within a few miles of Eckles’s or his sister’s home. He started driving.

He had luck at the fourth address, a series of cinder-block rows painted flamingo pink and marked with white doors. The lot manager, stroking his full beard and finally accepting twenty dollars for his time, read down the list of renters and stopped at Eckles. “Ralph Eckles? That the one, man?” He read an address that was familiar.

Devlin nodded. “What unit?”

“Twenty-seven. But I can’t let you in there without a search warrant, man. I mean, you know, I can tell you who rented it, no problem. But you want to go in, you got to have a warrant. That’s the law.”

“Right you are. And if I need to get in, I’ll be back with one.”

“No problem, man.”

It wasn’t until the following morning that Kirk could reach Allen Schute in New York and tell him what he’d discovered.

“Good job, Kirk. Can you run out to San Diego and interview Eckles?”

He glanced at the wall calendar with its cramped writing scattered thinly across the white squares of days. “I think I can fit you in. You want me to squeeze him or just get a statement?”

“If you can shake something out of him, go ahead.”

“I’ll call you after I talk with him.”

Bunch came in as Devlin was about to telephone for plane reservations and a rental car to be held at the San Diego airport.

“You going to make it back by tonight?”

Devlin nodded. “I’ll take an overnight bag in case, but I plan to be back on the red-eye. Why?”

“Guess who I got a call from last night?”

Devlin couldn’t.

“Mitsuko-san. She and Humphries are eager to see you or me this evening.”

“Oh?” Devlin paused with a finger on the telephone’s cradle. “Did she say why?”

“No. But she sure as hell sounded worried. And here.” Bunch tossed a scrap of tablet paper on the desk. It held a series of brief notations. “Last night’s log from Minz’s telephone. Nothing very exciting.”

Devlin looked it over as he called the airline. Then he hurriedly gathered the Eckles papers into a zippered folder. “See what Humphries wants, Bunch. But make sure he’s telling us everything this time. See you in the morning.”

Devlin’s hurrying footsteps rang on the iron stairs, and Bunch half listened to them as he filed the Minz log and then headed for the tiny Subaru and another stint of staring at Jean Truman’s closed front door.

L
ATER,
B
UNCH STOPPED
at the health club for an hour’s sweat and strain before driving south to Humphries’ home. The exercise shook out the stiffness and boredom of surveillance, and the gyrating, Lycra-clad bodies of after-work secretaries and lady executives brightened his outlook on the world. Funny, though, how—despite pleasing the eye—none of them drew him with the hunger and excitement Susan had. And the few women he’d dated in the couple years since her death had been nice people, good times, and fond memories. But even the warmest moments of lovemaking had not touched that center where, gradually, the hole of emptiness had closed with a scab of acceptance.

He shifted down and angled the Bronco onto the long dirt road leading to the house.

No complaints—he and Susan had some time together. That was a hell of a lot more than a lot of other people ever had. But before knowing Susan, Bunch would have enjoyed a woman and, when the enjoyment ran thin, kissed her off with the usually justified belief that she knew it was coming anyway and was just as tired of him. Now he kissed them off with a sense of waste. Waste of himself, waste of them. Funny … Maybe what Dev told him had some truth: he was getting so goddamn sensitive. Bean sprouts for breakfast. Glass of Perrier and a slice of lemon for lunch. Followed by a thrilling evening at the Women’s Institute for Unisex Bonding. Bullshit. In time, someone else would come along. It wouldn’t be Susan—there had been only one of her—but, in her own way, it could be someone as good. And this time, by God, he would know what to look for. Meantime, as the wailing, nasal song said, “It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t bad.” And that one brunette jogging around the track—the one with long legs and the smooth, strong stride of a natural runner—had given him the big eye. He’d seen her before, and he just might make it a point to see her again.

As Bunch turned out the headlights, Humphries peered through the curtained windows, a target shooter’s silhouette. God preserve the innocent from their own foolishness. If there was a God and if He gave a damn about preserving anything. Bunch took a deep breath and stood for a few moments, looking. Over the range of mountains, the western sky still held the pale green of long mountain twilight. But in the east, where the yellow of autumnal prairie grass rippled like the hide of some tawny animal, the rim of earth had already rolled beneath the chill of coming night. Scattered distant lights marked the occasional houses and ranches that dotted the broad valley and plains. Carried on the warmer breeze that began to sigh up from the valley came the low of a homeward bound cow. It was nice, Bunch thought. Maybe one day he’d have enough money to live in the country. But right now he couldn’t afford it, and he didn’t really want to anyway. A week, two weeks, and he’d be bored out of his gourd and sneaking back to the city to find out what was happening along the streets. Not, to judge from Humphries’ worried eyes, that everything in the countryside was always so peaceful.

“Evening, Mr. Humphries. How’s the security equipment holding up? Everything still work okay?”

“Yes. Please come in.” His eyes searched the dusky trees beyond Bunch’s wide torso. “My wife’s in the living room.”

The large windows had been closed off by drapes. A small fire crackled deep in the recess of the moss-rock fireplace that formed one end of the room. It didn’t do much to take the chill off the early-autumn air, or the tension from Humphries’ quick gestures and nervous stride. Mitsuko Watanabe, feet curled up under her thighs, forced a smile. “Good to see you again.”

“You’re looking good too. What’s the problem? More prowlers?”

The smile disappeared. “Not yet.”

“More threats,” said Humphries. “No one’s showed up yet. But I’ve received threats.”

“What kind?”

The man chewed at a sliver of dry flesh on his lip. “I can’t tell you the whole of it. But I’m certain someone’s going to try and kill us.”

“Why are you so certain, Mr. Humphries?”

“Someone in a good position to know told us.”

Bunch sighed and settled into an overstuffed armchair covered with some kind of fuzzy nap. The soft pillows wheezed as he crossed his legs and leaned back. “Look, Mr. Humphries, if you’re in trouble, why not tell me about it? All about it. There’s not a damn thing I can do to protect you if I don’t know the players and the game. Nobody can do it that way.”

Humphries chewed again, the ticking of teeth at his lips matched by the tiny crackle from the fireplace.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Roland. There’s nothing to hide. Certainly not for my sake.” The woman scratched at a porcelain lighter and held it to the slightly quivering tip of a cigarette. “Either you tell Mr. Bunchcroft about us or I will.”

The man swallowed and sat on the other end of the couch, his knees high and elbows resting on them. “Well—ah—Mitsuko and I, we’re not married.”

“So?”

“Well, to a lot of people, I suppose it makes no difference. I know that.” Nonetheless, his expression said, it should; if it was that important to him, it should be important to Bunch. “But to her family, it’s an eternal stain. An insult to their ancestors.”

“Ancestors are very important to us in Japan, Mr. Bunchcroft. The living generation is the temporary guardian of the family’s history and pride. It’s our responsibility to go to our ancestors without having besmirched the family name.” The cigarette waved and her voice took on a note of bitterness, “We’re supposed to live for the dead instead of living for ourselves.”

“Mitsuko’s far more modern than her family. She doesn’t do justice to the intensity of their feelings. But it’s strong enough that they … they want to kill us for dishonoring the family name.”

“They said that?”

“Not directly, no.”

“We Japanese seldom do anything directly.”

“After Mitsuko first moved in with me here, we were afraid her family would try to find us. Mitsuko said—”

“My father is a very powerful man, Mr. Bunchcroft. He has many acquaintances in America. When I left New York to move out here, I tried to do it quietly. But …” The cigarette waved again.

“That’s why we wanted your help initially. In case one of her father’s acquaintances—or someone hired by her father—tried to find her.” Humphries stood and started pacing again, three steps per sentence. “That’s what we were afraid of then, but things seemed quiet.”

“So there were no prowlers. No brown car.”

“No. That was Mitsi’s idea—with my approval, of course. We had to be certain no one had followed Mitsi from New York.” Three paces. “But there could have been. You have to understand the strength of her father’s feelings about Mitsi living with a gaijin—a foreigner.”