Mortal Faults (22 page)

“Brayton Hotel, just like before. Only in the lobby this time. Oh, and Jack—I want
you
to make the drop-off. Not Kip or some other low-level player. I want you to get your hands dirty, just like me.”

“How do I know you’re not setting me up? This could be some kind of sting.”

“Do I strike you as the type who works hand in glove with the police?”

“No. But I wouldn’t have seen you as the type to sell out Bethany, either. It’s pretty cold, Sinclair. You really expect me to believe you’re capable of it?”

“Brass ovaries, remember? You don’t survive in my line of work unless you’re willing to pull the trigger.”

“Like you did on Garrick?”

“No comment, Mr. Congressman.”

Reynolds studied her. “Okay. We have a deal.” He showed her an archly cynical smile. “You know, you’re a lot smarter than I thought you were.”

“Am I? Funny. You’re exactly as smart as I thought you were.” Abby picked up her plate and dumped it in a wastebasket. She headed for the door. “Thanks for the chow. Tell Stenzel I’ll let myself out.”

36

Kip Stenzel wondered why politicians never learned anything from Nixon. Despite the example of Watergate, they continued to wire their offices with electronic recording and eavesdropping equipment. His boss was no exception. In his desk he had installed a microphone and transmitter, which sent a signal to a receiver in a room down the hall. He recorded his phone calls and teleconferences with his staff in D.C., and he liked to have Stenzel available to listen in on ostensibly private conversations, as he was doing now.

The audio clarity was excellent. Stenzel heard every word of Reynolds’ discussion with Abby Sinclair. Truthfully, he’d heard more than he’d wanted to know. It was advantageous to retain some degree of deniability.

He waited until he was sure Sinclair had gone before he emerged from hiding. When he entered the office, he found Reynolds standing by his desk, talking into the phone.

“Save your breath, Ron. I’m still not interested in any excuses. But if you want another chance to redeem yourself, there may be an opportunity.”

Reynolds listened to the reply and sipped his drink. Scotch, of course. It was always Scotch, but under normal circumstances Stenzel’s boss wouldn’t have been drinking before the dinner hour, especially with fat-cat contributors in the backyard waiting to jawbone him.

“Okay,” Reynolds said. “Then meet me tonight at five thirty, one block west of the Brayton Hotel in downtown L.A. I want you driving your van. Come heavy, and come alone. You’ll need duct tape and handcuffs ... Remember that lesson in loyalty I mentioned? Well, school is in session.”

He set down the phone hard enough to shake the table, then looked at Stenzel. “You heard?”

“I heard.”

“Things are getting complicated,” Reynolds said.

Stenzel swallowed. “Maybe too complicated. Now might be a propitious time to back off, Jack.”

“Back off? How am I supposed to do that?”

“Cut our losses, walk away. Sinclair can’t prove we had anything to do with the attack on Andrea Lowry. Right now all they can get you on is some shit that happened twenty years ago.”

“That’s enough.”

“If it comes out, it’s not necessarily fatal. We can spin it. The woman’s a head case, shot her own kids, went to a mental hospital.”

“She knows enough to make her story credible. A million details. Like the boat we used to meet on. No way Sinclair could have known about that unless Bethany—I mean Andrea—told her.”

“I’m not saying we deny the affair. But it’s the past, it’s ancient history. We get Nora on board, have her stand by you, say all is forgiven. The voters figure if your wife says it’s no big deal, who are they to care?”

Reynolds downed another gulp of Scotch. “You don’t get it, Kip. She blames me for pushing her over the edge. She thinks I’m the one who drove her to shoot the kids.”

“She’s a freak. We can paint her—”

“No matter how we spin it, the media will play it their way. She bore my children out of wedlock and killed them when I broke her heart.”

“I’m not saying we won’t take a hit.”

“A hit? This will fucking
destroy
me.”

“I think you can recover.”

“Easy for you to say. If I go down, you just find some up-and-comer to latch on to, and you’re back in the game.”

Stenzel stiffened. “I don’t appreciate your questioning my loyalty, Jack.” He waited for an apology, got none, and forged ahead. “Bottom line, we’re not in too deep yet. The incident yesterday afternoon can’t be tied to you. We’re still only talking about a love affair that went south. If you take it to the next level, there’s no going back.”

“There’s never been any going back. Andrea Lowry is a problem. The way you deal with problems is you eliminate them.”

“That may be how it’s done on the streets—”

“Yeah, that’s exactly how it’s done on the streets. What kind of war do you think we’re fighting? This isn’t the one of your fucking focus groups. This is armed combat. If you haven’t got the stomach for it, then get out of the way.”

“I have the stomach for whatever is necessary,” Stenzel said quietly.

“Then shut the hell up about cutting our losses. We’re not playing defense. We’re on offense. We’re going to have Andrea handed over to us tonight.”

“According to Sinclair. You think her proposal is on the level?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So you think she aced the biker?”

“Probably.”

“I don’t get that vibe from her. She’s not a killer.”

“Anybody is a killer, given the right circumstances. And she’s a street fighter. Vigilante type. She could have offed Garrick. Definitely.”

Stenzel thought about the woman’s hard-ass attitude. It was possible, he decided. “Did you know this guy Garrick?”

“No. But the newspaper said he croaked last night—shot in the face. If Sinclair had something to do with it, or even if it only looks like she did, then she’s not lying when she says she needs to get out of town.”

“What was the phone call about?”

“Friend of mine. His particular talents are going to come in handy tonight.”

Stenzel figured he understood the game plan. The friend, Ron, would remove Andrea after Reynolds learned her whereabouts. More outsourcing. He wasn’t happy about it, but he knew the boss was in no mood for argument.

“So I take it you’ll pay Sinclair the fifty and trust her to come up with Lowry?”

“Trust has nothing to do with it. We’re not taking action only with regard to Andrea. We’re going to snuff Sinclair, too.”

Stenzel required a moment to absorb this information. Then he saw why Reynolds’ friend would be stationed near the hotel. Sinclair was his target. She would be taken out when she tried to leave. Gunned down—or maybe snatched alive. Reynolds had said something about duct tape, handcuffs. Stenzel didn’t know. He was way outside his comfort zone.

“Jack,” he said softly, in his calmest, most reasonable tone, “I understand your desire to recover your investment, but—”

“The fifty thou? I’m not worried about that, God damn it.”

“Then I don’t see the rationale for this move.”

“The rationale, Kip, is that I don’t trust Sinclair any more than you do. She may be planning to stiff me on the payment. She may have some other game in mind. She was pretty vague about the details of this handoff she’s arranging.”

“If you think it’s a con, don’t go.”

“I don’t know if it’s a con. If it is, then I intend to get Sinclair. If she’s on the level, then I intend to get Lowry—and Sinclair, too.”

“There’s something more going on here than covering your bases, Jack.”

“Damn straight there’s more. Sinclair betrayed me. She’s not getting away with it. I don’t take betrayal well. Just ask Joe Ferris.”

The name meant nothing to Stenzel. “Who?”

“Never mind. He was before your time.”

Stenzel was trying hard to focus, but he wasn’t sure he could. It had been one thing to track down Andrea Lowry and provide her address. He hadn’t had to concern himself with the end result. And he’d never even met Lowry. She was an abstraction. This was different. This was real.

“So what you’re saying is”—he spoke slowly—“you plan to, uh, terminate both women?”

“Right, Kip. That’s what I’m saying.”

“It doubles the risk.”

“It also doubles the reward.”

Stenzel knew this was wrong. From a cost-benefit standpoint, there was no justification for this course of action. It was highly unwise.

“I don’t see any percentage in eliminating Sinclair,” he said. “Just let her go. She’ll be out of town, and no one will ever find her.”

“No one will find her,” Reynolds agreed, “but not because she’s out of town. What do I have on schedule for tonight?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“I want to make sure my night is free.” Reynolds smiled. “You didn’t think I was just going to have Sinclair blipped, did you? Uh-uh. Andrea gets a bullet in the head. No hard feelings there. Sinclair is a different story. That bitch owes me a good time.”

Stenzel felt his gut tighten. He had trouble forming words. “That’s a serious error, Jack. You’re not thinking strategically.”

“Fuck strategy.”

“You’re already pushing the envelope. You want to stay as far away from the actual ... resolution of the problem as possible.”

“No, I don’t. Let me tell you how it’s going to go down.”

“No, Jack.”

“What do you mean, no?”

Stenzel turned away. “Whatever you have in mind, I don’t want to know about it.”

“You don’t want to know about it? You don’t want to know?” Reynolds flung his glass. It shattered against a wall. “You
need
to know. You’re
going
to know.”

“Okay, Jack.” Stenzel’s mouth was dry. “Okay.”

Reynolds rounded the desk and stared him down. His mouth was twisted in an indecipherable shape that could have been a grimace or a smile. His eyes were narrowed and unblinking.

“My friend grabs Sinclair and takes her to Santa Ana. He runs a motorcycle repair shop. Lots of power tools.”

With a distant part of his mind, Stenzel wondered if he had ever allowed himself to know, really know, that his employer was a sociopath. It should have been obvious. There had been more than enough hints—the mood swings from affability to rage, the inner coldness, the shameless manipulations. And on some level he had seen it. But he had never put his knowledge into words. He had never wanted to. Perhaps because he saw so much of himself in Jack Reynolds, or so much of Reynolds in him.

“Of course,” Reynolds added, “the party won’t get started till I arrive.”

“You’re saying you ... want to watch?” Stenzel asked, holding his voice level.

“Not just watch. I’m a hands-on guy.”

The images this statement suggested were more than Stenzel could stand. He tried one last time to get through. “Jack, this is not a good idea. This is one task you definitely want to delegate.”

“Wrong. I want to get up close and personal. I want to look into her eyes. I want to break her. I want her to die knowing I won and she lost.”

“Why?” Stenzel asked, hearing the inane pointlessness of the question even as he uttered it.

 
“Because I always win. Always. She should’ve remembered that. And you, too, Kip. You should remember it, too.”

“I will, Jack.”

“So we’re together on this?”

“We’re on the same page.”

“Great.” Reynolds clapped his hands, smiling—a real smile now, not a frightening parody. “Then let’s get back outside. Can’t keep my constituents waiting too long.”

He left the office. Stenzel followed slowly, telling himself not to be afraid.

37

Fast Eddie’s was essentially what Tess had expected, though at one p.m. it lacked the raucous atmosphere it would no doubt offer after dark. The pool tables were unused, most of the chairs were unoccupied, with only a few all-day drinkers lounging in the corners. Behind the bar a large man was scowling at a wall-mounted TV set that was showing an auto race.

Tess approached the bar, aware that every eye in the establishment had turned her direction—even the bartender’s, though he did his best to look uninterested. She leaned on the bar and let him take his time coming over to her. She pegged him as an ex-con—it was hard to say how, but there was something about the his physique, the prison-buffed muscles that had turned to fat, and the set of his jaw, as if he had learned to keep his feelings hidden from anyone in authority.

“You Eddie?” she asked.

“What?”

“Fast Eddie’s is the name of this place. Is that you?”

“There’s no Eddie. It’s just a name. Because of the pool tables.”

Tess didn’t get it. “Pool tables?”

“Like in the movie.
The Hustler
, Paul Newman, you know?”

She didn’t know. Was everybody in the state of California a movie nut? Maybe Abby was right. Maybe she ought to start renting tapes, or DVDs, or whatever.

“All right, then,” she said, “so what’s
your
name?”

“Don’t got one.”

“Everyone has a name.”

“All I got is a nickname.”

“What is it?”

“Biscuit.”

She looked him over. He was well over six feet tall and had to weigh in at no less than 275 pounds. “Biscuit?” she said skeptically.

“Some joker said I was only a biscuit away from weighing three hundred. Name stuck.”

“Fair enough. I’m Special Agent McCallum, FBI.” She allowed him a glimpse of her creds. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I already been asked a lot of questions.”

“They took you down to the police station, right?”

He lifted his meaty shoulders. “It’s not like I ain’t been there before.”

“And you didn’t cooperate. I’m not surprised. Why would you say anything that would get one of your buddies in trouble?”

“I don’t know what buddies you’re talking about.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t know anything at all.”

“That’s right. Now, are you gonna buy something to drink, or are you just wasting my time?”

“I don’t drink when I’m on duty.”

“Then piss off.” He started to move away.

There were a lot of ways she could handle this. Intimidation was one possibility, but she assumed that the interrogators at the police station had already given it their best shot. She decided to try sweet reason instead.

“I can’t say I blame you,” she said mildly.

He looked at her. “Blame me for what?”

“For keeping your mouth shut. The people who talked to you at the police station were working on the assumption that Dylan Garrick was killed by one of his fellow Scorpions. And you don’t want to give them anything that would help them nail one of your friends.”

“I don’t got no friends.”

“One of your customers, then. Your clientele.”

“Clientele. Fuck, I ain’t got no clientele neither. What you think this is, a fucking hair salon?” He turned aside. “I’m telling you what I told the cops. I don’t know shit about anything they was asking.”

“I believe you.”

“Then why the fuck are you still here?”

“Because I think you may know something important, only it’s not what the police were interested in. See, I’m working on a different theory of the case. I don’t think Dylan’s hit was an inside job. I don’t think the Scorpions had anything to do it. I think it was somebody else.”

This got his interest, just a little. “Another gang?”

“Not a gang. I think Dylan may have been shot by a woman he was with. A woman he picked up last night here.”

“A woman? Some hooker, you mean?”

“The woman I have in mind is more of a vigilante. A private operator with an agenda of her own.”

“This woman got a name?”

“She usually goes by Abby. She may have started a conversation with you.”

“She the talkative type?”

Tess winced. “Very.”

“We didn’t get no talkative women in here last night.”

“Last night she may not have been in the mood for talk. I think she may have been, well, stalking Dylan Garrick.” It seemed odd to imagine Abby as a stalker, yet that was the only word for it.

“Is that so?” the bartender said.

“I could be wrong. Actually, I hope I am. Maybe you can help me find out one way or the other.”

“I don’t know why you think I’d want to help you do anything.”

“Because, Biscuit, you and I are on the same side. You don’t want your friends to go down for Dylan’s murder. If I can prove somebody else did it, they’re in the clear.”

“You’re feeding me a line of bullshit. They sent you in here to work on me some more because I wouldn’t give them anything. It ain’t gonna work. So fuck off.”

“You’re difficult person to reason with.”

“Figured that out, did you?”

“You think I’m running some kind of game on you. You’re wrong. I’m not in tight with the local police or even the local feds. I’m in from out of state, and I’m pretty much on my own, just following up a hunch that nobody else needs to know about.”

“So you’re the Lone Ranger.” He snorted. “Feds never work alone. They’re like ants in a pantry. If you see one, you know there’s got to be more.”

“Ever hear of Mobius?” she asked.

He paused, confused by the change of topic. “Nutcase with the nerve gas, the one who had L.A. shittin’ its trousers a few years ago?”

“That’s right. How about the Rain Man?”

“Kidnapper, put women in the storm drains and let them drown. Yeah, I’ve heard of them both. I read the papers now and then. So what?”

“If you read the papers, you ought to remember that I was involved in both cases. I came in from out of state, just like I’m telling you. And I worked alone.”

“Show me your ID again.”

She reopened her black leather credential case to reveal her gold badge and, under plastic, her photo and signature, along with her personal agent number and the signature of the FBI director.

Biscuit hesitated, then reluctantly reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a pair of reading glasses, which he perched on his battered nose. He caught her glance and mumbled, “We’re all getting older every day.” He studied the credentials. “Fuck, what d’ya know. You
are
her. I didn’t, you know, register the name before. They got you working this piece-of-shit case?”

“It’s tied in to something bigger.”

“Huh.” He appraised her with new respect. It occurred to Tess that her supposedly legendary status in the greater L.A. area was finally working to her advantage. “So you
are
the fuckin’ Lone Ranger. You took out Mobius and that rain guy all by yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Got a set of balls on you, don’t you?”

Tess ignored the question, assuming it to be rhetorical. “So you know I’m telling you the truth when I say I’m working an angle nobody else has picked up on. I don’t care what the police wanted to hear you say. They weren’t asking you about any woman who left with Garrick last night, were they?”

“No.”

“That’s all I want to know about. Did you see Garrick leave?”

“Yeah. I saw him.”

“Did he leave alone?”

“No.”

“Who was he with?”

“You really think I’m gonna tell you?”

“I’m hoping.”

“Well, keep on hoping, but it ain’t going to happen. Shit, you think I want to see
my
name in the goddamn newspapers?”

“I’ll keep you out of it.”

“Yeah, right, you will. Until you write some fucking best-selling book about it or sell your story to cable TV. No way, darling.”

Apparently her notoriety wasn’t such an asset, after all. “Just tell me if he was with a man or a woman.”

“Hey, all I know, it was one of them cross-dressers.” Biscuit laughed. “Put that in your book, why don’t you?”

He wouldn’t talk. She had wasted her time. She handed him a card with her cell phone number. “If you change your mind,” she said simply.

He flicked the card into a wastebasket. “I won’t.”

She started to walk away. His voice stopped her.

“Hey. I ask you something?”

She turned back to him. “Sure.”

“When you whacked the bad guys—you feel good about it after? Like, was it a rush?”

“No. I only felt good that I survived.”

“Yeah. That’s how was for me, too.” She recognized this as an admission that he had killed at least once. She said nothing. “I just wondered. Because everybody else, you know, they say it’s a trip. They say it’s like getting high. And I always tell ’em I feel like that, too. But I don’t. I thought maybe it was just me.”

“It’s not just you.”

He nodded and turned his back on her. Tess wondered if she should ask again for his help. But it was useless. In the end, she was the enemy, no matter what they shared.

She asked herself if Abby, too, saw her as an enemy, to be manipulated and cajoled, but never trusted. Perhaps she did.

And perhaps, from her standpoint, she was right. Because Tess still intended to learn what Abby had done last night. She would find a way. Somehow.

And if her suspicions proved correct, she would take Abby down.