Private Sector (25 page)

“Goddamn it, Drummond! Don’t fuck with that contract. You understand? You don’t know what in the hell you’re getting into.”

“I don’t?”

“Uh . . .” The kid was now wailing and his wife was screaming at the top of her lungs, too.

He tried speaking over them, “It’s perfectly legal. Bo—” He screamed, “Would you shut up!”

Back to me, he said, “Both parties agreed to the conditions. That’s all you or the accountants need to know.”

“What did you mean the contract’s legal?”

“No. I, uh, I just meant the partnership is . . . ah, fuck. . .” He took a deep breath, then chuckled. “Hey, Sean . . . buddy, I’m trying to be helpful here.” He paused again as the kid’s voice moved up another couple of notches, and Barry must’ve slapped his hand over the mouthpiece, but not well enough, because I distinctly heard a loud slap and his muffled voice scream, “Shut the fuck up, you little monster!”

Geez. Time to reconsider the Daddy of the Year award I had planned to put Barry in for. A woman’s voice began barking and I could hear Barry bark back, losing not a single point on the nastiness factor. I distinctly heard the words “bitch” and “asshole” before a door slammed in the background.

Silence.

Barry then said to me, “Nobody held a gun to anybody’s head, Drummond. Everything’s fucking legal, all right? Morris Networks reports the partnership in a footnote with its annual filings to the SEC. You got all that? Now, you tell the accountants to book the fucking projections.”

I had never expressed the slightest doubt about the
legality
of the partnership. Barry raised that issue all by himself.

I said, “Hey, have a nice day.”

The phone went dead.

So, this was interesting. Barry hadn’t really confessed anything. In fact, he’d denied everything. The problem was he hadn’t been asked to deny anything.

You have to wonder why. And while you’re at it, recall that the pristine name of Sean Drummond would be scribbled on the blame line for this audit. If any part of it later proved false or misrepresentative, the SEC and American Bar Association would come trolling for moi’s ass. Could it be that Barry wanted me overseeing this audit precisely because of my incompetence?

Well, this was a great deal to surmise, and Barry had been under considerable stress and pressure, and, as I mentioned, I sometimes read too much into things.

But maybe not.

I walked over to Martha and informed her that she and her buddies could safely assume the Bermuda partnership would last the next two years.

She nodded and I went back to my corner and mulled this over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A
nne Carrol was pedaling furiously and he hung back about two hundred yards behind her. The temperature was perfect, low forties, no humidity, no breeze. Fifteen miles and he had worked up barely more than a light sweat. A splendid evening for a long bike ride, in his view. She was averaging just under fifteen miles an hour, and he was confident he could pour it on and catch her at will.

Thirty minutes before, she had parked on a side street near Georgetown University, unstrapped her silver Cannondale eighteen-speed from the rack on the rear of her Jeep Wrangler, and spent ten minutes limbering up. All stretched out, she headed west on the old canal towpath that borders the brown Potomac River. The canal and towpath had been landmarks of D. C. for nearly two hundred years. At one time food and provisions were loaded onto shallow barges and hauled into the city by horses and mules. The towpath had since been converted into a trail for runners and bikers that stretched to the west for nearly twenty miles.

Traffic along the path had been thinner than normal, the result, no doubt, of the swelling paranoia about the L. A. Killer. The few young women he’d observed were biking or jogging with male companions or in packs. They were taking no chances. The killer was out there, they knew, and hungry.

As he’d been convinced she would, Anne Carrol ignored the warnings. She was too pushy and stubborn to let a killer alter her life in any way. She likely believed that sex maniacs wouldn’t be interested in her or her type. Hetero girls get all that bad crap—the unwanted pregnancies, VD, and sex sickos. Lesbians were above all that.

She biked every Sunday evening, from March through December, till it got too cold and icy. He had trailed her the Sunday before, measured her tempo, studied the terrain, and plotted his takedown. Like the week before, she went at a leisurely pace for fifteen miles, hit her turnaround, and sprinted back.

They had hit that turnaround a mile back, and the time had come.

He glanced over his shoulder, saw nobody, and kicked up his speed to twenty. Inside three minutes, he had closed the gap to a hundred yards. He studied her back and pedaled harder. When he was thirty yards away she heard him coming. A brief glance over her right shoulder, no alarm on her face, and no change to her posture or pace. She courteously steered her bike to the left, giving him more room to pass on the right.

He drew alongside, she glanced at him, and he smiled, lifted his left hand for a friendly wave, and sped past. He kept pedaling furiously until he drew three hundred yards ahead of her. He went around a sharp bend in the trail, then squeezed hard on the brakes. The rear tire skidded out to the left and he put his right foot down to break the fall.

Anne Carrol came around the bend seconds later and had to steer hard to avoid a collision. His bike straddled the path, its tires spinning. Five yards away he was laid out, limp and still.

Anne pumped her brakes to a gradual stop. She climbed off her bike and looked back at him. He squeezed his eyes shut and stayed still.

He heard her mumble, “Oh shit,” then she walked her bike toward him.

“Hey,” she yelled. “You okay?”

No answer.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

She was drawing closer and he remained rigidly still. He would wait till she was within feet of him before he would act. Too much distance and she would jump back on her bike and speed away.

He could hear her heavy breathing and footsteps. She couldn’t be far and he emitted a soft groan so she’d know he was alive. Injured and desperately in need of swift help, but alive.

Twenty or so seconds passed and he groaned again. He had given her more than enough time. She should’ve been bending over him, checking his pulse, something.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head, affecting a severely pained expression. She stood back about seven feet, had her right hand inside her butt pack and was staring down at him.

He mumbled, “I’m hurt.”

“What happened?”

“My . . . uh, my bike slid out. Please. Can you come help me?”

“Nope. Get up yourself.”

“I don’t know if—”

“Can you move your legs?”

“I, uh, I don’t know.”

She backed off another few feet, and said, “Do it. ’Cause I’m not helping you up.”

So much for the Nurse Nightingale instinct women were supposed to have. It struck him that he may have misjudged his target. He had anticipated the lesbo thing might hold unexpected twists, but such a chilling lack of compassion unnerved him.

He let loose a few anguished snorts and grunts as he pushed himself up with his arms, and drew his legs under him. She was ten feet away, but he was quick and strong. If he could get enough balance and traction, he’d be on her before she could blink.

He stole one more glance at her before he made his move— and froze. Her right hand was no longer inside her fanny pack. It hung in front of her crotch, a snub-nosed .38 Special in her grip, not pointed at him specifically, just held there, casually, barrel pointed down.

He straightened up, and brushed dirt off his shirt and legs.

She said, “Can’t be that bad, buddy. No blood.”

He looked up. “I, uh, I came down on my head. I think I was knocked out there for a minute or two.” He added, “Say, is that a gun?”

“Could be. How you feeling now?”

“Crappy.” He moved his arms and stretched his legs, rotating his joints, as though checking for damage. “First time I ever took a spill.”

“The price of bein’ a dumbass.” She added, “You were going too fast. Dirt trails, you don’t go over fifteen. You sped by me, I’ll bet, doing twenty.”

God, she was preachy and nasty. Little wonder they kept her away from juries. He said, “Yeah, guess you’re right.” He affected a frightened expression and again asked, “That, uh . . . is that a gun in your hand?”

“Yeah, it’s a gun. Ain’t made of plastic, either.”

“You’re not planning on shooting me, are you?”

“Depends.” She chuckled. “Behave, and we shouldn’t have any problems.”

“No kidding?”

“Lotta sicko assholes around. You never know.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, well, you know you don’t have to worry about me.”

He saw her eyes taking him in, but distinctly not a look of sexual fascination—a cold physical assessment. He was wearing skintight biker’s tights and a sleeveless shirt, and she would not be at all reassured by the sight of him. He was nearly six foot four, with broad, corded shoulders, thick arms, and legs that were carved with muscle. He looked like a middle linebacker.

She took another step back and asked, “And how do I know I don’t have to worry about you?”

“Because I’m . . . well, I’m gay. Sorry, you’re just not my type.”

“Gay, huh?”

“Hey, it’s not a crime.”

She nodded. “Nope, not a crime.” She pointed her jaw in the direction of his bike. “You go make sure it’s not broken.”

“Good idea.” He walked over and hefted it up. “You ever take a spill?”

“Once or twice.” She paused. “Not since I was four years old, though.”

Bitch. He lifted the bike in the air, bounced the tires on the ground, and pretended to study the frame. “Guess I was pretty stupid, huh?”

“Guess you were.”

He looked around and counted his luck that nobody had cycled past them yet. If that happened, this coldhearted bitch would get a pass for the night. He couldn’t afford witnesses who might recall the big muscular guy who was with her on the towpath. He’d have to reschedule her, and that would be very inconvenient. Would his luck hold, though? Not much longer, he gauged.

“The bike seems okay,” he said. “Not me, though. I feel real dizzy.”

“Too bad.” She nodded in the direction of Washington and added cavalierly, “Long walk back. Probably twelve miles or so.”

An idea struck him and he asked her, “You wouldn’t happen to have a cell phone in that pack, would you? I’ve got a friend, Dan, I could call and he’ll come pick me up.”

“Nope, no cell phone.”

Shit—there went his excuse to get near her. If he could just get within three or four feet, he’d get his big hands wrapped around her skinny throat. Christ, was he looking forward to snapping her neck.

“Could you at least walk with me for a few minutes? Just enough to make sure I’m okay.”

“You look okay to me.”

“Please.” He held out his arms and smiled. “Come on . . . give me a break. I’m gay and you’ve got a gun. What a combination. A few minutes?”

She coldly studied him. “What’s your name?”

“Mike . . . Mike Nelson.”

“Okay, Mike, here’s the deal. You stay on your side of the path, and I’ll stay on mine. You got that?” He nodded that he did, and she added, “Three minutes and I’m gone. The gun stays in my hand. I’m damned good with it, too. You’re awful clingy, and I don’t like that.”

“Hey, like I said, you’re not my type.” Why wasn’t she picking up on this gay angle he kept tossing out? Don’t all gay people have some kind of warm-and-fuzzy solidarity thing? He cursed himself for not studying them more closely.

He moved to the right side of the path, keeping the bike to his right, so it wasn’t between them. She moved to the left and very obtrusively positioned her bike to her right, between them. About eight feet separated them, and she held the gun near her waist where all she’d have to do was swivel her arm and drill him. He didn’t doubt that she knew how to handle it. Damned lesbo probably wore a jockstrap.

They started walking, and very friendly-like he asked, “So, what’s your name?”

“Anne.”

“Just Anne? No last name?”

“None you’re gonna hear.”

“I don’t get it. Why are you so suspicious?”

She looked straight ahead and said, “I was raped once. It was real unpleasant and isn’t gonna happen again.”

“Oh . . . I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t get raped.” She then very matter-of-factly said, “Point is, Mike, we’re out here all alone on this bike path. I don’t know you from shit. You don’t look like you took a hard spill, no blood, no scratches, and you claim you’re gay, but how do I know you’re not lying?”

He said, “Well, I—”

“Also,” she interrupted, “there was a guy out here last week, cycling behind me, looked just like you. That was you, right, Mike?”

Damn, that explained it. He’d hung far enough back that he was sure she wouldn’t see him. Must’ve happened after she hit the turnaround point. She could only have gotten a brief glimpse as they sped past each other in opposite directions. Most folks just aren’t that sharp-eyed and observant. Shit, shit, shit. He thought furiously about how to handle this. Deny it? No, that wouldn’t work. He could see in her eyes that she recalled him quite clearly.

He replied, “Yeah, I was out here last week. So what?”

“Well, I’m out here every Sunday night, and I never saw you before. Kind of an odd coincidence, right? One week you’re following me, the next . . . well, here we are.”