The Enemy Inside (12 page)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Finally, a denial.

“Our client has identified you by photograph as the person who invited him to the party and who gave him the note with the location. He has said nothing to the police as yet. But if you refuse to cooperate, he’ll have no choice.”

“I . . .”

“Don’t say anything, not yet. Just listen,” I tell her. “Our client has also described in particular detail that tattoo on your leg.” She looks down over the hem on the bottom of her micro-mini, one hand absently touching her naked thigh. “If you like, we can take the cops and have them talk to the artist who put it there. The man has a photograph of the tattoo with your name on file.”

“So what?” she says.

Two bullets and she is still holding up. I am running out of ammunition. “Now if you like, we can take the fingerprints we lifted off the note, the one with the directions to the party, and give those to the police as well.” I lie. It’s a whopper, but it stops her in her tracks like a dumdum round.

“You know what the cops are going to think?”

She shakes her head rather nervously.

“That you were part of this from the beginning. If the evidence we have is accurate, the victim in this case was murdered.”

The M word pushes her over the edge. “I don’t know anything about any murder. I didn’t drug anybody,” she says.

I turn and look at Herman. “I told you so. Herman here believed you were part of it. I told him I didn’t think so, that they probably used you just like they used our client. Hired you and didn’t tell you a thing. Didn’t I, Herman?”

“Got me there,” says Herman. “Owe you ten bucks,” he says.

By the look of relief on her face she would gladly front him the money for the wager right now. “That’s right,” she says. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Who?” I ask.

“The man with the cane.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know. He never gave me a name. If he did, I don’t remember. Besides, everybody lies about that.” She would be an expert on this.

“But he did hire you to deliver the note?”

If I listen closely I can hear the tinkle of crystal as she shatters.

“Yes, but that’s all,” she says. “He gave me the note and told me who to give it to. He said it was a joke . . .”

“Tell me about him, the man with the cane.”

“I don’t know. He was maybe sixty, sixty-five, older guy,” she says. “Well dressed. Gray hair. He carried this cane, looked silver, you know, on the handle. Some kind of a bird. I don’t know. He gave me the note and a picture of this young guy, your client, I guess. I mean, if anything happened, I’m really sorry,” she says.

“Go on.”

“Well, that’s it,” she says.

“How much did he pay you?”

She swallows hard enough that I wonder if the gum went down. “I don’t remember,” she says.

“Maybe if the police ask it might jog your memory.”

“All right,” she says. “Two thousand . . . twa . . . twenty-five hundred dollars.”

Herman whistles. “FedEx is gettin’ screwed,” he says. “You think maybe their delivery people need shorter skirts?”

“We’ll put it in the suggestion box,” I tell him. “Where did you meet this guy, the older one with the cane? At the club?”

She nods, quick vertical head movements like the spring-bound head of one of those plastic puppies mounted on a dash.

“How many times did you meet him?”

“Once. Only the one time.”

“Upstairs or down?”

She knows what I mean. “We went up into one of the private rooms. He bought some champagne. You have to do that if you’re gonna go there.”

“Mm-hmm, go on.”

“We talked, that’s all.”

“He gave you the note, the picture of our client, and told you that you could find him where?”

“In front of the building where he worked.”

“He gave you that address as well. Did he write it down?”

“No. I knew the place. Big plaza downtown. I shop there sometimes.” She stops abruptly, glances toward the ceiling like a lightbulb just exploded and says, “You know, maybe you can get his fingerprints?”

“Whose?”

“The man with the cane,” she says. “You know, off the note.”

“I’ll work on that,” I tell her. “Did he say anything else?”

She thought for a moment. “Let’s see. He told me to give him the note. Invite him to the party. Tell him I would meet him there.” She ticks them off with her fingers counting them off like it’s a checklist, your five basic steps on how to hook the horny male. “And, oh, yeah, I forgot,” she says. “He told me that I was supposed to tell him that if anyone tried to stop him at the door, you know, the party . . .”

“Yes.”

“That he was supposed to be seated at Mr. . . .” Her voice trails off. She freezes up for a second like she can’t remember, then suddenly she smiles and says, “Mr. Becket. That’s it. That was the name. That he was supposed to say that he was to be seated at Mr. Becket’s table.”

“That was the name he gave you? Mr. Becket?”

“Yes. That was it.”

“Do you think he was Becket? The man with the cane?”

“I don’t know.” She says it with a lilt as if answering this is beyond her pay grade.

“You didn’t know anything about this party?”

“No.”

“Twenty-five hundred bucks seems like a lot of money,” I tell her.

“Listen. He told me it was a joke, on a friend. I had no idea,” she says.

“We’re going to need a written statement for the police.”

“The police?” she says. “I don’t want to get involved with the police.” She starts to get up from the bed.

I’ve said the P word—plague, police, it’s all the same thing to her.

“It’s the only way you can clear yourself,” I tell her. If I couch it in self-interest maybe she’ll sit down again. “Tell them what you know. That you had no idea what was going on. Otherwise they may think you’re involved.”

“I’m not talking to any cops,” she says. “I do that, I’ll lose my job.”

“OK. All right. But you can give
us
a written statement.”

She thinks about this. “I suppose. On condition that I don’t have to talk to the police.”

“Fine,” I tell her, as if a signed affidavit under penalty of perjury won’t have them knocking on her door.

“You said you were willing to pay.” Brutus standing at the end of the bed inserts himself as her business manager.

“Only if we have to,” I tell him. “It would be best if we didn’t. For our client as well as for Ben.”

She shoots me a startled look, surprised that I know her name.

“For legal reasons it would be better if no money changed hands on this.”

“No. That ain’t gonna work,” he says. “You’re gonna have to pay. Don’t tell them anything more and don’t sign anything. Not ’til we see the color of their money.”

“Who am I talking to, you or her?” I look up at him.

“Right now you’re talking to me,” he says.

“And what is it exactly that
you
can tell us that might be helpful?”

“I can tell you to jam it up your ass,” he says.

“Hey, hey. None of that,” says Herman.

“Tell your monkey man here to put a cork in it.” He looks at Herman and rolls the bow in his neck until it looks like a python crawled under his jacket.

“You know, we can go outside and monkey man here can get a hammer and fix that for ya,” says Herman. “What you need’s a good spinal adjustment and a colonic.”

“Who’s gonna do it? You?”

“Jeff, that’s enough!”

He looks at her. The muscles in his jaw relax just a hair so that he is no longer crushing his molars.

“I know what he wants. How much are you willing to pay?” she asks.

We’re back to this.

“What we talked about earlier.”

“Twelve-fifty?”

I nod.

She looks at him.

He gives her an expression as if to say, “it ain’t much” even though he was willing to sell her body for it ten minutes earlier. “Where’s the money?” he asks.

“At my bank,” I tell him. “The ATM.”

“See? They don’t even have the cash,” he tells her. “How were you gonna pay her for her services?” He turns this on me.

“I wasn’t.” He still doesn’t get it.

FOURTEEN

A
pimp and his ride,” says Herman. He is glaring at the shiny new black sports car that Ben and her boyfriend slip into out in the parking lot as we get ready to leave the motel.

It grinds on Herman as we settle into the worn seats of my beat-up Wrangler to lead them to the office. I have called ahead. Brenda, who was working late, is waiting for us so she can type up the affidavit. It is best that we get this done now, without any delay. The longer the girl thinks about it, the greater the danger that Ben may come down with a case of second thoughts and disappear. That or Midas her manager may get greedy and up the price. We need to strike while we still have the scent of money to hold their interest.

“First the bank,” I tell Herman.

He is driving my car, leaving his Buick parked back by the club. We can pick it up later. Herman hasn’t had anything to drink. Besides, I’d rather not make it a parade to the office.

We loop around and head east on Narragansett, back toward the airport and I-5. Herman glances in the rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure they are following us.

“You think you can find this guy Becket?” he asks.

“I am hoping that maybe we won’t have to.”

“Told you,” says Herman.

I am starting to fall under the sway of his original notion, that if we give the police a strongly worded affidavit and then lead them quickly to the witness, that she may go to pieces in front of them, enough to convince them she is telling the truth. If that happens, the entire case may disappear. They will dump the charges on Ives and we can go back to afternoon naps in the office.

“What do you think a car like that runs?”

I look over and catch Herman checking out the sleek black luxury sports car in the mirror. There is a look of lust in his eye and it is not for the woman in the front seat.

“I don’t have a clue,” I tell him. “Never shopped for one. As you might have guessed, I’m not into cars.”

“I’d like to be,” says Herman. “That one, the series, the wheel package, leather interior, navigation . . . think it comes in a convertible hardtop?”

“Beats me.”

“I think that one’s a convertible hardtop.” Herman convinces himself. “Fully tricked out, trip the meter, I’m guessing six figures. You’re talkin’ a hundred, maybe a hundred and ten thousand you get the little brass cup holders. We’re definitely in the wrong business.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” I tell him.

“I wonder if he pays any taxes.”

I don’t say anything.

“You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

“What?”

“You know he’s takin’ all the money from the girl, don’t you? Probably got a stable of ’em to boot. He can afford a car like that, she’s gotta be givin’ him beaucoup bucks.”

“And your point is?”

“Say we feed him to the IRS?” Herman looks over at me with a gleam in his eye. “No. No, listen,” he says. “They tell me you get ten percent of whatever the wolf man gets in back taxes and penalties. That’s probably more than you make in a year. More than I make in a decade. Besides, what’s he gonna do with a car like that, they ship him to Terminal Island. What I hear, they don’t let you drive there. He ain’t gonna need that car,” says Herman. “Pick it up for chump change. And besides, you be doin’ her a favor.”

“You know, Herman, that’s what I like about you the most.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve got such a big heart, always looking out for orphans and defenseless women,” I tell him.

He laughs.

“Let’s not forget the bank.” If he blows past that stop there is going to be a lot of gnashing of teeth and noisy disappointment from the car behind us.

We work our way toward Harbor Drive, swing onto it and head toward downtown. As we approach the airport, we pick up speed. By now the rush hour is ebbing. We roll along in front of the airport doing forty, catching all the lights. Herman has them timed.

“Where’d they go?” He’s looking in the mirror.

“What?”

“They’re gone.”

I turn and look. “No, they’re not. They’re in the inside lane.” They are just behind us in the lane to our right, the hood of the dark sports car moving up on us, sitting in Herman’s blind spot, in the gap between the rearview and passenger-side mirrors. Herman keeps stealing glances into the glass but he still can’t see them. “What’re they doin’ out there? Why don’t they stay behind us?”

As he says it, the car pulls forward until it is even with us. Herman is gaining speed. I glance at our speedometer. He is doing fifty.

“Slow down!”

I look over at the other car and the hulk behind the wheel is looking down trying to do something with one of the controls on the dash while he steers with the other hand. Suddenly he turns and looks directly at me through the driver’s-side window. There is a quizzical expression on his face, something between surprise and panic. He yells at me, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.

The girl in the passenger seat is terrified. She looks at me, her eyes two huge ovals as she struggles for a handhold on the leather seat. The roar of the accelerating engine as it’s jammed into passing gear sounds like a jet heading down the runway. The girl’s hair streams back around the headrest, her body thrust deep in the seat by the sudden force of the acceleration. The last vision I get of either of them. They rocket past the entire line of cars in our lane.

“What the hell?” says Herman. “Is he crazy?”

“Stay with them,” I tell him.

“Are you kidding? He’s gotta be doin’ ninety.”

“Follow him!”

Herman jerks his head to check the blind spot and gooses the Jeep into the right lane. He picks up speed, weaves in and out of a few cars.

I watch the black car as its taillights fade into two dim red specks in the distance. Herman is getting up on seventy by the time I see the traffic light up on the Pacific Highway maybe a quarter of a mile away. The light is red. There is a growing line of cars stopped in both lanes. I can’t tell if Ben and her boyfriend are there.