The Ethical Assassin: A Novel (29 page)

“Bobby, I have no idea what you mean.”

Bobby let out a sigh. “The reporter,” he said. He then looked at me with a kind of “I dropped the bomb on you, baby” smile.

“The reporter? What about the reporter?”

“The guy from
The Miami Herald.
He’s in the Gambler’s room.”

That sounded like bad news. Hick cop Jim Doe might be too stupid and too invested in his own crimes to figure out what the hell had happened with Bastard and Karen, but a reporter from
The Miami Herald
was something else entirely. But if I had reason to be afraid, I didn’t know why Bobby had reason to be angry.

“What does this have to do with me?”

“I thought you were too smart to stab me in the back. Especially after everything I did for you. And if you’re not going to be too smart to stab me in the back, I’d hope you’d at least be smart enough to cover your own ass. Did you even tell the guy you weren’t supposed to help him out? If you had, he might not have come knocking on the Gambler’s door.”

“Bobby, this is all a big mistake, and when I meet this guy he’s going to tell you it was all a big mistake. Believe me, I have no interest in talking to any reporters.”

“Sure,” Bobby said.

We were now outside the Gambler’s door. Bobby gave it a curt, irritated knock, and in an instant the Gambler opened up. He flashed a murderous glance and mouthed something that I couldn’t quite get.

Sitting near a glass table by the far window sat a man in a white linen suit with a black T-shirt. His eyes were hidden behind his glasses, but I had the feeling he wasn’t looking at me. Not really. I thought that odd, and I thought that he didn’t look like any reporter I had ever seen. Not that I’d ever seen any in real life, but this guy was way more
Miami Vice
than
Lou Grant.

When the door opened wider I saw another man, sitting on the opposite side of the glass table. A steno pad rested against one folded knee, and he twirled a felt-tip pen, fingers twitching with desire to write. This clearly was the reporter.

It was Melford.

Chapter 30

I
STARED AND STARTED TO SPEAK,
but I checked myself. I’d never asked what Melford did for a living, and he might as well be a reporter as anything else. He might as well sell me down the river as anything else, too. But the thing was, Melford wasn’t going to screw me over lightly, not when we knew each other’s secrets the way we did. At least that’s what I had to assume.

So the best thing to do was to sit tight and follow Melford’s lead and hope to hell this thing didn’t turn out to be the total disaster it looked like.

Bobby took a seat on the dresser, the Gambler on the bed. I eyed the older man with the linen suit, to whom I hadn’t been introduced. I had the sense that this guy was important, that he was maybe beyond names or something scary like that. Like maybe this was B. B. Gunn.

“So, you’re Lem,” Melford said, standing up. “Melford Kean. It’s finally nice to meet you in person.” He held out a hand. His hair had been combed back. He looked almost like a regular person, though a tall and pale one.

We shook. “Um, we’ve never met before in any form. In person or out of person.”

“Lem,” Melford said with a grave voice. He shook his head as he sat back down. “It’s clear to me now that you weren’t supposed to talk to me. If during our phone conversations you had told me that, I wouldn’t have betrayed your confidence. But you didn’t tell me, did you?”

“I haven’t told you anything about anything,” I said. “We’ve never spoken.”

“Let’s be honest,” Melford said. “There’s no point in lying.”

I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Should I go along with him or not, though not going along with him would have involved exposing my connection to the murders. But there was something encouraging in Melford’s eye, and I was almost certain he wanted me to keep going the way I had been.

“Look, I’m sure you’re very good at your job,” I said, “but there’s some fundamental mistake here. I’ve never spoken to you about my work. I’ve never spoken to you about selling encyclopedias. And I’ve never spoken to you on the phone.”

Melford shook his head. “I’m sorry I got you in trouble, but denying it isn’t going to help. I think maybe you should tell us why you called me in the first place. Maybe we can hash out some of your complaints in front of these guys. In any case,” he offered with a self-satisfied smile, “I’d like to hear how they respond to what you have to say.”

I was floundering. I didn’t know what Melford expected of me. Should I keep denying the charges? Would that be enough? And why the hell would he do this to me without giving me a heads-up?

“You need to listen to me,” I said. “There’s been a mistake.”

“Jesus fucking dick,” the Gambler snapped. “B.B., what do you want to do with this asshole?”

The man in the linen suit looked up. “I don’t really know. I’m waiting for Desiree to call me back. I want to talk to her before I make any decisions.”

The Gambler snorted at me. “I’m getting sick of hearing you deny it. You’ve spoken to him, and we know it. Now, say whatever it is you want to say so we can tell him what bullshit it is.”

“Well, I think maybe we should go a little more gently with Mr. Altick,” Melford suggested. “The fact is, he was shy enough about talking to me in the first place that he disguised his voice on the phone.”

I suddenly felt like I was being prompted. “Disguised my voice?” I asked.

“Yeah, it was a pretty good job. You sounded totally different with your southern accent and all. It was very convincing. And your lisp.”

And that’s when I almost got it. I hadn’t realized that Melford had overheard enough of my encounter with Ronny Neil and Scott to have picked up on it, but clearly he had. I still had no idea
why
he was doing this, but at least the
what
was clear. “I don’t have a lisp.”

“I can see that now.”

“Hold on one second,” Bobby said. “The guy who called you had a lisp.”

“That’s right.”

“Did he have kind of a high-pitched voice?”

Melford nodded. “Now that you mention it.”

“Fuck,” Bobby said.

“Scott Garland, that piece of shit,” the Gambler said.

“I don’t get it.” Melford looked at them blankly.

“You fucking asshole.” The Gambler slammed his palm down hard on the table and then jabbed a finger in my direction. “Did you have to piss him off so much that he’d do something like this to get back at you?”

“I think,” Bobby proposed, “that you may be taking this out on the wrong person.” He looked at me. “I owe you an apology, Lemmy. I should have known you wouldn’t do something like this.”

“Give me a fucking break,” the Gambler groaned. “Get out of here,” he told me.

“Wait,” B.B. said. “I don’t get it.”

“If I could suggest something else about Scott and Ronny Neil—,” I began, but I didn’t get any further.

“Get the fuck out of here!” the Gambler shouted again. And I did.

From the railings I could see Chitra down at the pool, drinking a tall boy and laughing at something that Yvette from Jacksonville was saying. No sign of Ronny Neil or Scott, and I had a feeling that the two of them would be disappearing pretty soon. The Gambler wasn’t going to take this lightly.

Melford’s ruse had been brilliant. He’d taken the heat off me while putting it onto my enemy. Granted, this would have been a lot better if he had warned me. But maybe not. Maybe Melford could tell that I wasn’t built for this kind of deception and that preparation would only have made things seem false.

None of that explained why he would bother to show up at all. To help me exact petty revenge against Ronny Neil and Scott because he’d seen them picking on me? It didn’t ring true.

I glanced down at Chitra once more. I wanted to get that room with her, more than ever. But first I needed to make a call.

Back in my room, I dialed the number and a weary-sounding
Miami Herald
operator picked up. I asked if there was such a thing as a night desk editor. I hadn’t known that I was aware of any such position, but there clearly was, because without responding the operator put me through to a ringing line.

In a second, a woman picked up the phone and mumbled her name with a fatigued slur. Something McSomething.

“I don’t know if you can answer this,” I said, “but I’m calling from outside of Jacksonville, and I’m wondering if you have a reporter named Melford Kean on staff.”

The woman laughed. “Kean, huh? What’s the trouble?”

My stomach did little loops. I was on to something. “No trouble. I’m just wondering is all.”

“Kean,” she said again. “Is he bothering you? Please tell me he’s bothering you.”

“He’s not bothering me. Just confusing me a little.”

“Yeah, he’s good at that.”

I thought for a second. What exactly did I hope to learn? “What story is he working on?”

She laughed again. “What is he working on, or what is he supposed to be working on? Anything is possible with that guy.”

“But he is a reporter at your paper?”

“Yes, like it or not, he is.”

“And you don’t like it?”

“Nah,” she said, moderating her tone. “The kid’s great. Just a little weird. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do a decent job, when he puts his mind to it. Or goes after the story he’s assigned. Or makes deadline.”

“That bad?” I tried to sound sympathetic, like the kind of person to whom she would want to open up. “How does he keep his job?”

“This is where being a pampered, overeducated rich kid comes in handy for him. He’s the son of Houston Kean, a big shot in the business community here. The guy owns about a million car dealerships and he advertises a ton with us. A ton. So if the publisher wants this big advertiser’s son to remain employed . . .” She paused for a few seconds. “It’s late and I’m cranky. Forget I said any of that.”

“Sure. No problem. But can you tell me what story he’s working on?”

“I guess so. I mean, why not, right? There are two things. One I can’t tell you about except that we got a tip from another reporter, one who didn’t want to take the story herself. A woman who works for one of the local TV stations, but her beat is supermarket openings and celebrity visits, so she passed it along. There’s some funny business going on in a trailer park near Jacksonville. But that happened after Kean already left for Jacksonville, and it’s about as much as I can tell you.”

“And the other story?”

“Get this,” she said, as though we were old friends. “Pets. There’s been a string of dog and cat disappearances in the area, and he went down to investigate. Pets. A hot piece of investigative journalism. He’s been working on the story for three weeks, and he’s yet to file a single paragraph. It’s like he wants to get fired. I don’t get this guy.”

I got him. I got him with no trouble, because suddenly everything started to make sense. Well, not everything. But some things, and that was an improvement.

I was not about to waste any time. I ran down the stairs and found Chitra still in midchatter with a small cluster of friends. She looked happy and radiant, as though the business with Ronny Neil had never happened. That was bad. I wanted her to be afraid.

I took her hand. “Come on,” I said as I yanked her up. “We have to go.” I pulled her by the hand into the little building with the registration desk. “I need a room,” I told Sameen, who appeared very disturbed that I was still holding on to Chitra.

“Yes, certainly,” he mumbled.

“Sameen, I need it to be on the far side, by the parking lot. As far away from the Educational Advantage Media group as possible.” I took out my wallet and put three twenties on the desk. It was half the money I had on me, and I hoped I wouldn’t need it later. “This is a secret. You understand, sir? There’s a man in our group who tried to hurt this young lady tonight. I’m trying to put her somewhere she’ll be safe.”

The look on his face changed considerably. He slid the money back toward me. “I do not need to be bribed to do the right thing,” he said softly. “You are a good boy to help her.”

I blushed, since I didn’t feel like an especially good boy. “Thanks.”

I grabbed the key and, still holding her hand, half jogged around to the back of the motel, where we found the room. I opened the room, led Chitra inside, and shut the door softly, as though afraid to alert anyone.

“That’s some story,” Chitra said. She turned on the light and began to look around, as though the room might somehow be different from the one she was already staying in. The one with all her clothes, I thought.

I took her hand again and kissed her swiftly on the lips. “Listen, Chitra, there’s a lot going on and more than I have time to tell you. I need to go somewhere, and it is a little dangerous. I don’t want you to open the door for anyone but me. And if I’m not back by meeting time tomorrow morning, don’t wait for them to come looking for you. Call a cab and get out of here. Go to the bus station. Just go home.”

“What is this about? Ronny Neil can’t be that dangerous, can he?”

I shook my head. “It’s not about Ronny Neil. Not the way you mean. I think this whole operation, Educational Advantage Media—all of it—is a front for something else. I don’t know what, exactly, but it involves drugs, and there are some pretty high-powered guys involved, and people have already been hurt. Don’t trust any of the bookmen, especially not the Gambler. Bobby might be okay, but I’m not sure enough to tell you to trust him.”

“Are you serious about all of this?”

I nodded. “I wish I weren’t.”

“Let me come with you,” she said.

I laughed, a stupid guffaw of air. “It’s not a movie, Chitra. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t want to take you along for the fun of watching me try to figure it out. I just want you to be safe, that’s all. That’s how you can help, by being safe.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“Remember, don’t let them come looking for you. If I’m not back by nine tomorrow morning, call a cab and go.”

“Okay.”

“And give me your home phone number,” I said. “In case I’m not dead, I want to call you.”