The Faberge Egg (9 page)

“Don’t worry, you’ll be drunk in plenty of time,” Goody promised as he approached with Sullivan’s drink.

“And give Judge Brennan a drink on me,” Sullivan said, with a wave to the man huddled over the end of the bar.

“The judge is passed out,” Goody said, slamming Sullivan’s drink on the bar.

“Then put one in front of him so he’ll see it when he wakes up - he’ll think it’s fuckin’ Christmas.”

“No more for the judge,” Goody said. “And if you’re askin’ about McGuffin’s new job or his daughter, forget it, he ain’t talkin’.”

“We’re not talkin’ about his daughter, we’re talkin’ about his ex-partner’s daughter,” Sullivan said, reaching for his drink.

“Miles Dwindling’s daughter? What’s he want with her? I’d ask him myself except it’s none of my business.”

“I’m looking for something, and she might know where it is,” McGuffin answered wearily.

“What?” Goody asked.

“An egg.”

“You see what I mean?” the barkeep asked, thrusting a thumb in McGuffin’s direction. Then he turned and walked away, muttering, “Ask a civil question and whattaya get?”

“Hey, Amos, why you abusin’ the old man?” Sullivan asked.

“I’m not abusing him. I’m really looking for an egg.”

“An egg,” Sullivan repeated.

McGuffin sighed. “Have you ever heard of the Fabergé eggs?”

“You mean that salty shit you put on crackers?”

McGuffin shook his head.

“Don’t know how people can eat that shit,” Sullivan said, lifting his glass.

“The egg I’m looking for is worth a few million dollars,” McGuffin informed him.

Sullivan halted the glass inches from his lips. “No shit?” McGuffin nodded. “You mean it’s some kind of fuckin’ jewelry or somethin’?”

“Exactly.”

“Hmm,” Sullivan said, considering so grand a sum. Not even a New York narc could knock down that kind of scratch. “So what’s this got to do with your ex-partner and his daughter?”

McGuffin pushed his fingers through his hair and looked at the cop. “It’s a complicated story,” he warned.

“Goody, another drink!” Sullivan called. “On, McGuffin!”

McGuffin lifted his glass of soda, changed his mind and replaced it on the bar. “Shortly after I went to work for Miles, he was hired by a guy named Otto Kruger to steal the egg from his ex-boyfriend, Klaus Vandenhof, which he did. But Miles apparently decided to keep it for himself, so he told Otto he had returned it to its rightful owner, and that’s when Otto killed him.”

“And Dwindling had the egg in his possession at that time?” the cop questioned.

“He must have, but I haven’t been able to find it.”

“So how come you only got around to lookin’ for it now?”

“That’s the complicated part. For eighteen years, Otto Kruger wastes away in the Napa Hospital, thinking Vandenhof still has the egg. He’s also a little annoyed at me for putting him away, so the first thing he does when he gets out is abduct my daughter and her mother.”

Sullivan stared uncomprehendingly at the detective for a moment before inquiring dully, “Whattaya mean, ‘abducted’?”

“Just that,” McGuffin answered. “He came to Marilyn’s apartment last Sunday night, and he took them away. He left this,” McGuffin said, passing the yellowed newspaper clipping to the cop. Sullivan read while McGuffin continued. “So I went to Vandenhof and asked him to help me find Kruger, which he agreed to do, if I would get his egg back from Otto.”

“But Otto doesn’t have it,” Sullivan said, looking up.

“Right.”

“He thinks Vandenhof’s got it.”

“Exactly. And when Otto realized that Miles still had the egg when he killed him, he had a sudden change of plan. He offered to trade me Marilyn and Hillary for the egg.”

“I see,” Sullivan said, testing the bristles on his chin. “And you think Miles must have somehow got the egg to his wife before he was killed.”

“Ex-wife,” McGuffin corrected. “There was no love lost between the two of them. If Miles gave her the egg, it was meant to be in trust for his daughter.”

Finished reading, Sullivan handed the clipping back to McGuffin. “You’re right. It’s a fuckin’ complicated story. You want my advice?”

“Does it matter?”

“Let me call in the feds.”

“Shit,” McGuffin said. “We’re talking about two human beings, not a stolen car.”

“All right, they can fuck up, but so can you, Amos. You don’t know where Ivey Dwindling is, or if she ever even had that fuckin’ egg. And even if she did, what makes you think she hasn’t sold it by now?”

“I realize what I’m -”

“How much time you got?”

“Until Monday.”

“Monday? Not even a fuckin’ week! You got any idea where Kruger’s keepin’ ‘em?” McGuffin shook his head. “Where’d you see him?”

“At the Hauptmann Vineyard in St. Helena - but they’re not there.”

“How do you know, did you search the place?”

“No. But I know they’re not there,” McGuffin insisted.

“How do you know?” the cop persisted.

“I know because Kruger told me they weren’t there.”

Sullivan stared incredulously at the detective. “What, are you fuckin’ nuts, McGuffin?”

“I know, I know -!” McGuffin interjected before the cop could further question his sanity or judgment. “I thought about it, and I’m sure he’s telling the truth for two reasons. First, he’d have to be crazy to take his hostages to his own house, and -”

“And he’s not crazy?” the cop interrupted.

“Not that way. And second, if they were there, he would have shown them to me because it would only have strengthened his hand.”

“Yeah?” Sullivan asked, unconvinced. “There’s also a third possibility, you know.”

“I know,” McGuffin replied soberly. “And I want you to remember, in case you have to testify at my trial, that I said to you here in this bar tonight, that if Otto Kruger were to murder my ex-wife and daughter, I could find it in my heart to forgive him.”

Sullivan shook his head sadly. “Let me call in the feds, Amos.”

“No,” McGuffin said. “At least not yet.”

“When? How long you expect a fuckin’ nut case to remain patient?”

“Vengeance is the only thing that keeps him going. First it was me, now it’s Vandenhof. As long as Kruger thinks I have the slightest chance of finding the egg, he’ll be patient,” McGuffin assured the cop. “But if he gets even an inkling that the FBI is in on this, Marilyn and Hillary are finished. He’ll never spare them to save himself. The only thing he wants from life now is to avenge himself on his old boyfriend.”

“Such is the power of love,” the big cop intoned. “So whattaya want from me now?”

“Patience,” McGuffin said. “And keep looking for Ivey Dwindling.”

“If she’s alive, I’ll find her,” Sullivan promised, as Goody placed a third drink in front of him.

“If who’s alive?” Goody asked.

McGuffin looked at Sullivan and shook his head, the signal for silence. Then unthinkingly, he reached for the last of his club soda and knocked it back without thinking. He grimaced at the unexpected taste, then turned and hurried out of the bar.

He declined the proffered cab and walked instead to Tadich’s restaurant in the financial district, an old establishment with good food and surly waiters, popular with the locals, and scrupulously avoided by tourists. He saw several familiar faces, divorced men dining alone, but merely nodded as he was led to a table at the back of the room, anxious to be alone and able to think. He ordered without much thought the pork loin special with baked potato and vegetable of the day.

“What do you want to drink?” the waiter demanded.

McGuffin sighed. “Calistoga water.”

The waiter jotted this down and hurried away, leaving McGuffin to contemplate the bottle of Pinot Noir on the next table. How well it would go with the roast pork. But no, I must have my wits about me. Still, a bit of wine can often set the mind dancing to the music of deep thought, he argued. And in his present condition, it would only serve to relax and ensure him a good night’s sleep so that he might awaken fresh in the morning, eager to solve the task at hand. Or one bottle could lead to another, followed by a hangover and a wasted day. Fairly and objectively, McGuffin presented both sides of the argument to himself, then made his decision. When the waiter next appeared, he called, “May I see the wine list?”

A short while later, with one glass of Pinot Noir under his belt, the ideas began to come. He thought of hiring a private investigator who specialized in missing persons, then wondered if it was somehow improper for one PI to hire another. Except for the damage to his ego, there seemed no reason not to do it. It was an idea he would keep in reserve. He could also place a personal ad in several newspapers across the country, offering a reward for information leading to Ivey Dwindling. After the second glass of wine, the ideas came fast and furious, and all of them, he came to realize as the meal and bottle came to an end, were nearly worthless. McGuffin wrestled valiantly against the urge for further drink, slammed his opponent to the mat, paid his bill and took a cab back to the
Oakland Queen.

Perhaps, had he not drunk the wine, he reasoned later, he would have been alerted by the rush of cool air that greeted him when he opened the wheelhouse door. Knowing that he would never leave a window open during the rainy season in San Francisco, he would have realized that someone else had, and that someone was possibly still in the room. He would have then backed out and slammed the door, and gotten the hell out of there as quickly as he could, in that his gun was lying in the bottom of a grape wagon in St. Helena. But under the state of dullness, induced by the wine, McGuffin went a step too far into his dark office, felt something like a soft explosion to the back of his head, and fell, still faintly conscious, to his hands and knees. The first thing he saw, when the desk lamp was switched on, was Klaus Vandenhof squeezed into his chair, pointing a Luger at him, probably the same one he had used to shoot partisans during the war.

McGuffin touched his hand to the numbness at the back of his head, came away with a little blood, then looked up at the fat man and inquired, “Does this mean I’m fired?”

“Terminated,” the fat man corrected. “Toby, get him up.”

Two arms went around McGuffin’s back, and he was pulled to his feet. He sagged against the chart cabinet as Toby closed the door, and then reappeared in front of him. His gun was a small Beretta, sufficient to kill, but fortunately not heavy enough to fracture McGuffin’s skull - at least not in Toby’s hands.

“Get your hands up,” the little man ordered. McGuffin raised his hands and looked around the room while Toby carefully unbuttoned and turned his jacket back. The place had been torn apart. “Where’s your gun?” Toby asked.

“In a grape cart,” McGuffin answered.

Slow as an aging quarterback, Toby cocked his gun arm, preparing a second blow to McGuffin’s head, a split second before the detective’s forearms fell heavily on the little man’s clavicles, disengaging him from his gun, and driving him to the deck. McGuffin dived in the direction of the clattering gun, then froze at the sounds of an explosion and the whine of a slug off the deck, just inches from his extended right hand.

“Go no farther, Mr. McGuffin,” Klaus Vandenhof warned.

“You remind me of an old girlfriend,” McGuffin grunted, as Toby groaned.

“Are you all right, Toby?” Vandenhof asked.

“I think he broke my shoulder,” Toby moaned. “I’m gonna kill him, Klaus. No matter what you say, this time I’m gonna kill him.”

“Later, Toby,” Vandenhof said soothingly. “Right now I want you to get up and get your gun.” Toby climbed to his feet, grunting and working his injured shoulders. “And don’t lose it again,” Vandenhof said sternly, as Toby stooped to recover the Beretta. “Now you, Mr. McGuffin, will get to your feet,” he instructed, motioning with the Luger.

McGuffin climbed to his feet, raised his hands lazily, and looked around. “If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help you.”

“You know very well what we are looking for, Mr. McGuffin. And if you wish to spare yourself a great deal of pain, you will tell us where it is,” Vandenhof replied with a faint note of irritation.

“You’re a tough client,” McGuffin said. “And I’m a good detective. But be reasonable, I’ve only been on the case for two days.”

“More than enough time to
abrogate
our agreement, it would seem,” Vandenhof remarked pointedly.

“Abrogate?” McGuffin repeated, remembering with a sinking feeling the last time he had used the word.

“Please, spare me your innocent protestations,” Vandenhof said, waving the Luger, as if to shoot McGuffin’s words out of the air. “My informant in the Kruger camp told me everything that transpired at the winery yesterday evening.”

“Then he must have also told you I was about to become dog food if I didn’t at least pretend to agree to a deal with Otto.”

“I overestimated you, Mr. McGuffin. I thought you were a man who put family ahead of money, but I see I was mistaken. You are out to make the best deal you can for yourself, without regard for the safety of your wife and daughter. This makes me very sad, of course. But you also betrayed me, and this makes me very angry,” he said, eyes pinched and glittering in the blue glow from the desk lamp.

“I didn’t betray anybody,” McGuffin insisted. “Not my family and not you. And if you think I’d make a deal with a homicidal maniac, you’re as crazy as he is. Don’t you think I know that Kruger will kill my wife and daughter as well as me, even if I were to give him the egg? Remember, he didn’t abduct them to get the egg - he thought you had it - he only took them to get me. Then when he saw a chance to get the egg as well as have his revenge, he decided to have both. But my deal is still with you and Toby because you’re my best chance to get Marilyn and Hillary out alive. All you want is the egg, and all I want is them.”

“He’s lying through his teeth,” Toby said, appearing in front of McGuffin, Beretta back in hand.

“I’m afraid Toby is right,” Vandenhof said sadly. “You’re a greedy man. You want the Fabergé egg
and
your family, but you can’t have both. Give me the egg, Mr. McGuffin, or I will allow Toby his fondest wish.”