The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (11 page)

“I know what you're both thinking. Let her sue us. But you see— it's not that simple. Unfortunately, we are victims of our own success. The bad publicity could damage the reputation of Turner and Turner. Our competitors would rejoice in our misfortune. As the caretaker of this firm's future, I can't let that happen.” Turner puffed on his cigar and continued. “I want you to contact Sally Mae Rolle. Find out how much money it'll take to get her to go away. And yes, it's like she's blackmailing us. It's happened before, and I have no doubt it'll happen again. At this point,I'm willing to settle with her for one million dollars.

“Jesse, I'm putting you in charge. It'll be a good learning experience for you. Let's see how you handle it. Gillespie, you're job is to help him. That's all of it. Keep me posted. Enjoy your weekend.” Neither man moved. “Oh, there's one more thing. You know the old saying, ‘No good deed goes unpunished.' Because of Mr. Rolle's condition, I took the case pro bono. We were entitled to forty per cent of the settlement, but we passed. Now this happens.”

Gillespie's memory flashed back to the report Richard Langley prepared for Lynn Allison. Willie Jamal Rolle was a name on that list. Turner, you fucking crook, of course you passed on the fee. You passed because you ended up with the whole sixteen million, you crafty sonofabitch. I'll bet you even avoided paying the estate taxes by running the money through that bogus church. A cold chill ran down his spine when he thought about the beating his friend, Langley had taken. Turner, your exwife was right about you.

Gillespie lingered. As he watched Jesse reach over the desk to shake hands, he reached down and stuck the keys between his sock and shoe. He tried to do it nonchalantly, but when he glanced up he knew Jesse had seen him. His mind raced through plausible denials, but Jesse never said a word.

Jesse and Dan walked out of Turner's office together. Savanna walked up behind them and slipped her arms through their elbows. “Boys it's Friday afternoon and you two are taking me out for a drink.”

They walked three abreast, arminarm from the Turner and Turner building to Taboo. Gillespie stopped suddenly and unhooked his arm. “I need to get a spare key made. There's a locksmith right around the corner on Brazilian. If you would be so kind as to order me a gin and tonic, I won't be a minute.”

“Dan, let me take it. I need to see if my shoes are ready. The shoerepair shop is next to the locksmith,” Jesse said, holding out his hand.

“Not on your life. Savanna would never forgive me. That was a gin and tonic, squeeze of lime. Hold down the fort. I shall return.”

He walked down Worth Avenue and ducked into a tropically landscaped courtyard that opened onto the next street over. He slipped into the locksmith's shop unannounced.

Jimmy, also known as “The Clam,” sat hunched over in his wheelchair polishing a key on an electric grinder. He stopped momentarily and squinted through a jeweler's glass to inspect his work. Dan used Jimmy to copy keys. Duplicate keys were the tools of trade for a detective working the divorce scene. The locksmith had gotten his nickname because everyone said his lips were sealed as tight as a clam. Gillespie sneaked up, tapped him on the right shoulder, stepped left, and roared, “Watch it!”

“You asshole, you coulda given me a fuckin' heart attack,” Jimmy yelled, almost vaulting out of his wheelchair. “What kind of a prick would scare a handicapped person?”

“Pal, I need copies, pronto. Forget the car keys. Just do the house and office keys. How quick can I get ‘em? Say, is there a shoe repair shop around here?”

“No ‘Hello'? No ‘How have you been, Jimmy?' Christ, I haven't seen you in six months. Fuck, I could have had openheart surgery for all you know. Danny, you're coldhearted.”

“Open-heart surgery? You don't have a heart. So you can scratch the feelsorryforme act. I've got a time problem with these,” he said, holding up the keys. “I need you to do a lookout for me so I can return the originals. It's a fifteen minute gig, tops. I've got a Benjamin Franklin with your name on it,” Gillespie said, tossing him the keys.

“As to your questions. The nearest shoe store is over the bridge in West Palm. I can have the keys finished in thirty minutes. I'll do the lookout for the hundred bucks, but you gotta buy me dinner, and not some cheap joint. The restaurant has to use white table clothes.”

“All right, you're on. Heart surgery, my ass. I'll pick you up at eight. And there'll be no dancing for you tonight,” he said, grinning.

Walking back to the bar, Gillespie mulled over Jesse's motives. He knew Jesse lied about the shoes. Maybe he wants to be a hero and go straight to Turner. He checked his watch: It was already six. Better keep it to one drink, well, maybe two. Wonder what angle Spooner's playing, he thought. Anyway,I'll have thekeys back in Turner's office intwo hours.

***

It was eight thirty by the time he picked up Jimmy. It took him another ten minutes to get him in the front seat and his wheelchair in the trunk. “Listen to me. All you gotta do is call me on my cell if anyone pulls up in front of Turner's building. I told you this was an easy gig. No questions? Good. Keep my seat warm. Don't you drive off and leave me.”

“Very funny, you asshole. I hope these fuckin' keys don't belong to Max Turner. Something tells me this involves a woman. You better have your health insurance paid up if you're screwin' around with one of Turner's exwives. Don't leave me out here any longer than necessary,” Jimmy said, looking up the vacant street.

“You worry too much.” Gillespie got out of the car and hurried to the building's entrance. He opened the front door and relocked it from the inside. On the second floor, he opened Turner's office door with the first key he tried. He slipped Turner's original set of keys under a sofa cushion. He put a flashlight in his mouth and started opening drawers. There was a thick manila folder in the top drawer. It was addressed to Nelson Chang. He replaced the folder and opened a lower drawer where he found a metal box. The box contained a bundle of letters. The letter on top had been postmarked from Africa three months earlier, on November the tenth. It was handwritten and hard to read in the diminished light. He redirected the beam of light on the signature line at the bottom of the last page which read: “Respectfully, your loving stepson, Arthur.” It can't be you, thought Gillespie. You're dead. His cell phone vibrated, causing him to spit out the flashlight. “Danny, two men in a Bentley pulled into the parking lot. They're already in the building. One of them is Turner. The other guy's a big baldheaded creep. You need to get out of there.”

Gillespie closed the metal box and replaced it. His hands trembled, which caused him to drop the keys. He found the key and locked the desk. The elevator bell rang as its door opened. He slipped behind the door to the bathroom. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he scanned the bathroom looking for a weapon. The only thing he could find was the porcelain toilet tank cover. Using the crack in the door he saw the office foyer lights come on. Two men emerged and took form in the dull light.

As they got closer, he could hear Turner talking. “Bobby, I must be going crazy. I know I left the keys on my desk. My secretary's searched every inch of this office.”

Bob started with the bookcases and ended up on all fours checking the carpet. The last place he looked was the most obvious. “Are these yours, Mr. Turner?” he asked, holding up a set of keys.

“Where'd you find those?”

“Over there, under a sofa cushion.”

“Impossible. I checked there myself. They must have gotten worked in between the layers of fabric. Thank God you found them.” Max stood up abruptly and started for the bathroom, but he stopped in front of Bob. He placed his hands on the man's shoulders. “Now that we're here, let's talk. What's your read on the new guy?”

“Sir, Jesse Spooner hasn't got any skeletons in his closet, at least none that I'm aware of. Everything seems in order with this guy.”

“What about the new security guy, Gillespie?”

“He's competent enough, but he's got money problems. And there's his drinking issue.”

“I'm convinced we've got a snitch working for the firm. I don't think its Spooner or Gillespie. Spooner hasn't been with us long enough, and frankly, I don't think this Gillespie's smart enough to pull it off. It has to be someone else. Anyway, I've decided to put him to work under Spooner. Let's see how they handle the Rolle situation. Like I told you, I'd rather buy this woman off. If that doesn't fly, you're gonna need to get involved. Unfortunately, this old woman's digging up some stuff we need to keep buried.”

“Sir, Gillespie's made contact with your ex-wife. It was at a boat party for Helen Croxford. Maybe it was an accident. Take a look at this,” he said, flipping a snapshot of Dan Gillespie and Lynn Allison.

“I had you employ this guy to stop my exwife from hiring him. What do you recommend we do?” Unwilling to wait for Bob's response, Max answered his own question. “Once I give you the green light on my ex, I see no reason to keep Gillespie around.”

“Any idea when that might be?”

Turner walked over to the window and stared out at the blackness. His voice dropped to a low whisper. Gillespie pushed his ear against the crack in the door and strained to hear, but he could only pick up intermittent words.

“I'm afraid my ex-wife's usefulness is almost over. Just remember how I told you I want it done. She has to disappear without a trace. I'm gonna be a suspect. Exspouses are always the prime suspects. That's why I'm taking the time to reestablish our relationship. Bob, I'm counting on you to take care of this. There can be no link to me.” The volume of Max's voice was reduced to little more than a whisper.

“You give me the go-ahead, and I'll take it from there.”

Max had one more job for his exwife. If Rigby Croxford refused to help him, he would have to use her to get to Croxford. She had become friends with Helen Croxford. Max had orchestrated the relationship. After he used her, he would give her to Bob. He had always prided himself on covering all the bases. The one loose end was to catch the informer in his firm.

“We can discuss my son on the way home. By the way, how's the new Mercedes?”

“It's wonderful. I can never thank you enough.”

“You earned it. You know how much I depend on you. It's a pity Arthur wasn't more like you. We can do great things together, but we must strike down those who try to oppose us. It's just like it says in the Bible: ‘Cursed be he who does the Lord's work remissly. Cursed him who holds back his sword from blood.' Jeremiah, 48:10.”

Gillespie waited for them to turn off the lights. His breathing slowed down as the sound of their voices faded. Leaning over the bathroom sink, he splashed cold water on his face and sipped a handful to moisten his mouth. He sat down on the toilet and hit the returncall button on his cell phone. “Jimmy, did they leave?”

“Yes, they left. It's blacker out here than a whore's heart after a sailor's paycheck. Now get me the fuck outta here, Danny, you crazy bastard. I'm not about to get arrested as an accessory to a bande for a lousy hundred bucks.”

“Shut up, Jimmy. Give me five minutes.” Gillespie sat down at Turner'sdesk, reached in thebottom drawer and pulledoutthe metal box. He took the letter from the top of the stack and stuffed it in his pocket. He replaced everything and scanned the desk to make sure he was leaving it the way he found it. He stared at the fancy humidor. He'll never miss them, he thought. He stuffed two handfuls of cigars in his front pockets. Gillespie, you're getting too old for this kind of work. I wonder what Max meant when he said he saw no reason to keep me around.

Jimmy was agitated by the time Dan walked out of the darkness and slipped into the driver's seat. “So tell me, what did you steal?” Jimmy asked.

“Not a God damned thing. What's your beef?”

“What's my beef? You leave me out here on the fuckin' street while you break in to Max Turner's office. You know I'm a threetime loser. If I get caught, I go away for the rest of my life. As shitty as my life is, it's all I got.”

“Would I screw my best friend?”

“Don't give me that shit. You don't have any friends. I want half of whatever you stole in there. It's only fair.”

Gillespie reached across and took a flask out of his glove compartment. He took a swig and handed it to Jimmy, who pushed it away.

“Oh, now I get it. You're pissed off, but you want half. As they say, ‘The blind can see and the lame can walk.' Oops, sorry, that was shitty. Fine, I stole a fourpage letter and a few cigars, for Christ's sake. Here, you keep the cigars. I'm not a thief. I'm a detective, you asshole. You're a locksmith who used to be a pretty fair thief and a halfassed safe cracker. The operative phrase is ‘used to be.' If you'd known more about freaking explosives, you'd still be walking. Sorry, that was another low one. Now you've gone and done it, you've ruined my appetite. Jimmy, I'll have to owe you the dinner. I'm afraid some really bad shit's come up.”