What of Terry Conniston? (11 page)

Oakley got his legs under him. His knees trembled when he rushed past the foot of the bed and pinned Adams against the wall with a stiff arm. “All right,” he panted. “Stop it!”

Louise lay on her elbows, looking down over the foot of the bed. She made retching sounds in her throat. Adams said with stifled alarm, “Okay, okay, get off me.”

Conniston was crumpled, not moving. Oakley turned the comedian loose and dropped to the floor beside Conniston. He slipped a hand under Conniston's head to support it—felt a wet pulpy cavity, removed his hand to see a dark smear across it. Swallowing spasmically he reached for Conniston's wrist. The pulse stopped beating under his hand.

Adams' voice reached him dimly through the thudding in his ears: “Call the doctor.
Quick!
”

“No,” Oakley heard himself say. “Don't call anybody.” Later he would remember that and ask himself why he had said it.

He dragged himself to his feet. Adams whispered, “Dead?” And when no one answered him, he said, “Sweet, sweet Jesus.”

In that moment Oakley glanced suddenly at Louise and caught on her features in that unguarded instant a look of savage joyful satisfaction. It was gone so swiftly he might have imagined it.

“He's dead.” He pronounced the fact with harsh clarity. “He's dead.”

C H A P T E R
Eight

Oakley sat in Conniston's huge office chair, rocking, withdrawn deep in himself, watching the others' faces change as they listened to the playback of the tape-recorded phone call from the kidnaper. He saw the different grip fear took on each of their faces: Louise—placid, wooden, blindly stunned, staring sightless at the slow-spinning tape reels; Frankie Adams—tremble-lipped, white, ghastly, eyes brimming with despair, ready to burst into tears; Diego Orozco—big-rumped and tub-bellied, sitting on a straight chair with both hands on his knees, staring at the floor with intense concentration.

The muscles of Oakley's arms and back still throbbed from the limp deadweight of Earle Conniston's corpse: he had carried it, undressed and wrapped in a tarp, to the deep-freeze, with great care—
Odd how gently we treat people after they're dead
. He felt slightly anesthetized, as if the tactile nerve-endings of his extremities had lost their sensitivity: dreamlike. Yet his mind worked with heightened clarity, as it. sometimes did when he was overtired; often inspirations had struck him late at night on the point of falling asleep—this hour was like that, his mind racing, uninhibited by ordinary daytime commonplaces, running fast and smooth like an engine disengaged from its load.

He let the tape play through to its finish. There followed Diego Orozco's short grunt. No one else spoke until Oakley stirred and heard his own voice issue from his chest with cool precision: “That's why we can't let it be known outside this room that Earle's dead. If the kidnaper finds out I wouldn't give two cents for Terry's chances. Diego?”

“Sure. You're dead right.”

Cataleptic immobility was Louise Conniston's only response. She wore a nylon negligee, carelessly fastened; it clung electrically to her thrusting breasts. Her hair was in disarray, her face chalky. For the first time in Oakley's memory she was indifferent to her appearance. Sensitive to the others' eyes on her, she turned in her chair with a lurch, almost upsetting herself. Her face moved back and forth like some sort of wind-up toy—mechanically. It took Oakley a minute to realize she was shaking her head, rhythmically denying to herself that any of this had happened, that it could have happened. Oakley said in a harsh, cross voice intended to break past the barrier of her shock, “Quit rending your garments. Snap out of it.”

Her face filled with venom. “Shut up.”

“I need to have you lucid. You've got to pay attention.”

“You need,” she muttered with icy scorn.

Frankie Adams stood up like an old man and pulled tight the cloth belt of his dressing gown. “A drink would help.”

“All right,” Oakley said. “But nurse it.”

Louise said, “
Can't you shut up?
”

“Don't shout,” Oakley said. “I'm not deaf.” His words had a dry rustle. Orozco went to Louise and picked up her hand and began to rub it and pat it between his big brown hams. Louise neither responded nor withdrew. Oakley left his chair and went out of the room with Frankie Adams, taking him down the hall to the dining room and standing in the doorway to watch Adams pour a shaky drink at the side bar. Adams said, “Want one?”

“No.” He wanted a clear head.

Adams said, “Waiter, there's a fly in my soup,” and sat down on a dining chair as though genuflecting. He looked up at Oakley and added morosely, “Check, please.” His grin was a spasm of clenched teeth and drawn lips. Unable to hold Oakley's glance he shifted his eyes away and demolished half his drink. Oakley tipped his shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his arms, his eyes half-shuttered.

There was a stretching interval of silence during which Oakley's motionless scrutiny got on Adams' nerves as it was intended to do; Adams squirmed and said, “Look, God knows I didn't mean any of this to happen. How was I to know he'd come busting in on us? She said he hadn't been inside her bedroom in three months.”

“You drop-kicked him like a pro. Where'd you learn that?”

“When you're a runt like me growing up on the Lower East Side you learn how to fight. Besides, I started out in a boardwalk carnival. Acrobatics.”

“I thought as much.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'm a lawyer. A little rusty on criminal code, maybe, but I seem to recall the special skills of certain athletes can be considered deadly weapons, legally. A prizefighter's fists, for example.”

“You're saying—”

“I'm only speculating.”

“You're trying to scare the shit out of me—and you're succeeding. Why?”

Oakley shook his head; he was still thinking. Adams broke into his thoughts: “You brought that fat greaser into this. Why?”

“Earle wanted him in.”

“To handle the kidnaping?”

“Yes.”

“How much you tell him about—about the way Earle Conniston died?”

“Enough.”

“Who guarantees he won't blow the whistle?”

“Diego works for me. If anybody blows any whistles I'll be the one.”

Adams flushed, poured a second drink, and said without the belligerent conviction the question required, “Since when did you get elected to give the orders here?”

“Do you want me to pick up the phone and tell the cops who killed Earle?”

Adams held his tongue. But Oakley pressed it: Adams had to be convinced. “What do you want to do, Frankie? Call in the police, tell them Earle caught his wife with her head on the wrong pillow and you killed him to keep the truth from getting out? Killed him with what might just be described by a sharp prosecutor as a deadly weapon—an acrobat's feet?”

“It wasn't like that! You know it wasn't like that!”

“Maybe. But if Louise and I get behind that version and stick to it, they'll put you away.”

“Nuts. The sonofabitch came at me like a maniac. It was self-defense—an accident. It's your word against mine.”

“Let's say it's the word of a bankrupt third-rate nightclub comic with a shady background against the word of a respected member of the bar and a multimillionaire widow. Whose story would you believe if you were on the jury?”

“Bastard,” Adams hissed without strength. “You want a fall guy and I'm it, hey? Let's hear it for Frankie Adams, lez an gennulmen, Frankie Adams the ten-carat loser. Jesus H. Christ.”

“It doesn't have to be that way.”

“You've got it all set up. Go ahead and pull the rope.”

“No. There's another way to play it. Unless you
want
to drag a scandalous mess through the courts and the newspapers and end up with your head in a sack.”

“What are you, kidding?”

“Which way do you want it?”

“What choice have I got?”

“Suppose you and I and Louise were sitting in the front room playing cards when we heard a thud from the back of the house. Suppose we went back to investigate and found Earle had tripped over the rug and fallen and hit the back of his head on the bedpost. Suppose we tell that story and I have a doctor sign the death certificate accidental death.”

Adams sat slack-jawed, watching him warily. “Where you figure to find a doctor to sign something like that?”

“Big money can buy a few harmless lies—and a lot of silence. How about it, Frankie?”

Adams tucked his chin in toward his shoulder like a shy schoolboy trying to remember the answer to a teacher's question. “What do I have to do?”

“I'll let you know. In the meantime you don't say a word to anyone about anything unless you clear it with me first. Fair enough?”

“Listen, the first time I got jumped by three big kids in the playground I learned not to fight a squeeze. Don't worry about me.”

“I won't,” Oakley said, and gave him a synthetic smile utterly devoid of trust.

He shepherded Adams back to the office. Louise looked better; there was color in her face and when he crossed the room her eyes followed his movements alertly. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair tightly.

Oakley settled into Earle's chair and veiled his eyes and spoke in a soft voice which eased up against the cork-lined walls and was immediately absorbed:

“We've all heard the tape. I've told you what Earle wanted to do. I think he was dead wrong but we'll see. Diego, what about the tape?”

“I just played it back again. I think the sonabitch meant business. You asking my advice? Usually, a snatch caper like this, you get the cops and the FBI and they tell you to follow instructions and pay the ransom. Rule of thumb is you got a better chance to get the victim back alive if you pay the ransom and don' rock the boat.”

“Rock the boat,” Adams mumbled, incredulous. “Christ, the boat's already sunk.”

Oakley ignored him; he said to Orozco, “I get a feeling your next word will be ‘But.'”

“Yeah. She said one of them wants to kill her so she won't be able to identify them. Does that mean she's seen all their faces? Or have they got her blindfolded but one of them wants insurance anyway? She knows their voices.”

Louise said, “What difference does that make?”

“Could make a lot, lady. If they keep her blindfolded and she don't see their faces, maybe they really expect to let loose of her after it's over. But if they never even bothered to blindfold her it's a whole different enchilada.”

Oakley shook his head. “We'll probably have to make our decision without the answer to that question. What about trying to trace the phone calls?”

Orozco's fleshy dark cheeks sagged. “Maybe—maybe. First thing in the morning I'll get a tap on the line. These new computer exchanges, sometimes you can get a real fast trace on a call if you're ready for it. I can get a crew of operatives stand ready to move on signal. Beyond that I just don' know. You people got to make your own decision about the ransom. I only say this—was it my daughter I wouldn't take the chance Conniston was going to take. I'd play it by the book whether you bring in cops or not. They'd tell you to play it by the book, believe me.”

“You mean pay the ransom?” Louise asked.

“Yeah. I mean pay the ransom.”

Frankie Adams said, “Isn't there any other way we could start trying to get a line on them?”

Orozco made a face. “Few honnerd thousand people in this half of Arizona. Where you going to start? That guy on the phone sounded too smart to give away any clues we could use. We got nothing to go on.”

Louise sat up straight. “All of you are forgetting one little thing.”

The determined quiet of her tone drew Oakley's full attention. Louise looked from face to face; finally she said, “None of you is in any position to decide what's to be done with Earle's money. That money belongs to Terry and me. We're his heirs.”

Oakley closed his eyes down to slits. “You're saying you don't want to pay the ransom?”

“I'm saying I think maybe Earle was right. Maybe we'll stand a better chance by not paying—by frightening them instead.”

“In other words,” Oakley murmured, “Terry's not worth half a million dollars to you.”

“You make me sound cold-blooded. You know I don't mean that. The chances are if we pay the ransom we lose both Terry and the money. What's the good of that?”

Oakley bounced to his feet; the backs of his knees knocked the big swivel-chair back against the wall. “Don't even think about it, Louise.”

“Are you threatening me?” she demanded.

“If you like. I'll remind you a criminal forfeits any right to the proceeds of his crime. If you're found guilty of being accessory to your husband's murder you won't inherit a dime—regardless of whether Terry's alive or dead.”

Her eyes popped at him. “Convicted of—? You can't be serious!”

“Think about it. An able prosecutor smooth-talking a jury. The young wife of the old millionaire, the wife's boy friend—both conspiring to murder the old man and live happily ever after on his millions. Strike a chord?”

“It was nothing of the kind.” Her face turned crimson; she looked down at her hands. “What you must think of me.”

Oakley said, “Don't misunderstand. What I'm saying is that if the circumstances of Earle's death ever become public knowledge the newspapers will wallow in it and the classic explanation I've just suggested is the first thing they'll assume. You'll be dragged through slime—it's the kind of case that'll be tried and judged by the press long before it ever gets near a courtroom. Is that what you want? Or would you rather none of it ever got into print? Would you rather be grilled mercilessly by a prosecuting attorney hell-bent on making a big reputation at your expense or get scot-free after a few perfunctory routine questions by a bored county official? Would you rather have Earle's death dragged through the front pages as murder or manslaughter, or have it appear quietly in a black box on the obituary page as an accidental death? Yes, damn it, I
am
threatening you.”