‘I told you I was going to leave it at Charlotte’s. It’s too conspicuous.’
He felt a wave of delayed relief pass through him, a sudden coldness on the back of his neck, as he thought back to the incident the previous day.
‘Are you okay?’
She’d stopped eating and was staring at him.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look it.’
So he told her all about the windshield and the sledgehammer, the dead fish and the note. He didn’t mention letting Rodney have the fish. She didn’t take a bite of food the whole time he talked.
‘Like some kind of mafia message,’ she said when he’d finished.
‘Guy obviously watches too much TV in prison.’
‘What did you do with the fish?’
‘Why, you think I should’ve kept it, cooked you dinner at home?’
‘Idiot.’ She went back to eating her breakfast. ‘It’s getting more serious.’
‘There’s still nothing you can do. I worked it out, but that doesn’t make it evidence.’
‘Don’t suppose you got any contact details for those guys.’
He shook his head.
‘They’d run a mile the minute they saw you.’
She shrugged like she wouldn’t have expected it any other way, and looked out the window at his car.
‘Maybe you should park it where you can see it at all times in future. I hope you took the insurance this time.’
‘He’s not going to do the same thing again. Like you say, things are escalating. Who knows what he’s going to do next.’
The waitress came over and poured him some coffee. He ordered breakfast with extra bacon, felt he deserved it.
‘How’s the secret case coming along?’
He laughed, a nervous reaction after the subject of Hendricks and Floyd, and told her about his narrow escape from Stella at the Register-Recorder’s office.
‘I’m not surprised she thought she was on to something if you pushed your face into her breasts. I’d think the same thing if somebody did that to me. Although, maybe not if it was you.’
‘Remind me, is jealousy one of the seven deadly sins?’
They stared at each other, a silly half-grin on both their faces. The waitress arrived and put Evan’s breakfast down, shattering the moment, if it was a moment at all.
‘Talking of all things biblical, I did some more digging on the two names you gave me. Jesús and Hector Narvaez.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really. Is that so strange?’
He shrugged and shook his head.
‘Just that last time we talked you said you were really tied up with work—yours and mine.’
‘Well, there you go then. That’s what I’ve been doing.’
‘You find anything?’
‘Nothing on Hector. What are they, father and son?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘As I say, nothing on the father. Jesús’ name came up.’
Evan nodded and called the waitress over. They both got a refill of coffee, a smile spreading across Guillory’s lips as the waitress poured.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I told you last time, every time you don’t want to answer a question, or you want to act like you’re not interested, you order coffee.’
‘I get thirsty a lot.’
‘So you say. Well, whether you’re interested or not, there was a complaint made against Jesús Narvaez.’
‘Back in 1966?’
‘Yup.’
‘That must have taken some digging up.’
She let out a burp of a laugh, a shocked croak.
‘Tell me about it. But, hey, what else have I got to do?’
‘What was it about?’
‘Apparently, he was stalking somebody.’
An uncomfortable burning sensation started building strength in his chest. His first reaction was that it must have been either Frank Hanna, his father George or his father’s sidekick, Thompson. After a moment’s reflection, he dismissed all three of them. If he’d stalked Thompson, Thompson wouldn’t have lodged a complaint, he’d have dealt with the problem at source. In his own, brutal way. If Narvaez had stalked George Hanna, George would have sent Thompson after him. Same result. And if it had been Frank Hanna, Guillory would have said so immediately, knowing he was Evan’s client. Not only that, Frank Hanna would have mentioned it when they discussed Narvaez.
‘Who was it?’
Guillory didn’t answer immediately.
‘I can’t remember the name.’
Evan’s coffee cup stalled halfway to his mouth. He put it down again, not sure if she was playing with him or not.
‘Are you serious? Didn’t you write it down?’
She gave him an apologetic smile.
‘I, uh, left my notebook at home. I came out in a rush this morning. Sorry. I remember it was a short name. I’ll let you know.’
‘A short name?’
‘It’s on the tip of my tongue.’
‘You’re not just having a bit of fun with me?’
‘What, because you pretended not to be interested?’ She shook her head. ‘No.’
He wished he knew where she lived. He’d have suggested going back there now. This was why Narvaez was so antagonistic, so obstructive. He’d known there had to be something else happened back then, something Narvaez didn’t want coming to light.
‘Jesus Christ, Evan, if I’d known it was so important, I’d have written it on my forehead.’
‘Your hand would’ve been good enough.’
He leaned back just in time to avoid that same hand connecting with the back of his head.
‘You know how you were asking about the seven deadly sins,’ she said.
He nodded dutifully to pave the way for her next comment.
‘Is ungratefulness one of them? Because if it is, I’ll be seeing you downstairs. C’mon, let’s go. I’ll call you as soon as I get home tonight, okay?’
Chapter 19
MCINTYRE THOUGHT THE CLERK in the BDM section was particularly sullen, even for a government employee. You’d think she was a week away from retirement, the amount of enthusiasm she was demonstrating.
‘My assistant, Evan Buckley, was here the other day—’
‘Oh, him.’
Her mouth turned down even more. She looked as if he’d just told a joke about her mother.
‘You can tell him I don’t think he’s very funny.’
He put on a serious, this-needs-to-be-investigated frown and put his hands on the counter. She stared at his bandaged hand, her face softening as he winced.
‘I’d have come myself, but this makes it very difficult.’
He held up his left hand, forcing a quick spasm across his face.
‘I hope he wasn’t rude or unprofessional in any way’—he peered at her name badge—‘Stella.’
She snorted.
‘Well, not exactly rude, and I don’t want to get him into trouble—’
‘I need to know, nonetheless.’ He leaned in and dropped his voice. ‘There have been complaints about him before.’
‘It’s just I’d already got him the microfilm spools for 1965 and ‘66—’
‘Births?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded mechanically.
‘At least he got that much right.’
‘And then he asked for 1964. I had to go down to the archives again and it always sets off my asthma. When I got back he’d disappeared.’
McIntyre shook his head, his lips compressed.
‘I’m very sorry, Stella. I’m going to take this up with him. I hope your asthma hasn’t been too bad as a result of this.’
‘No, it’s not too bad, thank you.’
McIntyre put his finger to his lips, his brow creasing.
‘I wonder ...’
‘What?’
‘Maybe I should check the records he was supposed to be looking up for me. Except I don’t want to se
nd you down to the archives for no good reason. No, I’m sure he managed to get that right.’
‘I can tell you what he was looking for, if you want.’
‘Really?’
She nodded and smiled. It was a nice smile. He thought she should try it more often, before she lost the ability to do it altogether, the miserable cow.
‘He wanted two birth certificates printed out. I made a note of the names. I can find them for you.’
‘If it’s not too much trouble. I’m sure you’re very busy.’
She gave a no-problem flick of her hand and as good as skipped back to her desk, rummaged through the untidy piles of paper on it. She found what she was looking for and came back to the counter, a satisfied look on her face, put the slip of paper on the counter top.
He read the names and nodded, relief in his face, as if satisfied that his suspicions were unfounded.
‘Good. He got the right names. Thank you, Stella. I can’t tell you how helpful you’ve been.’
Even for him, it was refreshing to say at least one thing that was true.
She smiled again.
‘Don’t be too hard on him. He was nice, in his own way.’
***
MCINTYRE WAS FEELING VERY pleased with himself as he left the BDM section. It didn’t last long. A black Mercedes SUV parked at the curb, its rear door open, soon wiped the smile off his face. Vasiliev’s enforcers leaned casually against it, arms folded across their over-developed chests, the seams on their cheap suits straining. There was no way he could take them on with his injured hand. Vasiliev himself was in the back seat. McIntyre got in beside him, and one of the men closed the door after him.
‘Not such a nice day for a picnic by the lake today,’ Vasiliev said, peering over the top of his glasses, a smirk on his lips. ‘How’s the hand?’
‘How do you think?’
‘Tsk, tsk. You should watch your manners. Tell me, what is that phrase you people have? When you cannot do two things at once?’
McIntyre stared at him, not knowing what to say.
‘You know, mutual something.’
‘Mutually exclusive.’
Vasiliev beamed at him.
‘That’s it. You remember the choice I gave you the other day?’
McIntyre nodded woodenly, his gut twisting. He knew what was coming next.
‘Of course, you do. I want you to know, what happened to your hand’—his arm shot out and he grabbed McIntyre’s left hand, squeezed it, then held up his own left hand and wiggled his little finger—‘and the other alternative, they are most definitely not mutually exclusive.’
Vasiliev looked very pleased with himself. His mouth was still smiling, his lips curled, teeth on show, but it was a very different expression to a second ago. More like a python flexing its jaw in anticipation of a big stretch as it contemplated a tethered goat.
‘Do you understand what I am saying to you?’
‘I’m not stupid.’
‘But you are, that’s the problem. And your insolence will get you in a lot of trouble if you are not careful.’
Vasiliev was still holding McIntyre’s left hand. He shook it to emphasize each word. McIntyre clamped his mouth shut, sucking a sharp intake of breath through his lips. Vasiliev stuck his face in McIntyre’s, like he was some kind of weird exhibit.
‘What is that building you were in?’
‘The Register-Recorder’s office.’
Vasiliev’s eyebrows lifted an inch.
‘Where they keep real estate records?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You have property you can sell?’
‘I told you, the bank took my house.’
‘No other property?’
McIntyre wanted to scream at him, do you think I’d have let you nail my hand to a picnic table if I had a ski condo in Jackson Hole I could sell?
‘No.’
‘Then why were you there? What other records are kept in there?’
A thousand thoughts went spinning through McIntyre’s mind. He tried to think through the implications of telling Vasiliev about Hanna’s search for an heir. The downside was Vasiliev would know his only hope of getting his hands on some money was about to disappear, now that Buckley had two names he was pursuing. The upside was Vasiliev would agree Buckley should not be allowed to succeed—and would assist him in bringing about that happy outcome.
He’d spent too long thinking about it.
For a man like Vasiliev, an answer that was not instantaneous or obtained under duress was an answer that had been edited. He buzzed down the window and twisted his head, looked up at the sky.
‘Maybe not such a bad day for a picnic, after all.’
The men outside looked around as the window went down, identical looks of hopeful expectation on their faces. McIntyre was immediately back at the lakeside, his face and chest pushed into the rough wood of the picnic table as one of the men positioned a six-inch nail over the back of his hand and lifted a sixteen-ounce hammer above his head.
He was on the verge of telling Vasiliev about the BDM section, about what Buckley was up to. He had no qualms about setting these animals onto Buckley, he deserved everything he got. But it was his last card. If he told them now, he had nothing left for the future. There was something else nagging at the back of his mind. If he told Vasiliev about Hanna’s business empire, they might want to take control of it through him, forget just getting their money back.
He would be their puppet for the rest of his life.
Vasiliev turned towards the open window.
‘Anton, get everyone in, we’re going back to the lake.’
‘No!’
Vasiliev held up his hand and his men stopped dead, the one called Anton let go of the door handle and stepped back. Vasiliev raised an eyebrow at McIntyre. His expression said he already didn’t believe what McIntyre was about to say.
‘I told you, the bank took my house. I had to fill out a new voter registration form with my new address.’
‘A new voter registration form.’
He made it sound like McIntyre had said a new life form, not just a registration form.
McIntyre nodded.
‘You owe me a quarter-million-dollars and you spend your time filling out a voter registration form? Instead of finding a way to get my money?’
‘I take time out to eat as well, you know.’
It was out before he could stop it. Vasiliev’s eyes bulged.
‘I warned you about insolence.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’
It was too late.
Vasiliev grabbed hold of McIntyre’s left wrist with both hands and banged the injured hand against the door until the blood seeped through the bandage. McIntyre gasped, couldn’t stop it escaping from between his gritted teeth.
‘If I find out you’ve been lying about what you were doing in there, find out you have more property, I will nail you to the wall by your hands and feet. Now get out of my car before you piss all over the seats.’
Chapter 20
AS PROMISED, GUILLORY CALLED Evan as soon as she got home to give him the name of the person who had filed a complaint against Jesús Narvaez.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. It’s not a very difficult name to remember. I said it was short. Fox. You need me to spell that for you?’
He tried to ignore the buzz in his stomach and stared at the two birth certificates on his desk.
‘First name?’
He mouthed the name as Guillory spoke it aloud.
‘Anthony. His wife’s name is Helen.’
Evan picked up the birth certificate for Francisco Javier Fox, parents’ names Anthony and Helen, and kissed it. He’d found Margarita’s baby, thanks in part to Jesús Narvaez. Anthony and Helen Fox had filed a complaint against him for stalking. There could only be one reason he was anywhere near them, would even have been aware of their existence—they’d adopted his sister’s baby. How he found that out was a
nother matter, and it sure as hell didn’t matter now.
‘Is it any help?’
‘More than you could ever imagine.’
He felt her smile coming down the line.
‘I hope Hanna’s paying you a big fat fee. You’re gonna need it. Yum yum.’
She was about to end the call when he stopped her.
‘Just, uh, one more thing—’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Have you got an address for them?’
‘What? A fifty-year-old address? You can have it if you want it. It’s—’
‘No, I’ve got ...I meant a current address for them.’
He’d been about to say he’d got the fifty-year-old address from the birth certificate. He just managed to catch himself. He wasn’t used to holding information back from her. Especially when he was asking a favor in the next breath. He heard her tapping away at the keyboard, classic two-finger style.
‘Right, I’ve just emailed you the last address we’ve got.’
‘Can’t you just tell me.’
‘No, I’m going out, I’m late already. I can’t wait for you to write it all down.’
‘Where are you—’
She’d already cut the call.
The email came through and he looked the address up, saw it wasn’t too far from where Narvaez lived. Even though it was only six-thirty, it was too late to go over there and see them. They would both be in their seventies, they might be in bed already. And he didn’t want to call, wanted to speak to them face to face. It would have to wait until the morning. Besides, he had to be at his sister’s in half an hour.
He knocked on the door with five minutes to spare. His nephew Kyle opened it.
‘Can we go for a drive in your car?’
Max the collie came bounding up again and almost knocked Kyle over, barking at the car that had pulled up to the curb.
‘Can Max come too?’
‘You’re late,’ Charlotte called from the kitchen.
Whatever happened to saying hello?
Evan thought about turning around and making a run for the car where Charlotte’s friend Louise sat, leaning into the horn, waving at him. He’d always liked Louise. Charlotte came tottering down the hallway on her high heels and pecked him on the cheek.
‘Kids have had their dinner, you need to do the washing up. Don’t let them stay up too late like last time and don’t scare them with any of your stupid stories so they can’t get to sleep. Don’t give Kyle beer either, he’s only ten. And don’t let Max sit on the couch.’
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 66