The Fifth Profession

by David Morrell

  “At random? But how would you find me?”

  “We wouldn't, and no one else would either. That's the point. As long as you stay away from anyone or anything related to your former life, your husband can't track you. You'll be safe.”

  “It sounds so”—Rachel shivered—”lonely.”

  “The alternative's worse.”

  The three of them walked down Fifth Avenue.

  Three blocks later, near Washington Square, they reached a lane between streets. A wrought-iron gate blocked the entrance, its bars topped with spikes. The gate had a keyhole beneath a handle. When Savage twisted the handle and pushed, he discovered that the gate was locked. That didn't surprise him.

  He studied the bars. They were tall. The many passing cars and pedestrians were bound to see two men and a woman climb over.

  Despite the myth that New Yorkers minded their own business, it was more than likely that someone would call the police.

  “Do the honors, Akira.”

  On the way here, they'd stopped at an East Side tavern, where the owner—one of Savage's contacts—had sold them a set of lockpicks.

  Akira freed the lock as easily as if he'd possessed a key. From their frequent visits here, both men knew that the gate was not equipped with intrusion sensors. Akira pushed the gate open, waited for Savage and Rachel to follow, then shoved the gate back into place. In case they needed to leave here quickly, he didn't relock it. Anyone who lived along this lane and found the gate unlocked would merely be disgusted that one of the neighbors had been irresponsible.

  They faced the lane. A century earlier, stables and carriage houses had flanked it. The exteriors of the buildings had been carefully modified, their historical appearance preserved. Narrow entrances alternated with quaint double doors that had long ago provided access to barns. The surface of the lane remained cobblestoned. Electric lights, shaped like lanterns, reinforced the impression that time had been suspended.

  An exclusive expensive location.

  The lane was wide. Intended for horse-drawn buggies, it now permitted residents to steer cars into renovated garages. Lights gleamed from windows. But the only lights Savage cared about were those that shone from the fourth town house on his left.

  He walked with Rachel and Akira toward it. Pausing at the entrance, he pressed a button beneath an intercom.

  The oak door was lined with steel, Savage knew. Even so, he heard a bell ring faintly behind it. Ten seconds later, he Tang the bell again, and ten seconds later again. He waited to hear Graham's voice from the intercom.

  No response.

  “Asleep?” Savage wondered.

  “At ten P.M.? With the lights on?”

  “Then he doesn't want to be interrupted, or else he's gone out.”

  “There's one way to tell,” Akira said. “If he's home, he'll have wedged a bar against the door in addition to locking it.”

  The door had two dead-bolt locks. Akira picked them in rapid succession. He tested the door. It opened.

  Savage hurried through. He'd been here so often that he knew the specifics of Graham's defenses. Not only were the windows barred; they had intrusion sensors. So did the doors to Graham's garage. And this door. As soon as its locks were freed, anyone entering had to open a closet on the left and press a series of buttons on a console to prevent an alarm from shrieking throughout the neighborhood and, more important, to prevent the local police from sending a squad car in response to a flashing light on their precinct's monitor. This had to be done within fifteen seconds.

  Savage yanked the closet door open. A year ago, after several tries, due to professional habit, he'd managed to catch a glimpse of the numbers Graham had pressed.

  He pressed those numbers now. A red light stopped glowing.

  No siren wailed.

  Savage leaned against the closet's wall.

  Akira's silhouette filled the doorway. “I've checked this floor. No sign of him.”

  Savage had been so preoccupied he hadn't paid attention to the harsh throbbing music he'd heard when he entered. “Heavy metal?”

  “The radio,” Akira said. “Graham must have left it on when he went out. If someone tried to break in, the intruder would hear the music, decide the house was occupied, and look for another target.”

  “But why would Graham bother? If someone tripped a sensor, the sirens would scare an intruder a lot more than the music would. Besides, when we stood outside, I barely heard the doorbell and didn't hear the music at all. The radio's hardly a deterrent.”

  “It's not like Graham to go out and forget to turn it off. Heavy metal? Graham hates electric music. He's strictly classical.”

  “Something's wrong. Check the top floors. I'll take the basement. Rachel, stay here.”

  As Akira crept up a stairway to the left, Savage's bowels contracted. He crossed the large room that occupied this level. The room was Graham's office, though the glass-and-chrome desk at the rear was the only detail that indicated its purpose. Otherwise, it seemed a living room. To the right, bookshelves flanked a fireplace. To the left, stereo equipment filled a cabinet, Boston Acoustics speakers on either side, the source of the throbbing music. In the middle, a coffee table—its glass and chrome a match to Graham's desk—separated two leather sofas. Beneath them, an Afghan rug covered most of the floor, the border brightly waxed hardwood. Large pots of ferns occupied each corner. The brilliant white walls—upon which hung only a few paintings, all by Monet—reinforced the feeling of spaciousness created by the sparse furnishings.

  A stranger could not have known, as Savage did, that Graham hid business documents in alcoves behind the bookshelves, and that the stereo's purpose was to assure those few clients he trusted enough to come here that the swelling cadences of Beethoven's glorious Eroica prevented their subdued conversation from being picked up by undetected microphones.

  While Savage passed the coffee table, he noticed three empty bottles of champagne. Approaching the desk in the rear, he saw an ashtray filled with cigar butts and a tall-stemmed glass, the bottom of which contained a remnant of liquid.

  To the left of the desk, he reached a door and cautiously opened it. Shadowy steps descended to a murky basement. He opened his overcoat and withdrew a .45 pistol that the owner of the East Side bar had sold him along with the lockpicks. Akira had bought one as well.

  Gripping the pistol with his leather-gloved right hand, Savage pawed with his other hand, found a light switch, and illuminated the basement. Sweating, he took one step down. Another. Then another.

  He held his breath, sprang to the bottom, and tensely aimed.

  Three tables. Neat piles of wires, batteries, and disc-shaped objects covered them, various sophisticated eavesdropping devices in progressive stages of assembly.

  A furnace. Ready with the .45, Savage peered behind it, seeing no one. Moisture dripped from his forehead. There weren't any other hiding places. He climbed the stairs.

  But he wasn't relieved.

  4

  When Akira joined him, having searched the upper floors and reporting nothing unusual, Savage still didn't feel at ease.

  Rachel slumped on a sofa.

  Akira holstered his pistol. Electric guitars kept wailing.

  “Maybe we're overreacting. There might be a simple explanation for Graham's uncharacteristic choice of music.”

  “You don't sound convinced.”

  Rachel pressed her hands to her ears. “Maybe he likes to torture himself.”

  “Let's do ourselves a favor.” Savage pushed a button on the stereo's tuner, and the heavy-metal radio station became mercifully silent.

  “Thank God,” Rachel said. She studied the coffee table. “Did you notice these empty bottles?”

  Akira nodded. “Champagne. Graham loves it.”

  “So much? Three bottles in one evening?”

  “Graham's large enough to tolerate a great deal of alcohol,” Savage said. “But you're right, it does seem strange. I've never seen him overindulge.”<
br />
  “Perhaps he had company,” Akira said.

  “There's only one glass,” Rachel said. “If he did have guests and he put away their glasses, why didn't he put away his own glass and the empty bottles as well? And something else. Have you read the labels on the bottles?”

  “No,” Savage said. “What about them?”

  “At the farmhouse outside Athens, when the two of you talked about Graham, you said he drank Dom Pérignon.”

  “It's the only brand he'll accept,” Akira said.

  “Well, two of these labels say Dom Pérignon. But the third is Asti Spumante.”

  “What?” Savage straightened.

  “And what's that noise?” Rachel asked.

  Savage glanced around sharply. His ears had been slow to adjust to the silence after the throbbing music. But now he heard a muted drone.

  “Yes,” Akira said. “A faint vibration. What's causing it?”

  “A refrigerator?” Savage said.

  “Graham's kitchen's on the second floor,” Akira said. “We wouldn't hear the refrigerator this far away.”

  “Maybe the furnace turned on,” Savage said.

  Akira lowered his hand toward a vent. “No rush of air.”

  “Then what … ?”

  “It seems to come from”—Rachel frowned, passing Savage— “this door beside the bookshelf.”

  She opened the door and lurched back as thick gray smoke enveloped her. The faint drone became a rumble. Rachel coughed from the acrid stench of the smoke.

  Except that it wasn't smoke, Savage realized.

  Graham's garage! Savage hurried through the doorway. The garage was dark, but the lights in the living room managed to pierce the dense exhaust rushing past him. He saw Graham's Cadillac, its engine running, a bald, overweight figure slumped behind the steering wheel.

  He rushed to lean through the car's open window and twisted the ignition key. The engine stopped. Straining not to breathe, he yanked the driver's door open, clutched Graham, and dragged him across the garage's concrete floor into the living room.

  Rachel shoved the door closed, preventing more exhaust from spewing in, but enough had already entered the living room that when Savage finally breathed, he bent over, coughing.

  Akira knelt beside Graham, feeling for a pulse.

  “His face is deep red,” Rachel said.

  “Carbon monoxide.” Akira listened to Graham's chest. “His heart isn't beating.”

  Savage knelt opposite Akira, Graham between them. “Give him mouth-to-mouth. I'll work on his heart.”

  As Akira opened Graham's mouth and breathed into it, Savage pounded Graham's chest once, then placed both palms over his heart, applying and releasing pressure.

  “Rachel, call nine eleven,” Savage blurted, pressing again on Graham's chest, leaning back, pressing once more.

  Rachel scrambled toward the phone on Graham's desk. She picked it up and began to press numbers.

  “No, Rachel.” Akira sounded sick. “Never mind.” He stared at Graham and slowly stood.

  “Keep trying!” Savage said.

  Akira shook his head in despair. “Feel how cold he is. Look at his legs. When you set him on the floor, they stayed bent—as if he's still sitting in the car. He's been dead for quite a while. Nothing's going to revive him.”

  Savage squinted at Graham's bent knees, swallowed, and stopped pressing Graham's chest.

  Rachel set down the phone.

  For several seconds, they didn't move.

  “Jesus.” Savage's hands shook. He had trouble standing.

  Akira's neck muscles were so taut they resembled ropes.

  Rachel approached, trying not to look at Graham's corpse.

  Savage suddenly noticed how pale she was. He reached her just in time before her legs gave out. He helped her toward a sofa, choosing the one that allowed her to sit with her back to Graham. “Put your head between your knees.”

  “I just lost my balance for a second.”

  “Sure.”

  “I feel better now.”

  “Of course. I'll get you some water,” Akira said.

  “No, really, I think I'm okay.” Her color was returning. “For a moment there, the room seemed blurry. Now … Yes.” She mustered strength. “I'll be fine. You don't need to worry. I'm not going to faint. I promised myself I wouldn't get in the way. I won't hold you back.” Her blue eyes glinted, stubborn, proud.

  “Get in the way? The opposite,” Savage said. “If it hadn't been for you, we probably wouldn't have discovered …” He bit his lower lip and turned toward Graham's body. “The poor bastard. I came here ready to strangle him. Now I'd hug him if he were alive. God, I'll miss him.” He pressed downward with his hands, as if repressing emotion. “So what the hell happened?”

  “You mean what appears to have happened,” Akira said.

  “Exactly.”

  Rachel looked confused.

  “Three empty wine bottles,” Akira said.

  “Right. A drunken man decides to go out for the evening. He starts his car, but before he can open the garage, he passes out. The exhaust fumes kill him.”

  “A coroner will reject that explanation.”

  “Of course,” Savage said.

  “I don't understand,” Rachel said.

  “The garage was dark, and the door from the living room was shut,” Akira said. “Even a drunk would realize that the garage wasn't open when he found himself blundering around in the dark. His first instinct would be to open the outside door.”

  “Unless he had an automatic garage-door opener, and he figured he could press the remote control in his car while he started the engine.”

  “But Graham's garage actually has two doors. Like the stable doors they're supposed to resemble, they open out on each side, and it has to be done by hand.”

  “So the garage was left closed deliberately.”

  “I'm missing something,” Rachel said. “It sounds like … Graham committed suicide?”

  “He sits here alone, the stereo blaring while he smokes and drinks and broods. When he's drunk enough to work up his nerve, he goes out to his car. Doesn't bother to shut off the stereo. Why worry about it? Makes sure the living room door is closed to keep the garage sealed. Turns the ignition key. The exhaust smells terrible, but after several deep breaths, his eyes feel heavy. He drifts. He dies. No muss, no fuss. Yeah,” Savage said, “the coroner will buy it.”

  “And that's the way Graham would do it. He's too fastidious about his appearance to put a bullet through his head. All the blood would ruin his three-piece suit,” Akira said.

  Rachel looked disturbed.

  “He'd need a reason to kill himself,” Savage said.

  “Problems with his health?”

  Savage shrugged. “The last time I saw him, three weeks ago, there didn't seem anything wrong. Overweight, of course, but robust as ever. Even if he suddenly learned he had cancer, he's the type that would pamper himself till every medical option proved useless and he was terminal. Then he might kill himself. But not before.”

  “Then business problems.”

  “Better,” Savage said.

  “You're still confusing me,” Rachel said.

  “It wouldn't have anything to do with money,” Akira said. “Graham was wealthy. He invested shrewdly. So it has to be a client that turned against him, or a client's enemy who discovered that Graham arranged an attack against him.”

  Savage thought about it. “Good. It'll work. In his prime, when Graham belonged to the British commandos, a challenge excited him. But after he retired, once he put on weight and got soft from too much champagne and caviar, he'd have realized that he'd lost his ability to tolerate pain. He trained me, but his own skills were memories from his youth. He once admitted to me that these days, one-on-one, he wouldn't have a chance against a practiced opponent. If he knew he was being stalked, if he was certain his death would be painful, he might have chosen a peaceful suicide.”

  “Especially i
f we were stalking him,” Akira said.

  “Except that when Graham sent us to Mykonos, he had to assume we'd eventually come here demanding answers, and he knew us well enough to assume that no matter how angry we were, we'd never kill him. Besides, the coroner isn't aware of us. I don't think he's supposed to be aware of us, either.”

  “I agree,” Akira said. “Still, the coroner will have to believe that someone was stalking Graham, or else the scenario isn't valid. Somewhere—probably behind those bookshelves, in Graham's hidden files—the police will find evidence that Graham feared for his life.”

  “And knew he would suffer.”

  “And chose the dignity of a self-inflicted death.” Akira raised his eyebrows. “Very Japanese.”

  “Would the two of you please explain?” Rachel asked.

  “Graham didn't kill himself,” Akira said.

  “But the way you've been talking …”

  “We're pretending to be the coroner,” Savage said. “The verdict is suicide. But the coroner doesn't know that Graham would never have chosen a heavy-metal radio station. And the coroner doesn't know that Graham would never have mixed Dom Pérignon with Asti Spumante. Graham was murdered. He was forced—I assume by several men—to drink the champagne he had in stock. But two bottles weren't enough. So they sent a man to buy another. He came back with his choice, not Graham's. When Graham passed out, they put him in the car, turned it on, shut the living room door, waited till he was dead, then left.”

  “But not before they played the radio to pass the time,” Akira said. “Again their choice of stations. They probably figured the music would be a realistic touch, so they didn't switch it off before they activated the alarm on the outside entrance and left.”

  “Almost perfect,” Savage said. “The bastards. I'll …”

  “Make them pay?” Akira's sad eyes blazed. “That goes without saying.”

  5

  Savage raised Graham's arms while Akira lifted his legs. Rachel opened the living room door, turning from the cloud of exhaust spewing in while the two men carried the corpse to the garage.