by Rex Burns
“Well, I had to lie, didn’t I? I had to get next to him. That’s what you wanted me to do, ain’t it?”
“We also wanted you to keep us informed.”
“I’m doing it! I’m doing it right now. I was going to call you first thing in the morning—all you people had to do was … How’d you find out anyway?” His eyes darted to the telephone beside his bed and he massaged his elbow while he thought. “You fuckers got a tap on my phone!”
“We knew your life was venial and boring, Vinny. But it’s really depressing to find out just how bad it is.”
“Hey, I do all right! You saw that broad I had tonight, didn’t you? I do all right, Kirk!”
“If you want to keep doing all right, you do the job we’re paying you for.”
“I’m doing it. Who the hell found out about the shipment? It wasn’t you people. It was me!”
“What about that enforcer—Tony? You hear anything about him yet?”
Vinny, a worried wrinkle between his brows, shrugged. “Not much. I know I don’t want to ask nothing about him.”
“What’d you hear? Have you seen him? Has he been around?”
“No—far as I know, he’s still back east. All I know is, Scotty Martin’s scared shitless of the guy.”
“Why?”
“No reason I could tell except he’s a bad dude. Me, I think he’s the organization hit man—something like that. Scotty’s never said anything about … you know, that Newman kid. But Atencio told me Scotty and somebody from out of town had to take care of a fink, and that was the only time he ever saw Scotty really uptight: when he knew that Tony guy was coming in. Atencio thought that was why Eddie Visser skipped too. He thinks Visser heard what Tony and Scotty did to Newman and cut out.”
Bunch tossed him a pair of tangled slacks and Vinny tugged them over his goose-bumped legs. “You call tomorrow after work. You tell us when and where that shipment is coming.”
“Hey, I can’t—”
“Call, Vinny. Give us no shit about it. Just call.”
He hadn’t called by afternoon when Kirk brought Reznick up to date. “Shipped from the Pensacola plant?”
“That’s what I understand, Mr. Reznick. How many containers usually come in from there?”
“Well, the number of loads varies. But each full trailer holds around a hundred units. And sometimes there are three or four trailer loads.” He explained: “They mold the base units at the Pensacola plant and send them to us for assembly with the electrical components from Sunnyvale.”
“California?”
“That’s right. Then we distribute them to the marketing outlets.”
“Can we go through the shipment before it arrives without anyone finding out about it?”
Reznick chewed his lip and shook his head. “It would be tough. The parts are in sealed, pressurized containers.” He added, “The higher pressure inside the drum keeps out dust and moisture. They’re sealed and loaded at the Pensacola plant onto trailer trucks, piggybacked by rail to Denver, and then trucked from the rail terminal to here.” Looking out the window toward the long concrete wing of the assembly plant, he scratched his jaw. “That’s another reason we assemble in Denver—the parts come up from sea level, so the pressurization’s even more effective. If a container’s opened, it loses its pressure and we know it’s been contaminated. How big a package are we talking?”
“I’m not sure. It depends on how pure the cocaine is.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The purer it is, the smaller the size. They’re usually bagged in one-kilo blocks. But by the time coke gets to the street, ninety percent of the mix may be neutral agents.”
“A ten-pound package of pure could make a hundred pounds of street-value coke?”
Kirk nodded. “Or more.”
“What’s that worth?”
Kirk told him and Reznick’s eyes rounded. “No wonder they take the risk!”
With this setup, there wasn’t much risk. Sealed containers meant that dogs would be no use. And if anyone opened the container en route, Martin would be tipped off and run.
Reznick had been thinking of other ramifications. “Kirk, I don’t see how we can trace the Pensacola end of this thing without letting their management know what’s going on.”
“If we limit the number of people who know about this, the chance of a leak is reduced.”
Reznick jerked on the tangle of gray and black curls that formed his long sideburns. “I appreciate that, Kirk. But I’ve been thinking … This has grown far beyond what I thought it would be. It’s a company-wide issue now.”
And, Kirk saw, along with his second thoughts had come a fear of not being covered. A man could dare and, if successful, collect his laurels. But he could also reap the thorns of failure. Especially if he was out there all alone. “It’s your decision, of course. We can restrict the investigation to this plant alone and be satisfied with that,” Kirk said, adding, “Unfortunately, that leaves the organization intact elsewhere. And there’s no guarantee that—if this is the only cell—they wouldn’t infiltrate someone else here later on.”
“I know that, Kirk. You’ve explained that already.” Reznick turned from the window and wiped a nervous hand along his cheek. “Well, damn. Decision time, right? Well, by God, that’s what I’m paid for, isn’t it?” He thought a moment more and then made the decision. “It’s time to talk to Stewart. It’s his company. He has a right to know. I’ll be in touch with you shortly, Kirk.” He followed the taller man to the door. “Keep the investigation focused on this plant for now. But don’t be surprised if it expands to Pensacola. That’s going to be my recommendation to Stew.”
Bunch, when Devlin reported Reznick’s words, nodded. “He’d be a fool not to go after the whole gang. I bet that’s what his boss tells him too.”
“You figure it reaches Pensacola directly from South America?”
“That makes sense.” Bunch pointed to a map from the office file of charts. With a thick forefinger, he traced a line across the blue of the Gulf of Mexico. “A freighter on the way to New Orleans or Tampa from Caracas or Panama. It swings near Pensacola and a fishing boat meets it. Or it makes Pensacola Bay a port of call. Then the dope’s shipped out here before even being unwrapped. That’s the beauty of this little scam, Dev. Our local narcs have no clue that Pensacola’s the point of entry, so they can’t get to the source. If a local dealer’s busted, all he knows is he got it from Atencio or some middleman. They probably guess it comes across through Nogales or LA, so they tighten up security there.”
Kirk agreed. He thought it was shipped straight through too. You dump a couple kilos on the local market, it’s reflected in street prices and the narcs hear about it. But if there’s no big splurge—if it’s shipped out—the importer doesn’t feel any heat. And the price in Denver was probably a hell of a lot better than in Pensacola or anywhere else in Florida. The farther from a port of entry, the higher the price because of the increased transportation costs and the risks of ferrying it across country.
But no one took risks with these shipments. They just used a delivery system that was a hell of a lot more secure and reliable than the U.S. Postal Service. “A lot depends on Vinny,” said Devlin.
“Vinny’s health depends on Vinny. And he better remember that.”
CHAPTER 18
HUMPHRIES’ HEALTH DEPENDED on Devlin and Bunch, as he reminded them with an urgent phone call the next morning. “It was the killer. I know it was.”
“Slow down, Mr. Humphries—start from the top.” Bunch settled on a corner of the groaning desk and flipped on the telephone speaker so Kirk could hear. “What time did he call?”
“About ten minutes ago. The phone rang and I thought it was Len at work—we have a project that’s been giving us some trouble, and Len and I planned to get together early this morning. So I thought it was him, and I—”
“Was it a man or woman?”
“A man. He said something first in Japanese
and I didn’t catch it. I think he asked who I was, but I wasn’t expecting it, so I didn’t catch it. Then he spoke English.”
“What’d he say?”
“He asked if I was Roland Humphries and I said yes. Then he asked if he could speak to Watanabe Mitsuko. That’s when I got suspicious. I asked him why and he got angry. I could hear it in his voice. He got angry and said if I didn’t put Mitsuko on, I would be very sorry.”
“And?”
“I asked who he was and what he wanted with her. He said it was none of my business. So I said it was too my business and I wasn’t going to call her to the telephone unless he answered my questions. Then he said something else in Japanese too fast for me to understand and hung up.” Humphries drew a long breath. “It was the killer. I know it. And he’s here!”
And if so, he knew for certain that Mitsi Watanabe was, too. “How do you know it was a local call?”
Humphries paused. “Well, it wasn’t an overseas call. There wasn’t that delay you get with a satellite relay.” He added, “But even if he’s not right in Denver, he’s in the country someplace. It won’t take him long to get here.”
“All right, Mr. Humphries. Here’s what you do. Peterson should be there any minute. Tell him what happened and that you’ve called me. Tell him that either Mr. Kirk or I will be out there as soon as possible.” Bunch glanced at Devlin, who nodded. “Then you and Peterson go on to work just like always. We’ll look after things.”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“It wouldn’t do any good, Mr. Humphries. I hate to tell you, but that phone call’s just not exciting enough to stir them up.”
“But he wants to kill me!”
“And that’s why you’ve hired us, right? Now you just do like I told you, Mr. Humphries. And let us take care of things, okay?”
Bunch hung up and Kirk said, “The call could have come from anywhere. LA, Seattle, San Fran.”
“Or Denver.” Bunch shrugged into his windbreaker and stared for a long moment through the arched window at the distant mountains. Above the irregular line of peaks, pale traces of clouds drawn long and wispy by high-altitude winds promised a change in the weather. This late in October, the change would be toward colder. “You want to ride shotgun with Peterson this afternoon? I can take care of the house, but he might need some help.”
Devlin saw what Bunch meant and agreed. “Yeah. Mitsuko-san should be pretty safe with you there.”
Bunch paused at the Mosler and took out the Python .357 magnum that he liked to carry in the holster welded under his Bronco’s dash. “I think that spider woman would be pretty safe anywhere, Dev.” He twirled the pistol on his finger. “This is to protect me.”
Mitsuko was waiting for Bunch by the time he reached the sprawling, single-level home. This time she wore a black outfit: skintight Lycra pants and a sleeveless silk vest that clung to each firm breast as if it were painted on. The glossy black fabric matched her long hair and perhaps her mood. There was a lassitude about her, as if she knew it was only a matter of time before the other shoe fell. “Roland was very worried when he left this morning.”
“If that was your yojimbo on the phone, Roland was right to be worried.”
“You don’t really think we’re safe here, do you?”
“If he knows where you are, it’s as safe a place as any.”
“So you’re not going to carry me away to some secret place.” There was no flirtation in the question; it was just a resigned acknowledgment.
Bunch was tempted to ask what kind of obligation she thought he owed her, but the question could be read as an invitation he didn’t want to make. Instead, he shrugged. “How secret was New York? How secret’s Denver?”
She looked down and shook her head. “Not very.”
“What is it you’re really running from, Mitsuko-san?”
“I told you.”
“Yeah, I know what you told me.”
“You mean you don’t believe me.”
Bunch sighed and strode to the large windows to look out at the trees and hillside beyond. From the kitchen, Mrs. Lucero’s ranchera music made a bouncy noise. “I don’t know how much to believe. I still can’t see a man wanting to kill his own daughter. Humphries, maybe. But not you.”
“You don’t understand our Japanese sense of honor.”
“Among other things.” Bunch gave the electronics controls a quick check, verifying the integrity of the circuits. Then he switched them off to run a leisurely patrol around the property. The exterior units had to be inspected as well, but the real reason for the tour was that it felt better to be outside than prowling through a house where Mitsuko hung around waiting for him to save her from something she would not name.
The sound of shears led him to Mr. Lucero, who was clipping evergreen shrubs back from the base of the house.
“Seen anybody around?” Bunch asked.
The man wore a khaki work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show wiry arms. “No.” The straw hat bobbed toward the driveway. “Mailman come by a little while ago. That’s it.”
Bunch nodded. He finished the perimeter and, with his binoculars, conned the horizons and the distant glimpses of the few neighboring homes. Then he found a comfortable rest on the pine needles between two ponderosas and settled in the warmth of a hazy sun. From there he could keep an eye on the country road that notched the rise and dipped into the wide valley at his feet.
Devlin arranged to meet Peterson and Humphries around six. The procedure was for Humphries to leave work before or after the main rush hour instead of joining the confusion of cars that spewed onto the highways between four and six. That way, any tail could be spotted more easily, and the random time made it more difficult for an assailant to plan an ambush. Today was a late day, Peterson told him. Kirk used the extra time to swing past the Advantage Corporation’s parking lot. He wanted to impress on Vinny once more the importance of his cheerful, willing, and prompt cooperation. Devlin waited down the street as Vinny’s smoking Chevrolet chugged past. Landrum had someone riding in the front seat with him. Devlin pulled into traffic, just keeping in view the Chevy’s roof with its thin remnant of green cloth and blossoming scabs of rust.
Landrum merged into the tangle of trucks and homeward-bound traffic that choked the I-70/I-25 Mousetrap. Then he shook free long enough to swing onto the off-ramp at Pecos. With some twists and turns, Vinny led through the Chaffee Park neighborhood down to Forty-third Avenue and a frame house at the corner of Navajo. There he pulled to the curb and his rider got out, a dark man of medium height who lifted a hand goodbye. The man disappeared down the driveway to a garage that had been converted into a cottage. Vinny pulled away slowly, turned onto Lipan, and coasted to the curb, where he waited. Kirk parked close behind him, and Vinny got out and walked quickly back to the Healey 3000.
“What the hell’s the problem now, Kirk? What the hell you trying to do, get my ass carved up like goddamn Newman?”
“You haven’t called us, Vinny.”
“Call! What the hell I got to call about yet? You know who that was I give a ride to? Johnny Atencio! Goddamn it, I got Johnny Atencio riding in my fucking car and I look up and see you on my tail. You can blow this whole thing, you know that?”
“Why give Atencio a ride?”
“His car’s in the shop, so I told him I’d take him home.”
“What about the shipment?”
“I don’t know! He don’t know. It’s sometime this week, but only Martin knows. When it’s here, he’ll tell us. For Christ’s sake, get off my back!”
“I want you to be impressed, Vinny, with how much we value your work. And how disappointed Bunch and I will be if you screw up.”
“All right—I’m impressed. But if anybody screws up, it’ll be you people because you won’t back off. Now, goddamn it, stay away. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” He spat angrily at the pavement and stalked back to his car, heels jabbing at the ground.
As Bunch ha
d said, he was a righteous little bastard. Devlin watched the smoking car lurch away, left rear fender flapping indignantly. After Vinny was out of sight, he swung around to guide the Healey toward the south side of the city and Peterson.
Kirk shifted positions around Humphries’ speeding Mercedes. First he scooted the Healey out among the thinning traffic in front of the man, then pulled off to let Humphries—tracked closely by Peterson—move past. The small radio crackled and popped with the noise of distant transmissions, but neither Devlin nor Peterson made much use of it. They had worked together before.
Today’s route, Peterson had told him, would be down I1-25 to the 470 loop and across to South Santa Fe. Then south to the small town of Sedalia and onto State 105 as far as the graveled county road that led past Humphries’ long driveway. Peterson had mapped a variety of routes, and changed portions of the journey each day in a random pattern. But there were a few intersections and certain stretches of road that couldn’t be avoided. The idea was to come at them from different directions and at various times. And—as now—for Kirk to move ahead and scout key junctions for any waiting cars, to watch Humphries’ and Peterson’s sedans flash past, and then to remain for a few minutes and see if anyone followed.
He angled the Healey under the ragged shade of a hackberry tree that leaned out of the weedy drainage ditch, and killed the engine. Without the throaty hum of the pipes, the sounds of late afternoon drifted on a chill autumn breeze. It swept across the wide valley formed by the Front Range and the low ridges of limestone shelves stepping up to the prairie on the east. Somewhere beyond a weathered barn and across a white-fenced pasture, a cow moaned persistently. Her long, soft grunt rose to a squealing bellow and died away unanswered. In the hazy sky above the dark mountains, a small airplane droned and faded as it changed the pitch of its propeller. Behind him, at the turn from 105, Kirk saw Humphries’ Mercedes swing around the corner and come over the bobbing ridges of the narrow strip of road. Following it, less than a car’s length back, was Peterson’s gray Dodge—a rebuilt Highway Patrol cruiser. They flashed past, tires sizzling on the asphalt, leaving a taint of exhaust on the breeze. Kirk listened for any engines straining to catch the two automobiles. The cow. The dying buzz of the airplane. The cold, dry wind rustling the dark leaves of the hackberry. Then he heard it: a whining rattle that meant motorcycle. An instant later, the black visor of a helmeted rider glanced his way as a Yamaha leaned tightly through the turn and ran up the gears. Kirk pulled out after it, looking in the rearview mirror to see if anyone else was joining them.