“Relax, buddy-boy. I used to be a detective, remember?”
“You didn’t answer my question. You been spying on me?”
Dix laughed again, with a trace of nervousness. It was covered well, but Colby noticed it. His old partner wasn’t the only detective.
“I was downtown looking for you,” Dix said. “I was getting ready to call you for a meet, when who do you think I spotted?”
“I give up.” More laughter. A bit more self-assured.
“Our old buddy Morgan Laird. He was in a wheelchair getting into a limo. That shitbird Fontaine was with him.”
“Yeah,” Colby said, not wanting to mention the DNA discovery. “They were guests of the Bureau today. Served them milk and cookies, like good little boy scouts, and powdered their asses before they left.”
“Just remember what I always told ya,” Dix said. “The only difference between the Feds and the boy scouts is that the scouts have adult supervision.”
Colby glanced at the clock. It was almost six-thirty. If he wanted to get some flowers and get down to her hotel relatively soon, he’d better get moving.
“Look, Dix, like I said, I got a date.”
“Yeah, you did say. You gonna tell me about her?”
Colby sighed. What could it hurt? Maybe the old guy was getting some vicarious thrill, or something. “She’s Canadian. A copper from Toronto PD.”
“You know what I always told you about cops dating cops.”
“I thought you were talking about male cops,” Colby shot back. “Anyway, I got to scoot.”
“Just give me a quick update on the case.” Dix’s voice had gone from salacious to imploring. When Colby didn’t answer, he added, “Come on, Rog. I’m really interested in this one. We worked it together in the old days, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, we did.”
“Then just give me a head’s-up. Come on, for old times’ sake.”
Colby thought about it, then figured what the hell. He’d throw him a bread crumb and it would probably satisfy him. “Can’t really say too much, but it looks like a cigarette butt with our old buddy’s DNA might be tied into the murders.”
“No shit?” Dix’s voice sounded renewed.
“He definitely knows something. He’s not in it alone, that’s for sure, but he’s mixed up in things.”
“Say, maybe I oughta go try and talk to him,” Dix said. “Maybe he’d open up to me.”
“Stay away from him. The Feds have a surveillance team on his place. He’ll fuck up, and when he does, they’ll nail him.”
“They’ll nail him? What kind of an attitude is that? In the old days you’d have been chomping at the bit to take him down, even if we had to sit out there round the clock.”
“It’s champing,” Colby said. “Now promise me you won’t go trying to nose around Laird. The Feds got all the bases covered.”
“The Feds,” Dix said, the derision obvious in his voice.
“Dix.”
“All right, all right, I promise.” His voice got jovial again. “Now go on your date and don’t eat too much.” Colby heard the line go dead.
Same old Dix, he thought. Always figuring he could take a few steps over the edge and not fall off.
Knox had done a Google search on the phone number listed for M. Laird in the lexicon of Lance Fontaine’s cell phone. The address had popped up in a matter of seconds. And the GPS system he had in his BMW made finding the run-down flophouse where Laird stayed as easy as one, two, three.
God bless modern technology, he thought, smiling as he circled the block and decided on a safe parking spot on the next block down.
He smiled again as he got out of the car, remembering how smoothly things had gone with the esteemed counselor. The greedy prick had been eager to meet after Knox’s phone call. All it took was a vague claim that he had information for sale regarding the police trying to set Morgan Laird up by manufacturing evidence.
“I’m all ears,” Fontaine had said.
“Give me your cell number and go outside your office building. I wanna make sure you’re alone, then I’ll call you and tell you where we’ll meet.”
The greedy bastard fell for it, seeing dollar signs, no doubt. He was thinking lawsuit—official misconduct. A big time suit against the G.
What he got instead, after Knox lured him into a multi-level parking area at the nearby shopping center, was a couple of jacketed hollow points. Fontaine was driving a Jaguar with tinted windows. Once inside the Jag, Knox took out the Beretta and began his little interrogation. The first shot hit Fontaine in the right thigh. With the sound-suppressor attached, it made a subdued, plinking sound.
The lawyer’s eyes widened as he cupped both his hands over the spreading stain on his gray trousers.
“I’ll take these,” Knox said, reaching over to grab the keys from the ignition.
Fontaine tried to open the driver’s door and flee, so Knox shot him again in the upper ass.
“Where’s Morgan Laird living at these days?” he asked, reaching up and pulling the lawyer’s upturned face back toward him. Knox was wearing his tight leather gloves. The ones he loved to work in.
“Don’t kill me,” Fontaine grunted. “Morgan Laird,” Knox repeated.
Fontaine rattled off an address. “Please. I’ll give you money, anything you want.”
Knox glanced at the lawyer’s cell phone and picked it up from the console between the seats. Pressing a few of the buttons, he came to Call Contacts, and scrolled down until he saw MLaird.
“This his number?” Knox asked.
“Whose?” Fontaine’s voice was a sharp grunt.
“Laird’s.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Knox said, pocketing the lawyer’s cell phone and bringing the barrel of the silencer up to Fontaine’s right temple.
Then this will be all I need.”
The Beretta made the plinking sound again.
Dix slipped his cell phone back into his pocket and stretched out as best he could in the cramped car. In the old days, this stuff hadn’t bothered him. He could sit all day and all night watching if he had to. But then he’d had Colby with him. Four eyes, instead of just his two. He sighed and watched the dumb Feds sitting down the block. At least he figured them for Feds. Dark suits in a standard black, four-door Ford. Could they be any more obvious?
They were so busy chatting on their phones that somebody could slip right past them. Maybe they had another team watching the back. The flophouse obviously had more than one door in and out. But these guys were amateurs.
Dix curled his fingers around his binoculars and studied a lean, lanky guy with a ponytail, a set of chin-whiskers, and a gray trench coat going in the front of Laird’s building. The guy stopped and eyed something, then trotted inside. Part of the surveillance team going for an inside look-see? Not with that ponytail. Probably one of the shitbird tenants.
The two federales paid no attention. They were probably focused on watching for a man in a wheelchair, so they were blissfully ignoring everyone else.
Time to take the bull by the horns, Dix thought, and stuck the binocs in the glove box. He felt his hip for the comfort of his old .38 snub-nose, popped open the door, and got out, pulling his shirt tails out of his pants. Ruffling his hair lightly, to give it a disheveled look, he made sure his rug was still in place, and began ambling down the block toward the flophouse.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Feds as he stumbled past their car. One was reading a magazine while the other chatted on a cell phone, occasionally looking in the direction of the front doors.
Hell, he thought. This is gonna be even easier than I thought.
Matthew had enough money to proceed with his plan, but he still needed his notes, not to mention a change of clothes. Wearing a dead man’s shirt and pants didn’t bother him as much as the way the garments fit. Too big in the waist, too small in the shoulders. The stupid prick had deserved exactly what he got, though. Trying to do CPR
on the Blem…what a chump.
Matthew needed to get back into his apartment. Get his own car back, too. Maybe put it somewhere where he’d have access to it, once the plan was complete. Someplace Knox wouldn’t find it. Knox.
The name sent a momentary flash of panic through him. Perhaps they’d towed his car back to New Genesis? But that might attract unwanted attention. They’d obviously been holding him to find out what he’d been up to. As usual, the old man’s primary concern was preventing bad publicity for his fiefdom.
Just wait. The old bastard would get that, and more. Way more. In spades.
He smiled at the word choice. Him, the ultimate bastard, calling anybody else by that name. It was ludicrous, hypocritical. But soon, very soon, his surrogate father’s elaborate house of cards would come crashing down and everyone would know the truth.
Inside the front door Dix paused to tuck his shirt back in his pants. Looking like a bum to get past some lazy Feds was one thing. Going to interview a suspect looking sloppy was another.
The guy who looks sharp, feels sharp, Dix thought. But the fatigue and frustration of the long day were starting to wear him down. Still, the tidbit that Colby had given him had been enough to plant the seed. If he could get Laird to open up, to talk to him, then maybe, just maybe, he could do an end-run around the rest of them. He imagined the Feds coming to him, begging for his help.
The small hallway opened into another room that was completely deserted. A worn-out couch and a couple of equally shitty looking chairs were in the center of the floor to try to make the place look like a half-assed lobby. Beyond it, rows of cheap wooden doors lined a hallway.
Next to the door a twin series of buttons, resembling doorbells, and a speaker graced the wall. A few of the buzzers had hand-printed slips of paper next to them with last names written in. Dix scanned the list. No Laird. Another hand-printed sign on the top button taped to it saying: Super—Ring for Service. Dix pressed it and heard the corresponding chimes inside the door closest to the dilapidated foyer. The floor was covered with a putrid looking carpet, threadbare in so many places that it actually had a worn path leading to a payphone mounted on the wall. The rest of it showed the remnants of more than just a few seasons. Dix went to the windows and peered out through a grayish film. The darkening sky made it impossible to see anything. He waited a few more minutes, just to satisfy himself that no one from the surveillance team was going to do a walk-though.
Fat chance of that, he thought, mentally chastising the new breed of copper who’d rather sit in his car instead of pounding the pavement tracking down leads.
Dix smiled at his reflection in the dirty window-pane. Time to resurrect his old, confident persona. Reaching in his pocket, he fingered the badge case, hoping the super would be too drunk or too disinterested to notice the “Retired” stamped beneath the seal. He placed his index finger over it, obscuring the letters and did a few practice draws, whipping the badge-case out as he walked, striving for the appearance of nonchalance.
When he got to the door he ignored the buzzer and pounded hard on the flimsy wood. A voice inside gave a garbled yell that sounded something like, “Whaddaya want?”
Dix gave another series of heavy knocks, watching the door buckle slightly.
He heard another yell, then the sound of footsteps. The door whipped open displaying a round face, flushed red and covered with a crop of stubble. The guy was white, middle-aged, and probably looked a good ten years older than he actually was.
“What?” he said, small bunches of spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. His big gut stretched the fabric of a soiled T-shirt and sagged down over a pair of filthy blue jeans. Behind the guy, Dix could see an open pizza box on a TV tray in front of a flat-screen television playing a porno flick.
“Police,” Dix said, holding up the badge. He dropped his hand just as the guy’s eyes began to narrow. “What room’s Morgan Laird in?”
“What, the right hand don’t know what the left one’s doing?” The guy asked. “I told the other guy, he’s in number eleven.”
Dix squinted at the guy. “Other guy?”
“Yeah, he was just in here a couple of minutes ago. Said he had a message from Laird’s lawyer.”
Shit, thought Dix. I’m a day late and a dollar short. “What did he look like?”
The super shrugged. “I dunno. Like somebody ringing my buzzer. At least he had the courtesy to use the intercom over there instead of disturbing me by pounding on my door.” He pointed to the panel with the speaker, beside the rows of buttons.
Dix frowned. “He still here?”
“Can’t say. Been busy.”
“So I see,” Dix said, grinning, looking at the room beyond the guy’s sagging gut. “Why don’t you go call Mr. Laird and see if he’s alone?”
“Why should I?”
Dix held up a ten. “Let’s just say, Mr. Hamilton would appreciate it.”
A venal glint flashed in the super’s eyes and he reached for the bill.
Dix moved it back out of the guy’s reach. “First, the call.”
The super frowned and walked back inside the room. Dix watched him through the open door, straining to listen as the guy picked up the phone and dialed.
“Yeah, this is the super. You alone?” The guy paused, cocked his head back, and said, “Because I got a fucking cop down here asking, that’s why.” After a bit more of unintelligible conversation, he slammed down the phone and came back. “Yeah, he says he is.”
“That other guy leave?”
The super shrugged and held out his hand. Dix slipped him the bill and the guy said, “I assume so. Is that all now?”
Dix nodded. “Enjoy your movie.”
The super frowned and slammed the door in Dix’s face.
In the old days, Dix thought as he walked down the dirty hallway, I woulda kicked the guy’s door in on general principles and slapped the info outta him.
He sighed. But these weren’t the old days.
The wallpaper next to lucky eleven was sagging down like drooping skin. Dix glanced up and down the hall. The door of the adjacent room was a half-open, providing a glimpse of an old washing machine and dryer inside. Each had a hand-printed sign on top which proclaimed, Out of Order in uneven, block letters. It smelled like someone had pissed on the tile floor, which was so discolored that it was hard to tell if the odor was recent.
Dix raised his hand and knocked on the door, then tried the knob. It twisted open at his touch. The room was a hole, barely twenty feet long, with walls so close together you could almost touch each one standing the in the center. A cot-like bed was on the right side, and a small television rested on a card table along with a hot plate. A closet-sized bathroom jutted out from the left. No tub or shower, just a shitter and a sink. At least the wallpaper stuck to the walls, but it looked like it hadn’t been washed since Reagan was in the White House. At the far end of the room, Dix saw a figure hunched in a wheelchair, talking on a cell phone.
“Yeah, Mr. Fontaine,” Morgan Laird was saying into the phone, “I’m leaving you this message at—” he paused to glance at his watch, “six-fifty-three PM, and I’m informing you that the police have come here harassing me.” Laird’s eyes blinked and he lowered the phone from his face.
“Dix?”
“How ya doing, Morgan?”
The man in the wheelchair studied him, then a faint smile crossed the pale lips. He pressed a button on the cell phone and set it on the flimsy table.
“What happened?” Laird asked. “You got old.” Dix smiled. Same old Morgan.
“Yeah, you too.” He walked over and looked for a place to sit. There was one other chair, the kind you’d pick up at a cheap yard sale, but Dix decided not to trust the spindly-looking legs. As much as he hated to, he plopped down on Morgan’s unmade bed, hoping no roaches would find their way into his pockets. “You know, you really oughta lock your door. Never know who could walk in on you.”
Laird coughed a phlegmy
laugh. “Yeah, well, after spending all them years in an eight-by-twelve cell with a lock on the door, I kinda like leaving it unlocked sometimes.”
“Nice place,” Dix said.
Laird blew out a puff of air. “It’s a shit-hole, and you know it.” He wheeled himself closer to Dix. “But it beats Stateville. At least I can come and go as I please.”
Dix saw an open pack of cigarettes on the card table.
“Still smoking Pall Malls I see,” he said, wondering how the hell Laird could still be smoking at all, considering the oxygen tube between the footrests of the wheelchair.
Laird nodded. “Yeah, pass me one, will ya?”
Dix reached over and grabbed the pack and the plastic lighter, holding it out and flicking it after Laird put a cigarette between his lips.
“Thanks,” he said, leaning forward to hold the end of the square in the flame. He inhaled, then let out a smoky breath. His eyes narrowed “So, whatcha want, coming here?”
“Morgan, you remember me from before, right? I always treated you fair, didn’t I?”
Laird drew on the cigarette again, then smirked.
“Well,” Dix continued, “I been hearing things. Bad things.”
“What the fuck you talking about?” Laird’s brow furrowed. “Hey, you still a cop, or what? You gotta be too old now.”
Dix stared at him. Maybe he could play this into an advantage. “Let’s just say I’m semi-retired. But I still have connections. I can help you out of the jam you’re in.”
“What jam? I ain’t done shit.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Oh yeah? What did you hear?”
Dix paused to watch him. He’d broken down enough criminals in the old days to know the psychological effect of a good, solid stare. But all Laird did was stare back, puffing away at a leisurely pace. He sure didn’t look nervous.
Finally, Dix asked, “You know what DNA is, Morgan?”
“Sure. Don’t everybody?”
“They’ve got a lot of new techniques nowadays,” Dix said. “For instance, you remember that half-smoked Pall Mall you left in Linda McKenny’s bedroom back in the day?”
Blood Trails Page 17