Bloody River Blues

by Jeffery Deaver

  FIFTEEN

  "Does your boss know you did time?"

  Pellam lowered his hand from the doorknob. He returned to Peterson's desk and sat down. He stared at the picture.

  Turn your head… We want a profile. Turn your head… Him? Yeah, he's the one killed that actor. Yep, sure is."

  Peterson said cheerfully, "You know, I seem to remember something of surety law. Wouldn't your film company's bond get lifted if an ex-felon was on the payroll? Especially with a drug charge?"

  "I was acquitted on the drug and murder charges."

  "Don't quibble, Mr. Pellam. The victim died because you delivered two ounces of cocaine to him, didn't you? This Tommy Bernstein, the young man in question."

  The best friend in question.

  Pellam reached forward and touched the photo of himself.

  "Put this here jumpsuit on, then we cuff you and take you downstairs. You hassle us, we hassle you and we got batons and you don't, you know what I'm saying? Now, move."

  The reason that he had not been able to attend Tommy's memorial service was that he was in a Los Angeles County Sheriffs Department holding cell, pending arraignment.

  Pellam, staring at his own gaunt image, was long past feeling the need to explain, to shake his head with a grim, tight mouth and tell how Tommy had begged him for the stuff, crying. Please, just this once, John, help me, help me, help me. I can't work without it. I see the cameras, man, and I freeze. I mean, I fucking freeze. You gotta help me… Tommy Bernstein, lovable madman and brilliant actor, leaning on Pellam's shoulder, tears in thick streaks shooting down his doughy face, pathetic and looking just like the child that, in the core of his soul, he was and would always be-the child that Pellam should have recognized.

  No, he wouldn't explain this to the sour, cold man he now sat in front of. He said only, "It was a long time ago."

  Peterson regarded him coolly. "An ex-felon is an ex-felon. You can't ever take that away."

  "No, you can't."

  Peterson repeated. "Does your boss know?"

  "No."

  "It's purely a civil matter. I don't have any legal duty to tell him. But I do feel a certain sense of moral obligation. He would fire you in an instant, I imagine."

  "I imagine he would. And if I say that I saw Crimmins in the car you'll forget to mention it."

  "You've had some conversations with a Marty Weller in the past week."

  "Marty? How do you know about Marty?"

  "Some conversations about a movie project you're putting together?" Pellam was silent, and Peterson continued, "Following those conversations, you started looking for some money. Your bank in Sherman Oaks, some car dealer who wasn't interested in an apparently less-than-perfect Porsche you happen to own…"

  "You tapped my phone illegally."

  "Not at all. We talk to people. That's all. We introduce ourselves and we ask questions. Most people usually cooperate."

  "What's your point?'

  "You apparently need some money, some big money. And you need it rather desperately."

  "And you think Crimmins is paying me not to testify."

  "Yes. That's exactly what I think."

  Anger sputtered into Pellam's face. He stood up and leaned forward, his eyes wild and uncontrolled, his right fist balled.

  Papers and toys cascaded to the floor.

  They remained locked in a gaze for a long moment, while Peterson mastered his fear, and Pellam, his anger. Pellam was close to hitting the man.

  Peterson whispered, Please. I say this for your sake. I don't think you want to add to your list of woes at the moment, do you really?"

  Pellam finally stood upright and walked not to the door but to the window. For a long moment, as if he were debating something furiously, he looked out over an expanse of green. St. Louis was a very verdant place, even in October. The important aspects of his life in jeopardy, Pellam noticed small details. Like the colors of foliage and the shape of trees. He nodded suddenly, but whatever decision he came to, he kept to himself,and walked out of Peterson's office without saying a word.

  ***

  The ribbed ball rolled along the small grass rectangle.

  "You lose," the old man told Peter Crimmins, who smiled and nodded to the other players and then stepped over the black-painted railing. He stood in a small park in a suburb of St. Louis, squinting toward a huge complex of redbrick apartments. He wondered how much money it cost to build the place. He had never been in real estate. He considered it too Jewish. But he had lately been thinking about building something. He wanted some legacy and he thought he would like to sink some of his vast funds into something that might be named after him.

  Joshua stood nearby, leaning against a lamp pole with the tough serenity of middle-aged bouncers and Secret Service agents.

  A broad-featured woman in a blue denim cowboy suit talked into a public phone and gestured wildly. Her fat fingers mauled a cigarette.

  Crimmins, wearing dark slacks and sandals and a white dress shirt had been playing boccie for an hour. At one time the largely Italian park would probably have been crowded on a pleasant afternoon h'ke this, though even Crimmins, who had lived all his life near here, could not recall when. Perhaps the year of the St. Louis Exposition. An era when the town still retained some of its Confederateness. Why, there were even homeless people camped out near swing sets! Crimmins did not approve of homelessness. He thought such people should pick themselves up and get a job as those in earlier eras would have done.

  "Bootstraps" was a word Peter Crimmins used often.

  He surveyed the park now. Lots of Negroes, prowling slowly on their bicycles or walking in that fast lope of theirs. Puerto Ricans. White teenagers in leather and greasy denim, with their Frisbees and skateboards and guitars. A few professional people. Women jogging while they pushed babies in strollers that had three huge, cushioned wheels.

  And then there were the Chinese.

  While Crimmins disliked Jews and feared Negroes and Puerto Ricans, he loathed the Chinese.

  Crimmins was now looking at four or five Asian families as they picnicked. Crimmins was aware of the tide. Real estate and electronics. Shipping soon.

  And money laundering not long after that.

  A boy on a skateboard snapped past him in a surfer s crouch. As if drawn by the youngster's wake, a dark-complected man suddenly stepped up to Crimmins. "Hold up there."

  Just as suddenly, Joshua was between them, appearing from nowhere, hand inside his jacket.

  "Police, big fellow," the man said. "Unless you're feeling yourself up, get your fucking hand out where I can see it."

  Shields and ID cards appeared.

  "I'm Gianno, Maddox Police. That's Detective Hagedorn over there."

  "Maddox," Crimmins spat out.

  Hagedorn stood nearby. His jacket was unbuttoned. Gianno said, "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

  Crimmins nodded to Joshua, who retreated. He stopped fifteen feet away and stood watching the three men.

  "A woman was attacked not long ago."

  "Someone I know?" Crimmins was concerned.

  "Well, not a friend of yours, that's for sure. She was apparendy reluctant to file a report. We got a notice of. the assault from the FBI."

  Why would an assault be a federal issue? thought Crimmins, reciter of indictments and an expert in federal law. Then he understood. "I see," he said wearily. "And you think I was behind this attack."

  "She gave us a statement that the attacker said he worked for you."

  Crimmins blinked. "Me?"

  Gianno gave him a description of a young man with the birthmark.

  "I don't know anyone who looks like that. Besides, I wouldn't threaten anyone."

  "No." Gianno laughed. "Of course not."

  "Where have you been today?" Hagedorn piped up.

  "Home, then I came here."

  "Had to make some phone calls that nobody could hear, did you?" Gianno nodded toward the public phone.

  Crimm
ins rubbed his finger and thumb together in irritation; the thumbnail turned white under the pressure.

  "Are you arresting me?"

  Hagedorn said, "Will you give us a list of all your employees?'

  "I don't think I have to do that."

  "We hoped you'd be cooperative," Gianno said.

  "It would look better," his partner offered.

  "I don't really care what anything looks like. I-"

  Gianno said to Hagedorn, "Let's get out of here. This guy's no help. We'll follow up with Pellam-"

  The blond detective wagged a subtle finger and his partner stopped speaking as if he had caught himself at a social blunder. They looked for a moment at Crimmins, who kept his face blank. The two policemen then walked away.

  When the detectives had turned the corner, Crimmins walked along the street, away from the phone booth, motioning Joshua after him. When the bodyguard caught up with him, there was a crown of sweat on Crimmins's forehead and his face was white. These were not the symptoms of physical exertion.

  "Find me Stettle," Crimmins growled in a furious whisper. "I don't care where he is, what he's doing. I want him now."

  ***

  The river was muddy today.

  The water seemed no more turbulent than on any other day-the wind was brisk but it still hadn't broken the surface into whitecaps. But some disturbance was churning up clayish mud and staining the wide water from shore to shore.

  John Pellam stretched out in the driver's seat of the camper and tried Nina's number once more. Her machine answered and he hung up without leaving a message. They had had a brief conversation earlier during which she assured him she was fine.

  She simply wanted rest. Could he call the head of Makeup and explain?… Of course he would. Was there anything else he could do? Did she want company? No, she'd visited her mother at the hospital and asked the woman's doctor for a couple of Valium for herself. Pellam could hear the slurred words and he hung up to let her get some sleep.

  He had just now replaced the phone when a very distraught Tony Sloan called and said the final shoot was about to go down. Pellam knew this and had planned on attending. What was ominous was that Sloan had summoned him so adamantly. He couldn't possibly be thinking of new locations, could he? The key grip had let slip the information that Sloan had fifteen straight days of film-that was twenty-four-hour days of celluloid-to boil down into a 125-minute movie. Pellam, thanking the Lord he was not Sloan"s film editor, promised he would be there before the last blank gun shot was fired. He stood up and adjusted his Abel Gance Napoleon poster, the only decoration in the camper. He slipped the Colt into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket and was about to leave when his phone buzzed again.

  "Nina?" he asked.

  "Are you sitting down?" The voice was a man's.

  "Hello?"

  "Sitting down?"

  "I can hardly hear you, Marty. Where are you?"

  "I'm in Berlin."

  Pellam pressed the cellular phone hard into his ear, as if that might improve the connection from the state of Missouri, in which -Winston Churchill coined the term Iron Curtain to the place that had once been behind it.

  "I tried to get you in London and Paris," Pellam shouted. "Look, I'm sorry about the other night."

  "You don't have to shout. You break up when you shout. I can hear you fine. What?"

  "I'm sorry I missed you. I had an accident."

  "Well, it was a damn expensive accident. Telorian was interested but he got pissed because you blew him off a second time. What's the trouble, John, some Freudian thing against Iranians? Excuse me, Persians. You should've called. Are you sitting down?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I've got some Hungarian money lined up."

  "What?"

  "I know. It's weird. Paramount balked at the last minute on the terrorist script. It's totally cratered. So it's a green light for Central Standard Time. This guy in London put me in touch with these investors in Budapest. They're a real East Village duo. Young guys. I pitched you sort of as a Jarmusch."

  Hungarians financing a cult film noir flick set in Wisconsin. So this was the New World Order.

  "Well, I'm happy about that, Marty. What do we do now?"

  "You can get a hundred fifty?"

  "If I hustle."

  "Well, hustle, boy."

  'They understand I'm directing?"

  They're all for it. They know all about you, John… It's not a problem." His voice filled with transatlantic sincerity.

  "You know what I'm saying?"

  The death of Tommy Bernstein was what he was saying.

  "They like your work. They like you. Or who they think you are. Don't disappoint them."

  "Who are these guys?"

  "Their names, you mean? Unpronounceable. Funny marks over the letters. Who cares? Get your money. I'm having my shyster in New York put together the partnership agreement. Let's try to sign it up by the first of the month. Is it doable?"

  "It's doable. It's very doable… Listen, Marty… thanks. You know what this means to me."

  The broken connection mercifully cut short the gratitude and Pellam found the conversation was over.

  Outside he kicked a piece of dried mud off his Nokonas and walked to the Yamaha.

  SIXTEEN

  "We saw your advisory about the assault on that Sassower women."

  Ronald Peterson cocked an eyebrow at Bob Gianno. And?

  "We talked to Crimmins."

  Neither of the Maddox cops noticed Petersons eyes flick with minute satisfaction toward Nelson, who could not restrain the less subtle smile.

  Hagedorn continued, "He denied having anything to do with the assault, of course. What did you expect?'

  What indeed?

  "But naturally we didn't care about that. We just wanted to flush him. We mentioned Pellam's name. We pretended it was a slip. You should have seen his eyes."

  Peterson said, 'That was a clever move."

  "We thought so. He'll do something now. Either try to hit Pellam directly or just spook him. Either way, we'll move on him."

  They sat in Peterson's office. The cops had noticed the toy collection and each seemed to be trying to think of something witty to say about it and came up blank.

  Peterson was oh so happy with their immense discomfort.

  "Keeping the pressure on Pellam. That's good." Peterson took a long moment to read a low-priority report that had nothing to do with this meeting. He dashed a note in the margin and dropped it on the desk. "You know Pellam did time."

  "What?" Hagedorn laughed.

  "Manslaughter. San Quentin."

  "Damn. San Quentin," Gianno said. "Hard time. How 'bout that."

  Peterson watched the local detectives stew a bit as they were poked by guilt that they themselves hadn't unearthed this information. He asked, "Can you use that?" He himself had considered Pellam's criminal record and concluded that local police couldn't do much with it.

  Hagedorn and Gianno looked at each other. The blond, good-looking cop-more handsome than most of the FBI agents who worked for Peterson-lifted his hands and scrunched his lips together in reflection. Finally he said, "I don't see how. Film permits are already issued. I mean, I don't think a prior conviction has any bearing on that. But what about parole?"

  "Parole?"

  Hagedorn continued, "Did he break parole by leaving the state?"

  This was something Peterson had not thought of. A microscopic frown crossed his brow. Being outthought by this smarmy shit-town cop. Peterson decided that Nelson would twist in the wind a few revolutions for missing this. "Given the dates of the crime and his traveling-man career, I doubt that's an issue but I'll have my associate check into it. Now, I think we've agreed that Crimmins knows Pellam reported him for the assault on the girl, and-thanks to the clever thinking of our friends from Maddox here-he may make some overt move against Pellam. We'll monitor that. But I think we need to step up the pressure too."

  "Any ideas?" Gianno a
sked glumly, suspecting sarcasm but unable to identify it.

  Peterson responded, "I have one, yes. Two of my agents were on the movie set the other day and they found something interesting. I'd like to ask them to stop by and tell us about it."

  MISSOURI RIVER BLUES

  SCENE 179E-EXTERIOR DAY-ROAD BETWEEN FIELD AND RIVER

  This is a narrow road between the field and the river. There is a small, one-story CHURCH an the river side road, surrounded by B USHES and TREES. Past the bushes the road continues through the field, open space on either side.

  MEDIUM ANGLES OF BOSS'S PACKARD parked fifty feet past the church. DEHLIA dabs FAKE BLOOD on her forehead and stretches out in the front seat of the car with the door open. Ross and the three GANG MEMBERS take their MACHINE GUNS and hide in the bushes, waiting for the armored truck. Ross stops and runs back to Dehlia. He gives her his FAVORITE PISTOL.

  ROSS

  In a half hour, little love, we're gonna be across that river and we're gonna be free.

  DEHLIA

  If anything happens…

  TWO SHOT of Ross touching his finger to her lips to shush her. They KISS long and then he stands up, cocks the MACHINE GUN, and runs to the bushes.

  "Finale time, everybody! Let's try to bring it in under a hundred takes." Tony Sloan took his position, standing in the shadow of a big thirteen-ton Chapman Titan motorized crane. He surveyed the battlefield to be.

  Sloan, the second-unit director the DP, the ever-nervous ponytailed assistant director and the stunt coordinator had just finished trooping through the weeds and grass and scrabbling over the revetment of stone down to the yellowish water, blocking out the climax of the movie. This was the armored truck attack. The owners of the transport company, tipped that the truck would be hit by Ross's gang, had replaced the shipment of cash with bags of cut-up newspaper and substituted Pinkerton agents for the regular guards. Dehlia would be reclining, supposedly injured, helpless and beautiful at the scene of the fake car accident, bringing the armored car to a stop.