She raised her eyebrows slightly. Weston's story had been all over the news for days, and the use of his name was probably going to raise quite a few eyebrows. I supposed I'd have to get used to it.
"Wayne Weston," she said. "I see. One moment, please."
She hit a few more buttons on the phone and turned her head slightly, then spoke softly for a few seconds and disconnected again. "Mr. Hubbard will be happy to meet with you," she announced. "Follow me, please."
I looked at Joe, and now I raised my eyebrows. I hadn't expected it would be quite that easy. The secretary stepped out from behind the desk and led us down another corridor, and I watched the movement of her hips and legs under the pretty-but-professional blue dress she was wearing. She seemed to be putting a little extra motion into the hips. I attempted to kid myself into believing it was for my benefit.
We passed a few doors and then the hall ended in a set of double doors with no nameplate. This would be Hubbard's office. Only he would warrant double doors, and only he would be important enough not to require a nameplate. She pushed open one of the doors and stepped aside, ushering us through.
I walked past her and into an office that came closer to taking my breath away than any office should. It wasn't as spacious as I'd expected, but it was still large enough for a game of touch football. The furniture was more of the burgundy leather and dark walnut, and the room was tastefully decorated, but it was the window that occupied all my attention. A tall span of glass shaped like the top half of an oval looked out on the city below us, and the view was amazing. I could see the War Memorial fountain thirty-two floors below, the sun making it sparkle. I wanted to walk over to the window and look down, spend a few minutes admiring the sights, but then Jeremiah Hubbard rose from behind his massive walnut desk and it was clear we were no longer supposed to find the view the most impressive thing in the room.
"Gentlemen," he said, walking around the desk and offering his hand as the secretary shut the door softly behind us.
Hubbard stood tall in a navy blue suit, his spine rigid, his shoulders back, and his chin held up a bit, but I could tell that beneath the carefully tailored clothes his upper body was softer and pudgier than most people would guess. His hair was something else--a collection of gentle, perfectly contoured white curls that reminded me of a well-trimmed version of a colonial powdered wig. The skin of his face was pressed tight against the bone, his lips narrow and drawn, pulling back a bit at the corners as if his face were stretched just a little too tight. Plastic surgery, probably, designed to keep him from developing a double chin in his advancing years. He wasn't a strikingly handsome man, but his bearing of complete and total assurance--the confidence that showed in his eyes and in every movement--would set him apart in a crowd.
"Lincoln Perry," I said, shaking his hand. "It's nice to meet you, sir. My partner, Joe Pritchard."
He nodded without speaking and shook Joe's hand, then pivoted smoothly on his heel and returned to his desk. He settled into the big executive's chair with a paternal sigh, and I had the feeling we were about to be chastised for daring to barge into his office and waste his precious time. Time, as they say, is money, and Jeremiah Hubbard loved his money.
"Well," he said, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk, "what's on your minds?"
Joe looked at me, and I nodded for him to go ahead with it. "We'd like to speak with you about Wayne Weston," he said.
Hubbard ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips and frowned. "Would this be the same Weston who has dominated local news coverage recently?"
"The very one," Joe said.
Hubbard nodded slowly, then leaned back in his chair and stared at us. After about ten seconds of silence he raised his eyebrows and rolled his hand slightly, telling Joe to continue.
"Did you know Mr. Weston?" Joe asked.
"Why is that a matter of your concern?"
"We have reason to believe he was working for you, Mr. Hubbard," Joe said. "We were hoping you could tell us a little about that."
"Why do you think he was working for me?"
"Because he recently cashed five checks from companies affiliated with you, and executives at these companies claim to have no association with the man."
"Many companies are affiliated with me, Mr. Pritchard."
"I understand that, sir. What I'm asking you is whether you ever employed Wayne Weston," Joe said bluntly.
Hubbard laid his hands on the desk, laced his fingers together, and leaned forward. "If I had employed an individual like Mr. Weston, it would seem to be for a confidential and possibly sensitive matter, wouldn't it?"
"We have no intention of prying into your personal affairs. However, we have been asked to investigate the possibility that Mr. Weston was murdered, and to do that effectively we must look into his recent cases. Any information pertaining to you will be kept confidential," Joe told him. "We just need to know what he was working on."
"Who employed you for this?"
"Weston's father."
Hubbard's face changed slightly at that. It was an almost imperceptible relaxation--a slight lessening of his scowl, an easing of the creases in his face. The news seemed to reassure him, though. I wondered who he thought we might be working for, and why he preferred to hear it was Wayne Weston's father.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I'm afraid I simply can't be of any help to you."
Joe nodded. "We respect that decision, Mr. Hubbard. However, I do want to be sure you're aware that we're going to have to pursue this angle, regardless of your cooperation."
The scowl that had lessened when Joe told him we were working for John Weston returned now.
"How much will you make from this case?" he asked. "How much money will you earn for harassing me and my associates?"
Joe frowned. "We have no intention of harassing anyone, sir. But we've been hired to look into Wayne Weston's recent dealings, and if it appears those dealings involved you, then we'll have to look into them."
"How much money?" Hubbard repeated.
"I don't know," Joe said. "That depends how long we're on the case. Why does it matter?"
"Will it be more than twenty thousand?"
Joe glanced at me and smiled slightly. "No, it won't be more than that."
"I'll give you twenty thousand, then," Hubbard said. "Twenty thousand dollars just to stay the hell away from me and my business associates."
I stared at him. We'd been in the office for roughly two minutes, asked only a few questions, and he was willing to pay us twenty thousand dollars to leave him alone?
"With all due respect," Joe said, "I don't understand why you're making that offer, sir."
Hubbard waved his hand at Joe, dismissing the question. "I'm a very busy man with many more important considerations than dealing with you and your questions," he said. "I have enough sources of stress as it is. It's worth it to me to keep you away and out of my affairs. Twenty thousand to me is the same as ten dollars to you." He paused and looked at us contemptuously. "Well, maybe ten cents."
I laughed softly, and Joe shook his head. "No one's tried to buy us off a case before," he said, "but I'm afraid we're going to have to turn that down. We already have a client, and we promised to do the best job we can for him. To accept your offer would be to fail him, and I have no intention of doing that."
Hubbard's scowl deepened, but he made a show of shrugging, trying to appear as indifferent as possible, like he'd simply offered us coffee and we'd turned him down because we didn't want the caffeine.
Joe and I looked at each other, then back at Hubbard. "Mr. Hubbard," I said, "we're in the business of finding things out. If Weston worked for you, we're going to find that out. We're going to find out what he did, when he did it, and why he did it. You can save everyone the hassle and tell us now, or you can send us on our way. We really don't care. But don't think for even one minute that stonewalling us is going to stop anything. It's just going to delay it."
It was the first tim
e I had spoken since we shook hands, and Hubbard turned to me with distaste and aggression. It was the type of look I'd seen exchanged between men in bars in the past, and it had generally been followed quickly by the snap of a pool cue or the jolt of a punch. It was the look of a brawler, and coming here, in Hubbard's elegant office, from a man who displayed such refined manners, it seemed starkly out of place.
"You people disgust me," he said, and his voice was lower now, gravelly and grinding, like a pencil sharpener too full of shavings. "You spend your lives in the dirt. You build a career out of it, searching out secrets, peeping through windows, rooting through personal and private affairs. You have no honor, because your career, the very means of your existence, demands that you forfeit your honor so you might tarnish another man's. And that's fine with you. You don't make much money, but that's fine with you, too, because you get such satisfaction from the work, such satisfaction from wreaking havoc in the lives of others, for knowing the best manner in which to pry, provoke, pester, and harass. You," Hubbard said, his voice shaking with fury, "make me sick."
I gave a low whistle, looked at Joe, and shook my head. "I knew we were low-class scum, but I didn't realize we were that bad."
"Get out of my office," Hubbard said.
"You ever hear of a guy named Dainius Belov?" I asked.
His head canted sharply, and then he took a breath and smoothed his tie, frowning as if he were surprised and disappointed by his reaction, like maybe my question had tugged on a part of his brain he'd been determined to leave unresponsive during this conversation.
"If you have any further questions, I will refer you to my attorney, Mr. Richard Douglass," he said in a monotone.
"Dicky D.," I said. "How's the old boy doing these days?"
"Leave," Hubbard said emphatically.
"Dicky D.?" Joe asked me.
"I was trying not to look too intimidated," I said in a theatrical whisper. "Did it work?"
"No."
We got to our feet, and Joe turned back to him. "I'm going to leave you our number," he said. "Just in case you change your mind."
"That won't happen," Hubbard said.
"Nevertheless," Joe said, "I'd feel better knowing that you have it. Do you have a piece of paper I can write it on?"
"I have our business card with me," I offered.
Joe shook his head and looked annoyed. "I want to leave Mr. Hubbard my home phone number. He's important."
"I asked you to leave," Hubbard said. "Must I call security?"
"Sir, if you just give me a piece of paper so I can write my number on it, we'll be on our way," Joe said, stepping over to the desk and helping himself to a blank sheet, which he folded and tore in half. He wrote his name and number down quickly, then handed it to Hubbard. "In case you reconsider."
"Get out," Hubbard commanded.
We left. As I stepped into the hall, Hubbard yelled at me to shut his door. I left it open and followed Joe into the lobby. The good-looking secretary smiled at us.
"That was pretty quick," she said.
"We've got important business matters to attend to," I said. "We really can't afford to let Hubbard waste more of our time."
I was halfway through the door when Joe stopped short, and I almost ran into his back. He turned back to the secretary.
"Excuse me," he said. "Do you know what Mr. Hubbard's middle name is?"
"Elisha," she answered.
"Jeremiah Elisha," he said, closing the door behind us. "Catchy."
When we were back in the elevator I said, "Shrewd question, detective. I'd say Hubbard wrote the thank-you note, eh?"
Joe handed me a half-scrap of paper. It was the remains of the piece he'd written his number on before tearing it in two. It was also a perfect match to the stationery we'd found in Weston's house.
"Nice," I said. "Good eyes."
"Would be nice if it meant anything. Too bad it doesn't. The note doesn't say shit, and we'd already assumed it was from Hubbard."
We were halfway to the truck before we spoke again. I think we'd both half expected Hubbard to send security guards to cuff us and drag us back upstairs so I would shut his door.
"Friendly guy," Joe said. "I was expecting him to be a little standoffish, what with all that money, you know? But he's quite down-to-earth."
"Down-to-earth," I agreed. "Of course, we're down in the dirt, reveling in our filthy work."
Joe laughed. "That was a nice spiel. All the stuff about how we disgust him, how we make him sick? Priceless."
"We appeared to generate a lot of passion from him. Seems strange for a man who's got nothing to hide to get so passionate about our conversation."
"Almost as strange as offering us twenty grand to back off."
"Twenty grand's a lot of money," I said, using the keyless entry device to unlock the truck door for Joe. "Probably foolish of us not to take it. As a matter of fact, I have to say I resent you making that call without even pausing to discuss it."
"Very rude of me," Joe said, dropping into his seat as I started the engine and began to back out. "I don't know where I get off making such decisions single-handedly. But, if it makes you feel any better, we probably run a much higher risk of getting shot if we keep pushing on this case."
"That does help," I said. "I mean, sure, twenty grand would be nice, but it can't match the adrenaline rush you get from gun battles with the Russian mob. Shall we look them up next?"
"We'll look for them. I don't think we need any dialogue exchange with them just yet."
"Sounds good, grandpa. Don't want to rush you."
I spent the next five minutes maneuvering the truck out of the parking space. It was a small space to begin with, and by the time we returned a van had parked behind me, making it even tighter. I'd back up about ten inches, cut the wheel, pull forward, cut the wheel again, and throw it in reverse to gain another ten inches. Joe groaned.
"We live in the city," he said. "You've always lived in the city. So why do you feel the need to have this monstrosity? You have some sort of cowboy identity crisis? You want I should buy you some boots and a hat, maybe some spurs? Start calling you 'podnuh'?"
"Joe," I said, "you drive a Taurus. So shut the hell up, stick your head out the window, and let me know if I've got a few inches to spare on that side."
CHAPTER 8
VLADIMIR RAKIC and Alexei Krashakov, it turned out, lived in what was basically my old neighborhood. I'd grown up on a narrow street off Clark Avenue, and Rakic and Krashakov shared a two-decker about twelve blocks south. I'd never known anyone who lived in that house, but I'd passed it almost daily as a kid. Somehow, knowing they now inhabited my childhood territory made me like them even less.
Joe and I cruised the block a few times before a parking spot offering a good vantage point opened up. The sun was still out, and we had to park facing into it, squinting against the light, but it was the best we could do. Joe had insisted we take his Taurus; he claimed my truck would stand out as unfamiliar to the neighbors. I tried to argue that no car screamed "undercover cop" quite like a Taurus, but he ignored me.
We parked and settled in for the wait. There hadn't been any cars in the driveway when we drove past, and none were parked at the curb in front of the home, so it appeared the Russians were out on the town. The two-decker was painted a light blue that was turning gray from weathering, but it was in better shape than most on the block. The house was the same style as many others in the neighborhood, and I recalled from past visits to such homes that on each level there were two bedrooms, a small kitchen, a dining room, one tiny bathroom, and a living room. There would probably also be a dank cellar and an attic with low ceilings.
Joe looked around sourly. "This neighborhood's gone to hell. When I was a rookie, this actually wasn't a bad street. Nobody cares about their own home anymore."
"I grew up around here," I said.
He stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and pointed at me. "That's right. I'd forgotten t
hat. You know any of the neighbors? Someone who could give us some good dirt on the Russians, maybe?"
I shook my head. "Not this far south."
We sat and waited. I was thankful the temperature had crawled a little higher than in recent days, because we had to keep the engine off to avoid attention, and that meant no heater. The street was quiet. Behind us, on Clark, the traffic was thick, but on the little side street only a few cars passed. Once a man in an old military parka with several days' worth of stubble on his face stumbled down the sidewalk and glanced in the car, saw us, muttered something, and crossed to the other side. He was carrying a paper bag in his left hand, and I saw him lift it to his lips as he neared the corner.
"Told you this car wasn't discreet," I said. "He thought we were cops."
"Guy like that? Probably thinks every third car on the street is a cop."
"What do you think was in the bag? Southern Comfort?"
"Old Grand-Dad," Joe said confidently. "No doubt about it."
An hour passed, and then the monotony was broken by the arrival of the mailman. He moved slowly from house to house, wincing as he took the steps, as if maybe the years and the weight of the mailbag had taken a toll on his back.
"Think we should check their mail?" Joe asked. "See if maybe there's a letter from Hubbard in the box?"
"Don't see what it would hurt."
"It'd hurt if one of them is in the house, or they drive in while you're up on the porch."
"I like how smoothly you do that."
"Do what?" Joe said, eyes wide, the picture of innocence.
"Make it so I'm the one who's going up on the porch."
He smiled and spread his hands. "Hey, you're the one who's so anxious for action with these guys. I'd hate to stand in your way."
I stepped out of the car and walked down the sidewalk, head down, hands in my pockets. Just another neighborhood guy out for a stroll. I needed the bottle wrapped in the paper bag, though, to blend in better.
The house was about two hundred feet from where we'd parked. No one seemed to notice me, and the only car that passed didn't slow down. I took the four steps up to the porch, the dried, flaking paint crackling beneath my shoes. The two windows facing the porch were dusty, and inside it was dark. A heavy-duty steel storm door protected the wooden front door. The old tin mailbox was fastened to the wall beside the door. I lifted the lid with my finger and slipped the contents out. Four envelopes; four pieces of junk mail. A wasted trip. I dropped them back into the box and pulled on the handle of the storm door. It was locked. I stepped up to the window, put my face close to the glass, and shielded my eyes with my hand, trying to make out the interior. Tires crunched on the street behind me, and I turned to see a black Lincoln Navigator pulling into the driveway.
Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery) Page 7