by Paul Moomaw
“We’ve got a little crisis going,” a voice says. “Are you open?”
“How urgent is it?”
“Pretty urgent.”
“What can you tell me right now?”
“The U.S. Attorney in St. Louis is getting ready to convene a grand jury.”
“When?”
“It’ll probably be seated two Mondays from this next one. We’re hoping one particular witness will have some kind of a conflict.”
“One that keeps him from attending?”
“Yeah.”
“How long will the jury be sitting?”
“You know how these federal things go.”
“So we’re talking long term conflict.”
A silence, then, “Yeah. Super long.” More silence. “Can you help us?”
“St. Louis?”
“Right.”
“I should get a bonus for having to go to Missouri.”
The other man laughs, a sharp bark more like a cough.
“I’ll suggest that to the boss. You’re on?”
“I’ll make myself available.”
“You’re a good man.”
Charlie Brown, I think.
“I’ll have a parcel out to you today. Overnight delivery. Look it over, then call me back and let me know if there’s anything you need.” He hangs up without saying good-bye.
I put my phone down and go to my chair by the window. The job sounds dangerous. That excites me. I like my orderly existence, but a little adventure now and then pleases me. And this may be exactly what I need to get myself grounded again, and away from the fuzzy feelings that have been distracting me. I pick up the folder I have begun on Clifford Hurt, walk to a small cabinet in the corner past my desk, and file it away.
Chapter 30
The parcel arrives on schedule. I open the flat, cardboard container and find half a dozen photographs, a key, a pre-paid telephone card, a Visa credit card, a driver’s license and a note. Four of the photos are of Harlan Trego, who will be my target. The other two are of his bodyguard, Dom Gordini. The note provides Trego’s address and some information about him. He is an attorney, and also owns a restaurant. He has a wife and four children and lives in a gated community near the Mississippi River. I decide right away that I will not take him out at his home. The gated community does not present a particular problem. Most of them, for all their fences and security guards, offer only an illusion of safety. If anything, a hit can be easier in a place like that because the target is complacent. The problem is the wife and children. They create a complication. They pop up at awkward and unexpected times. Kill a dirty lawyer, and I assume Trego is dirty somehow, and the police treat it as just another murder. Kill a woman and children and the citizens cry for blood. Needless to say, my employers would disapprove of that kind of publicity. At any rate, there are many more convenient places to do the job, and I will have help. The bodyguard, Gordini, is aware of the hit, and will provide any assistance I need in positioning Trego and setting things up.
Trego has an office downtown not far from his restaurant, which is called The Ice House. Both are within walking distance of the hotel where I will be staying, and where a room is reserved for me under the name Derek Heat, which is also the name on the credit card and driver’s license. Mob humor, I assume. Trego is in the habit of having lunch at his restaurant every day. The key is to a Toyota sedan that will be waiting for me in lane 318 of the C lot in the long term parking area at the St. Louis airport. I am to return the car to the same space, or one as near as possible, when the job is done. The parcel also contains a round trip plane ticket that comes complete with boarding passes and first-class seat assignments for the flight out. There is a telephone number for Gordini, and another for any unexpected situations that arise. There is no additional information about the reason Trego needs to die, which is the way it has always been. My employers assume that I will decide what I want to know, and will learn what I need to learn.
I look over the credit card and driver’s license. The photo on the license is mine, and is the same one they have always used, but I do not recognize it. I avoid having my picture taken, for obvious reasons. It does not look posed, and I assume my employers shot it somewhere early in our collaboration.
As always, everything is first class. That is one of the good things about working for the Mob; they understand how to take care of business. They pay attention to the details. I nod with satisfaction and put everything back into the cardboard packet. I shift over to my computer and go on line to do a little research. I Google Trego’s name and get a dozen hits, most of them ads for his practice; but at the top of the list is a story from the St. Louis Post Dispatch. In it, Trego is expressing shock and disappointment that a friend of his, one Thomas Kearnsey, has been implicated in a scandal. That story leads me to several others, and a picture emerges of municipal corruption involving bribery, dubious contracts for public construction, including a road job worth half a billion dollars, and the laundering of drug money. Two members of the city council and a high-ranking police officer have been implicated and face probable charges. Because the road contract includes a bridge across the Mississippi to Illinois, the federal government is involved, and the U.S. Attorney General is in the process of convening a federal grand jury. That, undoubtedly is where Mr. Trego comes into the picture. I assume that he has been a friend of the Family, so to speak. Not a made man, but one of the in-laws, and now the Family needs a divorce. Trego has become a man who knows too much.
It works for me. I may not actually enjoy killing lawyers, but I certainly don’t mind. I do not like them. If I had the gumption when I was sixteen, I might have killed one then. His name was Howard Tuel. He had a practice in Great Falls, Montana, and did work for insurance companies. When my father did me the favor of falling under a train Tuel handled the payout on the insurance claim. I was young, and it felt good to have a kindly older man promise to take care of everything. He even set up a checking account for me when he discovered I did not have one, so I could have a place to park the money. Then he called me into his office and showed me two checks. One was for me, from the insurance company. The other was for him, and he made me sign it before he would give me mine. His was for twenty-five thousand dollars, which he called a fee for services. I did not need to do the math to realize that it was a lot of money for two or three hours of his time, but I had no choice.
Tuel lived in a large house on the northwest edge of town, and drove a Mercedes Benz. Not just any Mercedes. It was a lovingly restored roadster from the early nineteen fifties, smoke gray with red leather upholstery. He was very proud of that car. He was even more proud of the fact that he had won it in a high-stakes poker game in Helena, from a state senator. The senator had been drunk at the time, and tried to get the car back when he sobered up; but Tuel had some dirt on him and threatened to go public. He told me the whole story in great detail. I think he told it a lot. It was a happy memory for him, and it became a happy memory for me.
Tuel never locked his car, and he always left the keys in it. He parked it in a specially built car port next to his garage. He said that was because his wife had the garage filled with her two cars, but I think he just liked to leave it on display. Maybe he hoped the state senator would drive by now and then and feel bad. He told me no one in his right mind would steal it from him, and managed to hint that he had dangerous friends in low places, and that everybody in town knew that. So I took my check, gave him his, and drove my vehicle, a rusty Ford pickup truck my father left behind, back to Livingston. I gave it a month, then drove back one afternoon to Great Falls. I parked at a picnic area on the Missouri River and at dusk I started walking to Tuel’s house. It was almost midnight when I got there, but I was in no hurry.
The lights were out at Tuel’s house, and sure enough, the Mercedes was in the car port, keys in the ignition. I got in and released the parking brake. The driveway sloped down to the road, and the car rolled easily. I swung it left onto
the road and let it roll almost to a stop before I started the engine. I drove with the lights off until I was out of sight of the house, then turned them on and continued toward the river. Looking back I am amazed that no one stopped me. I drove to where I had left my truck, pulled the Mercedes to the edge of the river, and turned off the headlights. I got out and looked to make sure there were no obstacles between me and the water fifteen feet below. I got back into the car and edged it forward until the front tires were onto the downhill slope of the bank. Then I got out, gave the car a shove, and watched as it nosed into the river. It rolled all the way in and began to drift downstream. It covered about a hundred yards before it began to sink. Then I drove back to Livingston.
A Sheriff’s deputy was at my door three days later. He tried to bowl me over, came at me like an attack dog, telling me “they” knew I had stolen Tuel’s car, and I would be doing myself a favor to admit it. He told me they had found my fingerprints on the steering wheel and the ignition key. He said they knew the prints were mine because I had left a clear set on Tuel’s desk, and on the check I had signed for him. He was absolutely convincing, except that I had worn gloves when I took the car, and never removed them. It was my first experience with the way the police will tell you any damned lie at all if they think they can trick you into admitting something. He challenged me to have myself printed, and I said sure. Then he went away and never came back.
It is a pleasant memory, although at the same time I am amazed at how impulsive I was when I was younger, and at the risks I took and got away with. That is one way I have changed. I never take needless chances. Life offers enough risks as it is.
Correction. I took foolish risks with Maxfield, and I appear to be obsessed with a woman. I hope I am not about to go through a second adolescence.
Chapter 31
Katherine Danner’s niece, who was riding a bicycle with her the day I went looking for Katherine’s house, is named Paula. We have met at Discovery Park for a walk along its trails, which wind over land once occupied by an Army post, and dip down to the waters of Puget Sound. When Katherine mentioned a niece I almost said no, and my silence at her suggestion was long enough to make her ask me if there was a problem. I told her there was none, and agreed to meet, but I have been troubled ever since. My connection with Katherine has become complicated. She has evolved from being a woman who is supposed to die, to a woman who can be a lover. Now she is inserting family ties as well. I do not know if I am more troubled by her doing this, or by the degree that I find it enticing.
Paula looks me over when we meet, with the wary gaze I saw when she was on her bicycle. She says hello politely, and after that keeps her distance. As we walk, she skips ahead and then settles into a pace that keeps her forty or fifty feet away from us. Now and then she turns to look back, and I have the feeling she is somehow keeping guard over Katherine.
“She’s your niece?” I ask, as we walk over a low rise. Ahead of us are the remnants of what was once officers quarters. Now there is new construction. The government sold off much of the land and it is being developed for private houses. A few MacMansions have been built already. The old headquarters building still stands, allowing the developer to offer an inadvertent display of the difference between quality and conspicuous consumption.
“My brother’s daughter,” Katherine says. “Her mother is one of my best friends.”
“Even though she’s your brother’s wife? That seems awkward.”
“Former wife. She left the son of a bitch while she was still pregnant with Paula. Smart lady. Lucky one, too. He came home one night at the end of a three-day binge and got pissed because there was no booze in the house. He slapped her around, then pushed her down the stairs. She broke an ankle and a wrist protecting the baby inside her, but Paula came through okay.”
“I don’t get the impression she trusts me around you.”
Katherine laughs. “You’re a man. The only other man in her life has been Eddy, and not even him now, thank God for small miracles. He’s done enough damage there.”
I can think of nothing to say, and so I keep my mouth shut and continue walking. Eventually Katherine begins to speak again.
“The first four years of her life he didn’t have anything to do with her, which was fine with all of us. Then he started showing up for visits. First for a couple of hours to take her for ice cream, then eventually for weekends. That went on for about six months, and then Paula started acting odd. She asked her mom not to make her see daddy any more. She wouldn’t say why. She never has. But Jennifer shut the door on the visits right then. Eddy made some threats about going to court, but Jennifer held her ground, and I called him and told him if he made an issue of it, he’d be dealing with me, too. After that he shut up.” She smiles. It is a triumphant smile, but not a happy one.
“I thought you were afraid of him. It looks more like he’s afraid of you.”
“He ought to be.” She looks at me, holds her eyes with hers, and shakes her head slightly from side to side. “I’m not afraid of him. I’m not afraid of anybody, Daniel.”
I shiver inside. She has used my first name, my real first name. She has not actually called me by name before. I have spent years building a blind to live behind. Now she has pierced it, and she does not even know that. Part of me recoils from what feels like an invasion, but another bit of me purrs like a cat, and I know I will replay hearing her voice speak my name.
We continue to walk. The trail winds back toward the bluff overlooking the water and then begins to drop. Paula has started a half skip, half run down it. Katherine calls out to her to take care. Paula waves a hand and keeps on going.
We reach the rocky beach and follow the trail along it. The water is calm, except for a sudden wave that comes from the bow of a large tanker moving down the middle of the Sound. Paula is farther ahead now, and has stopped to examine rocks and shells. As we get closer, she looks up, waves, and moves off again.
“She’s certainly giving us space.”
“Maybe because she learned the hard way how important space and privacy is,” Katherine says. She giggles and grabs my hand suddenly. “Or maybe she just wants to catch us kissing.” She continues to hang onto my hand. Her touch feels good. Better than good. My inner scold whispers that this is dangerous. I tell it to be quiet, that it is only because I am not accustomed to innocent intimacies. Like a prisoner, I have become institutionalized in my isolation, and when it is threatened I become tense and confused. Being tense is no problem. It goes with my work; but I do not like being confused. Being confused is not precise.
Katherine releases my hand, unaware that she has done me a great mercy. We approach a flight of rocky stairs with railings of wood and rusty iron that rises from the beach toward the top of the bluff again. Half way up it reaches a lookout point with a bench that faces the water; then it switches back and continues toward the top. Katherine starts quickly up the steps and I follow her. When we reach the lookout point she settles onto the bench and pats the space next to her. I sit down and we spend several minutes in silence, watching the water. The tanker is far to the north, heading toward the Straits of Juan de Fuca and, from there, the open ocean. In its place now is a sea-going tug pushing a string of barges, its giant engines rumbling and grumbling and echoing off the hills. Paula is still below us on the beach. She looks up at us and waves, and Katherine waves back, then settles against the bench with a peaceful smile.
“She’s one of the most important things in my life. I want her to have a good start. I’ve already started a college fund for her, in a tax free money market account. By the time she’s eighteen she’ll have her tuition money.” She sighs. “Poor Jennifer won’t ever have any money. She’s a wonderful musician and a lousy businesswoman. Plays little jobs here and there with her violin, and does some free-lance copy editing, but she’s no good at marketing herself.” Katherine pauses and shakes her head. “Or I guess she doesn’t want to, really. Anyway, I’m in a position to help.
And most of the money my father left me is still intact. When I die, Paula will get that. And if I die before she’s an adult, the money will be safe in a trust where Eddy can’t touch it.” She laughs, loudly and happily this time. “Boy, did that piss him off.”
“He knows?”
“Damn straight. What the hell, if he had any fantasy about my leaving it to him, he probably would have killed me years ago. I really tossed the fucker a curve.”
She has tossed me a curve, too. I have assumed that Angwin wants his sister dead for her money. Obviously I have underestimated him. He is more complicated than I thought. I try to push the puzzle aside, but I know that I will not rest until I have solved it. That is one of my weaknesses. Once something piques my curiosity, I cannot let it go. I have been known to keep the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle around for days until I solve it.
Katherine leans over the railing of the lookout and calls down to Paula, who waves again and starts up the steps. I look down as well, and see a man standing at the foot of the stairs. I cannot make out his features, he is too far away; but I am sure it is the man who was at the zoo. There is something about his posture that gives him away, even though I cannot put it into words. I stand up and start to go down the stairs. Paula looks up at me and freezes, her eyes dark and wary again. I stop, not wanting to upset her, and the man walks away from the steps. He is not exactly hurrying, but he is not ambling either, and he has a peculiar gate. It is not a limp, but something makes it different.
I take a deep breath and return to the bench. “Thought I saw someone I knew,” I mutter, and begin to walk up the stairs to the top of the bluff. Now I am sure someone is watching me. That disturbs me a hell of a lot more than someone holding my hand.
Chapter 32
There are a multitude of pleasant ways to waste a day. Traveling from Seattle to St. Louis is not one of them. Four hours in a metal tube, even in the first class section, is mind-numbing. Add the time to get to Sea-Tac, which is halfway to Tacoma, the time spent dealing with security, where I at least had the diversion of untying and tying my shoes, and an equal amount of post-flight time at the other end, and the day is gone. It begins at an hour when most people are eating breakfast, and ends at dinner time.