“I said I never met him,” McGuire answered. “But he told me about Lafaro.”
Something drifted across the faces of the two men, a shadow that altered their expression. Goggles flexed one hand involuntarily.
“What,” Goggles said, measuring each word, “did he tell you about Lafaro exactly?”
“Nothing much,” McGuire responded. The climate in the room had altered significantly. McGuire was no longer to be intimidated and manipulated by his interrogators. He had acquired a bargaining chip. Now he was the driver of the bus, not just a passenger. “He said he had to feed Lafaro, take care of him,” McGuire continued. “That’s all I know about him,” he added.
“You never saw this Lafaro?” Goggles demanded. “You never spoke to him?”
“Never.”
“Why was Bunker Crawford in Palm Springs?” Baldy interrupted.
“I don’t have any idea.”
“Who is Glynnis Vargas?” It was Goggles. He was gliding behind McGuire again, addressing him from the darkness in back of his chair.
“A very wealthy widow who used to be married to a Brazilian jewel dealer. That’s all unconfirmed. You might want to check it out.”
“We already have,” Baldy responded. “It’s true. Her husband died in a plane crash just over a year ago. She’s in this country legitimately.”
“Okay, here’s one for you,” McGuire offered. “Why was Bunker Crawford running around her front garden like a mad man, shooting at random and screaming obscenities?”
Neither man responded.
McGuire pushed himself upright, out of the chair. “You don’t know much more than I do,” he said. His left ear was ringing from the pressure applied on his carotid artery to render him unconscious. He inserted the tip of his pinkie in his ear and twisted the finger but only managed to dislodge some wax. Goggles glided into view from the darkness and looked at McGuire with distaste. “You guys did a good job on me,” McGuire said, the ringing only slightly more distant. “As long as we need spooks like you to survive in this world, at least I know we’ve got good spooks. Maybe I’ll sleep better thinking about that. Maybe I won’t.”
“Sit down, McGuire,” Baldy said in a tired voice.
“I’d rather go, thanks very much. Just slip me my canvas hat and another pair of adjustable cuffs and load me in the welcome wagon.”
“If you want to leave, it can be arranged,” Goggles replied. He sat in one of the armchairs facing McGuire and crossed his legs. “But it would be better for everyone if you stayed a few minutes longer.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Baldy said in the same weary tone. “We’re going to tell you a few things you don’t know.”
“I don’t know a hell of a lot.”
Baldy smiled. “True. Very true. And we’re not going to tell you much more.”
“Why tell me anything at all?”
“Because as inept as you are, McGuire, you could be of some value to us and your government.” It was Goggles, relaxed in his chair. “There are still some things which are . . .” He looked for the word on the ceiling, couldn’t locate it, waved it away with his hand and continued. “. . . awkward in a democracy. So we use other means.”
“You’re not very smart, McGuire,” Baldy said. “But you’re not corruptible either. You have no idea how rare that quality is in our society.”
“Am I being enlisted here?” McGuire asked.
“Somewhat.” Goggles inspected his manicure. “We satisfy a little of your curiosity. You satisfy a little of ours when the opportunity arises.”
McGuire sat.
“You know Bunker Crawford was in the army at the same time as the colonel . . .” Baldy began.
“Who?” McGuire asked. He decided to sample the orange juice.
“Colonel Amos,” Goggles said from his chair. He seemed exasperated with McGuire.
“In spite of what you may think, they barely knew each other,” Baldy resumed. “Due to the nature of their duties, the units were strictly segregated.”
“Crawford worked in a small detail led by a man named Lafaro,” Goggles said. “Rocco Salvatore Lafaro.”
Baldy pulled a plastic-encased photograph from his inside pocket and held it in front of McGuire’s eyes. “You ever see this man?”
McGuire squinted. He was looking back at a hard and handsome Sicilian face, the nose slightly hooked, the hair thick and coal-black, the eyes challenging the world. He shook his head, and Baldy withdrew the photograph, returning it to an inside jacket pocket.
“There was a third man in the detail,” Goggles added. “Named Samuel Littleton, also known as Little Sam. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Never.” McGuire took another sip of orange juice and leaned back, his hands folded loosely in his lap.
“We know where Little Sam lives.” It was Baldy, leaning against the bookshelves. “And we kept tabs on Bunker Crawford for over twenty years.”
“We?” McGuire grinned.
“The department,” Goggles said. “This has been a department priority case since . . .” He paused and glanced at Baldy, who was shaking his head solemnly. “. . . for several years,” Goggles added. “Look, McGuire, let’s understand things.” Goggles aimed a finger in McGuire’s direction and seemed to sight along it, as though it were a rifle barrel. “We’re telling you only what you need to know to help us in this matter. We also have total deniability, by the way. You don’t know us, you don’t know where you are, you don’t know why Bunker Crawford was killed, and you don’t know why we’ve been following him. You don’t need to know. All you need to do is cooperate with your government in upholding the law, especially in matters of national security.”
“Jesus,” McGuire muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” Goggles said quietly.
“What happened, somebody miss their cue? Shouldn’t I have heard ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ behind that speech?”
“Get him out of here,” Goggles hissed, turning his back on McGuire.
Baldy held up a hand in caution to the other man, but he directed his words to McGuire. “Lafaro, Littleton and Crawford were performing special duties as part of their military assignment,” Baldy continued. “On one of these assignments, they were located within an army defence area when Lafaro seized his two companions, disarmed them, secured them so they could neither follow nor alert others, and fled the area in a military vehicle.”
McGuire looked from one man to the other. The pain in his neck had softened to dull discomfort. “He went AWOL.”
“That’s right. In a spectacular fashion.”
“He took something with him,” Goggles said from his armchair. “A piece of top-secret material. A few weeks later, he and a companion offered to return the equipment to the US government for three million dollars in cash.”
There was a pause. Neither man seemed prepared to continue.
“And?” McGuire finally prodded.
Both began speaking at once, but Goggles deferred to Baldy and folded his arms, avoiding the eyes of the other men.
“The ransom was paid.” Baldy carried his empty glass to a sink above the concealed refrigerator.
“And you got the equipment, or whatever it was, back,” McGuire offered when neither man volunteered more information.
Goggles looked uncomfortable. Baldy studied McGuire solemnly from the wall-unit before replying. “No,” he said. “It was not returned.”
“You mean some two-bit sergeant picked Uncle Sam’s pockets for three million dollars and disappeared?” McGuire grinned. “For twenty years? And took a piece of military junk with him?”
Again both men began to speak, and again Goggles, his face flushed, demurred to his companion.
“You may think this is a laughing matter, McGuire. Or just an embarrassment to the government. W
ell, it’s much more than that. Two, perhaps more people, have died because of what happened back then. And many more could follow.”
“Tell me about Amos.” McGuire settled back in his chair again. “How does he fit in?”
Goggles continued to avoid McGuire’s eyes.
“Colonel Amos was in charge of transferring the ransom money and retrieving the equipment,” Baldy explained.
“And he blew it,” McGuire offered.
“He was unable to obtain the material, that’s correct.” Baldy stood with his arms folded. “He then asked for and was granted the duties of leading a special task force assigned to track Sergeant Lafaro down and retrieve the missing equipment.”
“He spent twenty years at this?” McGuire asked.
“He devoted the balance of his military career to it. His life, in actual fact.”
“And what was he doing in Boston last month on Bunker Crawford’s doorstep?” McGuire’s eyes flew between Goggles and Baldy, willing them to answer.
This time, Goggles took the initiative, speaking quickly as though to soften the effect of his words. “Colonel Amos reached the conclusion that Lafaro hadn’t acted alone. He determined that, in spite of their stories, Littleton and Crawford had been part of the conspiracy all the time.”
“It was an early theory,” Baldy said. “But there was no solid proof. You saw Crawford’s file. If he participated in the ransom, there was no evidence that he benefited from it. He was under surveillance during the transfer of the ransom and has been almost continuously since.”
“Last year, the colonel began a new tactic,” Goggles added. “You don’t have to know the details, but it was a matter of selective, uh . . .”
“Harassment,” Baldy finished. “Let’s not become lost in semantics. There were cryptic messages sent to Crawford and Littleton, the usual things to flush out suspects.”
“And then, one day, Amos appears on Crawford’s doorstep,” McGuire interrupted. “And Crawford shoots him.”
“That’s what we believe happened.” Baldy was watching McGuire for his reaction.
“Where’s the other guy, Littleton?” McGuire asked.
“He lives near here,” Baldy replied. “Still under surveillance.”
“You’ve heard enough, McGuire,” Goggles said, pushing himself out of his chair. “We’ve told you this much because, in spite of your spotty career record, you have a reputation for being trustworthy with important information. Now that you know what you’re dealing with, you can either set your curiosity aside and back away from where you’re not wanted. Returning to Boston would be an excellent start. Or, if you continue to remain in this area, we expect you have an obligation to report to us.”
“Report what?”
“Anything at all. Especially any information you may have on Rocco Lafaro. You don’t take any action. You don’t probe any deeper. You simply act as a conduit of information to us like any good citizen would.”
“Like Bonnar, the Palm Springs cop?” McGuire asked. “Is he your model citizen?”
“Captain Bonnar is aware of some of these facts, yes.” It was Baldy, looking impatient. “He has agreed to assist us in a confidential manner. We expect you to do the same.” Baldy tossed a business card on the arm of McGuire’s chair. On it was the telephone number McGuire had dialled in the telephone booth. Beneath it, printed in stylish script, he read: “24 hours a day, 7 days a week.”
Baldy glanced at his watch. “If you are contacted again by the man who referred to Lafaro, whoever he is, call that number. Immediately.”
“What if I choose not to get involved?” McGuire asked. “And just leave you spooks to chase each other around the desert for another twenty years?”
“That’s your choice, isn’t it?” Goggles answered. “In a free and democratic society, each citizen makes his own choice.”
“Just don’t make your choice a dumb one,” Baldy warned.
“This guy who called me. Who is he?” McGuire asked.
“We think it’s Lafaro.” It was Goggles, gathering the cuffs and canvas sack from the side table.
“And who are you guys?” McGuire asked.
“Don’t be silly,” Goggles scoffed, and he lowered the canvas hood over McGuire’s face again.
Chapter Ten
They returned him to the Flamingo parking lot, the driver choosing an obviously circuitous route to disorient McGuire. At the lot, the side door opened and in smooth fashion the plastic cuffs and canvas bag were removed. McGuire was left on the sidewalk, the door closing even as the van drove away.
McGuire memorized the licence plate but he expected it would lead nowhere. There would be a block or a dead end, perhaps a duplicate plate issued to a legitimate citizen or some other device to shunt inquiries aside.
He walked back thoughtfully to his car, drove slowly from the parking lot, and began the return journey to Palm Springs.
All of McGuire’s assumptions had been confirmed by the two Secret Service men. Bunker Crawford hadn’t shot Ross Amos as a spontaneous act of insanity but because he’d feared for his life. Then he’d fled to Las Vegas . . . why? To meet Lafaro? McGuire frowned. Baldy and Goggles and maybe an earlier generation of agents had been looking for Lafaro for twenty years. How could he have eluded them for so long? And why had Amos devoted his entire career to finding him?
He crossed the state line into California. The traffic around him had thinned long ago and he was coasting west out of the mountains into a wide, shallow valley. Only the lights of oncoming traffic defined the road ahead of him. Once again he was overwhelmed by the vastness of the desert landscape. He couldn’t imagine living in such an open expanse, so much empty space above and around you, so much darkness and solitude when the sun faded.
Why was Crawford in Palm Springs?
And why at Glynnis Vargas’s house?
Which brought it all back to the beginning again: who killed Crawford and shot Ralph Innes from behind the shrubbery?
The man who called him, who directed him to Las Vegas, had been in the casino tonight. Was he Lafaro? Not likely. He talked about Lafaro as somebody else. Said he had to feed Lafaro. But insane people often speak of themselves in the third-person. And living out here, alone for twenty years, pursued by a fanatic like Amos and bloodless spooks like Baldy and Goggles, would be enough to drive anyone over the edge.
Except for the small portion of the road immediately ahead of McGuire’s car, which appeared to move in the glare of his headlights, McGuire was immersed in blackness. He felt isolated and threatened. Only the glow from the car’s instrument panel seemed soothing and friendly.
Twenty years. Three million dollars.
Clever people.
And what had they stolen?
He arrived at the Palm Springs motel after midnight. His room was undisturbed, but he checked the closet and bathroom carefully before locking the door, sliding a heavy sofa in front of it and drawing the blinds.
There would be little sleep tonight, he told himself as he slid into bed. Too many thoughts to shake out. Too many ways he could find himself in the same condition as Bunker Crawford if he wasn’t careful.
“It’s all yours, McGuire.”
Art Lumsden emerged from the ground-floor motel room carrying a cardboard box. In the early morning heat of the day, his pastel-blue suit was already stained with sweat. “This detail is giving up its bivouac and marching back to base.”
McGuire stood watching from the shade of a palm. “You didn’t learn anything.”
Lumsden dropped the box heavily onto the open tailgate of a station-wagon. “We didn’t learn anything,” he echoed. Two uniformed officers followed with the portable computers and printer. “Just cleaning our nails and scratching our asses. Besides, there’s more work. Found some guy out in a nature preserve last night. Buck naked, middle of nowhere, and a cou
ple of rounds pumped into the back of his head. Damned place is getting to be like Chicago.” He hoisted a foot onto the station-wagon’s rear bumper and looked at McGuire as though he had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “Where were you yesterday? Didn’t see you around here at all.”
“I went up to Las Vegas to catch a show,” McGuire answered.
A smile flashed briefly on Lumsden’s face. “A show,” he repeated. “Your partner’s got his spleen shot out and you drive three hundred miles to look at tits and ass. McGuire, you’re really something, you know that?” He lowered his foot and walked to the station-wagon door, shaking his head.
“Remember I told you about somebody named Lafaro?” McGuire called after Lumsden.
“Yeah,” Lumsden laughed, sliding behind the wheel. “We checked him out, McGuire. He’s not registered here.”
“Well, check him out when you get back to headquarters,” McGuire said. “Put him on the computer. See what comes up.”
Lumsden looked at McGuire thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said, starting the engine and slipping the car into gear. “I might do that.”
“Two o’clock,” the doctor told him. “That’s when he’s scheduled to be moved out.” He looked uncomfortable with the idea.
“Is he conscious?” McGuire asked.
The doctor held up two fingers. “Two minutes, that’s all,” he said. McGuire nodded, showed his ID to the uniformed cop guarding Ralph’s room and entered.
“I hear you’re going home,” McGuire said when he’d settled in a chair next to Ralph’s bed. “Chartered jet and Fat Eddie to hold your hand all the way.”
Ralph forced a smile. “I’ll take it,” he said.
“Janet too. She’s coming along. She insists on it.”
“I know.”
McGuire looked at the electronic paraphernalia installed over Ralph’s bed, then down at the floor and around the rest of the room. “We might be getting somewhere.”
Ralph questioned McGuire with his eyes.
Whisper Death Page 13