Silence

by Thomas Perry

  A man stepped out of the shadows ahead, already aiming a gun at him.

  He knew he would never get there.

  4

  PAUL AND SYLVIE TURNER took the crowded elevator to the eighth floor of the tall gray-white office building on Wilshire Boulevard. The building housed busy lawyers, accountants, and medical specialists, so the Turners had to stand in the back of the elevator and sidestep out when they reached their floor, and then pass several people in the carpeted hallway. They entered the door marked DOLAN, NYQUIST, AND BERNE, ATTORNEYS.

  The waiting room was empty. Behind the glass in the reception window was a woman in a stylish gray skirt and jacket. She displayed her professional smile to the Turners when they entered. “Mr. and Mrs. Turner. Good afternoon.” Then she glanced at the appointment sheet on her desk and said, “Come in.” She pressed a switch and there was an audible click as a bolt in the big wooden door disengaged.

  Paul opened the door and held it for Sylvie, then let it click shut again behind him. The woman said to Sylvie, “He’s in Four.” They went farther into the suite past doors with numbers on them until they came to Four, a conference room with natural-wood chair rails, credible-looking antique portraits on the walls, a long table with twelve padded chairs around it. Michael Densmore sat in one of them.

  Densmore was vain about his clothing. He was wearing the pants from a charcoal suit, but the coat was draped on the back of the chair beside him so the shoulders were filled out and the arms hung naturally, like a headless scarecrow. His shirt was pure white with a starched collar and a fine silk tie with a subdued pattern of very small blue squares. He stood when Sylvie walked in. He had a slight belly that caused him to make nervous, ineffectual attempts to tuck his shirt in to cover it. His smile was youthful, but showed wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and the forehead. He closed the door after them and flipped a lock lever below the brass knob. “Sylvie, you look lovely.” He grasped her hand, and then shook Paul’s. “Good to see you both.” He sat down, so his belly would be hidden by the table. “Everything’s okay?”

  “Sure,” said Sylvie.

  “Very smooth,” Paul agreed. “I’m sure you saw it in the paper.”

  “Of course. I was very interested to know.”

  “Nice little .32s. Pop-pop-pop,” Sylvie said.

  Densmore held his hand up. “No details, please. Nothing specific. I don’t want any information. I represent the widow, and I’ll be talking to the police. I don’t want to have something incidental slip out in conversation, and then find out I’ve incriminated myself.”

  “Sorry,” said Sylvie. “Forget I said anything. He died of infidelity. Did Mrs. Pollard happen to leave anything for us?”

  “Yes, I have it right here.” Densmore lifted a briefcase from under the table, opened it, and displayed a row of stacked bills.

  “The money is clean, right?” Paul asked.

  “This isn’t her cash. I deposited her checks and took the cash from several of my own accounts as I always do, so there’s no chance bills are marked or anything like that.” He smiled. “I’ll get my cut by overcharging for settling the estate.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Sylvie said.

  “What about her? Is she a problem?” Paul said.

  “No.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “The usual warnings. She knows that if she and I go to jail, her children will still be out there somewhere, and so will you. She doesn’t know who you are.”

  “Very good. It’s always a pleasure to do business with you.” Paul rose, took the briefcase, and held out his hand for Densmore to shake.

  Densmore remained seated. “Don’t go yet.” He pushed a folder across the table and opened it so they could see two packets of paper that had been produced on a computer printer. “Can you sign these papers for me, please? They’re just duplicates of the wills we made out two years ago, with a new date. I need to have something to put in the file so the office staff won’t wonder why you came in. But you know, while you’re here, there is one other thing I’d like to discuss with you both, if you’ve got a minute. Do you?”

  Sylvie shrugged, opened the folder, and signed in one of the designated spaces. Paul sat down in his seat again, and took his turn. He held the briefcase on his lap.

  “I have something else that’s coming up, and I wondered if you would like to be part of it.” He opened the folder that was at his elbow on the conference table and took out a photograph. “It’s this woman.”

  Sylvie snagged the photograph and slid it to the space between her and Paul. “She’s pretty. Isn’t she, Paul?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do. She’s pretty.”

  “Yes, but nothing special. Not like you, for instance.”

  Densmore watched the couple in silence. Sylvie Turner was ten years older than the woman in the picture. Whenever Densmore saw Sylvie, he thought she was attractive. But compared to this woman, Sylvie’s features seemed coarse and her skin flawed. Sylvie’s face was thin, her nose and mouth projected forward subtly, and her eyes had a cruel glint that made him uncomfortable.

  “Who is she?” Sylvie asked.

  “Her name is Wendy Harper. She was the part owner of a restaurant called Banque. Do you know it?”

  “Banque? Sure,” Paul said. “We’ve been there a couple of times. A big, beautiful room—I guess it was actually a bank lobby—good food, good service. Give me a minute, and I’ll think of the name of the chef. Eric something. Fuller?”

  “Right. Fuller.”

  “Darn,” Sylvie said. “I remembered, too, but you beat me to it.” She glared at her husband. “Paul is always showing me up in the domestic stuff. He makes a better woman than I do, don’t you think?”

  The skin of Paul’s face lost its flexibility and his black eyes were like dots. Densmore wondered what she thought she was doing. Densmore would never have said anything that might offend Paul Turner. He tried to push them past the awkward moment. “They started the restaurant together about ten years ago. He was the chef, and she was the business head. The place was a success right away.”

  “And?” Sylvie said.

  “They had a romantic relationship, I’m told. At some point that ended. Love is temporary, but a successful business is forever. They broke up, but kept the partnership and worked in the business together. After about four or five years, she disappeared.”

  “How very odd,” Sylvie said. “Imagine his surprise.”

  “That was how the police looked at it six years ago. They had the crudest kind of partnership. The agreement was written out by the two of them in their own handwriting and signed in front of a notary. They owned everything in common, and if one died, the other got all of it. They had two identical life-insurance policies, each with the other partner as beneficiary. It would have made sense to insure him for more because he was the chef, but they didn’t, probably because insuring young women is cheap. Anyway, she disappeared, he collected, and the restaurant went to him. The police found nothing.”

  “Thank God I’ve ordered only the seafood at Banque,” said Sylvie.

  Densmore was careful enough to laugh with them. After a moment, he said, “The real situation is more complicated than that. A client of mine wanted her dead. He made an attempt on her six years ago. He failed, but she hasn’t been seen since. He still wants her dead.”

  “He’s trying to hire someone to do it now? After she’s been gone for six years?” Paul asked.

  “He’s asked me to make an arrangement. The money would be very significant. I’ve spent some time working on it, and I’ve decided that the best hope I have of succeeding is you.”

  “Us?” Sylvie said.

  “Yes,” he said. “There’s a way to find her, but it seems to have a potential for mishandling, and it could be dangerous. You’re the only ones in whom I would feel any confidence. Let me show you what I’ve got to work with.” He got up, walked out of the room fo
r a moment, then returned carrying a nylon bag about a yard long, with two handles. He set it on the table.

  “What’s that?” asked Sylvie. “Your bag of tricks?”

  Densmore looked at her and nodded. “I guess you could call it that.” He opened the bag and showed them a baseball bat and a torn piece of white cloth caked with dried blood.

  “Are we supposed to do something with that?” Paul asked.

  “You bury it. Then we wait a few months and make it turn up again.”

  5

  CHEF CHARGED IN PARTNER’S MURDER

  Jack Till sat in his office and stared at the newspaper article for a long time, his mind brushing the sentences aside to find the detail that had caused a homicide detective to arrest Eric Fuller, and a DA to charge him. The article just repeated that Eric Fuller was a well-known chef, that Wendy Harper had been his partner, and that when she disappeared six years ago, he got richer.

  Till put the newspaper on his desk, locked his filing cabinets, and put his gun in the safe. He went down the stairs to Ventura Boulevard, walked to his apartment on Laurel Canyon to get his car, then drove downtown on the Hollywood Freeway.

  He parked in the underground structure on Spring Street and walked to the District Attorney’s office at 210 West Temple. It was only as he was passing the courts complex that he realized that he should have called ahead, found out which of the 938 Assistant DAs had been assigned to prosecute Eric Fuller, called him, and arranged an appointment. But an appointment had not occurred to him, any more than it would have if he’d been driving a heart-attack victim to a hospital. This was the sort of visit that obliterated the slow, careful broaching of topics.

  He entered the main reception area of the District Attorney’s office impatiently, waited his turn in the line of visitors, then showed his wallet to the middle-aged woman behind the counter. On one side it held the unofficial ID that showed he was a retired police officer, and on the other his private investigator’s license. “My name is Jack Till,” he said. “I need to know which Assistant DA is prosecuting the homicide case against Eric Fuller. Would you be able to help me?”

  “People v. Eric Fuller. Not listed here,” she said. “You said homicide? What’s the victim’s name?”

  “Harper, Wendy A.”

  The woman looked down at a directory, then dialed four numbers on the phone in front of her. “This is Nell,” she said softly. “Can you direct me to the prosecutor who’s in charge of the homicide of a Wendy Harper? Thanks.” She hung up. She took a sheet from a message pad and a pen, leafed through a notebook, and then wrote a name and office number on the sheet and handed it to him. “You must know your way around this building, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Twenty years on the force. Thank you very much.” He went through the metal detector, then waited his turn for the elevator while he deciphered the note. The prosecutor’s name was Gordon something. No. Gordon was the last name. Linda Gordon. He rode upstairs, then walked along the hall past the offices of other Assistant DAs working on other cases. He knew some of them, but fewer and fewer each year as they retired or accepted offers at private law firms. When he found the office, the door was closed, but he saw beneath the door that a light was on, and heard a woman’s voice, so he knocked.

  A moment later a young woman with long blond hair that looked as though it had begun as brown opened the door. She looked startled when she saw him. “Yes?”

  “Are you Linda Gordon?”

  “Yes.” She looked impatient. He could see that she had left her telephone off the hook and the receiver was on her desk. Till recognized the expression. She was waiting for him to deliver a subpoena. Half the lawsuits in existence were convicts suing prosecutors and cops.

  “My name is Jack Till. I need to speak with you for a few minutes. I can see you’re on the phone. I can wait out here until you’re finished.”

  She looked suspicious. “What’s this about? Who are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator, and I have some important information about the case you’re prosecuting against Eric Fuller.”

  “Just hold it a minute.” She stepped quickly to the phone and lifted it. “Carl? I’ve got to call you back. Two, three minutes. Honest.” She set the telephone in its cradle. “Come in.”

  Till entered the small, cluttered space and looked for a place to sit. There was one chair, but it appeared to be the permanent place for a stack of files. She saw the direction of his eyes and started toward the chair, but he held up his hand. “Don’t bother. I’ll only be here for a few minutes. I saw the newspaper a little while ago. I came to let you know that there’s been a mistake. You can’t prosecute Eric Fuller, or anybody else, for the murder of Wendy Harper.”

  She bristled. “I can’t?”

  “No. Wendy Harper is alive.”

  Linda Gordon leaned against the wall behind her desk with her arms folded. “Go on.”

  Jack Till recognized the gesture. She was protecting herself unconsciously—from him? She was blocking what he was saying. All he could do was keep trying. “The reason you don’t have a body is that she’s still using it.”

  “Have you talked to the police?”

  “Not yet. I came straight here.”

  “Well, that’s the normal way to do things when you have information. The detective in charge is Sergeant Max Poliakoff at Homicide Special in the Parker Center. If you’ll just—”

  “I know him. I was the one who trained him when he was in Hollywood Homicide.”

  “Trained him? You’re a police officer?”

  “Retired.”

  “And you want to give me this evidence?”

  “Yes. I can go over and talk to Max Poliakoff first, if you’d prefer it.”

  She stared at him for a second, and he could see that she was thinking far ahead. “All right. At this point I’d better stop you. I want to record what you’re saying on my tape recorder. Is that all right with you?”

  “Okay.”

  She took a small pocket recorder from her purse, slipped a new tape cassette into it, and clicked a button. “This is Linda Gordon, Assistant District Attorney, and I’m interviewing a gentleman who has come to my office on Wednesday, May 13. It’s now eight-fifty-three A.M. And your name is?” She held out the recorder as though she were challenging him to run.

  “John Robert Till.”

  “Spell it?”

  “T-I-L-L.”

  “Now, you have not been placed under oath. But you have told me that you’re a retired police officer, so you know that it is a crime to lie to a law-enforcement official about a homicide case. You are, of course, aware of that?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Then say what you wish to say.”

  “I’m here to advise you not to pursue a case against Eric Fuller for the murder of Wendy Harper because I know that she’s not dead.”

  “How do you know that? Have you seen her?”

  “Not recently. I saw her six years ago, after the last time she was seen in Los Angeles.”

  “So you were the last one to see her alive?”

  “Not at all. But I was the last one to see her here. I’m a private investigator. She hired me. She had been attacked by a man one night when she was coming home from her restaurant. He beat her up in a way that sounded to me as though he intended to disable her and then kill her.”

  “How can you know what he intended to do?”

  “He used a baseball bat. He started with her legs and arms, then hit her a glancing blow on the head, but he was interrupted by a couple of cars before he could keep her still long enough for his big swing.”

  Till could see the description had elicited an expression of pure revulsion in Linda Gordon, and that she had not intended him to see it. She set her recorder down on the desk and resumed the pose with her arms folded and the desk between them. “What was the purpose of this attack?”

  “I believe it was to murder her and make it look like a predatory, opportunistic k
illing rather than a practical sort of homicide. Somebody was after her, and she knew it.”

  “Who was after her?”

  “She said that a friend—a woman who sometimes worked at her restaurant—had a boyfriend she thought might be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous in what way?”

  “The woman had told her some things about him, some things he had done to her.”

  “Why would he be after Wendy?”

  “One night Wendy was outside the restaurant after closing. She saw the guy when he came to pick up the friend, and he saw her. A few days later, the friend was gone. She stopped coming to work. Her apartment was empty. Wendy believed she was dead.”

  “What was the boyfriend’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What was the waitress’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you know? Didn’t you ask?”

  “Sure. She wouldn’t tell me the woman’s name, and claimed not to know the man’s name.”

  “That’s it? That’s all? You gave up?”

  “I was no longer a police officer, and had no way of compelling her to tell me anything. A responding officer had interviewed her the night of the attack and a detective talked to her afterward, in the hospital. If I’d had a month or so, I might have persuaded her that telling me more would make her safer, but at the time, she was too terrified to listen. She wanted to leave Los Angeles immediately. She was convinced that if she stayed in Los Angeles long enough for this boyfriend to find her again, she was going to die.”

  “Was she right?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I don’t know who her friend’s boyfriend was, or who the man he’d hired to beat her was. I offered to protect her, to act as contractor to get her some bodyguards, or to put her house and her restaurant under surveillance. But if this man wanted her badly enough—”