The Enemy Inside

by Steve Martini

  “Your wife wouldn’t have the list, by any chance?”

  He smiles at me and says, “No.”

  “I’m not interested in outing any of these people,” I tell him. “All I want to know is whether anyone there that night might have seen what happened when my client passed out. Did they know any of the people who helped him to his car? Names,” I tell him. “That’s what I need.”

  “Why? What do you need them for?” he asks.

  “It’s part of the case. It’s confidential. I really can’t discuss it.”

  “Well, I guess we all have our secrets,” he says. “Let me think about it. I’ll talk to my assistant. See if we still have the list. But, like I say, I’m not sure I can give it to you.”

  He is affable, a little slick, perhaps a sales background if I had to guess. If he has the guest list and I issue a subpoena he will probably shred it and claim it was discarded long before the subpoena was issued. For the moment I may have to depend on the man’s goodwill, as much as I hate to.

  He leads me to the front door, shakes my hand, gives me a broad smile, and two minutes later I’m back in the Jeep headed south toward the office.

  The good news is I have now found the location of the party and confirmed that Alex passed out and was helped off the premises by person or persons unknown. The bad news is that this is all hearsay, none of it admissible in a court of law. We still have no percipient witnesses. No one who saw any of it. More to the point, I have no names or descriptions of any of the people who shanghaied Alex and dragged him off into the desert that night.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The tempered glass pitcher sat steaming on the hot plate under the Mr. Coffee. Two ham and cheese sandwiches with plenty of sliced tomatoes were on plates on the countertop in the kitchen. Herman was already chowing down on one of the sandwiches.

  “Come and get it! Coffee’s ready!” he hollered down the hall to Alex.

  “Be there in a sec!”

  Herman mopped down the countertop where he’d assembled the food as he chewed. He would do the dishes and put everything away the minute they finished eating. He didn’t want to waste time cleaning up once his support crew arrived. Herman’s rolling suitcase was already zipped up, sitting in the entry hall ready to go.

  After thinking about it for a while Herman had calmed down. He was reasonably confident that their location had not been blown, at least not yet. If the people tracking Alex already knew where they were, they would have made a move by now. He and Ives had been camped here for three nights.

  “Hurry it up!” Herman yelled down the hall again. “We don’t have all day.”

  “Coming.” Alex dragged his wheeled suitcase out of the bedroom and down the hall. He stood it up next to Herman’s by the front door.

  “Got everything?”

  “You wanna check my room?” said Ives. He wasn’t used to the hustle.

  Alex grabbed the plate with the sandwich, skipped the coffee, and headed into the living room to turn on the TV.

  “No time for that,” said Herman.

  “Just want to see what’s on CNN.”

  “Be the same bad news tomorrow,” said Herman. “You can catch it then. We don’t have time.”

  Alex dropped the TV controls back on the coffee table. “You act like you been in the army.”

  “How’s that?”

  “A drill sergeant.”

  “Could be your generation lacks discipline. Ever think of that?” said Herman.

  “Well, I know you can’t be talking about me,” said Ives. “Cuz when I was a kid I walked six miles in bare feet in the snow in the middle of winter to school and back, both ways uphill.”

  “Sounds like my school district, except we didn’t have any feet,” said Herman.

  Alex laughed.

  “Tell you about the army I was in. Long as we’re telling whoppers,” said Diggs. “Four older brothers who’d kick my ass in a heartbeat if I didn’t jump fast enough to do what they said.” He rinsed off his plate and started drying it. “But even then they had to wait in line to get their kicks in, behind my mama. And she wore big boots.”

  “Good old days in the hood,” said Alex.

  “And you want me to believe you weren’t born suckin’ the silver spoon? If I didn’t get you outta bed in the morning you’d sleep ’til dinner.”

  “Actually, if I could, I’d sleep through dinner. Don’t want to hurt your feelings, but anybody ever tell you you’re a terrible cook?”

  “You’re eatin’ my food.”

  “It’s either that or starve,” said Alex.

  “And here I was thinking you liked Cheerios and milk.”

  “And as for sleeping late, there isn’t much else to do. You won’t let me go down to the beach.”

  “Too easy to drown,” said Herman.

  “I’m a good swimmer.”

  “Not if somebody chains an engine block to your foot.”

  “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you do something useful and get me a woman?” said Ives.

  Herman laughed. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman. Besides, do I look like a pimp?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  “Just cuz I beat your ass at rummy last night.”

  “Let’s not talk about that,” said Ives.

  “What would your mother say?”

  “No, not my mother,” said Alex. “You can get any other woman but her.”

  Herman started to laugh. The kid had a quick lip. “You’re awful. No wonder these people want to kill you. Now hurry up and eat before I have to slap you around.”

  “You hurt me and the lawyers are gonna be very unhappy,” said Ives.

  “Yeah, but think of all the fun I’ll have.”

  Ives laughed. Something went down the wrong way and he began to choke.

  “Have another bite,” said Herman. “Sit tight. I’ll come over and give you a Heimlich hug.”

  Between choked words: “You leave my heinie alone.”

  Herman busted up. Three days and they had already come to this. Another week and they’d be throwing food and lighting farts on fire for laughs.

  “True what they say,” said Herman. “Familiarization does breed contempt. Maybe best if I just let ’em kill ya.”

  “You couldn’t do it.” Alex was coughing, still clearing his throat.

  “And why not?”

  “You’d have nobody to play rummy with.”

  “Well, there you go, something to do tonight.”

  “You already took all my money,” said Ives.

  “Four dollars and twenty cents? You’re not worth much.”

  “You’re right. I’m gonna have to talk to my boss about a raise when I get back.”

  Herman didn’t touch it. The smile on his face evaporated. He turned his back and started sponging the countertop again. “Hurry up and eat, we gotta go.” Graves’s death and the fact that he hadn’t told Alex suddenly wrung all the merriment from his voice.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No. We just gotta go. I’m gonna—”

  Before he could finish the thought there was a rattle at the door, almost like someone was knocking but not quite. Herman wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the wind.

  But Ives heard it too.

  They both looked at the front door.

  “You think it’s them?” Alex whispered.

  Herman shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

  There it was again. This time there was no question, three clear knocks.

  “Must be your guys. I’ll get it.” Alex was closer. He started to get up.

  Herman’s right hand shot out like a traffic cop, freezing Ives in place. He moved a finger to his lips and listened for a second. Then a couple more knocks. He motioned for Alex to take his sandwich and the plate and head to the bedroom.

  Ives looked confused. But he didn’t say a word, not even to whisper. He picked up the plate and slipped quietly down the hall.

  What bot
hered Herman was the lack of noise outside. Whoever was at the door had not come out of a vehicle in the parking lot. Otherwise he would have heard the engine as they pulled in, and a slamming door as they made their way to the stairs. Even with all the laughter, Herman had one ear primed for the van.

  He bent down low so that any light streaming in from the back of the condo wouldn’t cast his shadow against the peephole in the front door. He moved quickly across the entryway, down the hall to his own room and into the bathroom. The small six-inch window high on the wall with its sliding translucent glass was open just a crack. Up on his tiptoes Herman peeked out.

  There was one man at the door. Herman could see all the way to the end of the balcony in that direction. There was no one else there. He couldn’t see in the other direction unless he slid the window open further and pressed his head into the corner to look back.

  The man was wearing a bright red polo shirt with a yellow collar and trim down the three buttons at the center of his chest. There was a small DHL logo on the shirt. He was wearing tan shorts. Black hair, dark complexion, Herman assumed he was Mexican. He carried a flat box, yellow and red like his shirt and a clipboard in one hand. He knocked on the door with the other.

  Herman wasn’t buying it. If there was a package, why didn’t they give it to him at the shop? Still, the only people who knew he was here were Harry and Paul. They had agreed not to send anything to the condo unless it was an emergency. Maybe it was. With Graves dead perhaps they thought there was something Herman needed to know. But why a box? There was only one way to find out.

  He moved back to the front door, stayed low and moved toward his suitcase. “¿Quién es?”

  “DHL. Entrega.”

  He might have been making a delivery, but his tongue was paralyzed. There was no trill to the word as he spoke. Whoever he was, Spanish was not his first language.

  Herman zipped open his suitcase, reached inside, and found the Springfield Arms .45. He slid the pistol out of the case. But he hesitated to rack the first round. The guy outside the door would hear it.

  “Who is it for?” Herman figured why play games?

  “Ah, señor, you speak English. Delivery for Mr. H. Diggs.”

  “Who is it from?”

  “Ah, ¿cómo se dice? Ah, how do you say, abogado?”

  “Lawyer,” said Herman.

  “Ah, sí, señor.”

  “The name, what’s the lawyer’s name.”

  “You open the door, I show it to you.”

  “Just read it to me. I’m not sure I want it.”

  “You want, I could take it back to the office.”

  “You do that,” said Herman.

  “The name is, I could spell for you if you like.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “First name Pablo, how you say?”

  “Paul.”

  “¡Sí! Last name M-A-D-R-I-A-N-I. How you say?”

  “Madriani,” said Herman.

  “Then you know the man?”

  “Just leave it outside the door. I’ll get it in a minute. I’m not dressed. Taking a shower,” said Herman.

  “Cannot,” said the man. “Requires a signature.”

  Herman didn’t answer. Instead he slowly stood up, off the side of the center of the door and looked through the peephole. The fish-eye lens gave him a panoramic view of the man’s face, pockmarks and a ruddy complexion. “Hold up the waybill. I want to see it.”

  “Señor, I don’t have time for this.”

  “I guess not, you’re making deliveries and you’re on foot. Where’s your truck?”

  “We don’t use a truck here, señor. Here we use automobiles. We don’t have the equipment you have up north.” As he spoke he held up the waybill so Herman could see it through the glass lens. “Hold it still,” said Herman. He could see the law firm’s name and address neatly printed in the “Sender’s” block. But this could have been gotten by anyone with access to the Internet. Then he saw the firm’s account number printed in the block. And near the bottom the clincher, Brenda Gomes’s signature, the “gate watcher” at the firm. Nothing went in or out of the office without her seeing or touching it. Herman had seen her scrawl her name enough times to know it.

  He stuck the gun in the front of his pants and covered it with his shirt. Then he swung open the security latch on the door and opened it.

  The guy outside was all smiles. He handed the box to Herman and laid the clipboard on top of it, then gave him a pen and showed him where to sign.

  Herman clicked the pen, went to fix his signature, and discovered that the ballpoint was dry.

  “Ah,” said the man. “I don’t have another pen.”

  Herman fixed him with a stare. The guy was still smiling. “I’ve got one in the kitchen. Stay here.” Herman handed everything back to him. As he turned for the kitchen, Herman slipped his right hand under the front of his shirt and grabbed the handle of the pistol. With his left hand he knocked Alex’s empty coffee cup onto the floor. It shattered on the tile, sending bits of glass everywhere.

  At the same time Herman turned quickly and dropped down behind the island in the center of the kitchen as if retrieving some of the broken pieces. Instead he pulled out the pistol and racked a round.

  When Herman stood up the guy was still standing in the open doorway, holding the package and the clipboard, tapping his foot on the cement outside the door like he was in a hurry.

  Herman felt like a fool. Fortunately he’d kept the gun below the counter where the man couldn’t see it. He laid it on an open shelf down low. “Where is that pen?” Herman saw it over near the sink, went over, and picked it up.

  He signed for the package and a few seconds later the guy was gone.

  Herman closed the door and swung the security U-bolt back into place.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  This morning I look at the documents open on my desk. Harry has already read them. It’s a court-ordered status conference, early on to see where the case is going. It’s set for the end of the month. The prosecutor has offered Alex a plea bargain, what in California is called a “wet reckless.”

  Like a camel without humps, it’s a strange animal, reckless driving but with some alcohol involved, perhaps smelling the cork. Because the level of blood alcohol in Alex’s system is well below the presumptive limit of intoxication, the D.A. has doubts about his own case. If he only knew the half of it. The problem is we can’t tell him, not without hard evidence, and we have none. Still it’s a crazy offer because of the vehicular manslaughter charge. You can bet that ain’t going away. Which means this camel won’t hunt.

  But that’s not the problem. The judge has ordered us into chambers to discuss the matter. He has also ordered that we bring our client to sit outside in his courtroom so that we can run any offer by him in hopes of a deal. Judges are often the most optimistic people in any room. They can afford to be. This one ought to be wearing white robes and singing in a choir.

  Yesterday I checked out the caterers, the name given to me by Becket for the company that worked the party that night. Trousdale and Company. It was a dead end. No one remembered a thing. My guess is that when you’re paid to work that many parties serving alcohol, discretion requires a flexible memory. The company could be on the hook if they overserved.

  I step out of my office and head down the corridor to Harry. He is chipping away at the computer inside his den when I peek in.

  “You want to grab some coffee?” Harry is still looking at the computer screen. I am standing in the open doorway.

  “Did you see it?” Harry means the notice-of-status conference.

  “Yep.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where you want to go for coffee?”

  “I was thinking Lucerne, maybe by way of Amsterdam.”

  Harry turns to glance at me with a grin, then back to his computer. He thinks I am joking. “Why don’t we just go sit outside under one of the umbr
ellas at the Del? It’s a lot closer.” Somehow the silence tells him I’m not kidding. When he turns around again, Harry is no longer smiling.

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” he says, “business is way down. Half of our client load has disappeared. And one of them is hiding out in Mexico last time I looked. Some judge about to kick our ass if we can’t produce him at court in what? Ten days, is it?”

  “Nine,” I tell him.

  “Well, there you go.”

  “Can you think of a better time to travel? Besides, I’m told the weather in Lucerne is beautiful this time of year. Pretty city too. Certainly better than the ambience in the lockup downtown.”

  Harry gives me an arched eyebrow, Ahab looking for the white whale. “What’s in Lucerne?”

  “A banker,” I tell him.

  “Is he gonna loan us money?”

  “I could go alone,” I say.

  “That’s a good idea. Why don’t you do that?”

  “Fine. You can stay here and handle the pretrial.”

  He stops typing.

  “If things blow up while I’m gone, you end up called to the courthouse, me out of town, and Herman not around, who’s gonna spring you from the metal box downtown?”

  “I’ve got friends,” says Harry.

  “I know. One of them is looking at you right now.”

  There is another reason I want Harry with me. It remains unstated, but neither of us are oblivious to the danger around us—the accident at the gas station, the sense that I am a carrier of death like a contagious disease after meeting with Graves.