Death Benefits

by Thomas Perry

  The sound was not the one he expected: a loud impact and then glass shattering and tinkling onto the street. He raised his head a little.

  Stillman was at the corner of the house. He hurled a second big stone from the rock garden at the car, pivoted, and ran before it smashed into the side window. He disappeared between two houses. The car wheeled around and rocked to a stop, the headlights aimed in the direction where Stillman had gone. Walker could see that the windshield was cratered from Stillman’s first rock, the center milky and opaque, with spiderweb cracks extending to the roof and side struts. Stillman was gone, and a couple of lights went on in houses up the block.

  The car turned again and the headlights swept across Walker, then disappeared as the car sped off up the street. Walker stood and began to trot toward the place where he had last seen Stillman. By the time Walker reached the sidewalk, Stillman had emerged again a hundred feet up the street, walking toward the lighted thoroughfare. Walker ran until he caught up.

  Stillman said, “Time to get a roof over our heads.” They walked on for a time, and he began again. “I think it’s also time for you to be getting back to San Francisco. Glad you put it off until now, though. Otherwise, I’d be lying back there while those three guys went through my pockets.”

  “Just a common courtesy,” said Walker. “As if I had a choice.”

  “It’s not a common courtesy,” Stillman said. “Not common at all.” He walked on a few steps. “The human instinct if you’re not brain-dead is to turn your back and run. Nine people out of ten are brain-dead, so what they do is stand there wringing their hands, not knowing whether to shit or go blind. They don’t run, they don’t fight, they just watch. I’ll be sorry to see you go.”

  “Save it,” said Walker. “I’m not leaving yet.”

  “I think you ought to give it some time, and tell me in the morning. Our little inquiry hasn’t gone the way I predicted.”

  “It’s reassuring to know that you weren’t planning to get beat up every time you went outside.”

  Stillman’s eye moved to the corner toward Walker for a moment, then stared ahead. “Yeah. I thought the case was going to be about the details of the insurance business, but it kind of moved beyond that.”

  Walker kept striding along beside Stillman. His heartbeat was beginning to slow, but he kept turning his head to look behind them, then to the sides, then ahead. The fear and anger and excitement had subsided a bit now, leaving him with nerves seared and tender, muscles strained by the sudden exertion. He began to notice the dull throb of injuries left by punches he had noticed at the time only as bright, momentary explosions of pain that he had somehow transmuted into rage. As he walked, he decided it was as though his body had been temporarily occupied by a deranged, destructive tenant who had abruptly departed, leaving it scraped, battered, and strained. The most remarkable sensation was exhaustion. When he lifted his right hand to investigate a tender swelling above his eyebrow, the weight of his arm surprised him.

  Stillman was watching. “You’ve been in a few fights, haven’t you?”

  Walker was nettled. “Not like that. Not until I met you.”

  “Then it’s good that we got into a fight in the dark, with that kind of guy. I figured you’d be okay.”

  Walker was amazed. “You did?”

  “Sure. The way they were standing on the sidewalk waiting for us, trying to look big and hairy, I wasn’t worried.”

  “What does it take to make you worry?”

  Stillman pondered the question for a few paces, then stopped. “You know a fight is about to start, and then you notice that one guy is standing like this.” Stillman faced Walker with his knees very slightly bent and his arms out from his sides in what looked like a welcoming gesture, with the hands open. Stillman straightened and walked on. “If you see one of those, drop everything and run.”

  “What the hell would that tell you?”

  “He’s a ninja.”

  “Like in the movies? You’re kidding.”

  “No, not like in the movies,” said Stillman. “Not one tiny bit. Ninjutsu has made a comeback, sort of like karate. Only what this guy has been training himself to do isn’t just to block your punch and put you on the ground. He doesn’t think fighting is fun. He’s not in a sport, he wants to kill you quick. If you’re going to stay in California, you’re going to see a lot of strange stuff. Those guys tonight were within our capability.”

  “They had guns.”

  “One of them did. Even he didn’t start out to shoot us. He just realized they’d been overconfident, and tried to make up for it. I was watching for it. A guy who uses his right hand to reach behind his belt in the middle of a fight probably isn’t tucking his shirttail in. The only things he could want back there are a knife that’s too big to fit in a pocket, or a gun.” He looked at Walker. “That’s something else to remember.”

  Walker said, “I think maybe I’ll just stay out of fights.”

  “The best way is to keep away from people who get you into fights,” said Stillman. He led the way and got them both inside a doughnut shop just as the first three police cars sped past on their way to the scene of the shooting. Walker turned to stare out the big window at the fast-moving metal and flashing lights. A second later, Stillman’s reflection in the window caught Walker’s eye. Stillman tugged his sleeve back to see his watch, nodded noncommittally, then stepped forward to survey the glass case where pastries were arrayed seductively in ranks.

  Walker whispered, “How’d they do?”

  “Just fair. About six minutes.” Stillman turned to the young Hispanic boy behind the counter. “Evening, barkeep. Two cups of coffee, two of these cream-filled beauties with the chocolate on top, two glazed, and two of this crumb kind.”

  “Old-fashioned,” the boy corrected him.

  “I admit it,” Stillman said, “but give me the doughnuts anyway.”

  “The doughnuts. That’s what they’re called.”

  Stillman accepted the bag of doughnuts. As the boy handed him his change, Stillman handed the coins to Walker. “Here. Call us a cab while I escort these fellows to a table.”

  “Where should I say we’re going?”

  “Burbank airport. We’ll rent a car there.” He paused. “Maybe you could buy a plane ticket.”

  Walker made the call, then sat down at a tiny table across from Stillman. There were three doughnuts sitting on a napkin in front of him. “Go ahead,” said Stillman. “They’re very soothing, which is why the Red Cross is always forcing them on people. Nothing burns energy faster than disaster . . . except sex, of course. And whatever deity was in charge of printing up our agenda tonight seems to have slipped up and left that one out.”

  Walker took a bite of the big cream-filled doughnut with gooey chocolate on top. It was strange, but he reluctantly and silently acknowledged that it tasted better than anything he had ever eaten. He was overcome with the need to eat all of it. Then he picked up the next one.

  Stillman said, “We’ll have to get another half dozen to take with us before the cab gets here. I don’t want to have to go out in the middle of the night for more. The streets around here don’t seem to be safe.”

  11

  Stillman drove the new rental car past the hotel, then around the block, looking intently at the windows, the parking lot, the doors of the lobby. Then he drove into the parking lot and up a couple of rows before he parked.

  Walker asked, “Is there something else I should be expecting?”

  “Not at all,” Stillman assured him. “But it’s always important to have good health habits when you travel.” He got out of the car, ceremoniously locked it, and walked into the lobby. He stopped at the little shop and began to scrutinize the shelves. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

  Walker held up the bag. “I’ve got your doughnuts.”

  “I’ll catch up with you.”

  Walker went upstairs to his room. He unlocked the door with vague trepidation, then stepped a
way from it and listened, prepared to sprint back down the hall if he heard a noise. There was silence. He pushed open the door, leaned in to fumble with the light switch, then stepped back again. The door swung shut, but before it did, he had a glimpse of the room that included no intruders. He unlocked the door again, slipped inside, and let it close behind him.

  Everything was in its place, the bed was made, and he was alone in the quiet and order. He walked to the folding stand and opened the lid of the suitcase Stillman had bought him. The new clothes were undisturbed, the coats folded, the shirts in their packages, the creases in the pants still in straight lines. He took off the coat and tie he had been wearing and examined them. The coat needed dry-cleaning, but he detected no tears. He looked down. His pants had dirt on the right knee, but nothing that appeared fatal. He was tired of having nothing but clothes he couldn’t afford. They had been bought as a disguise, but they had settled into his mind as a fiduciary responsibility.

  He moved to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His face was smudged and sweaty, and there were a couple of angry red scrapes—one above the right eye and another on the left cheek. He touched the side of his head and involuntarily sucked in a breath: the pain was insistent now. There was a hard lump, and the hair was stiff from blood that had dried there. He touched two other places above the hairline, and the nerves there sent dispatches of alarm.

  There was a knock on the door. He stepped close to it and said, “Who is it?” then slipped to the side, not knowing whether he was getting out of the way in case the door flew off its hinges or because he feared bullet holes would appear simultaneously in the door and his chest.

  “It’s me,” said Stillman’s voice.

  Walker opened the door and let Stillman push inside and close it. Stillman fixed the chain and turned the deadbolt, then noticed Walker’s expression. “Always lock everything that locks,” he said. “It doesn’t cost a cent.”

  “The doughnuts are on the bed,” said Walker.

  Stillman said, “I just called the airport for you. There was some fog earlier, so the flights were delayed and they’re still catching up. I got you on the United shuttle for tomorrow at eight.”

  It took an effort for Walker to force out the words. “Thanks, but I told you I’d like to keep at this until we find Ellen.” He was tired and dirty, and he didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to be here, and fighting for the privilege was more than he was willing to do.

  Stillman was putting things in Walker’s bathroom. “Well, sleep on it. Here’s some antiseptic and stuff,” he said. “Don’t let any scrapes get infected, especially the ones you got on somebody’s teeth. I know a guy who did that one time, and his finger swelled until it was as big as his dick—or at least that’s what he said. I didn’t compare.” He picked up the bag of doughnuts and placed two of them on a napkin atop the little refrigerator beside the television set. “Here’s your share of the doughnuts. You want something to drink with that?” He opened the refrigerator. “There are lots of little liquor bottles left by the pygmies.”

  Stillman poured a tiny bottle of scotch into a glass and took a sip, then winced. “We made some progress in a day and a half.”

  “We got beat up twice.”

  “Beat up? Hell, this isn’t beat up. There hasn’t been a winner of a title fight that looked better than us since the young Muhammad Ali—and he looked better to start with. I’m talking winners now. The losers, they looked—well, like losers.”

  Walker nodded. “Good thing for us the Japanese assassins didn’t show up.”

  “Probably couldn’t get a flight into L.A., what with the fog and all,” said Stillman, staring interestedly at his drink. He brought it to his lips, took a big gulp, and squinted. “Have you noticed we’re getting contradictory signals?”

  “I’m not getting any signals.”

  “Tonight was the second time we had guys trying to get whatever pieces of paper we had. I guess they want to know what we know. But tonight they seemed to think the second choice was to kill us.”

  “If that’s a signal, I got that.”

  “Well, it doesn’t go with this.” He pulled some folded pieces of paper out of his coat pocket. As he unfolded them Walker recognized them as the ones Constantine Gochay had given him. “See, Constantine traced Ellen Snyder for us. She made five blips on his screen since she disappeared. She was here in Los Angeles for a night or two, at the Holiday Inn near the airport. That was two weeks ago. She used the name Jo Anne Steele.”

  Walker’s brows knitted. “How does Gochay know she was Ellen Snyder?”

  “It’s the name of a woman who’s a customer of the Pasadena office of McClaren Life and Casualty. All of Jo Anne Steele’s personal information was in the office files. Somebody used it to apply for credit cards and licenses. They’re great for ID, and if you don’t actually use them to pay, you’re in the clear. She—somebody—used them to register, then paid in cash so there would be no credit card record. Very sensible.”

  “How did Gochay know that?” Walker persisted. “Any of it? If she didn’t pay with the card to avoid a record, why is there a record?”

  Stillman took another sip of his drink. “He didn’t pick up anything interesting by checking credit reports, so he broke into some hotel reservation systems and started to pick things up.”

  “But how did he know enough to look for the names of women customers from McClaren’s files?”

  “I told him.”

  Walker’s irritation was beginning to come into his voice. “But how did you know?”

  “It was the way she opened bank accounts and bought stuff when the million two disappeared. I had him run the twenty-five or so in the files who were the best matches: about the right age and sex.” He paused. “You know, if you carry life insurance, auto, and home owner’s with one company, you get a big break on the rates, so—”

  “I know that,” Walker interrupted. “The company knows everything about you—birthday, family, jobs, social security number, credit records, physical exams, driving records. That’s what I do for a living, remember? I use that information.”

  Stillman shrugged. “So did she.”

  “And so did Gochay?”

  Stillman smiled. “Now you’re catching up.”

  “That’s illegal,” said Walker. “All of it is illegal.”

  Stillman sighed. “That’s why he doesn’t come cheap. You can’t pay pocket change and expect people to commit felonies for you.” He finished his drink and stared at the glass regretfully before he set it down. “She’s not alone.”

  “What?”

  “She’s not traveling alone,” said Stillman. “I thought you might like to know that.”

  Walker shrugged in irritation. “If you’re trying to say I wasn’t good enough for her, I knew that before you showed up.”

  “Nobody would be. It’s two guys.” He stared at his papers again. “Or I think it is. Constantine looked to see if there was anybody whose reservations corresponded exactly with hers—same check-in and check-out in more than one city. To his surprise, there were two. Every place she went, there were two men checked into an adjoining room.”

  “I’m amazed,” said Walker.

  “Of course, the other possibility when you have two guys is that they’re keeping an eye on her. She could be doing this against her will.” He picked up the doughnut bag. “Well, got to go. I’ve got to get us both to the airport early tomorrow.” He headed for the door, and Walker expected him to stop and say something else. But he stepped out and closed the door behind him. A few seconds later, Walker heard another door down the hall close.

  Walker sat in the silence of the strange room and stared at the wall. He thought about Ellen. He brought back the quiet, friendly way she talked. She was pretty, but that had only been what had made him notice her, and it seemed irrelevant now. His memory couldn’t hold her in stasis so he could study her features. She was moving, talking, and he supposed it was her direct, pleasant
manner that had attracted him. It had somehow also given him the notion that an invitation of some kind would not be scorned. If she didn’t want to go, she would simply say so. He had asked her to dinner at Scarlitti’s and thought his guess was confirmed. She had said, “I’d like that. I don’t know anybody up here, and it will give us a chance to talk.”

  Kennedy had said something to him after training class one day that had puzzled him. He had said, “What do you make of Ellen Snyder?”

  Walker had answered, “Make of her? I like her. She’s always pleasant and friendly. Great smile, too.”

  Kennedy had smirked and cupped his hand beside his mouth to call, “Hello? She’s in sales.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s been training herself to sell insurance policies. Am I getting through to anybody in there?”

  “So she’s not going to kill somebody to get a desk in the main office. This means she’s insincere when she says ‘Hi’?”

  “It means she knows she’s good at making people like her and making them think she likes them just as much. If they believe that, then they’ll like her even more, and pretty soon they’re writing a check. She’s using us to sharpen her skills: we’re her tackling dummies.”

  The dinner had been full of things to think about. The evening had begun with a certain promise. He had been pleased when he had smelled a hint of perfume and seen that her makeup was different—the lips redder, a little blush on the cheeks, and eye shadow. He had interpreted those changes as having been intended for him, as indications that she liked him and wanted to show him. No, he remembered, he had made more of it than that. He had decided that she was declaring a change in their relationship. He had seen that she wore flat heels and sweaters for business, so how could the dress, high heels, and perfume not be messages?

  The conversation had been full of moments when he had thought he sensed something unusual happening. They had both talked about themselves more openly than he would have expected, because when one of them stopped, the other would ask another question that prompted the next set of revelations. It was as though each of them were a series of doors leading inward. Each question was a knock on the next door. The one inside would hesitate for a moment, then decide to make an exception and let the visitor in one more door—just one more.