The Butcher's Boy bb-1

by Thomas Perry

  “I’ll go the rest of the way for you,” said Brayer. “And they wouldn’t kill a machinist in Ventura because he was criticizing his union’s investment in a company he’d never even seen the outside of.” But the smile was still there, still sure and maybe even a little smug.

  “And there’s still Orloff,” said Elizabeth. “That has to be something different.”

  “It’s all the same,” said Brayer. “It doesn’t matter how it was done or in what order. The time doesn’t matter at all for now. They were plugging leaks, getting rid of every liability they could think of at once. Maybe it was all done to protect something that was very important to them and might come out as soon as any government agency started to look closely at the company. Something close to the surface.”

  “What?” asked Elizabeth. “It can’t be the silent partner. And yet it has to be.”

  “There’s a vulnerable point somewhere, and they knew it. And right now they’re trying to cover it up. They’ll succeed if we don’t get to it soon. The one thing we’ve found that fits the pattern is that they’ve got a number of complicated investments—subsidiaries, really. One is an oil consulting firm. We’re concentrating on that one for the moment. It’ll take time to track everything down.”

  “Why that one?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Because it involves moving people and small amounts of sophisticated equipment from one place to another. A lot of it to other countries. There are a hundred possibilities: smuggling, a money-laundering operation, drugs, or maybe just an excuse to have somebody in particular on the payroll with a legitimate reason to travel.”

  “A hit man!” said Elizabeth.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Brayer. “That’s the least likely of a hundred possibilities. For one thing, it would be the hardest to spot, and whatever they’re worried about is more obvious. Maybe it’s just an excuse to have bank accounts or investments in foreign countries.”

  Elizabeth sat down again. “So that’s why you’re here,” she said. “It’s a full-court press, isn’t it? You’re going to put the pressure on and watch to see who squirms. Who else is in on it? The FBI?”

  Brayer’s smile broadened a bit as he nodded, but then it disappeared. “I’m afraid it’s a little bit different this time,” he said. “It’s a full-court press all right. I didn’t know you liked basketball, by the way, but it fits. The only thing is, we can’t let them see all of it at once.”

  She could tell that something was bothering him. It was a moment before she realized what it was. She said, “And they’ve already seen me.”

  He nodded. “They’ve already seen you.”

  She sat there for a moment, thinking about it. Then she stood up, straightened her skirt, and said, “All right. What do I do first?”

  “We’ve already requested a subpoena for their ledgers. It should be ready by morning. It lists you as officer of the court.”

  21

  The trees lifted naked branches toward a sky that seemed to be made of stone. Now and then an icy gust of wind would tear down the street bringing with it a scurrying herd of wrappers and dead newspapers. He had been on this street before. Three, maybe four years ago. That time he hadn’t stopped, just checked to be sure he had the right address and then driven on. He’d been alone that day too, and he’d had some time and had promised Eddie he’d look. Eddie had been careful enough to last for a long time. It would have been stupid not to do what Eddie said. “This is an address you might need sometime, kid. Don’t ever write it down. Go there when you’re in Buffalo and remember where it is. Chances are if you ever need to see him you’re gonna be in a hurry.”

  Most of the snow had been pushed off the sidewalks into the gutters, so he had no trouble walking if he avoided the thin patches of ice near the curb. There were only a few bundled figures leaning into the cruel wind as they walked. They scuttled close to the storefronts for shelter, veering outward only to avoid each other, their faces turned down out of the wind. Sliding steel cages accordioned across the doors and windows of the buildings. No business was open on Sunday morning on this stretch of Grant Street. He moved more quickly. The coat he’d bought last night was warm, but his ears were already numb. The collar wasn’t high enough to do anything for them.

  One more block. He wished for a moment that he still had the car. But that would have been foolish. He wouldn’t be here until tomorrow night or the next day at the earliest—and in a car with Nevada plates. You couldn’t drive through places like St. Louis and Cleveland in a car with Nevada plates and not attract attention.

  There were houses now and he knew he was getting close to it. The houses were set farther back from the street and he missed the shelter of the storefronts. There it was. 304. He remembered what Eddie had said. “Knock and ask for directions to someplace. It don’t matter where. Don’t ask for him or you won’t get in the door.”

  He made his way up the icy walk and then up the steps to the porch. He knocked and listened, but the wind was the only sound. “His name is Harkness,” Eddie had said, “and he’s a nigger. Don’t hang around out front for too long because your white face will attract attention.” There was still no sound, but the door swung open.

  An old black man in a white shirt that was buttoned to the collar stared out at him, saying nothing.

  “I wonder if you could tell me how to get to the Albright-Knox Art Museum,” he asked.

  “It’s cold out there,” said the man and stepped back. He followed him inside into the dark, warm hallway. The floor was carpeted but underneath he heard the creaking of hardwood floorboards where he stepped. Along the wall to his right there was a row of rubber boots; above them a row of pegs where thick, damp coats hung like effigies. It was quiet here, so quiet that he sensed there must be others in the house, waiting.

  “Who told you to ask me?” said Harkness.

  “Eddie Mastrewski told me to ask here if I got lost,” he said.

  The old man stared at him, then spoke quietly. “How is Eddie?”

  “Dead,” he said.

  The old man only nodded, then walked on into a large, dark living room and lowered himself into an overstuffed chair. The old man looked like a shrunken child in the dark embrace of the chair. After a moment Harkness said, deliberately, “I know you.”

  He waited, and the quiet voice came again from the half-invisible man in the chair. “I know who you are.”

  He shrugged. “I can pay.”

  The quiet voice said, “I know you can. What do you propose?” Suddenly he knew why it had all seemed so familiar—this house, this old man, the furniture—it was the formal, quiet way his grandfather had moved and talked when he was a child. It was the way the men of that time discussed serious business.

  He said, “I’m in a lot of trouble—”

  Harkness interrupted, not harshly, just talking into his sentence. “You don’t need to tell me that. Nobody comes here except he has his troubles. What you want from me?”

  “I have to disappear, but I have to do some traveling first. It may take time.”

  The old man sat motionless and silent, staring at him. “I see,” he said. Then he said, “It’ll cost twenty thousand dollars. More if it’s longer than a month. That’s if I can do it at all.”

  He waited and the old man went on. “Only two thousand is for me. The rest is to keep you alive while you go.”

  “Why so much?”

  “I said I know you. I don’t want to know why you have to disappear, but I know it’s not the law. If anybody found out how you traveled, the ones who helped you wouldn’t go to some nice warm cell.”

  “What do I get for it?”

  “A bodyguard. Enough cover, if they’re not too eager to find you.”

  He frowned. “A bodyguard? Hell, I can’t travel with a bodyguard. They’d spot us.”

  “You can with this one. She’s the best I know of.”

  ALL IT AMOUNTED TO was going in with the FBI’s auditors and taking posses
sion. You just handed the subpoena to whoever was there and let the auditors do the hard part. They’d know where to look and what to look for. That was what Brayer had said. “Just stay out of the way. Don’t worry. Those guys know exactly what they’re doing. Pick up the search warrant and meet the auditors at the FGE office.”

  She wondered what one wore to a raid. That’s what it added up to. She got out of bed and tested the shower. The stream of water was hot and strong—where did the water come from in the middle of a desert? Oh, yes. Lake Mead. She slipped out of her nightgown.

  The telephone rang and she turned off the shower—seven A.M.—it had to be Brayer.

  Brayer’s voice said, “Elizabeth, are you awake?”

  “Yes, barely,” she answered. “What’s new?”

  “I just wanted to check. I don’t want anything to interfere with the schedule. It looks good so far. They haven’t got the slightest idea what’s going on. The place has been watched since yesterday morning, and nothing has been moved out or destroyed.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. We’ve been through their garbage and their outgoing mail. There are only about four employees who work weekends, and they left empty-handed.”

  “You’ve thought of everything.”

  “Yes, I have,” he said. There was no irony in his voice. “Just take care of your part of it and we’ll be fine. Even if there isn’t anything in the company records the raid’s got to trigger some action from the silent partner. He’ll have to wonder if there is.”

  Elizabeth returned to the shower. She’d had just enough time to get wet and enjoy the sensation of waking up when the telephone rang again. She wrapped a towel around herself and scampered out into the bedroom. Brayer had changed his mind about something, no doubt.

  “Agent Waring,” said an unfamiliar male voice. “This is John Tollar, FBI Las Vegas.” It sounded like an address. God, they were a humorless bunch.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “We’ve been informed of a change. Can you meet me at the front desk as soon as possible, please?”

  “I’ll be there.” It didn’t sound as though Brayer had just gotten impatient, she thought. Something was up. They must have panicked and made a move. Elizabeth dressed as quickly as she could and made her way to the desk. There wasn’t any problem locating the FBI agents. There were two burly men in business suits at the elevator when she emerged. Their broad, tanned faces reminded her of a football player from the Pittsburgh Steelers she’d seen advertising cologne on television. They made her miss Agent Hart a little, but only for an instant: they were perfect for this job. Brayer had probably handpicked them because they looked like what they were; their beefy, unlined, and untroubled faces had a quality of merciless and efficient innocence that would terrify whoever saw them show up with a search warrant.

  “Miss Waring?” said one. “I’m John Tollar and this is Bill Hoskins. We have our car waiting.”

  Elizabeth let her hand be engulfed twice by their hard, clean palms, then followed them down the corridor away from the casino and the lobby. John and Bill, she noted. Easy enough to remember the names, but hard to remember which was which. John had the dark gray suit and Bill the dark blue suit. She let one of them open the car door for her while the other assumed the driver’s seat.

  As the car moved out to the street, Elizabeth said, “Why so early? Did something happen?”

  Tollar said, “I don’t actually know if anything happened. We just got a call from the Bureau to move now.”

  Something must have happened. It was typical that the Bureau office wouldn’t have told them, and that they would refuse to speculate in front of her. But it wasn’t like Brayer to pass up another chance to interrupt her shower with a telephone call. But this was their show, really. They were the auditors and she was only—what? The decoy.

  At the courthouse they pulled up to the front entrance and Bill got out to open the door for Elizabeth. For the first time she noticed he was carrying a gun in a shoulder holster. She felt a wave of affection for John Brayer. He was always cautious, always protecting his people. DiGiorgio’s death must have torn him apart, but he wouldn’t let anybody know how it felt; he’d just make damned sure it wouldn’t happen again.

  She quickly found the chambers of Judge Stillwell. The judge’s clerk was already waiting with the warrant, and as soon as she’d flashed her identification he simply handed it to her. More of Brayer’s work, she thought. All preparations made with quiet efficiency. Elizabeth scurried down the empty corridor and out to the car.

  She glanced at her watch. Almost eight o’clock. They’d arrive just as the office was opening for business. John maneuvered through the morning traffic expertly and without visible effort. There was obviously nothing special about this job for them. It was just another warrant to be served, another set of ledgers to examine. They were probably a little jealous that other agents always made the arrests and felt the excitement. In a little while they’d be sitting in an office in their shirtsleeves tapping away at calculators. They took a shortcut to the Fieldston Growth Enterprises office, a long straight street that passed warehouses and lumberyards. They bumped over three sets of railroad tracks, past a junkyard piled high with the wrecked and stripped carcasses of automobiles. This was another side of the city, she thought, a place so foreign to the hotels and casinos that it didn’t seem that the same name could be used to refer to both. She wondered if this was what truck drivers and railroad men thought of when they said Las Vegas—a gigantic depot in the middle of the desert where you delivered tons of liquor and bed linen, food and cigarettes, and then pushed on to Kingman, Arizona, or Albuquerque, New Mexico, before the sun got too high and began to overheat your engine.

  But then they turned a corner and she recognized the squat building with the Fieldston Growth Enterprises sign. John parked the car in the rear of the building and the three walked in on the receptionist just as she was uncovering her typewriter. Her purse was still in her hand. She said “Good morning” and looked pleased.

  Elizabeth handed her the warrant and waited for her to read it. “What is this?” she asked.

  “It’s a search warrant,” said Elizabeth, trying to manage a soft, kindly tone. “We’d like to see your accounting department, please.”

  The receptionist stared at Elizabeth blankly. Then it occurred to her that something she’d heard meant something to her. “Last office,” she said, waving the warrant at the corridor behind her.

  The auditors were two steps ahead of Elizabeth before she had time to move. They walked down the corridor and into the accounting office and flashed their identification wallets at the three clerks in the room, then immediately began opening file cabinets and taking out files. She left them to it and turned to the astonished clerks. She said, “We’re here for an audit. It won’t take very long to get what we need and then we won’t disrupt your office any further.” She tried to be reassuring, but she felt like the one in a bank robbery who says, “Don’t move and you won’t get hurt.”

  The two FBI men were working quickly, piling files on the nearest desk and then rummaging for more. Elizabeth felt too uncomfortable to stay. She wandered back up the hallway toward the front of the building. The receptionist was staring at the warrant, her purse still in her other hand.

  Then Tollar emerged from the office carrying a stack of files, followed by Hoskins. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” said Tollar. “Only one more load.” They went to the car. They returned to the accounting office and then appeared with another set of files. “That’s it,” said Hoskins.

  Driving back to the hotel Elizabeth could think of nothing to say. They had the files and all she could do now was wait. The people in the office hadn’t been criminals, she was sure of it. Whatever the files revealed to the FBI’s experts wouldn’t be anything that those startled clerks knew anything about. It was a little depressing.

  In front of the Sands she got out.
“Let us know as soon as you have anything.”

  Tollar said, “We’ll call,” and they drove off.

  Elizabeth felt like having breakfast, but even more like going back up to her room to finish her night’s sleep. She decided in favor of breakfast; it would be impossible to sleep, wondering what they were finding in the files. She looked at her watch again. It was only ten thirty now, and the raid was already over.

  She was relieved to see that the Sands had a coffee shop. It was more in keeping with her mood than a full-scale restaurant would have been. And it was quicker. She sat down at the counter and ordered a prune Danish and a cup of coffee. It was the coffee she wanted, but it seemed somehow more respectable to eat something. When she finished she moved through the casino to the elevators and headed for her room. Brayer would want to hear from her.

  When she opened the door to her room she nearly screamed. Brayer was sitting opposite the door. “God, you startled me,” she said.

  “Good,” snapped Brayer.

  “Well, I’m back, anyway. It all came off as ordered.”

  Brayer looked angry. “What came off? And where the hell have you been? The auditors have been waiting for you for damned near half an hour. I said ten thirty, dammit.”

  Elizabeth’s heart stopped. What if—no, it wasn’t possible. Just a communication snarl at FBI. She said, “John, I served the warrant at eight and the auditors dropped me off here at ten thirty. If that’s not what was supposed to happen we—I—may be in big trouble.”

  Brayer looked both angry and confused, but said, “No. Who told you to do that?”

  “The auditors. Hoskins and Tollar from the FBI.”

  Brayer sprang from the chair and picked up the telephone, his face now set in a look of maniacal concentration. He dialed a number and almost shouted into the receiver, “Ray, do you have two agents named Hoskins and Tollar?”

  Elizabeth searched her memory. She’d seen their identification cards, hadn’t she? No, she had seen them flash something in the FGE office at some frightened civilians. She hadn’t seen the cards herself. She started to feel light-headed.