Liars & Thieves: A Novel

by Stephen Coonts

  “Carmellini.”

  “Are you getting up?”

  “For a while. Go back to sleep.”

  Grafton checked on his houseguest, made sure he was in bed asleep, then descended the stairs, trying to avoid the creaky one.

  He looked out every window, then opened the door to the porch and settled on the couch, pulling an afghan over him. Royston and Sonnenberg. That was one piece of the puzzle, certainly, but he still didn’t have enough.

  It was maddening that Goncharov could not remember. Lord knows, Callie had tried. The silver lining in all this mess was that her command of Russian was increasing dramatically.

  The admiral leaned back and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t get his mind off the problem. It was almost an hour before he drifted off.

  There weren’t many people in the lobby of the Hilton at a quarter to four in the morning. The serious people were in bed—theirs or someone else’s—and the drunks were sleeping it off, trying to get sober for the big doings of the coming day. I was still togged out in my sports coat and tie and trousers, though the crease was starting to go in the trousers and the shoes desperately needed polishing.

  I walked to the elevator, rode up to twelve. The master key still opened Dorsey’s door, so they didn’t change the code daily.

  Once inside, with the door closed behind me, I stood looking over the scene of the action. The bed was a wreck. The bathroom was not too bad, but Isabel was going to think Dorsey had a male visitor during the night. Of course, Zooey didn’t care a whit what the maids thought. Probably never even gave it two seconds of thought.

  The hotel provided a few sheets of embossed stationery for the guests who wanted to impress the folks at home. There were also a couple of envelopes. I helped myself to one.

  Then I went through the sheets very carefully, looking for hair. Picked up a strand or two here and there … nothing out of the ordinary.

  Dorsey had a brush in the bathroom. A few strands of hair were wedged between the bristles, and I carefully added them to the envelope. Got down on my hands and knees and examined the floor. Found a few more short strands for my collection.

  I didn’t linger at my task. Having Dorsey march in just now would be a major embarassment … and probably get me arrested, unless I read this situation all wrong. At this stage of the game, I doubted that I would ever live to leave any jail cell the police put me in.

  After a glance through the security peephole in the door, I was out of there.

  Along the empty hallway without seeing anyone, then waited for the elevator. Rode it down, did the gut check as the door opened, saw the coast was clear, and marched across the lobby and out.

  At least the rain had stopped.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I was waiting for Willie Varner to arrive at the van late Thursday morning when my cell phone rang. I checked the number before I answered. Uh-oh.

  “Good morning, Dorsey.”

  “Are you working?”

  “Just getting off, actually.”

  “I was wondering if we might have breakfast.”

  “Sounds fine to me. Where and when?”

  “My room at the Hilton, in about an hour.”

  I hadn’t showered or shaved since the previous morning, and my clothes were beginning to smell, but I had to see her. “Okay. See you there.”

  I flipped to the bugs in her room and listened. A steady buzz on both bugs, though stronger on one than the other. It sounded as if the maid was vacuuming.

  More activity in Royston’s suite. People talking business and investments. The political situation in California in one of the adjoining suites. In the other they were worrying the bone: Was or wasn’t it Zooey? Would having her on the ticket help or hurt the president?

  I flipped back to Royston’s suite in time to catch him on the telephone. “When will you arrive?” he asked. Then, “Are you staying with the first lady?” Some more grunts, then, after a long pause, “We could work up some spontaneous demonstrations if I could at least hint as to how it will go, have the signs and banners ready to unfurl. It would look terrific on television, get the ball rolling …

  “I see,” he said after another long pause, then he hung up the telephone. Someone came in and said the maid wanted to clean the room.

  I was examining the sad state of my shoes when Willie unlocked the side door and climbed into the van.

  His very first words were, “You look like something the cat coughed up.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Don’t you get valet services out here?” He plopped into the other chair. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “The cabbie had a radio talk show on. They said the president hasn’t announced his VP choice yet.”

  “That’s about the size of it, I think.”

  “Have you had any sleep?”

  “I napped for an hour or two in this chair.”

  “So are you going back to Jersey?”

  “After a while. First I have a date.”

  His head jerked up. “Dorsey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In her room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, why not? I could use some red-hot sex to get the juices flowin’, speed the healin’, but I guess listenin’ is the next best thing. ’Course, watchin’ would be better.”

  “As your friend, I’m asking you not to listen.”

  “Ask away. The answer is no. Just remember every moan and grunt and compliment on your equipment is being recorded for posterity. When the FBI catches up with you, this stuff is going to be played at the Hoover Building, before the grand jury, in court, maybe even on TV. I’ll bet I could even sell it to some of those talk show shock dudes. Maybe Jerry Springer—he’s kinky enough. Imus would like the political angle.”

  “This is how you repay me for saving your miserable life?”

  “Hey, man, sellin’ recordings of your sexual exploits sounds like a career to me. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do to keep body and soul together. Next week nobody will give a shit about this political crap, but sex always sells. Gonna buy a Lincoln Town Car and move to the suburbs.”

  Willie thought about that prospect for a moment, about the car and the lawn and the barking dogs next door, then shifted gears. “There’s two sisters livin’ in Andover who I might be able to hook you up with. They’re a pair of fine lusty ladies with big tits. These gals are sorta Hershey’s chocolate, but with you that’d probably be no nevermind. I’ve noticed that big tits seem to bring out your best performances. We get back and—”

  I climbed from the van. When Willie the Wire got rolling, leaving was the only way to shut him up.

  There was a copy store a block crosstown. I went in, waited for a moment until the clerk was available, and filled out a fax form. I handed her the document; she pushed buttons on the machine. The paper fed through the thing, and she handed it back.

  “Have a nice day,” she said. Her tits were medium-sized.

  “Yeah.”

  Right beside the copy story was a drugstore. I bought toothpaste and a brush and put them in my pocket. Found the remnants of that chocolate chip cookie I stole the other day in that pocket. Had forgotten I had it. It was a mess now. I threw it in the trash on the way back to the hotel. Bought a cup of coffee off a bagel vendor and drank it, although it was acidic enough to take the enamel off my teeth.

  In the hotel men’s room I answered nature’s call, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. Yes, I could smell myself. If Dorsey wanted me in this condition, she was really serious about marriage. Or randy as hell.

  For some reason as I stared in the mirror at my unshaven mug, the image of the burning house in the forest near the Greenbrier River flashed through my mind. The feel of guns bucking in my hands, falling people, smiling killers, broken bodies … Would I see those images at odd moments all my life, or would they fade into static amid the zillions of electrical impulses that stored memories inside
my brain?

  Blood and murder, sex and politics. One fine stew, you must admit.

  And Dorsey, with her millions and her marriage proposal. I could almost hear her saying, “Let me take you away from all this.”

  The unshaven mug in the mirror stared back at me.

  Dorsey obviously had lots on her mind when she opened the door. Yet she took one look at me and her nose wrinkled. “Did you sleep in those clothes?”

  “I’ve been working all night.”

  “Strip. I’ll send everything to the laundry on an emergency cleaning order. They’ll have them back in an hour or two. Then get in the shower.”

  It was an offer too good to pass up. I went into the bathroom and stripped to the skin, piled wallet, cell phone, keys, .38 revolver, and ankle holster on the counter, and dumped my clothes in the hallway. I could hear her on the phone to room service.

  The shower was running and the bathroom steamy when I heard the door open. I peeked around the curtain. She was examining my pile of hardware on the counter. “Uh-uh. Leave that stuff alone.”

  “Do you always wear a pistol?”

  “Only on duty.” I had forgotten to leave it in the van, where I stored it prior to my last tryst with Dorsey.

  She took her clothes off. It always amazed me how fast she could strip for action. Then she asked, “Do you have room for one more?”

  It was a big shower. After all, this was a big hotel, with big prices.

  She tried to get me excited, but I guess I was too tired. I nearly yawned in her face. The downside was that I could tell she was working at it. We turned the shower off and toweled dry, and I grabbed my stuff. Put the watch on the bedside table and the rest under the pillow on the bed and crawled in. She got in beside me, I think, but I was asleep before she got settled.

  Knocking on the door awakened me. I heard Dorsey’s voice at the door, then silence. I checked my watch. A little after two in the afternoon, and I felt a lot better.

  She came into the bedroom with my clothes on hangers and my underwear and socks in a brown paper bag. “See,” she said brightly, “the system works.”

  She was wearing a frilly thing with a matching robe. Her hair was piled up on top of her head.

  Dorsey O’Shea, sexy half-billionaire, sat on the bed and kissed me gently on the lips, then licked my lips with her tongue. I caught the scent of something expensive.

  The thought occurred to me that I was in the same bed where Dell Royston got laid in four minutes a mere twelve hours ago, which took some of the luster off the moment.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  No doubt ol’ Willie Varner was all ears out in the van. It takes talent for a man to get himself in fixes like this, and by God, I have it.

  A man with more character might have handled this situation differently, but I figured I would probably never pass this way again. Although she was in this mess to her eyes, I really didn’t believe she meant me any harm. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her across me into bed.

  A half hour later as she nibbled on my ear, she murmured, “So have you been thinking?”

  “It would never work, you and me.”

  She stopped the nibbling, put her face inches from mine, stared into my eyes. “I want to go away. Now. Today. As quickly as we can pack. Anywhere on earth you want to go. I want to go with you, Tommy.”

  “You don’t need to be rescued,” I muttered.

  “How would you know what I need?” The muscles were drawn taut in her face. She wasn’t pretty now. “Do I have to beg?”

  “Don’t. It wouldn’t become you.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” She sat up. “Aren’t I good enough for you?”

  “Please, don’t do this. You’re a wonderful person—don’t do this to yourself or me.”

  She leaped from the bed, went to the dresser, and jerked open the drawer. Took out a bra and put it on. Then panties. She was in a hurry, and she was angry. Not furious or spiteful, but deeply angry. At least I thought so at the time.

  I got up and began dressing, too.

  She grabbed clothes from the closet and stormed into the bathroom.

  I took the time to examine her pillow. I found a couple of long dark hairs, which I put in my wallet.

  She was crying when she came from the bathroom wearing a cocktail dress.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Oh, Tommy, when I really need you, you say no.”

  “It takes more than need to make a marriage. It takes love.”

  “We could love each other. My God, when I think of you, I—we could—”

  “Did Royston ask you to do this?”

  That stopped her tears. She looked at me hard, then said, “Go. Please.”

  I pulled on my sports coat, debated if I should try to kiss her, and decided against it. I put my hands on her shoulders, and she tried to pull away. I held her still.

  “There are bodies scattered all over,” I said, watching her eyes. “Dell Royston is in this up to his neck. I don’t know how or why, but I’m going to find out. If you have any role at all in whatever has happened or is going to happen, you better make like a rabbit. Go as far away as you can as fast as you can and change your name. Or trust me and tell me what you know.”

  I couldn’t read the muscle movements I saw in her face, around her eyes.

  “Please go, Tommy,” she said, so I did.

  I wondered if I would ever see her again.

  Jake Grafton’s cell phone rang while he was fixing a late lunch for himself and Mikhail Goncharov. Callie had gone to the library. Standing in the kitchen amid the sandwich makings, he opened the phone.

  “Grafton.”

  “It’s the way we figured,” the man’s voice said. “The Brits say they can’t find anything along the lines we talked about. Everyone in the files has a code name, the dates are coded, some of the files are nearly incomprehensible. They really need the archivist to explain what they’re seeing.”

  “I see.”

  “Jake, the bottom line is they can’t find it. If it’s there to be found.”

  “Okay.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. How long do I have?”

  “The FBI is chomping at the bit. They have bodies scattered from hell to breakfast, and they’ve been stonewalling Justice. I can’t hold these people off much longer.”

  “I understand. I’ll call you back.”

  He watched Goncharov eat his ham and Swiss on rye. Watched his face, his hands, his mannerisms. Wondered what he was thinking.

  Callie returned as he rinsed the dishes. She came in, said hello to Goncharov in Russian, and handed Jake an envelope. He ripped it open, examined the faxed photograph. The quality wasn’t perfect, but the faces were recognizable.

  “Ask Goncharov if he has ever seen this man or knows who he is.”

  Callie handed the Russian the page and translated the question.

  Jake saw the recognition in his eyes.

  Yes!

  Words were gushing from the archivist when the telephone rang again. Jake glanced at the number, then opened it.

  “Yes, Tommy.”

  It was nearly five o’clock when I got back to the van. Willie gave me a long look but said nothing. That I found hard to take.

  “What’s eating you?” I asked. He had the convention on the monitor, video without sound. Some politician I didn’t recognize was pounding the podium.

  “You.”

  “Right.”

  “I thought I knew what was goin’ down, but then you have that little conversation with Dorsey this afternoon and the thought crosses my dishonest mind that I don’t know shit.”

  “Who does? They say anything on TV about the president’s choice?”

  “All this time I think you just gettin’ some nookie on the sly, and turns out you’re up to your ass in shit with that rich bitch. What’s this about going away?”

  “You had anything to eat today?”


  “Don’t brush me off, goddamnit! The feds are going to swarm us both and send us so far up the river we won’t get out for a hundred years. And I’m takin’ the ride not even knowin’ what the fuck went down. Shows you how fuckin’ smart I am! You keep tellin’ me I’m your friend and you don’t tell me shit.”

  “What do you want me to say? There are two dozen bodies spread all over the East Coast, and we’re trying to figure out who and why. You think I know?”

  “You know more than me, and that’s a fact. Goddamn, Carmellini, it was me those assholes carved up. I’m gonna carry the scars all my miserable life. Don’t all that blood buy me some truth?”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before I answered. “The truth is I don’t know what’s going down. I just pray to God that Jake Grafton does. If he doesn’t, we’ll share a cell someplace.”

  “I ain’t sharin’ nothin’ with you ever again,” Willie declared. “You in the same prison with me, you’re a dead man, Carmellini.”

  He meant it, too—I could see that. “Maybe you should go home,” I suggested.

  He didn’t say anything to that for at least a minute. I could see he was thinking it over. After a while he muttered, “I go home, they’ll arrest me before the goddamn sun sets. I’ll stay.”

  I turned up the sound on the monitor. This guy thumping the podium was a fire-breather.

  “And I don’t want to hear any more shit ’bout you savin’ my life,” Willie said, “like I owe you somethin’ and ain’t payin’. You’re the one sicced those assholes on me. You owe me, man, not the other way ’round.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “The president will speak in about twenty minutes,” Callie told her husband, who was looking out the window. She was adding the final items to an overnight bag. “Do you want to stay to hear what he has to say?”

  “No. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Is going to New York really a good idea?”

  “Maybe not, but it’s the best one we have—the only one we have—so we’re going to run with it.”

  He glanced at the television. On this channel a panel of “experts” was debating why the president would or wouldn’t choose to run with his wife, Zooey Sonnenberg. In an upper corner of the picture was a smaller picture in which the governor of some Midwestern state was addressing the convention delegates, who weren’t paying any more attention to him than the panel of experts were.