- I must refuse you, Mrs. Davis, the banker said dryly. I'm sure my nephew is innocent.
- In that case, Patricia Ogden turned to her client. Obviously, she contemplated trumpeting a retreat. But Heidi and I had other plans.
The front door slid open, and a few people rushed into the hall, followed by others. I stepped aside, gesturing to the two Vaughns to do the same.
- A couple of questions for tonight's edition, Mrs. Davis, the man in the plaid sweater shoved a microphone under the nose of the stunned woman.
Two others hurriedly took a seat behind him, one with a camera on his shoulder, and the other placed a powerful light device on the floor.
The fidgety maiden with the microphone in a professional motion turned around in front of the camera and chirped:
- We're reporting from the home of Warren Vaughn, president of the third-largest bank in California. He has just been sued...
- Is it true that you forced your daughter into prostitution? a man with a short beard shouted sharply from the doorway. I knew him, he was representing The News.
- Did you have any other source of income besides your daughter's money?
- Did the boys pay her $2,000 a night? How much of that money did you take?
- Did you teach her how to do that?
- Mrs. Davis, when you were young, did you have this experience yourself?
The reporters kept coming through the door, depriving Patricia Ogden from taking her client away.
- There will be no comment, she shouted sharply. Let me pass.
- Here's a copy of the income tax return you filed last year, here...
- You can see the horror and shame and remorse on Mrs. Davis's face. Did she feel the same when she spent the money that...
- Stop it at once! Patricia Ogden exclaimed sharply. Mr. Vaughn, order these people to let us through.
- You insisted on a press conference yourself, the banker shrugged.
- Do you have any pictures of your daughter in the nude, Mrs. Davis?
- Did your town know who your daughter was?
- Who was her first lover? How much did he pay her for sex?
A bright light was shining in Mrs. Davis's face, and an equally bright color was flooding her face. With both hands she clutched the large, gaudy purse to her chest. She was worth of pity, but somehow I didn't feel that way. Patricia Ogden twisted in her seat, looking at the reporters with hate. Then she grabbed her client's elbow and hurried off into the back of the house. As I had
said, she was a meddlesome lawyer, and she knew that in these circumstances the only way she could get out was by the back door.
- As you saw, Mrs. Davis didn't deny any of the charges against her. This woman's callousness and calculation know no bounds. Her daughter's body isn’t even cold, and her hands are already reaching for the money...
The TV crews missed the moment when both women retreated, and now could film only the backs of the reporters who rushed after them.
- You're now conducting business on behalf of railroad magnate Edward Logue, I heard an impudent voice in the distance. How's he going to feel about being in the same company with a dead hooker?
The girl with the microphone glanced back and squeaked:
- That's enough, guys. While they're chasing her, let's interview Logg. Maybe we'll be the first ones he tells that he fired Patricia Ogden. More like, we'll still make it to the 3:00 newscast.
19
A folder with new documents from Don Martin laid beside me, but I didn’t feel any desire to read what was written in them. The case moved from the dead center, and the ball, accelerating, rolled into the hole. We managed to knock the snot out of Mrs. Davis and Patricia Ogden and secure Rowan Vaughn on that side. Now all we had to do was wait until the evening to tickle Craig Ruell's ribs.
The only annoying thing was that he had not called anyone in all this time, nor had he shown his nose out of his house. That might have meant that he had put a definite end on his relationship with Alison Vaughn and was now carefully considering his own strategy. We could only hope that he would be smart enough to agree to our terms.
Having parted with Warren Vaughn and listening to congratulations from him and his son - Rowan was still asleep, the day before he'd taken a strong sleeping pill we went to the restaurant and paid tribute to the Irish lamb and the trepan salad. Now I sat relaxed in the armchair and watched what part of the recent press conference the newsboys managed to film.
I was caught in the frame several times, but I never would have noticed it if I didn't know which corner I was standing in at the time. Mrs. Davis looked like the mayor of New York City who had just been indicted for corruption, and Patricia Ogden was clearly not going to be chosen as the most beautiful woman of the year. Warren Vaughn came off badly, but they showed him in close-up before that. Apparently, they filmed the rest of that scene after we left.
Amber Davis was dead, and now her name was flashing in all the papers. But I didn't feel guilty. She had been killed because she could do better than when she had hot blood flowing in her veins. The others were looking for profit in her death, while we had to take care of the living.
- At this point, it remains to be seen whether Heidi Moss will represent Rowan Vaughn unless Mrs. Lenora Davis recants her accusation the anchor woman squeaked. We'll revisit this case in our subsequent broadcasts and bring you a report on the childhood of M. Davis.
She was replaced by another commentator speaking from the studio. I was about to turn off the TV, and I had my finger on the remote, but the presenter's next words made me change my mind. He smiled at me with a confident smile and spoke in that special tone of voice in which people talk about the advantages of new clothes glue or an assassination attempt on the president:
- Heidi Moss and Michael Hammond are known as the most high-paid specialists in criminal matters, he smiled softly, letting Americans know that he knew exactly the kind of service Heidi and I provide, but apparently they didn't care to take of all their business today. We've just received a report from our special correspondent.
The picture changed, and I saw a gentle slope that was being crawled on by police officers. At the top was a small dirty road on which there were no cars, and a guy with a long, thin nose was whining into a microphone:
- At fifteen minutes past noon on County Road 85, a man was found dead with a bullet wound in the heart area. In his pocket the police found a page of a three-year-old California Sky magazine with a photograph of famous private investigators Michael Hammond and Heidi Moss.
- Heidi, I squeaked. I don't mean to sound like I knew what was going to happen. But a premonition of something bad crept up behind and grabbed me by the shoulders.
- The police were able to identify the victim from the driver's license, the reporter went on. His name was Samuel Cooper, and he came to our city from Seattle. An airline ticket was found in his pocket.
Heidi stopped beside me, looking at the screen.
- The fatal shot came from a 45-caliber pistol. The body of the deceased showed signs of an inflicted fight, apparently from last night. The fact that high-priced detectives are involved in the case makes it even more interesting.
A fat, mustachioed policeman was caught in the frame, muttering something indecipherable. The action returned to the studio, and the host, in a conspiratorial tone invited us to find out what happened this morning in Chinatown.
I turned off the TV, got out of my chair, and slammed my fist against the wall several times. It was an extremely effective means of solving the problem we were facing.
- Martin's people in Seattle missed him, Heidi said. If he was killed this morning, he must have come to town a little later than we did.
- Martin missed Craig Ruell, too, I answered grumpily. How else could he have gone away from his house and stitched up Cooper.
- When we were at his place this morning, he got really scared, she came up to me.
- So he killed him later. Damn Don. But how
could Cooper get to Ruell so fast?
My fist ached, and I glared menacingly at the wall that had become the object of my aggression.
- He could have just found our address and traced us to his captain's house, I finally said. Heidi , are you and I really that dumb?
- I liked Sam Cooper, she shrugged her dainty shoulders. But you can't blame yourself for his death, Michael. I mean, we asked him to wait for the call. He met Ruell at his own risk, there was nothing we could do.
- He must have gotten his hands on that magazine. I was filled with anger and frustration and annoyance, and I didn't like it myself. -He must have recognized us right away. It made sense that he would fly to L.A. right away.
- It doesn't matter anymore, Michael, Heidi said. We have to hurry.
She was right. If the police catch us at home, we'll have to answer their questions and we shouldn't do that until the matter of Craig Ruell was resolved.
As Heidi was taking the car out of the garage, I had time to run into Luisa's and tell her we were gone for the day, and she didn't know where. Heidi got in the steering wheel and headed for the side gate. I usually like to watch her slender, rounded legs pushing on the pedals, but at that moment I had Sam Rose's face in front of my eyes. Last night I had saved him from a beating and condemned him to death.
- If I'd given him a beating, he'd be alive now, I said muffledly, addressing no one. But since I wasn’t the only other person in the car. Heidi replied:
- You mustn't blame yourself, Michael. It's not your fault. I remembered her saying the same thing to Rowan Vaughn yesterday, and I felt even worse. At times like this, it always feels like it's time to change and stop dealing with people's fates. Maybe it's about time to start breeding broccoli or publishing pornographic postcards.
Sam Cooper wasn't a bad kid, and on that foreign shore he managed to stay alive. But he wanted to continue the unfinished battle and he died.
I could have been more upset, but I didn't want to think that I had to be pumped up after every failure. So my hand slipped to the phone and dialed Don Martin's number.
- Hello, Michael, the cheerful voice struck my nerves like a tax bill on a family budget. I'm still thinking about last night, the duck yesterday. It was delicious, really. Too bad you didn't get to try it.
- Don, I said softly, how's Sam Cooper doing?
- Sam Cooper? He thought for a moment. Oh, yeah. He's sleeping in his apartment in Seattle, my man's been keeping an eye on him. What's up?
- The thing is, buddy, my voice was starting to boil, Sam Cooper's not asleep in his apartment right now, but in a morgue in Los Angeles. If you’re not too busy, get him a pillow those metal crates are so hard.
- You're kidding, Michael, Don hiccupped.
- Looks like that duck didn't do you any good, I growled. Your guys lost Cooper, and now he's dead. What about Ruell?
- It's all right, Don grumbled in an uncertain way. But, you know, the guys got a little sloppy.
I turned to Heidi and said:
- Don screwed up again. What's up, Don?
- Craig Ruell sat there all day like he was glued to his home. But his butler, or that footman, you know, James... There were two of my guys sitting there. When the guy came out, my agent in the car didn't go after him because he was worried about missing the main target. The second operative was nearby and took a cab, Michael, but you know the traffic at this time of day. He immediately called the office and asked for backup, but... Anyway, they lost him. He came back a couple of hours ago.
I hung up the phone and stared at it in silence for a few seconds. I couldn't see myself in the rearview mirror, but I must have had steam coming out of my ears.
- You should watch out for the ones that are left, I said sharply. Alison Vaughn, you didn't miss her, did you?
- No, Michael. Listen to me. You know what it's like to follow someone in Los Angeles.
I gingerly hung up the phone and turned to Heidi.
- And these are high profile operatives. They missed him. And this guy ate my duck.
Heidi turned to me, and the sun gleamed on her dark glasses.
- Michael, she said, if you didn't like overcoming challenges, you'd be a college provost, not a detective.
If this girl has a flaw, it's her ability to stump me.
The blue sky ran merrily over the roof of our car, and I was slowly beginning to come back to my senses. Helping Sam Cooper was no longer an option for me, and that was the first thought I had to come to terms with. Next came Ruell.
By killing his former comrade-in-arms, he took the immediate threat, but no more than that. After all, there was still Bill Prowell, who was almost as much of a threat to Ruell as Cooper. Yes, and my words about the men who had served in the U.S. Army were not an empty threat. Exposing a captain who had betrayed the men under his command, would have threatened him
if pCooperly orchestrated. And I knew that we could do it.
I doubted that Ruell was really going to kill his former sergeant. It would get him nothing but a charge of premeditated murder. But James, on the other hand, was a dark horse, and I wasn't sure at all about him being completely loyal to his patron. He might have had a temper or
deliberately set Ruell up. It was also possible that Alison Vaughn had ordered him to do something like this, as she was unsure of her accomplice and lover.
There were many possible outcomes, but they all led to the same dilemma. Craig Ruell: Either he agrees to our terms or the police becomes aware of how difficult it would be for him
to get along in the same city as Sam Cooper.
The phone rang again, and I glanced at it. If it's the officers of the law, I'd better pretend we're not here. But the number on the caller ID didn't look like any police station number I was aware of. It took me a few minutes to figure out who it was that was eager to hear my pleasant manly voice. Old Craig was in a hurry. You'll be in a hurry when the expensive carpet beneath your feet turns into a red-hot grill of meat. After hesitating, I picked up the phone.
- Have you seen the news, Michael? The voice of my interlocutor didn't sound happy.
I squawked in affirmation.
- I know what you're thinking, Michael. Of course you're sure it was me that went to meet my old buddy Sam Cooper and shoot him. That was the first thing that popped into your head, right?
- You read my mind. And now we're on our way to you.
I put the phone back in its original position. I didn't want to get in an argument with Ruell until he was standing in front of us in person.
20
The clerk's frizzy head rose from the counter, and his little eyes stared at the man standing in front of him.
- Welcome to our hotel, he said. The old lady walked past him and he smiled at her.
- I'm Dr. Bane, the man said. And I have a reservation.
The clerk's swivel chair creaked as he turned toward the computer. It took him a few moments to examine the stranger’s sturdy, wiry figure. Darkish yellow skin, a narrow slit of expressionless eyes behind a pair of glasses without frames. The suit wasn't bad, of course, but nothing more. He was far from a Japanese millionaire. Yeah, I don't think you can expect a good tip from this guy. But a couple of days ago...
- Your room is waiting for you, Dr. Bane, the clerk's eyes slid over the guest's face, but they couldn't penetrate. A bellboy will take your luggage to the room. Hey, Paco, come here. Dr. Bane's pupils watched as his small suitcase from the floor was clutched by the muscular arm of a hotel clerk. So, he had arrived in this city after all. And now only the thin silk of a few days separates him from the purpose for which he had come all this way. The drop that falls at dawn follows the one that irrigates the stone in the sunset. Patience is always rewarded sooner or later.
He did not call from his room. This precaution was futile, because no one could know he had arrived. But he had learned discretion years ago, when the bridge of his nose was not yet crushed by glasses and his forehead was not cut through by fine
lines yet. He had seen what carelessness could lead to, and he remembered it forever.
The telephone cabin seemed uncomfortable to him. He leaned against one of its walls as he put the receiver to his ear.
- It's nice to hear your voice again, Mr. Karlsen, he said.
The yellow-faced monkey.
- How was the flight? Fat Steven's short, hairy fingers were twirling a pencil, and the gaze of his small eyes was fixed on the caller ID. Soon I'll know where you're hiding. Rest assured, old man Karlsen will shake you down for exactly as much money as there is under that yellow skin of yours.
- The flight was a pleasure, Mr. Karlsen. These American planes are very uncomfortable, too. But a polite man will never offend the man he comes to visit. - And how are your affairs?
Karlsen chuckled quite a bit. Yes, it's time to get down to business. It’s always so much time wasted with those Asians.
- We're all set, said the fat man. His pencil was scribbling the telephone number on a piece of paper. -You can pick up the documents tomorrow, as arranged. But if you want to come now…
He was not at all referring to the case for which this man had been hired.
The respect for his interlocutor dictates to ask him about his health. Unfortunately, people in the Craigt don't understand that.
- There is no need for haste, Mr. Karlsen. I'll be there tomorrow in the morning. However, I would like to know if there are any important events that happened at the last minute.
You should learn to speak English, monkey.
- No, nothing urgent. I'll wait for you in the morning.
There was a ringing tone on the phone. People in the west end conversations as ineptly as they start. How many of the pleasures of life they are deprived of.
The telephone booth was still extremely uncomfortable. Dr. Bane dialed another number, but there was no answer. He tried again, but again without success. This did not please him, and a slight uneasiness began to raise its head again. The overconfident loses the fight before he even enters it. He didn't want to be cocky.
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