by John Case
‘Got it.’
‘The whole idea is to cash out. And, if I’m gonna cash out, I want to be –’
‘All the way out. Okay – so I’ll hondel.’
Lassiter’s next call was to Roy Dunwold, the head of his company’s four-man London office. Roy was a working-class kid who’d grown up in Derry, or Londonderry, depending on your point of view – but in any case, the hard way. He’d spent two years in Borstal for a series of car thefts, a string of joy rides that finally came to an end when the Porsche he was driving plowed into a hearse at the head of an IRA funeral cortege.
After three months in the hospital and the much longer sojourn in juvenile detention, he was paroled to his aunt’s custody in London. A clear-sighted woman who ran a bed-and-breakfast in Kilburn, she pointed out the obvious: Stealing cars was, at best, an avocation. He’d need a trade.
And so Roy set out to acquire one, enrolling in night school and, subsequently, in one of the better polytechnics. A good student, he found work after graduation as a specialist in management information systems. His employer was GCHQ-Cheltenham, Britain’s equivalent of the National Security Agency. After a year at headquarters, Dunwold was sent to a satellite base in the Troödos Mountains on Cyprus. After five years in the Aegean outback he’d had enough retsina and one-night stands to last him a lifetime, and returned to England and the private sector. As he told his friends, ‘I missed the rain, didn’t I?’ Eventually, Lassiter lured him away from Kroll Associates, offering the same salary, but with a company car of Dunwold’s choosing.
He chose a Porsche.
It took Lassiter a while to reach Roy, but when he did, they got right down to business. ‘I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but . . . I’m working on a private matter.’
‘Your sister.’
‘And nephew.’
‘Right.’
‘And one of the things I’m looking at,’ Lassiter said, ‘is similar crimes . . . arson homicides involving children. I’ve found a second in Prague, and another in Canada.’
‘And you’re sure they’re related?’
‘No.’ A pause. ‘But they might be. And I thought maybe you could help me . . . find other cases.’
‘Where?’
‘Wherever. You could start with Europe.’
‘England’s more like it.’
‘Okay, England.’
Dunwold was quiet for a moment, and then he said, ‘Problem.’
‘What?’
‘Well, a great many arsons aren’t found out, are they? I mean, they’re put down as electrical fires – overturned heater, that sort of thing. Which means we need to look at any fires in which a child’s died.’
‘Okay.’
‘Bit of work, that.’
‘I know.’
‘What’s the time frame?’
‘Anything after August first.’
‘Right.’
‘I was thinking, you might want to try Interpol.’
‘Sod that lot. Bloody useless. We can do better than that. We’ve got some interesting databases to play with – and I think the insurance companies might be helpful. They have been in the past. I’ll call Lloyd’s.’
‘What about the police?’
‘Goes without saying. Of course, I’ll check with the police, Europol, the Yard – all the usual suspects.’
‘Wait a second. I just had an idea.’ Lassiter pulled out his copies of Grimaldi’s passport pages and looked through them for entry stamps in the relevant period. He soon found the one he wanted: ‘Check São Paolo, will you?’
‘Brazil?’
‘Yeah. September thirteen to eighteen of last year. Let me know what you find.’
‘Got it. Do you want a written report?’
‘No. Just the information. Judy will know where I am.’
‘Budget?’
‘Don’t worry about it. Just do what you have to.’
‘Right!’ They were about to hang up when Dunwold said, ‘Oh, wait – Joe! Are you still there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I just had a little thought.’
‘What’s that?’
‘This could take a while. I mean – it’s Christmas, i’nit? Day after tomorrow. I’ll come in, but . . .’
‘Do the best you can.’
‘Right, then. Cheers! Happy Christmas and all that. I’ll be in touch.’
*
He met Janacek and Riordan in the hotel lobby at seven-thirty, and by eight-fifteen, after a hair-raising drive through the snow, they were in the elevator of the Pankow clinic, somewhere in the outer burbs of the city. A doctor in a white lab coat showed them into Jiri Reiner’s ward.
It was stifling in the room, but Reiner, who seemed to be the only occupant, huddled in his blankets. The man was emaciated. His eyes seemed huge in his bony face.
‘He doesn’t eat,’ Janacek whispered, running his hand through his hair. The doctor whispered something into the Czech detective’s ear, and turned to Lassiter. Wordlessly, he raised a single finger, admonishing them both to be brief. Then he left.
Reiner lay in the bed, staring openly at Lassiter.
Janacek turned to him. ‘Very well! I will translate. What do you have to say to Pan Reiner? Excuse me – to Mr. Reiner.’
‘I want you to tell him that on November the seventh my sister, Kathy, and her young son, Brandon, were murdered. Their throats were cut. And then their house was set on fire.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Something went wrong, and the man that did this burst through the window of the house with his clothes on fire.’
Janacek translated and when he was finished, turned to Lassiter and dipped his chin.
‘The man was badly burned, but survived. When the police questioned him, he refused to answer – and no one can find any reason for this crime.’ Lassiter shook his head. ‘No one.’
He watched Reiner as Janacek translated, and Reiner returned his gaze. As the detective spoke, tears welled up in the patient’s eyes. He did nothing to wipe them away. Finally, when Janacek was done, Reiner spoke in an emotion-filled voice, his eyes as wet and huge as a Labrador’s.
‘He asks,’ Janacek translated, ‘were your sister and nephew dead – before the fire? He asks: They did not struggle?’
Lassiter knew what Reiner was after. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘They didn’t die from the fire. They were killed quickly, with a knife.’ He decided not to mention the multiple stab wounds Kathy sustained, or the defensive cuts on her hands.
The man sat in the bed, davening, rocking back and forth, hands clasped, eyes pressed shut. When he opened his eyes again and spoke, the relief was evident in his face. It was clear to Lassiter he’d been inflicting upon himself images of his child and his wife, trapped, coughing, burning alive. Now, at least, he had another image to consider. He said something to Janacek, and the detective translated.
‘He asks: This man – who was he?’
‘He’s an Italian. A man named Grimaldi. Tell him he’s a man with – a bad history. A mercenary. A hired killer.’
Janacek translated, and Lassiter watched Jiri Reiner screw his face up at the mention of Grimaldi’s name. He bit his lower lip and a bewildered look swept over his face. He shook his head sadly.
Lassiter pointed a thumb to his own chest, then put his hands out wide, and with a baffled look on his face copied Reiner’s uncomprehending head shake. Reiner peered at him.
‘Grimaldi’s passport shows he was here in Prague when your wife and son were murdered.’
‘I tell him this already,’ Janacek said in an annoyed voice.
‘Tell him again.’
Reiner shook his head sadly, then tapped it three times – as if to say there were no answers inside.
They went over things this way, for several more minutes, asking questions back and forth through Janacek. Did the two women know each other? Had Hannah Reiner ever been to the United States or Kathy Lassiter to Czechoslovakia? Lassiter asked Riordan to show Reiner a photograph o
f Grimaldi, and also one of Kathy and Brandon, but the poor man could only shake his head and mutter, ‘Ne, ne. Nevim. Nevim.’ There was no need for translation. Then Reiner brought out from under his pillow a small framed photograph of his wife holding his son. The frame was silver and made in the shape of a heart. Lassiter looked at it and shook his head at the smiling pair. In the end the doctor reappeared, annoyed that the three of them were still there. Reiner spoke in a strong voice, and what he wanted was Joe Lassiter’s telephone number and address. Lassiter gave the man his card. The doctor tried to shoo them out, but Lassiter approached the hospital bed, took Jiri Reiner’s gaunt hand in his own and clasped it.
‘I’ll find out,’ he said in English, looking into Reiner’s eyes. Reiner tightened his grasp on Lassiter’s hand, pulled it toward him, and pressed it against his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and said, ‘Dekuji moc. Dekuji moc.’
‘That means “Thank you very much,”’ Janacek said.
‘Yeah, I got that.’
And then the doctor gestured that they should leave. Lassiter looked back over his shoulder, and Jiri Reiner’s eyes burned at him. The doctor was preparing to administer a shot to the man, but Lassiter just had a thought and spoke urgently to Janacek. ‘Just one more question.’
Janacek shook his head no, but Lassiter saw Jiri Reiner push the doctor’s arm away in a surprisingly strong motion.
‘Prosim,’ he said, gesturing at Lassiter.
‘Ask him if his wife ever went to Italy.’
Kathy had been to Italy half a dozen times, and Lassiter had begun to wonder if she’d met Grimaldi there – or if Hannah Reiner had. Janacek asked the question, and an odd thing happened.
Reiner looked away.
Maybe Lassiter was reading it wrong, but it seemed to him that Reiner was embarrassed. Head down, the Czech muttered something to Janacek, and looked away.
‘He says they go there one time only,’ Janacek said. ‘On holiday. Now, we must go.’
Lassiter nodded, turned, and raised his hand in goodbye. The man in the hospital bed kept his eyes on the framed photograph beside him. ‘Ciao,’ he muttered. ‘Ciao.’
22
IN THE MORNING, Lassiter drove Riordan to the airport, threading his way through the Prague traffic, following the blue signs that blazed the way. The detective was uncharacteristically subdued.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Lassiter said, ‘about –’
‘Don’t shout.’
‘I’m not shouting, Detective, I’m speaking in a normal voice.’
Riordan groaned as Lassiter entered a rotary and, changing lanes, pushed the accelerator to the floor, merging at high speed. Halfway through the rotary a blue sign loomed, and Lassiter plunged across three lanes in the direction of the airport. ‘Please,’ Riordan said. ‘Don’t.’
‘Wages of sin,’ Lassiter replied without a trace of sympathy. ‘How many drinks did you have last night, anyway?’
Riordan was silent a moment, as if he were counting. Finally he said, ‘What’s a drink?’
As they drove through the city and into the suburbs, the architecture began to degrade. Slowly, stone gave way to concrete, ornament to empty modernity. Even the windows seemed to change, becoming curiously bland.
Riordan took a deep breath and grunted, as though he’d been punched in the chest. Then he cleared his throat and sat up straight. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so what did you want to talk about?’
Lassiter looked at him. ‘Italy,’ he said.
‘Italy was Campari . . . what about it?’
Lassiter sighed. Where should he start? Bepi. ‘Well, to begin with, one of the people I was working with – the guy who was helping me in Rome – was killed. Couple of days ago.’
Riordan didn’t say anything for a moment, and then: ‘You sure it had something to do with you?’
‘I can’t prove it, but . . . yeah, I think so. And the night before, I came back to my hotel and there’s a guy in my room. Big guy.’
‘Is this when you “fell down”?’
‘Yeah. I think he woulda killed me, but the maid walked in.’
‘Jesus Christ . . . what’d he want?’
‘That’s it. I don’t know. When I came in, he was there – my computer was on, and he was looking at it.’ The street gave way to a broader road that curved to the east, and suddenly they were in the country and all the trees were gone. Sunlight poured through the windshield. Riordan grimaced like Vlad the Impaler, and Lassiter glanced at him. ‘You look like shit,’ he said.
Riordan’s pink eyes glimmered at him. And when he spoke, it was with the painstaking matter-of-factness of the seriously hung over. ‘I can’t help it,’ Riordan replied. ‘They had a banquet. Everybody got up to toast everybody else. One country after another – and then there were liqueurs.’ He paused for a moment, and added, ‘I remember . . . there was slivovitz.’
‘You’re a little old for that sort of thing, aren’t you?’
Riordan turned the question aside with a weary look. ‘So, what made this guy think you knew anything?’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘We were noisy.’
‘“We”?’
‘The guy I was working with – Bepi. The one who was killed. We went to Grimaldi’s old addresses, we talked to his sister –’
‘And what did you find out?’
‘He had a religious conversion about five years ago.’
‘No shit?! And what the fuck did he convert from?’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘He was some kind of spook. A paramilitary.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah . . . he killed people.’
‘And how do you know that?’
Lassiter just looked at him.
‘How do you know that?’ Riordan repeated.
‘I have a friend who works . . . for a government agency. He showed me a file.’
‘Now we’re talkin’! When can I see it?’
‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the file’s gone now.’
Riordan growled in frustration, or pain, or both. He started to say something, and changed his mind. Finally he said, ‘So what did he convert to?’
‘Umbra Domini. He gave everything to a religious group called Umbra Domini.’
‘Shadow of the Lord,’ Riordan said.
Lassiter looked surprised. ‘You know Latin?’
‘No. Sister Mary Margaret knew Latin. I just picked up a couple of words.’
‘But the strange thing is – you know the wire transfer Grimaldi got?’
‘Yeah . . .?’
‘The money came from Umbra Domini.’
Riordan chuckled. ‘Now, that’s rich! How’d you find that out? The Swiss wouldn’t tell us fuck-all.’
Lassiter shrugged. ‘A friend. It’s a onetime favor.’
Riordan’s foot tapped the floor . . . slower and slower. Then it stopped. ‘Hey . . . wait. The wire transfer. We never released that.’
Lassiter changed lanes. ‘The airport’s just ahead,’ he said.
Riordan sighed. ‘I knew it was you anyway.’
As the car pulled up to the terminal building, Lassiter told Riordan about his trip to Naples and the holy-water bottle that fell out of della Torre’s pocket. ‘It was just like Grimaldi’s,’ he said.
‘So what’s the point?’ Riordan asked. ‘You tryin’ to tell me that this religious group – the Umbras or whatever – paid Grimaldi to kill your sister?’
‘And my nephew.’
‘Get off it!’
‘And Jiri Reiner’s family. And maybe some others.’
‘Are you nuts? Why would they do that?’ Riordan looked at his watch, then drew some air in through his teeth. He fumbled in his briefcase. ‘I better write some of this shit down,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a folder for you. Let me park, and I’ll meet you inside. Buy you a cup of coffee.’
‘I’ll be in the bar.’
; Fifteen minutes later Riordan was looking and feeling a lot better. ‘What do you think does it?’ he asked. ‘You think it’s the tomato juice? Or the vodka?’
‘I think it’s the vodka,’ Lassiter said, sliding a manila envelope across the table as he sat down. Riordan pulled out his reading glasses and started paging through the Umbra leaflets and news stories. The public address system broadcast a very loud advisory in four successive languages.
‘Okay,’ Riordan said. ‘Thanks for the lead . . . now all I gotta do is go back and tell my boss the Catholics did it. You have any idea how that’s gonna go over?’
‘This isn’t about “Catholics,”’ Lassiter said. ‘It’s about one organization – which, by the way, has a group house outside of Washington. Near Frederick somewhere. You might want to check it out.’
Riordan frowned. ‘All right, I will. But I’ll have to blow it by the Federales. Ever since Grimaldi grabbed the nurse, I’ve had a baby-sitter from the Bureau.’ Riordan looked Lassiter in the eye with a stare so intently focused as to make him seem insane. Then he took Lassiter’s hand in his own and squeezed it in a manly way. ‘Derek Watson, Joe. It is Joe, isn’t it? We’re doing the best we can – I just want you to know that. The very best we can!’ Riordan released his hand and closed his eyes. ‘Derek,’ he said. ‘I got Derek when I get back.’
‘So blow it by Derek. Take him along.’
‘You’d think they’d have better things to do.’
Lassiter shrugged.
‘No,’ Riordan said. ‘I mean really! You’d think they would.’
‘Yeah, well . . .’ Lassiter sipped his coffee, and segued to another subject. ‘I want to ask you something,’ he said.
‘What?’ Riordan asked, swizzling a celery stalk around in his Bloody Mary.
‘We talked about it once before, about the nurse . . . Juliette . . . how she just happened to have her car keys in her pocket when she got in the elevator with Grimaldi. It just seems . . . I don’t know – so convenient for him. You ever ask her about that?’
Riordan thought about it. ‘No. Not really. I know I said I would, but . . . she was pretty fucked up when we found her and then . . . Derek came aboard and – he kind of took over at that point. So, I didn’t actually speak to her for more than five minutes.’ He shrugged. ‘Though I mentioned it to Derek – about the keys – ’cause I remember you asked.’