by Andrew Grant
That wasn’t really a problem. I’d only just met her. It was too soon to say I really liked her. But this whole thing had started because I’d tried to help someone. The old tramp in the alley. Or the agent, as he’d turned out to be. I was too late then, but there was still a chance with Julianne. I didn’t want to walk away without at least telling myself I’d given it a decent shot.
I took a careful look at her. She was trembling. Her breathing was fast and shallow. I decided I couldn’t take the risk. She was too close to hysteria already.
“Kill him?” I said, sliding my hands smoothly around to find his carotid artery. “Are you joking? I’m doing first aid. I’ve got to check his pulse. And breathing. Make sure he’s not hurt.”
I got off the driver’s back, picked his keys up off the floor, and opened Julianne’s door. She took two quick steps back. Her arms were out as if to fend me off and her hands and fingers were rigid. I went back to the bodies. She stayed in the cage.
“We need to search them,” I said. “Come and give me a hand.”
I rolled the driver onto his back.
She didn’t move.
“We need a knife,” I said. “Or scissors. Something sharp. To get these ties off our wrists.”
She came to the cage door.
“We haven’t got long,” I said. “Someone will come looking, soon.”
“What do you want me to do?” she said.
“Start with him,” I said, nodding toward the driver. If she was hesitant already, seeing the passenger’s blood wasn’t going to encourage her any. “Turn out his pockets. Put the stuff in a pile on the floor. I’ll do the same with the other guy.”
She came out and moved cautiously away from the cage. She knelt down next to the driver, stretched out her hands, and touched him delicately on the hip. Her hands hovered there for a moment and then slid slowly toward his pants pocket, but as her fingertips reached the opening she snatched them back as if she’d been stung.
“Can’t do it,” she said. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t feel right.”
“You can,” I said. “One pocket at a time. Pants and jacket. Just stick your hand in, grab whatever’s there, and pull it out.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she had another try.
The passenger’s pockets were disappointing. Apart from three cable ties and $400 in notes there was nothing I could use. Julianne had similar luck with the driver, except that he only had $260 in his wallet.
Neither had anything with a blade.
“Not very impressive,” I said. “Put the average ten-year-old to shame, where I grew up. But never mind. We’ll find something upstairs. We’ll start with the kitchen. There are bound to be knives in there.”
“Good thinking,” she said. “Let’s go. I know the way.”
“Hold on. I need to put these guys where they won’t cause trouble. We’ll use the cages.”
The driver’s legs were blocking the door to the cage I’d been in so I grabbed his pants at the ankles and heaved them to the side, out of the way. His body bowed awkwardly from the waist, but his jacket didn’t follow the curve. It didn’t fold properly. There was still something inside it. I looked at Julianne. She looked away.
“Well?” I said.
“Well, what?” she said.
“I told you to look in his jacket.”
“I did. I thought I’d got everything.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Don’t start. I never wanted to search him, anyway. That was your genius idea. So if I missed something, big deal.”
“Unless it’s a knife . . .”
I checked his pockets again, myself. All were empty except the one inside his jacket. It held a brown envelope. It was folded over in both directions to form a little package, about two inches by three and a half. I unwrapped it. It was A5 size, unsealed, with no name or address. There was no marking of any kind.
“What’s inside?” Julianne said, curious now.
I opened the envelope and shook the contents into my hand. It was a Social Security card. About a hundred years old, judging by the creases and stains. It was hard to read. I could just about make out a name—Charles Paul Bromley—and a number, 812–67–7478.
“What do you make of it?” I said. “Does it look normal?”
“Well, yeah, pretty much,” Julianne said. “But I wonder why he kept it in an envelope, not his wallet? Seems a bit unusual.”
I wrapped the card up and put it back in the driver’s pocket.
“Maybe it wasn’t his,” I said, thinking of the one in Agent Raab’s jacket. “We’ll figure it out later. No time now.”
Julianne halfheartedly guided the driver’s feet while I dragged him into the cage, attached his wrist to the back wall with a cable tie, and went back for the passenger. I put him in Julianne’s cage and secured him to the side wall, well out of the driver’s reach.
“Happy now?” Julianne said. “Can we go?”
I took the padlock from Julianne’s cage and fixed it onto my door.
“What are you fiddling around with now?” she said.
I picked up the other padlock and hooked it onto Julianne’s door.
“You’ve already beaten the crap out of them and tied them to the walls,” she said. “Who do you think they are? A pair of Houdinis? Let’s just get out of here before someone comes.”
I locked the padlocks and tossed the keys into an open box on one of the shelves. It wasn’t a perfect solution—those guys were still breathing—but at least it would slow them down. And sometimes, you just have to go with what you’ve got.
Julianne went up the stairs like a greyhound out of a trap. She didn’t waste any time in the hallway, either. It was a spacious, rectangular area with tall white walls, quarry tiles on the floor, and a dramatic angled ceiling above a galleried landing. There were two internal doors to our left, an external door on the far side—I could see bushes and a brick path through a window—and a wide arch in front of us leading to a formal living room with two low white sofas, several abstract paintings on the walls, and a variety of tall bookcases overflowing with hardbacks.
Julianne ignored all these and headed through another, narrower archway to our right. It led to a combined kitchen/family room. The center of the space was taken up with a large blue L-shaped sofa and a glass coffee table on wheels. It sat on a rug with a Picasso-style design woven into it, and was piled high with all kinds of magazines and catalogues. Fashion, design, music, cars, art, you name it. A long bookcase ran all along one wall—hardbacks at the bottom, paperbacks at the top, except for one section that held five small trophies. Next to that was an elaborate wood-burning stove, and in the far corner there was another doorway. I couldn’t see where it led.
The kitchen was separated by a peninsular unit that housed some cupboards and a dishwasher. The worktop was black granite, immaculate, uncluttered by kettles or toasters or other utensils. The sink was under a small window that looked onto a screened porch. It was empty. There was another archway in the wall to the left leading to a dining room, as well as some more units and a gas cook top. Next to the cook top was a wooden block holding five steel-handled chef’s knives.
“Grab one of those,” I said. “The center one.”
“A knife?” Julianne said, disappearing through the archway. “Scissors would be better. There must be more cutlery somewhere. I’ll check through here.”
I had no idea what she was thinking, turning her nose up at a chance like that, but there wasn’t time to argue. I put the driver’s gun down and took out the knife. It was solid and heavy with a gleaming five-inch Sheffield steel blade. There were five drawers under the cook top. I opened the top one a couple of inches and wedged the knife inside, sharp side up. But before I could get enough pressure on the blade to cut the tie, I heard footsteps from the dining room.
Two sets.
Julianne came into the kitchen first, followed by the older guy who’d brought my food. His right arm wa
s around her neck, and he was holding an old Army Colt to her left temple. She was standing stiffly, back arched, grimacing. He was smiling. His throat was unguarded. I closed my fingers around the knife blade. It was a good weight for throwing. How much did I want to save this woman? It was unlikely I could stop the guy getting one shot off. But certain I could stop him getting two.
I heard the clatter of heavy feet on wooden stairs. Someone was coming down. They paused in the hallway and then appeared through the arch. It was someone new. He was huge. At least six feet seven. His head was shaved and he had to duck as he came in. He was wearing a smart blue suit with a white shirt and striped tie. It was hard to tell without the hair, but I put him in his late thirties. Apart from his freak size he looked like a businessman stepping out of a meeting to grab a coffee.
“What’s going on, George?” he said. “Where’s Jason and Spencer?”
“Don’t know,” the older guy said. “Found this bitch sneaking around, and him in here playing with the utensils. Haven’t seen the pretty boys.”
“Where are Jason and Spencer?” the tall guy said, looking at me.
“Who?” I said.
“The two guys I sent to fetch you.”
“Oh, them. Downstairs.”
“Dead?” he said, looking at the knife.
“No. Just . . . resting.”
“George, take the woman back down there. Lock her up, and see what’s going on with those fools.”
The tall guy stepped aside to let George get past with Julianne. Her eyes stayed on me, wide and frightened, as if begging for help.
“Let’s you and me go upstairs,” the tall guy said. “We need to talk.”
I didn’t move. The knife was still in my hand.
“Going to use that?” he said. “Go ahead. I’m not carrying.”
He held his arms out to the sides, as if inviting a search.
I stayed where I was.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go. My boss is upstairs.”
I didn’t reply.
“Come on,” he said. “My boss is waiting. That’s not good.”
“Your boss?” I said.
“Right. Wants to talk to you.”
“You think I’m one day old?”
“What?”
“You think I was born yesterday? You snatch me off the street and lock me in a kennel like a dog because your boss wants to talk?”
“OK, look, I won’t bullshit you. The thing with the kennel—that was wrong. But with everything jumping off at once—journalists sniffing around, FBI all over the place, you suddenly on the loose—we had to move fast. We made some mistakes.”
“Just a few.”
“We know that, now. We should have shown more respect, but we needed you off the street.”
“Why?”
“To keep you out of anyone else’s pocket. We heard some rumors. Needed time to check them out.”
“Rumors? About me?”
“Look, put the knife down. Come upstairs. Hear what we’ve got to say. It’ll make sense. And what’s to worry about, anyway? If we wanted you dead, you’d be on the slab already.”
“I’m not meeting anyone like this,” I said, holding up my hands.
The tall guy came over and very gently took hold of the knife handle. He waited for me to clear my fingers, then severed the tie. It fell to the floor, leaving a narrow red welt around both my wrists.
“Happy now?” he said. “So let’s go.”
He slid the knife back into the block, picked the driver’s Colt up from the countertop, and turned to lead the way. As he walked toward the hallway he slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. It rattled against something metal.
And as sincere as the guy had seemed, I doubt it was his keys.
TWELVE
Several of my previous assignments had been missing from Rosser’s file.
A number of them had taken place in the United States. One was in California. I’d been sent there to infiltrate a cell phone company where we suspected some employees were selling transcripts of sensitive short message service messages. The scheme had been well hidden. It took three months to flush out. I’d felt strange working in the same office for so long, but in the end a little part of me was sorry to leave. Not because of the people, though. Most of them were crooks. It was more about the way you were looked after. There was gym membership. Concert tickets. Discounts at local stores. You don’t even get free parking in the navy.
Another strange thing was the company newsletter. Different departments telling each other what they were doing. That’s a weird concept. The magazine was nicely produced—glossy paper, plenty of photos—but the lack of real news meant they had a lot of ads and bogus articles. One was written by a psychologist. Every month someone gave him pictures of a manager’s office and he revealed all kinds of insights based on how they kept their workspace. Once we learned that the papers strewn all over the desk of the president of Human Resources showed she was a really caring person. The next month we found out that the way the VP of engineering arranged his stationery demonstrated a sound grasp of complex technology. I was certainly convinced.
That psychologist would have loved the large rectangular room the tall guy took me to next, at the end of the landing corridor. It had a white-stained wooden floor, plain white walls, and a white ceiling that sloped sharply to one side. There was a wide window at the far end and double closet doors built into the wall on the left. An L-shaped desk ran along the other wall and stuck out halfway across the room. Behind it was a single chrome and black leather chair. There were no piles of papers or letter trays or pen holders. The only thing anywhere on the desk was a small, white laptop. Its screen was folded down and there was no sign of it being connected to anything. And there was no printer, router, fax, or phone.
The space between the desk and the door was filled with a boardroom-style table. It was made from light wood with rounded corners and beveled edges. The tabletop was polished like glass and I couldn’t see a single mark or scratch or blemish. There was a flap, eight inches by twelve, set into the surface at both ends. They were probably to conceal power outlets. Three chrome and leather chairs were arranged along each side—precisely parallel—and two more were lined up at each end.
A projector sat in the middle of the table with its cable in a neat coil at its side. It was pointing at a screen on the wall next to the door. The other walls were bare, except for a print of Magritte’s Ceci n’est pas une pipe, which hung over the desk. The original is in the L.A. County Museum. I noticed it when I was tailing a couple of suspects on that mobile phone job. I remember liking it. Finding a copy of it here seemed strange.
“Take a seat,” the tall guy said. “Won’t be long.”
I chose the chair in the center on the far side. He took the one nearest the exit. Farther down the corridor a door slammed. Footsteps approached. One set, light but confident, moving fast without rushing. They paused, and then a woman entered the room. The way she strode in made it clear that we were the ones invading her domain, not the other way around.
The woman had ginger hair. Fiery red, not orange. It was cut long at the back and sides to emphasize her long, slender neck and delicate jaw. Her skin was pale and flawless, and her wine-red lipstick brought out a wild green glint in her eyes. Her clothes—jacket, vest-style top, slacks, and pumps—were all black. They looked expensive. From a distance I put her at around thirty-five, but when she came over and took the seat opposite me I guessed she was at least a decade older.
She sat and looked straight at me for a full fifteen seconds. Her eyes seemed to glow from behind her bangs like a cat’s and she had the calm, unrushed air of someone in complete control of herself and everything around her.
“You’re from out of town, so you probably don’t know who we are,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
“So we’ll start with some ground rules,” she said. “We’re not like the police. Or the FBI. We don’t care ab
out guilt or alibis. We have no rules or procedures. All we’re here to do is talk about a proposition. Something we can both benefit from. Any bullshit from you, and the conversation ends.”
“OK then,” I said. “No bullshit. What can we do for each other?”
“We can help with your current problem. You can do us a small favor in return.”
“What current problem?”
“Your FBI problem. They don’t like you very much. Not anymore. Not now they think you killed their agent.”
“They’re mistaken.”
“We know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we killed him.”
“You did? Why?”
“No reason. We have lots of balls in the air, any given moment. Every now and again one gets dropped. It’s no big deal.”
“It is from where I’m sitting.”
“OK,” she said, after a moment. “Truth is, it was a mistake. Our guy didn’t watch him long enough. We didn’t know he was an undercover agent.”
“An agent disguised as a tramp,” I said. “But why kill a tramp?”
“That’s not relevant.”
Then I made the connection. The Social Security cards. Raab was carrying one. It was old and filthy and used. The guy downstairs had another. They were stealing identities. From tramps. And probably selling them. Rosser had mentioned illegal immigrants using the railroads. They were exactly the kind of people who’d need new papers. Maybe that was how Raab had got caught up with these guys.
“So Agent Raab was killed by mistake,” I said. “That’s nice to know. His family will be delighted. But how does it help me?”
“It doesn’t,” she said. “In itself. But if we give you the guy who pulled the trigger, that would work. Might even throw in the gun. They run ballistics, you’re free and clear.”