Guilt by Association

by Gilbert, Morris

  Rob suddenly smiled and gave her a hug. “I’m glad you’re home, Dani.” Then he wheeled and ran ahead of her, embarrassed at the gesture.

  The next morning Ellen took one look at her and gave a scream, crying, “Dani! What in the world . . . ?”

  Dani had tried to use cosmetics to cover up the purple and green bruise under her eye, but nothing had worked. “It’s a lovely shiner, isn’t it?” She grinned. “But it’s an honorable wound. Sit down and let me tell you about it. I think you may see a little different Rob from now on—at least we’ve got a chance!”

  During the next three days, Dani interviewed three men, all from the local area. It had seemed a simple enough matter; she had done many more complicated things. But before she was through, Dani was shaken. Whatever made me think I could handle this job? she asked herself in desperation. Dad thinks I can run the agency—and I can’t even hire the help! She became so nervous and irritable that she considered giving up on the whole thing.

  None of the three came close to being what she needed, and in desperation she called Dom Costello, a captain in the Boston Police Department. They had worked together on several cases, and he was one of the few men who’d treated her with absolute fairness—hard, at times, but always fair. He listened carefully as she described what she wanted and said almost at once, “I got a guy you can look at, Dani. He just got kicked off the force in Denver—but I guess that won’t mean much to you.”

  “What did he get booted for, Dom?”

  “Insubordination was the charge. I checked into it a little, and it means he wouldn’t go on the take, so they rousted him.”

  “You recommend him?”

  “Well, he’s a pain in the neck most of the time—but if you can put up with him, he’s smart and tough.”

  “Where is he, Dom? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “I got a number. Let me give him a call.”

  He had hung up, and the next day he called. “Finally got hold of Savage.”

  “Savage?”

  “Ben Savage—the guy you want to talk to,” Costello said impatiently. “He’ll be around to see you.”

  “Wait a minute—I can’t pay his expenses for that!” Dani protested.

  “He’s got his own plane. Just about all he has got, I guess. But he likes to fly all over the place, so look for him any time. Hope it works out—but like I said, he can be a pain in the neck.” He stopped and then said, “Hey, I left one thing out.”

  “What’s that, Dom?”

  “Well, he don’t like women much. Don’t have much trust in them, seems to me.”

  “If he can do the job, that’s all I ask. Thanks, Dom!”

  “Let me know how it comes out.”

  Thursday afternoon she was sitting in her office, thinking of Oliver Hackman. He was one of the biggest businessmen in New Orleans and had used the agency several times in the past. Now he had a problem, but had stated flatly that only a man could deal with it. Dani had gone to see him, and he had been affable but firm, “With no disrespect to you, this is a man’s job. I’ll use you when we need your skills—which are impressive—but this time you can’t handle it.”

  Dani was tired and about ready to go home for the day, when her buzzer sounded. “Someone to see you, Miss Ross. His name is Ben Savage.”

  “Send him in, Angie.”

  The door opened, and a man came in. He seemed small at first, and he had Slavic features in a squarish face, with deep-set eyes protected by a shelf of bone that beetled over them. These hazel eyes seemed cold as he looked at her. His hair was very black and unruly, cut unfashionably short. “I’m Ben Savage,” he said.

  “I’m Danielle Ross,” she answered. “Have a seat.” As he moved across the room she noted that he was graceful, but he wore a pair of jeans and an aged suede jacket over a blue sport shirt. On his feet were a pair of dirty white running shoes.

  It offended her that he wouldn’t take the trouble to dress for the interview, and she spoke coolly, “Dom Costello recommends you—with certain reservations.”

  A grin suddenly broke across his wide mouth, which had a thin upper lip and a fish-hook scar at the right corner, but he said nothing.

  His silence offended her. The other applicants had been vocal, if nothing else, and now this—this tramp sat there and said nothing!

  “You were fired from your last job, I understand,” she said, watching his eyes.

  “Yes.” No explanation. No excuse.

  “Well—why were you fired?” she demanded.

  “I was insubordinate. It says so right in the report.” He sat in the chair squarely but was somehow relaxed as a cat. His eyes were taking her in, she saw, and a smile pulled at his lips as he focused on the remains of the black eye.

  Somewhat rattled and more than a little inclined to tell him to leave, Dani forced herself to be calm. “I’ll look into it—if we get that far.” Such a possibility seemed unlikely, but she continued, “You’ll have to fill out an application.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a legal-size envelope. “There it is.”

  She took it, opened the sheets of paper inside, and glanced through them. It was a well-done resume, and she remarked, “You didn’t do this typing yourself.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He had a habit of saying only the necessary, and after hearing so much talk, it rattled her somehow. She covered her brief moment of confusion by running down the first sheet, reading aloud: “Twenty-eight years old, not married. Born in West Virginia—the Marine Corps from eighty to eighty-four—honorably discharged. Denver Police from eighty-five until last week.”

  She shuffled through the other sheets, filing them, and finally put them down on her desk. “Did Dom Costello tell you about this agency—what we’re looking for?”

  “Not much. Just said you needed an investigator.”

  “My father started this agency and ran it up until his heart attack a few months ago. It was a one-man affair, because he wanted it that way. Now I’ve got to keep it going until he comes back—if he ever does.” The last phrase slipped out, and Savage’s hazel eyes betrayed that his brain had recorded the words. She hastened on, “I need a man who can handle the rough stuff—and that’s not hard to find. But I need someone who can talk to clients as well. Just looking at you, I’d say you can’t handle either chore.”

  She said it to shake him out of his composure, but a light of amusement touched his eyes, and he responded, “You’ll never know until you try me, Miss Ross.”

  She walked across to the window, thinking hard. He looked terrible—but Dom Costello was a sharp cookie, and he said Savage could cut it. And she had to have a man. She turned again. “You’re not very big. How much do you weigh?”

  “One hundred and seventy-five pounds,” he said promptly, then he asked politely, “How much do you weigh, Miss Ross?”

  “That’s not the issue!” she snapped. “I’m not going to have to handle some tough who’s trying to wipe out a client. And I can do without the humor, Mr. Savage.”

  He raised one black eyebrow and asked innocently, “Is it all right if I smile vaguely, if I’m struck by a humorous thought?”

  She stared at him, then smiled grimly. “If you can do the job and carry your weight, you can laugh like a hyena, Savage!”

  That pleased him. “Look, Miss Ross, I’m no good at applying for jobs. Never was. Never applied for but one, come to think of it—aside from the corps. I know I’m not dressed right, and I know my mouth is too big. I’ve got better clothes, and I can watch my mouth with clients. I need a job—but not all that bad. I can see you don’t like me, so I can walk out. Or you can give me a shot at the job—say a week. If I don’t suit, you pay me enough gas money to get to Miami, and we’re square.”

  Dani bit her lip while she thought it over. “How about this,” she offered. “You go see a man called Oliver Hackman. He needs some help—but he’ll only give the job to a man. Go tell him you’re with the Ros
s agency. If you can get the job out of him, we’ll see.”

  “Sounds all right.”

  She wrote Hackman’s number and address on a card and handed it to him. “He’s a sharp operator. You won’t charm him into anything.”

  He took the card, nodded, and turned to leave. When he got to the door, a perverse impulse to shock him came to her, and she said, “Oh, Savage . . . ?” She waited until he turned, then smiled and said, “I weigh one hundred and thirty-four pounds.”

  He blinked. “Sure.” His eyes ran over her, and he said, “I’d say about a size twelve.”

  He turned and left the office, and Dani stared at the door, her cheeks burning—and then she giggled! “What a showboat!” she murmured. Before turning back to go over his references, she looked at the door and shook her head, thinking, He got it right, though!

  Savage walked into the expensive-looking suite and moved directly to the receptionist. “I’m Ben Savage. Ask Mr. Hackman if I can see him.”

  The secretary, a fortyish lady who was trying to be thirtyish, looked up in surprise. “Why, you’ll have to make an appointment to see Mr. Hackman, sir.”

  He leaned down and whispered, “I think he’ll see me. Most people see IRS investigators without appointments.”

  Her eyes widened, and she punched nervously at her intercom. When a voice said, “Yes?” she responded quickly, “Mr. Hackman—there’s a Mr. Savage here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment—but I think you’d better see him. He’s with the IRS.” There was a brief silence, then the voice said, “All right, send him in.”

  “Thanks,” Savage said and walked through the door on the secretary’s left.

  “What is it?” Hackman asked gruffly. “If it’s a tax thing, see my accountants. That’s what I pay them for.”

  “I’m not with the IRS,” Savage confessed. “I just told your secretary that most people see IRS inspectors.”

  Anger jumped into Hackman’s eyes. “I don’t have time to play games, Savage. What are you selling? And I don’t want it.”

  Ben Savage spread his hands wide. “I had to see you, Mr. Hackman, and I’d guess you don’t give appointments easy. Miss Ross hired me, and she wanted me to see if I could convince you to give us the job you spoke about.”

  Hackman hesitated then asked, “She hired you?”

  “Well—” A grin broke across his broad lips. “I’m hired if I can talk you into giving me a shot at the job.”

  Hackman suddenly laughed loudly. “Well, you’ve got the brass for the job, Savage.” He stared across the room at the smaller man, then nodded. “All right, I’ll give you a crack at it. I like initiative—and I’d like the Ross agency to have the business. I like Daniel Ross.”

  “What’s the problem?” Savage asked.

  “Sit down and I’ll lay it out.” The two men sat and Hackman lit a cigar. “You know what a hacker is, I suppose?”

  “Heists information off computer files.”

  “Sure. Well, one of them got into our files and grabbed some information that I don’t want another firm to have. Now this crook is holding the stuff for ransom. If I don’t fork over twenty-five thousand dollars, he’ll give it to my competitor. And that . . . ,” Hackman snorted, “will cost a whale of a lot more.”

  “Maybe he’ll take your cash and have a copy made.”

  Hackman stared at him. “Ah, that’s why I wanted a man to do the job. It could get nasty.” He stared at Savage and said, “You don’t look tough to me—but if you can get the stuff back—and make sure there’s no other copy, no negatives or prints, I’ll pay the agency five thousand.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Mr. Hackman.”

  The older man shook his head. “I haven’t told you all of it yet. This guy is a wimp—but he’s got two tough friends. They live in a high-rise building, and nobody can get in without being searched. Most people never get by the door, I’m told. They’re expecting me to send somebody, and they’re sitting there like cocked guns.”

  “Sure.” Savage looked almost bored. “Just give me the dope—what the thing looks like and how I’ll recognize it.”

  Hackman stared at him. “Savage, you can get killed in a thing like this!”

  “Well, they can’t kill me but once, can they? Now if you’ll fill me in . . . ?”

  Morey Borntrager, a small, pale accountant accustomed to a regular life, liked things all nice and orderly—but nothing had been that way for the past few days, and it made him nervous. Beside him, the big hands, broken nose, and muscular frame of Jack Rimmer seemed neither neat nor nervous. Borntrager’s second companion, Terry McGuire, lacked Rimmer’s height, and his black hair grew low on his forehead.

  The three were sitting around the living room of their suite, when the doorbell rang. Instantly Borntrager moved to the bedroom, and both McGuire and Rimmer headed for the door. McGuire pulled a .38 from his belt and nodded. Rimmer opened the door and faced the delivery boy, who stood there with a box. “Three orders of pepperoni and bell peppers?” he asked.

  “Yeah. How much?”

  “Fifteen dollars and twenty cents.”

  Rimmer pulled some bills out of his pocket and shoved them at the boy. “Keep the rest,” he commanded and took the boxes. McGuire put the gun back inside his belt and said, “Let’s eat.”

  Borntrager came out of the bedroom and looked at the boxes. “You didn’t get pepperoni again!” he moaned. “I’m sick of that stuff!”

  “Tomorrow you can eat what you want, Morey,” Rimmer reminded him, sitting down and opening one of the boxes. “Either we get the dough from Hackman, or we get it from the other side. Either way we’re in clover.”

  “I wish I’d never told you about this thing!” Borntrager said angrily. He took the box and opened it, then complained, “I’ve got to have some beer to go with this garbage!”

  He rose to go to the refrigerator, but stopped as if he had run into a wall.

  McGuire noticed his abrupt halt. “What’s the matter . . . ?” His words broke off, for a man had come out of the bedroom—a man with a sawed-off shotgun aimed right at him.

  Rimmer looked around to see Borntrager and McGuire frozen and got to his feet so suddenly that the pizza slid to the floor.

  “I wouldn’t move so quick, if I were you,” Savage advised pleasantly. He moved forward, the shotgun in his hand not wavering from the bodies of the two larger men, though he ignored Borntrager. “Take that gun out very carefully, by the butt.”

  McGuire wanted to do something else—but the muzzle of the shotgun was trained relentlessly on his middle, and the hazel eyes of the gunman did not blink. He took two fingers and pulled the gun out.

  “Toss it to me.” McGuire tossed the gun, and Savage plucked it out of the air and stuck it in his belt. “Now your gun,” he said.

  “I ain’t got no iron,” Rimmer said.

  “Let’s not play games. Give me the gun, or I‘ll cut you in two—quick!”

  Rimmer jumped and cried out, “Be careful with that thing, will you?” Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small .32 and at a sign tossed it to Savage, who caught it and placed it next to McGuire’s weapon.

  “Very good. You two have a fair chance of getting out of this alive—and even without going to jail. Lie down and put your hands behind you.”

  They both did so instantly, and Savage stepped beside Rimmer. He reached into his pocket and removed a short piece of wire. Bending over, he wrapped it three times around the man’s thumbs, then did the same for McGuire. “Now—you just lie there like good men and true while I have a little talk with your friend. Come along, Morey.”

  Borntrager had watched all this with staring eyes. Now he began to tremble. “Let me go! Don’t kill me!”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you, Morey—not if you do the right thing.” Savage moved to take the smaller man by the arm and walked him into the bedroom, saying over his shoulder, “If you fellows get nervous, I’ll come back and calm your nerves for you.” He
shut the door and turned to face Borntrager.

  “How’d you get in here?” the man whispered. “We’re ten floors up. Nobody could climb up to that window! We checked!”

  “I don’t think they could, Morey.” Savage nodded. “It’s all sheer glass. But this building is only twelve floors high. Not much of a job to come down just two floors.”

  Borntrager looked at the rope that hung down outside the window, and his face collapsed. “I know what you want. It’s in that briefcase by the bed.”

  “Very nice, Morey.” Savage put the shotgun down on the bed, picked up the case, and opened it. A brief inspection was all he needed. “This is it. Now, Morey, if you’ll give me the copy, I’ll be gone, and you can get out of town.”

  “Copy?” Borntrager cried. “That’s all there is! I swear it!”

  Savage moved across the room so quickly that the other man could not even attempt to escape. He forced Borntrager’s arm behind his back, marched him to the open window, and shoved the small man out so that his feet cleared the floor. Leaning into the cold air, he said, “It’s a long way down, Morey. See how little the people look? Almost like dolls. Morey, I don’t have it in me to hurt people. Some I could name would pull you to pieces a little at a time—and you’d give them the copy. But I can’t do that. All I can do is drop you to the pavement down there. And I’ll ask you only once—only once, you hear me, Morey?”

  Morey stared at the sidewalk, his stomach heaving. He had always been afraid of heights, and when the strong hands loosened and felt himself slipping, he screamed, “It’s in the kitchen—in the coffee canister!”

  “Good man!” Savage said enthusiastically. “Let me pick it up, and I’ll be on my way.” He moved out of the bedroom, crossed to the kitchen, and found a roll of film at the bottom of the canister. He walked back to the bedroom, dropped the film in the case, and snapped it shut. Ben slipped the shotgun into a loop on his belt, then paused to look at Morey. “Hey, it’s been a real fun thing, Morey—but I’d seek out new worlds to conquer, if I were you, hey?”