by Dane Hartman
Sheila had left him alone for a minute while she went to prepare some coffee for them both, so Harry was allowed the freedom to investigate this small but tantalizing mystery. He reached out and grabbed one of the books. Opening it, he discovered that the pages were blank, that in fact the insides of the whole collection, at least in this room, were blank. Only an impressive cover and empty inside. Just like their owner.
There were also photographs on the walls, most of them framed and protected under glass. One showed Davis standing on the prow of a boat holding up a swordfish that he had just snared. He was grinning in triumph, gesturing to whomever had taken the picture. At the bottom, on the right side, Harry found a notation: “To Teddy—The Master of Dumb Luck.” It was signed “Chuck.”
At that moment Sheila entered the room, bearing a tray with two cups and a silver coffeepot.
“Tell me, Mrs. Davis, why is your husband referred to here as Teddy?”
She laughed. “Chuck, his best friend Chuck, calls him that. It’s a kind of nickname I’d guess you’d say. They go way back to when they were in high school together, which is why Bill lets him get away with it. If I called him Teddy, he’d go wild. Actually, almost nobody outside a small circle of friends knows he has a nickname.”
“How did he get it?”
Harry tried to make the question sound as offhand as possible.
“I think the story is that he was rather chubby in high school, and somebody thought he resembled a teddy bear.” She regarded Harry curiously, wondering perhaps why he was so interested in such a trivial matter.
“Just one more thing, Mrs. Davis. Has your husband shown any sign of tension, emotional distress that might have followed from the attack made on his life?” Harry was striving to make his question sound innocent, even sympathetic.
Sheila frowned. “My husband is a very closed-in man, and in all our twenty-two years of marriage I have seldom seen him display any emotional distress. He may get angry, but he doesn’t really express that anger. You can almost see him fighting it back. But to tell you the truth, in the last several months I so rarely see him that I can’t really give you an accurate idea. It may be that he releases all those pent-up emotions with somebody else. Not with me. I am a victim, as they say, of benign neglect.”
When Harry left Sheila Davis and returned by ferry to San Francisco, he contemplated his dilemma. He was convinced that Davis was his man, but he had grave doubts that he could lock him up with what he had. There was only circumstantial evidence—the coincidence of names, the possible identification of Davis by the woman who lived next door to Patience and Eloise—but nothing hard that could firmly tie Davis in with the slayings at the Tocador and the twenty-four-hour sex club on Folsom. Yet to delay further, while he scavenged about for the “smoking gun” that might constitute absolute proof, would allow Teddy to remain at large, with the freedom to commit another act of mayhem.
Harry saw now that to wait any longer might be a worse idea than risking an immediate arrest. Though placing Davis under constant surveillance was a possibility, he doubted very much whether it would be effective. Davis was too shrewd, too protected, and he would soon be alerted to the surveillance and take steps to avoid it.
He dialed Cavanaugh-Sterling’s Headquarters and again asked for extension 801.
“Mr. Davis is not here right now,” his secretary said, “but I know that he’s anxious to speak with you, Inspector.”
Harry asked if he could see him as soon as he got back to his office.
“Why don’t you come by around eight-thirty? Mr. Davis will be working late tonight.”
“Eight-thirty it is.”
“Fine. I am certain Mr. Davis is looking forward to seeing you again.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Have a good day,” she perfunctorily wished him, neglecting to note the fact that the day was over.
The man standing across the street from Cavanaugh-Sterling Headquarters recognized Harry when he started up the stairs to the entrance. He recalled him from a day back in mid-October when this man had pursued him across the rooftops of the very buildings in whose shadows he now maintained his vigil.
The sight of this man, whom he knew to be a police officer, unsettled him. Was it possible, he wondered, that Davis realized he would be attacked again tonight and had called upon this man to help him?
Nonetheless, he would not recommend cancelling the assault. It had been too long in planning, too much depended on it. And in any case, if Davis truly did suspect trouble, wouldn’t he have sent for several policemen and not just one solitary officer? This thought reassured the man. He returned to his men and told them that everything was as it should be; the operation could go ahead as scheduled.
C H A P T E R
S i x t e e n
The night staff on duty at Cavanaugh-Sterling Headquarters was considerably smaller than the daytime one. Not unexpectedly, there were the ever present security guards loitering about. Otherwise, there were only the custodians sadly pursuing their nocturnal duties and the cleaning ladies lugging vacuum cleaners and pails filled with soapy water from empty office to empty office.
Harry presented himself at the front desk in the lobby and, after being cleared, was given a plastic-sealed card that confirmed his status as official visitor. He signed his name and time in the log book, then proceeded to the elevator bank.
It was eerily quiet along the fortieth-floor corridor. Even the cleaning ladies had gone. Nonetheless, Harry had the sense that he was being watched, and not just by the video cameras that peeked out from various corners of the hallway, but by human beings whose job it was to protect the chairman of the board of Cavanaugh-Sterling from harm.
But Davis was alone in his office from all appearances. His secretary had gone, and the waiting room was empty. The door to his office was closed, but Harry could hear a rustling of papers and the squeak of the swivel chair that signaled Davis’ presence within.
It would not have surprised Harry to learn that Davis was watching him on a closed-circuit TV system, for though he hadn’t announced himself Davis was already calling to him. “Mr. Callahan, please come in.”
Harry opened the door and stepped into the office. There, as he’d expected, sitting behind his desk was Davis, looking as fit and as authoritative as ever. He was working in his shirtsleeves, his jacket draped over the back of his chair. For several moments he continued writing on the papers he had in front of him, what seemed to be some kind of contracts, signing his name with a flourish. He purposely ignored Harry who approached the desk.
“Sit down, please, I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
When Harry did so, Davis at last directed his eyes toward him and gave him a smile that was as gracious as it was convincing.
At that very instant there was a low hum from each side of the office, and as Harry turned first to the left and then to the right he saw that it had been caused by the paneled walls opening up. As there were secret corridors and exits and entrances in the tortured soul of William Maxim Davis so were there secret corridors and exits and entrances in the offices and homes that he inhabited.
Emerging from each side of the office, stepping out of small adjoining rooms that looked as dark and claustrophobic as monks’ cloisters, were two security men, in plainclothes but very clearly armed. They carried in their hands converted Smith and Wesson Model 39s, the principal difference between the converted and original being improved accuracy and a reduction in length, height, width, and weight for maximum concealment. They contained a clip of eight rounds each which would mean that before Harry could get out his own weapon and do much of anything with it, he would very likely find his body riddled with sixteen rounds.
This prospect did not strike him as a very pleasing one, and, even as he cursed himself for blundering into Davis’ trap he tossed aside his .44, complying with the order Davis had just given him, almost casually, for he was still working on his contracts, signing his name o
ver and over again as though he wanted to prove just how meaningless he had ever viewed the threat that Harry had posed.
Harry remained seated, saying nothing—what was there to say with two guns targeted at your head?—waiting for Davis to conclude his business and get to the point which, he supposed glumly, was his imminent execution.
Eventually, Davis put his final signature on paper and rose from his desk. As he slipped on his jacket, he said, “Now, I trust you will prove cooperative, Mr. Callahan. It would serve no one’s interests if you attempted to resist us. I would not want to have you killed here. It would be an embarrassment for us, but it would be something much more grievous for you. So if you’ll come along quietly, and bear in mind that my men will keep their eyes and their weapons fixed on you at all times, I would be most appreciative.”
The rigid etiquette he stuck to even in such circumstances seemed totally incongruous to Harry, but he was in no position to point this out.
Davis himself appropriated the .44. “A curious instrument,” he remarked turning it over in his hand. “And very effective, too, I’d imagine.”
“Very,” Harry agreed.
They walked down the corridor to the elevators, four solemn uncommunicative men, and they descended in the same way: without a word or so much as an exchange of glances.
As they proceeded by the security desk in the lobby, Davis turned to Harry and with forced jocularity said, “Don’t forget to give back your visitor’s pass and sign out in the log.”
This is all getting to be a bit much, Harry thought, but he did as he was instructed.
They began down the marble steps that led from the Cavanaugh-Sterling complex. Harry was flanked on both sides by the security men and Davis was right in back of him. There seemed to be no way that he could escape or overcome his antagonists quickly enough to avoid being fatally shot.
A big black limousine pulled up in front of them. A chauffeur promptly got out of it and threw open the rear door.
“No white Porsche tonight?” asked Harry, feeling free to say whatever he wanted since it appeared that his fate had already been decided.
Davis did not take exception to the comment. He seemed actually to enjoy the jibe. “Regrettably, I was compelled to discard the Porsche.”
As they neared the limo, Harry asked where they were going.
Davis’ response was characteristically cryptic but telling: “Someplace quiet.”
Davis signaled to the chauffeur that his presence was no longer required. “You can go home now. I will drive.”
This switch apparently surprised both the security guards for their otherwise implacable expressions subtly altered.
“I used to be quite the driver, Mr. Callahan. I drove in the Grand Prix, did you know that?”
“Did you win?”
“Came in fourth. I gave it up after that. I do not like engaging in competitions that I can’t win.”
Davis gestured for Harry to slide over to the other side of the front seat. The two bodyguards slid into the rear. That Davis failed to open up what Harry presumed to be the bulletproof partition separating front from back astonished him somewhat. It could not have been forgetfulness on Davis’ part. He wasn’t a man to forget the slightest detail. Obviously, he had enough confidence in his control over the situation that the men in back were only of secondary importance to him.
As Davis began to maneuver the limo away from the curb, Harry asked him what he had against the women he’d butchered. “What crime did Martha Denby commit? Or Patience Bell and Eloise Cummings? Besides screwing around a lot, which I’m not sure is a crime, let alone one punishable by death?”
Davis glanced back, a bit nervously, but the two men comfortably installed in the rear gave no sign that they had heard the question. The partition was resistant to sound as well as to bullets. That explained one reason why Davis had left the partition in place, Harry realized.
He kept his eyes on the darkened street ahead of him. “They all wanted to be in pictures, Mr. Callahan, did you know that? Only Martha showed any talent for it. Eloise and Patience, I think, had been on every casting couch in L.A. before I met them. But they had a certain élan that I liked, a spirit.” He was going on in the manner of an actor giving a monologue. There was no indication that he had heard Harry’s question correctly or if he had, he certainly didn’t intend to answer it head-on. Maybe because he couldn’t.
“Oh yes, I suppose it was the idea that I would be getting two of them. They were like twins, so responsive to each other’s thoughts and movements that if I got one to come the other would come just watching the two of us. Or sometimes she didn’t have to be in the same room, as astonishing as it may seem to you. Sometimes she could be elsewhere in the house, vacuuming the rug, reading a book, and it wouldn’t matter, she’d sustain an orgasm, too.”
A curious use of the word “sustain,” Harry thought, recognizing simultaneously that this man was more unhinged than he had originally hypothesized.
“But then, you know,” Davis continued, his voice growing more disembodied, more hollow and emotionless, “you tire of things. The girls were violating their accord to me. They were not to engage in sex with any other men. But they ignored me. It was as though they were sending a message to me: Teddy, you’re not good enough to satisfy us, you’re just not good enough. And as I just told you, I am not interested in competitions where I cannot emerge the winner.”
“So you invited them up to San Francisco and killed them?”
“Exactly. I chose an out-of-the-way hotel simply because it was just that, out of the way, an unlikely place for a killing.”
“And Miss Denby?”
“I held Martha in great esteem, although I doubt whether you would believe me. I was going to take her to Acapulco when the movie was over. I bought Global because it would give me access to women like Martha and Eloise. And Patience. Did you know that? But like the others, Martha defied me. I tested her, I wanted to see how she would react to temptation. And she fell.”
When you listened to him it all seemed so eerily simple. No tangled emotions, no passion, no stirrings of conscience, certainly no remorse. It was a job, one two three, over and done with.
At the intersection of Alvarado and Castro, a green and white Mercury shot out in front of them and stopped, so surprising Davis that it was all he could do to slam on the brakes and bring his car to a halt just before it smashed into the Mercury.
“The hell?” He looked to Harry as though he expected him to have an explanation.
Another car, a Pontiac, came up from behind them and smashed the limousine in the rear, giving a terrific jolt to its occupants, stunning the two guards as their heads collided with the partition.
Yet a third vehicle, a VW van pulled up alongside of them, effectively cornering the limo in.
It was apparent to them all what has happening even before the van’s doors slid open, revealing three men brandishing Belgian FN MAG machine guns, the same type that had been employed in the attempt on Davis the last time.
Now the Mercury disgorged its passengers: another group of three, also armed with automatics. They crept behind their car and used it as protection.
The trio in the VW opened up, their bullets spraying the windows along their right side without, however, penetrating. It sounded like a very severe hailstorm.
Davis, taking confidence from their failure, decided to crash his way out of his predicament. With his foot pressed firmly down on the gas, he propelled the limousine forward in the direction of the Mercury.
A salvo of gunfire caused the windshield to splinter and crack in so many places that visibility decreased nearly to zero. But Davis didn’t need to see to find the Mercury. His face lit up, excitement burned in his eyes. Harry, looking at him, thought that this must be what he was like when he was racing cars in the Grand Prix. This was what he must be like when he decapitated his victims.
In back, the two bodyguards sat nervously, one wiping blood off his f
orehead. Though they both had their guns in their hands, there wasn’t very much they could do with them unless they chose to open the windows, which would be tantamount to committing suicide.
Harry braced himself for the collision, holding his hands against the edge of the dashboard.
The impact was accompanied by an incredible din of metal and glass twisting and clattering apart. The Mercury buckled and reeled back, like a wounded bull, but then it came bouncing to a stop, its chassis upside down, its wheels churning futilely in the air. Two of the terrorists lay crushed and bleeding beneath it. A third had somehow caught onto one of the wheels and lay, dying on top, his entrails oozing slowly out of a great tear in his gut.
The limousine itself had gone as far as it was ever going to get, halted finally by the overturned Mercury, its front welded into the obliterated wreckage of the other car.
From the back, intense fire from both the VW and the Pontiac continued. But the lead-based windows of the limousine withstood even this latest fusillade.
Davis had been flung up against the steering wheel and while not seriously harmed, was momentarily disabled.
Harry didn’t wait. He grabbed hold of Davis and flung him to the right, meeting no resistance. At the same time he slid his hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew his .44.
Simultaneously, the partition slid open. The security men in back, still operative despite the collision, held up their guns, training them on Harry. What Harry had not realized was that an emergency control existed in back to work the partition. But it made sense now that he thought about it; the back was where Davis usually sat.
It was a Mexican stand-off in the true meaning of the phrase, for while the limousine could move no farther the terrorists could not take advantage of its immobility as long as the car remained sealed. And while the two security men could easily kill Harry, they did not dare to fire as long as Harry had his .44 aimed at their employer who now regarded Harry with a dazed, almost sorrowful expression. It did not seem that he truly comprehended what was happening.