Downfall

by Jeff Abbott

  “Where’s the message?”

  “I put it by the cash register. She asked me to give it to her mom if she came in, but otherwise not to open it.”

  “I hope the police don’t find it,” I said. Okay, that could wait until the police let us back downstairs. No way I could go downstairs now and retrieve it. Next problem. I pulled the Russian’s cell phone out of my pocket.

  “What’s that?”

  “Grigori Rostov’s phone.”

  “Robbing the dead, Sam. Have some shame.”

  “Clearly I’m going to hell. Why would a Russian thug be after your friends?”

  “I literally can think of no reason.” Felix raised an eyebrow and pointed at the phone. “Clearly you’re going to need to wipe it off for prints before we say we found it in the mess downstairs and give it to the police.”

  “I’m not giving it to the police. I want to know why he came here. I want to know who the man in black is. They know I’m connected to the bar, and I know nothing about them. I’m a loose end who needs to be eliminated.” I studied the phone. It was a cheap phone, the kind with few features, bought with prepaid minutes. Hard to trace and easy to trash.

  First, I checked the call log. Two numbers were listed. I pressed the first number in the call log.

  A slurred voice. “Yeah?”

  “Who is this?” I said.

  “Finders, keepers, jerk,” the voice said. “She threw it out on the street and now it’s mine, and all the minutes. Possession nine-tenths, baby.”

  Someone using the first number in Rostov’s call log had tossed that phone. “You’re welcome to the phone, sir,” I said. “But do you mind telling me where you found it?”

  “It’s mine now.”

  “Who is she?”

  “The stupid lady. This phone still works.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Blonde and clean. Stop chewing up my minutes.” The charmer hung up.

  “Enjoy the phone, sir,” I said to the silence.

  I tried the second number. Then the ringing stopped, and I heard a click. Someone on the other end of the line.

  I listened to silence. The silence listened to me. Finally a voice said, “Hello.”

  The man in black’s voice. That odd mix of British and American accent.

  “You left in such a hurry,” I said.

  “I guess you’re not dead.” He sounded cool, collected. “The young man…?”

  “Dead.”

  “Poor guy. You shouldn’t have kicked the gun into him as I fired.”

  “You shouldn’t have pulled the trigger.”

  “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you, bartender. Do you think the poor fool would have treated you gently if he’d known you killed his brother? I did you a favor.”

  I said nothing.

  “How did you get this number?” he asked.

  “I took Grigori Rostov’s phone off his body before the police arrived.”

  The voice took a moment to digest this news and all it implied. “You are so clearly not just a bartender.”

  “Well, I also collect stamps.” Don’t get me wrong; I was not in a joking mood. I wanted him off-balance. Let him slip, let him tell me more than he meant to say.

  “What do you want?” he asked again.

  That was an excellent question. “I want to know who you are.”

  “If you’re protecting Diana, then you know who we are. The question is, who are you, bartender? You, we can find. But you can’t find us.”

  I hate a threat, especially when it is true. I could’ve quoted the Audi’s license plate to him. I didn’t. “How’s your guy who took the blow to the head? Has he forgotten me?”

  “Just give Diana to my safekeeping, and I’ll make it worth your while. I might have an offer that interests you.”

  “I told you, I don’t know her. But even if I did, I don’t think your safekeeping sounds very safe.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “What is it you want, interesting bartender? And I don’t mean in terms of information for this scintillating conversation. I mean…what in your heart of hearts do you want?”

  I misunderstood. What did I want? I wasn’t in a position to make demands. Only threats that maybe I couldn’t carry out. And as long as he knew where I could be found, he was more threatening than I could hope to be.

  His voice slipped into a whisper. “You must have something you want.”

  “World peace,” I said.

  “Now, peace would bore a man like you. I can say that even after our slight acquaintance.”

  I said nothing.

  “No matter how big your dream, your ambition, bartender, I can give it to you. I make dreams happen. I’m like a computer hacker—but I hack human lives.”

  Um, creepy. “I’m sure you can’t. Otherwise, you’d be able to afford competent help.”

  “Grigori Rostov was less than nothing to me; in fact, I didn’t hire him and I needed him dead. You did me a favor. Thank you.”

  “You’re not welcome.”

  “You cannot hope to win. You’re one against many. Keep breathing and just give the woman to me.”

  “I told you, I don’t know her.”

  He ignored my assertion. “I only want to talk to her; I don’t wish to harm her. Her mother is a friend of mine. A good friend. In fact, I’m trying to protect her. And I’ll make it so worth your while.” And then again he asked, “What is it you want?”

  The question started to unsettle me. It was a crazy question to ask, and yet he asked it with a startling confidence that he could deliver.

  “What do you care?” I asked.

  “How hard is your life about to get?” he said. “You didn’t tell the cops you came to the Russian’s house. You stole evidence in a death case. Now the Rostovs are both dead, and maybe there’s a stray hair or a fingerprint of yours…just waiting to tell the cops you were at the scene of both crimes tonight.” He laughed. “I think you’re about to have some really bad days, bartender. So. Maybe we can help each other. What do you want more than anything else in the world?”

  I decided to ignore his constant question, threat, whatever it was. “If you send people after me, I’ll kill them like the Russian. You understand me?”

  “And next you’ll claim that’s not a threat, that’s a promise. Whatever. I am the best in the world at making and keeping promises.”

  “I want you to stay away from me.”

  “But, see, you’re interesting, bartender. I like interesting people. I—”

  “I presume you like breathing better,” I said, and I hung up.

  I leaned over the desk. Declaration of war against an unseen enemy.

  A knock at the door. The police techs. They told us they were done and we could clean up the bar. I stepped into the dim lighting and surveyed the mess in the expanse of the bar: the spilled drinks, the tumbled furniture, the chalked circle where a bullet’s casing had been found, a hole in the wall where they’d recovered the bullet from Diana Keene’s gun. There were probably two dozen walked checks from the melee; I’d have to see about charging the cards, seeing if any were declined, and returning cards to customers who hadn’t picked them up after they were questioned. Bloodstains on the concrete. I’d have to find something to remove the blood.

  We watched the techs leave. Then Felix fumbled along the edge of the register. He pulled out a sealed envelope with The Select’s logo and return address preprinted in the corner and handed it to me. I opened the envelope and slid out a piece of paper. Felix read it over my shoulder.

  Mom: If you get this, please call me ASAP. Why are you not returning my messages, where are you really? Why did you lie to me? I am worried about you and I found what you left me. In case you died. We have to talk!!!!!! Please, I’m scared. D.

  “What you left me in case you died?” Felix said. “Like a will?”

  “She didn’t say it was urgent she find her mom?”

  “No.” Felix leaned against the bar.
“I didn’t really chat with her. It was busy. And I like Janice, and I didn’t want to get in the middle of a fight between her and her daughter.”

  Felix dug in a cooler and produced two icy bottles of Abita Amber lager; I had developed a liking for it, living in New Orleans, and I made sure my bars stocked it if they could get it from a local distributor.

  “I made a new friend,” I said after I sipped the cold beer. I told him about the man in black’s offer.

  “Okay, don’t call him the man in black because that is and always will be Johnny Cash,” Felix said. “Secondly, call him back and tell him you’ll stay out of his way. You don’t want trouble.”

  “They’ll find Diana.”

  “Wrong. We’ll find her first,” Felix said. “And why keep him on guard? Make him think he’s scared you away. Be the threat he doesn’t see coming.”

  I considered this wisdom.

  “Why would he keep offering you whatever you wanted? That just sounds weird. And I love San Francisco, but it can be a crash course in weird.”

  “For Diana. He thinks I know where she is.”

  “Then we assume she’s not at her mom’s or her own place. She’s hiding.”

  “She’s running.”

  “Presumably.” Felix took a small sip of beer. “So. What now?”

  I had a number of options. “First, we clean up the bar so I can think. Second, we find the getaway car, the Audi, and see who was driving and what they can tell us. Third, we find Janice and Diana.”

  “Shouldn’t we find them first?”

  “I saw the getaway car’s license. It’s our only thread to follow right now.”

  “We should find Diana and Janice first,” he said. “Get them to safety.”

  “Easier to find one man than two missing people. If we stop him as a threat, that puts your friends into safety, even if we haven’t found them yet.”

  Felix let several seconds tick away, thinking. “You said Diana yelled at you not to call the police. She might not welcome our help.” He set down his beer.

  “If we can help her without involving the police, I think she’ll welcome us.”

  “There is a chance that Mila will pull you out,” he said.

  “No, this guy won’t let up. It’s like leaving the playground to the bully. I end this now.”

  “She may not see it that way.”

  “She wants me working on the Monroe poisoning attempt. She can think that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Then let’s get started.” I fed the Audi’s license plate to him, and he typed again on his laptop. The Round Table manages to have access to all sorts of interesting databases, either through illegal access or backdoor entries that can’t be traced. I don’t judge.

  “The car is registered to a Vivienne Duchamp. She lives in Tiburon.” Felix raised an eyebrow. “That’s in Marin County, other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. Rich people territory.”

  Rich people? “Rich people commit crimes.”

  “Yes. Or maybe her car was stolen. Or the car was registered in her name and she’s a victim of identity theft. Or she affords her super-expensive house by being a getaway driver for Russian thugs. I really like option three.”

  I took another long swig of beer. “So now we clean up the bar. I don’t want to leave it a mess overnight.”

  “We don’t go to the Duchamp place tonight?”

  “I already got someone killed trespassing tonight,” I said.

  “Not your fault. The man in black would have killed Rostov’s brother just for walking in.”

  “Yet he didn’t kill me. Let’s clean the bar. Work will clear my mind.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” Felix stood. “No sleep for the wicked.”

  “Could you sleep anyway?” I’d forgotten, stupidly, that he was sick. “Wait. You need your rest.”

  “I don’t do sick,” Felix said. “Are you afraid they’ll come back here?”

  “Not right now. Maybe they’ll come back in a day or so. He might wait to see if I give him Diana, like he hopes.”

  Felix looked unsettled. I didn’t blame him. “But I think they don’t want any more trouble. They want Diana, and they’ll only come here if they think she’s here or I know where she is.”

  “You told them you’d protect her from now on.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I did.”

  The phone rang. I picked it up.

  “It’s me,” Mila said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” I decided not to tell her about the encounter at Rostov’s. Not yet. “Are my son and Leonie safe?”

  “Yes. They’re both asleep. I told Leonie to call you in the morning. We’ll keep them in Los Angeles until this is settled. I want to know all details.”

  “I’m up against a very bad guy,” I said. “And let me handle it, and I’ll call you when I know more.”

  “Sam…”

  “Mila, this is my problem now. Just keep my family safe.” I hung up.

  13

  Friday, November 5, very early morning

  FELIX AND I SWEPT THE FLOOR, mopped up the spilled vodka and juice and pinot grigio and pale ale and gathered broken barware. With the dual shocks and horrors of the night, cleaning felt like therapy, a bit of calm that let my mind ponder my new set of problems. The work didn’t clear my mind, but it kept me from thinking constantly about two men looking into my eyes as they died tonight. Death is always a lot to process.

  There were coats left behind, two purses, a BlackBerry phone, a well-thumbed guidebook to San Francisco. Welcome, tourist. Did you leave your heart here? Gunshots do add that special ambience. Most of the witnesses had gotten their stuff back after they’d given their statements, but these had decided not to come back or would come back tomorrow. Felix got a cardboard box that had once held bottles of Napa Valley pinot noir, and we put all the abandoned belongings into it.

  I swept up the broken bottles and glasses by a spilled bin and table near the back hallway. I stepped on something as I swept up the glass. An ornate silver lipstick case, fancy enough I thought it might be valuable or antique. I tossed the lipstick into the box with the other stuff. I wrote SHOOTING LOST & FOUND on it with a Sharpie pen. Felix put the box under the bar while I finished sweeping up broken glass.

  We got everything cleaned. Exhaustion, emotional and physical, crept up on us. I just wanted to collapse into bed.

  “Go home, get some sleep,” I said.

  “I’ll be back early,” Felix said. “Sleep seems like a waste of time when you’re sick.”

  And I wondered how bad his cancer really was. If just a blot on his lung, couldn’t he just tell Mila? Maybe he didn’t want to spend what limited time he had asleep. If my clock was down to its last ticks, I’d want every second with my loved ones. But Felix had made no mention of family. I remembered his wife had been a suicide. The bar and the Round Table were his life.

  But then, we all have limited time, don’t we? The awful truth we never want to acknowledge. The Rostov brothers probably had food in their fridge they’d never eat, phone calls and e-mails they’d never return, plans for this coming weekend. All gone, all to dust.

  “Don’t come in tomorrow, I mean today; we’re not going to open. And if our new friend comes back…I don’t want you in danger. This isn’t your fight, Felix.”

  “Sam, Diana and Janice are my concern. They brought this on you, and I’m sorry…and so it’s my fight, too.”

  “Thank you.” His loyalty touched me.

  “Good night, Sam.”

  “Good night.” To be safe, in case there were angry, revenge-minded Russians waiting outside, I walked with Felix to his car parked in the small lot behind the bar’s building. I opened the locked gate. He got in and waved, and I watched his car vanish into the curtain of early morning fog.

  I closed up the gate, locked it. Then realized—it hadn’t been locked when the woman ran out the back. Maybe someone had left it unlocked. Or someone had picked the lock.
/>   An Audi ready to get the suburban dad—clearly the idea had been to force Diana out the back of the bar and into the waiting car. So perhaps the driver had gotten out and picked the lock. I examined the lock. I could see the scratches of picks against the edge of the mechanism.

  Who exactly was I dealing with? Grigori Rostov might have been a run-of-the-mill thug, but the suburban dad and the man in black were not what I expected. Neither was the connection to a prominent businesswoman like Janice Keene.

  I went back inside the bar. There is no place quite so lonely as an emptied bar. It is built for socialization, for civilization, and when it is empty, it’s like a stage bereft of actors. I walked upstairs and stripped and fell into the bed, the adrenaline of the night draining from my body. I shuddered under the blanket and cool, clean sheet.

  I wondered if anyone had found the Rostov brother’s body yet. I wondered how soon I would be hearing again from Detective Anitra DeSoto.

  I had killed before, and there is nothing glorious or honorable or cathartic about it, even when it’s done to save another or in self-defense. It’s an awful thing, an echo that takes too long to fade. This did not feel good. It felt lousy, horrible, all the things that DeSoto expected me to show on my face and that I didn’t. It made me feel like I had stepped further away from the regular life that I still craved. I was supposed to have a new normal: no more fighting, no more killing. Just traveling like a civilized man, making sure the bars ran well and made a strong profit, coming home to my son. Playing with him on the floor, watching his face light up with a smile, changing his diapers, rolling a ball to him, singing along with the Wiggles, or watching old Mickey Mouse cartoons.

  That life of normalcy.

  Normalcy might be on vacation. I turned and stared up at the ceiling and wondered what the cool-voiced man on the phone thought he could offer me, in my heart of hearts.

  14

  Friday, November 5, very early morning