One Fell Swoop
Page 7
She swiveled in the chair so she could look him full in the face. “The man my brother is working for is here. He wants to keep his name secret. He found out somehow that Neal was going to give me the list with his name on it. And he had Neal killed.”
“It’s a terrible shock to come upon a corpse. Please don’t think I’m condescending if I say you’re overwrought.”
“Condescend to your heart’s content. Just tell me. If Neal wasn’t killed for the list, what was he killed for?”
“The dog.”
“Oh,” Renata said, after a moment of stunned silence. “So that’s why there were all those questions I couldn’t answer about leashes and paw prints.”
“Don’t worry. Your statement helped us establish that Marsh had the dog with him when he headed for the Heath.”
“I’m so glad you accept one thing I said. Inspector, Pechorin is a fine animal. But do you really think he’s worth killing for?”
“We don’t think the assailant meant to kill Marsh. Just hit him harder than intended. No doubt that’s what his barrister will say in court, if it comes to that.”
“You have a suspect?”
“Not as yet. But this latest incident fits a pattern.”
“A pattern. You mean somebody’s been assaulting people and stealing their dogs and … what, selling them?”
“Holding them for ransom.”
“Ransom?”
McAllister sat back, crossing his legs and folding his arms. He really did seem to need a pipe to fiddle with. “There are some very wealthy people in this district.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“The house prices have been going up astoundingly. With them the cost of goods and services and everything else. Early in the summer, we noticed a trend in the posters people put on fences and telephone poles, offering rewards for their lost dogs.”
“They’re going up?”
“It was when a Chinese gentleman offered three hundred pounds for information leading to the return of his King Charles spaniel that we decided to take action. Held meetings, sent out circulars, warning people that they were letting themselves in for trouble. Villains can read, too.”
“I see.”
“And sure enough, September third, a shih tzu is taken from a car parked in Frognal Road. The owner receives a demand for three hundred and fifty pounds. He cooperated with us and we caught the man. But the local villains were undiscouraged. September twenty-seventh, Golders Hill Park, a man demands a woman’s Staffordshire bull terrier at knifepoint. Passersby intervene and he flees.
“October fifteenth, a van pulls up beside a dog walker in Gresham Avenue. He has an Irish wolfhound, a Bichon Frise, and a Bernese mountain dog. Men jump out, knock him down, try to force the dogs into the van. The dogs ran off, but the dog walker had a concussion. Note the pattern of escalation, culminating in tonight’s incident. The media will give it full play. We’ll have people ringing up in droves, saying they’re afraid to walk their dogs.”
“No wonder you’re not interested in my story,” Renata said.
McAllister frowned. His eyebrows seemed to bristle. “We are not disregarding you, Ms. Radleigh. Mr. Grinevich is cooperating fully. Soon we expect him to receive a ransom demand. That will of course confirm that we’re dealing with dognappers. If there is no call, of course, you’ll be hearing from us.”
Renata sighed. She’d heard those last five words countless times, at the end of auditions. Invariably meaning that she was not going to hear from them.
It was very late by the time she got home. She went straight to the answering machine. There was nothing from Don. He’d never been good about returning calls, but surely he couldn’t ignore her last message. He must be calling her mobile. It would be ringing unheard in a bin in an evidence room somewhere in north London. She rang Don’s number, got the recording, and left her landline number. Then she called Peter. His phone was off, too.
She looked at her watch. It was five p.m. in St. Louis. Early evening was Peter’s favorite time to Skype with her; it wouldn’t be long. She put the laptop on the night table, booted up, started Skype. Then she fell back into bed. She thought she was too keyed up to sleep, but exhaustion got the better of her. When Skype’s merry electronic tones roused her, she felt as if she had been asleep for hours. She pulled herself upright and reached for the keyboard.
Peter’s face popped up on the screen. She gasped. His left cheek was grotesquely swollen and mottled with bruises, so that his eye was almost closed. He noted her reaction and said, “I’ve had an interesting day.”
Chapter Eleven
Peter had set out early that morning. He biked to the Central West End and into one of the capacious underground garages of Adams University Medical School. Locking up the bike, he went to the row of WeCars—Toyota Priuses that the university rented at cheap rates to students and employees. Peter was no longer an employee but had kept his ID. Swiping it, he chose an inconspicuous light-green car and drove across the highway to Parkdale.
Don’s Jaguar was parked in its garage. Wayne was presumably still asleep under its front bumper. Don seemed to be asleep, too. The curtains of the second-floor apartment were closed. Peter found a parking space on the street with a view of the building and alley entrance. Then he put on his Cardinals cap. He also had a fisherman’s porkpie and a floppy-brimmed sunhat; the investigative reporter who had taught him how to tail people had said wearing a hat helps to alter your profile. He’d also told him that you had to be alert at all times, so he had no books or magazines, and his cellphone was off. For two hours, nothing happened, except that Don appeared briefly at his window as he opened the curtains.
Peter was prepared for this. Surveillance was stupendously dull. It might be hours, even days before Don let slip the mask of the socially conscious property owner.
Finally Peter heard the morning coughs of the old Jag, and a moment later it appeared, coming out of the alley. He started the Prius and followed.
Don spent the day looking after his buildings. Peter learned only that he was a sloppy painter, spattering paint across windows, and that he disposed of the fallen leaves he raked from his yards into alley Dumpsters that were marked “No Yard Waste.” Peter was bored, but Don looked far more bored. Whatever he said, it was impossible to believe that he intended to spend years tending his properties and hoping the neighborhood would improve.
Sitting in the Prius as the hours crawled by, Peter began to develop fellow feelings for the drug dealers. Like him, they were waiting around. Black teenagers with pants sagging and ballcap visors askew, they leaned against lampposts on street corners or lolled on the front steps of abandoned buildings, watching for a car to pull up at the curb and a customer to wave them over. Peter also saw Joel Rubinstein’s green pickup several times. Once Joel drove right by him, recognized him, and gave him a surreptitious wave. He knew what Peter was doing.
At five o’clock sharp, Don called it a day. He drove out of Parkdale and over the highway bridge. Peter assumed he was heading for one of the Central West End’s numerous bars. Instead he turned into the garage entrance of Lindell Terrace, a luxury condo tower with big windows commanding handsome views of the dome of the New Cathedral. More Don’s style, Peter thought. This was where he really lived. The Parkdale walk-up was part of his community builder act.
Turning into a side street, Peter parked. Slumping in his seat, he kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, watching the garage entrance. Half an hour later, he was startled when Don walked by the car. He hadn’t seen him coming out of the lobby door. Don passed within five feet of Peter, but luckily it was dark by now and he continued on his way, oblivious. Peter stayed put until he was a hundred paces down the street, then got out of the car and followed him. It felt good to be on his feet after so many hours behind the wheel and he strode briskly, closing the distance slightly. Don had changed to a blue blazer and gray flannels. He was walking at a quicker than normal pace, as if late for an appointment.
Peter slowed his steps. As he approached the restaurant, he looked in the windows. It was reassuringly dim. He decided to risk going in. A long bar lined with patrons was on his left, the tables to his right. He stepped up to the bar and ordered a glass of wine. It took several over-the-shoulder glances to spot Don and the woman.
They were seated at a table in the rear of the restaurant. Don’s back was to him and the woman was facing him. She was a notable beauty, with a bell of dark hair framing a heart-shaped face. She was leaning forward, talking, her expression intent, her gestures emphatic. Peter wished he could hear what she was saying. The conversation went on long enough for him to finish his wine and order another. Don and the woman, he noticed, had hardly touched their glasses.
Abruptly the woman stood. Don half-rose, politely, then resumed his seat. Peter turned his back as the woman walked past him. She continued to the door and went out.
She was wearing a short skirt, dark hose, and high heels. Her hips swayed beguilingly.
Don stayed only long enough to drain his glass. Peter hunched his shoulders and bowed his head as he went by. Once he was out the door, Peter got up and resumed following him. He walked back to Lindell Terrace. Peter got back in his car. Ten minutes later the Jag drove out of the garage entrance.
They returned to Parkdale. A wiry, bearded man in maroon scrubs, probably a nurse or doctor from nearby Granger Hospital, was waiting for Don on the curb. They shook hands and went into an apartment building. Peter debated with himself. Don was obviously back in property owner mode, showing an apartment to a prospective tenant. Could Peter safely call it a day? He hadn’t packed a lunch and was starving. Also, he was looking forward to Skyping with Renata and telling her about the Lindell Terrace apartment and the Dark Lady of the Central West End.
He had just about decided to head back to the medical center and turn the Prius in when a big black SUV slid slowly past his window. It pulled into the curb ahead of him. Its back-up lights came on. It kept on reversing until its bumper almost touched his. Headlights were glaring in his mirror: another car, coming up close behind him. He was boxed in.
Peter was paralyzed by disbelief. He shook it off and threw open the door. His seatbelt held him back. He scrabbled the buckle open, jumped to his feet, and started running. But an escape attempt on foot had been anticipated. A man materialized out of the darkness ahead. Peter recognized him as one of the street-corner dealers. The skinniest one. Peter went straight at him, thinking he could knock him aside.
The kid dropped into a crouch worthy of an NFL lineman. He hit Peter low and came up fast, upending him. His glasses spun off into the night as he landed hard on the pavement, flat on his back. The kid could have finished him off with a kick to the head, but he missed his chance. Peter scrambled to his feet and swung. The kid ducked the blow. His fist flew at Peter’s face. An explosion of pain, and the lights went out.
He came to in the back of a moving car. His tender cheekbone was resting on the bristly carpet, and every bump jolted him painfully. He swiveled his head so the uninjured cheek was against the carpet. That was all he could manage for a while.
The car stopped. The tailgate opened. He gazed up at a blurry figure silhouetted against a brighter background.
“Put on your glasses,” the figure said.
Peter lurched onto an elbow. His glasses, neatly folded, were lying beside him. Odd that his kidnappers had taken the trouble to retrieve them from the street. He put them on.
“Come on out. You’re okay.”
That was odd, too, and patently false. He managed to get his feet to the ground, but when he tried to stand, dizziness overcame him. The man caught him. It was the same skinny teenager. He had a harder time holding Peter up than knocking him down. They staggered across what seemed to be a big garage, with bright overhead fluorescents and machine noise echoing off the concrete walls. They went through a door into a small storeroom, where a lone man was sitting on a stool.
He was a middle-aged African American, with an eroding hairline and a stomach that pushed out against his green warm-up suit. He watched in silence as the teenager settled Peter on another stool and stepped back. The older man’s gaze shifted to follow him. Only the right eye moved. The other, Peter realized, was glass.
“Sorry you got hurt.” He was addressing Peter while glaring at the teenager. “I only wanted to talk to you. But I got niggers working for me who don’t know how to do what they’re told.”
His expression was so fearsome that Peter took pity on the teenager. He said, “I didn’t give him much chance to explain.”
The man was unmollified. He said, “Get out,” and the teenager hurriedly obeyed, closing the door behind him.
The man’s right eye joined his left in gazing at Peter. He said, “I’m Tavon Jackson. You heard of me?”
“Read about you. The Post-Dispatch calls you the Drug Kingpin of the West Side.”
“Kingpin,” Jackson repeated. The word seemed to amuse him. “Who are you?”
“Peter Lombardo.”
Jackson rose and advanced, putting out his hand. Shaking it felt odd. When it was withdrawn, Peter saw that it was missing the little finger and half of the ring finger.
Jackson resumed his seat. “My corner boys tell me you been following Radleigh all day. But you’re not police.”
“No.”
“Reporter?”
That was close enough. Peter nodded.
“Why you interested in Radleigh?”
Peter closed his eyes tightly, then opened them. He wished he wasn’t still feeling so woozy. “Let me get this straight. You brought me here to ask me about Don Radleigh?”
Jackson folded his arms. His sleeve rode up and Peter noticed that he was wearing one of those expensive Swiss watches that told the phases of the moon. There were no gold chains around his neck or rings on his fingers. He said, “Week ago, he caught one of my boys sitting on the steps of a building he owned. Told him, ‘Clear off! And tell your boss his days in Parkdale are numbered.’ ”
The imitation of Don’s crisp, upper-class accent was so perfect that Peter had to laugh. “What did you make of the threat?”
“I’ve heard scarier threats, you know what I’m saying? Even if I got to pull my operation out of Parkdale, there’s other neighborhoods. Moving product on the street, that the easiest part of this business. Tough part is, what you do with all the cash coming in? We got fucking bales of ten and twenty dollar bills rolling in every day. We got to turn that into capital. You know what I’m saying?”
“Capital,” Peter echoed.
“Right. I’m always looking for investments. If the ’hood is coming up, I want a piece of it.”
“You mean you want to buy some buildings. Did you talk to Don about this?”
“I was driving through Parkdale, saw him mowing a lawn. So I waved him over. When he heard who I was, he about pissed his pants.”
“I bet.”
“But I convinced him I only wanted his advice. He got up in the passenger seat and we had a talk.” Jackson paused and gave Peter a long, appraising look. “You called him Don. You know the guy?”
“Yes.”
“Trust him?”
It was strange being asked to vouch for Don, especially by a drug dealer. But there was no doubt about the answer. “No.”
Jackson shrugged. “I asked him did he think property values in Parkdale was going to rise. He said yes.”
“Did he say why?”
“I asked that too. He did an awful lot of talking without answering my question. You know what I’m saying?”
“Don’s good at that.”
“He trying to be helpful, though. Told me if I wanted to buy a building, I couldn’t do it with bales of tens and twen
ties. Nobody could know the money was coming from me. He told me about shell companies. Offshore accounts. All that shit. Then he stopped talking. I can see him thinking. Figure now I’m really gonna hear something. And he say, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but it’s too late for you to get in on the deal.’ ”
Again, he caught Don’s accent perfectly. Then he looked hard at Peter. “So. What that mean?”
Peter considered. “I guess that this spectacular rise in property values is going to happen in the next few days.”
“This guy Radleigh. He crazy?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Jackson waited for him to say more, and when it wasn’t forthcoming, he glanced at his watch. “I’ll get somebody to run you back to your car. I’m not sorry I didn’t get in on this deal. Something wrong with it. You know what I’m saying?”
“I know exactly what you’re saying.”
Chapter Twelve
Peter finished his story. Renata watched him on the screen as he put an icepack to his cheek and winced.
“Have you been to the hospital?” she asked. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“At the moment, I feel like I’ll never chew again. But once the swelling goes down, I’ll be okay.”
“What do you make of the woman?”
‘The Dark Lady of the Central West End?”
“Yes. Is she Don’s bit on the side?”
“She’s certainly more his usual type than Hannah. But I’m not sure.”
“Because they didn’t snog?”
“Just exchanged Frenchy air kisses.”
“And she left him in the bar?”
“Right. On the other hand, their conversation was intense.”
“Oh, Peter. What do you make of all this? How can real estate values in Parkdale skyrocket in the next few days?”