Scenarios nd-29

by Bill Pronzini

  I sighed with pleasure-both at the prospect of an enjoyable evening with good friends and at the knowledge that we would be bringing happy holidays to at least a few of the city's many homeless. Already the barrels of canned goods, new toys, and warm clothing were filled.

  As I glanced at the one for cash offerings, I spotted my colleague and friend Wolf approaching with his wife Kerry. The party was limited to Pier 24-1/2 workers and their guests, but for the past month Wolf had been on my payroll, assisting on a complex fraud case that I hadn't had time to attend to myself, so I'd urged him to attend. It had taken a lot of urging. Wolf hated large gatherings, and I was certain he'd only agreed to come as a favor to me and his outgoing advertising-executive wife.

  It wasn't the only way I was going to reward him for saving my butt, I thought with some anticipation. The job he'd done for me was an important one, for a client who threw a lot of business my agency's way. I'd been tied up on a long investigation into improprieties in the city's building-inspection department that had revealed a senior official was taking kickbacks in exchange for speeding up the permit process.

  Only half an hour ago Ted had given me a disk containing my report, which I would deliver to the mayor's office on Monday-the only copy, as the deputy mayor who was my contact there had insisted on total confidentiality. It currently rested under a stack of files in my in-box, unimportant looking and labeled "Expenses, November, 2001," rather than in the office safe, which had been broken into a few days ago.

  Wolf was already looking overwhelmed by the crowd down below. I donned my fuzzy Santa Claus hat and went to try to put him at ease.

  "WOLF" Kerry said, "Doesn't the pier look nice? So festive."

  "Yeah," I said. "Festive."

  "Look at all the different displays. Some are really clever."

  I looked. "At least they don't have some poor jerk dressed up in a Santa Claus suit."

  "I suppose that's a reference to the Christmas Charity Benefit. You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

  "Ho, ho, ho."

  She poked me in the ribs. "Don't be grumpy."

  "I'm not grumpy."

  "If you're going to be grumpy…"

  I said again, grumpily, that I wasn't grumpy. It was the truth. What I was was ill at ease. Parties of any kind have that effect on me. Large groups of people, no matter how festive the occasion, make me feel claustrophobic; I don't mix well, I'm not good at small talk even with people I know. Kerry keeps trying to socialize me and it keeps not working. The quiet of home and hearth is what I prefer, particularly during the Christmas season. The one other time I'd let her talk me into attending a Yuletide party, the infamous Gala Christmas Charity Benefit a few years back, had been an unmitigated disaster. And only partly because I'd allowed myself to be stuffed into a Santa Claus suit, with little kiddies to make dents on my knees and share with me their innermost, toy-laden desires.

  "Let's make a donation," Kerry said.

  She'd hauled me into the midst of the Pier 24-1/2 party and we were now stopped in front of a red, white and blue barrel in the center of the concrete floor. Propped up in front was a sign: HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. Season of Sharing Fund. Be Generous!

  Kerry put a folded twenty-dollar bill into the barrel. I took a five out of my wallet.

  "For heaven's sake," she said, "don't be a Scrooge. Read the sign."

  I said, "Be generous, Mr. Spade."

  "What's that?"

  "Never mind." I exchanged the five for two twenties and slotted them into the barrel.

  "That's better. Oh, here's Sharon."

  McCone came bustling up. The furred Santa Claus cap she wore over her black hair made my scalp itch. She hugged Kerry, waved some green plant stuff over my head, and then kissed me-on the mouth.

  "Hey," I said, "I'm a married man. And you're young enough to be my daughter."

  "Don't mind him," Kerry said. "He's in one of his grumpy moods."

  "I am not grumpy!"

  McCone said, "Well, whatever you are, I'm glad you're here. Both of you."

  "Where's Ripinsky?" I asked her. Hy Ripinsky was her significant other and a fellow P.I.

  "He had to fly down to RKI headquarters in San Diego. Urgent business. But he'll be back in time for us to spend Christmas together."

  She and Kerry proceeded to jabber about how festive the pier looked, how innovative the displays were, particularly McCone Investigations' galactic theme, how all the businesses here were hoping to raise at least five thousand dollars for the homeless. It never ceases to amaze me how adaptable women are. Put two of them together, even a pair of strangers, into any social situation and they're not only immediately comfortable with each other and their surroundings, they never seem at a loss for words.

  While they were chattering, I looked around some more. What galactic theme? I thought.

  Pretty soon Kerry paused long enough to suggest I go and get us something to drink. "I'd like white wine," she said. "Sharon?"

  "The same."

  So I waded through the partygoers to the bar. The noise level in there, enhanced by a loud-speakered version of "Deck the Halls," was such that I had to raise my voice to a near-shout to put in my order. Two white wines, nothing more. My brain gets fuzzy enough at parties as it is.

  Somebody came up and tapped my arm while I was waiting. McCone's office manager, Ted Smalley, and his bookseller partner, Neal Osborn, both of them wearing red stocking caps with tassels. Neal said, "Great party, isn't it? Didn't Ted do a terrific job of coordinating the decorations and displays?"

  "Terrific," I said. "Great, uh, galactic theme, Ted." He beamed at me. "Everyone cooperated beautifully." Neal ordered for the two of them. When he was done he said to Ted, "Shall we tell him now or wait until later?"

  "Now. I can't wait to see his face."

  "Do you want to do the honors or shall I?"

  "You go ahead. It was your idea."

  "No, it was your idea. The surprise itself was mine. Mine and Sharon's."

  I said, "What're you two talking about?"

  "You'll find out," Neal said, "if you go upstairs to Sharon's office. There's something on her desk for you."

  "A present? Why would you get me a present?"

  "For all your help on the Patterson case," Ted said. "Do you still have the spare key Sharon gave you?"

  I didn't know what to say, except "yes" and "thanks." I'm not used to getting presents from anyone other than Kerry and my assistant, Tamara Corbin.

  "Don't open it up there," Neal said. "Bring it down so we can all watch."

  Oh, boy. Being the center of attention is something I like about as much as parties. Even so, I felt touched and pleased.

  I delivered the glasses of wine, told Kerry where I was going-Sharon grinned when I mentioned the present-and then went upstairs. As I approached McCone's private office, I had the spare key in my hand. But I didn't need it. The door was closed but not locked.

  That in itself didn't make me suspicious, but what I saw when I opened the door and walked in set off alarm bells in my head. A man spun around from in front of Sharon's desk-a blond man who didn't work for McCone Investigations, who gave me a frightened-deer look and seemed to teeter briefly on the edge of panic. Then he got a grip on himself, put on a weak smile. He was familiar-I'd seen him around the pier before. An employee of one of the other firms, the architects on the opposite catwalk. His name was Kennett or Bennett.

  "You startled me," he said. "What're you doing here?"

  "I'll ask you the same question."

  "Sharon asked me to get something for her. If you'll excuse me..

  He edged past where I stood, not making eye contact, one hand squeezed into the pocket of a pair of very tight leather pants. In other circumstances, or if he'd lingered a few more seconds, I would've restrained him; but I hesitated just long enough for him to get past me and out the door.

  I followed as he hurried along the catwalk, close to the garland-festooned railing, his h
and still in his pocket. Only fifty feet separated us when he reached the stairs; I had a clear look at him all the way down, but then the Model T Ford display cut off my view and the party swirl swallowed him.

  I clambered down until I could once more see all of the pier floor. It was no more than fifteen seconds before I picked him out again. He stopped near some kind of trophy on a pedestal and joined a small group of people, making a gesture with the hand that had been in his pocket. Sharon McCone wasn't one of the group.

  I spotted her nearby and made straight for her myself, keeping my eye on Leather Pants all the way.

  McCone

  I was standing with Ted and Neal when Wolf came hurrying up, a frown darkening his rugged Italian features. He wasn't carrying his present.

  "How could he not find the package?" Ted said. "It's right in the middle of your desk."

  Something told me the frown had nothing to do with being unable to locate a package. Quickly I moved to meet him.

  "Did you send somebody up to your office besides me?" He was looking past me at something or someone.

  "No. Why?"

  "Well, I just surprised a man inside. Five-ten or so, blond hair, dressed in black leather pants and a thin-ribbed black sweater. I think he works for the architects-Bennett? Kennett?"

  Now it was my turn to frown. "Tony Kennett." He was a draftsman for Chandler amp; Santos, had taken to hanging around our offices lately, trying to persuade my newest hire, Julia Rafael, to go out with him. Julia, who at twenty-five had been through more bad relationships than most women experience in a lifetime, had so far resisted. "Did you talk with him? Ask him what he was doing there?"

  "He claimed you'd sent him up to get something. But he had a guilty, scared look. He all but ran out, and came down here. He's over by that trophy."

  I looked around, spotted Kennett. He was talking to some people, but even at a distance he looked nervous.

  One of my operatives, Craig Morland, had just joined us. He said, "Kennett's been in Julia's and my office damn near every day this week, trying to put the moves on her."

  "I don't like or trust him," Ted added.

  "Ted, you and Craig keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't leave the pier."

  They nodded, and Craig said to Neal, "Find Julia, Mick, and Charlotte. Just in case we need them."

  A good man, the former FBI agent; he didn't waste time with unnecessary questions.

  I turned to Wolf. "Let's go upstairs, see what Kennett might've been after." My voice was heavy with foreboding; I had a good suspicion what it was.

  "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" was playing as we climbed to the catwalk. The irreverent novelty song had always been a favorite of mine, but now I took no pleasure in it. We went along to my office. The door was slightly ajar, but Wolf had indicated he'd left it that way. We went in. The brightly wrapped package for Wolf still sat in the center of my desk, but the papers and files in my in-box had been disturbed.

  "Dammit!" I exclaimed. I felt through the box's contents to where the disc containing the report on the building-inspection department should be.

  Gone. My only copy.

  "I knew it!"

  "What's missing?" Wolf asked.

  "Final report on that political case I've been working."

  "The high-confidentiality one for City Hall?"

  "Uh-huh. Kennett must've taken it. Unless we can get it back, it'll go straight into the wrong hands, and then there'll be a cover-up like this city's seldom seen."

  "And we've seen some spectacular ones. How is Kennett involved?"

  I didn't reply, because I'd spotted a key on the floor by my desk. Shiny new, as if it had just been cut by a machine at a hardware store. I picked it up, took my own office key out. They were a match.

  "Now I'm sure it's Kennett," I said, holding up the key. "I run a pretty open shop here; the same key operates all the doors so staff members will have access to the other offices in case they need something. We trust each other, so we tend to trust the other tenants of the pier. Kennett's become something of a fixture here in the past week; simple enough for him to snag a key and have a copy made. And I think he's used it before, because three days ago our creaky old office safe was broken into."

  "Anything taken?" Wolf asked.

  I shook my head. "Not even my gun, which would be a natural for a common thief."

  "You report it?"

  "Ted did. There were no fingerprints on it except his and mine."

  "Okay, but why was Kennett after the confidential report?"

  I considered that, and then the answer came to me, filtered through a dim memory of an event nearly a year past. "Because he's a close friend of the city official I've been investigating-he was at the official's fortieth birthday party last January. Kennett's buddy must've found out there was an ongoing investigation and asked him to find out what I knew."

  "Kennett must still have the disc on him."

  "And we're going to get it back."

  I led Wolf from my office, locking it after us like the proverbial barn door. We paused on the catwalk, surveying the crowd below. Kennett now stood near the bar, drink in hand, talking to someone else.

  By the time we got down there, Kennett had moved to Santa's Village and was apparently admiring it. When he saw us he fidgeted and his eyes took on a flat, glassy look.

  I said, "Where's the disc, Tony?"

  "What disc?"

  "The one you took from my office."

  "I… don't know what you're talking about."

  "Do you deny you were in my office around half an hour ago?"

  "I certainly do."

  I indicated Wolf. "Do you deny you told this man I'd asked you to go up there and get something?"

  "I've never seen him before."

  Beside me, I felt Wolf tense; a growly sound came from deep in his throat. "You're a liar and a thief both, Kennett," he said.

  Kennett gulped what liquor remained in his plastic cup, seemed fortified by it. He set the cup on the display table, extended his arms dramatically. "So search me," he said loudly. "Go ahead!"

  People were looking at us now. I studied Kennett's clothing. The leather pants were skin tight; the outline of a disc would have shown clearly. The same with the sweater. Somehow he'd gotten rid of it-somewhere in this cavernous pier that was honeycombed with hiding places.

  "That won't be necessary," I said. "Maybe we made a mistake. Enjoy the party."

  When we were Out of earshot of Kennett, Wolf grasped my elbow. "A mistake? Enjoy the party? What's that about?"

  I said, "He's going to have to stay till the end-my people will see to that. In the meantime, we'll let him think he's getting away with the disc."

  "Now all we have to do is find it before the party's over."

  "That's all," I said grimly.

  "WOLF"

  McCone is as efficient an investigator as I've known in thirtysome years in the business. Doubly so in a crisis. She sought out and briefed the members of her staff, individually and in pairs, designating Craig Morland to stay close to Kennett, and her nephew, Mick, and Julia Rafael to watch the exits. The rest of us went upstairs to her office. Neal Osborn and Kerry included, Neal because we might need an extra hand and Kerry because she'd seen Kennett come downstairs with me in his wake.

  When we were all settled, McCone behind her desk, the rest of us sitting or standing, she said, "What we need to do is brainstorm this, see if we can get some idea of what Kennett did with the disc. Wolf and I will do most of the talking, but if anybody has anything to contribute, jump in any time."

  The others nodded silently. That was another thing about Sharon: She ran a fairly loose ship, delegating a good deal of authority to her operatives, but when she took command she did it forcefully and got complete cooperation in return.

  She asked me to go over again, in detail, what had happened earlier. When I was done, she said, "So Kennett didn't go around to the opposite catwalk before he went downstairs. That mean
s he couldn't have hidden the disc in his own office."

  "Right."

  "And you had him in sight the whole time, except for those few seconds in the crowd. How many seconds, would you say?"

  "No more than fifteen. That's probably when he got rid of the disc. First thing that occurs to me is that he passed it to someone else."

  "Not likely. This feels like a one-man operation to me."

  "Besides," Ted said, "I know all the other people at Chandler amp; Santos. He's the only one I wouldn't trust."

  "Let's eliminate one other unlikely possibility," I said. "That Kennett hid the disc somewhere in here before I came in. The old purloined letter trick."

  McCone shook her head. "He didn't expect to get caught and he'd be a fool to risk sneaking into my office another time. He had to've had it on him when he left."

  "Okay. Next thing is whether he had any chance at all to hide it while I had him in sight. I'd say no, but I can't be a hundred percent certain. He did walk close to the railing all the way to the stairs. It's remotely possible he slipped the disc in among the decorations."

  "I doubt it. All the ones on this side are ours, so again, he couldn't be sure of getting his hands on it later. Ted, go check and make sure."

  As Ted went out, I said, "Something else I just remembered. Kennett had one hand in his pocket when I surprised him. It was still in his pocket on the catwalk, on the stairs, and when I lost sight of him. But when I picked him up again, the hand was out-he made a gesture with it when he joined the group by the trophy. That's another point in favor of a hiding place somewhere on the pier floor."

  "Did he turn straight into the crowd when he came off the stairs?"

  "Hard left turn, yeah."

  "That means he passed right by the Model T Ford display."

  "Good possibility. And right next to the Ford..