by Allan Folsom
“The pieces.” Suddenly there was Raymond’s voice again. It was low and sharp and urgent, as if it had been deliberately whispered in his ear. “The pieces,” the voice repeated. “The pieces.”
“No!” he said out loud and picked up his pace. He’d already had that battle today. He wouldn’t have it again.
“The pieces,” the whisper came once more. Marten walked faster still, as if he might actually be able to get away from it.
“The pieces,” it came again. “The pieces.”
Suddenly Marten stopped. All around him were bright lights and crowded sidewalks and steadily moving traffic. What he saw was not the same London of moments before, but the London of this afternoon, of Uxbridge Street and the Russian Embassy. It was then that he realized the whispered voice had not been Raymond’s but his own, and had been all along. The squad no longer existed, but he did. He had come to London, brought Rebecca to London, for one reason. Because Raymond and whatever he had been involved with had led him there. The last thing he could do was walk away and forget it.
7
PENRITH’S BAR, HIGH STREET. 9:35 P.M.
Nicholas Marten came in and for a moment stood inside the door looking around. Penrith’s was a classic dark-paneled English pub, noisy and elbow-to-elbow with patrons even on a Monday night. The bar itself was a kind of horseshoe in the center of the room with tables and booths on the sides and toward the back. Two bartenders stood in the horseshoe’s center. One was dark-haired and muscular, the other, taller, with a medium build and close-cropped, dyed-blond, hair; both looked to be in their early thirties. By his actions the taller man, the blond, seemed to be in charge, and now and again he would step out of the action to move to the end of the bar to converse with someone Marten could not see clearly.
This was his man, Marten decided, and started through the crowd toward him. As he did, he looked more closely at the patrons. Most, he thought, looked like university students, sprinkled here and there with professor types and the occasional businessman or woman. Hardly the kind of people a killer like Raymond might hang out with. On the other hand, he had to remember how chameleon-like Raymond had been, in dress, style, even language, and that it had been a student group he had picked Josef Speer from. It meant that someone like Raymond, someone trained like him, with his kind of confidence and mentality, could fit in anywhere.
The crowd grew thicker and noisier as he approached the bar. Through the din and constant shifting of bodies Marten could see the blond bartender near the back, still in conversation. He squeezed past two young men, and around a young woman eyeing them. Then Marten was there, not ten feet from where the bartender stood. Suddenly he stopped short. The barman was talking with two middle-aged men dressed in slacks and sport coats. One he didn’t know; the other, the one nearer to him, he knew all too well—the rough and dogged veteran LAPD Robbery-Homicide detective Gene VerMeer; one of the two detectives stationed outside his house when he had driven a concealed Raymond away to Burbank Airport. VerMeer had been one of Red McClatchy’s closest friends and a drinking buddy of Roosevelt Lee and Len Polchak and Marty Valparaiso. A cop he knew had been purposely kept out of the 5-2 Squad because he was too violent and unstable, as if that were possible. A cop he knew, too, who blamed him for Red’s death and hated him because of it. Of anyone on the LAPD, VerMeer was the last man he wanted to run into and in all probability the first who would want to see him go down. Preferably in pieces.
“Christ!” Marten breathed and immediately turned away. VerMeer had to be there for one of two reasons. Either he was following up on the same information Marten had—Raymond’s notation to meet someone with the initials I. M. at Penrith’s Bar—or he had learned Marten’s identity, found out where he had gone, and come to London thinking he might cross paths with Marten if he stayed on Raymond’s trail. If that were the case VerMeer could well be asking the bartender not only about Raymond and I.M. but about Marten, too.
“It’s Mr. Marten, isn’t it?” A loud female voice with an English accent resonated over the din. Marten’s heart came up in his throat and he turned to see Clementine Simpson coming toward him.
“Clem Simpson,” she said with a broad smile as she reached him, “Balmore Clinic. From this afternoon.”
“Yes, of course.” Marten glanced over his shoulder. VerMeer and the man with him were still talking with the blond bartender.
“How on earth do you happen to be here?” Clem asked, and Marten moved her away and through the crowd.
“I—needed a little bit of a distraction,” he said quickly, “and someone I met on the plane suggested this might be a good place to sample the London atmosphere.”
“I’m sure you could use a distraction.” Clem smiled sympathetically. “I’m here celebrating a friend’s birthday. Would you care to join us?”
“I—” Marten glanced back. VerMeer and the other man were turning from the bartender and starting through the crowd, coming toward them.
“That would be nice, thank you,” Marten said quickly and followed Clementine Simpson across the room toward a far table where a half-dozen professor types were gathered.
“Do you come here often?”
“When I’m in the city, yes. I have friends who have been gathering here for years. It’s what makes a good neighborhood pub.”
Marten took a chance and looked back. VerMeer had stopped and was staring in his direction; then the other man touched his sleeve and nodded toward the door. VerMeer watched a moment longer, then suddenly turned and followed the man out.
“Ms. Simpson.” Marten put a hand lightly on her arm.
“Clem.” She smiled.
“If you don’t mind,” he forced a grin, “Clem—I need to use the facilities.”
“Of course. Our table is just over here.”
Marten nodded and turned back, his eyes on the front door. There was no sign of VerMeer or the man with him. He glanced at the bar. There was a lull in business and the blond bartender was alone washing glasses. The other barman was nowhere in sight.
Marten wondered if VerMeer had asked the bartender about him, maybe even described him and given him a number to call if he saw him. Again, Marten looked to the front door. All he saw was patrons. He looked back to the bartender, hesitated for a moment, then decided to take the chance. Crossing to the bar, he walked to the end of it and ordered a draft beer. Twenty seconds later the bartender set a foaming glass on the bar in front of him.
“I’m looking for someone who is supposed to be a regular here.” Marten slid a twenty-pound note next to his glass. “A tip on an Internet chat room said he, or she, has great deals on apartment rentals. Whoever it is signs off with the initials I.M. I don’t know what their name is, maybe just I.M. or ‘Im,’ or if it’s a nickname or just short for something else.”
The barman looked at him carefully, as if he were trying to place him. Suddenly Marten was certain VerMeer had given him Marten’s description and the bartender was trying to decide if Marten was the man. Marten didn’t flinch, just waited. Then abruptly the barman leaned forward.
“Let me let you in on something, mate. A few minutes ago a police detective from Los Angeles asked me the same question about an I.M. A Scotland Yard inspector was with him, only neither of them said anything about a chat room or apartment rentals.” He glanced deliberately at the twenty-pound note near Marten’s sleeve and lowered his voice.
“Whatever you’re up to is your business, but I’ll tell you what I told the two of them. Man, woman, or a little of each, or just plain can’t tell, I’ve been behind this bar six nights a week for eleven years and in all that time I never once heard anyone or anything, for that matter, referred to as ‘Im’ or ‘I.M.’ or ‘Eyemmm!’ or with a bloody nickname that might fit like ‘Iron Mike’ or ‘Izzy Murphy’ or ‘Irene Mary.’ And if anyone else here knew, I would know because it’s my business to know because I’m also the owner. Understand?”
Marten nodded. “Yes.”
�
��Alright, then.” The barman reached out, took the twenty, and slid it into his apron. All the while his eyes stayed on Marten’s.
“Mr. Marten.” Clementine Simpson was at his sleeve. “Are you joining us?”
“I—” Marten looked at her and smiled. “I’m sorry, I got caught up in conversation.”
Quickly Marten picked up his beer glass, nodded to the bartender, and walked away with her. In total innocence she had just given the bartender his name.
“Clem,” he said, “if you don’t mind, I suddenly feel jet lag catching up with me. Another time, if that’s all right.”
“Of course, Mr. Marten. Will I see you at the clinic tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there in the morning.”
“So will I. Good night.”
Marten nodded a good night, then started for the door. He was tired and he had learned nothing. Moreover, he had exposed himself by talking with the bartender, and now the man even had his name.
“Damn,” he swore under his breath.
Discouraged, angry with himself, he was nearly at the front door when he saw a group of young people crowded around a table in a small room off to the side. Tacked to the wall behind them was a large red and white banner that read RUSSIAN SOCIETY GROUP.
Marten felt the sudden pound of his heart. There it was. The Russian thing again. A glance back toward the bar. The bartender was busy, not watching at all. Quickly Marten went into the room and walked up to the table. There were ten people in all, six men and four women, and they were all speaking Russian.
“Excuse me,” he said politely, “does anyone speak English?”
The response was a huge laugh.
“What do you want to know, mate?” A slight young man in thick glasses grinned broadly.
“I’m looking for someone called I.M. or,” he stole the bartender’s pronunciation, “Eyemmm, or with the initials or nickname I.M.”
Ten heads looked around the table at each other, and a moment later the same ten heads looked back. All had the same blank expression.
“Sorry, guv,” a black-haired man said.
Marten glanced at the hand-printed RUSSIAN SOCIETY GROUP sign tacked up on the wall behind them.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what does your group do?”
“We get together every couple of weeks to talk about the ins and outs of our homeland. Politics, social stuff, things like that,” the slim man in thick glasses said.
“What he really means is we’re all homesick,” a chubby blond girl said with a grin, and everyone laughed.
Marten smiled and studied them for a half beat longer. “What is going on in your homeland that might be worthy of discussion?” he asked casually. He was trying to get them to bring up April 7 on the off-chance they would know. “Something coming up the rest of the world might want to know about?”
The black-haired man grinned. “You mean besides the separatist movement, corruption, and the Russian mafia?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing, unless you want to believe the rumors that Parliament might vote to reinstate the monarchy and bring back the tsar.” The black-haired man grinned again. “Then we could be just like the Brits, give the people someone special to rally ’round. Not a bad idea if whoever he is is a decent fellow, because it would help take their minds off all the other crap that’s going on. But that, like every other big change that’s supposed to come back home, is nothing more than street drivel because it never happens. Still,” he shrugged, “that’s why we get together, so we can talk about those kinds of things and take the edge off being”—he glanced at the chubby blond girl—“homesick.”
They all laughed but Marten. Clearly they weren’t going to bring it up, so he did himself.
“Might I ask one thing more?” he said. “Does the date April 7 mean anything special to Russians, particularly people who live in Moscow? Is it some kind of local holiday? Does something unusual happen?”
The chubby blond girl grinned again. “I’m from Moscow, and as far as I know April 7 means April 7.” She looked around the table and giggled.
“She’s right, mate.” The slim man in thick glasses smiled in agreement. “April 7 is April 7.” Abruptly he leaned forward and became more serious. “Why?”
“Nothing.” Marten shrugged it off. It was the same answer the inspectors from the Russian Ministry of Justice had given when they were in L.A. “Someone suggested it was a holiday. I had never heard of it. I guess I misunderstood. Thanks, thanks very much.”
Marten turned to leave.
“But why the questions?” the young man asked again.
“Thanks again,” Marten said.
And then he was out of the room and gone.
8
THE HAMPSTEAD HOLIDAY INN. STILL MONDAY, APRIL 1. 11:35 P.M.
Nicholas Marten lay back against his pillow in the dark listening to the traffic pass outside. It was quieter than it had been when he’d gone out and quieter still than when he’d come back from Penrith’s Bar thirty minutes earlier. But it was there nonetheless, a steady hum, reminding him the city was very much awake.
The house on Uxbridge Street. Aubrey Collinson/the chartered jet. A chartered plane sent not once, but twice, and a huge expense for someone. The Russian Embassy. Penrith’s Bar and I.M., the Russian Society Group. April 7 in Russia/Moscow is just that, a date, April 7, nothing else. No new information at all. I learned nothing. He had picked up a small journal in the hotel gift shop that afternoon when he’d checked in and made his first notes just before he went to bed.
Maybe he had learned nothing—the afterthought to ask the painter about Aubrey Collinson had been nothing more than a shot in the dark—but the clues, like the city, were there just the same. The same as Gene VerMeer had been there. He knew there was every chance the LAPD detective had already received a call from the blond barman telling him a man bearing the description he had given him earlier had come into the bar asking about an I.M. He had been an American and his name had been Marten. Or Martin, as he probably heard it.
If it was true and the bartender had made the call, there was no question VerMeer would already be doing something about it, using his connections with Scotland Yard to scour every hotel in London for an American with the last name of Martin. How long would it be before they called this hotel and found there was an American named Marten registered there? VerMeer wouldn’t give a damn about the spelling, and it would only be a matter of time before there was a loud knock on his door.
Marten turned away and tried to forget what had happened. He probably shouldn’t have gone to Penrith’s Bar at all. Even if VerMeer hadn’t been looking for him, he had still been there inquiring about I.M. That fact alone meant the LAPD was still involved and hadn’t closed the Raymond file as completely as their public posture suggested. He had worried before that if they were still on the case he might cross paths with them, and he had. It was only by sheer luck that VerMeer hadn’t seen him, and it meant he had to really think about what he was doing. He and Rebecca were safely in London and blessed with the beginnings of a new life. He had to realize he simply did not have the luxury, if that was the word, of indulging his seducer and letting the unconscious addict inside him drag him back into the game. For his sake and hers, he had to promise himself to get Raymond and everything he had been about out of his mind. In that, he prayed VerMeer had never asked the blond bartender about him and that the bartender had never heard Clementine Simpson speak his name.
He glanced at the bedside clock.
11:59 P.M.
An emergency vehicle passed outside, its siren blaring, then quickly fading. Again came the sound of traffic and now a loud discussion from people passing in the hallway outside his room. Did London never sleep?
A moment passed and then two. For some reason he thought of the real Nicholas Marten. And the memory that went with it.
Ten days earlier, Friday, March 22—the same day as the massive police funeral for 5-2 Squad detectives Polch
ak, Lee, and Valparaiso—using a cane to help support a still very painful right leg, Marten, then John Barron, had boarded a flight from Los Angeles to Boston. From there he took a commuter flight to Montpelier, Vermont, where he spent the night.
Early the next morning he drove a rental car to the tiny village of Coles Corner, where he met Hiram Ott, the jovial, bear-sized publisher and editor of the Lyndonville Observer, a local newspaper serving rural north-central Vermont.
“His name was Nicholas Marten,” Hiram Ott said as he led Barron across an open, grassy field scattered with patches of melting snow, “Marten with an e, not Martin with an i. He was born the same month and year as you, but I guess you already know that.”
“Yes.” John Barron nodded, leaning on his cane as he picked his way over the uneven turf.
His meeting with Hiram Ott had been the work of Dan Ford, who, within days of the Metrolink shootout, had been promoted (or, as he put it, because of his close relationship with John Barron, expediently removed from the area) to a position as staff writer at the Los Angeles Times Washington bureau. He and his wife, Nadine, quickly found themselves living in a three-room apartment on the banks of the Potomac, and the outgoing French-born Nadine, very much at home in a city far more like her native Paris than Los Angeles, quickly found a job teaching French in an adult education program while her husband covered inside-the-beltway politics.
Yet for all the disruption and hubbub of change that kept Ford in a whirl eighteen hours a day, no one had taken away his Rolodex or his connections as a reporter or as an active alumnus of Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism.