Hard Stop (36 page)

“Who’s this?” he said.

“Sam Acquillo. How’re the nuts? Still working?”

It was quiet a moment.

“I told you not to call me.”

“I’ve never been good at following directions.”

“What do you want?”

“Your ass. Now that I’ve met the rest of you, it’s irresistible.”

“I told you I’d meet with you.”

“You did. I’m ready now.”

I tapped a Camel far enough out of the pack to pull it out with my teeth. I lit it with one hand, bending the match in half and striking it with my thumb, a move I learned in high school. The hell with rations, I thought. Not today.

“My patience has just about run out with you, Acquillo.”

“You remember where they found Iku?”

“Vedders Pond.”

“Meet me there at exactly twelve noon. That’s almost two hours from now.”

I hung up and finished my cigarette and made a pot of coffee, which I took out to the Adirondacks to drink while watching the morning sun burn off the haze and heat up the day.

On the way to Vedders Pond I listened to public radio, which was promoting a Mozart festival at Southampton College. That was a nice surprise. Mozart always had a calming effect on me.

I knew Angel would want to arrive a little early, so I got there a little earlier than that. The sun was reaching its high point of the day, so there was still plenty of light falling through the trees and glancing off the surface of the pond.

I lit a cigarette and sat down Buddha-style in front of the statuette of the Virgin Mary, who accepted the irony without remark.

Angel’s black Mercedes AMG showed up a few minutes later.

He had a sideman with him who looked a little like Frankenstein, tall as a tree with a squared-off jaw and crew cut. Everything but the little bolts in his neck.

“Hey, who’s your handsome friend? You guys going together?” I said, trying to set the right tone.

“Don’t mind if we stand,” said Angel, looking around the rocky, weed-infested lawn.

“I’d rather you sit. More friendly.”

He didn’t like it but he dropped his lumbering bulk to the ground and ordered his pet ghoul to follow suit.

“So, what’re you peddling?” he asked me, after getting semi-comfortable.

“That’s all the foreplay I get?”

“Enough of that shit,” said Valero. “What’s the deal?”

“Okay. Silence. That’s the offer on the table. You pay me whatever I think it’s worth to stay quiet about your conspiracy with Jerome Gelb and Iku Kinjo to,” I used my fingers to tick off the list, “threaten exposure of Con Globe’s fraudulent sale of the TSS division, in return for George Donovan agreeing to break up the company, and to sell the most valuable assets to you. How am I doing so far?”

“Depends on what you have to back that up,” he said.

“What about you?” I asked his silent partner. “What’s your opinion?”

He just stared at me.

“His opinion is he’s looking forward to ripping off your arms and legs,” said Valero. “But don’t let that distract you.”

“Okay,” I said. “You want back-up.”

I reached in the laundry bag and pulled out Iku’s computer. Angel frowned.

“It’s hers. You can see the little Eisler, Johnson sticker on the bottom.” I showed him. “It’s got her name and some kind of code. I’ve already had a night to go through the files. It’s all there. Even some of Ozzie’s ginned-up spreadsheets. Is that what you showed him before he killed himself?”

“Okay,” said Angel.

“Okay what?”

“Okay. What’ll it cost me to get that computer back?”

“You told me to start discounting. So I did, and got all the way to zero.”

“You don’t want anything?” he said.

“I’m not saying that. I don’t want any money. Just a single piece of information.”

“What?”

“Why did you kill Iku Kinjo?”

The tall guy started to stand, looking at Angel for the go-ahead. Angel leaned back against a tree stump and waved him forward.

“Get me that computer,” he said.

The guy was so long and awkward, it took him forever to get all the way to his feet, plenty of time for me to knock over the Madonna and retrieve Marve Judson’s gun. I pointed it at Angel’s head.

“Up to you,” I said. He opted to have Frankenstein retake his seat.

“Answer,” I said, now aiming the barrel of the gun at Angel’s chest.

“Gelb told me she was losing it, on the verge of blowing the whistle. He was freaking out, but I said it was just a case of pre-deal jitters. Happens to people. I’d already put the thing on hold when she stopped returning our calls. I figured she’d snap out of it. I’m a patient man. I could give it a month. After that, who needs her? We had the goods from Endicott. The only one who’d want to fight us was Donovan, and he was dead man walking, thanks to Iku. It’s all documented in there,” he said, pointing to the computer. “Which you probably know.”

I held up the laptop with the hand not holding the automatic.

“And you killed her for it,” I said.

He shook his shaggy head like the enraged bull he was.

“Gelb, that pinheaded geek, showed up at my house with her computer. He said people were nosing around his office, so it was safer here with me. He didn’t say where he got it, but when I heard the news about Iku the next day, I figured it out. I should’ve never got involved with that piece of crap, but that’s business.”

I could see it all starting with a phone conversation, or a harried meeting. Bobby Dobson telling Jerome Gelb some guy’s looking for Iku. The description fits Floyd Patterson. Alarms start to go off. Dobson says this couldn’t happen at a worse time. Iku’s having some kind of emotional breakdown. He tells Gleb that she’s fallen hard for George Donovan, and that her remorse over what she’d set out to do was about to drive her into the arms of the state’s Attorney General. Gelb is now really starting to panic. He tells Bobby that he has to see Iku, to talk some sense into her. In a rare display of character, the weak-willed Dobson holds out, though he gives up Iku’s disposable cell number. Gelb then hits the jackpot with Zelda. She gives up everything, including the location of Iku’s bedroom, right inside the patio door, which is completely hidden from the street and the other houses. He knocks, and in her semi-stupor she opens the door.

As the head of Eisler, Johnson’s Tokyo office for ten years, Gelb knew something about Japanese ritual suicide, but hadn’t counted on her putting up such a fight. After trying without success to slash her throat, as the practice dictates, he was forced to jam the knife straight up into her brain. A faked-up suicide was still a worthwhile misdirection, so he cleaned up as well as he could and staged Iku in the middle of her bed. Then he unplugged the computer, dropped the Cat 5 cable down behind the dresser, and strolled back out the way he came.

I shared this thinking with Angel Valero.

“All I gave a shit about was leveraging Donovan’s wandering dick into a takeover of Con Globe assets and a quick liquidation,” he said. “I liked that girl. I didn’t kill her.”

I put down the computer and took the digital recorder out of my inside jacket pocket. I shut it off and set it on the ground.

“Maybe not directly, but you played your part. So did everybody else. Even the ones who loved her,” I said.

We heard sirens in the near distance. Angel’s face had reddened considerably during our conversation, but the tone now shifted toward purple. I hoped he wouldn’t pop an artery before the various authorities were done with him.

“I might forgive you for nailing a brain to my door and sending two of your countrymen to kill me,
El Cerebro
, but their families probably won’t,” I said, watching the blue lights from Sullivan’s undercover and a pair of patrol cars light up the surrounding trees, mixing uncomfortably with the golden red glow off the pond as it reflected the sun at the apogee of its daily arc.

H
ODGES’S BOAT ISN’T MUCH
of a speedster but it’s easy to handle in heavy air, which is what we had that day out on the Little Peconic Bay. Burton was at the helm, his preferred location. Hodges was below cooking lunch and the rest of us were sprawled around the cockpit trying not to spill our cocktails as we dug fresh fruit out of the plastic bowl Amanda was passing around.

Eddie was forward, warning creatures of the deep to stay clear, and occasionally monitoring the sky for incoming birds of prey.

The Nat King Cole Trio was on the stereo and the only discordant note was coming from Jackie Swaitkowski, who was trying to engage Burton in a legal debate.

Jackie thought I still had a good case for pursuing my share of the intellectual property settlement from the shattered remains of Con Globe, most of which had now been absorbed into the Société Commerciale Fontaine.
Burton differed, citing the clarity and underlying validity of my original severance agreement, though he pointed out that the indictment and subsequent resignation of George Donovan, and the fraud he help perpetuate, might render the entire agreement moot.

With Angel Valero, Mason Thigpen and Marve Judson selling Donovan and each other out as fast as their lawyers could write up their statements, it looked like Honest Boy would get his wish. Everything and everybody relating to Con Globe was blown to smithereens and scattered on the wind.

Including Jerome Gelb, though the FBI had yet to discover where the wind had scattered him to. They felt the circumstantial case was strong enough to charge first-degree murder, but my better hope was that one of Angel Valero’s remaining Venezuelan associates would get there first and render that argument permanently moot.

“Well, I’m not ready to give up on Sam’s financial prospects,” said Jackie. “It’s the only way I’m going to see any money out of that client.”

I didn’t have the heart to argue with her, but the fact is, I was happy with things they way they were.

I worked my way from amidships to the pulpit, where I sat down to watch the water race under the bow, put my arm around my dog, and ponder the ineluctable modality of pure dumb luck.

Thanks to Mary Farrell for indispensible help and understanding. Thanks to Marty and Judy Shepard, wonderful editors, publishers and human beings. Likewise, Marion Garner of Random House Canada, and her associate Anne Collins, who put a lie to the notion that there are no great editors left in the world.

Beloved readers Randy Costello and Sean Cronin were again critical to getting the book off the ground, with special thanks to Sean for instruction in lethal weapons of personal destruction. Thanks to Bob Willemin for a tour of the financial lunatic fringe, and to Rich Orr, Cindy Courtney and Norman Block for legal guidance (all fiction-related, mind you).

Abiding thanks to Anne-Marie Regish for astounding logistical accomplishments, and my Mintz & Hoke partners Bill Field and Ron Perine for the airspace and generous support.

Heidi Lamar and Laurence Willis helped me understand what you can and cannot do with secure data streams and
laptop computers. Susan Ahlquist continues to fiercely attend to production detail. My brother Whit, with tweaks from Randy Costello, cleaned up my Spanish. Paige Goettel was responsible for the profane French, so if you’re offended, blame her.