Payback (12 page)

“I can't,” he said tiredly. “I don't even think I'd remember how to do it.”

She looked at him awhile. “I think I need to borrow your whisky, okay?”

11

The Naturalite Task Force, like the entire Los Angeles Detective Division, was based in Parker Center, a cluster of buildings in the style known loosely as Municipal Modern—a couple of slick high-rise boxes set around a network of concrete paths and municipal landscape.

By Monday evening at a quarter of nine, the Task Force consisted of a hundred and ten—county, state, and local policemen, some federal agents, and various minions of the District Attorney.

The room itself, as Mitchell approached it, appeared to be something like a clean fluorescent-lit football stadium, a furniture warehouse for gray metal desks, or a city newsroom with most of the reporters out gathering the news. About a dozen detectives were talking on the telephones and answering the calls; they were formal and polite; they said, “Yes ma'am” a lot and they swiveled in their chairs.

Mitchell glanced over at a roster on the wall:

A guy at a corner desk on the phone raised a hand at him. Mitchell went over, sat down. A tag on the jacket said Detective Ortega. Ortega, on the phone, saying “Yeah.… Uh-huh …” apparently patient, only doodling zeros on a long yellow pad, examining Mitchell who examined him back: a dark-skinned man, a little younger than Mitchell, thirty-four, thirty-five; an eccentric bony almost Indian face with a deadpan manner and aware-looking eyes. He had tight-kinked hair that was cropped very close and a nasty keloided scar on his jaw. He hung up the phone and said dryly, “Your friend.”

Mitchell said nothing; he lit a cigarette.

Ortega seemed to smile. “The lieutenant.”

“Uh-huh,” Mitchell said. “You mean Keebler.”

“Yeah. Uh-huh,” Ortega said. “That's the one.” They were facing each other at a gray metal desk with a butt-filled ashtray and a sad-looking plant.

“I got carried away,” Mitchell said, “just a little, and I called him an asshole.”

“When?”

“What
time
?” Mitchell said. “I don't know. This morning. At the plant. We make drugs that're supposed to be sterile and he's cruising in his street clothes and sneezing in the vats. Foreman tries to tell him very nicely where to go and your lieutenant gets pissy.”

“Uh-huh,” Ortega said. “Yeah. That's the one.” Looking at Mitchell very carefully; taking in the sweater and the jeans and the Guatemalan boots and the hair that was a little bit long but not styled. Ortega didn't seem very sure about Mitchell.

“You're the president, huh?”

“I think so,” Mitchell said.

“I don't know. You walked over I was thinking you were some kind of narc from downtown.”

“And you think that's a compliment.”

“Yeah. So do you.”

The telephone rang.

“I think you got me, Ortega.”

Ortega picked it up and said, “Yeah. Squad nine …” Mitchell turned around again and squinted at the wall. 9: Miscellaneous/Coordination. Ortega said, “Alexis, I'm about to knock off.… Yeah, if I see him. Right.” He hung up again and lit a cigarette.

Mitchell said, “What the hell's a sleeping car murder?”

Ortega glanced over at the roster on the wall. “Number seven,” he said.

“Thanks,” Mitchell told him.

“It's an old French movie. Half a dozen people getting murdered on a train. Appears to be random only later it's discovered that one of the victims was the actual target and the rest were just cover.”

Mitchell thought it over and shrugged; he said, “Anything's possible I guess.—And ‘litigants.' What's litigants?”

“Anyone who ever sued the company and lost. Consumers. Suppliers. And then we get a character like Billy McAllister who says you stole his company.”

“Conned,” Mitchell said. “He thinks I conned it, not stole it. Anyway, I heard he bought a beach in Majorca.”

“Yeah. So he did. He's retired,” Ortega said; he was opening a drawer. “Guy's thirty-four, he's got a hundred thousand dollars coming in every year from some software company. Talk about the life. The reason we called you here tonight,” he said flatly, “is we found a little goodie.”

He tossed it on the desk: a business-size envelope in fire-engine red. Mitchell looked down at it.
SPECIAL DELIVERY.
A whole lot of stamps. Postmark reading New York, N.Y. No sender's address. He could figure what it was; he could try to jump ahead now and figure how to act.

“It arrived at your office at the factory at six,” Ortega said.

Mitchell looked up. “You just happened to be there.”

“Lieutenant just happened. On the other hand, it does kind of scream for attention, though—doesn't it?” Ortega leaned forward in his chair. “You can touch it if you want to. The envelope's dusted.”

Mitchell picked it up, turned it over; it was sealed. He looked quickly at Ortega. “You think it's a—what?”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don't know. I haven't opened it.”

“A blackmail letter. And, simply for the honor roll, we haven't either.”

“Opened it.”

“Yeah.”

“Uh-huh,” Mitchell said. “Yeah. I imagine that'd be against the law.”

“That's right,” Ortega nodded.

“Uh-huh. What's it say?”

“It's a blackmail letter.”

“I see.”

“You want to open it?”

“No,” Mitchell said. He was thinking that anybody'd hesitate a little so it really didn't matter; he was thinking how to frown: “Jewelry? Dogtags? Hell, beats
me
.” He was thinking: or just spill the whole fucking story, get it over with. He opened the envelope. “So.—Now what?”

“Now we're all cool,” Ortega said, his eyes moving up again and studying the face: poker face. Cool. Actor. Not a bad actor in a way, but an actor, he was thinking. “Go on,” Ortega said, and then waited while the president flattened out the letter, then watched him as he looked at it, read the thing rapidly, registered—what?—just a flicker of relief—and then started at the top again.

Mitchell looked up. “Two million dollars—cash. To a post office box in Vienna—as if you didn't know it—or the poisonings resume. He says possibly in Europe.”

“Let me see,” Ortega said.

“Cut the bullshit, Ortega. Is he serious? You think this is really from the guy?”

“I think this is postmarked Saturday, Mitchell.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Mitchell handed him the letter. “So it's either from the killer or it's somebody's heavy into e.s.p.”

“Considering we didn't know shit until Sunday … yeah,” Ortega said. He shrugged and asked Mitchell if he wanted any coffee. Looking at the envelope, Mitchell said yes, and then looked at Ortega going half across the room to a table with a pot. He wanted more coffee like he wanted more sweat, more nerve endings and more general commotion but it bought a little time.

He looked at the letter. It was typed on some not very classy looking bond and it started like a shot:

By now you're aware I'm

doing serious business …

He could narrow his eyes and just think about the postcard: Mickey Mouse, not a very serious rodent. Dancing: not a very serious job. He could think about the phone call from “Cat” in New York. And the answering machine that said Marian Cleaver. He could put it together, he could tear it apart. He could think about a guy who'd leave his ladyfriend's number and a guy who'd start giving him an Austrian box. He could think, if he wanted, it was two different guys. He could think what he wanted, but he wasn't necessarily convinced it was true.

The telephone rang. Ortega, coming back with the coffee, picked it up with his bored, “Squad nine … Uh-huh.” He sat down again and swiveled in his chair. He said, “No, not yet.” He said, “No, I don't think so.” He said, “Listen, Alexis, he's either out looking for a psychopathic killer or he's screwing with a hooker. I'm giving you a choice.” He hung up the phone and said elliptically, “Wives …”

Mitchell said nothing.

“My partner, okay? I said to him, McGinty—you want the kind of lady stays home, cooks a stew, what happens is, the lady stays home cooks a stew. You can't win,” Ortega said.

Mitchell looked at him carefully and said, “When you're ready.”

Ortega said, “I'm ready, I just have nothing very interesting to say.” He lit a cigarette. “You want to understand something,” he said. “I can't tell you not to answer that letter. I can tell you it's stupid, but it's not against the law.—You want to answer it?”

“Why? You want to fuck around a box in Vienna?”

“We can't. It's in a bank. It's a numbered account. We could try to put pressure on the Austrian government—”

“Forget it,” Mitchell said. “You're gonna whistle in your hat. Vienna. You know about the bankers in Vienna? You ever get ahold of some real dirty money, take it over to Vienna. They don't ask your name. You pick yourself a code. You call yourself John Q. Public if you want. ‘You don't have a permanent address, Mr. Public? Hey—no problem and have a nice day.' The point is they couldn't even turn the guy in if they wanted to.”

“The point is they don't,” Ortega said. “The point is the money'll be legally protected till the guy picks it up.”

“Like a year from now.”

“Maybe.”

“Terrific,” Mitchell said. “So there's nothing you can do.”

Ortega leaned back again and swiveled in his chair. “Not a lot,” he said flatly. “We can keep it from the press. That way I figure we can buy a little time. A guy's gonna threaten you with Money Or Else, he's gonna save his Or Else until he knows about the money. You can stall him for a while.”

“For a while,” Mitchell said. “You mean four-and-a-half days. He says Saturday at noon. Or else.”

“So he says.”

“Would you gamble with it?”

“Personally? No,” Ortega said. “And then, on the other hand, four-and-a-half days is still four-and-a-half days. Figure anything can happen.”

“Yeah?” Mitchell nodded. “What's the chances that it would?”

Ortega looked away.

Mitchell said nothing, just waited.

“You want to know the truth?” Ortega said. “Shitty. Really bad. That's catching him at all. You want to catch him in a hurry …?” Ortega let it slide.

***

Mitchell walked around. It was drizzling a little and the neighborhood was shit, spooky, deserted, and if anybody wanted to mug him at the moment, he'd be happy for the fight. But the shadows were empty. He passed a few bag ladies sleeping in the doorways, the doorways leading into needle manufacturers and Fine Arts Fans and Metropolitan Carting. Shadows in the dark. Six-story buildings from the turn of a century that turned out badly. As Mitchell himself.

At the corner of Fifth Street, he thought about calling Ortega from a booth.

That, or he could actually save himself the trouble and go in there and hang himself directly with the cord. It was similar action. He'd checked it this morning and the law hadn't changed. Desertion from the army, desertion during war, “
desertion with intent to avoid hazardous duty or to shirk important service, may be tried and punished without limitation.… Obtaining a fraudulent release from the service may also be punished without limitation
.” The Table of Punishments offered him a choice. A decade of slaving over rocks in a quarry, or a reasonable supper and a last cigarette.

And that would be that.

And Cy would sell the rights for a television movie.

Then he'd put a summary end to the company, chop it up for kindling, and buy Ralph Lauren for his personal retainer.

(“Hey, Ralph—you want to do me up an alligator shirt? Real alligator, baby.”)

He thought a little more. There was time, is what he thought. Four-and-a-half days is still four-and-a-half days. He could quarantine the product all around the world, leaving no one in danger. He could give himself a chance. He could do things. Now. He wasn't sure what, but he could go into a phone booth and turn into a cat.

He picked up the phone. Lighting a cigarette, he asked for the number in New York City of a Marian Cleaver. He didn't want to put it on his telephone credit so he fumbled for the change. A few rings later he had the machine. “
This is Marian Cleaver. I'm sorry I can't take your call right now
…” “Me too,” Mitchell told her, and found another quarter. Looking at his watch now, he booked himself a ticket on the midnight red-eye. He finished his cigarette. Then he went home.

***

Joanna, dressed, was standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring at the arctic mayhem of the freezer. He'd come in quietly and leaned against the door. It seemed to him a small miracle she'd waited and he watched her as Arthur might have looked at Excalibur rising in his hand. She chipped through the ice, rescuing a Baggie of hard-frozen bagels, and turned.

“How long've you been watching me?” she said.

He shrugged. “Since I was six. You haven't changed much either. You were always such a definite, hungry little girl.”