Secret Dead Men (11 page)

"That was all he had left?" Paul asked. "For an inventor of something as important as..." He faked a pause, as if struggling to remember. He was trying to make her give away an extra detail.

It didn't work. "No, that was all," Susannah said, and took another clean sip from her glass. "The government basically stole the patent, and probably gave him a million to shut him up. Part of me didn't even want to take the money--I didn't enjoy earning it through my parents death, or for that matter, that my father had earned it inventing a tool that sent thousands to their deaths in Vietnam."

"The guilt must have been awful," Richard said.

Thank God I wasn't the one conducting this case. I couldn't imagine spending any more than 20 minutes with this drama queen.

Paul said, "And you took the money."

Susannah shot him a pair of icy daggers. "Yes, I took the money. I had nothing. And I wasn't going to refuse my late father's apology."

"Was that necessary, Mr. After?" asked Richard.

"I'm sorry if I offended either one of you," Paul said. "I'm simply trying to establish motive." He looked directly at Susannah. "Besides, I think I know where your story is headed. Out of the blue, your East Village friend catches wind of your windfall and takes the next cheap bus up to Boston to try for a second chance at love. With a fist or a pistol, if necessary."

"No," said Susannah, looking pleased with herself. "I never saw the boy again."

"Then who's after you?"

"Oh," she said, then laughed to herself. "You thought the man after me was ...
him?
Please. No, no, Mr. After, I didn't have Richard bring you all the way from Los Angeles to protect me from a scummy painter boy. We've hired you to protect me from a professional killer."

Boy, I thought. Professional killers were everywhere this time of year.

* * * *

"Come again?" Paul asked.

"Of course, I didn't know he was a pro at the time. He was all fancy French wines and exotic meals at first. He told me he was an international banker. Only later did I realize his most recent
target
was an international banker. That's how he knew so much about the lifestyle. He was--is--a professional chameleon."

"What's his name?"

"The name he used? Roger Adams. I'm sure it's fake."

Paul took the opportunity to stand up. I was suddenly thrown off by the sudden change of perspective. Even flashed up on the screen of the hotel lobby, sudden motion always gave me a touch of vertigo.

"Ms. Winston, can you tell me anything about the daily schedule of this Adams? I happen to know a great deal about these types of men..."

Understatement of the year!

"...and it would help to understand his habits."

"I didn't see him often enough to learn a routine. You see, I've been traveling for a while. I mean, was. Travel brought me to Philadelphia, and to Richard."

The sap smiled as if this was some sort of personal achievement.

"Right after my parents died, I decided I wanted to see the world. I met Roger months later, in Paris, while I was staying in a small artists' tenement. The rent was cheap, and the conversations--the ones I understood at least--were phenomenal. Everyone I met was either a novelist, or a painter, or graphic designer..."

Was there a pistol in this hotel lobby? I asked myself. Can I put myself out of my misery now?

She went on at length about the wonders of cafe life, and how she was completely bedazzled by the Great and Powerful Roger Adams, and what they ate for dinner (shark), and what they drank afterward (vodka gimlets), and what pretentious poetry they talked about (Auden).... To his credit, Paul let her ramble. I guess he didn't want to insult her again. Or maybe she lulled him to sleep. Her beloved Richard Gard, I noticed, was looking droopy around the eyes. Paul waited until she talked herself dry before nudging the conversation back towards the topic at hand.

"And you saw him only once in Paris?"

"Yes, but we met up many, many times after. He traveled a lot on business and I found myself tagging along. It was fun and it gave my traveling a kind of purpose. I felt alive again. Until reality reared its ugly head."

"When did you first realize?" Paul asked.

"When I found the gun in his suitcase, and the dossier."

Ah. Now here's where Ms. Winston was tripping herself up. And I didn't need Paul's expertise to know it. Pro killers didn't carry a pistol, singular; they carried a portable arsenal. Knives, clips, guns, poisons, knucks, the works. And a dossier? Yeah. Unless it's tattooed onto their lower intestine for emergency reference, all the pros I've encountered never kept written info on their person. It was memorized, or locked away in a safe location.

Of course, Paul knew it too. I could sense him smirking. "A dossier?"

"Yes. Photographs, addresses, social security records--everything."

Paul nodded. "Where were you when you made this discovery?"

"In Dublin. I'd been dying to go ever since I read
Portraits of the Artists as Young Men.
I've long loved Joyce--and art history. Especially the chapter about Picasso."

"Ah, yes," Paul said. "It's a classic."

My God. Who the hell did she think she was fooling? One look at Richard Gard supplied my answer. Gard wouldn't know James Joyce from a Rolls Royce.

Then again, I wondered if Paul would.

Susannah continued, "We stayed at the Westbury, of course. Roger slipped out for a couple of paperbacks for the plane home, and I was bored sitting in the room all by myself. I let my eyes wander."

Richard Gard suddenly spoke up. He'd probably been dying to talk for the past ten minutes. "And that's when you found the gun."

"And the dossier," Paul added.

"Yes." Susannah paused for the requisite amount of time. "I didn't know what to do. Part of me wanted to play the innocent, and ask Roger about the things I'd found when he returned. But then the sane part of me took over. I knew he'd kill me once I'd found out. Then I heard the room key turn in the lock.

Richard actually winced.

"It was Roger, of course. I slid the files back into his briefcase and nudged the briefcase off the side of the bed, praying it wouldn't make too loud a noise, or flip over and spill its contents. But thankfully, it didn't. Just one thump, which the sound of the door closing again completely covered.

"I asked Roger if he'd found anything good. He told me, 'Nothing.' Then he asked me what I'd been up to. I said, 'Nothing.' There was an uncomfortable moment between us. I knew he sensed something, so I tried changing the topic. I told him I wanted to go downstairs for a drink, maybe buy a couple of magazines. He told me no. I said, 'What do you mean, no?' And he repeated himself. 'You're not going anywhere.' So, like any sensible woman, I told him he could fuck off and I started to walk past him. He punched me in the face."

That seemed to impact Paul and Richard as well. As much as men didn't like to be told stories about women being raped, they sure as hell didn't like to hear about men slapping women around. It was an indictment of the whole gender. By mere virtue of having a penis, we belonged to the guilty party.

"I was stunned. Before I could scream out or cry for help, he hit me again, slapping me hard across the face. I could hardly breathe. The next memory I have is of Roger pinning me to the bed, his thick monkey fingers wrapped around my throat, threatening to kill me if I ever walked out on him again."

Then the eruption of tears began. "I don't know what you must think of me," she said. "Oh wait. I know. You must be thinking, 'What kind of girl would get herself involved with the same kind of trash, over and over ... ?'"

Richard went to her and started to rub her back. "Believe me, Susannah," he cooed. "I don't think any of those things. I've heard far worse stories in my time."

"None like this." Susannah buried her face in her hands. "I'm sorry..."

"Sorry? God, why are you sorry?"

"For me. For my past."

Richard put down his drink and rested his hands on her shoulders.

Paul cleared his throat. "Go back for a moment. What happened after he hit you?"

"He took a shower." Susannah sipped her drink. "Right then, as if nothing had happened. I couldn't take that abuse anymore, boyfriend or not."

"Then what did you do?"

Susannah paused. "I decided to run."

"Go on, baby," Richard said.

"I ... I rushed out with all my things, but stopped at pile of his clothes, the ones he'd taken off before his shower. And I know I shouldn't have, but I..."

"But you .. ?" Paul prompted.

Susannah's eyes turned his way. "I took a pack of hotel matches and set his clothes on fire. He was always bragging about his stuff. He treated his goddamned shirts better than he treated me."

Richard looked at her hard. "Which is how the room caught fire, right?"

"The room caught fire?" Paul asked.

"Yes," Richard said. "That much, she'd told me. He died in a fire."

"God as my witness, I didn't know! I didn't know!" she cried. "When I saw on the news later about the fire..." Susannah took another sip and stared off as if she was watching the broadcast again. "I knew he was dead."

"So the guy who sent you the note can't be your ex, can he?" Richard asked.

"He can't be ... but what if he is? Oh, God, Richard, this man is a murderer! He didn't tell me he killed anyone until after we got to Europe! He said it was going to be our honeymoon!"

"Note?" Paul asked.

I wondered if this was how super-lawyer Richard Gard introduced exhibits in the courtroom. I knew who I
wouldn't
be calling when it came time to bring down the Association in federal court.

Richard walked over to his briefcase and removed a thin sheet of paper from a manila folder. He handed it to Paul. It was incredibly flimsy and glossy--a photocopy.

L--

You're dead.

All my love,

R

"This is not very specific," Paul said. "Sure it's not a prank?"

"No," said Richard. "We're not. But I'm not ready to take any chances."

"Who's 'L'?" Paul asked.

"Me," said Susannah.

"Oh. It's Susannah with an L?"

She scowled. "No. It's a stupid nickname he gave me--Lemondrop. My sweet and sour Lemondrop, he'd always say." She looked away, covering her face with a tiny balled-up fist.

Richard walked over and sat down to hug her. "Don't worry. Shhh. I'll take care of everything."

"He's going to kill me, Richard."

"No one's going to kill you."

Susannah broke the hug. "You don't know. You don't."

"Shhh. Nothing's going to happen to you."

Susannah resumed the hug, and behind his back, with tears running down her face, smiled. "You're too good to me, Richard."

* * * *

I couldn't glom a vibe from Paul. He was trying too hard to be his noncommittal, professional self. But I did catch a glimmer of a thought:
I can't believe I'm watching this.
Or it might have been:
I can't believe I'm involved in this.
Or, quite possibly:
I can't believe a word of this.

"She's lying, you know."

I spun around. The Ghost of Fieldman had been standing in the Brain Hotel lobby, watching the scene with me. He had a Houdini-like knack for sudden appearances. I should have told him to go back to Vegas to start his own show.

"Which part?" I asked. "The rich inventor father? The Greenwich Village artist-rapist? The international hit man?"

"No man named "Winston" ever invented anything for any branch of United States military during the 20th century."

"Maybe the government can keep a few secrets. Even from you."

"Not likely. You want to know what is in the tap water in 1976? What the Air Force
really
found in Roswell, New Mexico? Why the United States Government invented static cling?"

"Stop," I said. "Please. I'm only keeping an eye on Paul to make sure he knows what he's doing, then I'm going back to work."

"Ah, your quest for the Nevada crime syndicate. The entity you refer to as 'The Association.'"

"That's right. Aren't you supposed to be helping me with my quest, Buddha man? Isn't that what you told me back in Henderson?"

"Yes, I did say I was here to help, but not with that particular quest. You are wasting your days with that, Collective. The musical genre known as
disco
will outlive your 'Association.'"

"Disco is all over the radio, in case you haven't noticed."

"I am absolutely
amazed
at how little you absorb, Collective. I'm not sure how your delicate sensibilities are going to survive the Sex Pistols."

I'd had enough. "Stuff it, Fieldman. And stop calling me 'Collective.' You make me feel like an accountant."

The Ghost of Fieldman shook his head and faded away.

* * * *

I rejoined the conversation already in progress. Richard was back from refilling drinks. "Sweetheart, why don't you fill in the gaps--you know, some physical description?"

Paul smiled. "Anything helps."

Susannah caught herself staring at Paul, but recovered nicely. She started to plow through the information as if she were up all night practicing. "Roger is a short guy with a Napoleon complex. Last time I saw him--this was five years ago, now--he had short-cropped hair. Very Italian-looking. I used to go for that sort of thing when I was young."

"Distinguishing features?"

"He had these deep-set eyes. Almost looked like they were black. A wide smile ... and an awful limp."

"A genetic marvel," said Richard, chuckling.

"He was once shot in the knee cap."

Paul asked, "Anything else?"

"He's very nondescript. People used to say he looked like somebody they knew."

Paul studied Susannah, who narrowed her eyes.

"So what can I expect from you, Mr. Paul After?"

"I find your man and have a nice chat with him. Maybe we'll compare dossiers or talk about firearms."

"And what if he doesn't want to have a nice chat?"