The Client (50 page)

“Two or three. I can’t do it. They’re watching every move I make. If I go near the place, I’ll just lead them to it.”

Plenty stupid, all right. He blew a smoke ring. “A parking lot? A sidewalk?”

“Under a garage.” Barry shifted again, and kept his eyes on the floor.

Johnny blew another smoke ring. “A garage. A parking garage?”

“A garage behind a house.”

He studied the thin layer of ashes at the end of the cigar, then slowly placed it between his teeth. He wasn’t stupid, he was dumb. He puffed it twice. “When you say house, do you mean a house on a street with other houses near it?”

“Yeah.” At the time of the burial, Boyd Boyette had been in his trunk for twenty-five hours. Options were limited. He was near panic, and was afraid to leave the city. It wasn’t such a bad idea at the time.

“And these other houses have people living in them, right? People with ears and eyes?”

“I haven’t met them, you know, but I would assume so.”

“Don’t get cute with me.”

Barry slid an inch in his chair. “Sorry,” he said.

Johnny stood and walked slowly to the tinted windows directly above the river. He shook his head in disbelief, and puffed his cigar in frustration. Then he turned and walked back to his seat. He placed the cigar in the ashtray and leaned forward on his elbows. “Whose house?” he asked, stonefaced and ready to explode.

Barry swallowed hard and recrossed his legs. “Jerome Clifford’s.”

There was no eruption. Johnny was known to have ice water in his veins, and took great pride in staying cool. He was a rarity in this profession, but his
level head had made him lots of money. And kept him alive. He placed his left hand completely over his mouth as if there were no way he could believe this. “Jerome Clifford’s house,” he repeated.

Barry nodded. At the time, Clifford had been skiing in Colorado, and Barry knew this because Clifford had invited him to go. He lived alone in a big house with dozens of shady trees. The garage was a separate structure sitting by itself in the backyard. It was a perfect place, he had thought, because no one would ever suspect it.

And he’d been right—it was a perfect place. The feds hadn’t been near it. It was not a mistake. He’d planned to move it later. The mistake had been to tell Clifford.

“And you want me to send in three men to dig it up, without making a sound, and dispose of it properly?”

“Yes sir. It could save my ass.”

“Why do you say this?”

“Because I’m afraid this kid knows where it is, and he’s disappeared. Who knows what he’s doing? It’s just too risky. We gotta move the body, Johnny. I’m begging you.”

“I hate beggars, Barry. What if we get caught? What if a neighbor hears something and calls the cops, and they show up, just checkin’ on a prowler, you know, and, son of a bitch, there’s three boys diggin’ up a corpse.”

“They won’t get caught.”

“How do you know! How’d you do it? How’d you bury him in concrete without getting caught?”

“I’ve done it before, okay.”

“I wanna know!”

Barry straightened himself a bit, and recrossed his legs. “The day after I hit him, I unloaded six bags of ready-mix at the garage. I was in a truck with bogus tags, dressed like a yard boy, you know. No one seemed to notice. The nearest house is a good thirty yards away, and there’s trees everywhere. I went back at midnight in the same truck and unloaded the body in the garage. Then I left. There’s a ditch behind the garage, and a park on the other side of the ditch. I just walked through the trees, climbed across the ditch, and sneaked into the garage. Took about thirty minutes to dig a shallow grave, put the body in it, and mix the concrete. The floor of the garage is gravel, white rock, you know. I went back the next night, after the stuff had dried, and covered it with the gravel. He’s got this old boat, and so I rolled the boat back over it. When I left, everything was perfect. Clifford never had a clue.”

“Until you told him, of course.”

“Yeah, until I told him. It was a mistake, I admit.”

“Sounds like a lot of hard work.”

“I’ve done it before, okay. It’s easy. I was gonna move it later, but then the feds got involved and they’ve followed me for eight months.”

Johnny was nervous now. He relit the cigar and returned to the window. “You know, Barry,” he said, looking at the water, “you’ve got some talent, boy, but you’re an idiot when it comes to removing the evidence. We’ve always used the Gulf out there. Whatever happened to barrels and chains and weights?”

“I promise it won’t happen again. Just help me now, and I’ll never make this mistake again.”

“There won’t be a next time, Barry. If you somehow survive this, I’m gonna let you drive a truck for a while, then maybe run a fence for a year or so. I don’t
know. Maybe you can go to Vegas and spend a little time with Rock.”

Barry stared at the back of the silver head. He’d lie for the moment, but he would not drive a truck or fence or kiss Rock’s ass. “Whatever you say, Johnny. Just help me.”

Johnny returned to his seat behind the desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess it’s urgent.”

“Tonight. This kid’s on the loose. He’s scared, and it’s just a matter of time before he tells someone.”

Johnny closed his eyes and shook his head.

Barry continued. “Give me three men. I’ll tell them exactly how to do it, and I promise they won’t get caught. It’ll be easy.”

Johnny nodded slowly, painfully. Okay. Okay. He stared at Barry. “Now get the hell outta here.”

AFTER SEVEN HOURS OF SEARCHING, CHIEF TRIMBLE DECLARED St. Peter’s to be free of Mark Sway. He huddled in the lobby near Admissions with his officers, and pronounced the search over. They would continue to patrol the tunnels and walkways and corridors, and stand guard at the elevators and stairwells, but they were all now convinced the kid had eluded them. Trimble called McThune at his office with the news.

McThune was not surprised. He had been briefed periodically throughout the morning as the search fizzled. And there was no sign of Reggie. Momma Love had been bothered twice, and now she refused to answer the door. She’d told them to either produce a search warrant, or get the hell off her property. There was no probable cause for a search warrant, and he suspected Momma Love knew this. The hospital had
consented to the wiring of the phone in Room 943. Less than thirty minutes earlier, two agents, posing as orderlies, had entered the room while Dianne was down the hall talking to the Memphis police. Instead of inserting the device, they simply switched phones. They were in the room less than a minute. The child, they reported, was asleep and never moved. The line was direct to the outside, and tapping in through the hospital switchboard would’ve taken at least two hours and involved other people.

Clint had not been found, but there was no valid reason to obtain a search warrant for his apartment, so they simply watched it.

Harry Roosevelt had been located in a rented boat somewhere along the Buffalo River in Arkansas. McThune had talked to him around eleven. Harry was livid, to say the least, and was now en route to the city.

Ord had called Foltrigg twice during the morning, but, uncharacteristically, the great man had little to say. The brilliant strategy of ambush by subpoena had blown up in his face, and he was plotting some serious damage control.

K. O. Lewis was already on board Director Voyles’s jet, and two agents had been dispatched to meet him at the airport. He would arrive around two.

An all-points bulletin for Mark Sway had been on the national wire since early morning. McThune was reluctant to add the name of Reggie Love to it. Though he hated lawyers, he found it difficult to believe one would actually help a child escape. But as the morning dragged on and there was no sign of her, he became convinced that their disappearances were more than coincidental. At eleven, he added her name to the APB, along with a physical description and a comment
that she was probably traveling with Mark Sway. If they were in fact together, and if they had crossed a state line, the offense would be federal and he’d have the pleasure of nailing her.

There was little to do but wait. He and George Ord feasted on cold sandwiches and coffee for lunch. Another phone call, another reporter asking questions. No comment.

Another phone call, and Agent Durston walked into the office and held up three fingers. “Line three,” he said. “It’s Brenner at the hospital.” McThune hit the button. “Yeah,” he barked at the phone.

Brenner was in Room 945, next door to Ricky. He spoke in a guarded voice. “Jason, listen, we just heard a phone call from Clint Van Hooser to Dianne Sway. He told her he had just talked to Reggie, that she and Mark were in New Orleans, and everything was fine.”

“New Orleans!”

“That’s what he said. No indication of exactly where, just New Orleans. Dianne said almost nothing, and the entire conversation lasted under two minutes. He said he was calling from his girlfriend’s apartment in East Memphis, and he promised to call back later.”

“Where in East Memphis?”

“We can’t determine that, and he didn’t say. We’ll try and trace it next time. He hung up too quick. I’ll send the tape over.”

“Do that.” McThune punched another button, and Brenner was gone. He immediately called Larry Trumann in New Orleans.

     36     

THE HOUSE WAS IN THE BEND OF AN OLD, SHADY STREET, and as they approached it Mark instinctively slid downward in the seat until only his eyes and the top of his head were visible in the window. He was wearing a black-and-gold Saints cap Reggie had bought him at a Wal-Mart along with a pair of jeans and two sweatshirts. A street map was folded badly and stuffed beside the hand brake.

“It’s a big house,” he said from under the cap as they drove through the bend without the slightest decrease in speed. Reggie saw as much as she could, but she was driving on a strange street and trying desperately not to appear suspicious. It was 3 P.M., hours before dark, and they could drive and look for the rest of the afternoon if they wished. She, too, wore a Saints cap, solid black, and it covered her short gray hair. Her eyes hid behind large sunglasses.

She held her breath as they passed the mailbox with the name Clifford on the side in small gold stick-on lettering. It certainly was a big house, but nothing spectacular for this neighborhood. It was of English
Tudor design, with dark wood and dark brick, and ivy covering all of one side and most of the front. It was not particularly pretty, she thought as she remembered the newspaper article in which Clifford was described as a divorced father of one. It was obvious, to her at least, that the house did not have the advantage of a woman living in it. Though she could glance at it only as she made the bend and cut her eyes in all directions, looking at once for neighbors, cops, thugs, the garage, and the house, she noticed there were no flowers in the beds and the hedges needed trimming. The windows were covered with dark, drab curtains.

It was not pretty, but it was certainly peaceful. It sat in the center of a large lot with dozens of heavy oaks around it. The driveway ran along a thick hedge and disappeared somewhere around back. Though Clifford had been dead for five days, the grass was neatly trimmed. There was no clue that the house was now uninhabited. There was no hint of any suspicion. Perhaps it was the perfect place to hide a body.

“There’s the garage,” Mark said, peeking now. It was a separate structure, fifty or so feet from the house, obviously built much later. A small sidewalk led to the house. A red Triumph Spitfire was on blocks next to the garage.

Mark jerked and stared at the house through the rear window as they eased down the street. “What do you think, Reggie?”

“Looks awfully quiet, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it what you expected?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I watch all those cop shows, you know, and for some reason I could just see Romey’s
house with yellow police line tape strung all over the place.”

“Why? No crime was committed there. It’s just the home of a man who committed suicide. Why would the cops be interested?”

The house was out of sight, and Mark turned around and sat straight in the seat. “Do you think they’ve searched it?” he asked.

“Probably. I’m sure they got a search warrant for his house and office, but what could they find? He carried his little secret with him.”

They stopped at an intersection, then continued their tour of the neighborhood.

“What happens to his house?” Mark asked.

“I’m sure he had a will. His heirs will get the house and his assets.”

“Yeah. You know, Reggie, I guess I need a will. With everybody after me and all. What do you think?”

“What, exactly, do you own?”

“Well, now that I’m famous and all, I figure the Hollywood people will be knocking on my door. I realize we don’t have a door at the present time, but something’s gotta happen about that, Reggie, don’t you think? I mean, we gotta have a door of some sort? Anyway, they’ll want to do this big movie about the kid who knew too much, and, I hate to say this for obvious reasons, but if these goons put me away, then the movie will be huge and Mom and Ricky will be on easy street. Follow me?”

“I think so. You want a will so Dianne and Ricky will get the movie rights to your life story?”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t need one.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll get all your assets anyway.”

“Just as well. Saves me attorney’s fees.”

“Could we talk about something other than wills and death?”

He shut up and watched the houses on his side of the street. He’d slept most of the night in the backseat, then napped for five hours in the motel room. She, on the other hand, had driven all night and napped less than two hours. She was tired, scared, and beginning to snap at him.

They zigzagged at a leisurely pace through the tree-lined streets. The weather was warm and clear. At every house, people were either mowing grass or pulling weeds or painting shutters. Spanish moss hung from stately oaks. It was Reggie’s first tour of New Orleans, and she wished the circumstances were better.