The Driver (25 page)

“Tell your boss if he does anything stupid like that again I’ll be back.”

He stepped back as the doors closed and the car began to ascend.

Then he turned. The two receptionists and the handful of staff in the lobby were all gawping helplessly at him. He pulled at his jacket to straighten it out, squared his shoulders again, wished them all a good morning and then walked calmly and purposefully into the parking and lot and to his car.

33

ARLEN CRAWFORD SAT AT THE DESK in the hotel room with policy papers scattered around him. There was a stack on the desk, three distinct piles on the carpet by his feet, and a pile––ready to be read, digested and sorted––spread out across the bed. The speech at the Moscone Centre that afternoon was starting to look a whole lot like a coronation and he wanted to make sure that everything about it was perfect. He had CNN on the flatscreen TV that had been fixed to the wall inside a frame to make it look like a painting––it didn’t work––and he was drinking from a glass of orange juice, staining a paper on fiscal prudence with wet, concentric circles.

He looked up at the TV. The newscaster was introducing a panel discussion on the San Francisco killings. A third girl had been found and they were describing the perpetrator as a serial killer. The producers had a stable of pundits for the big crime stories—medical examiners, criminologists, forensic scientists, former prosecutors—and the serial-killer category had its own roster of subspecialists. Three had been deputed to discuss the case. They opined upon what could be discerned from bones that had been left outside and exposed to weather. They considered what the location of the bodies might say about the killer’s signature. They made comparisons with the Green River Killer, explaining how Gary Ridgway had acquired his nickname after burying his victims near the river of the same name in Washington. They discussed methodology, and how Denis Rader had been dubbed B.T.K. after his
modus operandi
of binding, torturing and killing had been made public. Then they focused on how the most pertinent recent historical analogue, the Zodiac Killer, had never been caught. One enterprising expert even swung for the fences by suggesting that this new killer might even
be
Zodiac. That hypothesis was quickly rubbished––if he was still alive, Zodiac would have been at least seventy by now––but the discussion was feverish and excited and that, Crawford knew, could only be good for ratings. The discussion moved onto what the newcomer should be called.

The consensus seemed to settle on The Headlands Lookout Killer.

He was roused from his distraction by a soft knocking at the door.

Crawford got up, took a sip of the OJ and padded across the room in his stockinged feet. It was just after breakfast and he wasn’t expecting anyone.

He opened the door. Karly Hammil, the young female staffer who had been with Robinson after the speech in Woodside, was on the other side.

“What is it, Karly?”

She was anxiously chewing her bottom lip. “Could I have a word?”

“Yes, of course. Come in.”

He stood back and she came into the room, closing the door behind her.

“What is it?”

“This is difficult, Mr. Crawford.”

“Call me Arlen.” He felt a moment of apprehension. He pointed to the opened minibar. “You want anything? Water?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Want to sit?”

“I’d rather stand if that’s alright.”

“Well, I’m going to sit.”

She stammered. “I––I––”

She was nervous and that made him nervous, too.

“You better tell me what it is.”

She drew a breath. “There’s no point sugar-coating this, I guess. Alright, then. Okay.” Another breath. “Okay. I guess you know some of this already. Five weeks ago, the governor made a sexual advance to me. I know he has a reputation, everyone knows that, but I couldn’t believe it. And I resisted it at first, I told him to forget about it, it was a crazy idea, but then he tried again the day after that. I told him no again but he was more persistent. You know what he can be like, so persuasive, that feeling you get when he fixes his attention on you, like you’re the most important person in the world. Well, that’s what he made me feel like and he persuaded me that he really meant all those things he was telling me.”

Crawford felt himself deflate, the air running from his lungs.

“We’ve been sleeping together once or twice a week ever since.”

“You have been––this is past tense?”

“He’s stopped it. I saw him last night, after the speech. He said he couldn’t do it anymore. Something about his wife. It’s bullshit, obviously. I guess he’s just had what he wanted. He doesn’t need me anymore. He’s probably already onto the next one.”

Crawford tried to marshal himself. He needed to deal with this. He needed to be diplomatic. He needed her to think that he was sympathetic and understanding. He had experience of this kind of motherfucking nonsense––plenty of experience––and he knew what he needed to do. “I’m sure it isn’t like that, Karly. You know what he’s like.”

“He’s unsafe for a woman to work around is what he is,” she said angrily.

“Why are you telling me? What do you want me to do?”

She looked at him as if he was stupid. “Seriously?”

“Tell me.”

“You need to look after me.”

“Of course you’ll be looked after. I’ll make sure you get an apology. And it’ll never happen again.”

“Not like
that
.”

“Then like what?”

“Come on, Mr. Crawford. You want me to spell it out?”

“Money?”

“Maybe I should sit tight, wait until he’s better known. A story like this, what kind of book deal you reckon I’d get if I waited until later? His inauguration, maybe? The day before the election?”

Crawford felt the familiar, cold knot of anger tightening in his gut. “Alright, I get it. I get it. How much do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have to give me a number.”

“Okay. Fifty thousand––that’s what I would’ve earned this year.”

“Fifty.” He felt his temperature rising.

She hesitated, uncertainly. “What do we do now?”

“First time you’ve shaken somebody down?” he spat sarcastically.

Her eyes flashed. “You’re angry with me? Maybe you ought to think a little about him, Mr. Crawford.”

He tried to defuse the tension. “Arlen––call me Arlen, please.”

She ignored the attempt at conciliation. “You don’t know how close I was to putting this out there. A man like him, a weak man, how is that good for our country to have him in high office?”

He forced himself to take a breath, to regain a little composure. “No, you’re right. Quite right. I’m sorry, Karly. It’ll take me a little while to sort this out. It’s not quite as straightforward as you think, that much money. It needs to be done quietly. Is that alright?”

“Of course.”

She exhaled.

He had a moment of empathy: it had probably been one of the most difficult conversations she had ever had. She didn’t deserve his anger. It wasn’t her fault. Robinson, on the other hand, did deserve it. His behaviour kept putting him in intolerable situations. He was irresponsible and childish, ignoring his clear instructions that he had to put this behind him and keep it zipped. Cleaning up the mess that he left in his wake was becoming a full-time job. An expensive full-time job.

Crawford told the girl that she just had to be patient, that he would sort it all out for her, and then he showed her to the door of his room. He switched channels on the television, laid back on his bed and stared at the ball game that was playing on repeat for five minutes, not paying any attention to it, running the situation around in his head and wondering if there was any other way it could be resolved.

He decided that there was not.

He picked up his cellphone from the bedside table and called the usual number.

34

MILTON WAS HEADED to the Moscone Centre when his cellphone buzzed in its cradle. He glanced at the display: Trip Macklemore was calling. He pulled out of the traffic, parked and called him back.

“Have you heard?” Trip said as soon as he accepted the call.

“Heard what?”

“They’ve found another body––it’s on the news.”

“It isn’t Madison.”

“How do you know that?”

“The police brought me in again.”

“You’re kidding?”

“It’s just routine. It’s nothing.”

“It might not be her now but it’s just a matter of time, isn’t it? You know that––she’ll be next.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Milton thought he could hear traffic on the call. “Where are you?”

“In a taxi. I’m going up there.”

“What for?”

“To see Brady.”

“No, Trip––”

“Yes, Mr. Smith. He did it. It’s fucking obvious. It’s him. We know he’s been lying to us, right from the start. What else has he been lying about? I’m gonna make him admit it.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“It’s alright. I’ll take it from here.”

Milton gripped the wheel. “Don’t,” he said. “Turn around and come back. We just need to wait. Getting into an argument up there will make things worse.”

“I’m sick of waiting. Nothing’s happening. They’re not doing shit.”

Milton was about to tell him about Efron and what he had learned but the call went dead.

He redialled but there was no answer.

Dammit.

The boy had sounded terrible: wired, his voice straining with stress, as if at his breaking point. Milton had to stop him before he did something stupid, something that would wreck his life. He put the Explorer into gear, pulled out into the traffic and swung around. He drove as fast as he dared. Trip was already on the way. Where was he? The traffic was mercifully light as he accelerated across the Golden Gate Bridge and it stayed clear all the way to the turning onto Tiburon Boulevard. He swung to the south, still clear, and reached Pine Shore without seeing the boy. He drove inside the gates: there was an outside broadcast truck parked across the sidewalk and a reporter delivering a piece to camera. Great, Milton thought. He was hoping the media would all have moved on by now but the new body had juiced the story again and, with the police still floundering, they were going to focus on the place where the next presumed victim went missing. There was nothing else for them to go on.

An empty San Francisco cab was coming the other way.

Too late?

Milton parked outside Brady’s cottage and hurried up the steps. The door was ajar and he could hear raised voices from inside.

He made out two bellowed words: “Tell me!”

He pushed the door and quickly followed the corridor through into the living room. Brady was on one side of the room, next to the wide window with the view down to the Bay. Trip was opposite him.

“I know she was in here!” Trip said, angrily stabbing a finger at the doctor.

“No, she wasn’t.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me!”

“Get out of my house!”

“I’m not going anywhere. What did you do to her?”

Milton was behind Trip and it was Brady who noticed him first. “Get this meathead out of here,” he ordered. “You got ten seconds or I’m calling the cops.”

“Go and ahead and call them,” Trip thundered back at him. “Maybe they’ll finally ask you some questions.”

“I’ve told you––I had nothing to do with whatever it was that happened to you girlfriend. You know what? Maybe you want to stop harassing me and start thinking that maybe if you’d done something to stop her from going out hooking then none of this would have happened.”

That really pushed Trip’s buttons: he surged forward, knocking a chair out of the way. Brady’s face registered stark fear as Trip raised his fist and drilled him in the mouth. The doctor stumbled backwards, and, forced to compensate on his prosthetic leg, overbalanced and slammed against the low wooden coffee table, the impact snapping one table leg and tipping a fruit bowl onto the floor.

“Where is she?” Trip yelled.

Brady shuffled away from him on the seat of his pants. “I don’t know,” he stammered, blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.

“Trip!” Milton said. “Calm down.”

“Fuck that. What’s that got us so far? Nothing. We need to
do
something.”

“We are doing something.”

“Yeah? What are you doing? I don’t see anything happening. Doing things your way hasn’t got us anywhere, has it? It’s my turn now. I’m telling you, man, this piece of shit is going to tell me what happened to my girl.”

The boy reached down with his right hand and Milton saw, just in time, the glint of silver that emerged from the darkness of his half-open jacket. He thrust his own arm out, his hand fastening around Trip’s wrist. “No,” the boy said, struggling, and he was young and strong, but Milton knew all kind of things that the boy could only dream about and he slid his index and forefinger around to the inside of his arm, down until it was two fingers up from the crease of his wrist, and squeezed. The pressure point was above the median nerve and Milton applied just enough torque to buckle the boy’s knees with the unexpected shock. “Don’t,” Milton said, looking at him with sudden, narrow-eyed aggression.

Trip gritted his teeth through the blare of pain. “He did it.”

Milton kept the pressure on, impelling Trip back towards the hallway. “No he didn’t.”

He looked at Milton in fuming, helpless entreaty. “Then who did?”

“I have a better idea,” he said.

Confusion broke through the pain on the boy’s face. “Who?”

“You’re going to go outside now,” Milton said in a firm voice that did not brook disobedience. “There’s a reporter out there, down the road, so you need to be calm, like nothing’s going on––we don’t want there to be a scene. Understand?”

“Who is it?”

“I’ll tell you on the way back. But you have to tell me you understand. Do you understand?”

Trip’s eyes were red-raw, scoured and agitated. He looked as if he had gone without sleep. “Fine.”

Milton gave him the keys to the car. “I’ll be right after you,” he said.