The Perfect Crime (22 page)

“You can see it?”

He looked at Reader, his eyes round. “No. I can tell, way he looks. Stupid fucker looks like he’s lost all his blood, gonna piss his pants. Reader, why’d you put it on him 
now
 for? We got hours yet. What if--”

“What if he decides to try and rip it off. Blow all of us up? That what you’re wondering, Eddie?”

“Well...yeah. Holy fucking Christ, Reader, what if he figures he’s gonna get blown up anyway, might as well take us with him? You ever think of that?” He backed toward the front door, not taking his eyes off St. Ives.

Reader wondered what made a guy that big a punk.

“He might, Eddie. He might. This is fun, isn’t it? Wondering if he will, if he won’t. Kinda on the edge, isn’t it? You don’t like that stuff, do you? I bet when you were a kid, you were the one wouldn’t jump off the garage roof when the other kids did.”

He took a long drink of his beer and stretched out his legs, planting his heels on the coffee table.

“Relax. I don’t think Mr. St. Ives would do that, Eddie. He’s not much of a gambler. He’s been a banker too long, I think. ‘Sides, I promised him we’d deactivate it as long as he does what he’s supposed to. I think he sees the wisdom in following instructions, not being a maverick. This is what Mr. St. Ives would call ‘taking the conservative position.’ It’s a banking term. He can explain it to you, you want to know.”

***

“Time to go.” Reader shook St. Ives, who’d fallen asleep in the chair. Fear must be tiring he thought, smiling.

Since he’d wired the banker up during the time that Eddie’d been gone, he’d also been busy making phone calls. One to Bobby, making sure the boat was where it was supposed to be and was all set up. Another to a number in Miami where he talked for less than a minute.

“Is this Octavio?”

“Si, how you?” He said 
you
 like this: 
ju
.

“We’re fine. It’s all set. How about your end? You tell your boss about this Fogarty guy?”

“Si. Everything is ready. Senòr Castro, he’s sent somebody to take care of that guy. I’ve also taken care of duh plane, everything you wanted.” When he said “duh plane,” Reader thought of Fantasy Island and the midget, what’s-his-name.

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Bueno, Senor Reader. I’m leaving in a few minutes myself. Hey! I got something for you you’re gonna like. It’s a surprise. I’ll give you a hint. It’s blonde.”

“I bet it has big tits too, doesn’t it?”

He hung up. It was all in place. The other boat was ready too, he’d learned from his first call. Bobby said on the phone, “It’s all set, Reader, it’s all gassed up, like you wanted. Your gear is below in a compartment, keys topside, under a mat by the steering wheel.”

***

“It’s time,” Reader said to St. Ives, grabbing him under the elbow and hoisting him up to his feet. “You got it all straight in your mind? Once more--you pick up the money, then come back. Wait for my phone call. I’ll tell you where to bring it. Remember--you call the cops or tell Castro what’s going on, you’re gonna go boom. Comprende?”

The banker nodded his head slowly. His movements were lifeless, numb, his head hung down like a chastised puppy.

“You get it together, Mr. St. Ives. You got to fool Castro, make him think everything’s copacetic. You can’t do that, I might as well hit this button and save us all a lot of trouble.”

St. Ives tried to stand more erect, hold his head up.

Reader said, cheerfully. “That’s better. You keep thinking about what’s on your back and you’ll do fine. Here.” He handed him a set of keys. The banker’s own set.

“You got an hour and a half to get back,” Reader instructed. That’s when I’ll be calling. You don’t answer, I push this button.” He held up the Futaba.

“Get going. Your car’s outside.”

St. Ives stumbled to the door and opened it. He looked back at the two men briefly, as if he weren’t sure they were letting him go by himself. Reader held up the Futaba and smiled.

When the door closed behind him, Reader said, “Eddie, I don’t trust him. You follow him. Don’t let him see you. I don’t think he’s going to be paying much attention, but be careful anyway. Once you see him go into Castro’s warehouse, come on out to the boat. I’ll be waiting.”

Eddie didn’t argue. Reader didn’t think he would. He knew Eddie would figure that as long as he could trail the guy who’s getting the money, he couldn’t be double-crossed. He might even conceivably think that there might arise an opportunity where he could take the money from C.J. himself.

Naw,
 Reader said aloud, the word pregnant with sarcasm. 
Not Eddie!

Asshole thinks I don’t know about the gun in his boot, Reader thought. That bulge is either a gun or the biggest, longest hard-on I’ve ever seen. Havet a surprise for him.

When Eddie closed the door behind him, Reader gave a last look around, checking to see if he’d forgotten anything There was no sign of Eddie’s car when he got to the shopping center.

Time to see if his hand was playing out the way he’d planned.

***

Back--way back when he was seventeen--living in one of the foster homes they’d schlepped him around to, after they released him from detention, Reader saw the cop who’d taken the whiskey from his house the day his father and mother were killed. The cop was coming out of a bar about two in the morning, down on Camp Street, one of those cheap joints his father used to frequent.

Something happened inside. He followed him to his car, out back in the alley. As the cop leaned over to unlock the car door and to steady himself, Reader walked up and pulled out his knife from where he kept it in a sheath on his belt, behind his back.

He let him turn around rather than stick him in the back so he could see who was stabbing him. 
Why
?--he could see the man’s lips form although no sound came out, and he said out loud, “Because you stole from us. From my family. I saw you steal my daddy’s whiskey.” They stood like that for another minute, eye to eye, in silence, and the cop’s eyes began to glaze and lose focus. Reader let him slide to the ground. He stood looking down at the dead man and bent down and wiped his knife on the dead man’s shirt. That done, he lifted out the man’s wallet and both his guns, the one he kept in a holster up under his sport coat and the other one, the throwaway, was strapped to his calf down near the ankle.

He went into the bar the cop had come out of and threw the cop’s wallet up on the bar, in plain sight, shield showing and all, and ordered a boilermaker, Pittsburgh-style, although he had to explain to the nitwit of a bartender how to do it. He paid for it with the cop’s own money.

It wasn’t until later back at the foster home that he discovered the cop’s name was John Mahoney. Funny, he thought. All that time, he never did know what the cop’s name was. He must have heard it and forgotten, he figured.

***

Reader Kincaid could hear a tugboat’s whistle a good three blocks before he reached the river. A toot answered from another tug. Sounds like a lot of activity on the Mississippi today, he thought. Good.

CHAPTER 28

THIS TIME GRADY PARKED on Burthe, up the street away from Carrollton and on the opposite side from the duplex. He was able to park there because one of the errands he’d run earlier was to stop by and get a neighborhood parking sticker from Sally. Where he was told an unbelievable story.

“What!” He was dumbfounded as he listened to the tale Sally had to tell.

“Found out they were a couple of Fidel Castro’s men,” Sally continued. “How the hell you think Castro knows about you? And what would he want you dead for?”

Grady thought hard. Then, he remembered. The midnight blue Caprice that had come up behind him at Eddie’s. Maybe the guy’d made him after all. It was the only explanation he could come up with.

“Sally, can you run something for me? Find out if Kincaid has a Caprice registered to him?”

Five minutes later, they had the answer. He did, indeed. The address the cop on the phone gave him on the registration was the old Vallette Street address, bt it was a Caprice.

“That’s it,” Grady said. He ran down what he thought was going on, outlined everything he’d learned and what his idea of what Kincaid was up to was.

“Motherfuck!” was all Sally could say at first. He poured a beer and drank half of it, studying over what Grady had laid on him.

“What you gonna do?” he said, after digesting Grady’s theory.

After Grady sketched out what his plan was, all Sally could do was shake his head. “If you’re wrong, you’re fucked.”

“I know,” he agreed. “If I overestimated him, he gets away, scot-free.”

“You don’t think I oughta just have the locals pick him up?” Sally asked. “We got enough on him now, maybe. What about RICO?”

No, Grady said. “How many creeps you seen walk in your time, Sally? With more than this on them?”

“Yeah,” Sally said, knocking back the rest of the beer. “Yeah. Do it your way, pal. Whatever you need, just ask.”

“You’ve already done more than enough,” Grady said. “Tell Veronica...say, where is Veronica?”

She went to a movie, the bar owner said. “We had us a busy day.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “This was like old times.”

Grady thanked the man.

“I’m sorry you got into this,” he said. “You coulda been killed. I would never have forgiven myself.”

“Forget it,” Sally said, waving his hand as if to dismiss it. “This is the most fun we’ve had in years.”

It was half an hour since he’d left his friend at his bar. He remembered he had something else to thank Sally for. Getting them into the
Times-Picayune
morgue. If it hadn’t been for that and what he and Whitney had found, well...he’d be running down the same road as the rest of the players in this drama seemed to be.
You’re a slick dog, Reader
, he thought.
You’ve got ‘em all running in circles. So you’re onto me, eh? Well, bring it on. Let’s see what you got.

It was a hell of a gamble he was taking, pursuing a theory that might be totally cockeyed. If he figured wrong, it was all over. He would’ve been outsmarted thoroughly. He was betting the farm on this and he wasn’t at all convinced he was right. If the guy wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, Grady was the one who was going to have egg on his face. Worse, the killer of his brother was likely to get away clean. He didn’t think he could live with that.

When he saw a man come from the downstairs apartment and get into the Lincoln parked in front, he knew it had to be the banker St. Ives. The man didn’t leave right away, though; just sat in his car and leaned his head up against the steering wheel. Then, Eddie walked out. He watched him trot up the street to Carrollton. St. Ives just sat there, not seeming to notice and then he raised his head and started up the Lincoln and wheeled out onto the street.

Grady waited until he was at the corner before pulling out himself and as he went by the duplex saw Reader come out of the apartment. He swore the man looked right at him and he thought he saw a look of astonishment pass over his features.

Not dead like you figured, eh, fucker?
Grady thought and then turned the corner behind the banker.
Good. I like that. Now I got you off-balance, just maybe. I like the fact you’re not so sure about everything.

They were two blocks down on St. Charles when Grady saw Eddie’s car coming up fast behind him. He slowed and watched the Cavalier whiz by him, coming up almost on St. Ives’ bumper.

What an asshole, Grady thought. It’s a good thing St. Ives has other things on his mind.

It’s going down, he thought. This is it, folks. For a minute, he had the sinking thought that he was following the wrong person. Until Eddie showed up. That would fit his theory. When in doubt, follow the money. If he’d guessed right, that was the only way he was going to win.

He knew generally where they were all headed, the little caravan St. Ives was unknowingly leading, so if he got separated he figured he could find the warehouse, especially since he knew what both St. Ives’ and Eddie’s cars looked like. If he’d opted to follow Reader and lost him he’d be screwed. He thought there was a chance Reader was heading to the boat he’d talked about, but that boat could be anywhere. If he was right, it didn’t matter anyway. He didn’t think Reader was going anywhere near any boat.

No, follow St. Ives. His idea was a long shot, but his gut feeling was that it was the right bet.

Grady had a good idea of where they were going from listening the day before. He’d looked up Chalmette on a map and the route they would most likely take to get there.

Following St. Ives and Eddie was a breeze. He could see
St. Ives’ white Lincoln from time to time ahead of Eddie’s car. Good thing neither of these clowns know they’ve got a rearview mirror!

Soon, they were on Parks Road and Grady closed the distance a bit. Dusk slowly overcame the city during the ride.

It was only by pure luck that Grady dropped a bit behind for a moment it took him to light a cigarette. He slowed for a second to search for a packet of matches dropped on the floor. He came up just in time to watch the Lincoln turn in to a drive leading to a huge warehouse. Eddie’s Cavalier braked immediately, pulling over to the side of the road about a hundred yards farther back. If Grady’s car had been closer, he might have struck the two men that ran out of the darkness up to Eddie’s car and jumped in, one in the front seat and the other in the back. He continued on past, hoping like hell that he looked like any other citizen with an eye patch on his way home from work. As he passed Eddie’s car, he thought he caught a glimpse of a gun in one of the men’s hands. It was held up to Eddie’s head. He kept on going, trying to keep the car on the road while keeping an eye on the rearview mirror.

What the fuck was this?

***

The boat was where Bobby’d said it would be. A quick check and he was out of there. He didn’t plan to be within miles of there when St. Ives arrived. Reader got the keys from where he’d said they’d be under the mat and went down below. He opened the locker with the key and smiled when he saw the scuba gear. He lifted it out, laid it on one of the bunks and dumped out the contents of the gym bag he’d brought with him from the car, beside the scuba gear. In one way it was a waste of money, since he’d arranged all this only for Eddie’s benefit. The dumb fuck sure thought he was one slick mother. If he only knew how slick. He had a feeling he’d never learn just how smart Reader really was. He picked up the cellular phone and tested it, dialing the weather number.

Good. No fucking rain, he said to himself, punching off the recording. He reached in his pocket, withdrew a folded sheet of paper with phone numbers and put the phone on top of the paper. He went to the small refrigerator, retrieved a can of beer and popped it open.

Topside, he sat in one of the deck chairs, drank the beer slowly and watched as the stars began to come out one by one. From time to time he glanced at his watch. When the hands showed nine-thir, he went below, got another beer, picked up the phone and dialed one of the numbers on the sheet.

He could hear music in the background and a voice that said, “Yeah? This is Frenchie.”

“Three hours, Frenchie. You all set? You’re not drinking, are you?”

“Beer. Don’t worry, I’m not fucked up. I’ll be there, like you said.”

“Go home. Right now. I know you can handle your shit, but I don’t want to take the chance you get in a fight in that joint--something stupid happens. I haven’t got time to be bailing you out of jail. Understand?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll get something to go. And don’t worry, I won’t get wasted. I’m drinking beer, my friend. I never get drunk on beer.”

“Just be there by eleven. You know what to do.”

“See you at midnight, Reader. Where we said. Your boat comes, like you said, I’ll be there, I’ll get it. I’ll be there early. Say, ten-thirty. That okay?”

“That’s perfect, Frenchie. It should be coming your way right about eleven. Gives you an hour to get it and get it where I want it. I’ll see you around midnight and we’ll take care of business. Remember, keep your hands off it.”

The perfect plan. It was almost over. Now the best part to come.

He was covered both ways. If something went wrong, he knew St. Ives would do what he told him. At the very worst, Frenchie would pick up the money, if there actually was any, and he would get it later. But if all went according to Hoyle, the money was heading someplace else.

He had the biggest smile on his face, wondering what would be going through St. Ives’ mind as the hours passed. Assuming that he went back to his apartment and waited for Reader to call as he’d promised.

Wonder how long he’ll wait before he tries to take it off, Reader thought. I give him a full day. He was curious about a couple of other things that he’d never know. Like if Castro would send any of his men to follow St. Ives. He bet he would. Like it mattered! He laughed aloud so hard he began to cough.

It was just too bad he wouldn’t be around to see all that.