Till the Butchers Cut Him Down (31 page)

“So where’re you going?”

“I’m trying to get the loan of a secure place, one where he won’t know to look for me.”

“Shouldn’t I go with you? I can help—”

“No, I need you in the office. There’s something I want you to do—”

The phone rang again. Renshaw. “It’s okay for the suite,” he said. “See the guard in the lobby; he’ll give you a visitor’s
badge and a key card that operates the doors and the parking-garage gate. Combination’s changed every day, so you’ll find
a new card under your door in the morning. You mentioned you need a couple of favors; what’s the other?”

“Is there a possibility of one of your operatives running some computer checks for me?” I glanced at Mick; he was sitting
up straighter, very interested. “No,” I told him.

“What?” Renshaw asked.

“Sorry, I was talking to someone else.”

“Well, no problem about the checks. See Charlotte Keim on the second floor; she’ll arrange for it.”

“I owe you, Gage.”

“No, you don’t—not yet. But someday you will.”

When I hung up, Mick was frowning. “That was Gage Renshaw, the guy from RKI?”

“Yes.”

“Why’re you dealing with him?” Mick had heard enough about my brief history with the security firm to know how strongly I
disliked their methods.

“Because he has access to what I need, and he’s indebted to me.”

“These checks you want done—it’s wrong for us to run them ourselves, but it’s okay to ask RKI to do it? I don’t get you.”

“It’s not okay, but it’s what I’m going to do.”

“Aren’t you being kind of hypocritical?”

I sighed and sat back down. “In some ways, I am. That’s what this business, any business … hell, it’s what
life
does to you.”

“But does it have to?”

I hesitated, unwilling to trample his youthful ideals, but also unwilling to lie. “Yes and no. I guess what we have to do
is set limits. Decide when and how far to bend the rules—our own as well as society’s—and try not to exceed that.” Unfortunately,
as the years passed I’d found my own ethical boundaries expanding at an alarming rate.

Mick thought for a moment, looking somewhat deflated. Then he asked, “Okay, what was it that you were going to ask me to do
right before the phone rang?”

“I need a current photo of Suits. Call GGL and see if they have one; if not, there’s probably one on file at one of the newspapers.
We’ll meet someplace tomorrow after you get hold of it. Otherwise, just keep on with the routine work. And remember—I’m out
of town to everybody. You don’t know where I went.”

“What if Gordon calls? What do I tell him?”

“If I know Suits, he won’t. But on the off chance he does, try to find out where he is or get him to come in to the office
and keep him there. Use force if you have to.” I picked up a scratch pad and wrote down RKI’s city number. “This is where
I’ll be, in case.”

Mick pocketed the paper, still looking down.

“Maybe you don’t like the business as much as you thought you did?” I suggested.

He shrugged, forced a grin. “Like you said, that’s what life does to you.”

* * *

I made no effort to conceal my movements as I drove south toward SFO, left the MG at the Park ‘n’ Fly lot on the frontage
road, and took the shuttle bus to the American Airlines terminal. As I crossed from the island where the bus dropped me, I
kept alert for a low-slung light-colored car. There were at least three, none in a position to do me damage, and the glare
of their headlights concealed their drivers’ faces. Of course, the man didn’t necessarily have to be following me now, but
I suspected he was. He’d need to keep tabs on me, watch and wait for another opportunity.

Well, I thought as I stepped through the automatic door to the lobby, good luck, buddy. First you’ll have to find a place
to leave your car in the white zone.

I hurried across the lobby as if I were going to the security checkpoint, then veered to the right into the book-and-gift
shop. Brushed past browsers at a table of hardcovers, my bag catching on a postcard rack and sending it spinning. Exited again
and doubled back to the escalator to the baggage-claim area. I ran down it two steps at a time, across the lower lobby, and
outside to the taxi stand. This time of night there was no line; I jumped into the first waiting cab and gave its startled
driver RKI’s address on Green Street.

I hoped I’d been tailed to the airport. I hoped my tail was now searching the departure gates for me. I hoped that when he
got back to his car he’d find a ticket.

* * *

RKI’s building was a renovated warehouse at the foot of Telegraph Hill near the Embarcadero. Its exterior—dark brick, ironwork,
tall arched windows, and projecting cornices—was merely a shell for a stark modern interior that had been stripped for efficiency.
An armed guard in a gray business suit sat inside the lobby door at a console equipped with TV monitors. He buzzed me in,
checked my I.D., and consulted a clipboard. Then he took my purse, bag, and briefcase, and had me walk through a security
gate—something new since the last time I’d been there.

“You’ll have to check the gun with me, ma’am,” he said after going through my belongings. I noticed he didn’t ask if I had
a carry permit for it; RKI wasn’t interested in legal formalities.

“Okay with me,” I said.

Next the guard gave me a key card, took an instant photograph of me, and laminated it onto my visitor’s badge with a device
that looked like a flat waffle iron. The photo badge was another innovation.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he told me, handing me the badge. “Your key card operates the elevator; we’ve put you in suite C on the
third floor, end of the hall. You have a car?”

“Not till tomorrow.”

“Mr. Renshaw says if there’s anything you want, you’re to have it.”

I thanked him and went to the elevator.

Suite C was pretty damned luxurious, but I’d expected no less. RKI did everything on a grand scale: state-of-the-art computers;
mobile units with the latest in surveillance gear; offices in forty-six U.S. and foreign cities—although some of those were
rumored to be little more than mail drops. Their specialty was corporate contingency services, with the emphasis on hostage
recovery and counterterrorism; their operatives were tough, some with CIA and FBI backgrounds, and many, including Renshaw
and his partner Dan Kessell, had a murky past. They were high-tech and unscrupulous all the way, with many illegal and useful
connections—some of which I’d take full advantage of in the morning.

The morning …

It was already well after two; I knew I ought to get some sleep. Four nights now since I’d really rested, four days since
I’d eaten well or on a regular schedule. No sense in wearing myself down.

But I was too keyed up to sleep. Instead I wandered through the suite, checking out the monitors that allowed me to see the
hall outside, the elevator, the lobby door, the garage entrance. Checked for listening devices, although I knew I couldn’t
locate them; they were there, but too cleverly concealed for me—RKI’s installers were that good. The amenities were impressive:
Kitchenette with microwave and fully stocked fridge and freezer; fully stocked bar in the living room; TV, VCR, and CD player;
enormous Jacuzzi and shower; phones with panic button everywhere, including the bathroom and the walk-in closet. With the
exception of room-service menus, the suite had everything you’d find in a good hotel—more, in fact—and I suspected that if
I called downstairs and said I wanted a pizza or a gourmet dinner, they’d deliver it within the hour.

Even so, I sensed a wrongness trapped within these walls—desperation, maybe. I wondered how many people had hidden here because
stepping onto the street was a sure death sentence. I wondered how many had been held against their will in this luxurious
prison. And how many others had, like me, been waiting out an adversary who thought he was clever but just wasn’t clever enough?

The thought of that adversary made me more restless. Where was he? What was he doing now? And where was Suits? What was his
game plan? My briefcase lay on the coffee table, stuffed with the information on Suits’s turnarounds and associates. I’d been
over and over it, but now I took the piles of slick fax paper out and began rereading, searching for something I’d overlooked
that would give me the answer to my questions. It was after three-thirty when I concluded they held no answer and went to
bed.

Before I put out the light, I whispered good night to whoever had pulled surveillance duty that shift. Gage Renshaw had been
generous, but that wouldn’t prevent him from eavesdropping on my activities, if for no reason other than curiosity. It didn’t
bother me, though; we might not be playing on the same side, but I was no longer afraid of Renshaw.

“This job’s an absolute no-brainer. Check with me at noon, I’ll have it for you.”

Charlotte Keim was a young, attractive brunette who looked far too innocent to be working for an outfit like RKI. The scantiness
of the data I’d provided didn’t faze her in the slightest; if anything, she seemed bored.

I left Keim in her cubicle with her computer, went downstairs and reclaimed my .38 from the security desk, then stepped out
into a beautiful autumn morning. The weather had invigorated the pedestrians who hurried by; tables were already being set
out on the sidewalks in front of the cafés that served workers from nearby decorators’ showrooms, antique shops, and offices.
I glanced around, saw no suspicious-looking people, no evidence of anyone watching me. Only somewhat reassured, I walked over
to a Bank of America branch on Montgomery Street and deposited into my business account the check from Suits that I’d been
holding since September.

By now I’d more than earned it. Then I flagged a cab for the Park ’n’ Fly lot near the airport.

Once I’d retrieved the MG I headed back toward the city, calling my office on the way. Mick’s voice was subdued, somewhat
wary.

“Everything okay there?” I asked.

“Sort of. I got GGL to messenger over a photo of Gordon.”

“But?”

“I don’t know, Shar. A guy called asking for you. When I said you were out of town, he hung up. Somebody else called a little
later, same question. He said ‘No message’ and hung up. It sounded like the same person disguising his voice.”

My pursuer—or Suits? No way to tell. “Well, don’t worry about it,” I told Mick, then made arrangements to meet him and pick
up the photo in the parking lot of the Safeway down the hill on Mission Street. Half an hour later I was on my way back to
RKI, checking for a tail the whole time.

* * *

“Your guy
believes
in credit,” Keim said. “Look at this.” She pointed over my shoulder at the TRW report on the desk in front of me. “Every
card ever issued, I swear. And he uses all of them.” She ran her index finger down the column showing the account numbers;
under each was the notation “lastpay” and a recent date.

Pulling a credit check is illegal for private investigators in California, but very profitable. RKI had somehow devised a
way around the law that wouldn’t trigger an inquiry from the state board that licenses us. I didn’t know how they did it;
I didn’t want to know. If I yielded to temptation and tried it, a red flag would go up for sure, and in thirty seconds max
a representative of the Department of Consumer Affairs would be at my door. That’s the kind of luck I have.

“Of course, that’s only a start,” Keim said, crumpling the report and pitching it at her wastebasket. She pulled a sheaf of
printout from a folder and spread it on the desk. “This gives you the real skinny on your guy, straight from the credit-card
companies. He’s been buying big-time the last few days. See here—American Express, what looks to me like an entire wardrobe
from Eddie Bauer. And then there’s Shell Oil, Modesto, on Saturday. Chevron in Benbow on Sunday. Shell again same day, Lombard
Street.”

Lombard Street was motel row. “Any charges for lodging?”

“Only one: Red Lion Hotel, Modesto, Friday night. From the size of the tab, I’d say he ate there. And he also ate at a place
in Cloverdale on Saturday and in Petaluma on Sunday.”

Petaluma, Cloverdale, Benbow: all on Highway 101 north of the city.

Keim added, “He even charged his
groceries
, for God’s sake. At Petrini’s in Stonestown on Sunday. Same day, he used Visa at a big sporting-goods outlet in the same
shopping center.”

Sporting goods? What the hell was he doing—taking up golf while I sweated over him going underground so he could kill someone?
“Does it show what he bought there?”

“No, but if you need to know, I can have the tags pulled.”

“Would you, please?”

“Sure, but it’ll have to wait till after the lunch hour.”

“Go ahead, then, and I’ll check with you later. What about his bank account? Any activity there?”

“Daily withdrawals up to the limit on his ATM cards. Your guy likes to spend.”

“He can afford to. Anything else?”

Keim shook her head, glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a lunch date in ten minutes. You want to check with me around three,
I’ll have your information.”

I thanked her and went downstairs, my ethical boundaries pushed several feet farther toward the wrong side.

* * *

I sat in my MG in the parking garage and opened my state road atlas. Traced Highway 101 north to Petaluma, through Sonoma
County to Cloverdale, then through Mendocino County and over the line into Humboldt. Benbow, where Suits had bought gas the
day before, was only a short distance south of Garberville. I picked up the receiver of the car phone and called Suits’s condominium.

Josh answered, sounding surprised to hear from me so soon after yesterday’s abrupt dismissal.

I asked, “The guy who owned the dope farm in Garberville—what’s his name?”

“Gerry Butler.”

“Does he still live up there?”

“Yeah, but it’s not a dope farm any more. Gerry got out when the CAMP search-and-destroy missions got serious. Now he’s a
gentleman farmer and lives off the profits Suits made for him.” He laughed hollowly.