The Man Who Risked His Partner Read online

  No doubt about it, he was too successful for his own good. Everything in the place that wasn’t concrete was made out of glass. Inside the heavy glass doors, the heat worked, and the carpet was so thick it seemed to squish underfoot. On top of that, a by-God receptionist sat at a desk in front of a phone covered with buttons. Half the private investigators I know have trouble meeting the payments on their answering services. But Smithsonian didn’t have just any receptionist. He had one who looked like the soul of discretion. In other words, she was old enough to be everyone’s grandmother—and she was bored straight out of her skull.

  She looked up at us discreetly as we walked in.

  Ginny had the pinched white look around her crooked nose of a woman who was trying to put too much Novocain on her emotions, but she didn’t hesitate. “Is Smithsonian in?” she asked the receptionist. “I want to talk to him.”

  The woman blinked at us. Whatever she had left between her ears was calcifying fast. “Mr. Smithsonian is in conference,” she said primly. “I can tell him you’re here, but I’m afraid he won’t be free for quite some time.” With an air of distaste, she added, “You could speak with one of his associates.”

  “Never mind,” I said. I’m too big to have an engaging smile, but I always try. “We know the way.” We’d been here before. One reason Smithsonian was so successful was that even people like Ginny who hated his guts had to do business with him every once in a while. With his contacts, he knew things you couldn’t learn anywhere else.

  Together we headed for the hallway that led to Smithsonian’s office. Behind us, the receptionist sounded vaguely apoplectic as she tried to protest. She probably had a buzzer she could push to bring the associates running, but she didn’t think of it in time.

  When we reached the right door, we didn’t bother to knock. We just opened it and went in.

  Ah, the advantages of surprise. Smithsonian wasn’t in conference. He was in the chair behind his desk with his feet up on the blotter. His jacket was off, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, and his hands were propped behind his head, showing sweat stains on what should’ve been an immaculate shirt. His mouth was open, and he was asleep.

  Obviously he needed to turn the heat down.

  He woke up when I closed the door. A jerk pulled his feet off the desk, swung him upright in his chair. He gaped at us blearily, as if he didn’t have one idea in the world who we were.

  “Lawrence,” Ginny said, “you look tired.” For a minute there, she was enjoying herself. “You’ve been working too hard. You’ve got to learn to delegate. Let somebody younger do the hard jobs.”

  He didn’t answer right away. Slowly he got to his feet. He rolled down his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. He straightened his tie. He put on his jacket. I had to give him credit. By the time he was done, about eight layers of film were gone from his piggy little eyes, and he looked ready.

  As he buttoned his jacket over his belly, he started to smile. He wasn’t really fat, he just seemed that way. Hell, he even sounded fat. In a nice plump voice, he said, “I see you’ve decided to try your luck with Haskell.”

  His smile was as nice and plump as a barracuda’s.

  Come to think of it, I didn’t much like him, either.

  But Ginny just looked at him. “How do you figure that?” she asked calmly.

  Smithsonian went on smiling. “You asked Haskell where he got your name. Even you wouldn’t miss a simple thing like that. But you wouldn’t need my help unless you were working for him.”

  She studied him up and down. She was taller than he was, which he didn’t care for, but he was too good at what he did to back off: “You’re smart, Lawrence,” she said after a moment. “I’ve always said that. Haven’t I, Brew?”

  I gave Smithsonian a nod. “She always says that.”

  “But this time,” she went on, “I think we can handle it by ourselves.” I was glad to hear that, even though I knew she didn’t mean it. “Thanks for offering. I was just curious. Why did you give Haskell my name?”

  Smithsonian’s grin got broader. He looked positively voracious. “I didn’t want the case myself. I thought it was appropriate for a female investigator with only one hand.”

  I couldn’t help myself—I’ve never been any good at holding back when anyone insults Ginny. In fact, it was a triumph of common sense that I didn’t try to jump over the desk at him. Instead I slapped my hand down hard in front of him. “Watch your mouth, fucker,” I said. “You’re going to look a hell of a lot uglier without any teeth.”

  Before Smithsonian could react, Ginny said, “Heel, Brew.” She sounded amused.

  I whirled on her. I had my hands locked into fists so that I wouldn’t hit her. But the way she looked stopped me. I knew that look. And it wasn’t directed at me. It was aimed straight at Smithsonian.

  “He has a point, Brew,” she said almost casually. “But I don’t think that’s the real reason he gave us a reference.”

  Well, it was worth a try. I had to admit that he wasn’t likely to tell us the truth if I rearranged his face for him. Making me look ridiculous might have better luck. It might be the sort of thing he just couldn’t resist.

  Because I didn’t have anything better to do at the moment, I crossed my arms on my chest like I was sulking and hitched my butt onto the desk with my back to Smithsonian.

  “I’d have him put to sleep if I were you,” he said to Ginny. He didn’t sound like he was smiling. “If he bites you, you’ll get rabies.”

  All in all, I was having a wonderful time. But I went on sitting there and let her handle it.

  Her mouth laughed, but her eyes didn’t. Softly she said, “Tell me the real reason, Lawrence.”

  At first he didn’t answer. But I guess the chance to be superior and make us both look stupid was too good to pass up. “You figure it out.” His malice was so thick you could’ve spread it around with a trowel. “If you were el Senor, and some minor punk welshed on you, would you call him up and warn him? Give him time to get out of town? Hire protection?” He snorted his contempt. “I’m surprised you let him tell you a story like that. I know plastic flowers with more brains.”

  Ginny let the insults pass. She was concentrating hard.

  So was I. All of a sudden my guts twisted in fear.

  Slowly she said, “So either el Senor doesn’t have anything to do with this—”

  She didn’t need to finish. I knew the rest.

  Or else it was some kind of ritual hit. El Senor had been betrayed—his honor had been stained—and he wanted his victim to know exactly what was coming.

  And a ritual hit couldn’t be stopped. El Senor wouldn’t care how much it cost—in time, or money, or blood. He’d bury any number of people to avenge himself.

  Abruptly Smithsonian thudded me in the back. “Get off my desk. You’re wasting my time.”

  I got off the desk and turned to face him. Despite the state of my stomach, I could still look fat-ass Smithsonian in the eye. “So you turned Haskell down,” I said conversationally, “because you think somebody like his wife has it in for him, and his problems are too small and messy for you. Or because you think el Senor wants him dead, and the bare idea of tangling with that kind of trouble scares you shitless. And you gave him Ginny’s name because you think that no matter what happens we’re going to come up manure. You’re a credit to your profession, Lawrence.”

  “You’re wasting my time,” he repeated. At least he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Leave. Or I’ll have you thrown out.”

  “Poor scared fat-ass,” Ginny said. “Go back to sleep. We’re leaving.”

  I went to the door and opened it for her. We left. I even closed it politely behind me.

  In the hallway, I said, “Next time I’m going to take his heart out through his ear.”

  She didn’t apologize for the way she’d treated me. She just said, “Next time I’m going to let you.”

  “Are we even now?” I asked.

  She didn’t hesitate. �
��Not by a long shot.”

  Oh, well. At least we were working together. That was an improvement, anyway.

  The receptionist didn’t give us a glance as we walked past. She might’ve forgotten all about us. Apparently her job just wasn’t enough to keep her mind alive.

  Except for the left forearm jammed into her coat pocket, Ginny carried herself like the woman I used to know. But when we got out into the cold and the thin sunlight, she stopped. Even though she didn’t look at me, I could see the fight drain out of her eyes. The way she felt about Smithsonian wasn’t enough to sustain her.

  “Brew,” she said, “if he’s right—if el Senor has some reason to want Haskell dead—we’ve got to get out. While we still can. We can’t deal with this.”

  Usually things like ritual hits don’t seem possible while the sun is shining. They need darkness to make them real. But not this time. This time I didn’t have any trouble hearing what she meant instead of what she said. She meant that she only had one hand and no self-confidence, and she was dependent on a man who might go back to drinking at any time.

  I didn’t try insulting her again. I tried being reasonable. “If all that’s true,” I said, “tell me why Haskell isn’t scared. For God’s sake, even Smithsonian’s plastic flowers would have the common sense to be scared if el Senor wanted them dead.”

  “Maybe he’s immune to fear.”

  “Then we’d better get him locked away before he hurts himself.”

  Finally she looked at me. Her gray eyes made me want to fall all over myself. “So what’s your theory?”

  To keep my self-control, I took her arm and steered her toward the Olds. “Oddly enough in this day and age,” I said, “some people still get mad when the people they love screw around. I think someone is just threatening the irresistible Reg Haskell to make him stop whatever he’s doing. And I think he knows what’s going on. That’s why he isn’t scared. He didn’t tell us the truth because he was afraid we wouldn’t take him on, but what he really wants us to do is find out who’s behind it. He probably hopes it’ll turn out to be his wife. That way he can get himself a nice injured-party divorce. He’ll be free to chase all the women he wants.”

  Actually I didn’t think any of that. I didn’t believe it, or not believe it. I didn’t have a theory. I just had a gut hunch that this case was important. I kept talking to hold my panic down—and to keep Ginny from backing out.

  She knew what I was doing. After the amount of time we’d spent together, I wasn’t exactly a mystery to her. But she went along with it. “All right,” she said. “We’ll check out Reston Cole. Then we’ll go see Mrs. Haskell.”

  That should’ve been fine with me, but it wasn’t. I had other things on my mind. I looked at my watch. Almost noon. Trying not to sound like I expected her to yell at me, I said, “We don’t have time.”

  She thought about that for a second. “Probably not,” she agreed. “We’ll go see Mrs. Haskell tomorrow.”

  She got into the car, so I did the same. Then I took a deep breath. Very carefully I said, “What happens if he gets knocked off tonight, and she turns out to be responsible?”

  She threw a glare at me. “You think we should split up?” She wasn’t surprised, just furious. “What a peachy idea.”

  “Ginny.” I was so careful, I was practically on tiptoe. “We’re going to have to take shifts on this thing anyway. We can’t both stay awake for the rest of the week. And while he’s at work is our only chance to do any investigating. We might as well get started.”

  She was building up a head of steam that looked strong enough to blow me away. I talked on, trying to fend her off.

  “Let’s go someplace where I can rent a car. Then you can go talk to Cole. You’re the one with the license.” Also the one who knew how to talk to executive banking types. “He won’t throw you out like he would me. And you’ll still have time to do some of the spadework. Like talk to the cops. Find out if Haskell has any kind of background.” Her license gave her a legal right to certain kinds of police access, and most of the cops in Puerta del Sol didn’t like me. My dead brother had been a cop.

  “I’ll go talk to Mrs. Haskell,” I went on. “If she gives me anything we can use, I’ll follow it up. Otherwise I’ll go back to the bank and see if I can spot anyone watching Haskell.”

  She wanted to explode, but I made it hard for her. I was telling her exactly what she would’ve told me, back in the days before she got maimed. On the other hand, I would’ve preferred an explosion.

  For a second her eyes filled with tears. Then she blinked them back. “You know I can’t drive.”

  “No,” I said bluntly, “I don’t know that.” I had to be hard on her. It was either that or go step in front of a bus. “This is an automatic transmission.” As if she didn’t know. “You’ve been driving it with one hand for years.”

  Her mouth twisted like the beginning of a sob—or maybe the start of something obscene. Then she pulled it white and straight.

  “Get out of the car.”

  I stared at her.

  “I said, get out of the fucking car!”

  So I’m not very smart. What do you expect from a temporarily sober alcoholic? I got out of the car.

  When I closed the door, she slid over into the driver’s seat and cranked down the window. Rattlesnake venom would’ve been friendlier than the way she looked at me.

  “Don’t be late. If you show up at the bank drunk, I will personally feed your liver to the coyotes.”

  She started the car, wrenched the shift into drive so hard that I thought it was going to come off in her hand. The only thing I could think of to say was, “How am I supposed to find Mrs. Haskell?” Even her husband didn’t know where she was.

  “You’re the one with all the ideas about how I should run my business,” she snapped while she revved the engine. “You figure it out”

  She took her foot off the brake, and the Olds squealed its tires as she headed out of the parking lot.

  If Smithsonian had been watching us, he would’ve laughed out loud. He never would’ve understood why I suddenly felt lightheaded and the pain in my stomach eased back a couple notches.

  Ginny Fistoulari, I thought. By damn. I know that woman.

  5

  Finally I kicked my head into gear and started to think about what I had to do.

  For some reason, the hardest part was remembering where the nearest gas station was. But after a minute I seemed to recall seeing one a few blocks south. Hugging my coat against the cold, I began to walk.

  Being abandoned by Ginny must’ve been good for my memory. The gas station was right where I remembered it. And my luck was good, too. The pay phone worked—and it had an intact phone book chained to the booth.

  The book gave me the number of the Jiffy Cab Co. as well as the location of a convenient rent-a-relic agency. I called for a cab. Then, while I was waiting, I dialed up Ginny’s answering service.

  One reason she used that particular service was that they kept good records. And she had my name current with them, so when I called they treated me almost like an actual person. After fumbling around for a few seconds, they gave me the number they’d given Ginny this morning for Mrs. Sara Haskell.

  It was almost too easy. When I called that number, it turned out to be the Regency Hotel. Which was a little pricier than I’d been expecting. After all, Mrs. Haskell was the wife of a chief accountant, not a bank president. I didn’t stop to be surprised, however. I was on a roll. I asked the switchboard to connect me to Mrs. Haskell’s room.

  She answered before the second ring. She must’ve been waiting by the phone, waiting for someone to tell her what was going on, waiting for something. There was a small tremble in her voice as she said, “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Haskell?” I didn’t like the sound of that voice. It worried me. “Mrs. Sara Haskell?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Axbrewder.” Plunging right in. “I work for Fistoulari Investigations. Y
ou talked to Ginny Fistoulari earlier this morning.”

  She didn’t say anything. She just waited.

  “Ms. Fistoulari turned you down. But since then something’s come up. I’d like to talk to you.”

  I could almost feel the clutch of panic at the other end of the line. Then she said, “Yes.” At least this time it wasn’t a question. “All right.”

  I asked for her room number. She gave it to me. I told her I’d be there in half an hour or forty-five minutes. We hung up.

  Trusting soul, I thought. Then the cynical side of me answered, Well, of course. Haskell wouldn’t have married her if she weren’t.

  That little tremble in her voice suddenly made the whole case seem more real. Maybe irresistible Reg wasn’t taking things seriously, but his wife was. I was shivering in my clothes as I waited for the Jiffy Cab Co.

  They weren’t exactly quick about it, but eventually they showed up. The cab took me to the rent-a-relic agency, which allowed me to drive away in a lumbering old Buick with grease-stained seats and only two hubcaps. I was just ten minutes behind schedule as I started following deer tracks and blazed trees out of the North Valley and back to the beltway.

  After that I made better time. Trailing clouds of smoke in protest, the Buick cranked itself up to fifty-five or thereabouts, and we went east up the long grade toward the edge of town, where the Regency Hotel lurked in ambush for unsuspecting motorists. It looks like every highway motel you’ve ever seen, and you don’t realize until you’re already caught that it gives you twice the luxury at four times the price. But in some ways it was a logical choice for Mrs. Haskell. It wasn’t more than eight minutes by the mercy of the city planners from her husband’s bank.

  I wobbled the Buick into the parking lot around one. My stomach was starting to think about food—which meant that the rest of me was starting to think about booze. Every drunk who’s trying to stay sober knows the importance of food. For drunks, any kind of hunger almost magically transforms itself into the hunger for booze. But I already knew that I wouldn’t have time to eat. I scanned the room numbers to orient myself, then headed around the swimming pool toward the “private” wing at the back of the hotel.