Red White and Black and Blue - Stevenson Richard (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений .txt) 📗

"Not a word. It was as if they knew I knew why this was happening."

"Are you working on any other cases this could be related to?"

"No, just routine stuff. Missing ex-husbands and girlfriends, some insurance scams, a township pilfering thing involving probable theft of road department fuel supplies. This thing is related to the Louderbush situation, I'm pretty sure.

My question is, though, why did whoever it was go after me and not Jackman and Insinger? Why warn me off and not them? I'm replaceable in this equation. Any number of Manhattan PIs I know of could handle it, but the two 52

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witnesses to Louderbush's crimes are central. Yet nobody's laid a finger on them. There has to be a reason for that."

"Both of them were upset when we told them what had happened," Dunphy said. "Especially Insinger. She said Walmart doesn't like violence."

"Did the TU have anything? Or the TV stations?"

Timmy said, "Not so far. If it had been somebody's house pet who got mauled, TV would be all over it."

Dunphy asked me if I had gotten a good look at the attackers, and I said I hadn't. "I doubt if I could pick them out of a lineup. What I can say is, they were tall, beefy guys, thirtyish or thereabouts, and two looked kind of Slavic maybe.

Serbian? Or am I just reading that into it from news photos of Ratko Mladic? One was a bit darker. Not black. Brownish, though not Hispanic probably. Gypsy possibly."

Timmy said, "Roma."

"Okay."

"It's what they prefer to be called."

"Well, far be it for me. I hope I run into this guy again so I can apologize."

Timmy told Dunphy, "A writer friend once told me that I have the soul of a copy editor. I took it as a compliment."

Uncertain of what to make of this two-acerbic-gay-guys-in-love back-and-forth, Dunphy said, "So the insurance-guy witnesses must have gotten a look at the car the baddies were driving, no?"

"Hanratty says it was a black Lincoln Navigator with Jersey tags. The three witnesses disagreed on what the numbers were. If this was a higher priority case, the cops might fool 53

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around with different number combinations and try to match them with New Jersey Navigators. But they don't have a lot of extra time on their hands, and of course the Albany Police Department is unaware that what I am working on is destined to alter the course of Empire State history."

Timmy said, "Lincoln Navigators aren't your usual Jersey goon style of vehicle. Or are they? They're usually the mode of transport of magnates, rock stars, the Secret Service."

"These guys could have been any of the above. Come to think of it, they were all nattily clad—upscale smart casual."

"Those blood stains will be hard to get out," Timmy said.

"Their slacks will probably need dry cleaning."

"And there I was writhing on the tarmac outside Outback in my togs from Marshalls. Maybe I was attacked for my questionable taste."

"It wouldn't have been the first time."

Dunphy said, "You guys sure are taking this a lot more lightly than I would have. I'd be shitting my pants and probably going into hiding. Anyway, I'm grateful you're willing to stick this out, Don. It shows you know how important this project is and that you're willing to do what's... I hate to sound sloppy, but the word that comes to mind is patriotic."

Timmy and I exchanged glances, and I said to Dunphy,

"It's true this is a job I don't think I need to be embarrassed about. Not so far. But you know, one thing you might be able to help me out with, Tom, is this: Who besides you and Shy McCloskey knew that I agreed just yesterday morning to take this Louderbush thing on? And who besides you knew I was meeting Jackman and Insinger yesterday afternoon? It seems 54

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odd that anybody working for Louderbush—if that's who we're looking at here—would have learned so quickly of my plans and of my whereabouts. I keep trying to figure that out. It's puzzling."

Timmy and I both looked at Dunphy. He had been sitting with his elegantly shod feet on the metal footrests of his wheelchair, and now he shifted and placed both feet on the floor. "You're right. How did these guys know?"

"It's disturbing."

"Yeah."

"Either Jackman or Insinger could have let something slip.

Although, I set up my appointments with them only a few hours before I met them. There wasn't much time for either of them to mention me to anybody casually and innocently.

Either of them, of course, could have done it intentionally—

set me up for whatever weird unknown malign reason. But when I met them, both struck me as sincere in their strong disapproval of Kenyon Louderbush and his actions, and highly unlikely to be reporting secretly to him or his staff or his Serbian militia."

"You're right."

"It's baffling."

"All I can say, Don, is that I certainly have not discussed your working for us with anybody except Shy. And he was unaware of the specifics of your meetings yesterday until after they took place and you landed in here."

"What about your staff? Beryl and her crew out there?"

"They don't even know who the fuck you are. You're just some security guy."

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"Right."

"What about Myron Lipschutz?" Dunphy asked. "Timothy, your boss."

"He knows Don is working for you, but not that it's about Louderbush. And Myron certainly didn't know Don was meeting yesterday with Jackman and Insinger."

I said, "And you're sure your phone lines are clean? And your office? What about your computers?"

"Absolutely. The computers are checked for hackers, and the rooms and phone lines are swept every morning just before Beryl gets in."

"By Clean-Tech?"

"Yes."

"And they're trustworthy? The company isn't owned by Diebold Incorporated. or Karl Rove's brother-in-law in Florida?"

Dunphy screwed up his pink face. "Jesus, you're making me nervous, Don. If you can't trust the firms you pay the big bucks to secure your information, who can you trust?"

"You don't by chance record telephone conversations yourself, do you, Tom?"

"Me? Why would I?"

* * * *

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Six

My head hurt. The doctors said I wasn't concussed—no unsteadiness, no disorientation, nothing untoward on the MRI—but every beat of my heart was like a sledgehammer against my cranium.

"Now I know what a circus tent stake feels like when those apelike guys take turns pounding it into the ground," I told Timmy.

"Funny, I think of tent stakes as insensate. But maybe it's because they don't have mouths that we never hear their pitiful cries."

"When was my last Tylenol?"

"Six thirty. You'd better wait another little while. I guess a beer wouldn't help at this point. Or a medicinal bit of weed."

"Nah."