On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard (читать книги полные txt) 📗

"I detect selected omissions," Bowman said when I'd finished.

"Oh? And what do you detect them to be?"

"Like, where you got that hundred grand."

Back to that again. What was he sniffing after? "I borrowed it from an acquaintance who owed me a favor. What difference does it make?"

"Uh-huh." He gave me his palsy 'I-know-you-you-sly-devil' look, which invariably meant that he was about to say something stupid.

I said, "Now what? Go ahead. Speak the words."

"You know what I'm thinking," he said sagely.

"I do not."

"Hah."

I waited. He leaned back in his swivel chair and peered at me across his cauliflower nose. "You're in on it," he said. "Aren't you?"

"'It'?"

"This big production. Scam, grift, fraud. Six-count felony."

I studied his face for signs of insincerity, which was not one of his eighteen character flaws. He looked as if he had meant what he said.

I said, "And Peter Greco's death was part of the plan? The big production?"

"That was an accident. Poor bastard Greco slipped up somehow. Ten to one the coroner will find accidental death, drowned in the bathtub, lemon-scented bubble bath in the kid's lungs. But instead of calling the whole thing off, you all decided it would work out even better this way with Greco dead. Oppressed minorities, all that garbage. Fruits'll come out of the woodwork all over the place now to sign up for this protest crap of McWhirter's. The hundred grand is just a prop in the drama, and when it's over the dough just goes back to your fag pals, and nobody loses so much as a dime. Am I right? Do I make sense, Strachey? You like my scenario?"

I stood up and walked out of the room. I could hear him yammering after me. "So maybe you weren't in on it, but you know goddamn well, you told me yourself. . ."

As I moved down the stairway and out the front door, no one tried to stop me. That was lucky for all of us.

The heat hit me like a tire iron. I rolled down all the car windows and drove over to the 1-787 on-ramp. I headed north along the river, then west on 1-90, then north again and got off by the Northway Mall. Inside Cines One thru Six the temperature was about sixty. My seat in a rear corner was comfortable. I don't remember what movie was playing. I think it was about some California kids and a short greenish guy from Mongo, or Chicago, or someplace.

From the theater lobby I phoned my apartment. No answer there, and my service had no messages. I called Dot and told her I'd be there soon. She said there had been no

word yet from or about McWhirter, and no further contacts by the kidnappers. That scared me; during the movie I had concluded beyond all lingering doubt that I had been fooled, diddled, flummoxed—mainly by my own self—and that the kidnapping had all been for real right from the beginning. Now I was scared to death about McWhirter.

I stood by the phone thinking about calling Crane Trefusis, but not knowing what I'd say to him, what questions to ask. I considered breaking into his office and going through his files, but the place had seemed well protected and it wouldn't have helped just then to be caught with my finger in my employer's back pocket. Marlene Compton was a possibility; she'd have keys, though I figured unless I could convince her I was really King Hussein or Lee Iacocca, her interest in me would not be sufficient to overcome her numerous and varied loyalties to Crane "Quite-a-Guy" Trefusis.

In any case, the more I thought about it the less likely it seemed Trefusis's files would yield up anything usefully informative. Persons of his special station in life rarely wrote down anything incriminating. And unlike, say, Richard Nixon, the personally secure and unkinky Trefusis would not likely have bugged his own office in order to admire his own excretions at some later date. Because I didn't know how to approach him, I put Trefusis on the back burner yet again.

I phoned Lyle Barner and told him that Peter Greco was dead.

"I know," he said. "That sucks. The news hit me hard. I'm gonna ask around some more, see what I can pick up.

"Do that."

"And ... I want to apologize."

"Don't bother. I understand the shape you're in."

"No, really. The way I came on to you yesterday. My timing was terrible, Strachey. I felt like a real shit after."

"Good. But let's let it go. I've got a name for you in San Francisco. A gay liaison with the cops out there. You should give him a call."

A silence. "Yeah. Well. Guess I should. I'll get the name from you next time I see you. Are you . . . doing anything later tonight?"

I wondered if I was hearing what I thought I was hearing. I said, "I'm busy for a few days, and so are you. But I'll check with you later to find out what you've turned up. Leave a message with my service, wherever you are."

"Right. Sure thing. I'm not on duty tonight, but I'm going to be out and around. I'm gonna take off right away, soon as I grab something to eat. I'll be in touch, Don. I'll give you a call."

"Thanks, Lyle. Dredge up what you can. On renegade cops, ex-cops, Millpond, Trefusis, professional thugs, loonies, whatever. This thing is no bad joke anymore. And it can only get worse."

"Yeah. I guess it can."

I rang off and tried the apartment again. There was no answer after twenty rings.

As I turned off Central and headed down Moon Road, Kay Wilson was standing by the roadside peering at something in her hand. She looked up, saw me, and began energetically waving what looked like an envelope. I pulled over. "You missed em again! Those crazy queers stuck another letter in our box, and just like the last time the cops are all off in the doughnut shops somewhere instead of out here apprehending perpertrators. Those bastards keep using our mailbox, people are gonna get the idea Wilson and me are mixed up in this crap. We got enough trouble already, and I want somebody to put a stop—"

I said, "What 'crazy queers,' Kay? What have you got there?"

She thrust the envelope through the window at me. It was addressed, as before, to Dorothy Fisher, and said, "Open imeatedly—Life or Death matters."

"I saw 'em, this time!" Kay bleated excitedly. "I was out by the back stoop chuckin' horse chestnuts, tryin' to knock down a wasps' nest up under the eaves, when I heard a car stop, and I peeked around the corner and saw 'em just when they backed into the yard and then took off back out to Central. This time, I'll tell you, I got a good look, a real good look."

"That's terrific, Kay. That's great. Did you get the license number?"

She jammed a finger into the flesh at the corner of her mouth and looked like a cartoon character looking thoughtful. "Well, no. Didn't get a good look at that. But I saw the car."

"What kind was it?"

"Big."

"Big like a—what?"

"Like an Olds, or Ford. Or Chevy maybe."

"What color was it?"

"Sort of brownish, like Wilson's. Or blue maybe. Coulda been green, I guess."

"How about the people in it? There were more than one?"

"Two."

"Both men?"

"Yup."

"What do you remember about them?"

"They were . . . white."

Or green. "Take them one at a time. What about the one driving?"

She thought some more. "Matter of fact, I didn't get a

real good look at him. Shoot. It's hard to remember. I was way out back, ya know."