THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF Page 13

  ‘Would you like some more coffee? These are cold.’

  ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  While she went off to the kitchen with Ozzie in tow, I did a tour of the room, pausing to examine a trio of bronze statuettes of nude women on the fireplace mantel. Above the figures was a painting of a forest scene by unsung artist Thomas Moran. Very Constable-esque. In another part of the house a clock chimed the half-hour.

  Then the phone rang. She answered it in the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, hello, Roger,’ I heard her say. A listening pause, then ‘I’ll be in later. Ozzie’s gotten an infected paw and I had to run him to the vets.’

  Another period of listening, probably Roger airing a problem. I assumed he was the security manager I had met at the casino.

  ‘Just make sure it’s working before the rush starts,’ she said.

  Goodbyes were exchanged. A few moments later, she reappeared with the coffee.

  ‘It sounds like they can’t manage without you,’ I remarked.

  ‘There’s more to it than that. They like to keep track of me.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s a long story for another day.’ She consulted the large watch she wore on her right wrist. ‘Look ... James, I really have to go. Work will be piling up at the casino, as well as suspicions.’

  ‘Could you call me a cab?’

  ‘No need. I’ll chauffeur you. Just give me ten minutes to get changed.’

  Her car was a white Maserati and she drove it the way Maseratis are meant to be driven – with verve and panache. The outfit she had changed into was a dark blue suit with a shortish skirt that rode up a few extra inches in the low seat. I tried not to notice. I was developing too much respect for this woman to start thinking of her as a sex object.

  We drove through rain and spray along the 575 freeway into Las Vegas, taking the off-ramp at exit 75B. When a red light stopped us at a major intersection, she turned toward me and said, ‘Are you still going ahead with the job, now that you know I know?’

  I fielded the question with one of my own.

  ‘Do you aim to tell Carl Heider who I am?’

  She snorted. ‘If that had been my intention I’d have done it when I first met you.’

  The green light glowed, and she drove smoothly forward, no rubber-scorching acceleration, staying within the speed limit. The rain was easing off and the wipers went to intermittent.

  ‘Not only that,’ she went on, ‘I’d be a fool to say yes, wouldn’t I? You’d have to silence me.’

  ‘You’re wrong about that,’ I said. ‘I’d have to think of another way of staying alive.’ It was suddenly important to justify what I did. ‘The only people I ever killed were deserving causes, and only once a woman, and that was accidental.’

  ‘You killed a woman?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, my mouth turning down of its own accord. I didn’t elaborate, didn’t justify it; didn’t tell her it was the woman I loved.

  ‘Let’s hope you don’t see me as a deserving cause,’ she joked, nipping around a slow moving van. ‘But don’t worry, I’m not going to give you away. Like I said earlier, you did me and the world a big favour.’

  I asked her to drop me at the Renaissance. Using a back street route I hadn’t realized existed she deposited me at the hotel’s front door without further dialogue between us. I got out and stooped to thank her through the open door.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She gave me an intense look. ‘You didn’t answer my question – are you still going ahead with what I assume will have to be a frame-up?’

  Astute of her to have figured that out.

  ‘Is there an alternative? It doesn’t make me happy, but I’m not ready to throw myself at the mercy of your brother-in-law, or go on the run.’

  A passing truck hooted Maura for her temerity in parking on a no-parking line, though she had set the flashers.

  ‘So you’ll find someone who fits the bill and ... and kill him. Just like that.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘I’m glad it’s your conscience and not mine.’

  ‘It won’t be just like that, Maura. I haven’t quite come to terms with it yet. I’ve found a suitable candidate who’s probably every bit as deserving as your husband, so no qualms on the grounds of justification. It’s just ... not the way I operate.’ I smiled regretfully at her. ‘It’s a first. But then so is accepting a contract on myself.’

  She nodded slowly, her face thoughtful. ‘Well, good luck, or maybe not. I can’t make up my mind.’ In her eyes, an unspoken message flickered that I couldn’t decode. Then it was gone, like a switched off light. ‘I guess ... I guess I do hope it all comes good for you.’

  I shut the door and stood back from the curb while she pulled into a gap in the line of traffic headed downtown.

  Now and again, in my lethal line of business you have to take someone on trust. That’s how it was with Maura Beck. I trusted her not to rat on me. She represented a minor tightening of the risk screw, a factor to be lodged at the back of my mind. It changed nothing. I still had a dirty job to do and, in the absence of other solutions, I was still bent on doing it. Maura’s approval or disapproval was not part of the equation.

  ELEVEN

  Silvano Tosi’s written confession would be signed under duress. It had to be convincing. It had to contain proof of his culpability by stating facts that would only be known to the actual killer. Everything else – the number and position of the gunshot wounds, the position of the body, the absence of cartridge cases and fingerprints, the circumstances before and after, had all been reported in the press. All I could think of, that I and nobody else except Maura knew, was the style and colour of the clothes Jeff Heider had been wearing. This detail would have to form part of the confession, and its inclusion would in turn have to be explained to the Heiders. My explanation would be that having read the press reports, it was apparent to me that the rest was all general knowledge and therefore proof of nothing.

  It seemed solid. I dissected it and put it back together and it still made the grade as a cast-iron frame-up. The beauty of it was that the star witness, Silvano Tosi, wouldn’t be around to defend himself to the Heiders.

  This left the hit itself. The Tosi offices were suitable, being in a commercial area that would be mostly empty of people at night. Thanks to Silvano’s brother, I already had a silenced gun. There remained only the not-so-simple task of setting Silvano up. Luring him to the office late at night would do the trick, if I could figure out how.

  ‘Cross that bridge when I come to it,’ I said aloud to the mirror, as I ran a comb through my hair before going down to dinner.

  Deciding that a change of menu was overdue, I called a cab to take me downtown, there to menu-shop the multitudinous restaurants. As I was studying the menu by the entrance to a traditional French bistro called Mon Ami Gabi, a hand touched my shoulder.

  ‘Mr Freeman?’

  Tensed for action, I swung round to find myself facing a man of about my own age and height, but with dark hair, combed straight back without a parting. He wore a suit, off the peg to judge from its poor fit, and a carelessly knotted tie. Flanking him was a woman in jeans and windbreaker, a lot shorter and a lot younger.

  ‘Detective First Grade Gratrix.’ He thrust a police ID under my nose. ‘My partner here is Detective Rozon.’

  My mind was at full throttle, recapping my movements over the past few days. Maybe they had found the gun in the room safe.

  ‘What can I do for you, Detectives?’

  ‘We’d like a chat, if you can spare us a few minutes.’

  He was so polite and suave I almost found myself liking him.

  ‘Official or informal?’

  ‘Oh, informal,’ he said, then grinned. ‘For now.’

  ‘I was just on my way in here,’ I said, indicating the restaurant entrance. ‘Care to join me for an aperitif?’

  Gratrix looked at Rozon. She shrugged.

  ‘Suits me. Maybe I’ll skip the aperitif, though.’

>   She had rather pinched features, with lank brown hair screwed up into a bunch at the back. If she worked at it, she could be quite attractive. Her voice was deep for a woman.

  A greeter directed us to a circular table in the drinks area, with a semi-circular corner seat. I sat at one end, with Gratrix in the middle and his sidekick opposite me.

  ‘What’s this about?’ I said, after we had ordered - a low alcohol beer for me, coffees, both black, for them.

  ‘First of all, could I ask you to show me some ID?’ Gratrix said smoothly.

  Make no waves was always a good precept when dealing with the law. I slid my Massachusetts driving licence across the table.

  ‘What brings you to Las Vegas, Mr Freeman?’

  ‘Relaxation, plus keeping an eye open for investment opportunities.’ Just one of several prepared answers lodged in my brain, for trotting out to the likes of the police.

  ‘Investment?’ Rozon said.

  ‘Gambling is a huge and very profitable business, as I’m sure you already know. I’m thinking about buying into it.’

  She grunted non-committally. Gratrix said, ‘Is that what you are – an investor?’

  ‘Mostly. I also trade on the stock market.’ I felt the moment had come to be a shade more assertive. ‘Would you mind explaining what you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Sure.’ He flipped open a small black notebook, not unlike mine. ‘You were seen getting out of the car of a Mrs Maura Heider earlier today. Would you mind telling us what’s your connection with the lady?’

  ‘She gave me a ride.’ It was almost too glib.

  ‘A ride?’ Gratrix and Rozon exchanged glances of disbelief. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Sure. Mind telling me why it matters?’

  Before he could answer a waitress brought our drinks, handed me the check to sign, and departed. In the restaurant proper, a woman shrieked with laughter, bringing a furrow to Gratrix’s brow. A man easily irritated then.

  He took a deep breath. ‘I guess I have to. Fact is, she and other members of the Heider family are under surveillance in connection with ... let’s just say racketeering and money laundering issues. Naturally, we’re trawling with a wide net and if some little fish swim into it we have to check them out. It’s mostly a matter of routine, but it’s gotta be done.’

  ‘So I’m one of your little fish?’

  ‘On your say-so, yes.’ Gratrix fixed a hard cop eye on me. ‘Are you sure you don’t know Mrs Heider outside of her giving you a ride?’

  I shook my head, kept my expression bland.

  ‘Were you hitching?’

  ‘I was out walking, then it started to rain. I stuck out my thumb for fun really, but she was passing and pulled up. Nice of her.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said sourly. ‘What about the rest of the family? You know them at all?’

  Careful now, I warned myself. This cop wasn’t stupid. He could be laying traps. He might have known more than he pretended about my comings and goings in Vegas.

  ‘Who are they?’

  It was Rozon who answered.

  ‘Carl Heider is the top dog of the operation. His son Nicholas is a corporate lawyer, his nephew Richard, is his number two. Used to be a Jefferson Heider, brother of Carl, who was killed two years ago last August. Maura is his wife ... widow. She runs the casino.’

  ‘None of those names ring a bell. Don’t forget I’ve only been here a week.’

  ‘So your visit to the Pieces of Eight casino was just a coincidence.’

  ‘Coincidence?’ I tried to look blank.

  ‘Yeah. The Heiders own it, Maura Heider runs it.’

  ‘So what? I’m checking out a lot of casinos. Look, are you tailing these people, what are they called? The Heiders? Or are you tailing me?’

  ‘You and a few dozen others were caught on camera leaving the casino yesterday morning. It matched the shots of you getting out of the Heider babe’s car.’

  ‘You’re adding up a lot of two plus twos and making a lot of fives,’ was all I could think of to say.

  Gratrix sampled his coffee, I sampled my beer. It was bland, like most low-alcohol beers. I guessed he wasn’t entirely satisfied by my story. Maybe not even by my bona fides. He rubbed his jaw, the friction of his palm over early-evening stubble making a rasping sound. He had nothing to go on, but I could tell he was reluctant to let me out of his clutches.

  ‘Okay,’ he said at length, clapping his hands on his knees. ‘Okay, I’m going to leave it at that. Keep what I told you to yourself, especially if the Heider woman gives you another ride.’ His tone became sarcastic when he mentioned Maura. ‘Just remember we’re watching her, so we’ll know if she does.’

  Slightly nettled, I said harshly. ‘It’s nothing to me, Detective. She seems like a pleasant woman. I’m not going out of my way to avoid her just because you suspect she’s involved in breaking the law.’

  Gratrix and Rozon got to their feet simultaneously, as if they were joined at the hip.

  ‘If you want to stay clean, stay clear,’ Gratrix said unsmiling. ‘That’s my advice to you, friend.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘If we want you, we know where to find you,’ Rozon growled, with a hint of menace.

  They left. Leaving me to ponder this new complication in the game of deception counter-deception I was being forced to play. On the periphery of my thoughts was a vague notion that I might even turn the law’s interest in the Heiders to my advantage.

  Next morning I went shopping. At a sportswear supermarket, I purchased a red and grey track top, coordinated grey track pants, and a red baseball cap. From there I sought out a back street printer, who designed and printed me a label with a logo on the spot. I only needed one, but the minimum batch quantity was a hundred, at a cost of a dollar twenty per label.

  It was approaching mid-day when I took off by rental Nissan to Reno. Self-drive was more tiring than the bus, but less like being transported in a cattle truck. The sky was cloudless. To add to my worries I now had to include the possibility of being under surveillance by the LVPD. Over the years I’d become an expert at spotting tails. On the underused Interstate 95, maintaining a tail without being spotted would defeat even the FBI. Even so, I pulled off the road at irregular intervals to scrutinize passing vehicles. Conclusion: nobody was tailing me, unless it was by satellite.

  Different hotel – the Grand Sierra, big, brash, and cruciform shaped – a few blocks away from Sunshine Lane. My luggage was light: overnight bag with a change of clothes and underwear, the usual toiletries. And a handgun.

  It was a little after six when I drove down Sunshine Alley to Young Fat’s warehouse. No. 12 was in darkness and free of parked cars, which suited me. The less often I was observed, the less prospect of Silvano or Cesare noticing me.

  Young Fat was alone, doing his books. He seemed pleased to see me. He shook my hand, offered me a can of Coke.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘Just give me the Wi-Fi password.’

  ‘Wi-Fi? Okay Mr Smith.’ He scribbled some hieroglyphics on a scrap of paper.

  ‘I’m going to be here for a few days,’ I told him.

  ‘You stay? Okay Mr Smith. Anything want, see me.’

  Next on my agenda was shopping for groceries to last a week. I drove to the nearest supermarket, a WinCos, and stocked up with mostly fast foods, plus fruit, bottled water, a case of beers, and some non-foods including a dozen rolls of gift wrapping paper and some duct tape.

  After doing a quick tour of the apartment and setting up the internet connection on my tablet, I proceeded to wipe all surfaces, handles, and switches to remove any fingerprints I might have deposited during my previous visit. Then I covered all horizontal surfaces with the brightly coloured paper, secured with duct tape. More tape was used to seal every handle and switch. It was a tedious but necessary part of my preparations. The alternative, wearing surgical gloves for the duration, was not appealing.

  It was gone nine before I was satisfied that the place
was as free of traces of me as the White House. Young Fat was long gone by then, and the street was empty of life. I drove back to the hotel, scrupulously observing all laws and lights. I would continue to sleep there in preference to making the apartment my base. This was a precaution against having to vacate the apartment in an emergency and abandon my personal effects.

  My vigil began on Wednesday. Occupying the only armchair, I equipped myself with tablet and iPod. Using the tablet I ordered the latest Michael Connelly thriller from amazon.com, plugged in the iPod and tuned to a Vivaldi album, starting with the rousing, fast paced Concierto para Violines y Organo. The way the violinist makes his instrument “sit up and talk” is inspiring.

  Settled with my music and my book, I passed the hours as best I could. Young Fat and his team were busy below, shipping stuff off to the local restaurants, but at No. 12 nothing stirred. Waiting and observing was not alien to me. It just wasn’t fun.

  Day 1 crawled past. Cesare checked in around noon in his blue Barracuda with a redheaded girl in tow. Other visitors, in less flamboyant conveyances, stayed awhile, and departed. I read, I listened to more music, I heated food and ate it; every thirty minutes or so I left the armchair and walked up and down; I did push-ups, and sit-ups, and around mid-afternoon, risked a five-mile jog. No Bentley, before or after.

  When Reno succumbed to darkness, I returned to the hotel.

  Day 2 was much as Day 1. Different book, different music starting with Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, but over the street at No. 12 the routine hardly varied. During my jog I bought copies of USA Today and New York Times, plus a selection of magazines, as a change from Solzhenitsyn, whose August 1914 I had purchased on-line when I finished Michael Connolly.

  Today was the expiry of the one-week deadline imposed by Carl Heider for revealing the name of my fall-guy. To keep him off my back I wrote an email.

  Out of town clarifying a couple of issues about my chief suspect. Will be back later this week and suggest we meet up to finalise.

  Suitably vague. It wouldn’t please him, that much I could guarantee. Better than no communication at all, I hoped.