John Locke - Lethal People
I thought about what she said. The part about the life-sucking machine. I wondered if such a device could be built. If so, how would it work? How large would it be? What would it cost? Would it have much value as a torture device? I couldn’t imagine anything better than the ADS weapon. It was relatively portable now, but the army was already working on a handheld version that could be functional in a matter of months. Also, with ADS, the pain is instant and so is the recovery. Now that I’d compared the two in my head, I’d have to put the ADS weapon way above Janet’s lifesucking machine idea. Then again, Janet probably hadn’t heard about the ADS weapon.
I was pretty sure she’d choose talking to me over being exposed to the ADS beam.
I thought some more about Janet and the good times we shared. Then I pressed another number on my speed dial to shake away the image of her tight body and firm, slender legs.
Sal Bonadello answered as he always did: “What.”
It was more a statement than a question.
“Tell me about Victor,” I said.
“Who?”
“It’s me, goddamn it.”
“The friggin’ attic dweller?”
“The same.”
“Where are you?” he asked. I imagined him looking at the ceiling over his head, wondering if I were up there right now. I heard he woke up from a bad dream a few months ago and pumped six rounds into the ceiling above his bedroom while screaming my name.
“Relax,” I said. “I’m in the air, somewhere over Colorado.” I noticed Quinn was beginning to stir. Maybe he’d been awake the whole time and was giving me privacy with Janet and Kimberly. You never knew for certain about Augustus Quinn or what he might be thinking at any given moment.
“I heard what happened in Jersey.”
“You sound almost disappointed.”
“Nah, not really. But hey, it’s hard to find good shooters, you know?”
“Which is why you put up with all my shit,” I said.
“Tell me about it.”
“Listen up,” I said to Sal. “You said you met Victor. Where?”
“You know I can’t—whatcha call—divulge my sources.”
“Cut the crap, will ya?”
“He needed some heavy shit. I gave him a name.”
“What kind of heavy shit?”
“Guns, drugs, explosives—shit like that.”
“And your contact required you to be there?”
“Right. Look, what about that blond of yours, the one on TV driving the van—the real one, not the bullshit picture the FBI showed. You talk to her about me yet?”
“Don’t even,” I said.
“What, I can’t dream? What, I’m not good enough for her? How about you put in a good word for me, ah? I’ll consider it a favor.”
“Do you guys go to school somewhere to learn how to talk like that?”
“Yeah, wise ass. It’s called the friggin’ school of bustin’ heads, and I’m the—whatcha call—headmaster. So, you want my help or what?”
I sighed again and realized I’d been doing a lot of sighing lately. “I’ll mention your interest to the little lady.”
“All I’m askin’.”
“Next chance I get.”
“Ask her nicely.”
“Fine.”
“’Cause you never know.”
“Right.”
“Tell her I’m a man of mystery.”
“For the love of God!” I shouted. A few feet away from me, in the cabin, Quinn did that thing where he sort of smiled. I decided to come at Sal from a different angle.
“Did you happen to catch the hotel bombing in LA?”
“What am I, blind? Everywhere I look that’s all I see on the friggin’ tube. Was that you?”
I sighed again. I should be blowing balloons for a living.
“Sal,” I said, “the hotel bombing, it was DeMeo.”
“What? Joe DeMeo? That’s nuts!”
“I had a meeting with DeMeo this morning. Afterward, I met a hooker. That bomb you saw on TV? She planted it in my room. I found out later she was one of DeMeo’s girls.”
“You sayin’ they blew up that whole goddamn hotel just to kill you? And missed? I’d a used a friggin’ ice pick.”
“That’s a happy thought,” I said.
“Hey, nothin’ personal.”
“Right,” I said. I got us back on track. “Do you think Victor and DeMeo are working together some way?”
“Why?”
“Victor gave me the hit on Monica Childers. Suddenly the pictures are all over the TV. Turns out Victor hijacked a spy satellite and downloaded the photos. Then Monica’s body goes missing. The government pins it on Russians, supposedly working with terrorists. Next thing you know, DeMeo tries to kill me and makes it look like a terrorist attack on a hotel. That sound like a coincidence to you?”
“What do I look like, Perry Mason? Whaddya think, I got a friggin’ crystal ball in my pocket? What, I’m gonna check the horoscope for—whatcha call—worlds colliding?”
I took that as a no. “Can you give me anything at all on Victor?”
“You tryin’ to find Childers’ wife? Make sure she’s gonna stay dead this time?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Might cause a—whatcha call—rift between you and the midget.”
“I’ll try to solve the one without losing the other.”
“Well, nuthin’ from nuthin’, but things go bad between you, I don’t give refunds. Anyway I already donated my share to charity.”
“Spare me.”
“The Mothers of Sicily. You should look into it. They do great work here in the neighborhood.”
I said nothing.
Sal’s voice changed to something resembling sincerity. “Truth is, I got squat,” he said. “But I’ll shake the trees, see what falls out. I hate that friggin’ DeMeo. He’s bad for business.”
“You want to help me take him down?”
He paused. “That’s the sort of question gets people killed if someone’s taping.”
“I’m not taping anything. I want to rob him.”
“You better be planning to kill him, then.”
“I won’t rule it out,” I said. “You want half?”
“How much we talking about?”
“Twenty million.”
He was quiet a moment. “Twenty for me, or all together?”
“All together. Let’s get together soon, work it out.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, then added, “But stay outta my house. I don’t want to come home one night, find you in my friggin’ living room in the dark.”
“I’ll come to your social club.”
“Bring the blond with you.”
“Sal, about the blond. She’s dead inside.”
“You ever do her?”
“She’s like a spider. If she does you, she kills you.”
He thought about that awhile. “Might be worth it,” he said.
I thought about it, too. “Might be,” I said.
We hung up. My shoulder throbbed from hitting the sidewalk a few hours earlier. The engines continued their monotonous whine. I reclined my seat and closed my eyes. I think I might have heard Quinn say, “How can you sleep at a time like this?”
CHAPTER 33
A shrill sound jolted me awake. It repeated, and I pulled the air phone from its cradle. I checked my watch. Two hours had passed.
“What have you got for me?” I asked.
“We’re guessing Semtex,” Lou said.
Semtex is the explosive of choice for international terrorist groups. It’s cheap, odorless, readily available, has an indefinite shelf life, and slides through airport security scanners like a pair of silk panties.
Lou said, “You were right; the hotel blast originated in the area of your bedroom.”
“How’d they verify that?”
“Lack of a crater. Ground floor detonation would have left one a meter deep. A charge placed above the second floor would have taken out the roof.”
“What are the Feds working on?”
“Hotel cameras, cross-referencing faces with suspected terrorists and sympathizer lists, checking for connections by address, criminal records, religious and political affiliations. Darwin said to give them Jenine, so they’re working up a profile on her as well.”
I looked across the aisle at Quinn. He appeared to be asleep again, in the exact same position as before. From what I could see he hadn’t moved a muscle since finishing his second drink. I envy any monster that can crash like that.
“I wish he hadn’t given them Jenine,” I said. “They’re going to want to talk to me about it, and we’re liable to cross wires in the field. Better to solve the case for them and let them take the credit afterward.”
“The Feebs have you on the lobby camera checking in. They’ve got your name and credit card on the registration. They’ve got Jenine twice on the lobby cameras. They know about your clearance to fly out of Edwards. Darwin said if we didn’t give them Jenine, the Feds would detain you and Quinn as material witnesses when you land.”
That made sense. Still, I hated having everyone in law enforcement know about my dalliance with a twenty-year-old escort. Every Feeb I deal with from now on will find a way to work that into the conversation.
CHAPTER 34
By surviving Joe DeMeo’s attack, I’d put my family in danger, so I asked Callie to keep an eye on Janet and Kimberly until further notice. I’d also tipped my hand by demanding money for Addie, so I put Quinn in the burn center to protect her.
“Victor’s story is a sad one,” Lou said.
It was Sunday afternoon. My shoulder was freshly bandaged, and I’d gotten caught up on my sleep. Lou had gathered a ton of information for me on Victor, but all I wanted to know was the source of his funds and his connection to Monica Childers.
“They’re both related,” Lou said.
“Enlighten me with the short version.”
“Victor was born with serious respiratory problems. About twenty years ago, he was in the hospital for a minor surgery when a nurse gave him an accidental overdose that put him into cardiac arrest. Someone wheeled him into an elevator on the way to emergency surgery and somehow managed to leave him there. Up and down he went from floor to floor in the elevator for more than thirty minutes before someone realized what had happened. They rushed him to the OR, but the surgeon botched the procedure and Victor suffered a stroke. Subsequent attempts to save his life rendered him a quadriplegic.
“Then the hospital made a feeble attempt to cover up the incident. Victor’s attorneys sued both the hospital and the drug company and managed to win the largest settlement ever paid to an individual in the state of Florida. After being released from the hospital, Victor’s parents placed the proceeds from the lawsuit into Berkshire Hathaway stock. By the time he was of legal age, he was worth more than a hundred million dollars. By then, his parents were dead, and he surrounded himself with the best financial people money could buy. He became a venture capitalist, funded several internet startups that hit the big time.”
“How big?”
“We’re talking close to a billion dollars at this point. Beyond his incredibly sophisticated computer system, state-of-the-art apartment, and cutting-edge electronics that have allowed him to function at the highest possible level, he had nothing else upon which to spend his wealth.”
“The doctor that severed his spinal cord,” I said.
“Baxter Childers,” Lou said.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have motive,” I said.
CHAPTER 35
Tourists are often surprised to learn the true size of Little Italy. The entire area runs only three or four blocks along Mulberry Street, between Canal and Houston.
One of the cross streets is Hester, where Café Napoli has been in business more than thirty years. It’s open eighteen hours a day, beginning at 9:00 am. Victor had called in a favor and got us a table an hour before the breakfast crowd.
“Thank … you for … com … ing,” Victor said. He did have the dreadlocks Sal Bonadello told me about, and they grew long and filthy and hung down the sides and back of his body like thick ropes of dust. Were he able to stand erect, at least two of the strands would drag the floor. I wondered if they ever got caught in the spokes of his wheelchair.
Speaking of which, his wheelchair was incredibly high tech. I had no idea what bells and whistles it contained, but it seemed to have enough electronics on board to launch the space shuttle. It looked like something you’d find in the distant future. The back was enclosed and swept in an arc over his head, where it attached to a sort of roll bar that was at least an inch thick.
Victor moved his index finger on a touch pad, and several small computer screens silently retracted from the roll bar and positioned themselves at various angles about a foot in front of his head. Though I couldn’t view any of the screens from my position, one of them must have displayed a digital clock, because Victor glanced up at it and said, “Time … is limi … ted so … we should … get … star … ted.”
He wore a long-sleeved navy warm-up suit with three vertical white stripes on one side of the jacket. It was very expensive looking, probably hand-tailored, which made me realize how hard it must be for little people of limited means to find clothing. It’s one of those things you wouldn’t think about until you find yourself in this type of situation.
We were in the main dining area, where the walls were brick and covered with pictures and other memorabilia from Italy. Our table was larger than the others, but they all had white, floorlength tablecloths and small vases with colorful fake flower arrangements.
Hugo had been standing when I arrived, and he continued to stand. I wondered about that until I realized he didn’t have a choice. The table and chairs were too tall to properly accommodate him. So he stood and glared at me.
I nodded at him. “Hugo,” I said.
I saw a flash of dark yellow and realized Hugo had bared his teeth at me. If intense staring could cause a person to explode, I was doomed.
A young man approached us and said, “The kitchen’s not open yet, but I can bring you a pot of coffee and a bagel or pastry if you wish.”
“No liver?” Hugo snarled, without taking his eyes off me. I suddenly realized what made his stare so intimidating: he never blinked. In fact, he hadn’t blinked once since I’d arrived.
The server seemed confused. “I’m not a waiter. I’m just a busboy, so I don’t know the menu very well. I can probably scrounge up some lox or cream cheese.”
No one said anything, so I said, “I think we’ll just talk, but thanks for the offer.” Then I thought of something and added, “Could you remove the flowers?” I didn’t think Victor would put a bug in the flower arrangement, but why take a chance?
The busboy left with the flowers, and I started things off. To Hugo, I said, “You know, for a spiritual adviser, you’re pretty pugnacious.”
“Fuck you!” he screamed.
I shrugged. I was beginning to get used to the unblinking stare. To Victor, I said, “Do you need to frisk me? Make sure I’m not wearing a wire or tape recorder?”
