Body of Shadows (11 page)

“This is Pantage Phair,” Drift said.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

“What?”

“The fat man,” the fat man said. “You’re the one who started that name. It stuck. Did you know that? I’m not complaining, I’m just saying that next time you pick out a nickname for someone, you know, keep in mind that it might stick.”

“It’s a good name for you,” Drift said. “It fits.”

The man shrugged.

“I don’t mind it actually,” he said “I even got a license plate,
Fat Man.
So why are you here wanting to talk to me in
private
?”

“My friend Pantage was here Friday night,” he said. “Someone may have been stalking her. What I need is all your surveillance tapes from that night.”

“All of ’em?”

Drift nodded.

“Parking lots too?”

“Everything you have,” Drift said.

The fat man sucked on the cigar and blew a ring.

“Sometimes the liquor board gets on my case,” he said. “Some of the cowboys piss in the parking lot once in a while. Sometimes an underage sneaks in, that kind of thing. It would sure be nice if you could put in a good word.”

Drift pulled out his phone, punched numbers and said, “Hey, it’s me, Drift. I need a favor. Next time you’re down at the Tequila-R, extend your blinders a little bit. Don’t go crazy, just cut ’em a little slack.” He hung up, looked at the fat man and said, “Done deal.”

“You’re a good man.”

32

Day Two

July 19

Tuesday Night

The dark illegal spark
of a thought that worked its way into Drift’s brain this afternoon was now an all-consuming wildfire. He needed to break into September Tadge’s law office and get the files on Van Gogh, he needed to do it tonight, and he needed to do it before he changed his mind. He dropped Pantage off at the house of a coworker named Renn-Jaa, where she should be safe for the night. Then he drove over to September’s, parked two blocks away and headed nonchalantly up the street at a quarter to midnight with his head down and his hands in his pockets, to all intents and purposes just one more lost soul adrift in the middle of a lonely Denver night.

Four beers were in his gut.

The buzz was gone, now replaced with leaden eyelids.

He should be home.

He should be screwing Pantage into oblivion then rolling over and bringing those lids down tight and hard.

Tomorrow.

He’d do that tomorrow.

The rain had stopped.

The sidewalks were littered with puddles.

Light from the hotel next door to September’s office sprayed onto the front of the structure and onto the dead flat lawn in front of it. A woman came out of the hotel and walked towards the one and only cab out front. She wore a short expensive skirt, nylons and a truckload of face paint.

Escort,
Drift thought.

Bought and paid for.

He turned left into the darkness at the side of September’s office. The tires of the taxi squashed through puddles up the street and the taillights disappeared around the corner.

Drift exhaled.

He’d never crossed the line before, not once.

If he did it now, he couldn’t erase it.

It would be with him forever.

It would define him in a new way.

It would also be a secret he’d have to carry. The weight would increase over time.

Was he actually stupid enough to do it?

He could feel the files just beyond those walls. Getting them might help keep Pantage alive. Not getting them would keep Drift clean. Was he so interested in his own pathetic little existence that he’d have Pantage at risk to preserve it?

No.

He wasn’t that guy.

He wasn’t the coward.

It was time to get what he needed.

He made his way
to the rear of the structure and found to his amazement that one of the windows had been left halfway up.

He silently climbed through and touched down in a conference room.

It was small.

There was a rectangular wooden table and four chairs. A hotplate for a coffee pot sat on top of a credenza.

He was in.

He’d broken and entered.

The dirt was on him.

Surprisingly he didn’t care.

In fact he felt strong.

The sounds of the city trickled through the air—the changing gears of a motorcycle, the wavelike wash of a siren, the drone of cars pulling away at a green light.

Drift headed deeper into the structure.

The files would probably be in a filing cabinet.

They’d be arranged alphabetically.

What would they be called?

Van Gogh?

The conference room opened up to a reception area with a desk and a winding stairway to the upper floor. Drift walked past the stairway and entered a larger room with a number of plants, a large contemporary desk with a computer monitor on top and a fancy wooden filing cabinet in the corner.

Drift pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket.

In the top two drawers of the cabinet was an eclectic mix of non-client files—billing records, bank statements and the like. The bottom two drawers were equally useless. The main filing cabinets must be upstairs.

He silently headed up.

It turned out he was right.

A large room held a number of mismatched metal filing cabinets, brown, gray, tall, short, flea market purchases. They were labeled with magic marker on pieces of paper taped to the top drawer, A-C, D-J, K-P, Q-T, U-Z. Drift headed for U-Z. In the second drawer down he found an expandable file labeled Van Gogh.

Inside were several manila folders, each labeled with a date. He flipped one open. Inside were two pieces of paper with handwritten notes.

The others were similar.

He copied every single piece of paper, being careful to keep them in the proper order and in the proper folders, then put the originals back in U-Z exactly where he found them.

He slipped into the night.

No one saw him.

No one knew.

33

Day Three

July 20

Wednesday Morning

Yardley woke up
to find herself in the driver’s seat of a rented Ford parked in a dark neighborhood in the middle of the night. The air was coffin quiet. It was 1:32 a.m., meaning she must have dozed off for at least half an hour. Madison Elmblade’s house, two doors down and across the street, looked the same as before. Yardley stretched, worked a cramp out of her neck and pulled the house in closer with a pair of binoculars. Everything was the same. There were no open doors or windows or anything else to indicate that Cave had struck.

Cave.

Cave.

Cave.

The guy was gifted with that James Dean face but inside he was an oak that had grown hard and twisted. Yardley still wasn’t sure whether he was just screwing with her earlier when he said they’d kill Elmblade together or whether he was serious about it and then changed his mind. All she knew for sure is that two blocks down the street he sent her packing with a warning; “Stay out of everything and keep your mouth shut. If the dust settles the way it’s supposed to you’ll get your precious little Deven back. If it doesn’t then it doesn’t.”

She took the gun
out of her purse and weighed it in her hand. The steel was cold and hard. Headlights appeared from around the corner and came slowly up the street. Yardley dropped down as they passed then brought an eye up just far enough to see the taillights move down the street.

It was Cave’s car.

He was making his move on Madison.

Thunder rolled through Yardley’s blood.

The taillights disappeared around a corner.

A few minutes later headlights came back up the street, not passing this time but pulling into a street slot right behind Yardley.

She ducked down.

The car was a Ford rental.

Cave wouldn’t recognize it as hers.

He’d have no reason to look inside.

Even if he did, Yardley had an explanation ready; she’d anticipated that he’d show up tonight, she was there to help him. That’s what she’d say. There’d be no reason for him to not believe it. He’d probably smile and slap her ass. “Prove it,” he’d say.

A car door opened and then closed.

A horn didn’t beep.

Cave hadn’t used the remote to lock the doors.

He was leaving them open in case he needed to make a quick getaway.

Yardley dug deeper into the seat.

A distant dog barked, once and again, possibly a warning to Cave, then it stopped. No other sounds cut the air. Cave should be past Yardley by now. She brought her head up and checked.

She was right.

There he was, sneaking through the side shadows of Madison’s house into the deeper darkness behind.

With the gun in hand,
Yardley opened the door quieter than quiet and hugged the shadows back to Cave’s car. The door was opened as she suspected. She got all the way in to kill the overhead light as quickly as possible and fumbled around under the dash until she found the trunk latch.

She pulled it.

A movement came from the rear of the vehicle.

She got out, stayed low and headed to the back. A dog barked, the same as before. Her heart raced. The trunk lid was unlatched, a few inches up. She pulled it up higher and confirmed there was an emergency release inside.

Then she got in.

There was room for her body but not by much.

The claustrophobia was already climbing up her throat.

She swallowed it down.

She pointed the gun at Madison’s house.

This was it.

Bam!

Bam!

Bam!

Glass shattered.

She pulled the lid down and curled up in a fetal position. Ten seconds later Cave bounded into the car and squealed away. The violence of the turn at the corner pushed Yardley’s head into something sharp.

She didn’t care.

Hold on Deven.

I’m coming.

34

Day Three

July 20

Wednesday Morning

Wednesday morning
Pantage got a couple of billable hours under her belt then closed the door and watched one of the Tequila Rose surveillance tapes. What she saw sent ice up her spine.

The gladiator she picked up Friday night was there in all his glory.

What became clear, however, was that Pantage was only half right in thinking that she was the one who picked him up. At every move, he was watching her from a distance, then eventually positioning himself so they’d meet.

There were no names exchanged.

She didn’t know his.

That didn’t mean he didn’t know hers. She’d been in the bathroom a couple of times that night at his loft. That would have given him time to rummage through her wallet, replete with not only her driver’s license but also a half-dozen business cards.

A knock came at the door.

The knob turned and Renn-Jaa walked in.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

“Close the door.”

Pantage showed her the tape.

Renn-Jaa wasn’t impressed.

“He had you for free Friday night,” she said. “Why would he go off on some crazy elaborate scheme on Sunday? It doesn’t make sense. Plus, look at the guy. He can get laid three times before noon without even trying.”

“Yeah, but he can’t strangle them while he’s doing it,” Pantage said.

Renn-Jaa cocked her head.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Pantage did.

“Now, think back to Sunday night,” she said. “Do you see this guy there anywhere? Does he spark even the faintest recollection?”

Pantage opened her eyes.

“No but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“I think it does,” Renn-Jaa said.

“My memory’s gone.”

“It can’t be gone a hundred percent.”

“Trust me, it is.”

She stood up and grabbed her purse.

“Where are you going?”

“To find out who he is.”

“You don’t know his name?”

“No,” Pantage said. “I have this thing. I pick guys up, I get screwed like crazy and I leave. There are no names involved. There, I said it. It’s out. I don’t know his name but I know where he lives.”