Recoil (17 page)

Homer squinted at him. “Do I look bored? This is the best vacation I've had in four years working for Vasquez Inc. A lot better than repossessing cars and skip-tracing.”

Jan said, “Is that your bread and butter?”

“Sometimes. Actually most of our work is company spying.”

“Industrial counterespionage,” Vasquez said. “I do spend a good part of my time training business executives in security techniques.”

Jan poured iced tea into the four glasses. When she set the pitcher down she said, “I'd like to call some friends.” She looked directly at Vasquez. “Would that be all right?”

“Certainly. But I'd prefer you didn't call them from here. And it would be better if you didn't tell them exactly where we are. Mr. Meuth will be driving into town in the morning—you and I could ride with him.”

“Thank you. I only want to find out if Roger and Amy are all right.”

“Any reason why they shouldn't be, Mrs. Mathieson?”

She made a gesture and almost overturned the glass; she caught it in time. “I feel—stranded up here. I need some thread of contact with the world.”

“Perfectly understandable.” Vasquez's glance lifted from the rescued iced tea to Jan's face. “I'm sure you're thoroughly annoyed with the obsessive lengths to which my paranoia has taken us. But in the interest of your safety I've tried to cut off every conceivable lead to your whereabouts. It's unlikely that your friends would be under surveillance or that their telephones would be tapped. But possible. You understand?”

“I suppose so.”

Homer jabbed his fork toward Mathieson's plate again. “Come on, you're stalling.”

“They always told me it was healthy to eat slowly.”

“Sure it is.” Homer's smile was belligerent. “Eat.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

New York: 8 September

1

E
ZIO BLEW CUBAN SMOKE TOWARD THE CEILING AND BEAMED
expansively when Frank walked into the office. “Man you were right, Frank, son of a bitch paid off.”

“You were mysterious as hell on the phone.”

“You want me to spell anything out on a Goddamned telephone?”

“Of course not. But you're getting a little fancy with that million-seller hit record nonsense. What's it supposed to mean? Since when am I in the record business?”

Ezio opened the drawer and pushed the rewind switch on the tape deck. “We've got Merle's wife on tape. Is that a hit record, or isn't it?”

Frank walked around the desk and looked down at the recorder. “You don't say.”

“Here.” Ezio handed him the typescript from the desk. “I typed up a transcript while I was waiting for you.”

Frank glanced down the first page. “Who are these people?”

“The first voice is Merle's wife. The one they call Jan. The second woman is Roger Gilfillan's wife, name of Amy—”

“Roger Gilfillan the movie star?”

“You remember, he's on that list of Merle's friends.”

“Right, OK. So the ‘Roger' here, that's Gilfillan.”

“Just the three of them. There's some damn interesting stuff. So anyhow I just identified the speakers with initials—J for Merle's wife, A for Gilfillan's wife, R for Gilfillan.”

“The tap is on Gilfillan's phone, right?”

“We've had two shifts watching him come and go. He's shooting a TV special on one of the lots in Burbank; he goes to work every morning at seven. The phone call came in two days ago, Saturday morning; he was home.”

He watched Frank page through the transcript. Frank said, “We'll listen to it in a minute. What's the bottom line here?”

“She tells them she's with her husband and kid hiding out someplace down around San Diego. She's not supposed to tell them where—she's calling from a pay phone. You get the operator coming in a couple of times there, telling her to deposit more change. From the phone rates we worked it out it's somewhere in San Diego county all right but we couldn't pin it down too close, except its north or northeast of San Diego because the charges are a dime less than they'd be all the way to the city.”

“So?”

“At least we know they're in Southern California, Frank. That's a lot more than we knew before.”

“Only a few million people in that part of the country, Ezio. What's this here about ‘turning Fred into Tarzan'?”

“I don't know, I admit there's some of it that didn't make much sense to me. I figured you could listen to it, maybe you'd come up with something.”

“Fred—that's Edward Merle?”

“The name he went under the last eight years in Los Angeles. Fred Mathieson.” Something sour leaked out of the cigar onto his tongue and Ezio picked it off with his fingers. “You maybe haven't noticed the part where she talks about the kid and all the horses he gets to ride from the stables. Not that many places down there with private stables full of quarterhorses, Frank. I've already got people looking.”

2

After they listened to the tape Ezio pushed the “off” button. “You want to hear it again?”

“No. Everything's on paper here. I didn't know you could type that fast.”

“I just didn't want anybody else to hear this tape until you decided how you want to handle it.”

“The riding-stable angle's a good one. You keep on that. And there's another thing we could try.”

“Name it.”

Frank said, “She said she'd call them back again next Saturday.”

“Yeah, I caught that part.”

“See if you can get to somebody on the cops out there. Use Ordway if you have to. See if they can set up a trace next time she phones.”

“It's a pay phone, Frank. Maybe she won't use the same one twice.”

“At least it would tell us what town to look in.”

“Sure, I get you. I'll give it a try. It might not work—you can't do a phone trace without a bunch of people knowing about it. Some of those people would have to be straights.”

Frank nodded. Ezio glanced at him again. He was getting used to seeing the toupee but there was something else different about Frank. He looked a lot healthier; he'd turned brown and smooth.

“I've got another idea,” Frank said. “She's going to call them Saturday. All right. Friday you have a couple of our people crowd them a little.”

“Crowd Gilfillan?”

“Nothing big. Don't rough them up. But tell them to put a clumsy tail on them.”

“I don't get it.”

Frank smiled. “Who's running it out there?”

“Still Deffeldorf. Fritz Deffeldorf.”

“Using what, a bunch of Ordway's people?”

“A few. Some free lances.”

Frank's mind was working. “Ezio, you didn't tell me, is the FBI still looking for Merle?”

“No. They canceled the bulletin.”

“They didn't just let it dry up—they made a point of canceling it?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I wonder why they did that.”

“At the time I figured it meant they must have found Merle. But they didn't. At least Ordway says they didn't. It was canceled on orders from Washington.”

“He's all by himself out there and the FBI isn't interested anymore. That makes things easier.”

“What's this idea you had? Crowding Gilfillan, I mean.”

“Put three or four guys on him. Say they tail him home from the TV studio Friday night. Say they crowd him so tight he can't help but notice he's being shadowed.”

“So?”

“So Saturday morning Merle's wife phones and Gilfillan tells her he's being followed around by this bunch of tough-looking guys.”

“I still don't get it, Frank.”

Frank got out of the chair. He folded the transcript and put it in his pocket. “Sometimes when you're up against a stone wall the best thing is to do something unexpected. Random, whatever, doesn't matter what it is, just so it stirs things up, gets things moving again. We've been stalled on this thing long enough. I want to prod Merle, that's all. Maybe this riding-stable idea works, maybe not. But we get his buddy Gilfillan all nervous and jittery, he's going to tell Merle's wife about it, and then maybe something will bust loose.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

California: 12–13 September

1

N
OW IT FELT GOOD TO RUN. HE STRETCHED HIS LONG LEGS
out and left Homer behind and went up the last stretch of driveway feeling winged. When he stopped at the porte cochere his breathing was deep but without urgency and he gave Homer an arch look when he came up.

Homer dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “Your legs are a foot longer than mine, wiseass. You want to prove something I'll take you on for a ten-mile run, we'll see who comes in first.”

“No bet.”

“I hate cocky bastards.” But Homer's tight quick smile showed pleasure: He was proud of his handiwork.

“Tell me something. Were you in on the Stedman rescue?”

“I was there.”

“Not talking about it, is that it?”

“It's not classified. I'm not crazy about the way that one worked out.”

“Why?”

“I don't know if I can exactly explain it. Why are you asking?”

“I'm trying to sort a few things out. Humor me.” He was still trying to get a handle on Diego Vasquez, that was what it came down to; he didn't want to put it to Homer that way.

“It left a sour taste, you know, that whole mess. They were freaked-out junkies. The ones who snatched the Stedman kid.”

“Some kind of radicals, weren't they?”

Homer shook his head, not in denial but in disgust. “Look, you turn on the TV, the radio, you look in the newspapers, all you see day after day is hijacks and terrorists. All over the world. These little bastards—the Stedman case—calling themselves revolutionaries. The truth is they're just crazies. A pack of hophead jerk-offs. Any cheap psycho with a gun can call himself a revolutionary but what the fuck does that mean?”

“What happened down there that's got you so worked up?”

“I don't know. Vasquez and I went in there alone first. The kids started blazing away. We dumped Stedman on the floor under his cot and we held the front door—it was the only way in, there weren't any windows. There were seven of those junkies with enough guns between them to fight World War Three and they decided to charge us. I suppose they expected to grab Stedman and use him for a shield. They saw we were only two guys, so they came at us. It just wasn't any contest at all. It never is when the pros go up against the amateurs. We had all seven of them dead or shot up or handcuffed inside of thirty seconds. But it's the dead ones that get to you. We killed two of them on the spot and a couple of others died in the hospital later on. It leaves a bad taste. I never thought so much of myself that I believed I had God's right to decide who lives and who dies.”

“I take it the boss doesn't think the same way.”

It was a while before Homer replied. “Diego Vasquez has his own way of looking at things. And his own reasons. You'd need to know something about him. His background and all.”

“Such as?”

“I'd rather you asked him. Come on—time to put the gloves on.”

2

When he saw Ronny trot past the gate he walked over to the barn to meet him. The boy brought the horse into the corral at an easy single-foot, knowing better than to run it; its coat was a little damp but obviously he'd walked it most of the way home from the lake to cool it down.

Mathieson helped him strip the saddle off; he lugged it to its peg in the barn and watched Ronny rub the horse down and take out the currycomb. They talked about inconsequentials and the boy seemed to be enjoying his company but when he stripped the bridle off and drove the horse out into the paddock he turned suddenly after closing the gate and said, “How long are we going to be stuck here?”

“I thought you liked it.”

“I like it fine. I like living like a king. I like having my pick of a bunch of great horses. I like everything about it. But there's
nobody around
.”

“No kids your own age, you mean.”

“Dad, I can't exactly have a ball with old Perkins or Mr. Meuth, can I. I mean you can only spend so much time on a horse.”

“It's not as if there wasn't plenty to do, Ronny. Besides ride.”

“I've read a dozen books in the library. I've looked at movies until I've started seeing everything in Technicolor. But I can't spend the whole day like that. You know what I mean, Dad?”

“I know what you mean.” He heard the car before he saw it; he looked down the long driveway. “Here comes your mother.”

“I wish I'd changed my mind and gone to town with them. At least it would have been a change.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I didn't feel like it,” Ronny said obscurely. They went up to the house and got there by the time Meuth parked it by the kitchen delivery entrance. Mrs. Meuth came out to help unload. Vasquez and Jan came up to the steps. There was stress in Jan's face.

“Anything wrong?”

“Some trouble at the Gilfillans.”

“Trouble?”

“Your friends are being watched,” Vasquez said. “By a group of improbably clumsy goons.”

“Goons? Pastor's people?”

Vasquez's glance slid across Ronny and back to Mathieson. “I shouldn't be alarmed. It's almost textbook, really. Probably they're hoping to reach you through your friends—hoping their harassment of Roger Gilfillan will bring you out of hiding. I find it encouraging, actually—it indicates they're clutching at straws.”

That wasn't all it indicated to Mathieson but he held his tongue until Jan and Ronny had gone inside the house. Vasquez returned to the car with the evident intent of putting it away. Mathieson walked around it and got into the passenger seat. “You're taking it too casually.”