MaxAllan Collins - Quarry's vote

“Yeah, or to destroy,” I said. Like I had already done with the other tape, the one that had the name “Becky” on the spine, co-starring me and my stun gun.

“You’re sweet,” she said. “But that tape isn’t me. It is, however, political dynamite. If you’re working for Freed, you’d better get rid of it.”

“Maybe I’m a blackmailer.”

She smiled wide. “I don’t think so. You’re just not the type. And I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

If she were a good judge of character, she wouldn’t be a divorcee twice over. But I didn’t point that out to her.

I tucked the tape back in my pocket and we exited the cubbyhole. Out in the silent hall, she stuck her head in the studio and waved at Chuck through the glass of his booth; he looked up from inserting a tape in a machine and smiled and waved. Soon we were on the road again, heading back to Davenport.

“Would you mind stopping by my house for a few minutes?” she asked. “We’ll be going right by. It’s getting late and I’d like to check and see if Mom and the girls are back yet.”

“That’s fine. I’d like to meet your family.”

But when she pulled into the driveway of the green split-level, next to a shiny white Pontiac Bonneville, she said “Damn! They’re not home…”

“Then whose car is that?”

She paused. Made a face. “Lonny’s.”

“I’ll handle the little jerk,” I said.

She touched my arm. “Don’t let things get out of hand.”

“I’ll just send him on his way.”

I got out of the car and opened her door for her and escorted her up the sidewalk. He was sitting up on the front stoop, the tip of his cigarette an amber eye in the darkness; he stood as we approached, still in his BEST BUY blue blazer, no topcoat.

She got between us. “Now, I don’t want any trouble…”

But I could already see from Lonny’s haunted expression that this was about something else. “Angela,” he said. “Please. We have to talk.”

“We can talk at work on Monday.”

He paused. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s Bob.”

“What about Bob?”

“Bob…” He sighed. “He’s apparently drowned. Him and Jim Crawford both.”

She clutched my arm. “Oh, my God. How… how did it happen?”

“A boating accident,” he said.

“A boating accident?” she asked, incredulous.

“I know it sounds crazy, this time of year. But Bob and Jim Crawford were apparently takin’ a small cabin cruiser, this morning, to this island on Lake Superior. I guess some business associates of their boss, Ridge, lived on this island and, well, a storm blew in out of nowhere and… a wind like that can dump a vessel a lot larger, they said…”

“Oh, my God. What will I tell the girls? What will I tell the girls?”

“The boat was found, capsized. Nobody aboard.”

“What about Ridge?” I asked.

“He never was aboard,” Best said. “They were going to that island to meet him.” To her, he said: “There’s… I’m sorry, honey, but they said there’s really not much chance of recovering the bodies.”

She was weeping now, into my arm. “Jack… Jack… what can I do?”

I patted her back.

Best, looking stunned himself, shook his head, touched her shoulder; said, “Sorry, hon. I’m very sorry.”

“Why’d they call you?” I asked him.

“Authorities been trying to reach Angela all day,” he said, refusing to get defensive about it. “Somebody finally led ’em to the car lot. When they called, it was just after you left, and I was the only one still around.”

I looked at him hard, looking for complicity in his reddish round face; but I couldn’t find any. He seemed genuinely concerned, upset, himself.

“You want me to hang around?” he asked her.

She shook her head no.

He swallowed again, nodded, said he was very sorry, to let him know if there was anything he could do, and, head lowered, ear scabbed over some from where I tagged him, he shuffled down the curving walk to his shiny new car and drove away.

I guided her into the house and we sat on a sofa.

I let her cry into my shoulder for a while. She was having a rough time of it. So was her ex-husband, poor old Bob Jordan: first I shoot him and burn his body, and now he up and drowns.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, she stood. “The girls will be home before long.”

I stood.

She hugged me.

“Oh, Jack. You’ve been so kind.” She swallowed. Looked up at me with those dark blue eyes, shining with tears. “Part of me still loved the bastard, I guess. It’s hard… so hard. But then you know all about that.”

I touched the tears on her cheek.

“You know all about losing somebody you love,” she said.

I said nothing.

“I think I’d like to be alone now,” she said. “Try to collect my thoughts before the girls get here.”

I thought that was a good idea. I called a taxi and sat with her till it arrived.

There were half a dozen flights from Chicago to monitor. It was Monday evening, and George Ridge, routed through O’Hare on one of three shuttle airlines, would be on one of them. I could not go down to the gate where he’d be coming in. Doing that would mean crossing the concourse, through security, and the nine-millimeter under my arm-in the shoulder holster, the noise suppressor in my suitcoat pocket to attach if need be-would win me the grand prize if I tried to walk through the metal detector.

I didn’t want to kill him here, anyway. I wanted to talk to him before I sent him on his way. He knew things that I wanted to know.

In the small gift shop I bought a Snickers bar (supper) and a late edition of the Quad City Times. I wasn’t in the mood to read it or anything, but I needed something to hide behind, and I’m just not the sunglasses and fake mustache type. George Ridge and I had, after all, met-back on the deck of my A-frame, when he first approached me to kill Preston Freed. Not only could he easily recognize me, he might even be on the lookout for me; he obviously knew I wasn’t dead: the cover-up he’d arranged for the deaths of Bob Jordan and Jim Crawford indicated he knew just how badly his attempt to kill me had gone awry.

Both Jordan and Crawford had their pictures on the front page of the very Times I held in my hands. I’d seen the pictures in the morning edition, so it came as no surprise to me (nor had it this morning) that Crawford, who had accompanied George Ridge and Angela’s ex-husband on that ill-fated expedition up north, was a certain thin, blond, cadaverous guy. It did come as a surprise to me to learn he’d died in a boating accident. I seemed to remember putting an axe in the back of his fucking head.

I planted myself in a seat in the wide, open area near baggage claim; the airport had a single conveyor belt affair that handled baggage from all flights. Ridge would just about have to come here. And even if he sent some flunky after his luggage, from where I was sitting I could see where the concourse emptied out all returning passengers. He wouldn’t escape me.

My intention, unless he made me, was to follow him. I could have waited at his fancy house-I knew where it was, I’d cased the outside of the place earlier today-but I thought there was a possibility he might make a stop somewhere on his way home to confer with some fellow conspirator. After all, me and the shit had hit the fan while he was (conveniently) out of the country, and tomorrow morning was the press conference-cum-shooting gallery. So tonight, it stood to reason, would be a lively night for George Ridge. Lively for a while, anyway.

In the parking lot I had found the chocolate-brown BMW he had driven to my place; mud no longer coated the license plate, which was Scott County. I touched the car, my hand trembling. I wanted this fucker. I wanted this fucker.