Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

“I don’t know. For now I’m just tryin’ to be safe. Fill you in when you get here. How soon?”

The man told him twenty minutes. Herman said, “See you then,” and hung up.

He went into the bathroom, grabbed his shaving gear and a shirt that was drying on a hanger. He looked in the mirror and realized that Alex was right. He needed a shave and a shower. His face was drawn, tired. In his hand was the skull shaver he used to maintain his shiny dome. Herman wondered how much gray would appear if he allowed it to grow out again. He didn’t dwell on the thought. Instead he went back into the bedroom and put the shaving gear in his bag, folded the shirt and laid it in the open suitcase on the floor.

He started to walk away, stopped for a second, thought about it and went back to the suitcase. He reached under a stack of shorts and felt around until he found what he was looking for. He pulled it out-Springfield Arms.45 semiauto pistol, the ultra-compact with the short barrel. The whole thing, from hammer to muzzle, was no more than six inches. Flying in a private plane and landing on a dirt strip had its advantages.

He unzipped the mesh bag mounted along the inside of the suitcase and felt around until he found the heavy clip. There were two of these. Fully loaded, they carried seven rounds each. Eight, if you popped one in the pistol’s breech after sliding the clip into the gun’s handle.

Herman quietly slipped the clip into the gun and gently pushed it home until it clicked. He didn’t rack a round into the chamber as he didn’t want the telltale sound traveling through the common wall into Alex’s room. He put the loaded gun under the top pair of shorts in the open suitcase and headed out toward the kitchen to grab a bite to eat while they still had time.

The residence belonging to Rufus Alexander Becket is indeed lavish if its outward exterior is any indication. I can see where this might have put Alex off from the instant he stepped out of his car. From the street, it sits behind an immense southern live oak tree that must be at least two hundred years old. Its sprawling and arching branches cover what looks like half a football field of front yard, some of them touching the ground.

Around the tree in a semicircle are boxed hedges lining a circular driveway. Behind all of this is what looks like a two-story French provincial house, though I cannot see all of it. It appears to be something right out of Burgundy or the Loire Valley, as if it might have been plopped down here from a hot air balloon complete with its slate roof. The roof alone is something I am guessing would cost close to a million dollars, given the sprawl of the place.

If I had to guess, I would say none of this is new construction. From the look of it, it probably dates back to the thirties, one of the old estates still left from the golden age when a handful of tycoons developed the area and built the Thoroughbred horse racing track that is, as the crow flies, little more than a mile away.

I park on the other side of the street and study the place for two or three minutes from my Jeep. I don’t dare sit here for long. This old vehicle with its partially singed and now-discolored ragtop is certain to raise eyebrows in this neighborhood.

I step out, quietly close the door, and cross over to the driveway on the other side. There is a brass plaque near the edge of the curb. It’s a historical marker. “This Diegueño Oak is believed to be nearly five hundred years old and is thought to have stood on this spot in 1542 when the Portuguese explorer Juan Cabrillo landed at Point Loma.”

I was wrong. It is more than two hundred years old. And from the looks of it, the cables supporting the branches and the carefully manicured and tended ground around its trunk, it may be here long after my bones have turned to dust.

I head up the driveway. A long walk. It takes several minutes to make it to the front of the house, up the white brick steps to push the brass knob for the doorbell. I don’t hear a thing. I am guessing that the oak on the front door may be older than the tree out front, and perhaps thicker. Finally it’s opened by a man in livery, formal attire not seen in many places these days.

“I’m here to see Mr. Becket.” I hand him a business card.

“Is he expecting you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Can you state your business?”

“It’s private,” I tell him.

“Just a moment.” He closes the door all the way until I hear the heavy lock snap shut.

I wait for what seems like forever, standing on the stoop with my hand in my pocket trying to look casual so that no one will think I’m waiting here to hold someone’s horse should they come trotting by. Finally the door opens again.

“If you’ll come this way,” he says.

I follow the manservant into the house, down a long broad entry of gleaming dark hardwood. There is a massive crystal chandelier overhead, doors on both sides trimmed out in white antiqued paint. Or perhaps it’s just authentically old, I think. He leads me to the second door on the left and knocks.

“You can come in.” The voice on the other side.

He opens it and I step through. Inside is an ornate study, two levels of walls lined in books on shelves with a narrow catwalk on the second story. There is a banister all around this and a wooden spiral staircase trimmed out in bird’s-eye maple leading to the upper level.

Before I can take it all in, the man behind the desk has already moved around it. He has a smile on his face and his hand extended. “Hello. I’m Rufus Becket. How can I help you?” He is short, maybe five foot six, what you would call rotund, chubby cheeked with jowls cropping up below his jawline. His face tan, the only giveaway that he probably doesn’t spend all of his time in this room. Probably a golfer, I am guessing.

“Paul Madriani, and I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No problem,” he says. “Can I offer you a drink? Something cold?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Some iced tea,” he says. “I can ring the kitchen.”

“Sure. Why not.” An excuse to sit down.

He pushes a button on the phone, orders up two iced teas, and is back to me in a flash. “Have a seat,” he says.

I take one of the client chairs on this side of the large partner’s desk, something European and old. He settles into the other client chair and turns his jovial eyes on me as if, perhaps, whatever he was doing before I arrived was not as interesting as my interruption.

“The reason I’m here is that I have a client who is in some difficulty at the moment.”

“What lawyer doesn’t?” He laughs and looks at my business card. “What type of law do you practice?” he asks.

“Criminal.”

“Ah.” This sobers him up a bit.

“My client says he was at a party, that the location was a large home in this area. He was given the name Becket. My client is out of town right now but I’m sure he’ll be back in a few days. If I were to bring him by he might recognize the house,” I tell him.

“When was this party?” he asks. “We have a number of events each season.”

I give him the date.

“There’s no need to bring him by. Does he work in the industry?”

“What industry is that?”

“Defense,” he says. “We had a large gathering here at the house that evening for one of the trade associations. Part business, part fund-raiser. You know, candidates pressing the flesh, working the crowd for money come campaign time. It’s not exactly fun, but necessary. If you understand my meaning.”

“Of course.”

“Must have had three or four hundred people here that evening. Parking was a madhouse. Pissed off some of the neighbors. I can tell you that. We invited most of them to the event to try and keep them happy. But then you always miss a few. What’s your client’s name?”