Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“Wasn’t somebody guarding him?”

Helm hesitated. “No. But somebody should have been. He was a material witness.”

“You think he was the link, for sure?”

“Had to be. We back-checked everybody’s schedule. He was the first member of the power-plants group on the scene. Antravanian got there a few hours later.”

There it was: confirmation of what Pace had learned from Comchech and Teller. Parkhall and Antravanian were the first from the power-plants group to reach the Converse engine. Antravanian was dead. Now Parkhall was missing.

Pace’s heart was racing. “You have any problem with me writing this?”

Helm hesitated again. Pace could imagine what was going through his mind. “I don’t think I want you to do that,” the police captain said. “There’s too much that would track back to me. Normally I wouldn’t give a shit, but this is grand-jury business, okay? There’s a difference. A very big difference. I was just trying to keep you updated.”

“You know the rules better than that, Captain,” Pace scolded. “You can’t tell me something and then put it off the record later, after you find out I want to print it.”

“Could you let it slide this once?”

“Clay, I can’t let the disappearance of a material witness slide by.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“How about ‘sources close to the grand jury’?”

“That’s me. They’d finger me in a minute.”

“Okay, who else knows all this?”

Helm hesitated. “Well, of course, members of the grand jury. The Justice Department knows. I think maybe the NTSB knows.”

“That’s a lot of people, Clay. Why would it come back to you?”

“People around here know I talk to you.”

Pace relented. “Okay, how about this? I’ll confirm it with somebody else; then I can say that ‘several sources familiar with the investigation confirmed…’ Will that do?”

“I don’t know. Call me before you write anything. Let’s talk about it again.”

“Fine. But you don’t want Steve Pace leaving telephone messages for you, do you?”

“Right. I’ll get back with you this afternoon.”

Pace called Ken Sachs. He wasn’t in, but Sylvia Levinson knew where to reach him and said she would have him call.

He did, ten minutes later.

“Where are you, Ken?”

“At the hangar.”

“Can you talk freely?”

“Freely enough, yes. What’s up?”

“You know your number-one material witness has disappeared?”

There was silence on the line. “Where’d you get that?” Sachs asked finally.

“I can’t tell you. You know I can’t. I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“What you wanted,” Sachs said icily, “was for me to tell you I already knew it so you could use my statement to confirm your information. Am I right?”

“Right.”

“The answer is, yes, I found out this morning, but I don’t want you to quote me.”

“My word on it,” Pace said.

After clearing the sourcing for the next day’s story with Clay Helm, Pace drove to Parkhall’s apartment to have a look around. If nothing else, it would provide some color for his piece on the man’s disappearance.

He parked in a visitors’ spot in front of the tall tower on Shirley Highway and walked in the front door. There was no such thing as a doorman, but there was a desk clerk in the lobby.

“Help you?” the young man asked impatiently, never lifting his head from the stack of papers he was sorting.

“I’m looking for Mr. Parkhall’s apartment,” Pace replied. “Mr. Elliott Parkhall.”

His lobbyship squinted, appearing to size up the man standing on the other side of his counter. “You from the police?”

“No. Why? Should I be?”

“Only police allowed up there,” the young man said, dismissing the stranger.

“What if I lived on the same floor?”

“Then I’d know you. And I don’t.”

“Then allow me to introduce myself. I’m Steven Pace, Washington Chronicle.”

The young man’s eyes widened momentarily, then became icy again. “Police didn’t say anything about letting any newspaper people up there. ’Sides, there’s a cop outside the door. Wouldn’t let you in.”

“Suppose I ask him.”

“It’s a she, and it wouldn’t make no difference.”

“I see. Are you the police, too?”

“Nope.”

“Then you can’t stop me from going up. What’s the apartment number?”

“Sorry.”

“I could get into the elevator and check every floor.”

“It’s your time. But it wouldn’t be worth the trouble.”

Pace relented. “Okay, suppose I ask you a question.”

“You already did.”

Good line, Pace thought. This guy had to be an Al Pacino fan.

“Another question.”

“No law against that.”

“Were you on duty here Monday, probably evening?”

“Yep.”

“Did you see Mr. Parkhall come in or go out?”

“You gonna quote me in the newspaper?”

“Depends on whether you have anything to say.”

“I don’t wanna be in the newspaper.”

“Okay, then I won’t quote you. Can you answer the question?”

“Yep.”

“Will you answer the question?”

The man shrugged.

Pace reached in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He’d never paid for information before, but then, he’d never conducted an interview in a gangster movie before. He held up the bill.

“Would this make a difference?”

“Probly.”

“Good. Did you see Mr. Parkhall come or go Monday evening?”

“Yep. Both.” The young man reached across for the money. Pace pulled it away.

“That’s no answer. When did he come, and when did he go?”

The young man dropped his hand and pursed his lips. “That’s two more questions.”

“It’s my money.”

The desk man shrugged. “Can’t say exactly. He came, maybe about 6:30 or 7:00, usual time after work. Left again about 9:00.”

“P.M.?”

“I don’t work A.M.”

“After he left at nine, did you see him come back?”

“Nope. But I’m off at midnight. Mighta come in late.”

“Did you see if he left with anyone?”

“Couldn’t see who it was. But I noticed the car. Nice car.”

Pace’s eyebrows arched. “Really. What was it?”

“Thunderbird. New one. Silver-gray. Just like the one I want.”

“That’s a pretty expensive car.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Did you see who was driving?”

“Told you no already. It was dark. And I wasn’t paying attention to the driver. Just the car. Nice car.”

“So you said. You didn’t happen to notice the license plate, did you?”

“Nope. Just the car.”

“And Mr. Parkhall got into the car?”

“Yep.”

“And drove off?”

“Well, he didn’t drive. He got in the passenger side. Somebody else was driving. But I didn’t see who it was. I was looking at the car.”

“Ah, yes,” Pace said. “You liked the car.”

“Loved it.”

“And you didn’t see Mr. Parkhall return before you went off at midnight?”

“Nope. Told you that already.”

“Did you tell all this to the police?”

“Two, three times. You gonna give me the money?”

Pace handed over the bill. “You’ve been a big help. What did you say your name is?”

“Didn’t. Don’t wanna be quoted in the newspaper.”

Chapman Davis stood in the driveway of his townhouse and stared with loathing at the silver Thunderbird he had loved only hours before. The Washington Chronicle had made it the most conspicuous automobile in the greater metropolitan area.