Don Pendleton - Blind Justice

“You know how I work, Senator. No interference. No directives. I run my own show.”

Kendal smiled. “Vigo, I don’t need reminding, and I have no worries on how you do your job. Never have in the past, so why should things be different this time? You will have access to the open-ended account as usual and we will settle up when it’s all over.”

“Is there any current information not in the file?”

“Our pet cop, Captain Fitch, informed me his two bloodhounds, Brenner and Dunn, passed along something that might be useful.”

“Brenner and Dunn—the pair that let Logan run?”

“Not their finest hour,” Kendal said.

“I’m surprised they can stand up and walk without the need of an instruction book. So what was their information?”

“One of the cops in the squad is a close friend of Logan. He’s also Logan’s partner. Name of Marty Keegan. Dunn and Brenner have a feeling he’s been in contact. Couple of times he’s taken cell-phone calls and been cagey about anyone listening in. Could be nothing, but on the other hand maybe not.”

“It’s a start,” Stone said. “I’ll need details. Keegan’s home address. Anything that might help.”

Kendal nodded. “No problem,” he said. “Give it a half hour and I’ll have all there is to know about Lieutenant Marty Keegan.”

“Good.” Stone stood, adjusting his jacket. “I’ll need a vehicle.”

Kendal picked up the internal phone. He spoke to one of his assistants. “Bring it around to the front in half an hour,” he said finally. He nodded at Stone. “Fixed. Anything else?”

“I’ll wait for the Keegan information in the library.”

“You want tea?” Kendal asked.

“Why not,” Stone said and left the office.

Kendal picked up the phone again and instructed refreshments be sent to Stone. The man only ever drank tea. He never touched coffee or alcohol. Come to think of it, Kendal mused, the man didn’t smoke, rarely smiled and only spoke when it really mattered. He wondered how Stone related to women and sex. What the hell, Kendal decided. The man was good at his job. That was all he was concerned about.

TWO HOURS LATER Stone was on the road behind the wheel of a high-spec Chevy Impala, sitting in quiet comfort as he negotiated the traffic. The satnav system was directing him to Marty Keegan’s address as he was already planning his course of action. He understood what needed doing. The senator had a crisis on his hands. One that had the potential of destroying his world and himself. As far as he was able, Stone would take steps to prevent that from happening. His association with Kendal went back a number of years and over those years Stone had engineered a number of what he termed rescues on behalf of the man.

Tyrone Kendal was a powerful man. A good friend, in the loosest sense of the word. He expected total loyalty from his people and in return he looked after them and paid generously. On the other hand he was not a man to cross or threaten. When that happened, Kendal struck out with considerable force. He would not tolerate any kind of attack on himself personally, or on the grandiose plans he involved himself in. To help in reducing threats to a minimum, Kendal had a tight group around him—advisors, lawyers and specialists in a number of skills, many of them with dubious pedigrees.

And his ultimate weapon.

Vigo Stone.

In his ethereal world, Stone’s rivals referred to him as The Enforcer. His reputation preceded him. Hard men, no beginners themselves, walked around Stone. They measured their words in his presence. He was not given to loose talk, especially about himself. There was no need. Those in the know were fully aware of his past deeds, and none of them had any desire to find they were under his eye. As much as possible they stayed well clear.

MARTY KEEGAN LIVED near Seattle’s waterfront in one of a number of older buildings converted into separate residences. Rolling the Chevy along the street, Stone passed the address, then turned down a side street that let him view the rear of Keegan’s building. Easy access and exit from the place. At the end of the block Stone spotted a parking lot and drove in. He paid for the maximum stay and displayed the ticket on the dashboard of the Chevy before lifting his laptop computer bag off the rear seat. He locked the Chevy, slung the bag from his left shoulder and casually walked out of the parking lot, turning down the sidewalk that would eventually return him to the front of Keegan’s place.

He shifted the computer bag on his shoulder. There was no laptop in the bag. It held Stone’s work kit, as he called it. The tools of his trade.

The information Kendal had supplied detailed, among other things, Keegan’s current shift timetable. The cop was due to finish in a half hour and unless he had other plans he would drive home. Stone acknowledged that fact was one he could not plan for. He was going to have to wing that part. But he had great faith in human nature, accepting the predictable and understanding the regular routine of peoples’ lives.

He strolled along the street, eyeing the building he was heading for. At this time in the afternoon the majority of people were still at work, so there were only a few around. Stone had been banking on that. He needed to get into the building and then Keegan’s apartment. He knew the location—ground floor, just along from the front entrance. There were two other ground-floor apartments. The one immediately adjacent to Stone’s was occupied by an elderly woman who lived on her own and rarely left the building. The other, across the hall from the Keegan apartment, belonged to a young single businesswoman who worked long hours and seldom came home before seven in the evening. Stone had no idea how Kendal had obtained such detail, but he admired the man’s thoroughness and professionalism. The details made Stone’s entrance a little less hazardous. When he reached the building he walked calmly along the short path, up onto the porch and in through the open front door. It was quiet inside the shaded lobby. Stone didn’t waste time surveying the scene. He went directly to Keegan’s door, pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket, took a set of expensive lock picks from another pocket in his jacket and had the door open within twenty seconds. Inside he closed the door again and stood for a few moments absorbing the apartment setup. Once he had it fixed in his mind he stepped into the kitchen, laid his bag on the counter and opened it.

The kitchen window was shaded with slatted blinds and looked out on the street. Stone made sure he was not silhouetted on the window as he laid out his implements on a towel he unrolled across the counter. That done, he filled a hypo syringe from a bottle.

Then he stood to one side of the kitchen window where he could see the street.

And patiently waited for his victim.

Marty Keegan.

Seattle cop.

Partner and good friend of Ray Logan.

The man who was going to tell Stone everything he might know, imagined he knew, about the runaway cop and his family.

It might take a half hour. It might take longer. But in the end Keegan would give it all up.

They always did.

It was not arrogance on Stone’s part. It was fact. He had worked interrogations many times before, and of one thing he was sure. They always gave up the information.

No one could withstand interrogation indefinitely. There would come a point when human tolerance to pain in its infinitely varied forms became too much. Then the victim would tell Stone whatever he needed to know simply to make it all stop. It had to happen. There was nothing surer. Just like sunrise and sunset—no deviation.

It would happen.

There was a phrase from a well-known TV series that Stone liked for its simple, crystal clarity.