Thomas Perry: The Butcher's Boy

Looking around and studying the place, he saw nothing but the gigantic, bright expanse of the sky, the stars incredibly clear and close above his head. He took the shovel and set off up the side of the hill. It was pretty country, he decided, even at night—bigger and emptier and cleaner than the land the main routes passed through. And if he worked steadily he could probably still make Amarillo by the time the sun came up.

31

The first half of the day Elizabeth had spent dreading the return of John Brayer. It was the fact that he must have been in Washington when he found out about Palermo that bothered her. In the first place, he would probably already have set up the appointment with the Attorney General’s office before he found out. That meant he’d have to explain to them why he no longer needed to see them. But more than that she hated the idea that he would be there when the anger and disgust settled on him. He’d be right there in the office where they handled personnel cases, where Elizabeth’s file was kept.

Sometime during the afternoon her feelings began to change. The FBI agents were coldly polite, but she could feel the weight of their resentment and contempt. And they were right. If only Brayer had let her take Palermo here, he’d still be alive. He might not be happy at first, but it really would have made no difference in the long run. The trip to Carson City had served no legitimate purpose. Something could have been arranged to keep Palermo under wraps here in Las Vegas. But now Brayer was comfortably out of sight in Washington or somewhere, and Elizabeth was still here in the Bureau office, taking the force of their resentment alone. And of course they all knew about it. Her report had included the rationale for making a dash to Carson City. The ones who hadn’t read it had been told. She could see it in their faces. At four o’clock Elizabeth decided she had been a fool. If Brayer filed a request for dismissal, or even so much as a negative performance evaluation, she’d demand a hearing and fight it. He’d been the one who ordered her to handle Palermo that way, after all—a lone woman with an analyst’s rating transporting a self-confessed criminal through an unpopulated area in the dark. She could have been killed too. If he filed any kind of reprimand, she thought, she’d make him regret it. By the time the hearing was over she’d have a special commendation.

At dinner Elizabeth began to wonder if she hadn’t been too defensive. Nothing had come through from Washington all day that referred to Palermo’s murder. Maybe Brayer was taking the blame himself, leaving her out of it for the moment. She’d seen him do that before, file a report in which somebody was just named as “the agent in place” or “the field agent.” That would explain why he’d been out of touch.

When she went to bed she was already feeling worried about him. He was in Washington taking the blame for the disaster, and the fact that he hadn’t returned meant Washington wasn’t taking it well. And Brayer couldn’t be more than five years from retirement.

The next morning Elizabeth was certain of it. Brayer was taking the blame, and it was going hard. The best thing for her to do was to make as much progress as possible while he was in Washington. If she could only come up with something big enough, Washington would forget about Palermo and they’d both be all right. What she needed was another Palermo, somebody who knew the name of the silent partner in FGE and could prove the silent partner was killing people to protect himself. What she needed was Edgar Fieldston.

At the Bureau office Elizabeth pored over the field reports. Palermo had hinted that it was somebody big, and the biggest were Toscanzio and Balacontano.

“10:08 P.M., Wednesday, February 21. Saratoga Springs, New York: Subject Carlo Balacontano AKA Carl Bala. Subject has been secluded in his country residence since Monday, February 19. On Tuesday, February 20, he was joined by his wife, Therese Balacontano, his son Richard, and his daughter-in-law, Victoria, and their four children. Subject has received visits from a number of his associates. Key to: Lamborese, Antonio; Giambini, Robert; Montano, John; Guariano, August; DeFabiani, Daniel.

“9:15 A.M., Thursday, February 22, Evanston, Illinois: Subject Vincent Toscanzio. Subject has been in his home for four days. Subject’s family, including subject’s mother, Mrs. Maria Toscanzio, have arrived during that time and have remained on the premises. Members of subject’s family were observed in the backyard making a snowman on Tuesday, February 20, but have remained indoors since then, possibly due to inclement weather. Frequent visitors, all employees of Diet Clubs of America, in which subject owns a controlling interest, except for the arrival on Wednesday of Antonio Damonata AKA Tony Damon, and two unidentified companions.”

There was no question about what was going on, but that didn’t help. They were circling the wagons around the women and children and giving orders to their lieutenants. But that didn’t solve Elizabeth’s problem. The one she wanted was the one who’d started it, the one who had killed Veasy and the Senator and Orloff and Castiglione. Because she wasn’t foolish enough to believe she’d get the other one. If he fell it would be a freak accident. But the one Elizabeth wanted was vulnerable. He’d been using FGE for something. Whatever it was had to be bad enough to take risks to keep it a secret, to kill off everyone who came near it. And whoever it was had missed the key man. As long as Edgar Fieldston was alive Elizabeth had hope.

The secretary didn’t bother to knock when she came into the office with the reports. Why should she? thought Elizabeth. It’s their office. I’m the interloper, the outsider they have to treat with grudging tolerance. The one they have to cooperate with who didn’t cooperate with them when she had something to share.

It was the initial report on FGE’s remaining papers. She scanned the inventory of records until she came to the summary. The papers weren’t complete enough to prove anything yet. It would be like a problem in archaeology to figure out where the money came from and which accounts were padded. She supposed the FBI’s accountants knew what to look for. Then she noticed the statement: Recommended for intensive audit: Travel . She leafed through the summary until she found the travel expenses. It was easy to see what had caught their attention. Calendar-year travel expenses were listed as $56,382.

She searched through the report for the breakdown. Most of it meant nothing to her. Orloff had gone to New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Fieldston had spent a week in Buenos Aires, then gone on for another week to Rio de Janeiro. Did they have investments in those places, she wondered? But they’d check it, of course. For one thing, they were looking for Fieldston, and it would help to know where he had contacts.

She moved down the list. The other travelers were unfamiliar to her. Probably they were salesmen or something. The FBI would be working on that too. She moved down to the final entry and stopped. Edgar Fieldston, round-trip ticket to Nassau, Bahamas, February 16 . She gasped. Round trip. Why hadn’t anybody noticed? But then she remembered. Of course he’d buy a round-trip ticket. If you had a return ticket the customs people didn’t worry about you. They knew you wouldn’t be stuck there when you’d spent your money. Damn! she thought. I’m seeing what I’m looking for, not what I’m looking at. Where the hell is Brayer?

THE PARTHENON MOTEL IN CLEVELAND had four Corinthian columns across the concrete slab in front of the office. They didn’t support anything, but they looked as though they might have supported the motel’s sign before it had been redone in neon and the wiring had gotten too complicated. It was after ten but he had no trouble renting one of the rooms with a kitchenette. People didn’t travel through Cleveland much in February, and those who did had no use for a stove and refrigerator, certainly not those for rent at the Parthenon.