Thomas Perry - The Butcher's Boy

“Fine,” Claremont said. “Get me some security, then. Meanwhile get the hell out of my way and let me do my job.”

“Right, Senator,” said Carlson, opening the door of the limousine for Claremont and climbing in after him, still talking. The black automobile moved away from the curb and into the traffic so quickly that it looked as though the two men had barely caught it in time.

THE PLANE TOUCHED DOWN at Los Angeles International and Elizabeth began to prepare herself for whatever came next. Five hours in the air after a full day of work, and now at least one more hour before she could be alone and take her shoes off. She wondered what she must look like by now, then put it out of her mind. She probably looked like a woman who had just worked a thirteen-hour day, she thought, and there wasn’t a whole lot she could do to hide it.

Elizabeth went over the notes she had taken during the long flight. First stop in the morning would be the Ventura police. Hart would handle the postmortem on the remains of the truck and the lab reports and the interview with the technicians. Elizabeth would read through the full report and interview whoever had written it, then follow whatever leads looked promising.

As the no-smoking light flickered and the engine wound down she wrote an additional note on her pad: bank records . If Veasy had a business relationship with organized crime there would be something that didn’t fit. He would have made some surprising deposits or some surprising withdrawals. Or if not, there would be a discrepancy between the bank accounts and the way he had lived—maybe a sign that he had a source of money that didn’t pass through the accounts. She added safe deposit box? to her notes, then put the pad in her purse.

Elizabeth was glad to be able to move again. Airplane seats are small for a woman five feet five. She wondered what it must be like for Hart.

They joined the line of passengers moving past the stewardesses and out the door into the movable corridor that carried them to the terminal. Then they were in an airport lobby. Hart led her down another corridor to a second lobby, where there was a check-in desk for Golden West Airlines. He had a few words with the desk manager and then waited while the man picked up a telephone and turned his back. He hung up and said, “You can board at nine fifty-five at Gate Forty-one, Mr. Hart. Your bags will be transferred automatically, of course.”

As Elizabeth and Hart wandered across the lobby, she checked the big wall clock: nine thirty. Not enough time to relax, too much time to wait comfortably in one of those blue plastic chairs. She was glad when Hart said, “How about a drink while we’re waiting?”

They sat in a dark corner of the bar with their backs to the wall. The traffic was fairly thin, so the waitress was there for their order immediately. She scurried off to get them their drinks. She was back so fast that they hadn’t said anything to each other.

“I’ve been thinking about this case,” said Elizabeth. “It’s going to be a little bewildering.”

“They always are,” said Hart. “This one is going to be more than that. You’ll be better off if you think of it as preliminary research instead of a case of its own.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re looking for professional touches. If you find any, that’s about all you’ll find, most likely. There’s not much chance we’ll make any arrests. If it’s a professional there won’t be anything to connect him with Veasy, and more likely than not we’ve never heard of him before. And this time there isn’t even a case on record of anyone who works that way, so if it’s a pattern this is the first of the series.”

“So I shouldn’t get my hopes up,” said Elizabeth. “I haven’t.”

“Oh I don’t know,” said Hart. “Hope doesn’t cost anything. But we’ve got very little this time. In a truck explosion like that there can’t be any fingerprints. But there may be something connected with the method or the circumstances that’ll be useful later.”

“I’ve got a few ideas to start with,” said Elizabeth. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

He nodded and sipped his drink. “Maybe, if we’re thorough and careful and don’t make any mistakes ourselves. But the best thing to do at the start of it is to forget about looking for anything in particular. Just look and write down everything you see or hear. It may make sense to somebody a year from now.”

Elizabeth smiled to herself. He was a man all right—telling her not to get her hopes up, and then suggesting that it would all work out in a way that was too far off for anybody to predict. The endless replay of John Wayne handing the woman a pistol and saying ominously, “Save the last bullet for yourself” before he climbs over the stockade with a knife clenched in his teeth.

Elizabeth picked up her purse. “Nine fifty. Time to go.”

He bolted the last inch of his Scotch, tossed some money on the table, and followed her out into the lobby. One more short flight, she thought, and then the chance for some rest.

HE WALKED OUT OF THE RESTAURANT and bought a Denver Post from the vending machine at the curb. Time to start doing some research on him. If they didn’t publish his schedule, at least they might have a picture of him. You had to start somewhere. He remembered hearing a story about Dave Burton trying to collect on a next-door neighbor once. Probably not true, but you never knew. Things like that could happen if you weren’t careful, and the big ones like this were worth taking a little extra time with. For that kind of money, why not? And this was the last one for awhile. Another one of Eddie Mastrewski’s proverbs. Always take it slow when you’re tired. The police can be dumb as gorillas, make a million mistakes, but at the end of it they still get paid and go home to watch television. You make one and you’re dead. If the police don’t get you the client will because he’ll get scared.

Getting out had to be the simplest part this time. He’d thought of that part right away, as soon as he’d heard the timing. A charter flight to Las Vegas, booked in advance. There was some kind of rule about that. Charter flights had to be advance booking, so the police wouldn’t look closely for fugitives there. If you couldn’t leave from another town, a charter flight wasn’t bad.

ELIZABETH HELD HER EXHAUSTION in abeyance while the little plane flew along the coast toward Ventura. At first she could see the incredible lighted expanse below her, stretching down the long valley to fade into a feeble fluttering like stars. Then the plane moved out across the coastal range and over the water, and there was only darkness and calm on her side of the cabin.

It seemed like only a few minutes before the little airplane began to descend. The Ventura airport wasn’t much. They put a short wooden staircase next to the fuselage for people to step on, and there was an eager young man in a gold sportcoat that seemed to belong to an absent older brother to serve as spotter for the deplaning passengers. He smiled and hovered, his hands held out silently announcing his intention to catch any passenger who might begin to fall.

The night was calm and warm, like late spring. The airport reminded her of a small town bus station, but they managed to find a cab driver lounging out front who knew the Ocean Sands Motel, where Disbursement had made their reservations. She was pleasantly surprised to see the sprawling, vaguely Spanish stucco building half-buried in luxuriant, unfamiliar vegetation. She wondered at first if Disbursement had made a mistake, but then remembered that the economies were always inconsistent: the leather-bound notepads with the cheap, thin paper in the office told it all.