Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

“I—” Byron started. The sound of his pager cut him off.

While Byron was dialing out, I picked up his pager from where he had tossed it on the couch. The only number showing was 411. So his man had information—it wasn’t an emergency.

I couldn’t make out what Byron was saying on the phone—he was probably keeping his voice down in case the guy at the other end had to keep things quiet.

Byron hung up, turned to me and Gem. “One of them went out. In a car. From the garage. Stayed out maybe a half-hour. My man figures they wanted a pay phone, playing it safe. Going to be daylight soon enough—we’ll have to pull out. That neighborhood’s not going for unexplained cars sitting around.”

“All right,” I said. “We’ve got the edge. They don’t know what we know. No reason for them to fly.”

Byron nodded. “When things open up tomorrow, we can do some checking. But that place—it sure doesn’t look like any temporary rental. And there’s one more thing.…”

“What?”

“My friend says he can code-grab the remote they use to open and close the garage. The driveway’s nice and straight. And there’s no gate.”

“Let’s see what happens,” I told him. “That one’s a last resort.”

The ringing of the bedside phone woke me the next morning. I was lying facedown on the bed, Gem draped over me like a warm, soft blanket, her face nestled between my shoulder blades. She didn’t stir as I reached for the phone.

“Yes?”

“We got a budget for this one, bro?” Byron’s voice, as fresh as if he’d grabbed eight hours.

“Sure.”

“On hand?”

“Yep.”

“Can you meet me? On the waterfront? Just take Alder—that’s the block the hotel’s on—east. You’ll know you’re on track if the street numbers keep getting lower, okay? Make a right on Fourth, and a left on Taylor. Follow it down; you’ll see the river. Find a place to park anywhere near Front Street, then just walk across and stroll north along the waterfront. I’ll pick you out easy enough. Give it … thirty minutes, okay?”

“You got it.”

“May I come with you?” Gem asked, her voice formal.

“Sure. But …”

“Yes?”

“We have to be there in less than a half-hour.”

“Pooh! You think it takes me so long just to get dressed?”

“No. I mean, I was just—”

“I will wager with you. The last one ready to go pays for lunch.”

“Can we just make it a hundred or so?” I asked her. “I don’t know how much I need for Byron.”

She punched me in the chest. Lightly, with the side of her fist, not the knuckles.

Gem practically dove into a lilac sweatshirt, then pulled a pair of jeans on as far as her thighs. She held the waistband of the jeans in both hands as she hopped over to the door, dragging them up over her hips. “I win!” she announced, breathlessly.

When I conceded that she had, she said “Hah!” And celebrated by immediately stripping and prancing into the shower. Still, we were on the waterfront, strolling hand in hand like … I don’t know what … with a good five minutes to spare. We must have been walking in the right direction, because we found Byron lounging on one of the wooden benches, taking in the scenery. We sat down on either side of him. Gem turned sideways so she could see behind us. “That’s okay, girl. It’s covered,” Byron told her.

“It’s only eleven,” I said to him. “You got something already?”

“A lot. I fronted it, but I need a couple of grand to get square. You said—”

“I got seven and change with me.”

“Perfect. We got a deuce, deuce and a half, committed already, but I figure that could double if the stream keeps flowing.”

“Hundreds okay?” I asked, reaching into the side pocket of my coat.

“Long as they’re not private stock, bro. Computers and laser printers have changed the game. Any geek can make funny money in his house now.”

“This is all clean,” I said, handing over a bundle. “Used and random, too. I know you’ve got a man out there and—”

“That’s my man, Burke. This cash is to grease some wheels. My partner is here for me, not for pay, understand?”

“I apologize,” I told him, meaning it.

He nodded, closing the subject. Took a breath. “All right, here’s what we got so far: the house cost the better part of eight fifty large. They put down three and a piece, financed the rest at seven and three-eighths, thirty-year, fixed. Income stream is all ‘investments,’ and it looks fine on paper—two mil and change in five mutual funds, three index, one value, and one Euro. Their TRW is squeaky clean—only thing they have going is a revolving credit line from American Express, and they pay that every month, no balance. Two phone lines. Long-distance bills run less than a hundred a month. They use U S West for a carrier, the chumps. State taxes paid right to the penny.”

“Which means they—?”

“Yeah. Not just new names, bro. New Social Security numbers. And the names on the paper are as Anglo-Saxon as King James.”

“So they’re deep under.”

“They are. But they’re not visible enough locally for anyone to notice. That American Express account? The one they pay righteously? Some months it’s damn near ten grand.” He paused, made sure my eyes were on his. “For travel.”

“Luxury cruises?”

“Sure. If you think Estonia’s a playground for the rich and lazy.”

“Estonia?”

“And Romania.”

“What about the Philippines?” Gem asked, softly.

“Nope. Europe. All over Europe, but that’s all.”

I filed it. Filed Gem’s question, too. “What else have you—?”

Byron held up his hand, reached in his jacket, came out with his pager, checked the screen, said, “More than I thought I would, Burke. See for yourself.”

He held the pager so I could reach the window. This time the window read 411 + + +.

I raised my eyebrows, asking what the string of plus signs meant.

“Pictures,” Byron said. “Let’s ride.”

Byron’s ride turned out to be a nondescript dark-green Chrysler four-door. “Tradecraft,” he said, apologetically. He suavely opened the back door for Gem.

She sat way forward, resting her chin on my shoulder, listening to Byron’s travelogue as he crisscrossed streets.

“This is Southeast,” he said. “Kind of a mixed bag. See for yourself.”

What I saw was a string of antiques shops and used-book stores, and a vegetarian restaurant called Old Wives’ Tales. A couple of blocks farther along, a pair of topless joints that looked right at home.

Byron turned off the main drag, his eyes scanning the block. I didn’t know what he was looking for, and he didn’t ask for my help, so I stayed inside myself, waiting.

He slowed at a small stone building—looked like an eight-family unit—then pulled into the driveway and continued until we were in a little alley. Byron reversed the car smoothly, and expertly backed it toward a big garage. The door opened and we rolled in. The door came down again, as silently as silk on silicon.

It was dark inside. No windows. A tiny red light came on in a far corner, no bigger than an LED. I flicked my eyes to my chest, thinking, Laser sight! But I couldn’t see anything.

Byron turned off the engine. A tall man came out of the shadows. When he got closer, I could see he was white, somewhere in his forties, maybe, with a neat haircut, wearing a dark boxy-cut suit.

He bent down so his face was close to Byron’s. I couldn’t hear what passed between them. The tall man opened the back door and climbed in next to Gem. I half-turned so I was facing Byron, my good eye on the back seat.