A Shared Confidence (24 page)

“I'm afraid Mr. Giarelli has stepped out for the afternoon,” he explained. “May I ask, Mr. Shaw, if this is your associate Mr. Stanton?”

“He is,” I answered.

“Ah, excellent. Mr. Giarelli has asked me to inform both of you that he will return at seven p.m. this evening, and that he will expect you, both of you, to call on him at that hour.”

“Thank you for the message,” I said. “Would you mind placing this in the hotel safe for me? I'll pick it up this evening.” I handed over the satchel of money. After the concierge had dutifully accepted charge of it and taken it to the back room, Stanton looked at me concerned.

“Was that wise, Mr. Shaw?”

“We've got some time to kill and I plan to use it. Alone. Now we don't have to worry about being out of one another's sight with the money. We both know where it is, right? See you here at a quarter till seven, Mr. Stanton.”

My nerves were getting the better of me and I availed myself one last time of the elegantly appointed gentleman's club several blocks away. I took as much hard exercise as I could stand, using the wall weights on pulleys, the India clubs, the medicine ball. I jumped rope for twenty minutes and then grabbed some gloves and worked the speedbag in the corner (either there for show or for the rich members who'd been part of some Ivy League boxing club). I gripped my way across the parallel bars, doing a few low dips before turning around and coming back, then found the chin up bar and pulled myself up seven or eight times, extending my arms fully and letting myself hang deadweight before pulling back up. It had been awhile since I'd earned a steam this hard, and I sat in my towel with my back against the warm, wet tile, occasionally pulling the chain for more steam and feeling the hot moisture soothe every muscle. I followed that with a cold sitz bath and then hit the shower. Dressed and back in my suite, I ordered up another haircut and manicure along with a light meal. The exercise had been to burn off nervous energy and to keep myself sharp mentally. The pretty manicurist and the sauteed quails' eggs were a luxury; I knew I wasn't going to be living the life of Kelly Shaw that much longer. I hoped like hell I'd at least be able to return to the life of Devlin Caine.

At seventeen
minutes to seven, Clay Stanton showed up in the lobby. I greeted him, dressed as usual in one of Shaw's expensive suits. He looked down at the small case in my hand.

“You've collected the money already?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I figured we'd do that together.”

“Then that?” he asked, pointing to the case.

“Insurance,” I said.

“What kind of insurance?”

“Never mind. Hopefully we won't need it.”

We collected our money from the hotel safe, took it to a corner of the lobby to verify the contents, then walked together to the elevator where I told the boy to take us up to Six. Another long walk down the corridor (I was checking behind me frequently along the way) and we came up to Giarelli's suite. One of the goons answered my knock and ushered us inside. He started to frisk Stanton, looked at me, clearly remembered his last attempt, and gave up.

“Sit down,” he said. “Boss'll be out in a minute.” From behind the bathroom door I could hear the shower running.

Stanton and I took seats, he holding onto the satchel, I to my case. I caught stares from the two goons now and then and thought about making idle chit chat. Maybe asking how the local sports team had done today. I decided against it. After several minutes, the water shut off and Giarelli stepped out in a padded bathrobe, drying his black hair on a towel. He didn't look at Stanton or myself for a minute or two, playing the part of the powerful man who likes to make people wait right in front of him. He talked to one of his nodding goons casually in Italian, then put his wristwatch and rings on. Finally he grabbed a cigar out of the humidor, sat heavily into an armchair, and looked over at us.

“You bring my money?”

“No,” I answered right away. “We brought you six jars of olive oil. 'Case you want to comb your hair while we wait.”

It may have been the exercise and quail's eggs, and having to wait through Giarelli's Important Man routine. I heard Stanton catch his breath and one of the goons came over and cracked me a hard one across the face. I grunted and rubbed my sore cheek. Giarelli turned to Stanton.

“Okay, we heard from the funny man. Let's hear from you.”

“I have your money, Mr. Giarelli,” Stanton answered quickly. He began to open the satchel. The goon who'd hit me grabbed it out of his hands and handed it to the boss. Giarelli opened it and rifled through the banded stacks of bills. He looked up at the goon.

“Get the Treasury Man.”

The goon walked to the bedroom, opened the door, beckoned, and Jennings came walking out. He'd been wearing the same clothes for nearly two days now, and his collar had a wilted look, but he still seemed in good shape. Again our eyes met, and again, neither of us gave the slightest reaction.

Without a word, Giarelli handed him the bag. Jennings took it and spent several minutes going through the contents, randomly selecting stack after stack, pulling out bill after bill. He ran his fingers across the surface, held them up to the light, held his hand up to one ear and rolled the bills between his fingertips, listening as though judging the leaf of a fine cigar. He licked his thumb and tried to smear the ink, then took a hundred dollar bill from his own pocket and compared it intently with a sample from the satchel, using a small jeweler's loupe he'd taken from his pocket.

Finally, he turned to Giarelli and nodded.

“It's real. All of it.”

“So that's it,” I said. “The deal's done. We don't owe you a thing.” I pointed to Jennings. “Now let that kid go.”

Giarelli narrowed his eyes at me.

“What's he to you?”

“He's a federal agent,” I explained. “I want to know that you're planning to let him go free. Because if you're not, then I know you're not planning to let us go, either.”

Giarelli's eyes glittered pig-like in the shine from the lamp. He reached for a match and lit his cigar.

“Maybe I'm not,” he said casually.

“You might want to rethink that,” I advised him.

“Yeah? Why's that?”

I bent down to open the case I'd carried in, gesturing for the goon nearest me to be patient, moving slowly to show I wasn't reaching for a weapon. I took the top off the wire recorder and let them all see it.

“Know what this is?” I asked. No one answered. “It's a wire recorder. Know what's on it?” Another silence. I had the machine keyed up to where I wanted, to Stanton's and my conversation with Giarelli the night Ryland was murdered. I played the recording and let them listen to the whole thing.

“You kill a man in my room,” I heard my own voice say, “and then you try to blackmail me?”

Everyone in the room heard it: recorded evidence of Casper Giarelli confessing to the murder of Ethan Ryland.

I turned a switch and the recording stopped. For a moment, no one did anything. Then one of the goons came over and raised his foot over the machine as if to smash it under his heel.

“Go ahead,” I told him, unconcerned. “I've only made about nine copies already. Stashed in all sorts of places around this city.” I turned my attention to the fat man in the bathrobe. “Anything happens to me, Casper, anything happens to any of us, you'll never make it outside this hotel. You'll have more cops on you than Carter has liver pills.”

Giarelli puffed meditatively on his cigar for another moment. His large frame started to shake, lightly at first and then more vigorously. But not from fear – the man was laughing! To the point where he actually had to wipe his eyes after awhile.

At a nod from his boss, the same goon returned to the bedroom door and beckoned like he had for Jennings.

Another man came out, and Stanton and I both dropped our jaws in unison.

Standing before us, looking remarkably better than when last we'd seen him, was none other than Ethan Ryland.

“What the hell?” I said softly, to no one in particular.

“Hope those copies didn't cost you too much,” Giarelli snorted, and the snort became an explosive guffaw. I continued to stare up at Ryland, who was looking at me with an expression that was difficult to read. A mixture of shame and guilt, maybe.

“I don't understand,” Stanton said. “When Mr. Shaw and I were here just the other night…”

“You weren't, not really,” Giarelli said dully.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were here, but not with Shaw,” the big man continued. “You were here with this guy.” He pointed at me with his cigar, then yelled for yet another man to come out from the bedroom. I knew this other man as well: a local private detective named Townsend.

Giarelli pointed his cigar at me once more and asked Townsend: “This the guy?”

“That's him,” Townsend answered, standing there in a simple gray suit. “Only his name ain't Shaw. It's Devlin Caine. He's a private dick, works out of Kansas City.”

O
nce the initial shock dissipated,
a few things were pretty easy to figure out. Obviously, Ryland had made a deal with Giarelli to save his own skin, and the two of them had done a convincing job of faking Ryland's death for Stanton and myself. I remembered the two goons carrying the “corpse” to the bathtub. Obviously, they couldn't risk Stanton or I catching it breathing while we chatted with the mobster. It had worked, though, because Stanton had moved heaven and earth to get Giarelli his money. Ryland was still looking pretty nervous, no sign of smugness or being pleased with himself. It was clear that he wasn't out of danger yet, either.

I glanced over at Stanton, a seasoned confidence man who was more than adept at putting facts together quickly and adapting to rapidly changing circumstances. Everything I was thinking would be going through his mind as well. He wouldn't know who the newcomer in the gray suit was, other than someone who could identify me to Giarelli. As for Townsend, he seemed to have no problem meeting my eye; this was just another job to him.

“Giarelli paying you pretty good for this?” I asked him.

“Good enough.”

“I'm not certain I understand,” Stanton said.

“Who cares if you do?” shot back Giarelli.

“You're a police officer?” Stanton asked, turning to me.

“Nah,” Townsend said. “He's private. A gumshoe like me.”

Giarelli asked who I was working for, waited for me to answer. I didn't say anything.

“That's okay,” he said. “You can tell us later. And you will. Right now, I don't have time to listen anyway.”

I cast a quick glance over at Jennings. As expected, the boy might have been sitting in on a dull family reunion from the level of concern showing on his face.

Giarelli dressed while Stanton, Ryland, and I were herded into the bedroom. Townsend and both of Giarelli's torpedoes had their guns out to show they meant business. The bedroom door was locked from the outside and the three of us stood there in silence for a moment.

“Why are we being kept here?” asked Stanton. Ryland looked like he knew something, but he kept silent.

“Nice job with the blood,” I said to Ryland. “Ketchup and corn syrup?”

“Raspberry jam mixed with applesauce,” he answered quietly, absently touching the back of his head. “Mr. Giarelli said it would give the right color and consistency.”

“Well, a guy like him would know.” I reached for a cigarette, figuring Giarelli wouldn't mind me smoking in his bedroom and not really caring if he did. “What was the point of it?”

Ryland looked down at his feet and continued speaking quietly.

“He knew I didn't have the money to pay him back. He knew Mr. Stanton did.” Ryland looked at Stanton. “He wanted to…impress upon you the urgency of meeting his demand.”

“So why not just kill you for real?” I asked. “That would have been pretty goddamn impressive.” I took a drag at my cigarette and the answer dawned on me. “Giarelli's not through with you yet, is he, Ryland?”

Ryland looked down again and shook his head slowly.

“No, he isn't.”

“Know what his plan is?”

“Not exactly. He wants…I know he wants that Secret Service agent out of the way.” Ryland suddenly looked up at Stanton and asked why on earth Stanton had attempted to give Giarelli counterfeit bills the first time.

“I most certainly did not!” protested Stanton. “The money I brought over the other night is perfectly good.”

Ryland kept looking at Stanton, confused.

“Then why did the man from the Secret Service say it was counterfeit?”

I shot Stanton a hard look and gave a subtle shake of my head.

“I have no idea,” Stanton answered.

“So what are we doing locked up in here?” I asked Ryland.

“Giarelli's going to go take care of the Secret Service man. When he gets back, he's going to ask you some questions, Mr. Caine. A lot of them, I imagine.” Ryland looked out the window and shivered for a moment. “Like he asked me.”

The lock turned and the bedroom door opened, Giarelli's bulk filling the frame. He was dressed in his black pinstripe with a red carnation, and his two men were right behind him, still holding their guns.

“Let's go, Ryland,” he called out. “Time to pay off the rest of your debt.”

I looked at Ryland, then back to Giarelli, then back to Ryland again.

“You're going to help them with this?” I asked, incredulous.

“I have no choice,” Ryland said.

“That's right, he don't,” said Giarelli.

“You're a goddamn fool, Giarelli,” I told him. “That kid in there is federal government. You think you can just take him for a ride and be done with it? The law will be all over you. Federal law. You won't be able to light a cigar in peace.”

“It'll take 'em six months to a year to find the body.” Giarelli seemed quite calm about the whole business. “And they gotta find all of it. And then they'll spend another six months or another year trying to identify it.”

“You dumb guinea!” My voice sounded desperate in my own ears. “You're not going up against a Paddy wagon full of Keystone cops here. We're talking professional investigators on a federal budget. They have about forty-seven ways to identify a body.”

“No kidding? Then they can try one way for every piece they find. Let's go, Ryland. I'll be back to talk to you two later. Johnny here will be standing guard outside the door, so don't try anything. I'll want some answers when I get back, and you better have the ones I'm looking for.”

Resignedly, Ryland pushed past me on his way to the door.

“He's through with you after this, Ryland,” I called after him. “He won't need you anymore, you'll just be a liability. And this time it's not going to be raspberry jam and applesauce.”

Ryland looked back at me, eyes sad and beaten. He already knew that.

Waiting together
in the locked room, Stanton and I had time to get to know one another all over again.

“So who are you really?” he asked.

I shrugged. “That other man was telling the truth. My name's Devlin Caine. I'm a private investigator.”

“Who was that other man?”

“Someone I thought I could trust.” I shook my head slowly in disbelief.

“Who are you working for, Mr. Caine?”

“I've been recruited by the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” I said, realizing that this was probably the truest thing I'd told Stanton up till now. “They're after Casper Giarelli.”

“Surely you've told them by now that Mr. Giarelli is in the city. Why don't they just arrest him?”

“You can't arrest someone for being a gangster, Mr. Stanton. Not even for dressing like a bad film version of one. They have to have evidence of specific crimes. Collecting that evidence, and especially finding people willing to testify against a man like Giarelli, well, that takes time.”

“Mr. Ryland knew who you were all along,” Stanton said. I shook my head. I'd come as close to the truth with Stanton as I cared to. Now it was time to start skating back to the other side of the rink.

“No. He does now, though.”

“But he presented you to me as his good friend Kelly Shaw. Why would he do that?”

“Because I was paying him, Mr. Stanton. And he needed the money.” Always keep it simple when you can.

“What did deceiving me have to do with pursuing Mr. Giarelli?”

“Ryland owed Giarelli money, remember? Only he didn't have it because the investment you arranged for him tanked. The feds thought if we brought you back into the picture, Giarelli might believe he had another shot at his two hundred thousand. He might even be willing to do something risky to get it, something the law could nail him for.”

“Something risky like what?” Stanton was thinking quickly and his eyes widened. “That wire recorder. Mr. Caine, are you saying the F.B.I. knew that Giarelli might try something violent? And they were willing to let this happen so they could collect the evidence of it?”

“Law enforcement is serious business, Mr. Stanton. Criminals play for keeps, which means the feds have to as well.”

Stanton shook his head and muttered, “Barbaric.” He was getting more comfortably back into character. He knew now that Shaw was really a private detective named Caine, but he didn't know that Caine knew Clay Stanton was a confidence man. Always best to keep whatever advantage you can.

“Something else is bothering me about this,” I admitted. “Ryland told us he went along with faking his own murder to help Giarelli throw a scare into us. I don't know about you, but I was plenty scared already. I mean, we'd already planned to pay him his money, right?”

“Yes,” Stanton agreed, thinking over what I'd just said.

“Giarelli must have known that. What was the point of scaring us further like that? You make a man too scared, he sometimes takes stupid chances, messes things up.”

“The bank in Delaware,” Stanton suggested.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Has to be some kind of connection there. He made us drive all the way out there. And it had to be that particular bank.” I puzzled over this for a moment until Stanton interrupted my thoughts.

“I still don't follow your purpose in setting up investments through me,” Stanton said. “How would this help the law apprehend Mr. Giarelli?”

“The idea was that Giarelli would think the money I gave you was coming from Ryland, that Ryland was holding out on him. Hiding his money in stocks instead of paying Giarelli back.”

“Where has this money been coming from? I presume, Mr. Caine, that you're not some eccentric millionaire detective one might see in the movies?” I decided I liked finally being called by my own name. It helped me to focus. Kelly Shaw was a sharp, savvy businessman, all right, a real wheeler-dealer. But Caine was a professional who knew what he was doing.

I shrugged. “Tax money, I guess. These people have access to as much as they need for operations like this.”

Stanton looked at me indignant for a moment.

“You charged me thirty thousand dollars' interest to borrow money that wasn't even yours?”

I grinned at him. “I look out for myself, yeah. A man learns to do that in this life or he sinks right to the bottom.”

“And it didn't occur to anyone that this…operation…might well put a private citizen like myself in danger? As it has?”

“I don't think anyone expected Giarelli to get this greedy, to openly approach one of Ryland's business partners. I mean, the feds were hoping Giarelli'd get careless, but I don't think they saw this coming.”

“And at what point exactly are these civil servants planning to step in and rescue us from this unforeseen circumstance?” Stanton was scared – I could tell that from the angry pique in his tone – but he was playing the part of the outraged taxpayer rather well, I thought.

I looked at him, irritated.

“Don't be naïve, Stanton. The F.B.I. have some of the most highly-trained investigators in the business. Do you know why they hire guys like me? So they don't end up taking any heat if something goes wrong. There's nothing on paper shows they ever met me, and they'll damn sure deny it now.”

“Do you mean to tell me–”

“I mean to tell you the feds want Giarelli. They don't give that,” I snapped my fingers in the air, “for one more Wall Street investor type. Much less some Kansas City gumshoe. We're on our own here.”

After a long moment, Stanton asked uncertainly: “What should we do?”

“I've been thinking about that,” I told him. “Out there in that living room is four hundred thousand dollars cash. Two hundred of it yours that you brought over the other night, two hundred of it mine that we just delivered.

“Four hundred grand,” I continued. “Maybe a dozen feet away from us. And only one locked door and one man keeping us from getting that money and getting the hell out of town. At least that's what I plan to do if we get out of this room, and I'd strongly suggest you do the same.”

“You haven't forgotten that this one man is an armed and violent criminal?”

“He's still only one man. I have an idea, but I'm going to need your help.”

Stanton waffled. “I'm not sure…”

“It's a risk, Stanton, yes. But a risk means a chance. What do you think your chances are if you wait till Giarelli and more armed men come back here? After they've just put a bullet in a federal agent and probably Ryland as well? And they know we know about it?”

Stanton considered for a scant few seconds.

“What is your plan, Mr. Caine?”

I explained it to him, gave him a few minutes to prepare himself, then waited while Stanton walked up and rapped sharply on the locked door. He waited a moment then looked at me. I nodded and he rapped again.

“What is it?” The gruff voice coming through the door sounded groggy, like the man had been dozing in a chair.

“I…I need to use the lavatory,” Stanton explained.

“Hold it.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but I can't. I'm afraid…this is such a nice room and I…”

“Jesus Christ,” came the voice. “Hang on.” The key turned in the lock and the door opened a few inches as the man peeked inside. He stepped back and quickly pulled the door open wide, his gun sweeping the room.

“You,” he said to me, “get back away from the door. Over there in the corner.” He gestured with his gun for Stanton to come outside, then closed and relocked the bedroom door. I heard him escorting Stanton to the bathroom amid muffled threats.

About forty seconds later I was knocking on the bathroom door.

“You can come out now.”

Stanton stepped out, a little shaken, his eyes fixing on the unconscious form of the guard on the floor.