At a corner table in the coffee shop of the Hawkins Hotel, Colder explained how it wasn't his idea to inform Dill of the department's findings. He had come, he said, only at the insistence of the chief of detectives, John Strucker. “I've been here since seven,” he added.
“Who killed her?” Dill said.
The waitress arrived at that moment and Colder ordered coffee, orange juice, and rye toast. Dill said he wanted only coffee. When the waitress left, Colder brought out a small flipback notebook and began to talk, not quite reading from his notes.
“A warrant was obtained from District Judge F. X. Mahoney at 11:57 P.M., Sunday, August 7. The warrant was served and a complete search was made of the premises at 3212 Texas Avenue, which are owned by Felicity Dill, deceased, and occupied by Harold Snow, deceased, the tenant, and by Lucinda McCabe, also a tenant and the deceased Snow's common-law wife. The search was conducted by Detective Sergeant Edwin Meek and Detective Kenneth Lowe under the supervision of Captain Eugene Colder. Chief of Detectives John Strucker was also present.”
“Who killed her?” Dill said.
Colder didn't reply. Instead, he started to read from the notebook again, but was interrupted by the waitress, who placed coffee in front of Dill and coffee and juice in front of Colder, informing him the toast would be along in a jiffy. Colder picked up the glass of orange juice and drank it down. Then he went back to the notebook.
“At approximately 12:41 A.M., a gray steel locked toolbox was discovered. The toolbox was hidden under and behind two bedspreads and three suitcases in the closet of the bedroom occupied by the deceased Snow and his common-law wife, McCabe. Upon questioning, McCabe insisted she had no idea how the toolbox had got in the closet.”
Colder stopped his recitation because the waitress arrived with the rye toast. He put the notebook down to butter the toast. He ate one piece, drank some coffee, and picked up the notebook again. Dill watched him silently and wondered what had taken place between Colder and Strucker, and how nasty the argument had been.
Colder again read from the notebook. “The toolbox lock was forced by Sergeant Meek, who then opened the toolbox in the presence of Chief Strucker, Captain Colder, Detective Lowe, and Lucinda McCabe.” Colder looked up at Dill. “Then there's a whole list of things we found in the top tray, but I'm not going to read those.”
Dill nodded.
“In the lower compartment of the tray, the following items were found, removed, and tagged by Sergeant Meek:
“OneâTen thousand two hundred dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Twoâfour fulminate of mercury blasting caps.
“Threeâa .25-caliber Llama automatic pistol, serial numberâ” Colder broke off and looked up at Dill again. “You want the serial number?”
Dill shook his head no.
Colder closed the notebook. “Well, that's it. The Spanish piece is at ballistics. They're checking whether it's the one that killed Clay Corcoran. If it is, then it means Snow wired up Felicity's car for a price, and then killed Corcoran, who must have been on to him. Your next question is going to be, who killed Harold Snow? We don't know yet. And that's why I argued against telling you what we'd come up with. You've got a loose mouth, Dill, and you move around in pretty funny circles. I told Strucker I didn't think you'd keep your mouth shut about this, but he told me to tell you anyway. Maybe he figures you can swing him a few votes when he runs for mayor. But that's none of my business either. So. Any questions?”
Several seconds went by before Dill shook his head and said, “I don't think so.”
“I don't know if knowing who killed Felicity makes you feel any better or not. I hope it does.”
“I guess I feel about the same.”
“So do 1. Snow was just hired help. Nailing the bastard who hired him is the only thing that'll make me feel any better.”
“Harold Snow,” Dill said thoughtfully.
“Harold Snow,” Colder agreed.
“Ten thousand bucks.”
“Ten thousand two hundred.”
“Somehow,” Dill said, “I thought killing Felicity would've cost a whole lot more.”
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Dill rode up to his room in the elevator alone. Just as he passed the sixth floor he smiled a wry, almost sad smile and said aloud, “Well, Inspector, I guess that wraps this case up.”
In his room, he showered and shaved. Wearing only his shorts, he lay on the bed, his hands folded behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. At ten o'clock, he ordered a pot of coffee. At one, he had them send up a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. When he finished his lunch, he put the tray out in the hall, sat down at the desk, and outlined the facts as he knew them. When he was done he tossed the ballpoint pen onto the desk, almost certain he would never know who had actually had the bomb wired to his dead sister's car.
At 2:30 P.M. he picked up the phone and called information for the number of the police department. He then dialed the number and asked for Chief of Detectives John Strucker. Dill had to identify himself to two officers, one male and one female, before he was put through.
After Strucker said hello, Dill said, “It wasn't Harold Snow, was it?”
“Wasn't it?”
“No,” Dill said. “Harold was from Kansas City.”
“Kansas City,” Strucker said.
“It hadn't occurred to youâKansas City?”
Strucker produced one of his sighsâa long mournful one that seemed to go on forever. “It occurred to me.”
“When?”
“About eighteen months ago.”
“You're away ahead of me, aren't you?”
“It's what I do, Dill. It's what I'm good at.” Strucker sighed again, wearily this time. “Don't fuck it up for everybody, Dill,” he said, and hung up.
Dill rose from the desk, took his blue funeral suit from the closet and laid it on the bed. From the bureau drawer he took his next to last clean white shirt. He dressed quickly, mixed himself a Scotch and water with no ice, and drank it standing by the window, staring down at Broadway and Our Jack Street. When he finished the drink it was five minutes till three. He turned and started for the door. He passed the bureau, stopped, and went back. After a moment's hesitation, he opened the bureau drawer and from beneath the wad of soiled shirts took out the .38 revolver that had once belonged to Harold Snow. Dill stared at the revolver for several seconds. You don't need it, he told himself. You wouldn't use it even if you did need it. He put the pistol back beneath the soiled shirts, closed the drawer, stood there for a second or two, opened the drawer again, took out the pistol, and shoved it down into his right hip pocket. There was a full-length mirror on the door that led out into the corridor. Dill noticed the pistol made almost no bulge at all.
When Jake Spivey's gray Rolls-Royce Silver Spur sedan pulled up in front of the Hawkins Hotel, it was, according to the First National Bank's sign, 3:01 P.M. and 105 degrees.
Dill got into the air-conditioned car and waited until Spivey had pulled out into the traffic before he said, “How long've we known each other, Jake?”
Spivey thought about it. “Thirty years, I reckon. Why?”
“In all those thirty years, did you ever imagine that one day you'd be picking me up in front of the Hawkins in a Rolls-Royce?”
“Wasn't ever a Rolls,” Spivey said. “Back then I always thought it'd be a Cadillac.”
They drove west on Forrest, which had been named after the Confederate general Nathan Bedford Forrest. Some old-timers, mostly from the deep South, had once called it “Fustest Street” in honor of the general's strategyâor tacticsâwhich had been to get
there fustest with the mostest. Dill had heard the story from his father, although he himself had never heard anyone call it Fustest Street. When he asked Spivey about it, Spivey said his granddaddy had called it that, but his granddaddy had been a real old geezer who'd been born in 1895 or thereabouts.
As they drove through the rebuilt downtown area they tried to remember what had once stood on the sites of the new buildings that had gone upâor were still going up. Sometimes they could remember; sometimes they couldn't. Spivey said it made him feel old when he couldn't.
“Why'd you come back here, Jakeâreally? It wasn't just to grow yourself a briarpatch. You could've done that anywhere.”
Spivey thought about it for a while. “Well, hell, I guess I came back for the same reason Felicity never left. It's home. Now you, Pick, you always hated it. I never did. I remember that summer you were eleven and your old man took you up to Chicago and you saw the first body of water you couldn't see all the way across. I thought I'd never hear the end of it. Chicago. Jesus, you made it sound like a fuckin' paradise. But I got up there when I was seventeen or eighteen and all I saw was one big horseshit town that some folks who talked funny'd built on a big old dirty lake.”
“I still like Chicago.”
“And I still like it here because I understand the sons of bitches here and, like the fella says, that means it's home. And I guess home is where I wanted to grow my briarpatch and show off how rich poor little old Jake Spivey done went and got.” He grinned. “That's part of it. Showing the sons of bitches how rich you got.”
“Revenge,” Dill said.
“Don't knock it.”
“I don't,” Dill said. “I don't knock it at all.”
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When they were halfway to Gatty International Airport, Dill asked a question whose answer he thought he already knew. It was the first of a series of questions whose answers might decide who lived, who died, and who wound up in jail.
Dill made the first question as casual as he could. “When'd you say you saw Brattle last?”
“About a year and a half agoâin Kansas City.”
“You said you went up there just to sign some papers.”
“Well,” Spivey said, drawing the word out, “it might've been just a little more'n that, Pick.”
“How?”
“Clyde was pretty pissed off at me. He thought I owed himâowed him enough to lie for him to the Feds. I had to tell him I didn't owe anybody that much. Well, we'd had a few drinks and he started rantin' and ravin' about how if I wouldn't testify for him, I sure as hell wouldn't ever testify against him. So I told him to take his best shot. And he told me I could count on it. So I popped him one, and he popped me back, and about that time Sid and Harley rushed in and broke it up before we both had heart attacks. And then old Clyde looked at Harley and Sid and pointed at me and said, âSee him?' And they said, yeah, they saw me all right. Then Clyde gets all dramatic and says, âWell, take a good look at him because he's a dead man, you understand what I'm saying?' Then it was either Harley or Sid, I don't remember which now, who said something like Sure, Clyde, we understand all right. I guess it must've been Harley who said it. Well, our business was all done, the papers all signed, so I got out of there and flew back home and hired me a mess of Mexicans.”
“Has Brattle ever tried anything?” Dill asked.
“I'm not sure. About a year or so after I hired my Mexicans, I also hired a guy called Clay Corcoranâthe one who got killed out at Felicity's funeral?”
Dill nodded. “Hired him to do what?”
“See if he could get past my Mexicans.”
“Could he?”
“He said he couldn't, but that he'd like to take it one more step and hire another guy who was supposed to be tops at tapping phones and planting bugs and shit like that. So I said go ahead. Well, about a month or so before he got killed, Corcoran called and told me this guy he'd hired said it was impossible to get near my place. Now that made me feel some better, but then Corcoran got killed and I stopped feeling that way.”
“Did Corcoran ever mention the name of the guy he hired?”
“He didn't mention it and I didn't ask. Why?”
“It's not important,” Dill said. “Who picked Kansas City to meet inâyou or Brattle?”
“Brattle.”
“Why?”
“Why? Hell, Pick, Clyde was born there. It's his briarpatch, his hometown.”
“I didn't know that,” Dill lied. “Or if I did, I must've forgot.”
The subcommittee's minority counsel, Tim Dolan, and Jake Spivey had never met. When they shook hands in front of the bronze statue of William Gatty, Dill was struck by the pair's resemblance. Their clothes helped. Both wore creased and wrinkled seersucker suits (one blue and the other gray) with shirts open at the neck from which loosened ties dangled like afterthoughts. Both were fifteen to twenty pounds overweight and most of it had gone to their bellies. Both were sweating heavily despite the air-conditioning. Both looked thirsty.
Yet the resemblance was more than physical. As they shook hands, Dill sensed that each recognized in the other a kindred spirit with a commonness of attitude, approach, and flexibility. Instinct seemed to tell them that here a deal could be cut, an accommodation reached, a sensible compromise negotiated. Here, both seemed to think, is somebody you can do business with.
The banalities had to be got through first. When Spivey asked if Dolan had had a good flight, Dolan said he wasn't quite sure because he had slept all the way from Herndon, Virginia. When Dolan asked Spivey if the weather down here was always like this,
Spivey said it was, as a matter of fact, just a touch cool for August, but it'd probably hot up some toward the end of the month. Each chuckled as he recognized a long-standing fellow member of Bullshitters, International.
Dolan then turned to Dill and, after inquiring about his wellbeing, informed him the Senator's flight would be twenty or twenty-five minutes late. He suggested that they all repair to the airport bar for something cold and wet. Dill said fine, and Spivey said he thought it sounded like a hell of an idea. At no time did Dolan display the slightest surprise at Spivey's unexpected presence.
They sat in a round corner booth and ordered three bottles of Budweiser. Jake Spivey paid. Nobody objected. They all raised their glasses, said cheers or something equally meaningless, drank deeply, and then talked baseball, or rather Spivey and Dolan talked baseball as Dill pretended to listen. Dolan seemed impressed by Spivey's acute analysis of how the Red Sox just might make it into the playoffs. Still thirsty, they ordered another round of beer and just as they finished that, the Senator's plane was announced. It was then that Dill made his second move.
He turned to Spivey and said, “Jake, I've got a couple of things I need to talk over with Tim here and I wonder if you'd mind meeting the Senator when he comes off the plane?”
Spivey hesitated for only a moment. “Sure,” he said. “Be glad to. I've never met him, you understand, but I've seen his picture in the paper and on TV, so I reckon I'll spot him okay.”
“Just look for the youngest kid off the plane,” Dolan said.
Spivey chuckled, said he'd do that, and left. Dolan turned to Dill and let the surprise creep into his tone, if not into his expression. “What the fuck was all that about?”
“Tell me about you and the FBI first. What kind of deal did you make with them?”
“No deal, Ben.”
“None?”
“None.”
“Why in hell not?”
Dolan frowned thoughtfully, perhaps even judiciously. Comes now the Boston dissembler, Dill thought. Dolan said, “Two reasons. One, leaks.”
“From the FBI?”
“Like a wet brown bag.”
“What's two?”
“Two. Well, two is political leverage. If the kid brings this off all by himself, he'll be in deep clover.”
“And if he doesn't,” Dill said, “he'll be in deep shitâand you with him.”
“We discussed it,” Dolan said. “We both agreed the risk is acceptable.”
“Hear me, Tim. For the record I think you both made a mistake. A bad one. I think you should've called in the FBIâfor the record.”
Dolan shrugged. “Okay. You're on record. Now tell me why you sent Spivey to meet the kid.”
“You notice how willingly he went?”
Dolan nodded.
“That means he's not worried about passing through the metal detector.”
This time both surprise and shock spread across Dolan's plump handsome Irish face. And fear, too, Dill thought. Just a trace. “Jesus,” Dolan said. “You mean it's gonna be like that down here?”
“Exactly like that,” Dill said.
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The Senator and Jake Spivey seemed to be chatting amiably as they rode the passenger conveyor belt down the long corridor to where Dill and Dolan waited. Spivey was carrying the Senator's garment bag; the Senator carried his own briefcase.
After the Senator greeted Dill and Dolan, Spivey turned the garment bag over to Dill and went to fetch the car. The three men waited for it just inside the airport's main entrance. “Looks hot out there,” Senator Ramirez said.
“It is,” Dill said.
Ramirez turned to Dolan. “Well?”
“Ben's put himself on record. He thinks we should've gone with the FBL”
The Senator nodded as though Dill's attitude was expected, if not altogether reasonable. “No gain without risk, Ben,” he said, and turned to survey the less-than-two-year-old airport. “Who was Gatty anyway?” he asked.
“He flew around the world with Wiley Post in thirty-one,” Dill said, not caring whether the Senator knew who Post was.
He apparently did, because he said, “Oh,” in an appreciative tone, gave the airport another sweeping glance, added, “Nice airport,” and again turned to Dill. “What's Jake Spivey's last price?”
“Immunity.”
“What d'you think?”
“Take it,” Dill said.
“Tim?”
“Take it under advisement.”
Again, the Senator nodded, thoughtfully this time, and said, “At least until we find out what Clyde Brattle's got to say for himself.”
“Right,” Dolan said. “Never let the contract till you know what Paddy will pay.”
One of the Senator's elegant eyebrows went up. “Boston folklore?”
“It's in the catechism.”
“Well,” the Senator said, “what we'll do is talk to them both and then make up our minds.” He turned to give the bronze statue another inspection. “William Gatty, huh? He looks like quite a guy.”
As they stood waiting for Jake Spivey to bring his car round, Dill examined the Senator, who was still examining the statue. You come, young sir, Dill thought, unfettered by either compunction or conscience, not to mention common sense. You come armed only with ambition of the ruthless and burning kind, which may or may not be enough. It'll be interesting to see the battle joined. It'll be even more interesting to see who wins.
“Jesus,” Tim Dolan said, as Spivey pulled his hundred-thousand-dollar machine to a stop in front of the airport entrance.
The Senator smiled slightly. “Somehow,” he said, “I knew it would be a Rolls.”
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It wasn't really a suite that Dill had reserved for Senator Ramirez and Tim Dolan on the sixth floor of the Hawkins Hotel. Instead, it was merely two connecting roomsâone of them with twin beds and the other with a single bed, a couch, and a few additional chairs. They had had coffee sent up. The empty cups now sat on the round low table along with the ashtrays and Tim Dolan's yellow legal pad on which not a word had yet been written. Spivey smoked a cigar; Dolan his cigarettes; the Senator and Dill nothing. They were all in their shirtsleeves, except for Dill, who still had the revolver stuck down in his hip pocket. The meeting, only forty-five minutes old, had already reached its impasse.
Jake Spivey settled back in his chair, put the cigar in the corner
of his mouth and smiled cheerfully around it. “Tim, what you're asking me to do is climb up on the scaffold, stick my head in the noose, let you fellas give it a few yanksâjust to make sure it's snugâand then I'm supposed to say what an honor it is to be there on the occasion of my own hanging. Then, depending on how you all're feeling that day, maybe you'll spring the trap, and maybe you won't.”
“Nobody's going to spring any trap, Jake,” Dolan said.
Spivey looked at him quizzically. “You got the votes on the full committee?”
“We've got them,” Senator Ramirez said.
Spivey turned to study the Senator with interest. “Well, sir, I'm sure you can add as well as I can, and probably better because I'm not real good at it. But I hired me some lawyers up in Washington who everybody says are damn good at their adds and takeaways. God knows they oughta be. They charge enough. Well, these lawyers up thereâafter they got through adding this and subtracting thatâwell, they say you're gonna be between two and three votes shy. Probably three.”
“Then I suggest you retain different counsel,” Ramirez said.
“Senator, lemme ask you one simple question.”
“Of course.”
“What you want me to doâwhen you boil it all downâis help you hang Clyde Brattle, right?”
The Senator nodded.
“So what's in it for me?”
“You're asking for total immunity.”
“That's what I'm asking for. But what am I gonna get?”
“Immunity is a distinct possibility,” Ramirez said.
Spivey smiled. “Possibility don't quite hack it, distinct or otherwise.”
“It would be premature for us to say anything else at this stage, Mr. Spivey. You know that.”
“Jake,” Tim Dolan said.
Spivey turned to look at him. Dolan leaned forward, selling. “Let me put it this way, Jake. Brattle's bad and we want him bad. You're, well, you're only half bad, or maybe even only one-quarter bad, so if we have to choose between you and Brattleâchoose who we're going to put the blocks toâthen we'll go for real bad and Brattle and so will Justice and I can almost damn near guarantee you total immunity.”
Spivey smiled once again and Dill noticed that each time the smile grew colder. “There's that âalmost' again,” Spivey said, “which is almost as bad as âdistinct possibility.'” The cold smile grew icy. “You know what I think you guys are really trying to do?” The cold smile was still there as he looked first at Dolan, then at the Senator, and then back at Dolan. His glance slid over Dill.
It was the Senator who finally said, “What?”
“I think you're trying to jug both me and old Clyde. I think you're fixing to do a deal with Clyde where he'll go rest up in one of those federal country clubs for a year or two and, in exchange for that, he'll give you meâand maybe a couple of other guys I can think of. Or he says he'll give us to you. Clyde lies a lot, you know. Thing is, he lies all the timeâmorning, noon, and night. But I'm gonna give you the facts: Clyde can't hand you meâno matter what he claims.”
“What about all that stuff in Vietnam, Jake?” Dill said.
Spivey seemed grateful for the question. “Well, all that happened a long time ago, didn't it? And nobody gives a shit anymore anyhow. But what I did there I did as a contract employee of the United States Government. And while what I did wasn't pretty, it wasn't any worse'n what some of the rest of 'em did. So if you
think you can scapegoat me on that, you're flat wrong. To do that you'd have to have more'n Clyde Brattle. You'd have to have Agency backing and that you're just not gonna get.”
“And afterward?” Dill said.
“You mean after the last chopper took off from the top of the Embassy and we lost and went home? Well, after that I bought stuff and sold it. That's all.”
“Trading with the enemy is what some might call it, of course,” the Senator said.
The small half-smile that appeared on Spivey's face was mean for its size. Here it comes, Dill thought. The one he's been saving. He looked at Dolan and Ramirez and saw that they, too, had sensed it.
Spivey's voice was low and almost gentle when he said, “They haven't called it trading with the enemy yetâand you wanta know why?”
Dill didn't think anyone really did. Finally, it was the Senator who quietly asked, “Why?”
“I was told to,” Spivey said.
“Who told you to?”
“Langley.” The half-smile was back now, no longer mean, but triumphant. Or vindictive, Dill thought. “It was a long time ago, Senator,” Spivey went on, “almost ten years ago and maybe you don't remember, butâ”
The Senator interrupted. “I remember.”
“âwe bugged out and left it lying around. Tons and tons of it. Heavy stuff, light stuff, you name itâjust lying around. The spoils. Well, it was over and old Ho's folks'd finally won just like everybody with a lick of sense knew they would. They didn't need all that stuff though. Some of it, of course, but not all. But Langley knew folks who did. Folks in Africa and the Middle East and South America and Central America and you name it. So our job, me
and Clyde, was to buy it from Ho's people for cash money and sell it for cash money to those folks who had their own little insurrection goingâor counterrevolution or half-ass uprising or what have you. These were all folks that Langley was sort of looking after and encouraging. So that's what we were told to do, and that's what we did, and that's how we by God got rich. So if you wanta indict me for that, you're gonna have to indict half of Langley and a whole bunch of other people, and to tell the truth, Senator, I don't think you got the git to make it go.”