Parts Unknown (34 page)

“Was he upset when you sold out to Sanyo?”

“No more than anyone else, I believe. Everyone wondered how the new owners would treat them, of course. There was bound to be some anxiety. But I handled it pretty well.”

“How’s that?”

“Kept the acquisition secret until the last moment. That way, there was no time for rumors to spread and anxiety to increase. And Sanyo guaranteed all employee benefits and seniorities. It was a very quick and smooth transition.”

“But Liles quit.”

“It was something he’d been thinking about for some time. It was the right moment. In fact, he should be grateful—my decision gave him the impetus to do what he wanted to anyway.”

“These are all the names you can think of?”

Humphries nodded. “I honestly don’t think any of them would try to harm me.”

“You think none of these men is the person following you?”

“No.”

“You’ve had a good look at this person?”

“Well, no. As I say, there’s this car—a brown one—that’s come by our home several times lately. And I began seeing it behind me when I drove to and from the office. I wouldn’t have noticed if Mitsuko hadn’t said anything.” He added, “We live on a lane that doesn’t get much traffic. You come to recognize the neighbors’ cars.”

“Mitsuko?”

“My wife. She’s Japanese.”

“Neither of you saw who was driving?”

“A man. That’s all.”

“What about the prowler?”

“Again, we haven’t actually seen anyone. But I’ve noticed signs that someone’s been on our property—gates left open, footprints, things moved about.”

“What time of day?”

“Usually at night. I find the evidence in the mornings, the last few mornings especially. Before, I wasn’t looking for anything. But since the car began following me I’ve begun to worry and started looking around.”

“Exactly what would you want us to do, Mr. Humphries?”

“I suppose basically make the person stop. Whatever it takes to make that person leave us alone.”

Kirk swiveled around to gaze out the window and talk to the dry, rocky crests of the distant mountain ranges. “If there is a prowler—if someone is following you—you’ve told me nothing to indicate that he constitutes a clear and present danger. However, if someone is planning to assault you, our merely watching over you might not remove that threat.”

Humphries twisted the ring. “What do you mean?”

“Ultimately he would have to be identified, arrested, and brought to trial. It’s a serious course of action.”

Humphries leaned forward. The thin blue stripes of his shirt billowed up beneath the lapels of his coat. “Isn’t it serious to be frightened for one’s life?”

“Do you have any evidence that the prowler or the man following you is a threat to your life?”

“You sound like that damned policeman! If you can prove I’m mistaken, that’s fine. If I’m not mistaken, I don’t want to find out the hard way!”

“Twenty-four-hour-a-day bodyguards cost a lot. From us or from anyone else.”

“My check won’t bounce, if that’s what’s worrying you, Mr. Kirk.”

“I’m sure it won’t, Mr. Humphries. But in the absence of a definite threat, and given the legal ramifications of any action that might be taken, perhaps there are better options.”

Humphries rubbed a hand across his chin. “Such as?”

“An investigation would probably cost less than providing round-the-clock security. That, and some coaching in basic survival techniques. Once the suspect’s identified, we can decide the best way to handle him.”

From the hallway outside came the heavy sound of familiar steps as Bunch ran up three stairs at a time in the final sprint. When he opened the door, almost filling it with his bulk, Kirk introduced him to Mr. Humphries and sketched the situation. “What do you think, Bunch?”

The big man wiped his face with the damp front of his sleeveless sweatshirt and shrugged. “Simple. What we do, we pick up this guy and convince him it’s not nice to harass Mr. Humphries.”

Devlin caught the “we.” He turned to the man in the gray suit. “On defense, we have to wait for the opponent to make his move. On offense, we can dictate the action. My suggestion, Mr. Humphries, is that we go on the offensive. But the choice is yours.”

Humphries looked at the large, sweaty figure, at the legs whose calves seemed almost as big as those massive thighs, at the torso whose muscle hung heavily defined. This was the ungrammatical one. But given what Humphries hadn’t told Kirk, he was gratified to know he could hire this monster to be on his side. “All right.”

“Then I think we can help you, Mr. Humphries. Here’s what I suggest.” It wasn’t the twenty-four-hour baby-sitting the man had first wanted, but it was effective. And, equally important, it left time for Devlin and Bunch to juggle the other cases as well.

The plan was all right with Bunch. He would stick with Humphries for a couple days to try and identify the suspicious figure and to familiarize himself with Humphries’ routines and usual locations. He would also place security devices in Humphries’ home and automobile. Meanwhile, Kirk would rehearse Humphries and his wife in personal security—how to avoid being approached in crowds, how to vary the routine patterns of life, how to stay visible to people around them. To avoid, in other words, making targets of themselves in areas that invited attack. These and other techniques that the Secret Service had drilled Kirk in would give Mr. and Mrs. Humphries a measure of self- protection for those times when they did not have a bodyguard.

“When we find out who the joker is,” said Bunch, “we’ll pick him up and talk with him.” He cracked his knuckles for punctuation.

“We can keep this unobtrusive, can’t we? I mean, if Schmidt or Stratford discover that I’ve mentioned their names … Well, we run in the same social circles. It would be extremely awkward.”

“We’ll be circumspect, Mr. Humphries.” Kirk drew a standard contract from the drawer and filled in the blanks, adapting a paragraph or two to include the costs of installing security devices. “If what we’ve said makes sense and you want to proceed with it, I’ll need your signature after you read over the contract. If you have any questions, please ask.”

He didn’t. When the pen stopped scratching, Devlin gave him a copy and nodded at Bunch. “Mr. Bunchcroft here can start right now.”

That was what Bunch wanted to hear. This kind of job beat hell out of surveillance in that Subaru. Standing, he wiped his face. “Just call me Bunch, Mr. Humphries. We’ll swing by my place and I’ll clean up and then we’ll be on our way.”

Humphries nodded as Kirk folded his check and said goodbye. Going down the stairs, he eyed the wide back and shoulders of the sweaty man and hoped that Mitsuko was right. Kirk had bought the story. Now Humphries hoped the plan would give them the safety they sought.

W
HEN THE DOOR
closed behind them, Devlin read Humphries’ check over one more time. Then he filed the contract in the “Active” drawer in its new manila folder labeled “Humphries.” Opening a companion file on the computer, he typed in a code and brief synopsis of current information. On the time sheet, he noted the hour and day that Bunch started work. After running off a backup file, he turned to the telephone answerer for the messages that had come in while the office was empty.

The only one of interest was a report from Houston with the address and telephone number of a James Fackler. It cited the McQuiller Agency’s costs of discovering the information: two hundred dollars. Right—it took McQuiller four hours and expenses to look through a telephone directory and then drive by to verify the suspect and address. Nevertheless, Kirk wrote out a check and put it in an envelope, noted the expense on the Fackler time sheet, and, in the World Association of Detectives directory, put a mark by McQuiller’s name to remind him not to use that agency again. Most of the names in the directory were honest in their fees. But every now and then you ran across one that padded expenses.

Fackler was one of those insurance cases that had dragged on because the principal had a tendency to move quickly and without a forwarding address, usually just ahead of angry creditors. But for some reason, the man never changed his name. Vanity perhaps, or an unconscious will to be caught. It happened that way occasionally. Kirk had chased the man from Colorado to Oklahoma, then out to California and back to Louisiana, wherever the oil companies set up operations. The last rumor led to Houston, and sure enough, he’d popped up there like a beer drinker’s belch. Kirk faxed the information back to Security Underwriters in New York and flagged the computer file with the code number that meant Wait for instructions. Paperwork was a hassle, and most of it fell to Kirk because Bunch didn’t like to do it. Besides, it was his agency and his responsibility. And making quick and careful records was the only way to keep facts and fees straight when working a number of cases. He didn’t know any P.I.. firms that had the luxury of working only one job the way they did on TV. Recording and filing taken care of, he scurried across town to meet with Reznick at the Advantage Corporation plant.

The regional manager was less than enthusiastic about bringing the police into the investigation. “No. Absolutely not! We deal in high-quality products—products whose name means reliability. And we ship that name all over the world. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a shitbird like Porter give our corporation a public black eye.”

Kirk was hearing what he expected. Late-morning light filtered in through a wall of glass sliced by narrow vertical blinds and interrupted here and there by silhouetted sprouts of potted plants. Beyond the glass lay the parking lot and delivery bays where trucks from other corners of the far-flung Advantage empire brought in what they brought in, or carried away what they carried away for distribution to the company sales outlets. The Denver plant was the assembly hub because it was a convenient location between manufactories on the West Coast and in Florida. The same geography suited it for market distribution as well. “It’s possible that Porter’s working alone on a small scale,” said Kirk. “If so, he can be handled quietly and easily.”

“So handle him.”

“But it’s also possible he may not be working alone. His supply could be coming from outside the plant or inside it. We don’t know yet.”

“Kirk. It’s been—what?—two, three weeks already. You’ve had a man looking at this guy Porter for three weeks now, and you’re not sure if he’s working alone?”

“He’s been looking for Porter for three weeks. He found him only a couple days ago.”

The telephone on Reznick’s desk buzzed softly. Irritably, he jabbed the talk button without giving his secretary a chance to speak. “I’m in conference!” He switched the telephone off and leaned across the desk toward Devlin. “You know there was a guy last week, Montoya, caught his arm in a scissor lift? Was so goddamned stoned he didn’t even know it—goddamn doctor said he didn’t have to give him any anesthetic, he was so stoned. Was afraid to give him any, as a matter of fact, because it might have blown his goddamn heart away. And now you’re telling me we got to let this Porter go about his business while we just keep an eye on him?”

“If he’s part of a network, you won’t get rid of the problem by firing one man. You’ll just chase it somewhere else in the plant.”

Reznick shoved his fingers through stiff, curly hair that had a touch of gray at the temples. With all the headaches that had come up in the past month, the last thing he needed was a goddamn dope problem in the factory. Not that it wasn’t expected. Despite Stewart’s high-sounding rhetoric at each monthly executive conference, Reznick and everybody else knew that a good percent of the labor force wasn’t Just Saying No to drugs. They snorted, smoked, dropped, or shot up assorted chemicals whenever they had the chance. It was one of the givens of running a factory in the late twentieth century and of the goddamn commie-liberal erosion of American virtues so the goddamn Japs could take over American industry. What wasn’t a given—and what lay behind Stewart’s rhetoric—was letting the habits affect the bottom line. And now this tall son of a bitch was sitting across his desk calmly telling him that the problem in his plant—his goddamn plant—could be far more extensive than he’d at first believed. Reznick could understand why bearers of ill tidings tended to be executed. “All right. But no cops. I want this investigation to be kept absolutely confidential. All reports come to me—my eyes only—and you don’t make a move without my authorization. Understand?”

To Kirk, Reznick seemed a little too young to have those gray patches at his temples. He wondered if it was a touch of dye to give a bit more weight to the man’s office. “Of course. Speaking of moves, I’d like to search these lockers.” He handed Reznick a slip with 105, 112, and 207 penciled on it. “I’ll need your authorization to make the search legal.”

“Are they involved with Porter?”

“It’s possible. We’re not sure.”

“Well, I don’t see why my own security people can’t make the search. They have the right to do that kind of thing.”

“They can. If you want everyone in the plant to know about it.”

It took him a minute. “Oh. You mean leaks. I see.” Then, “Well, all right. When you want to do this?”

“Soon. Perhaps this evening.”

“All right.” He made a cryptic note on the paper and pushed it back to Kirk. “Do what you have to. But I want this plant cleaned up and I want it done fast. Understand me?”

Kirk understood. He understood too that Reznick was reaching the point where he was beginning to worry about the cost of the investigation in relation to what it was accomplishing. And how that ratio would look on his section’s profit and loss sheet. You had to balance the ideal investigation against the willingness of a customer to keep paying. And when Chris called in after work for his daily report, Kirk asked him if they could go through the lockers that night.

“I guess so—sure. Where should we meet?”

“I’ll pick you up in front of your apartment in half an hour.”

Chris waited in the shadows of the deep porch that ran across the entire front of the old-fashioned house, half listening to someone’s music thump through the open window of one of the first-floor apartments. Having expected to feel excitement about going on his first search, he was a bit surprised at its absence. Maybe it was because the locker room was so familiar to him that it would be like searching his own closet. Or maybe he was finally getting used to this business of snooping and saw it as a job. Then again, he thought as Devlin’s Austin-Healey throbbed to the curb, maybe there wasn’t any reason to feel all that excited. Shaking down an empty locker room wasn’t the most thrilling chore in the world.