The Associate (26 page)

Daniel sat next to Kate on the couch. “I saw how you looked at the lab when Forbus called you Annie Oakley. Was that because of the shooting?”

Kate nodded.

“What happened?”

Kate closed her eyes and pressed the glass to her forehead.

“There wasn’t enough action in solving computer crimes, so I asked for a transfer to narcotics,” Kate said in an exhausted monotone. “About six months after I went undercover I busted Clarence Marcel, an enforcer for Abdullah Hassim, a major dealer.

“While Clarence was out on bail, he and Abdullah had a falling-out over three missing kilos of cocaine. Clarence decided to rat out Abdullah in exchange for witness protection. I’m the one he called to set up the deal. The DA had an orgasm when I told him. He’d been trying to catch Abdullah for years. Only problem was Clarence insisted on turning himself over at the Lloyd Center mall at high noon. I told the DA that Clarence’s plan was insane—too many people could get hurt if Abdullah tried to take out Clarence—but the DA was so desperate to turn him that he went along with it.”

Kate took a stiff drink. “I remember every second of that afternoon,” she said, a faraway look in her eyes. “It was Christmas. Carols were being piped through the loudspeakers, kids were skating at the ice rink, and the mall was packed. We were supposed to meet Clarence in front of a camera store. There were shoppers all over the place: a pregnant woman with her child, a Hispanic family, a cute, blond kid about twelve in a baggy Spider-Man sweatshirt.

“Clarence appeared out of nowhere and our guys moved to surround him. Watching from the doorway of a record store across the way were two black teenagers in Oakland Raiders gear. I was window-shopping, next door. As soon as they spotted Clarence they pulled out automatic weapons.”

Kate shook her head slowly.

“I shot the first one in the chest. He fell sideways into the guy on his right, who had his finger on the trigger of an Uzi. I shot the second guy. He stumbled forward, spraying bullets into the crowd. A mother and daughter went down, one of our men was hit. There was complete panic and everybody started diving for cover.

“The crowd had separated Clarence from our guys and he took off for the nearest exit. I went after him. Running hard on his heels was the little white kid in the Spider-Man sweatshirt. Just as they reached the exit the kid said something and Clarence stopped and turned. I had almost caught up with him when this hole appeared in Clarence’s forehead.”

Kate touched a spot above her right eye.

“Who shot him?”

“It was the fucking kid. He was working with the brothers in the Oakland Raiders togs. Later on we found out that the hit wasn’t his first.” Kate shook her head as if she still couldn’t believe it. “He was twelve years old and he did it for two Baggies.”

She paused, drained her glass, then refilled it.

“I thought someone behind me had killed Clarence. It never dawned on me that it was the kid until he shot me, too. I was so shocked that I froze. Then he shot me again and I started squeezing the trigger. When the other cops got there every pane of glass in the exit door had been blown out, the kid was lying in a pool of blood with his chest torn apart, and I was standing over him jerking that trigger even though there wasn’t a bullet left in my gun.”

“How could you still be standing?” Daniel asked, awed by Kate’s story.

“On TV, people fly through the air when they’re shot or they fall down and die. That’s not the way it happens in the real world. I’ve heard of shoot-outs where robbers took shot after shot and kept coming. Even a person who’s shot in the heart could have as much as a minute to act before he bleeds out and goes unconscious. I didn’t even know I’d been hit until I saw the blood. That’s when I collapsed.”

“Jesus, that’s amazing.”

“The DA didn’t think so,” Kate concluded bitterly. “Neither did the press. They called the shoot-out ‘The Holiday Massacre.’ ” She looked at Daniel. “They needed a scapegoat, so they chose me. I’d lost Clarence and I killed a little kid. It didn’t matter to the press that the kid was a hired assassin. I was expendable. I could have fought it, but I’d had enough, so I resigned.”

“It sounds to me like you have nothing to feel bad about.”

Kate smiled without humor. “I don’t feel bad. I never did. After the shooting I had to visit a shrink. It was department policy. He told me it was common to experience feelings of guilt even when a shooting was righteous, but I never felt guilty and that really bothered me.”

“What about tonight?”

Kate looked directly at Daniel. “Truth?”

“Of course.”

“I was pumped. My motor was going every second I was trading shots.”

“That’s adrenaline.”

Kate shook her head. “I know what adrenaline feels like. This was something different. This was a high like no other. So, what does that say about me?”

“It says that you’re too hard on yourself. Are you forgetting that you saved my life? You’re my hero, Kate.”

Kate’s laugh was sharp and biting.

“I mean it,” he insisted. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you. What you did was very brave.”

Kate touched his cheek. “You’re sweet.”

Daniel reached up and took Kate’s hand. It was light as a feather. He turned her palm and kissed it. She hesitated for only a second. Then she pulled Daniel to her and kissed him. Daniel winced. Kate sat back.

“Are you okay?” she asked, alarmed.

“Never felt better,” Daniel answered, grimacing.

Kate laughed.

“I hate to say this,” Daniel said, managing to smile, “but I’m in no condition to play Don Juan tonight.”

Kate squeezed his hand. “Do I get a rain check?”

“Most definitely.” He grinned. “I’ve got to thank you properly for riding to my rescue.”

She laughed. “I did arrive in the nick of time, didn’t I?”

“Just like the cavalry”—Daniel smiled—“but please feel free to rescue me sooner in the future.”

The slender, dark-skinned man was waiting patiently for Claude Bernier when the photographer reached the landing of his third-floor walk-up. Bernier hesitated even though his visitor was dressed in a conservative suit and carrying a briefcase. He had been robbed at gunpoint recently and the man looked sinister enough to make him uneasy,

“Mr. Bernier?” the man asked in a heavy Spanish accent.

“Yes?” Bernier answered warily.

“My name is Juan Fulano and I am here to do business with you.”

Photographers—even those with Claude’s talent—had to scramble to make a living, and the mention of business erased the last of his doubts. He unlocked his door and invited Fulano inside. The apartment was small but clean. The walls were decorated with Bernier’s photographs and the works of friends. Claude put down the bag of groceries he was carrying on the table in his narrow kitchen.

“I don’t have much in the fridge,” he apologized, “but I could make us some coffee.”

“Not necessary.”

Bernier led Fulano into the living room and offered him the most comfortable chair. Fulano sat down and carefully crossed his left leg over his right.

“How can I help you?” Bernier asked.

“I am interested in buying a copy of a photograph that was originally purchased from the Pitzer-Kraft Gallery in late February by a lawyer named Gene Arnold.”

“Are you with the police?”

“No, Mr. Bernier. Why do you ask?”

“The police in Portland, Oregon, called me about that photograph. Do you know that Arnold was murdered?”

Bernier’s visitor nodded. “Why did the Oregon authorities contact you?”

“They want a copy of the photograph, too.”

“Have you sent it to them?”

“No. I just found the negative. It was misplaced. I’m mailing a print to Portland tomorrow.”

Fulano smiled. “I wonder if I could induce you to sell me a copy of the photograph as well.”

“Sure. I can make another copy.”

“How much do you require?”

Bernier did a quick calculation based on the quality of Fulano’s clothes.

“Fifteen hundred dollars,” he said.

“A reasonable price, but the photograph would be worth five thousand to me if you would do me a small favor.”

Bernier managed to conceal his surprise and excitement. He had never sold a photograph for that much money.

“What would you want me to do?”

“Do the authorities in Oregon know that you’ve located the negative of the photograph?”

“No. I just found it this morning.”

“The five thousand is yours if you wait to send the photograph until I tell you to do so.”

“I don’t know,” Bernier answered, suddenly worried. “It’s a murder investigation. The detective I spoke with thought the people in the picture might be involved in Mr. Arnold’s death.”

“I, too, am interested in discovering the identity of Mr. Arnold’s killer. I have no desire to obstruct a police investigation.”

“Then why do you want me to wait to send the photograph to the police?”

Bernier’s visitor leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Is five thousand dollars a fair price for your photograph?”

“Yes.”

“Is it more than fair?”

Bernier hesitated, certain that the man knew he had inflated the price.

“It’s very generous.”

“Then I would hope that you would permit me to simply say that your assistance is important to me.”

Bernier considered the proposition for a moment more before accepting.

“Do you think you could have the photograph for me by this evening?” Fulano asked. “I have an early flight?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Come by at eight.”

Bernier’s visitor opened his briefcase and handed him a stack of currency.

“A down payment,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind cash.”

The aroma of coffee lured Daniel out of a fitful sleep the next morning. When he limped into the kitchen Kate was finishing her breakfast. She looked up from the paper and smiled.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” Daniel answered unconvincingly. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

“I forgot to ask, last night. Did anything happen in Arizona?”

She nodded as Daniel put two slices of bread in the toaster.

“I’m pretty certain I know why Gene Arnold came to Portland.”

Daniel carried his coffee to the table and Kate told him about the kidnappings in Desert Grove and her discovery that Aaron Flynn had been Paul McCann’s attorney.

“So you think Gene Arnold recognized Flynn in the photograph?”

“I can’t think of any other reason for him to come here.”

“But why—” Daniel stopped in mid-sentence. “The guy!”

“What?”

“Saturday, Joe Molinari took me to my apartment to get my running gear. When we pulled up I saw a man leave my apartment house and get into a black pickup. I was certain I’d seen him someplace before. I just remembered where. The day I dropped off the discovery Flynn and this guy came into the reception area together. I got the impression he worked for Flynn.”

“Describe him to me.”

“He looked like a weight lifter, a big neck, thick shoulders. I’d guess he was in his forties.”

“Burt Randall. He’s Flynn’s investigator.”

“Why would he be at my place?”

Kate was quiet for a moment. “Did you tell anyone other than me that you were going to meet Kaidanov at the cemetery?”

“No.”

“Then how did the killer know?”

“Maybe someone followed Kaidanov.”

“That doesn’t work,” Kate said. “If the people who wanted him dead knew where he was, they would have killed Kaidanov before he could tell you that the study was a hoax.”

“Maybe I was the one who was tailed.”

“But they’d have to know you were meeting Kaidanov. Kaidanov called you at your apartment, right?”

Daniel nodded.

“Randall knows all about electronic surveillance. You may have a tap on your phone.”

“Is there any way you can tell?”

“I know someone who can sweep your apartment.”

“Shit. The only person who could clear me is dead and my apartment might be bugged. This is getting worse and worse.”

Paul Durban, a chubby, bespectacled man in a white shirt, gray slacks, and a gray sweater vest, finished his sweep of Daniel’s apartment as Kate and Daniel watched from the couch. Durban concentrated his equipment on an area of molding for a few moments, then he turned to Kate.

“One bug in the phone, one in the bedroom, and one in here.”

“Thanks, Paul. You know where to send the bill.”

“Anytime,” he said as he gathered up his equipment and left.

Durban had placed each listening device in its own evidence bag and left them on the coffee table. Daniel picked up one of the plastic bags and examined the bug.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he said. “Until Kaidanov told me that his study was a hoax, I was sure that Geller was trying to cover up Kaidanov’s results. Now that I’ve learned about Aaron Flynn’s connection to Gene Arnold, I’ve been looking at everything that’s happened in a different light.”

Daniel put the bug down.

“When I dropped off the discovery I had a talk with Flynn. He told me that he’d hired more than twenty people to deal with the Insufort case and had leased another floor in his building to house them. That had to cost him. Now add in the expense of hiring experts at three hundred to six hundred dollars an hour and the other assorted expenses of litigation and you’re looking at hundreds of thousands of dollars in costs.

“Flynn made a lot of money from his other cases, but I bet he’s plowed a lot of that dough back into the Insufort case. That’s a good investment if he wins. In some of the Insufort cases, the plaintiffs are permanently injured babies. You’re talking about a lifetime of damages. There’s lost earning capacity, medical costs, lifetime care. The life expectancy of a male is around seventy-two years and a female’s life expectancy is a little under eighty years. What kind of care does a severely handicapped child need? There’s nursing care, doctors’ visits, psychiatric counseling for the parents. We’re talking a hundred thousand dollars a year, easy. Now multiply that by seventy or eighty years and multiply that by the number of plaintiffs. Potentially that’s millions in attorney fees. When the first few plaintiffs showed up, Flynn must have thought that his ship had come in. I bet he started spending money like crazy, figuring he’d make a fortune when the cases were over.”