The Lasko Tangent (25 page)

“I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Glendenning. I can be back with a subpoena tomorrow. And if the contents of that box are gone, you’ve been part of something you wouldn’t touch with gloves on. I’ll tell you what’s in that box. Drill it, and see if I’m right. If I am, then I want your word no one gets in the box.”

Glendenning frowned, forehead creased. “All right, Mr. Paget. What do you think is in there?”

“One and a half million dollars,” I told him, “in unmarked bills.”

He called the locksmith.

I waited in the conference room, hoping I was right. Thirty minutes, then forty-five. I stared at Catlow’s signature card, trying to think ahead. There weren’t many choices. I needed to move, before Lasko traced me. I needed the memo. And I needed help.

Glendenning opened the door, looking very sober. “It’s all there,” he said, “in a brown briefcase.”

I stuffed the signature card in my breast pocket, and told him to keep the money safe, for evidence. I left without saying good-bye.

Thirty-Four

I couldn’t have said how long it took me to get to the airport. I flagged a cab in the kind of daze that follows anesthesia. The cabbie rambled on about sports, politics, and the merits of full frontal nudity. I emitted a few absent grunts and tried to think.

I had the bank records and knew where the money was. But they meant nothing without Lasko’s scrawled memo, hidden in my desk. For ten days I hadn’t made sense of it. Now the case didn’t make sense without it. It was the indispensable link in the chain of proof, tying Carib, Lasko, and Lehman’s death in a neat bundle.

And it was my protection—the thing that could end Lasko before he got to me. Lasko would be working overtime, trying to figure how I had found the money. And sooner or later, he’d recall his memo. It wasn’t safe, not now, any more than I was. I had to get it out.

“Which airline, sir?” the cabbie was asking.

I woke up. “Oh…Eastern.”

“It’s right here.”

There was a pay phone in the terminal. I got Mary on the second ring.

“Mary, this is Chris.”

“Chris? My God, where have you been?” She sounded intense, almost breathless.

“Miami.”

“I’ve been worrying all day. Have you seen the papers?”

“Don’t need to. I was there. Can you pick me up at National? I’m on Eastern, flight 435.”

“Yes—sure,” she began distractedly. “Please tell me what happened.”

“Can’t now. Listen, don’t come to the gate. Just double-park out front.”

“OK, I’ll be there,” she said, and hung up.

I stood, still holding the phone, hoping that had been the right thing to do. Then I got my bags and ran to the gate, half-glancing over my shoulder. No one following.

I just made the plane.

I sat in tourist, wanting the case to be over, wanting out. The feeling lasted all the way to Washington.

We landed in the dark. Mary was at the gate, leaning on the metal railing. She smiled uncertainly and squeezed my arm. “Chris, are you all right?”

My voice felt as tight as piano wire. “What the hell are you doing here? I said meet me out front.”

She stiffened, hurt. “I had to see you.”

I took her arm. “Well, let’s get moving then. This isn’t safe for you.”

I pulled her along until she fell in step. We headed toward the main lobby as people rushed around us, bustling to planes. “What happened?” she demanded.

I kept my eyes ahead. “Remember Peter Martinson?”

“Yes, the man on St. Maarten.”

“Lasko kidnapped him to Boston, to a place called the Loring Sanitarium.”

She turned to me with grave black eyes. “Literally kidnapped?”

“Uh-huh. Last night I got Martinson out. Lasko sent two hoods after us. Tried to run us off the road. But we lucked out. I lost control, and they flipped trying to get out of our way.”

She stopped and looked up. Her eyes were big. “My God, Chris,” she said. Then she slowly reached up and brushed the hair from my forehead.

We started walking again, with Mary still clutching my arm. “How did you find Martinson?”

“I checked IRS for sanitariums on the dole from Lasko.”

Her tone cooled a bit. “Was that another of your little secrets?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“When are you going to be honest with me?” she said in a quiet, troubled voice.

“Any day now.”

She turned on me, annoyed. “That’s not an answer.”

I stopped, but didn’t reply. We were near the main terminal; the last gate area was to our right. Ahead was a large room with ticket counters to the left, two revolving baggage racks on the right, and automatic double doors straight ahead, leading outside. To the far side of the baggage area was the only other exit: a corridor linking this terminal to others, and enclosing the traffic circle outside in another half-circle. I looked around, but didn’t know any of the faces picking up tickets and suitcases or striding away to catch planes. Then I saw what I was looking for.

“What is it?” she was asking, in a quick, tense voice.

It was the mustached man from the sanitarium, Lasko’s man, standing by the double doors to the outside. His gaze swept the baggage area to my right, moving back toward me. I glanced to my side. The gate area was empty. I jerked Mary over past the railing, out of sight of the terminal.

Her annoyance had merged into fear. “Damn it, what did you see?”

“One of Lasko’s men is out there. Look, you asked why I didn’t trust you. I didn’t know who to trust: Feiner’s hopeless, you and Woods are political, and McGuire’s—well, what he is. Someone told Lasko about Lehman. He’s dead and they tried to kill me. I couldn’t afford blind faith.”

“Chris, what is this all about?”

“Lasko was laundering money to pay someone off. To kill that antitrust case before it ruined him.”

“Who was it for?”

It wasn’t the time for explaining. “We’ll talk later,” I said. “Right now we’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got the facts to nail Lasko for Lehman’s murder and Catlow for criminal fraud and looting. I’m giving it all to Woods. Will you help?”

My answer didn’t please her, but she nodded, mutely. “All right,” I said, “you can start by believing me. There’s a man out there who would kill me if he felt he had to. If he sees you with me you could be hurt. Right now you can walk past him and out those front doors. I want you to do that, get your car, and meet me in the traffic circle in front of the United terminal. How long will that take?”

She paused, distracted. “I’m parked away a little. Fifteen minutes.”

“All right.”

She hesitated. “Just where are we going?”

“My office.”

“For what?”

“There’s something there I need.”

It sounded evasive, and was. Her body tensed. “No way, Chris,” she said angrily. “You say this is dangerous. I should at least know why.”

I stood there, undecided.

“Do I have to name each time you’ve lied to me?” she asked.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “There’s a memo hidden in my desk. Lasko wrote it to Lehman. It’s the most important piece of evidence I have.”

“Why?”

“It’s got box numbers in two Miami banks with instructions to transfer the money from the first to the second. It ties Catlow to the money, because the second box is in his name. And it gives Lasko a motive to kill Lehman. I’ve got the only copy. Is that enough?”

She nodded quickly. “I’ll meet you out front.”

“Thanks.”

She scurried off toward the parking lot. I leaned over the gate railing to see her stride past the man at the door. She hardly rated a glance.

I leaned back out of sight and checked my watch, calculating. They must be covering the airport, hoping I’d turn up. That meant someone else would cover the next terminal too. It didn’t leave much margin for error. I waited, managing nothing more than nervous regret that McGuire had put me in this mess, and wondering why he had.

The minutes dragged. I leaned against the rail of the deserted gate area. Strange faces marched by in both directions. Some would give me a vague, curious glance. I watched them, ready to move quickly, or run, I didn’t know where.

A big grey-haired man was walking up the corridor toward the terminal, wearing an out-of-season trench coat, too warm for hot weather. He looked at me. My knees tensed. He kept on going. I watched him, turning. He walked into the gate area. A plump woman came forward and gave him a small hug. He kissed her. I looked at my watch. It was time. I started moving.

I turned right through the gate entrance and into the corridor toward the lobby. I went at normal speed looking ahead and to my left, away from the mustached man. The corridor opened up into the terminal. He saw me then. I kept walking, not noting him. He was waiting for me to come to him, hands in his pocket now. I went across the terminal toward him, halfway between the two baggage racks to my right. Then I spun right and started running.

Beyond the space between the racks was the corridor to the next terminal. I squirmed and bumped through the people who milled by the racks, not seeing faces. I got clear of them into the corridor and looked back, still running. The crowd was oozing, parting, making way for the mustached man. I turned ahead, running past shops, dodging bodies. I brushed one against a wall going past as the corridor opened into the second terminal.

This one had two front doors, to the left and right of a long ticket desk. The bald man stood in front of that, watching both doors. He saw me as I burst out of the corridor and veered left for the nearest door.

He was quick, but I was too close. I was three feet from the door when he was four yards from me. He would have had to shoot me. I rushed through the doors into darkness and turned right on the sidewalk.

Mary’s car was in front of United, dimly lit by overhead lamps. There were no cars blocking hers. I cut into the circle of slow traffic and drop-offs and weaved through them to her car. Horns blasted. I reached the car and jumped in as she stepped on it. I turned and looked back through the window. Lasko’s men were standing amidst the traffic and the wail of angry horns. We sped away.

Mary asked what had happened. I waited until I caught my breath, then told her. Her hands on the wheel were white. “They’ll probably check my place first,” I finished, “then maybe yours if they got a license number. After that I’m sure they’ll think of my office.”

We were on the Parkway then, moving toward the Rochambeau Bridge. The Washington Monument punctured the dark, and beyond that, the Jefferson glowed quietly.

“Can we go faster?” I asked.

She glanced over. “I can’t believe you hid that memo.” Her voice held splinters of anger, mixed with fear.

We were crossing the bridge. The Potomac was black, like a huge ink spill. “Be kind. Remember that you’re abusing someone who was nearly the centerpiece at a closed casket funeral.”

“It’s not funny.”

“What isn’t?”

She paused. “None of it, I guess. I’m just glad you’re still alive.”

I turned from the rear window. “Mary, when this is over we’ll go hike up Green Mountain. There’s no politics there and no commission.”

She tried to smile. We drove silently in the darkness, through the L’Enfant Promenade, past the Capitol, and up to the doors of the ECC. No one behind us.

It was nine o’clock. Only the lobbies were lit and a few random offices. We parked in front. “They’ll be looking for us,” I said. “You’d better come. It’s not safe out here.”

“All right.”

We got out and went to the door. I opened it for her. We walked into the yellow light. Officer Davis sat at the desk. We showed him our cards. He didn’t smile. He never did.

We moved in dim light to the elevators. I pushed the button. One opened. We stepped in and I pressed “Three.” The elevator sighed, rose slowly, then rumbled open. The third floor was pitch dark.

We stepped out carefully, Mary holding my arm. “Where are the switches, Chris?”

“I don’t know. Nice, isn’t it?”

I waved a hand in front of me, as if clearing cobwebs. That didn’t work. So I felt our way to the far wall. I groped along it toward my office, scraping my fingertips on cratered blocks.

We turned the corner to the corridor which ran past my office area. A small path of light shone through the area doorway and into the hall. We walked toward it.

My eyes tracked the light. It came from a crack beneath an office door. I froze. They were there, after all.

“Your office?” Mary whispered.

“Uh-huh.”

I pushed Mary behind me and edged silently toward the door. I knew who was there.

But then you’re never quite as smart as you think you are. I threw open the door.

It was Woods.

Thirty-Five

He stood behind my desk, holding the manila envelope. For an instant, his face froze in surprise. Then it settled into the closed-off pride of a model in a shirt ad. His broken nose lent a hint of violence. The one thing he didn’t look was sorry.

“What the hell are you doing?” I blurted stupidly.

He remained silent, giving the room a searching glance. Only the desk was between us. The overhead light cast a sickly yellow tint on the bare walls. The desk touched the wall to my right. But between the desk and left wall was a four-foot space. His eyes gauged it, then turned back toward me.

I felt a sudden wave of anger. “Give me the memo.”

He shook his head. My anger was turning into numb disbelief. I had almost outrun them. But all this time I had been a rat in Lasko’s maze, with Woods blocking the end. “It was you all along,” I said. “Everywhere I went Lasko was ahead of me. And you were the one who kept him there.”

He stared at me with contempt. “Nothing justifies the fuck-up you’ve made, hunting Lasko like a prep school Captain Ahab. You’re a fool, with no sense of proportion.”

“And you’re a low-rent John Dean, Woods, with the ethics of a war criminal.”

He answered in a smooth indifferent voice. “Lehman’s dead. I didn’t want that but there it is. There’s only you to say this memo ever existed. And there’s no one over me for you to say it to.”