Thursday's Child Page 20

  4

  Beau sat on the bed and stared at the television. The volume was down low again, because Robert was on the phone. He was trying to track down Danny Boyd.

  Finally he hung up and came over to the bed. “The son of a bitch has split,” he said. “Someone told him it was me on his ass and he took off.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “New fucking York.”

  Beau handed Robert the cigarette he’d been smoking. “What are we going to do?”

  Robert took a long drag and handed the cigarette back.

  “We’re going to the Big Apple.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “It’s big and dirty and noisy. But I like it.”

  He stretched out next to Beau. “There’s one more thing I have to tell you, Tonto, before you sign on for this trip.”

  “What?”

  “It looks like somebody—maybe Marcello in Vegas or maybe half a dozen different bastards—is trying to shut me down.”

  Beau just looked at him. “What’s that mean?”

  “Somebody wants me dead, kid.”

  There wasn’t anything Beau could say to that.

  20

  1

  Wally Dixon stretched his feet out on top of the desk and glared at him. “This is something new in your job description?” he said. “Taking on mob hitmen with nothing but your fucking cane?”

  “I sincerely hope not,” Gar said. “It was not my finest hour.”

  Wally snorted.

  “But don’t forget, I did find out the guy’s name. Which is more than you people have been able to do.”

  They were waiting for whatever dope the computers—local, state and/or federal—might kick back on Robert Turchek. So far, the information had been slim. Turchek led, it seemed, a very low-profile kind of life. Most people had never heard of him, and those who had were not inclined to talk, either because of whatever code they happened to live by (most of which codes included strong injunctions against talking to the cops) or because they were obviously scared shitless of Robert Turchek. Having encountered the man once, and heard that quiet, deadly voice, Gar could understand that.

  “Instead of just sitting around here with our thumbs up our asses waiting for somebody to tell us something that won’t help a damned bit anyway,” Gar said finally, “why don’t we make a run by Turchek’s place?”

  They tossed around the notion of getting a warrant to search the house, an idea that appealed to nobody, and then came up with a nice compromise. Gar would actually be the one to break and enter, in his search for the boy. Wally, a good cop just doing his duty, was almost obligated to investigate. It was maybe on the edge of propriety, but they had always operated that way.

  Just to keep things legal (on the surface anyway), they took separate cars to the address the mysterious Maureen had provided.

  The small stucco bungalow was something of a surprise; it didn’t look like the kind of place a hotshot paid killer would live in. It just looked like a nice quiet home. Wally walked around the tiny front yard, which could have used some landscaping, pretending not to notice as Gar jimmied the lock on the front door.

  If they had expected to find an arsenal or maybe even a couple of bodies stacked in the hallway, they were disappointed. “A very tidy fellow,” Wally commented as they surveyed the living room. Nothing was out of place—magazines were neatly stacked on the coffee table with an opened copy of Mad on top, videotapes were alphabetized, and even the blanket and pillow that seemed to indicate someone had been using the couch as a bed lately were folded and tucked in the corner.

  “Wonder if he does windows,” Gar said.

  “He may have to,” Wally said as they walked into the kitchen. “From the rumors on the street, his bosses are not too happy these days. No names, of course, but it’s a good bet Turchek is the one everybody’s whispering about.”

  Gar nodded. “I got that impression in Vegas, talking to Marcello. Those guys don’t like it when an employee strays from the straight and narrow.”

  “Turchek must have more balls than me,” Wally said. “I wouldn’t want those boys mad at me.”

  “Maureen says he’s full of charm. And very sexy.”

  “Oh, good. That should make him real popular when he’s doing life inside.”

  Gar stepped out the back door onto a small patio. He glanced around, then peeked inside the trash can. “Looks like Maureen was right about the haircut,” he said. “Hair clippings. And a bottle of hair dye, dark brown.”

  He went back inside. There were no dirty dishes sitting in the sink, no overflowing wastebaskets. “This is not very interesting,” he said. “I was sort of hoping to uncover all the secrets of this guy. So far, all we’ve uncovered is the fact that he makes both of us—and our women—look like pikers in the domestic department.”

  Wally didn’t disagree.

  The bedroom was no more illuminating. All the drawers held just what you would expect them to—clean underwear, socks, shirts, all folded, of course, and organized. The closet was the same; Turchek was a snappy dresser. Of course. Gar was beginning to think that he wouldn’t like this guy much even if he weren’t a killer.

  Only one corner of the bedroom didn’t fit the pattern. A chair sitting there was piled with clothes, all of which looked new, some worn only once or twice. Gar fingered one of the brightly colored T-shirts. “Well, at least he dresses his hostage well,” he said.

  Dixon was on his hands and knees going through the neatly aligned shoes on the closet floor. “Hostage?” he said in a muffled voice. “Is that what you think the Epstein kid is?”

  “Until it’s proven otherwise, yes.”

  Dixon stuck his head out briefly. “How many hostages get to go on shopping sprees at the Gap?” he said, indicating the pile of new clothes. “I have three kids, remember? There must be over three hundred dollars’ worth of clothes there.”

  Gar shrugged. “Doesn’t mean a thing. Remember Patty Hearst? And there have been other cases, hostages identifying with their captors, almost bonding with them. And some of those people weren’t lost, lonely kids like Beau Epstein.”

  Dixon made a rude noise that was probably supposed to be an opinion.

  Gar wondered if he’d been that closed-minded when he was a cop. Probably.

  “Aha” came Wally’s voice from deep inside the closet.

  “Aha what?”

  He crawled out, holding a metal box in both hands. It was locked, and so Gar was called into service again. It took him only a few moments to get it open. Inside were three loaded handguns just like the ones found at so many murder scenes.

  Wally locked the box again and put it right back where it had been. He didn’t want to blow any court case later by introducing illegally obtained evidence. Time enough to come back with a warrant later.

  There was one room with a closed door, and after they left Turchek’s bedroom, Gar opened that door. “Shit,” he said. “What happened in here?”

  Wally nudged a Louisville slugger with his foot. “Looks like somebody went to town with this.”

  It was a puzzle that they couldn’t solve at the moment.

  Gar carefully locked the door as they left the house. He hadn’t learned anything very helpful, at least in a concrete sense. There was, however, something in the very neatness of the place, the sense of strict order, that made Gar worry a little, especially when contrasted with the destruction of the one small bedroom. The mind, the personality, that could produce both those states was a mind that had to be reckoned with. Turchek, as if he hadn’t already realized it, was a powerful adversary. Which seemed a strangely personal way of putting it. As if all of this were just some private war between Robert Turchek and Gar Sinclair. With the prize, apparently, Beau Epstein.

  They stood on the porch and he had a cigarette. “Boyd is still the key,” Gar said. “We have to find him and that will lead us to Turchek.”

  “You don’t think he’ll give that up now?
”

  Gar thought about that soft voice again. “No. I don’t think he’ll give it up. Not as long as Boyd is still alive.”

  “And neither will you, right?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I figured. Gareth Sinclair, Knight in Shining Armor. Riding to the rescue again.”

  “Fuck you,” Gar said, starting down the front steps.

  “Watch yourself. And carry more than that damned cane, willya?”

  Gar patted the gun under his arm to reassure Wally and kept moving toward his car.

  The phone rang while they were having dinner. Mickey looked at him, her brows raised, but Gar shook his head. “I’ll get it,” he said.

  It was Wally.

  “Tell me you found Turchek,” Gar said hopefully. “You found the bastard, he’s sitting in jail, and the kid is safe at home with Grandpa.”

  “Would that I could,” Wally replied. “But that would mean I had done your job for you and I know you’d miss the challenge.”

  “Fuck the challenge,” Gar muttered. “So what is the bad news?”

  “Actually, I think this could be called good news. Or, anyway, interesting news.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We don’t know where the hell Turchek is, but we do know where Boyd is. Will that help?”

  “It should.”

  “We checked out the airlines and found out that Danny Boyd caught a flight for New York City. He has a sister there.”

  “Doesn’t that violate his parole?”

  “Oh, yes. But surprisingly, the powers that be in the department are not willing to send anybody off after him.”

  “Which is where I come in.”

  “Well, you did say that to find Turchek we needed to stay on Boyd.”

  “Okay,” Gar said. Wally gave him the sister’s name, but he didn’t have an address. “I’ll be in touch.”

  He hung up and went back to the table. Mickey was still eating. “I guess I have to go to New York,” Gar said glumly, picking up his fork and staring at the pasta on his plate.

  “When?”

  “Soon as I can get on a flight. I’ll call when we’re done.”

  He hated flying.

  Not that he was frightened of it, but it was just such a pain. Getting to the airport. Hanging around the airport when your flight was delayed. Getting into one of the damned little seats on the plane. And then finding out that you’re squeezed in between a hot-blooded divorcee on one side and a Moonie on the other.

  He wasn’t looking forward to it.

  He started to eat again.

  There was a red-eye flight leaving at midnight and he got a reservation over the phone. He threw some things into an overnight bag and then went with Mickey to walk the dog.

  “If I don’t pull this off,” he said, watching Spock run ahead of them, “maybe I should get out of the business.”

  “Are you serious?” Mickey said.

  “I think so. I mean, my track record lately isn’t so great.”

  “You’re talking about Tammi McClure, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Gar, that girl had problems you couldn’t be expected to deal with. You’re a detective, not a shrink.”

  “But there must have been something I could do. A young girl that desperate …” He shook his head. “There must have been something I could do, but I don’t have a goddamned idea what it was. I let her down.”

  “Are you talking about Tammi McClure or Jessica Sinclair?” Mickey asked quietly.

  Gar looked at her sharply. “You going to psychoanalyze me, are you?”

  “No, of course not. But I wish you could just stop being so down on yourself. Think about all the kids that you have saved.”

  “All the ones I save aren’t the ones I wake up thinking about in the middle of the night.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to be waking up for the rest of my life thinking about Beau Epstein.”

  Mickey didn’t say anything.

  After a moment, he whistled for the dog and they turned back toward the house. It was time to head for the airport.

  2

  Robert filled a plastic cup with lukewarm water—whether you turned on the hot or cold tap, all you got was lukewarm water—and washed four more capsules down his throat. He’d lost count of how many of the damned things he’d taken over the last couple of days. Too many, for sure, he knew that. When this latest batch seemed to have settled in his stomach, he leaned forward to peer at his bruise in the cracked, streaked mirror. His eyes looked a little funny, even to him, spacey or something. Maybe he really did have a concussion. The way things had gone lately, that wouldn’t come as any big surprise.

  Getting out of L.A. had been a nightmare.

  They’d left the damaged Saab right where it was behind the motel and walked several blocks to a cheapo rental place. Robert fell back on contingency plans made a long time ago but which, until now, had never been necessary. Fake ID—charge card and driver’s license in the name of William Russell—made it possible for him to get a car. The next stop was one of the banks where he kept a safe-deposit box, again under the name of Russell, to retrieve enough cash to see them through the immediate future. And that was a cheerful phrase, wasn’t it? It made him wonder how much of a future they had beyond an immediate one.

  LAX was a little tricky.

  Because he figured anybody looking for them would be looking for a man and a boy together, they separated temporarily. With cash in hand, they hit different ticket agents and paid for one-way fares to New York. Beau went first, nervously, but the harried woman behind the counter didn’t pay any more attention to him than was absolutely necessary. When Beau ducked back to where he was waiting, Robert saw what seat “John Young” was in and got the adjoining seat for William Russell.

  Then it was just a matter of waiting the two hours until flight time. Those had to be two of the longest hours in Robert’s life.

  Once they were finally on the plane, he took several pain pills and passed out, vaguely hearing Beau tell the flight attendant that the bruise on his head was from a recent automobile accident.

  He didn’t really wake up until they were landing at La Guardia. Usually in New York, he stayed at the Parker-Meridian, but it seemed like a very good idea to avoid all the usual places, so here they were in this pisshole on Eighth Avenue.

  He sighed and walked back into the other room. Beau was standing at the window, drinking a can of 7-UP as he watched the midday traffic below. He turned around as Robert dropped onto the rock-hard bed. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Like hell. Now I think I’ve got a fever.”

  Beau walked over and rested the back of his hand against Robert’s cheek. “Yeah. You do feel sort of hot.”

  “I’d have to die to feel better, I think.” But, as rotten as he was feeling, there was still work to be done. He reached for the phone and hauled it onto the bed with him. It took several moments of careful thought before he could recall the number he needed. After six rings, a woman answered. She sounded angry over something. Probably life. “Corley there?” he asked.

  “Yeah, hold on.” She dropped the receiver with a crash that made his ears ring even more than they already were.

  Robert rested back against the wall and held out his hand. Beau gave him the can of soda. He took a long gulp and then handed it back.

  “Yeah?” The man didn’t sound any more cheerful than the woman had.

  “This Corley?”

  “Who the fuck wants to know?”

  “This is Robert. From L.A.”

  There was a pause. “I remember you,” Corley said then. “Why are you calling me?”

  “I just hit town and I need to purchase some equipment.”

  “What kind of equipment?”

  Robert watched Beau pace the perimeter of the small square room. “Something good for distance work.” He was worried that by this time there was no way he’d be able to get as close to B
oyd as he usually did for a job. It didn’t really matter, though, because he was sure that Boyd already knew why he was going to die. “Nothing too fancy,” he said to Corley. “I’m not a goddamned expert in those things.”

  Corley gave a nasty little laugh. “Right. You like to get right up close to a guy and then blow his fucking brains out, don’t you?”

  Robert gave that crack exactly the response it deserved.

  Corley turned businesslike again. “When do you need the merchandise?”

  “Today sometime. As soon as possible. I need to be able to move fast when the time comes.”

  Corley whistled softly. “You don’t want much, do you?”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “You sure as hell will.” Corley was quiet for a moment. “Soonest I can get to you is ten tonight.”

  Robert figured that, since he didn’t have any idea in hell where Boyd was yet, ten that night would be fine. “Okay.” He gestured to Beau for something to write with.

  Beau quickly found a ballpoint pen and some paper in the desk drawer and brought them over to the bed.

  Corley gave Robert an address, which he scribbled on the hotel stationery. “Ten tonight, then? Oh, and bring me something small and cheap, too,” he added, wishing for the Magnum left back in L.A.

  Corley grunted and hung up.

  Beau moved the phone back to the nightstand for him. “How are you going to find Boyd, anyway?”

  “I’ll find him, don’t worry. A snake like that only has a few rocks to hide under, even in a city this big.”

  Beau nodded.

  Robert slid down into the pillow and closed his eyes. “You wanna go see the fucking Statue of Liberty or something?” he mumbled. “We could do that maybe, then look for Boyd.”

  “No,” Beau said. “You better just get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll sleep. We can play fucking tourist after Boyd is taken care of.”

  “Whatever,” Beau said.

  A slow blackness was creeping over Robert and he let it come. Some distant part of his mind was vaguely aware of Beau sitting carefully on the other side of the bed and that was the last thing Robert knew.

  Beau let Robert sleep for hours. He even dozed a little himself before getting up from the bed and watching the traffic some more. He watched some television, keeping the volume low again. Finally, when his stomach began to growl, he ran down to the deli six floors below for some food.