Текст книги "Memory Man"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter

3

THE BAR WAS much like every other bar Decker had ever been in.

Dark, cool, musty, smoky, where light fell funny and everyone looked like someone you knew or wanted to know. Or, more likely, wanted to forget. Where everyone was your friend until he was your enemy and cracked a pool stick over your skull. Where things were quiet until they weren’t. Where you could drink away anything that life threw at you. Where a thousand Billy Joel wannabes would serenade you into the wee hours.

Only I could drink a thousand drinks and never forget a damn thing. I would just remember every detail of the thousand drinks down to the shapes of the ice cubes.

Decker took a seat at the bar where he could see himself in the reflection of the big mirror behind the stacked rows of Beam and Beef, Glen and Sapphire.

He ordered a dollar draft, clutched the mug between his hammy hands, and studied the mirror. Back corner and to the right. They had sat down there, the couple he’d followed into the place.

The gent was late fortyish, the girl half that. The man was dressed in the best he had. A pinstripe wool three-piece, yellow tie dotted with blue flecks in the shape of what looked to be sperms on their way to fertilize an egg, and a dandy pocket handkerchief to match. Hair swept back revealed a lined, mature brow—attractive on a man, less so on a woman, but then life had always been unfair that way. Impressive diamond rings on the manicured fingers. Probably stolen. Or fakes. Like he was. His toenails were probably clipped too. His shoes were polished, but he’d missed the backs. They were scuffed, which came much closer to the man’s actual nature. He was scuffed too. And he only wanted to impress on the way in, not on the way out. After the way out, you’d never see the prick again.

She was doe-eyed and dough-brained. Pretty in a vacuous, seen-it-a-thousand-times sort of way. Like watching a 3-D movie without the requisite glasses; something was just off. The lady was so blindly faithful and oblivious that part of you just wanted to walk away and leave her to her fate.

But Decker was being paid not to do that. In fact, he was being paid to do the opposite.

She was dressed in a skirt and jacket and blouse that probably cost more than Decker’s car. Or the car he’d once had. The bank had gotten that too, as banks often did.

She came from old money. She was so used to the privileged life that was attached to such status that it made her incapable of understanding why someone would work so hard to snatch from her things she simply took for granted. That made her a potential victim every minute of every day of her life.

Such was the current moment: the shark and the dummy. Decker saw him as a six, a dirty number in his mind. She was a four, innocuous and uninteresting.

They touched hands and then lips. They shared drinks—he a whiskey sour, she a pink martini.

Figured.

Decker nursed his beer and bided his time. He looked at them without seeming to. In addition to the number tag, to him she was outlined in orange, the guy in purple, the same color he associated with zero, an unwelcome digit. So the guy really represented two numbers to him—six and zero. It seemed complicated, he knew, but he had no difficulty keeping it straight because it was just there in his head as clear as an image in a mirror.

And it wasn’t that he saw them exactly in those colors. It was the perception of those colors. That was the best and only way he could explain the sensation. It wasn’t like they taught a class on this. And he had come to it relatively late in the game. He was just doing the best he could. After all, he thought he’d left the world of Crayola back in kindergarten.

They continued with their lovey-dovey, hand-holding, foot-rubbing, heavy-petting afternoon fun and games. She obviously wanted more. He was unwilling to give it, because you teased a mark. Rushing could only mean bad things. And this guy was good. Not the best Decker had seen, but serviceable. He probably made a decent living.

For a purple zero.

Decker knew the guy was waiting to make an ask. A loan for a business prospect that couldn’t miss. Some tragedy in his extended family that needed financial remedy. He wouldn’t want to do it. Hated himself for it. But this was his last resort. She was his last chance. And he didn’t expect her to understand. Or say yes. The debate framed that way, what other answer could she give? Except, “Yes, my darling. Take double. Triple even. Daddy will never miss it. It’s only money, after all. His money.”

An hour and two more pink martinis later, she left him there. Her parting kiss was tender and moving, and he reacted in just the right way, until she turned away and his expression changed. From one of reciprocal tenderness and love to one of triumph and some might even say cruelty. At least that’s what Decker would say.

Decker did not like interacting with people. He preferred his own company. He hated idle conversation because he no longer understood its point. But this was part of what he did. This was how he paid the bills. So he told himself to get over it. At least for now.

Because it was time to punch the clock.

He carried his beer over to the table in time to put a massive hand on the man’s shoulder and push him back into the seat he was just about to vacate.

Decker sat across from him, eyed the man’s untouched whiskey sour—predators didn’t drink on the job—and then raised his own beer in praise.

“Nice work. I like to see a real pro on the job.”

The man said nothing at first. He eyed Decker, sizing up his unkempt appearance and looking unfavorably impressed.

“Do I know you?” he said at last, his tone snarky. “Because I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Decker sighed. He had expected something a bit original. It was apparently not to be. “No, and you don’t have to know me. All you have to do is look at these.”

He pulled the manila envelope from his coat pocket and passed it across.

The man hesitated but then picked it up.

Decker took a drink of his beer and said, “Open it.”

“Why should I?”

“Fine, then don’t open it. No sweat off here.”

He went to take the envelope, but the man jerked it out of reach. He undid the binding and slid out the half dozen photos.

“First rule of a con, Slick,” said Decker. “Don’t play on the sidelines while you’re on a job. And when I said you were a pro I was being charitable.”

His hand reached out and he tapped the photo on top. “She doesn’t have enough clothes on and neither do you. And by the way, that particular act is illegal in pretty much all states south of the Mason-Dixon.”

The man glanced up, his look one of caution. “How did you get these?”

Again, Decker felt disappointed by the query. “So now it’s just a matter of negotiation. I’m authorized to give you fifty thousand bucks. In return, you write this one off and move on to someone else. In another state.”

The man smiled, slid the photos back, and said, “If you thought these were a real problem for me, why not just show them to her? Why come here and offer me a way out with cash?”

Decker sighed once more and for the third time felt disappointed. This guy was just not a challenge. He collected the photos and put them back neatly in the envelope.

“You read my mind, Slick. Exactly what I told her old man. Thanks for validating my opinion. The girl’s very religious, by the way. What you’re doing to the lady in that third picture is a deal killer, in addition to the fact that she’s your wife. Have a good one.”

He rose to leave, but the man clutched at his arm. “I can hurt you,” he said.

Decker took the man’s fingers and bent them back until he gasped, and then and only then did Decker let go.

He said, “I’m fat, but I’m two of you and a whole lot meaner. I don’t have to have a pretty face to do what I do. But you do. So if I take you out back and smash it in, what does that do for your future cash flow? You see my point?”

The man held his injured hand and paled. “I’ll take the money.”

“Great. I have the check for twenty-five grand right here.”

“You said it was fifty thousand!”

“That was only if you pulled the trigger when I asked. You didn’t. The consequences are your return goes down by half.”

“You son of a bitch.”

Decker sat back down and slipped a piece of paper from his pocket. “Plane ticket. One-way. For as far away from here as you can get without leaving the lower forty-eight. Leaves in three hours. A condition of the check clearing is you being on it. They’ll have people there to confirm, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“Where’s the check?” demanded the man.

Decker pulled out another piece of paper. “You need to sign this first.”

He handed the paper across. The man ran his gaze down it. “But this—”

“This ensures the lady will never think of you again, except in a very bad way. Which means even if you try to slink back here it’ll be a no-go.”

The man’s brain ran through what was happening, what this all really meant. “So you’re blackmailing me with the photos and the fact that I’m married to get me to sign this? And if I don’t sign you’ll show her the photos and tell her I’m married and trust that will be enough to get me off her?”

“What a genius you are.”

The man sneered. “I have a dozen more just like her. And far better-looking. She wanted me to sleep with her. I kept putting it off. You saw the photos. I have filet mignon at home. Why would I settle for hamburger, even if it does come with a trust fund? She’s a dumb shit. And she’s only fair-looking on a good day, even with all of Daddy’s money.”

“Mr. Marks saw you coming from a mile away, even if his little girl didn’t. But then again, Jenny’s been taken in before by scum like you. She deserves better.”

Decker didn’t know Jenny Marks and could not have cared less about her romantic entanglements. He had made these comments because he needed Slick to keep going. Keep talking. Get it all off his chest.

“She deserves better? Shit, I don’t know why I even bothered. I could get better ass than Jenny Marks without even trying. And I wouldn’t have to listen to her baby talk.”

“Dumb shit? Baby talk? Really? Lady has a college degree.” Decker already had more than he needed, but he was starting to enjoy this.

“Actually, she’s not a dumb shit. She’s a freaking moron.”

Okay, fun is over.

Decker took the unsigned piece of paper and slid it into the envelope with the photos. He put them all away in his coat pocket.

“What the hell are you doing?” the man said incredulously.

In answer Decker pulled out a miniature digital recorder and hit play.

“I’m sure she’ll enjoy your description of her,” said Decker. “What kind of hamburger by the way? All beef? Organic? Or just freaking moronic?”

The man sat there looking stunned.

Decker put the recorder away and pushed the one-way ticket toward the guy. “We’ll let you keep this. Be sure your butt is on the plane. The next guy they send out will be even bigger than me, and it won’t just be your fingers he cracks. It’ll be you.”

The man said pitifully, “Are you telling me I get none of the money?”

Decker stood. “Like I said, what a genius you are.”

Chapter

4

DECKER SAT ON his bed in his one room about the size of a prison cell. For dealing with clients he used a table in the dining room of the Residence Inn, where his monthly payment included a daily buffet breakfast. They were definitely losing money on him with that arrangement. He would just pick up entire plates of food from the buffet and carry them to his table. He could have used a backhoe instead of a fork.

He had gotten his check from Mr. Marks’s emissary. A buddy on the police force had recommended Decker to the rich guy to handle this delicate matter concerning his vapid daughter who was always falling in love with the wrong guy. He’d never met with the old man, only his reps. That was okay; he doubted Marks would have wanted him soiling his fancy furniture. They had met at the breakfast bar—two young jerks in thousand-dollar suits who declined to even sample the coffee. They were probably more into double espressos spit out from those shiny little machines manned by a barista. He could tell from their expressions that they knew exactly how good they had it and how not good Decker had it. He’d worn his best shirt to the meeting, meaning the other one.

Daddy Marks had authorized up to a hundred grand to get rid of the albatross around his little girl’s neck. After sizing up the con, Decker had told the reps he could get it done for a lot less. And he had. For the price of a one-way ticket, in fact. Chump change. You’d think Daddy Warbucks would have bonused him at least a percentage of the six-figure savings. But he stuck to the letter of their agreement and Decker just got his flat hourly rate, though he’d padded that considerably and made a nice payday for himself. Yet a percentage would have been good. Probably how the rich stayed rich. But it had been worth it, to see a con conned. And he figured Jenny Marks would be in the same boat in a few more months and he’d get called up again. Maybe he should ask Daddy Warbucks for a retainer.

He left his room and made his way to the dining area right off the inn’s lobby. It was early and he was the only one there other than eighty-year-old June, who was enjoying her golden years by shoveling greasy home fries onto a platter at the buffet stand.

After loading up his plate he sat down to eat at his usual table.

His first forkful was halfway to his mouth when he saw her come in.

She would be forty-two now, same age as he was. She looked older. Her job just did that to a person. It had done so to him.

He lowered his gaze and his fork and salted everything on his plate four times over, including the pancakes. He was hoping that a man of his considerable size could shrink to invisibility behind a wall of protein and carbs.

“Hello, Amos.”

Well, apparently not.

He shoved a forkful of congealed eggs, grits, bacon, home fries, and ketchup down his throat. He chewed with his mouth open, hoping that the sight would prompt her to hit a U-turn and go back to where she came from.

No such luck.

She sat down across from him. The table was small and she was small as well. But he was not. He was huge. He took up most of the table just by being there.

“How’re you doing?” she asked.

He stuffed more food into his mouth and smacked his lips together. He didn’t look up. What would have been the point? There was nothing that she could possibly say that he would want to hear.

She said, “I can wait this out, if that’s how you want to play it. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

He finally looked at her. She was stick-thin because of the cigarettes and the gum, which she always substituted for food and drink. He was probably having more food at this one meal than she put away in a month.

Her hair was a pasty blonde, her skin wrinkled and splotchy. Her nose was crooked—some said from an encounter with a mean drunk when she was a beat cop. Her small, pointy chin seemed overwhelmed by her disproportionately large mouth where uneven and nicotine-stained teeth lurked like bats hanging in a cave.

She was not pretty. Her looks were not what made her memorable. What made her remarkable was that she had been the first female detective in the Burlington Police Department. As far as he knew she was still the only one. And she had been his partner. They had made more arrests leading to more convictions than anyone in the history of the department. Some on the force thought that was just great. Others thought they were full of themselves. Starsky and Hutch, one rival had called them. Decker never knew which one he was supposed to be, the blond or the brunet.

“Hello, Mary Suzanne Lancaster,” he said, because he somehow couldn’t not say it.

She smiled, reached over, and poked his shoulder. He winced slightly and drew back a bit, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I didn’t know you even knew my middle name.”

He looked down at his food, his limited chitchat quota exhausted.

She ran her gaze over him, and when she was done Lancaster seemed to silently acknowledge that all reports of Decker having hit rock bottom were spot on.

“I won’t ask how you’ve been, Amos. I can see not too good.”

“I live here instead of in a box,” he said bluntly.

Startled, she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“You need something?” he asked. “I have a schedule.”

She nodded. “I’m sure. Well, I came by to talk to you.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“You mean how did I know you were here?”

His look told her that was obviously his question.

“Friend of a friend.”

“Didn’t think you had that many friends,” said Decker. It wasn’t a funny line, really, and he certainly didn’t smile. But she forced a chuckle as a potential icebreaker, but then caught herself, realizing, probably, that it was stupid to do so.

“Well, I’m also a detective. I can find out things. And Burlington isn’t that big. It’s not New York. Or L.A.”

He smacked his lips, shoveled in some more food, and his mind started to wander back to colored numbers and things that could tell time in his head.

She seemed to sense his withdrawal. “I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you. You lost a lot, Amos. You didn’t deserve this, not that anyone does.”

He glanced at her with not a single emotion evident in the look. Sympathy was not going to hold his attention. He had never sought sympathy, mainly because his mind didn’t really get that particular sensation. At least not anymore. He could be caring. He had been caring and loving with his family. But sympathy and its even more irritating cousin, empathy, were no longer in his wheelhouse.

Perhaps sensing that she was losing him again, she quickly said, “I also came to tell you something.”

He ran his gaze up and down her. He couldn’t help himself, so he said, “You’ve lost weight. About five pounds you couldn’t afford to lose. And you might have a vitamin D deficiency.”

“How do you figure?”

“You were walking stiffly when you came in. Bone ache is a classic symptom.” He pointed to her forehead. “And it’s cold outside but your head is sweating. Another classic. And you’ve crossed and uncrossed your legs five times in the brief time you’ve been sitting there. Bladder problems. Another symptom.”

She frowned at this very personal appraisal. “What, did you start medical school or something?” she said crossly.

“I read an article four years ago while I was waiting at the dentist’s office.”

She touched her forehead. “I guess I don’t get out in the sun much.”

“And you smoke like a rocket, which doesn’t help anything. Try a supplement. Vit D deficiencies lead to bad stuff. And quit the cigarettes. Try a patch.” He glanced down and saw what he had seen when she first sat down. He said, “You also have a tremor in your left hand.”

She held it with her right, unconsciously rubbing at the spot. “I think it’s just a nerve thing.”

“But you shoot left-handed. So you might want to check it out.”

She glanced down at the slight bulge on the right side of her jacket at the waistband where her pistol rode in a belt holster.

She smiled. “You have any more Sherlock Holmes stuff to throw at me? Want to check out my knees? Look at my fingertips? Tell me what I had for breakfast?”

He took a prolonged sip of coffee. “Just have it checked out. Could be something else. More than a tremor. Bad stuff starts in the hands and the eyes. It’s an early warning, like a canary in a coal mine. And departmental firearms recert comes up next month. Doubt you’ll pass with your grip hand going wacky on you.”

Her smile faded. “I hadn’t thought about that. I will, thanks, Amos.”

He looked down at his food and drew a deep breath. He was done, just waiting for her to leave. He closed his eyes. He might just go to sleep right here.

She idly played with the button of her jacket, shooting glances at him. Preparing for what she had really come here to do. To say.

“We made an arrest, Amos. In your case.”

Amos Decker opened his eyes. And kept them open.

Chapter

5

DECKER PLACED HIS hands on the table.

Lancaster noted the hands turning to fists and the thumb rubbing against the forefinger so hard it was leaving a mark.

“His name?” asked Decker, staring at a mound of uneaten scrambled eggs.

“Sebastian Leopold. Unusual one. But that’s what he said.”

Decker once more closed his eyes and turned on what he liked to call his DVR. This was one of the positives of being what he was. The frames flew past his eyes so fast it was hard to see, but he could still see everything in there. He came out the other end of this mental exercise with not a single hit.

He opened his eyes and shook his head. “Never heard of him. You?”

“No. And again, that’s just what he told us. It might not be his real name.”

“No ID, then?”

“No, nothing. Empty pockets. I believe he’s homeless.”

“Run his prints?”

“As we speak. No hits yet.”

“How’d you get onto him?”

“That was the easy part. He walked into the precinct at two o’clock this morning and turned himself in. Easiest collar we’ve ever made. I’ve just come from interviewing him.”

Decker shot her a penetrating look. “After nearly sixteen months the guy walks in and cops to a triple homicide?”

“I know. Certainly doesn’t happen every day.”

“Motive?”

She looked uncomfortable. “I just came here to give you a courtesy heads-up, Amos. It’s an ongoing police investigation. You know the drill.”

He leaned forward, nearly clearing the width of the table. In a level voice as though he were staring at her across the distance of their slung-together desks back at the police station he said, “Motive?”

She sighed, pulled a stick of gum from her pocket, bent it in half, and popped it into her mouth. Three quick chews and she said, “Leopold said you dissed him once. Pissed him off.”

“Where and when?”

“At the 7-Eleven. About a month before, well, before he did what he did. Man apparently holds a grudge. Between you and me, I don’t think the guy is all there.”

“Which 7-Eleven?”

“What?”

“Which 7-Eleven?”

“Um, the one near your house, I believe.”

“On DeSalle at Fourteenth, then?”

“He said he followed you home. That’s how he knew where you lived.”

“So he’s homeless but has a car? Because I never walked to that 7-Eleven in my life.”

“He’s homeless now. I don’t know what his status was back then. He just walked into the precinct, Amos. There’s a lot we still don’t know.”

“Mug shot.” It wasn’t a question. If he had been arrested they had to take his picture and his prints.

She held up her phone and showed it to him. On the small screen was the face of a man. It was sunburned and grimy. His hair was wild and he was crazy-bearded. And, well, in that way, Leopold looked like Decker.

He closed his eyes and his internal DVR turned back on, but at the other end there were, again, no hits.

“I’ve never seen him.”

“Well, he might look different now.”

He shook his head and said, “How old?”

“Hard to say and he didn’t. Maybe early forties, maybe.”

“How big is he?”

“Six feet and about one-seventy.”

“Lean or flabby?”

“Lean. Pretty wiry, from what I could tell.”

“My brother-in-law was my size, construction worker, and he could bench-press a truck. How’d Leopold manage it in a hand-to-hand confrontation?”

“That’s part of the investigation, Amos. I can’t say.”

He looked directly at her again but this time let his silence speak for him.

She sighed, chewed her gum ferociously, and said, “He told us your brother-in-law was drunk at the kitchen table. Never saw it coming. He said he thought he was you, in fact. At least from behind.”

He thought he was killing me when he was slitting my brother-in-law’s throat?

“I don’t look anything like my brother-in-law.”

“From the back, Amos. And I’m telling you, this Leopold is a whack job. His elevator doesn’t leave the basement.”

Decker closed his eyes.

So then this whack job with the broken elevator for a brain next went upstairs and shot my wife and strangled my daughter?

He opened his eyes when Lancaster rose from her seat.

“I have more questions,” he said.

“Well, I have no more answers. I could lose my badge for coming here and telling you what I just did. You know that, Amos.”

He rose too, towering over her, a great big blob of a man who could cause little children to run screaming away in fear just by…being.

“I need to get in to see this guy.”

“Impossible.” Lancaster was already backing away. Then she noticed the bulge at his waistband.

“Are you carrying?” she said incredulously.

He didn’t glance to where she was staring.

“I turned in my weapon when I left the force.”

“Not what I asked. Anybody can buy a gun. One more time. Are you carrying?”

“If I were, there’s no law against it here.”

“Open carry,” she corrected. “But there is a law against carrying one concealed unless you’re a police officer.”

“It’s not concealed. You can see it, can’t you? From where you’re standing?”

“That’s not the same thing, Amos, and you know it.”

He held out his hands one next to the other. “Then cuff me. Take me in and put me in the same holding cell as Sebastian Leopold. You can take my gun. I won’t need it.”

She backed away some more. “Just don’t push this. Let us do our job. We’ve got the guy. Let it run fair and square. We have the death penalty here. He could get the needle for what he did.”

“Yeah, ten years from now, maybe. And so for a decade he gets a home with a bed and three squares. And if he is crazy and his lawyer papers it just the right way, he goes away for life to a nice comfy psych ward to read books, work puzzles, go to counseling, and get free meds that make him feel no pain. From where he’s looking, not bad. I’d take that deal right now, in fact.”

“He confessed to three murders, Amos.”

“Let me see him.”

She had already turned away and was fast-walking back to probably where she had parked her car.

She turned back around once and snarled, “By the way, you’re welcome, you prick!”

He watched until she was gone from the lobby.

He sat back down at his table. He considered it his because everyone needed someplace to call his own. And this spot was it for him.

He had woken up this morning with not a single purpose in life, other than to live until the next morning.

Now that had all changed.