The Driver - John Milton #4 Page 20

  His shrug didn’t quite mask a flicker of disquiet. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “But you own a house in Pine Shore.”

  “No, I don’t. The company owns it. We’re expanding. Hiring a lot of new talent. Time to time, we have new executives stay there while they’re looking for places of their own. It’s not mine.”

  “There was a party there.”

  “Okay. So there was a party there. Your point?”

  “Madison is a prostitute. She was hired to be there.”

  “You’re fucking crazy. We’re gearing up for an IPO. Do you know how stupid it’d be to invite a hooker onto company property?”

  “You weren’t there?”

  “I was in Boston.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “Come on, man. Enough with this shit!”

  “No, it’s strange, Mr. Efron, because you hired her.”

  “What?”

  Milton saw him swallow.

  “I didn’t!”

  “You’ve never used Fallen Angelz?”

  “No.”

  “Yes you have. You paid, in advance, with a credit card registered to your company.”

  He was starting to panic. “Someone used a StrongBox credit card?” he grasped. “So? Maybe they did. Lots of people have a company card.”

  “Including you?”

  “Of course. I’m the CEO. But it wasn’t me.”

  “I thought you might say that, Mr. Efron, so I did a little extra checking. The things you find out when you speak to the right people, know what I mean? Here’s what I know: I know it’s not the first time you’ve used that agency. I know you’re a valued customer. One of the regulars. I know the girls speak highly of you. A good payer, they said. A nice guy.”

  He swallowed again, harder.

  It was a bluff. Milton looked at Efron, setting aside the bland mask and letting him see him as he really was: a seasoned, iron-willed operative. “Now,” he said. “Bearing that all in mind: you want to reconsider?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay, yes. I hired her. Alright?”

  “Better. Keep going. And you were there.”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw her.”

  “Only briefly. I was hosting.”

  “What happened to make her so upset?”

  “I didn’t know she was––not until afterwards.”

  “You know she hasn’t been seen since the party?”

  “Yes––but only because the police said.”

  “Have they spoken to you?”

  “Not to me, but to a couple of guys who work for me. We said it was their party and that’s how it needs to stay. The IPO is everything, man. I got three hundred people working here. Their jobs depend on getting it right. I get involved in a scandal now, we’ll have to pull it.”

  “I don’t care about that, Mr. Efron. I just want to find out what happened to Madison.”

  “And I told you: I don’t know.”

  “Someone who was there does know.”

  “Maybe it was nothing to do with the party at all.”

  “Give me a list of the people who were there.”

  “You’re kidding?” He shook his head. “No way.”

  “Last chance. Don’t make me ask you again.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Milton got up and walked straight at Efron. The man scrabbled backwards, into the chair, and held up his hands to ward him away. Milton swatted them aside, hauled him out of the chair and dragged him across the room to the terrace. He struggled, guessing what Milton had in mind, but his right arm was jacked up behind his back with the fingers splayed, almost pointing all the way up. The more he tried to free himself, the harder Milton pushed his palm, flattening it, each added ounce of pressure closer to breaking Efron’s wrist and fingers.

  “Last chance.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Your choice.”

  Milton shoved him up against the wooden balustrades, the rail up at waist height, then forced him over it until his feet were raised off the floor. He fixed his right hand in the waistband of his trousers, locking his bicep to bear the weight, and used his left to press him down. Efron’s head went almost vertical, looking straight into the ten-story drop.

  Milton kept his voice calm. “Who was there?”

  “Jesus!”

  “Who was there, Jarad?”

  “Shit, man, please! I’ll tell you, I’ll fucking tell you!”

  MILTON TOOK THE ELEVATOR back down to the ground floor. He had a sheet of A4 paper that Efron had printed for him; he halved it, then quartered it, and slipped it into his inside pocket. He waited patiently as the car descended, the floors ticking off with the same pleasant chime as before. He reached the ground floor and the doors parted. He wasn’t particularly surprised to see the two security guards waiting for him.

  “It’s alright, boys,” he said. “No need for any trouble. Your boss is fine and I’m leaving.”

  They each had their hands resting on the butts of their identical Colt .45s.

  “Don’t move,” the nearest one ordered. He was a big boy––bigger than Milton––and stood with the kind of lazy confidence that a guy gets from being young, a little stupid, six-three and two-ten. The other one had a similar stance: quarterback type, jock, used to getting whatever he wanted. That age, Milton thought, they’d probably tried out for the police but been shitcanned because they weren’t bright enough. They didn’t fancy shipping out to the desert in the Army and so private security was their best chance to wear a uniform––they probably thought they looked cute doing it––and wield a little authority.

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Turn around.”

  Milton shrugged, made it look like he was resigned to doing as they asked, but as he turned he flung out his right hand in a streaked blur of motion, his fingers held straight with his thumb supporting them beneath. The jab caught the first guard above the larynx, hard and sharp enough to dent his windpipe; he fell backwards, his mouth open in a wide O of surprise, his hands flapping impotently, gasping for breath that wasn’t getting into his lungs as easily as it had done before. The second man went for his holstered .45. Milton hit him high on the cheekbone with his right fist, rocking him back, fired in a left jab, then shoved the guy in the chest to bounce him off the wall, and as he came back toward him he delivered a head butt straight to his nose. He caught the man’s wrist in his hand, yanked his arm around and pivoted so that all of his weight propelled him back into the elevator. He bounced face-first off the wall of the elevator car and landed on his knees. Milton caught the second man by the belt and collar and boosted him into the elevator after him, reaching around the corner and slapping the button for the tenth floor.

  “Tell your boss if he does anything stupid like that again I’ll be back.”

  He stepped back as the doors closed and the car began to ascend.

  Then he turned. The two receptionists and the handful of staff in the lobby were all gawping helplessly at him. He pulled at his jacket to straighten it out, squared his shoulders again, wished them all a good morning and then walked calmly and purposefully into the parking and lot and to his car.

  33

  ARLEN CRAWFORD SAT AT THE DESK in the hotel room with policy papers scattered around him. There was a stack on the desk, three distinct piles on the carpet by his feet, and a pile––ready to be read, digested and sorted––spread out across the bed. The speech at the Moscone Centre that afternoon was starting to look a whole lot like a coronation and he wanted to make sure that everything about it was perfect. He had CNN on the flatscreen TV that had been fixed to the wall inside a frame to make it look like a painting––it didn’t work––and he was drinking from a glass of orange juice, staining a paper on fiscal prudence with wet, concentric circles.

  He looked up at the TV. The newscaster was introducing a panel discussion on the Sa
n Francisco killings. A third girl had been found and they were describing the perpetrator as a serial killer. The producers had a stable of pundits for the big crime stories—medical examiners, criminologists, forensic scientists, former prosecutors—and the serial-killer category had its own roster of subspecialists. Three had been deputed to discuss the case. They opined upon what could be discerned from bones that had been left outside and exposed to weather. They considered what the location of the bodies might say about the killer’s signature. They made comparisons with the Green River Killer, explaining how Gary Ridgway had acquired his nickname after burying his victims near the river of the same name in Washington. They discussed methodology, and how Denis Rader had been dubbed B.T.K. after his modus operandi of binding, torturing and killing had been made public. Then they focused on how the most pertinent recent historical analogue, the Zodiac Killer, had never been caught. One enterprising expert even swung for the fences by suggesting that this new killer might even be Zodiac. That hypothesis was quickly rubbished––if he was still alive, Zodiac would have been at least seventy by now––but the discussion was feverish and excited and that, Crawford knew, could only be good for ratings. The discussion moved onto what the newcomer should be called.

  The consensus seemed to settle on The Headlands Lookout Killer.

  He was roused from his distraction by a soft knocking at the door.

  Crawford got up, took a sip of the OJ and padded across the room in his stockinged feet. It was just after breakfast and he wasn’t expecting anyone.

  He opened the door. Karly Hammil, the young female staffer who had been with Robinson after the speech in Woodside, was on the other side.

  “What is it, Karly?”

  She was anxiously chewing her bottom lip. “Could I have a word?”

  “Yes, of course. Come in.”

  He stood back and she came into the room, closing the door behind her.

  “What is it?”

  “This is difficult, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Call me Arlen.” He felt a moment of apprehension. He pointed to the opened minibar. “You want anything? Water?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Want to sit?”

  “I’d rather stand if that’s alright.”

  “Well, I’m going to sit.”

  She stammered. “I––I––”

  She was nervous and that made him nervous, too.

  “You better tell me what it is.”

  She drew a breath. “There’s no point sugar-coating this, I guess. Alright, then. Okay.” Another breath. “Okay. I guess you know some of this already. Five weeks ago, the governor made a sexual advance to me. I know he has a reputation, everyone knows that, but I couldn’t believe it. And I resisted it at first, I told him to forget about it, it was a crazy idea, but then he tried again the day after that. I told him no again but he was more persistent. You know what he can be like, so persuasive, that feeling you get when he fixes his attention on you, like you’re the most important person in the world. Well, that’s what he made me feel like and he persuaded me that he really meant all those things he was telling me.”

  Crawford felt himself deflate, the air running from his lungs.

  “We’ve been sleeping together once or twice a week ever since.”

  “You have been––this is past tense?”

  “He’s stopped it. I saw him last night, after the speech. He said he couldn’t do it anymore. Something about his wife. It’s bullshit, obviously. I guess he’s just had what he wanted. He doesn’t need me anymore. He’s probably already onto the next one.”

  Crawford tried to marshal himself. He needed to deal with this. He needed to be diplomatic. He needed her to think that he was sympathetic and understanding. He had experience of this kind of motherfucking nonsense––plenty of experience––and he knew what he needed to do. “I’m sure it isn’t like that, Karly. You know what he’s like.”

  “He’s unsafe for a woman to work around is what he is,” she said angrily.

  “Why are you telling me? What do you want me to do?”

  She looked at him as if he was stupid. “Seriously?”

  “Tell me.”

  “You need to look after me.”

  “Of course you’ll be looked after. I’ll make sure you get an apology. And it’ll never happen again.”

  “Not like that.”

  “Then like what?”

  “Come on, Mr. Crawford. You want me to spell it out?”

  “Money?”

  “Maybe I should sit tight, wait until he’s better known. A story like this, what kind of book deal you reckon I’d get if I waited until later? His inauguration, maybe? The day before the election?”

  Crawford felt the familiar, cold knot of anger tightening in his gut. “Alright, I get it. I get it. How much do you want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have to give me a number.”

  “Okay. Fifty thousand––that’s what I would’ve earned this year.”

  “Fifty.” He felt his temperature rising.

  She hesitated, uncertainly. “What do we do now?”

  “First time you’ve shaken somebody down?” he spat sarcastically.

  Her eyes flashed. “You’re angry with me? Maybe you ought to think a little about him, Mr. Crawford.”

  He tried to defuse the tension. “Arlen––call me Arlen, please.”

  She ignored the attempt at conciliation. “You don’t know how close I was to putting this out there. A man like him, a weak man, how is that good for our country to have him in high office?”

  He forced himself to take a breath, to regain a little composure. “No, you’re right. Quite right. I’m sorry, Karly. It’ll take me a little while to sort this out. It’s not quite as straightforward as you think, that much money. It needs to be done quietly. Is that alright?”

  “Of course.”

  She exhaled.

  He had a moment of empathy: it had probably been one of the most difficult conversations she had ever had. She didn’t deserve his anger. It wasn’t her fault. Robinson, on the other hand, did deserve it. His behaviour kept putting him in intolerable situations. He was irresponsible and childish, ignoring his clear instructions that he had to put this behind him and keep it zipped. Cleaning up the mess that he left in his wake was becoming a full-time job. An expensive full-time job.

  Crawford told the girl that she just had to be patient, that he would sort it all out for her, and then he showed her to the door of his room. He switched channels on the television, laid back on his bed and stared at the ball game that was playing on repeat for five minutes, not paying any attention to it, running the situation around in his head and wondering if there was any other way it could be resolved.

  He decided that there was not.

  He picked up his cellphone from the bedside table and called the usual number.

  34

  MILTON WAS HEADED to the Moscone Centre when his cellphone buzzed in its cradle. He glanced at the display: Trip Macklemore was calling. He pulled out of the traffic, parked and called him back.

  “Have you heard?” Trip said as soon as he accepted the call.

  “Heard what?”

  “They’ve found another body––it’s on the news.”

  “It isn’t Madison.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The police brought me in again.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “It’s just routine. It’s nothing.”

  “It might not be her now but it’s just a matter of time, isn’t it? You know that––she’ll be next.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  Milton thought he could hear traffic on the call. “Where are you?”

  “In a taxi. I’m going up there.”

  “What for?”

  “To see Brady.”

  “No, Trip––”

  “Yes, Mr. Smith. He did it. It’s fucking obvious
. It’s him. We know he’s been lying to us, right from the start. What else has he been lying about? I’m gonna make him admit it.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “It’s alright. I’ll take it from here.”

  Milton gripped the wheel. “Don’t,” he said. “Turn around and come back. We just need to wait. Getting into an argument up there will make things worse.”

  “I’m sick of waiting. Nothing’s happening. They’re not doing shit.”

  Milton was about to tell him about Efron and what he had learned but the call went dead.

  He redialled but there was no answer.

  Dammit.

  The boy had sounded terrible: wired, his voice straining with stress, as if at his breaking point. Milton had to stop him before he did something stupid, something that would wreck his life. He put the Explorer into gear, pulled out into the traffic and swung around. He drove as fast as he dared. Trip was already on the way. Where was he? The traffic was mercifully light as he accelerated across the Golden Gate Bridge and it stayed clear all the way to the turning onto Tiburon Boulevard. He swung to the south, still clear, and reached Pine Shore without seeing the boy. He drove inside the gates: there was an outside broadcast truck parked across the sidewalk and a reporter delivering a piece to camera. Great, Milton thought. He was hoping the media would all have moved on by now but the new body had juiced the story again and, with the police still floundering, they were going to focus on the place where the next presumed victim went missing. There was nothing else for them to go on.

  An empty San Francisco cab was coming the other way.

  Too late?

  Milton parked outside Brady’s cottage and hurried up the steps. The door was ajar and he could hear raised voices from inside.

  He made out two bellowed words: “Tell me!”

  He pushed the door and quickly followed the corridor through into the living room. Brady was on one side of the room, next to the wide window with the view down to the Bay. Trip was opposite him.

  “I know she was in here!” Trip said, angrily stabbing a finger at the doctor.

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me!”

  “Get out of my house!”