depart for East Africa. But Dante was leaving nothing to chance, so here they were on their way to SFO, Will’s stuffed duffel bag and backpack on the backseat of Dante’s car.
Whatever Molly had sent him must have thoroughly terrified Will; he had followed Dante’s safety precautions to the letter. Leaving his distinctive 4Runner in the driveway and renting a nondescript compact under a name not his own-a trick used in protecting federal witnesses. Varying the times and routes by which he left his office. Changing motels every two days. Monitoring his answering machine until he knew who was calling.
Dante was still a little sore at him for holding out-but during these ten days he had come to respect the scientist as a careful, moderate, committed, and very bright individual. And even at this last minute he hoped Will might finally trust him enough to talk about the contents of the padded mailer.
“Where’s all your safari gear or whatever you need?”
“My kind of work doesn’t require a safari or very much in the way of equipment. I’ve got an old Land-Rover in Nairobi; beyond that, a camera, film, notebooks, all the books I can carry-the rest is perishables I renew every couple of months.”
Dante glanced over at him. A strange peace emanated from the man, as if he had come to terms with his mourning. Just on impulse, Dante sought to disrupt it.
“On professional hits, I collect information, collect information, until suddenly something from over there comes together with something from over here, and I have a toehold.”
“You seem damned sure Molly was… murdered professionally.”
“I am.”
Switching grounds, Will asked, “Information like what?”
“Why wasn’t your wife’s mother at the funeral? Why weren’t your folks? I snooped around a little, found her mother’s still alive, found out you’re real close to your parents.”
“Her mother, I don’t know. I’ve never met her. My folks, I asked them not to come. They love me, I love them, they knew that Moll and I loved one another, but they didn’t think she was the right woman for me. So I couldn’t handle their being there.”
“Fair enough. Why don’t you like your wife’s old man?”
“Did you know there’s a strong incest taboo among most bird and animal species, Lieutenant? Dian Fossey saw only one silverback gorilla mate with its daughter in all her years there. Gorillas are strict vegetarians, but when the offspring of that match was born, the troop killed it and partially ate the body.”
“You’re telling me that you suspect St. John of sexually abusing Moll when she was a child?”
“Once I was able to accept the idea, things began to fall into place. I think that fucker…” He stopped, got control. “I think he also pandered for her, introduced her to people and got some erotic pleasure out of imagining her with them-with anyone but me. In Paris… maybe L.A…”
“Palm Desert,” said Dante. To Will’s suddenly dense silence, he added, “Her old man comped your wife and Gounaris to a long weekend at a resort near Palm Springs called the Desert Spa to celebrate her getting the position as San Francisco corporate counsel for Atlas. Legend says Al Capone-”
“The Desert Spa,” said Will in a low, flat voice. “That’s where Moll and I had our honeymoon.”
Dante had dropped in the Desert Spa hoping to jar Will into showing his hole card: all it did was make him fold his hand. He said nothing more until they arrived at the USAir terminal. Dante wasn’t about to leave him alone and unprotected at the gate; if there was going to be a hit, he wanted to be there, take down the fucker who tried it. Then Dalton would talk, by God!
His eyes swept the unloading area; nothing suspicious. Armed with Will’s flight numbers and times, even his contact number in Nairobi, he showed his badge to the airport cop in front of USAir so his car wouldn’t be towed, used it again to follow Will through the metal detectors with the gun on his belt.
At the commuter gate, Will said abruptly, “Do you think Kosta Gounaris had anything to do with Moll’s death?”
“What do you think?”
“That he’s a rich, powerful, manipulative, sadistic son of a bitch who seduced my wife.”
“Which doesn’t make him a murderer.” Dante added, almost grudgingly, “But if I come up with anything definite on him or any aspect of the case, I’ll call you.”
“ Call me? Once I leave Nairobi, not even mail will reach me for at least three months, until I go to Fort Portal for supplies.” He paused. “Maybe I don’t want to know anyway.”
And Will Dalton walked through the gate and down the ramp to the plane without shaking hands or looking back. Dante stared after him, irritated again. Will Dalton wanted… something. Help, maybe. But he wouldn’t give anything. Maybe Moll had felt that way, too. Dante owed the bastard nothing, except the pleasure of the case, but unexpectedly he had gotten something: Dalton actually suspected Gounaris of being directly involved in his wife’s death. He hadn’t actually said so, but…
Did he have something beyond the obvious wishful thinking of revenge for his sexual humiliation? Something that might have been in that padded mailer-assuming it really had come from Dalton’s wife? If Dante had voiced his own suspicions of Gounaris, would Dalton have talked to him?
Dante returned to his car, started the long loop around the departure gates to get back onto 101 North to the city. How would he have acted in Dalton’s place? Probably no better, maybe worse. And he had gotten the man safely on the plane to L.A. for the British Air flight over the Pole to London and then on to Nairobi and his chosen jungle.
Everyone chose a jungle of sorts in his life. A place of solitude where pain could be taken out and looked at. Maybe it was simple as that with Dalton. His synapses fusing, he had to get away to get sane again.
Or maybe not. Will Dalton was a very smart man. Maybe he knew more than he was telling. Maybe his wife had left him something that let him know organized crime might be involved in Atlas Entertainment. Maybe he thought it would take Gounaris down while he was gone. Dante was no stranger to that sort of thing. Secret witnesses dying, months of work coming unraveled just because the wrong person overheard a single careless word. Because he knew cops who were stupid, casually venal, and frankly corrupt, his own work was one long secret from everyone but Rosa.
Cops corrupt like Jack Lenington, as he was soon to learn.
Kosta was getting jumpy. Ten fucking days after Moll’s funeral, her husband was still alive, and no word from Jack Lenington. He’d put on a bland face for the fat cop, Flanagan, during the questioning following Moll’s… death- but he didn’t know if he could do it today.
He’d been almost crazed when he found out she’d been hit. He’d called up Gid, who’d told one of his fucking Hebe jokes, then added, “You knew damn well what would have to be done about Moll,” and hung up. But Kosta hadn’t known. He’d been crazy about Moll.
Of course the night they’d killed her, he’d told her Atlas Entertainment was dirty as Gid had told him to do, knowing she’d run to her husband with it. What did he think they’d do to the two of them? And he’d been crazy wild with her, even going down on her-he who never went down on anybody, not once since Constantinople and the fat greasy Turk. He must have known, somewhere deep inside, what was going to happen to her. But whoever pulled the trigger, it was her husband’s fault she was dead, right? You don’t walk off and leave a woman like that.
Why didn’t Uncle Gid eliminate that fucking Dalton so it was over and done with? “Patience,” he’d said, and Gounaris had replied, “No loose ends,” because he wanted Dalton off the face of this earth forever. He contemplated the idea with great personal satisfaction, but told himself that the real reason was just what he’d said to Gid, Dalton alive was a constant danger.
Martin Prince had bought Gid’s explanation of why Moll had to be hit, but Kosta knew he couldn’t trust even Uncle Gid if the FBI started an active interest in the case. And if Martin Prince even dreamed he’d been so stupid as to leave an incriminating file in a computer, Kosta’s own life would be on the line.
So right after the hit, despite Gideon’s admonitions of caution, Kosta had got hold of Jack Lenington and had told him to keep an eye on Dalton’s comings and goings. Ten days ago, and not a fucking word since. Maybe it was time to bring in some wrecking crew of his own. The Organization had probably used that guy out of Jersey-Ucelli, that was it-but he needed somebody Prince and the others, didn’t know about. Somebody as expert with accidents as Ucelli was with a. 22.
Hell, there wasn’t anybody. He’d have to do it himself. He’d done the Turk in Istanbul at fourteen, he could do No-Balls Dalton at fifty-five. But first he had to know what was going on.
Ten days was long enough. He needed to see Lenington.
