“Your guarantee there’ll be no more attempts at wiring our interrogation rooms. And no more break-ins to my offices or attempts to find out what we’re discussing.”
“Done.”
“Oh, and a television for my client, with satellite cable that gives him all those late-night dirty movies. He’s a very lonely man, you know. And books and writing materials.”
“Drummond, you’re pushing it. There are very sound reasons for denying him those things.”
“Undoubtedly true. But I have this tape. And if I use it, he’ll be watching all the cable TV and reading all the lurid thrillers he wants in less than a week.”
“Yes… I suppose.”
“Good. We’ve got a deal. Only-not that I don’t trust you-I’m holding on to that tape.”
A roguish chuckle resonated through the phone. “No. Mr. Smith leaves with that tape. It’s a matter of common trust here-you don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you.”
“How about I send the tape to my boss, General Clapper, where it’ll be in neutral hands?”
“That works for me. Now put that asshole Smith back on.”
“Certainly, sir. And it was a pleasure speaking with you.”
“The pleasure was yours, Drummond. All yours.”
Not really. I tossed the phone to Smith, whose face looked like an overripened tomato. My own face looked worse, what with my swollen nose and the fact that both my eyes had started to blacken. I wondered if Smith was the guy who did the job on me.
He snapped the cell phone closed, wounded-badass style, gave me a perfectly arctic glare, then marched stiffly from the room.
When I got back downstairs, all the blue- and black-suited storm troopers were gone, and Imelda was looking at me inquisitively. “They gonna boil your ass?” she asked, well aware of the stiff penalties for losing classified materials.
“In fact, some Agency bigwig called to thank me for putting up such a valiant battle in defense of our country’s security. He said I’m a real good guy.”
Imelda mumbled, “Tell ’em to talk to me.”
It occurred to me that I had just won a round. However, a case like this can last fifteen or twenty rounds, and to be lulled into complacence can be fatal. Regarding my conversation with Johnson, I was still a little shaky. A man does not rise to such an exalted position in the CIA-where backstabbing, one-upping, and conspiracy are art forms-unless one is ruthlessly persistent. I had the sense we would meet again, that I had just tipped my hand, and the next occasion would be a bit more artful.
CHAPTER NINE
The dents and scratches on the side of the black Porsche had disappeared when I parked right next to it. Image is all-important to Homer Steele, and I couldn’t begin to imagine how much trouble and expense he’d gone through to make those scabs and bruises disappear. Actually, I spent a very pleasurable moment trying to imagine it, because that was the whole point, right?
Katrina’s eyes widened as she got a good glimpse of the house and neighborhood. “Nice little shack,” she murmured.
“Yes, it is. But inside that big palace lives a mean, nasty ogre.”
“Don’t tell me. You and her father, you got a thing, too?”
“We got a thing, too,” I admitted.
She leaned against the car door and adopted a wearied look. “Don’t you have any friends?”
“That are alive?”
She chuckled and asked, “Okay, what’s the father’s story?”
This was a fair request, all the more since nobody should have to meet Homer without fair warning. Actually, to be perfectly accurate, nobody should ever have to meet him-period.
“Homer’s his name,” I explained, “and the fact he sired Mary is biologically incredible. There’s been big money in the Steele family going back to the dinosaurs. Root hard through our country’s economic history and you’ll find a Steele with his hand out at every turn. One bankrolled the first steamship. Another supplied the boots to the Union Army. Another… look, if you want the full anthology, ask Homer. It’s his favorite topic of discussion.”
“So he’s rich? So what?”
“The way they stay rich is they keep marrying their pile of money to other piles of money, a sort of long family tradition. The first time I came, he shook my hand and his opening words were, ‘Well, young man, what’s your father do?’ I said, ‘Well sir, he sells used cars.’ His head flew back. ‘Used cars,’ he snorted. Just like that. The words actually popped out his nostrils.”
Katrina somehow found this funny.
I continued, “Anyway, Mary’s mother died when she was young. She was their only kid, and the thought that the last family eggs would cross-fertilize with me drove him nearly crazy. He badgered her continuously. Then he banned me from the house. When all that failed, he hired private detectives to tell me to stay away from her. Oddly enough, that very same night someone took sledgehammers to my car.”
“And what did you do about that?”
“I had it towed away.”
“You’ve never heard of the police?”
“You’ve never heard of evidence?”
“Did you tell Mary?”
“I didn’t have to. We were leaving for spring break in Florida the next day. We were going in my car.”
“And what did she do?”
“She rented a chauffeur and a big black limo and filled it with champagne and imported beer. We kept it the whole ten days, and she charged it all to her father.”
I threw open my door, and oops.
Katrina said, “You’re striking that car.”
“Damn, you’re right.” I did it again.
She peered at me with an odd frown, obviously wondering what kind of vindictive, juvenile jerk she was working with.
I rang the bell and we waited about forty seconds. That’s why I don’t own a big house like this. Someone knocks on your door, and it takes forever to hike your way from the back parlor to the front entry.
Suddenly, Homer was staring at me with that squeamish look some women get when a big, nasty cockroach prances across their kitchen counter. I said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Steele. My associate, Miss Katrina Mazorski. Your daughter’s expecting us.”
His eyes took in Katrina’s outfit, which today consisted of a short skirt and an old cardigan over what looked like a camisole. He appeared to be on the verge of vomiting.
His eyes shifted to my Chevrolet. “Is that where you parked the other day?”
“I’m sorry… I don’t understand.”
He spun around, slammed the door, and stomped off to get his daughter. Was this fun or what?
A few moments later the door opened and there stood Mary, wearing jeans and a simple white sweater that came down to her thighs, looking like an ad for Casual Living or some such thing.
I said, “Hi, uh, Mary, this is my associate, uh, uh, uh, Katrina Mazorski,” experiencing this sudden odd difficulty, a sort of mental paralysis.
Mary and what’s-her-name shook hands, and then Mary bent forward, squeezed my arm, and pecked my cheek. “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Please, come in.”
She led us through some long hallways to the sunroom in the back. We got ourselves seated, and I could see Katrina’s eyes watching the two of us, obviously trying to take the temperature of our relationship. Behind that sarcastic, laid-back, cocky playfulness was more curiosity about things that were none of her damned business than was good for her, or me, or whatever.
