had too much information. You were the man-or in this case, the woman-who knew too much. You may not have known precisely what Lacey had written, but you certainly had to know it was worth killing for.”
“He didn’t need me anymore? You mean he needed to get rid of me?” She sounded like she was shocked.
“Yeah. Cover his tracks. Loyalty,” said Walter, holding his hands out like the scales of justice, pretending to be Devereaux. “To you-or to me? Snap decision. Easy. You were an asset that had become a liability. But, like I said, that’s where he made his mistake. He had you figured pretty good, but not me. He was sure I’d kill you, but I didn’t. I let you go once I realized you didn’t kill Harry.”
“You took your sweet time about it.”
“Water under the bridge,” said Walter. “We’re in a tough business, you and me.”
“What now?”
“Devereaux killed Harry Levine-or had him killed. He tried to kill you, through me. And, no doubt, his plans eventually called for getting rid of me too. Everything in due time. It’s time now. It’s his time.”
“Let’s go get the little prick,” Tucker Poesy said.
The house on Kalorama Road was a four-sided, red brick Colonial, with double-hung windows and black shutters, dormers at the top and a beautiful, arched doorway. The neighborhood was as secure as any in the Washington area. So many important people, top officials and those with as much power as top officials, had chosen to live in the upscale Kalorama district of Georgetown. The enormous price tag on the property was no concern for Devereaux. In fact, he bought the house at a substantial discount because, as his real estate agent told him, “A lot of people think the place is haunted.” She had correctly pegged Louis Devereaux as a man who could not possibly believe such nonsense. With someone else, she might have left that out. Crazy as it seemed, selling a haunted house was every bit as difficult as selling one in which someone had been murdered or committed suicide. “These things must be disclosed,” Devereaux’s agent told him. “And when they are, buyers get a little skittish.” To his advantage, these ridiculous concerns served to bring the price down. Even his realtor could not have guessed, but Devereaux would have gladly shared his home with a ghost or two. For sure, it would have been their ordeal.
He arrived home about eight-his usual time. He went straight to his bedroom where he changed into a pair of more casual pants and a pullover top. He washed his face, brushed his teeth-for reasons he never came to understand, he had always brushed his teeth before eating as well as afterward-walked back into his kitchen to mix a drink. Drink in hand, he sat down in his favorite chair in the living room, grabbed the remote from the small table next to him and turned on the television.
“Turn the TV off,” said Walter emerging from the hall that led to the downstairs guest room and private office. He carried a gun, pointed at Devereaux. The television went dark.
“How did you get in here?” Devereaux was quite clearly baffled. It made Walter feel very good to see him as confused as he had been that night outside Il Localino.
“You mean, how did I get past your alarm system? Your wiring-probably installed by the folks you work for, or better said, the folks who work for you-and your backup alarm too? I could tell you, but it would only be new information you’d be unable to use. So, forget about it, Louie. I’m here.”
“What do you…” Devereaux caught himself before saying want. That would have been too melodramatic. It nearly caused a smile to crease his lips. Instead, he decided to wait on Walter. If Walter wanted him dead, he’d be dead already. So, he must want something more. Devereaux felt confident he had plenty of time. Keep his mouth shut, that’s what he decided. Let Walter show his hand.
“Did you think you could stay a step ahead of me forever?” asked Walter. “Did you think I was too old or something?”
“I thought I knew everything about you,” Devereaux answered. “Vietnam. All those special cases afterward. A lot of them weren’t quite as confidential as you thought they were. Hell, you were the perfect combination of skill, great skill, a skill never seen before and perhaps never to be seen again, and vulnerability. There was always something about you, bubbling just beneath the surface, something by which you could be had. You were a figure of literary magnitude. Walter Sherman. Phantom. The Locator. Almost too good to be true. I admired you. You’ve no idea.”
“At first,” said Walter, sounding as if he hadn’t heard a single word Devereaux said, “you figured it would be simple. Maneuver Harry into Tucker Poesy’s web, and she’d get the document for you. You thought that would work. I can understand that. I probably would have done the same. So, we’re on the right track, together, at the start. Right?”
“No argument here,” said Devereaux.
“But Harry doesn’t come, document in hand. And, on top of that, Tucker Poesy scares him off. Now, here’s where I come in. Harry’s gone. Someone close to him hires me to find him, and you-since you’ve obviously got me under your microscope-figure to piggyback on the deal. I’ll find Harry and you’ll have Tucker Poesy follow me. Simple?”
“Your point being?”
“My point? My point is this whole thing was a charade, a puppet show, and you were pulling all the strings.”
“You think too highly of me.”
“Too highly?” scoffed Walter. “Far from it. I think you’re a worthless excuse for a man.” There was contempt in his voice, and anger, a controlled anger. Walter was not about to lose it now-at the end.
“Worthless excuse,” Devereaux repeated slowly, emphasizing each word equally. “Worthless excuse. Let me tell you something. This worthless excuse makes the world safe for hypocritical assholes like you. You sit in your island paradise, hide out in a world you keep to yourself, a world you think you can keep to yourself. And just how does that happen? Tell me. Who makes that possible? Who? A worthless excuse like me. That’s who.”
“You’re the guy in charge?” Walter mocked him and Devereaux, failing totally to catch the sarcasm in Walter’s query, shouted, “You’re goddamn right I am!”
“Amazing. You think you know everything, don’t you Louie?”
“What I know, what I know-yes, Mr. Locator-it’s what I know that keeps you free. Keeps you from going to jail. Keeps the IRS in the dark. Keeps your clients confidential. Keeps your-your Gloria safe. There’s no doubt about it. No doubt at all.”
“Ubi dubium ibi libertas,” said Walter.
“Latin? From you? Quite a surprise. I’m a little rusty on mine.”
“Translation-Where there is doubt, there is freedom. Harry Levine gave it to me, right out of Lacey’s journal. Poor Harry said it reminded him of Roy Orbison. You know, do the ubi dubi. What kind of man are you, Devereaux? You think you can order the killing of Harry Levine? You think you’re so great? You think you’re running the world, don’t you? You have-a wasted fucking existence. No idea. No clue.”
“Me? A worthless excuse? I have a wasted fucking existence-very funny, coming from you. A little crack in your elaborate facade. I’ll have to remember that.”
“Years ago,” Walter continued, in a much calmer tone, his resolve and purpose once more front and center. “When I was sixteen, seventeen-when we all got our driver’s licenses-we used to drive into New York City, on a whim. That’s a couple of hours, each way from Rhinebeck. One night, we’re tooling around town-I’m driving and Bobby Hatton, a friend of mine sitting next to me, says ‘Are we ready?’ He could only mean one thing. Drive to New York City. So, I take off for the Taconic Parkway, pathway to the Big Apple. I’ve got the car. I’m the king of the road. Just like you-I’m in charge. But, my other friend, Joel Adler, in the back seat, he doesn’t want to go. He’s pissed. He’s shouting. He’s doing everything short of grabbing me, which would be stupid because I’m driving. Finally, he gives up, gives in, sits back. There’s nothing he can do. But Joel doesn’t say a word for about an hour. Then, out of nowhere, he said something-you know what he said?” Devereaux looked at Walter with the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. He held back not wanting to antagonize a man holding a gun on him. “No, of course you don’t, Louie. How could you? Joel Adler said to me, ‘You’re a shmuk with an empty life.’ Think about it. Didn’t fit me, that’s what I thought. I thought it was very funny. Shmuck with an empty life. Someone like me-with the power? Someone like you-with the power? But my friend Joel-he meant someone with no power, no purpose. In the end, someone with nothing. And that’s exactly what you are and where you are. You’re a shmuk with an empty life and this is the end.” Devereaux had no reply.
Walter sat down in a chair directly across the room from where Devereaux sat. He kept his gun pointed at
