I looked round.
“You look after my partner, yeah?”
I nodded. “And you watch yourself with the twins, Vers.”
“Don’t panic. I’ve seen The Boys from Brazil.”
That didn’t reassure me much. I couldn’t remember if the movie had a happy ending or not. As we left, it struck me that the twins maybe didn’t know about their father’s death yet. We would have to tell them later. Considering how dedicated they still seemed to be to their Fuhrer, I wasn’t sure they’d even remember who Richard Bonhoff was.
New York State Trooper Reggie Swan yawned and took a slug of cold coffee. He was on his own in the station in the small town of Grantsville thirty miles from Buffalo, and he was bored rigid. He had always hated the night shift. It was all right in a city, with the hookers and pimps, the drunks and brawlers to keep you busy. In the boonies, it was about as much fun as a teetotaler’s wake.
Then the door opened and Reggie Swan became an overnight celebrity.
“Help you, ma’am?” he said, as the statuesque woman turned to face him.
Her face and clothes were dirty and torn, and her breathing was heavy. “Ma’am?”
The trooper caught her as she fell. He pulled her as gently as he could to a chair and got her some water. After she’d taken a few sips, she was suddenly much more in control of herself.
“I’m Karen Oaten. Detective Chief Superintendent Karen Oaten of the Metropolitan Police, London.”
Reggie Swan stared at the blonde woman and remembered a photo that showed a much cleaner face. It had been in the FBI mis-pers bulletin for weeks.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked, checking her for obvious injuries. He saw none.
“I’ll make it,” she said, with a weary smile. “I need to make some phone calls.”
“I should think you do. I need to make one myself.” He went back to the desk and called his sergeant. The old shithead never liked being disturbed at night, but this time he said he’d be right over. Screw him, Reggie thought. He’s not getting any of my glory. To make sure of that, he called the local TV and radio stations, as well as the Buffalo papers. Then he watched as the woman whom the whole of the FBI had been looking for made her calls from the sergeant’s desk.
For once, the night shift had been a knockout for Trooper Reggie Swan.
Thirty-Nine
“You think we screwed up letting Gordy Lister go?” Clem Simmons asked as he drove toward central Washington.
I shrugged. “Maybe. We had to make a deal with him to make him talk. And he did give us the twins. He’s not stupid. He’d have understood if we made empty promises.”
The detective nodded. “I guess so. I’m not sure we’ll be seeing him again, though.”
I felt the same, but I’d meant what I said to the newspaperman. If we found anything that linked him to Joe’s death, I would get to him, no matter how long it took.
“You sure you want to do this?” Clem asked.
“It’s our only option. You’re never going to get a warrant to search the Woodbridge building.”
“Nope-not unless we find something that ties Thomson or his people directly to the murders.”
He grunted. “Know what I think? Larry Thomson’s got someone in the FBI.”
“Are you serious?”
“Wouldn’t be the first big-ass businessman to buy his way in.”
I thought about that. It squared with the finding of my fingerprints at the two murder scenes. The FBI had taken my prints after Karen’s disappearance. Some asshole from the Bureau could have planted them at the scenes.
“It’s not like they’ve made much progress with the investigation, is it?” Clem said.
“Is their agent in charge trustworthy?”
The detective raised his shoulders. “Peter Sebastian? They call him Dick, as in Dickhead. I’m not sure. He is the deputy head of Violent Crime, so he should know what he’s doing.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He grinned. “I know that. Look, I’ve no idea, man. He’s a conceited bastard, but most of those guys are, even the straight ones.”
We fell silent as we approached the center, the illuminated dome of the Capitol shining like a huge beacon. My heart began to hammer. What we were about to do was as unconstitutional as it got.
Clem parked the car on the street about five minutes’ walk from the Woodbridge building. It was after ten, so there weren’t many people around. I took the bag I’d filled at Versace’s sister’s house and joined the detective on the pavement.
“I could do with a weapon,” I said, still regretting that I’d left all of mine at the hotel.
“You’re not getting my piece.” I was pretty sure he wouldn’t have gone ahead with the scam if I’d been armed with anything more than a handful of screwdrivers. After all, I was still officially under suspicion of murder. “I’ll do the talking,” he said, as we approached the steps outside the building.
“Okay,” I said, smiling nervously. “I’ll just sneak.”
The glass doors were locked. Clem showed his badge to the security guard inside, while I loitered by a pillar. When the door was opened, I kept behind the detective.
“You’ve got a breach in your system,” Clem said.
The guard, an earnest-looking young man, whose jacket almost obscured his heavy biceps, frowned. He went over to his desk and checked the console. “There’s nothing showing here.”
“Well, you’ve got an even bigger problem than I thought,” the detective said. “Downtown, we’re showing an entry at the rear of the building.”
The security man looked as if he’d been asked to solve a complicated piece of algebra. “I didn’t even know you guys were connected to our system.”
“Of course we are,” Clem said impatiently. “You’re a few minutes from Congress. There’s nothing we don’t know.” He stood with his arms akimbo. “Are we going to check the rear with your help or on our own?”
The guard’s hand was hovering over a phone. Clem’s tone convinced him to play ball. “All right,” he said. “This way.”
I followed them as far as the elevators and then hung back as they went down to the lower mezzanine. As soon as they were out of sight, I slipped through the door leading to the stairwell-I wasn’t going to risk meeting someone in the confined space of an elevator. I checked the dimly lit stairs and started to climb. There were helpful signs on each landing. The first four were marked “Star Reporter” and the next five were different departments of the holding company-Accounts, Property, Personnel and so on. Things got interesting on the tenth floor. It was marked “Group Management,” as were the next three. I was heading for the very top. There was no reason Woodbridge Holdings would be different from every other hierarchical business building-the bosses would be in the penthouse suite. Except that, when I got there, I discovered that there was no sign at all. It seemed the Fuhrer wasn’t ready to make himself obvious, even in his own headquarters.
There was a Plexiglass window in the door. Through it I could see a wide passageway, with artwork on the wall. I shrank back as a man with biceps even larger than the main guard’s walked past with a menacing gait. That was both good and bad news: there was someone worth guarding up here, but I had to figure out a way of getting at them. I took a long screwdriver and a chisel with a narrow point from my bag and waited for the gorilla to pass again. He did so two minutes and fifteen seconds later. Assuming he was regular in his actions-something you would guess a boss who called himself the Fuhrer might demand-I had that long to get in and hide myself; assuming there was only one guard. I decided to go for it.
I knew more than most people about breaking locks thanks to my friend Andy, who learned at the sharp end on the streets of New Jersey. My on-off memory also obliged by coming up with the main points. One-ensure any alarm system is disabled: I was relying on Clem to have done that during his time with the guard downstairs. Two-
