Clouzot and Arkoff house.
And Marie Clouzot, who was sitting next to him in the backseat, bundled up in a fur coat and wearing fancy jewels — the only thing she cared about was whether anyone had accessed her bedroom closet. She didn’t want to discuss how to handle the buyers. No, she wanted him to go inside that creepy closet of hers and collect the eleven sets of human ashes. Then she ordered him to set fire to her house. The gas cans were inside the garage.
Were Arkoff and Clouzot shutting down their operation? It sure seemed that way.
Would she broach the subject with him? Or would Arkoff do it? He was sitting behind the wheel, a big man who looked like spoiled vanilla pudding poured into a cheap suit. His face had been disfigured from some sort of accident, and whoever had put Humpty Dumpty back together had done a pretty decent job. The raised surgical scars were razor thin and camouflaged by make-up. But there was no amount of make-up in the world that could hide the man’s drooping eyelid, the thick scars that were visible on his scalp.
Jenner suspected Arkoff wouldn’t say anything. He rarely spoke — at least to him. Jenner dealt exclusively with Clouzot, who also had a frightening appearance from what he suspected was a botched facelift.
Jenner had waited long enough. Turning in his seat, he saw that she was still crying. Her mascara had run, giving her already bizarre features an even more ghoulish appearance.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To see the children,’ she said.
Jenner had no idea where she kept them, had never asked. Not at the funeral home they owned, he thought. Arkoff was driving in the opposite direction.
‘You have someone to replace Santiago?’ Jenner hoped to God she did. Santiago had had a rare blood type, one that had commanded a substantial cash bonus for all the parties involved.
Marie cleared her throat. She touched her colourful diamond necklace, her voice shaking with rage when she spoke.
‘Tell me everything Corrigan said. Word for word.’
Fletcher shadowed the Lincoln as it drove north on the Jones Falls Expressway.
He had travelled to Baltimore on a handful of occasions but had never ventured north of the city. Unfamiliar terrain. Not wanting to be surprised, he used the dashboard computer’s GPS-navigation system. The screen held a standard map of glowing blue, red and yellow bands representing streets and highways. Names and points of interest were written in white.
Nathan Santiago kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Fletcher had tried to speak to him, but the man hadn’t responded.
The Lincoln drove at the speed limit and stayed in one lane. Fletcher watched it from a safe distance.
The Lincoln pulled off the highway, taking the ‘Falls Road’ exit. If the driver planned on conducting any counter-surveillance manoeuvres, it would be here, in a suburban setting that offered a variety of choices, especially at night.
Jenner stopped speaking when Marie held up her hand. ‘You haven’t said anything about the man who did this.’ She had turned to give him her full attention. She had stopped crying.
‘That’s because I don’t know anything,’ Jenner said. ‘Corrigan didn’t describe him.’
‘Did you ask?’
‘I didn’t get a chance. The guy who was with Corrigan terminated the call. Corrigan couldn’t have done it; he was bound to the chair. I hightailed it to the house. You know everything I do.’
‘And you’re saying that when you went upstairs, the door to my bedroom closet was open.’
Jenner nodded and, thinking about the rows of soiled clothing, swallowed his disgust.
‘That’s… not possible,’ Marie said. She was having trouble keeping her anger in check. The look in her eyes reminded him of Grandfather, a mean son of a bitch who would beat the shit out of you until he’d exhausted himself. Guy’s kids’d spent more time growing up in hospitals than they had at home.
Jenner shifted in his seat. He’d never felt comfortable around this broad. There was something about her that gave him a queasy feeling he still couldn’t put a finger on. His gut sensed something repulsive lurking beneath her patrician features, her dignified air and speech.
‘I think we can safely rule out that whoever did this is a cop,’ Jenner said. ‘A cop wouldn’t tie up a guy and kill him — there’d be hell to pay for that, lawsuits up the wazoo, you name it. My first thought was a private investigator, but then you have to ask yourself, what’s this guy’s agenda? Why call me instead of the police?’
‘Did Marcus see what was inside the closet?’
‘No, just me.’
‘What we do in the privacy of our home is not any of your business.’
‘Agreed.’
Marie continued to glare at him, as if wanting him to prove her point.
‘How long have we been doing business together? Seven years?’
‘Almost eight,’ she said.
Even better, Jenner thought. ‘Eight years, and we haven’t had a single problem. I think I’ve proven I’m capable of discretion.’ He changed the subject. ‘We need to talk about Santiago,’ he said. ‘I still have contacts on the force, people who owe me favours. I’d like to let them in on this, have these guys go and cover the hospitals, see if our merchandise shows up.’
Marie turned and looked back out of her window.
She didn’t speak.
38
Fletcher shadowed the Lincoln through a residential area. Traffic was mercifully light.
Far ahead, he saw the Lincoln slow at a four-way stop sign. So far, the driver had failed to perform any counter-surveillance measures.
The Lincoln turned right on West 41st and continued to move at a normal speed. The driver didn’t appear to be in a rush to reach his destination.
Fletcher consulted the Jaguar’s GPS unit to see where West 41st turned. He quickly memorized the surrounding streets, pulled into the opposite lane and planted his foot hard on the gas, taking the driver in front of him by surprise. He blew past the stop sign and came to a sudden halt against the corner where Falls Road met West 41st.
The Lincoln had two choices: continue straight on West 41st or turn left on to Hickory Avenue, a street about a quarter of a mile long. It offered two left turns, both of which would loop the driver back on to Falls Road.
Fletcher looked out of the passenger’s window, at Hickory.
The Lincoln drove by and vanished from his view.
Fletcher pulled away from the kerb and drove straight ahead, accelerating to the next turn, Weldon. He pulled against the corner kerb and this time cut the lights. Again he looked out of the passenger’s window.
The Lincoln passed Weldon and kept driving across Hickory.
Has to be driving to his destination either on Hickory or the next street, West 42 nd, Fletcher thought, pulling back on to Falls Road with his lights still off. He accelerated to West 42nd, turned right and drove halfway down a small street lined with identical homes: two-floor boxy structures stacked against each other, white-trim windows, metal or cloth awnings installed over the white front doors. None of the homes contained driveways or carports. Residents parked on the street.
Fletcher pulled against the kerb and waited.
Seconds passed and the Lincoln didn’t come.
Fletcher crept to the end of the street, where it turned into Hickory. Straight ahead he found three connected brick buildings. A quick glance to his right and he caught sight of the Lincoln’s sagging rear bumper before the car disappeared behind the buildings.
The windows for all three buildings were dark, and there were no outside lights. A sign made of wood had been staked in a small front lawn of dead grass: SCOTT amp; ALVES CAR DETAILING.
Fletcher switched the GPS to an aerial view and zoomed in on the roofs. The buildings took up the entire
