Killer Move - Michael Marshall [97]
I was waiting out on the walkway when I saw her pickup park down in the street. It was a little after five and the air was softening. I was out there watching in case Hallam turned up. I was out there to smoke. I was out there because being in Cass’s apartment was making me feel wretched and confused.
The woman walked quickly across the courtyard below without looking up, and I heard her feet pattering up the spiral staircase. The rhythm was even and fast. When she arrived at the third story and strode up the walkway she wasn’t even out of breath.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she said, though her face was pinched and she looked wired. “What the hell happened to you? You didn’t look great this morning, but now you truly look like shit.”
I turned and walked into the apartment. When we reached the living area I stopped and looked at her.
She looked back at me. “What’s your point?”
“Look in the bedroom.”
“No need,” she said. “I trust the guys I put onto it.”
“Pardon me?”
“When you did your dumb split-and-run from Burger King this morning? This is what I was organizing.”
She stuck her head around the bedroom door, appeared satisfied.
“Her smell is gone,” I said.
“Solvents. Blood is a bitch to clean up. They did it right, though, if all you’re noticing is a lack of something else. Seriously, what happened to you? You really don’t look good.”
“I got hit on the back of the head,” I said. “I woke up in a disused building within a few yards of a dead woman. There was a guy with a gun. I thought he was going to kill me, but then he disappeared.”
“What guy?”
“Don’t know. Never offered me his card. He was very informal during the entire encounter. All I know is he killed a woman called Hazel Wilkins.”
“Fuck,” she said urgently, but not in surprise. “What happened to him? Where’d he go?”
“Don’t know that, either.” I remembered full well what had happened when I’d lashed out at her in the lot of the Burger King—otherwise I’d have done it again. “Listen, is it all going to be on a need-to-know basis? If so we’re heading quickly toward another parting of the ways. Either you talk to me or I’m leaving—because there’s other people I want to speak to.”
“The police are not going to be able to help.”
“That’s not who I meant.”
“The guy,” she said. “What did he look like?”
“Slim. Strong in the upper body. Early fifties. Ed Harris with hair.”
“His name is John Hunter,” she said. “I don’t know what he told you, but you’d be wise to disregard it. He just got out of a stretch in jail for murder.”
“He’s already killed again,” I said. “So that doesn’t tell me much I didn’t know.”
“Look, I don’t have the details, but I know he’s a very bad man.”
“Says who?”
“One of the people who employed me.”
“Employed you to fuck me up? Why would I trust them? Or you?”
She pulled out her cell phone. Hit a few buttons, waited, and then held it out to me. “Recognize this guy?”
I saw the face of a middle-aged man, not too slim, dark hair swept back. “David Warner.”
“No. He’s an actor. His name is Daniel Bauman.”
“Well, he’s the guy I met in—”
“I know.”
I opened my mouth, shut it again. I realized that Steph and I were in Krank’s pretty often—and it was all too possible that a stooge could have been told to go there, perhaps even night after night, and wait until a chance came to talk to me: at which point I could be lured on the promise of the sale of an expensive house. It was bait I’d be bound to take.
After which . . . everything else followed.
The actor calls the office. He gets Karren instead of me, plays that out for the initial assessment (about which he doesn’t care), then insists on dealing with me direct. This appeals to my vanity and I’m ready to be convinced to come out to the house, prepared to be left waiting and eventually stood up—setting me up for photographs that make it look like I’ve been peeping at my coworker . . . except that the photos hadn’t actually been taken that night but several days before. In preparation.
“How do you know this guy?”