Winfield rose, produced a plain white envelope from his breast pocket, added a $50 and four $100 bills to it, walked over and handed it to the detective. “Thank you, Mr. Kite. You were very efficient. We appreciate it.”
“Glad to be of help.”
The General asked, “Are you going back to Washington now?”
“Haven’t decided yet. All depends on how things work out.” He nodded goodbye to Carver and Partain, turned, left the room and, from the foyer, called, “See you back in Washington, General.”
There was a silence after Kite’s departure that lasted until Jessica Carver said, “Four years in Guadalajara?”
“How long’d your friend Dave Laney been going down there?” Partain said.
“Five or six years.”
General Winfield sighed. “Guadalajara is a very, very large city with an extraordinarily large North American population. There is no evidence whatever that the doorman and your friend ever met there.”
“But it sure makes things neat, doesn’t it?” she said. “First Dave is dumped out dead on the driveway here. Then a day later, somebody waits in a limo across the street and takes out Jack. Drive-by shooting — like hell. A witness removal program is what it looks like.”
“Witnesses to what, Jessica?” the General said.
“To whatever the fuck’s going on here,” she said, then turned to Partain. “To whatever the fuck it is Ma hired you to find out.”
“She hired me to provide her with security.”
“From what? I mean, who’re the danger guys?”
“I don’t know,” Partain said.
They stared at each other for a long moment, then Partain turned and left the room, heading for the kitchen.
Jessica Carver turned back to the General. “Is he really as good as you and Millie seem to think he is?”
“He may even be better than that,” the General said.
Chapter 28
Partain entered Millicent Altford’s hospital room and found her sitting in an armchair, wearing a smoke-gray silk suit, her long legs tucked back to the left and crossed at the ankles. On her feet were black suede pumps with two-inch heels that matched her purse. Next to her feet was a worn black leather suitcase with silver fittings that looked both old and expensive.
Before Partain could say anything, she said, “I called you five minutes ago but Jessie said you were on your way.”
He nodded at the suitcase. “Leaving for good?”
“Leaving for Washington.”
“Why?”
“Because around seven-thirty this morning I got a call from the counsel of a three-man House subcommittee that’s been looking into campaign financing and paying particular attention to soft money and bundling — my specialties. This guy said I could chat now or be subpoenaed later.”
“I thought your guy won,” Partain said.
“He did but some of my congressional friends didn’t. One of them used to be chairman of this same subcommittee. He was an old CIO leftie out of the Packinghouse Workers when he first got elected in ’fifty-four during the Eisenhower years.”
“Christ. How old is he anyway?”
“Seventy-seven. But he wanted one last term. Well, they all want that, but he had stiff competition in the primary. An ex-flower child turned New Democrat and middle-aged twit. So I sent my old pal a small bundle.”
“How big’s a small bundle?” Partain said.
“A hundred thousand. My guy loses by three hundred and twenty-six votes. So guess who’s on this campaign finance subcommittee?”
“The middle-aged twit,” Partain said. “What’s he want — revenge?”
She shrugged. “That — or maybe he just wants to get on C-Span. The car downstairs?”
“You want me to drive you to the airport?”
She stared at him. “We’re not too swift this morning, are we? Hard night?” Without waiting for answers, she rose and said, “I’ll use real short sentences. You and I’re driving to the airport. LAX. There we’ll stick the car into long-term parking. Don’t worry about the fifteen bucks a day or whatever it is they charge. Then we’ll get on a plane. Please note the ‘we.’ We then fly nonstop first-class to Dulles. There we rent a car, drive into Washington and check into the Mayflower.”
“I’m not packed,” Partain said, just to watch her reaction.
“What’s to pack? You’ve got on a nice blue suit, a clean white shirt and a navy and maroon tie. You look a little like some Secret Service agent with six kids to feed. When we get to Washington, we’ll buy you a topcoat and a suit that fits. That one looks a couple of sizes too small.”
“Maybe I’d better let the General know,” he said.
“Don’t bother,” she said. “He and Jessie are flying into Washington tonight. Coach.”
Millicent Altford came out of the hospital, followed by Partain, who carried her suitcase. The Lexus coupe was parked just west of the entrance. Partain unlocked both doors with a touch of the electronic key. Altford got in on the passenger side, which was nearer the hospital entrance. Partain went around the car’s front, opened the driver’s door and flicked the button that unlocked the trunk.
Partain had almost reached the trunk when a Yellow Cab pulled into the drive and slowed to a crawl. Partain’s back was to the cab when the semiautomatic’s silencer nosed out of the car’s lowered rear window. It coughed twice, almost apologetically, and two rounds slammed into Partain’s back just between his shoulder blades. The cab sped off down the circular drive, turned right onto Olympic Boulevard and raced west.
Partain dropped the suitcase first, then fell forward, landing on his hands and knees. Millicent Altford, looking into the rearview mirror, saw him fall. She was out of the car and kneeling beside him in seconds, but by then he was down on his elbows.
“How bad?” she said.
“Shot... twice.”
“I’ll get a doctor.”
“No,” he said and slowly got back up on his hands and knees. He took a deep breath. “In Wyoming,” he said, then stopped to suck in more air.”In Wyoming... I sold... guns and ammo.”
“You need a doctor,” she said.
He took another deep breath and used it to say, “And bulletproof vests.”
She grinned suddenly. “You’re wearing one, aren’t you?”
Partain only nodded.
Her grin went away. “Then where the hell’s mine?”
The Yellow Cab turned right at the Avenue of the Stars in Century City and several blocks later descended into an underground garage. The cabdriver was the same Mexican who had driven the getaway limousine, and his accent was still just as thick when he said, “You don’t miss this time.”
“I never miss,” said Emory Kite.
The Mexican parked the Yellow Cab three levels down in what apparently was a permanently reserved slot. Next to it was the Lincoln limousine. The Mexican got out, opened the left rear door of the cab for Kite, led him around the rear of it to the Lincoln, then unlocked and opened the limo’s rear passenger door. As Kite climbed in, the driver asked, “Where to, jefe?”
“LAX.”
“What airline?”
“United.”
“Back to Washington, huh?”
“New York,” Kite lied.
The Mexican driver opened his door, got in, buckled up, started the engine, then asked one more question. “Why the fuck anybody ever want to go to New York?”
“For the money,” said Emory Kite.
The Lexus coupe was parked on the second level of the long-term-parking lot across from United Airlines. Partain, leaning forward slightly, sat in the passenger seat, bare to the waist. His coat, shirt, tie and Kevlar vest were in his lap. He examined the two holes in his jacket, poking his little finger through both of them. He removed the two .25-caliber rounds from the car’s flip-open cup holder, noted their slightly blunted tips and put them away in his right pants pocket.