The Sergeant gave the big room another appreciative examination before he asked, “How many books in here, you think?”
“About six thousand.”
“That many?” he said, looked around some more, then turned back to Patrokis and said, “And the dumb funny thing about all this is that it happened to somebody who, from the looks of things, had it all, all his life.”
“He did have it all,” Patrokis said. “It’s just that he was never quite sure what to do with it.”
“Like we would,” Tine said.
Patrokis smiled slightly. “Like we would.”
Chapter 40
The only item not packed and ready for travel was the black leather overnight case that contained the one-point-two million dollars. It lay on the bed in Millicent Altford’s hotel bedroom, its top flung carelessly back, its suspect contents indecently exposed.
Partain watched as Altford, wearing tailored jeans, a thick white silk pullover and her dark gray cashmere topcoat, picked up two of the bound packets of $100 bills that contained $5,000 each, hesitated, picked up another one, turned, went over to Partain, grabbed his right hand and slapped the three packets into his palm.
“Too much,” he said.
“That’s for me to decide,” she said, picked up a bottle on the room’s dresser, poured its remaining two and a half ounces of Scotch into a pair of glasses, handed him one and asked, “You going back to L.A.?”
“In a day or two.”
“Well, you’ve got a first-class ticket with an open return, so take your time.”
“Jessica around?” he asked.
“Somewhere,” she said, finished her drink, put the glass down,went over to the bed, lowered the lid on the money case and zipped it closed. She wanted to lock it but had no key and asked Partain, “What d’you think? Carry-on or check it through?”
“Check it through unless you want some security X-ray taking a peek inside.”
There was a firm knock at the door of the suite’s sitting room followed by the voice of a bellman announcing his presence. Altford hurried into the sitting room and opened the corridor door. The bellman was a young Latino, who smiled winningly and said, “Luggage?”
“In the bedroom.”
He nodded, hurried into the bedroom, grinned at Partain, picked up Altford’s suitcase, then indicated the black overnight case on the bed and asked, “This too?”
“That too,” she said.
He picked it up, sagged to one side because of its unexpected weight, said, “Heavy, no?” and was gone.
After the corridor door closed, Millicent Altford examined Partain briefly. “You wanta work for me steady?”
“Doing what?” he said, finished his drink and put the glass down.
“Who knows?”
“What’s it pay?”
“The same as a light-colonel’d make.”
He grinned. “I’ll let you know.”
She nodded and left him with a smile and a conspiratorial wink. After he heard the corridor door in the sitting room close, Partain picked up the bedroom phone and dialed a number that was answered on the third ring.
“It’s Edd Partain, Shawnee. What’d you decide about dinner?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Shawnee Viar.
Partain was wearing his new blue suit, a new white shirt, one of his two new ties and the Kevlar vest when Shawnee Viar picked him up in her gray Volvo station wagon at 7 P.M., just north of the Mayflower entrance.
Partain handed her the nicely drawn Xeroxed copy of a map to General Walker Hudson’s house that someone had left in his hotel box. Shawnee looked at it for a long moment with the aid of the dashboard lights, nodded and said, “Yeah, I know where it is. Out there it’s half-acre lots, pools, pine trees, dogs and not quite enough room for a horse.”
After going through Georgetown they crossed Key Bridge, turned onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway and eventually turned left onto a twisting blacktop that went on for 1.7 miles until they came to the promised curb mailbox with a coxcomb of wooden letters that spelled “Hudson.”
A fairly long paving-block drive led up to a sprawling one-story stone house with an immense chimney and extremely wide eaves. The builder had left as many pines as possible and there was only a trace of a proper yard.
“What if—” she said.
“I don’t know,” Partain said, not letting her finish.
She stopped the Volvo at the top of the drive in front of the entrance, then switched off the engine and the headlights. Two lanternlike fixtures glowed on either side of the entrance door, which appeared to be made from thick slabs of oak.
Partain got out first. Shawnee came out more slowly, wearing a long tan raincoat that almost met the tops of her speed-lace boots. Partain had no idea what was beneath the buttoned-up raincoat. Maybe shorts and a tank top. Maybe even a dress.
“Is there a Mrs. General Hudson?” she asked.
“There were three of them but they all left,” Partain said as he reached the oak door and pressed an inset ivory-colored button. Chimes rang inside. Partain counted to five and the door was opened on six by Colonel Ralph Millwed, wearing a false smile, a dress uniform and all of his ribbons.
“Ms. Shawnee Viar!” the Colonel said, raising his voice and making a mock announcement of the guests’ names. “And Mr. Twodees Partain!”
He opened the door wide and Shawnee Viar brushed past him. Partain followed her into the room and stopped, waiting for Millwed to close the door. It was a large oblong room with too much expensive furniture. At its far end, General Walker Hudson, also in dress uniform, was rising from a burgundy leather couch, wearing a wide smile.
Partain heard the front door close, took two fast steps backward, used his right elbow as a piston and twice drove it deeply into Colonel Millwed’s solar plexus, torturing its ganglia of sympathetic nerves.
Partain spun around and waited, seemingly forever, until Millwed doubled over, clutching his midsection. It was then that Partain brought up his right knee and broke Millwed’s nose.
After the Colonel collapsed on the polished random-width pine floor, Partain knelt, searched him quickly and removed a small Beretta semiautomatic from the right hip pocket. It was just after he had the Beretta in his hand that Partain heard Shawnee Viar snarl her command. “Back down, asshole.”
He turned to look. General Hudson was slowly lowering himself into the burgundy leather couch. Shawnee stood no more than four feet from him, both hands aiming a .38 Colt revolver at the General’s chest. The barrel of the pistol wavered scarcely at all.
Partain turned back to Colonel Millwed, who still lay curled up on the pine floor and was now making mewling noises interrupted by an occasional series of harsh grunts. Partain took out a handkerchief,thoroughly wiped the Colonel’s Beretta, wrapped the handkerchief around the barrel and placed the weapon in the Colonel’s right hand.
“I’ll break all the fingers of your right hand if you don’t do exactly what I say,” Partain murmured. “I’m now going to aim the Beretta and you’re going to pull the trigger. When I say fire, you fire.”
Partain aimed the weapon in Millwed’s hand at a nearby overstuffed armchair and said, “Fire.” The gun went off and a round hole appeared in the chair’s back.
“Let go the gun,” Partain said.
The weapon fell a few inches to the floor. Partain rose, kicked it six feet away, then turned and walked past it until he was a yard away from the General.
“You two are in deep, deep shit,” General Hudson said in a pleased and confident voice, then leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs.