He moved back to the front door, stayed low and moved toward his suitcase. “¿Quién es?”
“DHL. Entrega.”
He might have been making a delivery, but his tongue was paralyzed. There was no trill to the word as he spoke. Whoever he was, Spanish was not his first language.
Herman zipped open his suitcase, reached inside, and found the Springfield Arms.45. He slid the pistol out of the case. But he hesitated to rack the first round. The guy outside the door would hear it.
“Who is it for?” Herman figured why play games?
“Ah, señor, you speak English. Delivery for Mr. H. Diggs.”
“Who is it from?”
“Ah, ¿cómo se dice? Ah, how do you say, abogado?”
“Lawyer,” said Herman.
“Ah, sí, señor.”
“The name, what’s the lawyer’s name.”
“You open the door, I show it to you.”
“Just read it to me. I’m not sure I want it.”
“You want, I could take it back to the office.”
“You do that,” said Herman.
“The name is, I could spell for you if you like.”
“Go ahead.”
“First name Pablo, how you say?”
“Paul.”
“¡Sí! Last name M-A-D-R-I-A-N-I. How you say?”
“Madriani,” said Herman.
“Then you know the man?”
“Just leave it outside the door. I’ll get it in a minute. I’m not dressed. Taking a shower,” said Herman.
“Cannot,” said the man. “Requires a signature.”
Herman didn’t answer. Instead he slowly stood up, off the side of the center of the door and looked through the peephole. The fish-eye lens gave him a panoramic view of the man’s face, pockmarks and a ruddy complexion. “Hold up the waybill. I want to see it.”
“Señor, I don’t have time for this.”
“I guess not, you’re making deliveries and you’re on foot. Where’s your truck?”
“We don’t use a truck here, señor. Here we use automobiles. We don’t have the equipment you have up north.” As he spoke he held up the waybill so Herman could see it through the glass lens. “Hold it still,” said Herman. He could see the law firm’s name and address neatly printed in the “Sender’s” block. But this could have been gotten by anyone with access to the Internet. Then he saw the firm’s account number printed in the block. And near the bottom the clincher, Brenda Gomes’s signature, the “gate watcher” at the firm. Nothing went in or out of the office without her seeing or touching it. Herman had seen her scrawl her name enough times to know it.
He stuck the gun in the front of his pants and covered it with his shirt. Then he swung open the security latch on the door and opened it.
The guy outside was all smiles. He handed the box to Herman and laid the clipboard on top of it, then gave him a pen and showed him where to sign.
Herman clicked the pen, went to fix his signature, and discovered that the ballpoint was dry.
“Ah,” said the man. “I don’t have another pen.”
Herman fixed him with a stare. The guy was still smiling. “I’ve got one in the kitchen. Stay here.” Herman handed everything back to him. As he turned for the kitchen, Herman slipped his right hand under the front of his shirt and grabbed the handle of the pistol. With his left hand he knocked Alex’s empty coffee cup onto the floor. It shattered on the tile, sending bits of glass everywhere.
At the same time Herman turned quickly and dropped down behind the island in the center of the kitchen as if retrieving some of the broken pieces. Instead he pulled out the pistol and racked a round.
When Herman stood up the guy was still standing in the open doorway, holding the package and the clipboard, tapping his foot on the cement outside the door like he was in a hurry.
Herman felt like a fool. Fortunately he’d kept the gun below the counter where the man couldn’t see it. He laid it on an open shelf down low. “Where is that pen?” Herman saw it over near the sink, went over, and picked it up.
He signed for the package and a few seconds later the guy was gone.
Herman closed the door and swung the security U-bolt back into place.
TWENTY-EIGHT
This morning I look at the documents open on my desk. Harry has already read them. It’s a court-ordered status conference, early on to see where the case is going. It’s set for the end of the month. The prosecutor has offered Alex a plea bargain, what in California is called a “wet reckless.”
Like a camel without humps, it’s a strange animal, reckless driving but with some alcohol involved, perhaps smelling the cork. Because the level of blood alcohol in Alex’s system is well below the presumptive limit of intoxication, the D.A. has doubts about his own case. If he only knew the half of it. The problem is we can’t tell him, not without hard evidence, and we have none. Still it’s a crazy offer because of the vehicular manslaughter charge. You can bet that ain’t going away. Which means this camel won’t hunt.
But that’s not the problem. The judge has ordered us into chambers to discuss the matter. He has also ordered that we bring our client to sit outside in his courtroom so that we can run any offer by him in hopes of a deal. Judges are often the most optimistic people in any room. They can afford to be. This one ought to be wearing white robes and singing in a choir.
Yesterday I checked out the caterers, the name given to me by Becket for the company that worked the party that night. Trousdale and Company. It was a dead end. No one remembered a thing. My guess is that when you’re paid to work that many parties serving alcohol, discretion requires a flexible memory. The company could be on the hook if they overserved.
I step out of my office and head down the corridor to Harry. He is chipping away at the computer inside his den when I peek in.
“You want to grab some coffee?” Harry is still looking at the computer screen. I am standing in the open doorway.
“Did you see it?” Harry means the notice-of-status conference.
“Yep.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where you want to go for coffee?”
“I was thinking Lucerne, maybe by way of Amsterdam.”
Harry turns to glance at me with a grin, then back to his computer. He thinks I am joking. “Why don’t we just go sit outside under one of the umbrellas at the Del? It’s a lot closer.” Somehow the silence tells him I’m not kidding. When he turns around again, Harry is no longer smiling.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” he says, “business is way down. Half of our client load has disappeared. And one of them is hiding out in Mexico last time I looked. Some judge about to kick our ass if we can’t produce him at court in what? Ten days, is it?”
“Nine,” I tell him.
“Well, there you go.”
“Can you think of a better time to travel? Besides, I’m told the weather in Lucerne is beautiful this time of year. Pretty city too. Certainly better than the ambience in the lockup downtown.”
Harry gives me an arched eyebrow, Ahab looking for the white whale. “What’s in Lucerne?”
“A banker,” I tell him.
“Is he gonna loan us money?”
“I could go alone,” I say.
“That’s a good idea. Why don’t you do that?”
“Fine. You can stay here and handle the pretrial.”
He stops typing.
“If things blow up while I’m gone, you end up called to the courthouse, me out of town, and Herman not around, who’s gonna spring you from the metal box downtown?”
“I’ve got friends,” says Harry.
“I know. One of them is looking at you right now.”
There is another reason I want Harry with me. It remains unstated, but neither of us are oblivious to the danger around us-the accident at the gas station, the sense that I am a carrier of death like a contagious disease after meeting with Graves.