“I’ll see what I can do. But right now I really have to be going.” Words and attitude as pointy as her hair.
Marcus allowed himself to be led toward the front door. “You said something about more data?”
“It’s all in a jumble. I’m sorting it as fast as I can. I’ll send it to you when it’s ready.” She actually prodded him through the portal. “Now good-bye. And don’t call me again unless you take the case.” The door slammed in punctuation to the final word.
Marcus stood upon the top step. Silently he asked the sunlit afternoon why Kirsten Stanstead would go to so much trouble to make him detest her.
“Glenwood’s done just about what you’d expect.”
Randall Walker scowled at the view outside his car window. He hated the need for subterfuge and the special mobile phone used only for these calls. But loved it just the same. It was a paradox he did not need to question. He had long since grown used to the fact that many of the things in life that he adored the most were also things he was vaguely ashamed of. “And precisely what is that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. He’s made the rounds. Met all the right people. Asked all the wrong questions.”
“Now you look here.” Randall masked his nerves with an unaccustomed bark. He had heard too many tales about Hamper Caisse to feel comfortable dealing with the man, no matter what the cause. “I don’t pay you these ridiculous sums for you to feed me opinions. I want facts. Details. Times, dates, evidence you’ve actually done your job.”
“The entire exercise has been a no-brainer.” The voice on the other end sounded caught midway between a whisper and a moan. Which suited the man perfectly. Randall stared at the sunlit day and saw the man himself. Small and without a single sharp angle. Wispy mustache and round-rimmed glasses. Suit as gray as his hair and eyes. Utterly without defining characteristics. Anyone glancing his way would not bother with a second look, there was so little to notice. Which meant he was superb at his job.
“Glenwood visited the State Department, the International Chamber of Commerce, and the Asia Rights Watch. He stopped by the Chinese embassy, but didn’t have the nerve to step inside. Then he visited Hall’s roommate, that Stanstead woman. It looked like she handed him some file.”
“That’s bad. And the meeting at Asia Rights is even worse.” But Randall wasn’t sure this was the case. Part of him wanted to agree with Hamper Caisse and his nonchalant assessment. The man had an almost perfect record, both in gathering data and in situation analysis. Which was not what made Randall Walker nervous.
He had heard the tales. Stories were bandied about boardrooms of companies that used Hamper Caisse’s services. How he had gained his reputation in the CIA, how he was willing to do anything for a client. Anything at all.
Even from a distance of several hundred miles, Randall felt unnerved by the man’s grotesque mixture of docile ruthlessness. “This could mean serious trouble.”
“I think you’re wrong. Glenwood is strictly a two-bit operator, and he’s out of his league.” If he took any pleasure in correcting Randall, it did not show. “You come across a lot of these in Washington. They show up at the occasional low-level function, scrounge for whatever crumbs they can find. One hard knock and they fold up their tents and scurry back to whatever hole they crawled out of.”
“All right. Any idea what’s next?”
“He was booked on the six-fifteen United flight back to Raleigh. But when he left Stanstead’s place he rented a car. Right now I’m following him through rush-hour traffic on I-95. My guess is he’s headed down to see that Richmond lawyer who kicked up such a fuss in the pollution suit. What a pair they’ll make.”
“Stay on him,” Randall said. Then, almost to himself, “I wish I knew what was in that file.”
“What can the Hall girl have found out? You had me check her, what, three times? She’s just another scrounger. Pity Glenwood couldn’t meet her. They’d probably have fallen for each other, right off a cliff. Saved us all a lot of trouble.”
Randall wanted to believe him. Wanted to accept that his worry was for nothing, that the fire had been put out safely and everything was under control. But something left him uneasy. Something that could not be entirely ignored. “I want you to search the Stanstead place. Find out if there’s anything else lying around.”
“You’re kidding.”
“We can’t take any risks here.”
A pause, then, “It’s your money.”
“That’s right, it is.” Randall cut the connection, sat staring out the window of his Mercedes, wishing he knew what it was that had him so concerned.
When rush-hour traffic trapped him on I-95, Marcus used his cellular phone to call ahead. The lawyer in Richmond sounded hostile and half-drunk. Marcus bullied the man into granting him five minutes and his home address.
The hundred-mile drive took three traffic-clogged hours. Following the lawyer’s slurred directions, Marcus took a central Richmond exit and entered a wounded city. Darkness hid the worst of the scars, but what the streetlights and shadows revealed was not pleasant. Buildings had the abandoned look of old tombstones. The sidewalks were empty save for those who loitered and clustered and called to passing cars as if they were hailing death.
He turned off the main thoroughfare and entered a gloom so thick he could not see the street sign, much less house numbers. Finally he spotted a front porch with a light, and in the process of reading the number he also observed the bars where the screen door should have been. Marcus drove down another block to the correct address and parked.
Marcus climbed the steps of the attorney’s house and heard the tinny voices of a television game show. The noise marked the dark and his own creeping fear. Marcus fumbled for a bell, found none, so he banged on the door. He heard footsteps scraping the sidewalk behind him. He banged harder still.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Taub, it’s Marcus Glenwood. We spoke on the phone.” He did not wait for a reply, but banged again. “Open up.”
“Hang on.” The latch rattled, the door cracked open a notch. “I told you, you’re wasting your-”
Marcus pushed inside, almost knocking the man to the floor. “Sorry. There was somebody out there.”
Marshall Taub did not appear the least surprised. “Yeah, this is a creepy place. I never go out at night.” He waved his hand, sloshing his drink on the already-stained carpet. “You might as well sit down.”
The room’s lighting was yellow and feeble, the house dank with old smells. Dishes were piled on a cheap corner shelf. The coffee table between the battered sofa and the television bore two empty bottles and a half dozen glasses. Marcus deliberately walked over and cut off the television. “As I said on the phone, I am representing a client who wants to enter suit against New Horizons.”
Marshall Taub relocked and latched the door. “Don’t do it.”
“I have a file on your case.” Marcus had managed to scan the top pages while trapped on the interstate. “I’d just like to ask-”
“I’m telling you, don’t go after them.” Taub motioned a second time with his glass. “Wanna drink?”
“No thanks.” The Richmond attorney had the doughy appearance of someone carrying the worst kind of extra poundage. “You won your suit against New Horizons, didn’t you?”
“Didn’t win a thing. Lost it. Lost it all.”
“But the records show-”
“Siddown, why don’t you.” He took a hard slug from the glass. “Don’t believe what you read. Never believe what you read.”
Marshall Taub could have been forty, he could have been sixty-five. His graying beard only partly masked the pastiness of his features. He had the shaky hands and blank gaze of a man determined to kill himself slowly. Marcus asked, “What’s wrong with the court records, Mr. Taub?”
“Nothing. Not a thing. Except they’re a lie.” He drained his glass, reached for the bottle on the coffee table, slopped bourbon into his glass and over his hand. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”