Chapter 4
The estate was Sunday-morning quiet, though eight o'clock was plenty late, even by Sunday standards. McCormick had already been up for an hour himself, after a night that had involved a certain amount of tossing and turning. He'd filled that hour as best he could without looking like he was stalling, but eventually he'd run out of things to do.
Not that he thought there was much hope of waiting things out. Clearly the judge didn't want to be the one to broach the difficult topics with Westerfield. That was best left to the man's lawyer. Mark frowned at that notion. It made a certain amount of sense, he supposed; the judge was Westerfield's friend—suspicion and hard questions didn't fit well into that.
He strolled up the drive, but then deviated to avoid the front door, heading around the garage side to the back, instead. Coming in through the kitchen door would barely rate a greeting, let alone a knock. He was feeling just a little stealthy, like a man in need of a reconnoiter and some caffeine before he tackled a problem.
All that stealth was to no avail. The doc was already sitting at the kitchen table. He had a glass of water in front of him with one pill bottle sitting next to it. The other was in his good hand, and he was fiddling with it.
He lifted his head at the sound of the back door opening and muttered, "Damn childproof caps."
Mark smiled, stepped over and took it from him, doing the necessary maneuvers and handing it back. A capsule was retrieved and taken. He reached for the other bottle and started to open that one as well.
Westerfield swallowed the water, and said, "Not this morning." The shake of his head ended in something that was close to a shudder. "I'd forgotten how really crappy that stuff makes a person feel."
McCormick looked at label and then nodded sympathetically. Then he frowned. "But if it hurts."
"It doesn't hurt that bad." Westerfield shook his head more definitively this time.
"Okay." Mark set it down again, but on the table, still in sight and within reach. He turned to the counter, saw the carafe of the coffee-maker sitting empty and looked back over his shoulder as he reached for it. "You the only one up?"
"Ah . . . yeah. He was up. I heard him come upstairs about four this morning."
"You were awake then, too?" Mark smiled. It was beginning to look like they might as well have gotten the poker table out, or maybe roamed the double digit channels in search of a black and white oater or two. At least it sounded like the judge had finally hit the wall.
He measured out the coffee and put it in the filter. The carafe was filled and poured and he replaced it, watching the first drips become a trickle. Otherwise there was silence. He puttered with the cups as though this required his sole attention. It was only as he turned again to bring them to the table that he realized that Westerfield was studying it all with what appeared to be rapt attention.
"Black, right?" Mark asked, sitting down and sliding the one cup across.
"Black," the doc replied, but he didn't reach for the cup right away.
McCormick looked at him closely for the first time since he'd walked in. The man appeared paler even than he'd been Friday evening, and there was something else—a certain tautness in his face. It might have been there the night before but now the combined effect was not healthy.
"We need to head back to the ER this morning? Mark had pitched it halfway between a question and a statement. The slight upward inflection at the end was the merest courtesy, the deference due to someone older, and usually wiser, than him.
It looked like Westerfield was opening his mouth to protest. McCormick forged ahead.
"Probably ought to at least get it looked at, get the dressing changed, right? I'm not that good at the bandaging thing and if you let Hardcase do it he'll use two packages of gauze and a whole roll of tape. It'll be practically bullet-proof." Mark bit down on that last part, wondering if his own subconscious had suddenly betrayed him.
"Anyway," he added, "you don't look so hot this morning. You ought to have someone check you out again."
To his surprise, Westerfield's protest seemed to have died away unvoiced, but the unwaveringly hard study was back, and he shifted a bit uneasily under the gaze. A protest would have been easier to deal with, he decided.
"Maybe some breakfast first?" Mark finally asked, a little lamely.
The doc reached for the cup, took a swig, looked thoughtful for a moment. "Okay," he said, "what's up? He's in the basement half the night and you look like you didn't get much rest." He frowned. "I know why I couldn't sleep; what's your excuse?"
Mark sat back. The 'ah', which was the sole immediate thing to come out of his mouth, floated there a minute, an obvious admission that something was up. He put his own cup down. Through all this the other man waited patiently but expectantly.
The doc finally sighed. "It's a disappointment, I'm sure, that the guy with all the advice turns out to be in short supply of common sense . . . lethally short supply," he added heavily.
Mark couldn't stifle his look of surprise and then said 'no' hurriedly enough that it might have come across as denying the obvious. Westerfield seemed to take it that way, still looking several shades deeper than chagrined.
"Doc, really, that's not it." He paused for a moment, realizing that this meant he had to go ahead with the rest. He plunged forward, no turning back.
"The guy, John Doe, they might have an ID on him, prints."
Westerfield looked briefly relieved, maybe at the slight change in topic, but this only lasted a moment before it gave way to puzzlement. "But, then why didn't—?"
"Yesterday afternoon, while we were out, that's when they found out . . ." Mark trailed off on that, aware that he was drifting back into territory he'd hoped to get away from.
The doc was frowning deeply now. "He didn't say anything." It was obvious that he was referring to Hardcastle.
"Listen, everything happened kind of fast, and last night we both thought you just needed some sleep."
Westerfield looked at him impatiently. "So, who is he?"
Mark took a deep breath and tossed down all his cards. "A hit man from back East. His name is William Tunis."
He was watching carefully, despite his deep and implicit faith in the man sitting across from him. He was relieved to be rewarded with nothing more than a continued look of puzzlement.
"No bells, huh?"
Westerfield shook his head. "Not the name, no. But I already knew I didn't know him. I'd never seen him before. A hit man?" he added in quiet surprise. "You're sure?"
Mark kept his gaze steady.
"But," Westerfield paused, obviously already thinking through all the permutations, "he isn't even the guy who had the gun." He paused again, sitting quietly with his brow slightly furrowed. "Okay, we already know he's a fake, but, a hit man? My God, that is such stupid way to hide out."
Mark felt a slight smile of surprise.
Westerfield looked up from the puzzle. "What?" he asked sharply.
McCormick let a quick grin slip out. "Nothing, no, I mean . . . okay, that was exactly what Hardcase said." The grin froze and faded. "So if he isn't hiding out, what the hell is he doing?"
It was obvious that a sleepless night and a dose of pain medicine hadn't dulled the older man's wits too much. His eyes had narrowed perceptively.
"Good question," he said, after only a moment's hesitation. "But he wasn't the one who tried to kill me. Still hard to say if anyone was trying to do that," he added a little defensively. "So, that's what Milt was doing, checking in the files to see who this Tunis guy might be working for, looking for connections between him and . . ." That trailed off and then, a moment later, "Like I said, I've never heard the name before. I've met some murderers." There was just the slightest hitch and then he moved past it. "No hit men, though, not that I know of."
"Well, now you've met two of them," Mark said. "And the question is, who hired them—"
"And why." Westerfield quirked one corner of his mouth. "I'm not running off to Las Vegas on my days off, Mark, and I think I'd know if I crossed anybody bad enough to make them want me dead."
"You'd think," Mark said philosophically. "But sometimes these things kind of creep up on you. You aren't involved in any forensic psychiatry stuff right now, are you?" He almost thought he'd seen a flinch, but if it was, it passed so fast as to be almost invisible. The answer flashed back, quick and certain.
"No, nothing like that. Not right now. The usual commitments. Lots of those—every psychiatrist does those. I've had patients threaten me over it, but no one's ever gone any further than lunging across the table."
This was said with a dry, matter-of-fact air that made Mark's eyebrow rise slightly.
"Anyone recently? Or anybody recently released that you thought maybe ought not to have been?"
"Mark, it's not that dramatic, and, besides, the kind of person who's that delusional usually isn't well enough organized to hire one hit man, let alone two."
McCormick gave that an acquiescing nod.
"But only one of them may have been trying to kill you, and I'm not even completely sure which one. The other one, Tunis, might have wanted something from your office—that's Hardcastle's theory."
Westerfield eased back in his chair, obviously giving that some thought and, just as obviously, not liking where it was heading. "Something in my files?"
"It's possible."
There was a long moment of silence. Westerfield finally pinched the bridge of his nose. "Even if I did know something, if I had a patient who knows something that these men need to know—"
"Yeah," Mark interrupted sharply, "medical records, I know, privacy and all that, fine. I'm not asking you to break the seal of the confessional or anything, but would you at least tell me if there's anything you can think of?" He stopped, frowned, and started again "Not who, or what . . . just if you think we're on the right track here."
He saw a guarded expression on the older man's face.
"I'm your lawyer right now," Mark coaxed gently. "There's confidentiality there, too."
"The one doesn't negate the other," Westerfield replied with an almost abrupt certainty.
"We're talking about your life here. People with guns."
"You're guessing about that."
"Not the guns, but, yeah, the rest of it." Mark leaned forward, "and I'm tired of guessing." He eased back a little, his face set in a look of firm disapproval.
The other man said nothing.
"Look," he McCormick said, trying to curb his rising frustration, "Hardcastle spent the night in the basement, huh? That means he'll have a list, probably has it already, guys that might have hired Tunis. But chances are, even if he comes up with the right name, it won't be one you'll recognize. But it might be that if you had a list—people you're seeing—"
Westerfield was already shaking his head.
"—Dammit, Doc, just names. Anyway, we're not the cops. But the odds are good that the someone Tunis is interested is in those files downstairs, too. It's just a matter of cross-referencing."
"I can't—"
"Just think about it," Mark said intensely. "Please?"
The other man was quite clearly doing exactly that. He finally conceded. "Not a list. I can't do that. But if he finds a name I recognize, then I suppose that person might be in danger, too."
McCormick nodded swiftly, glad to at least have some acknowledgment that there was a potential for danger.
"Okay," he said, "it's a start. But like I said, you may have to meet us more than half-way on this."
"I dunno." Westerfield shook his head again, an uncertain echo of his earlier insistence.
"Just think about it, will ya?" Mark got to his feet, and turned to the refrigerator. "And we're going to the ER after breakfast."
He got to his feet and set about making breakfast, half listening the whole time for signs of life from upstairs. He had a notion that Hardcase was waiting for the coast to be clear before he made an appearance.
Bacon, eggs, and toast got made. Mark dished up and carried it to the table, then dug into his own with a dogged enthusiasm that was intended to inspire emulation.
There wasn't much of that. Westerfield made some minor efforts but he seemed distracted, distant. He didn't even protest when Mark mentioned the ER again after clearing the plates.
"And maybe one of those pain pills," McCormick added, "now that you've eaten."
The doc shook his head, but got up slowly, looking like he was going to go willingly. Mark kept the smile internal. He was a master of the old trick of asking for two things in order to get one. On the other hand, even the internal smile faded, he must be in worse shape even than he looks, to fall for it.
He grabbed a scratch pad and pencil off the counter by the phone. Westerfield cast him a questioning look.
"Just a note," McCormick said. "To let him know where we went," he added soberly.
Westerfield nodded at that, looking pretty sober himself.
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He heard the truck starting up but didn't look out the window. That would have been a flat-out admission that he was hiding, rather than just taking his time getting sorted out on a Sunday morning. He'd smelled the bacon a half an hour ago, so he knew McCormick had already been up and at it for a while. It wasn't a donut run, not after breakfast. No, most likely it was another visit to the ER. Nothing serious, though, given the timing; you could deduce a lot from a pan of bacon.
Hardcastle moseyed out into the hallway, noted the half-open door to the empty guest bedroom, and sauntered downstairs. He announced himself with a casual 'good morning' before he even made it to the kitchen and, unsurprised, he got no answer.
The note was on the kitchen table, pinned down with a saltshaker. The content was reassuring and casual. The judge checked his watch and allotted himself at least forty-five minutes, even given the light Sunday morning traffic. He had at least another half-drawer to comb through. It would take every minute of that.
He grabbed a cup and poured himself what was left from the carafe. Then he headed for the basement stairs.
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The same guy was on duty as had been on Friday night. McCormick tried to remember what Westerfield had called him. Hal. The greetings were cordial and the ER guy seemed determined not to say anything too disparaging in front of company, even after he got a look at the unwrapped wound.
Body language said a lot, though. That and a dryly-stated inquiry, "You are taking the antibiotic, aren't you?"
A glum nod in return.
"No fever?"
"Not today," Westerfield said a little cagily.
"And you're getting some rest?"
This time the psychiatrist shot a sideward glance. Mark kept his face absolutely neutral. He was not above cooperating with this little bit of obfuscation to gain some moral leverage in the matter they'd discussed earlier this morning. Westerfield seemed to relax just slightly, then tense up again, as though he'd put the whole thing together almost instantly.
"Not all that much rest . . .you heard what happened to Louie Preta?" He fastened his medical colleague with a grim stare and seized the moral high ground through confession.
"Yeah." Hal nodded, looking concerned. "What the hell is going on? First you, now one of the frequent fliers. Phil, I've got half a notion to write up one of those damn certificates on you—'unable to care for self'—throw you upstairs for a couple of days, get you off the street."
Mark let an almost inaudible grunt of worried agreement slip out, and got a quick, sour look from the psychiatrist. In truth, he wanted him where he could keep an eye on him, and also he'd be harder to lean on if he was safely holed up in the hospital. He was half-relieved when Westerfield pasted on a thin smile and shook his head at the other man.
"I'll be okay, Hal, really. I've just got some stuff to sort through. The police have an angle on Louie's murder." He hesitated, then added, "That guy, Doe, he probably won't come back, but if he does, be careful."
"We already heard that from the LAPD: 'Exercise extreme caution. Call 911 immediately.' The whole nine yards."
"If they're right about who he is, he's not going to show."
The other doctor nodded, took one last grimacing look at the now rebandaged shoulder and said, "If you change your mind—"
But Westerfield was already off the gurney and on his feet. "I'll be okay," he said with a quietly stubborn nonchalance that got him a hard look from Hal.
Mark sighed, shrugged, and followed him out of the cubicle.
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He'd been at it an hour—looking up from his stack of files and the note pad, and checking his watch at ever more frequent intervals—but done, finally. He hastily slid the stack to the side, not bothering to refile what he might easily need again soon anyway.
Hardcastle was starting to wonder what the delay was, not that he wasn't grateful to have finished his list. He had gotten back up to the kitchen, even made a fresh pot of coffee, before he heard the truck pulling into the back drive alongside the garage.
He was seated at the table, coffee poured and the Sunday paper strategically open in front of him to a random page, before the footsteps, slowly mounting the stairs, reached the landing outside the kitchen door.
McCormick had the door open before the judge could even make a gesture to get up himself. The younger man's greeting consisted of a weary look, as he ushered Westerfield in.
A fresh bandage hadn't done much for the doc. He trudged in and looked like he might have been intending to try for a nod and heading straight on through, when Hardcastle pointed toward the chair opposite him at the table. There was a polite smile involved, alternated with a quick glance toward McCormick. This was answered with the subtlest of nods, which was plenty enough as far as the judge was concerned. He had assumed correctly that the topic had already come up for discussion this morning.
Mark stayed by the counter, busying himself with coffee cups, all quiet stage business as far as the judge could see, an excuse for hanging around, though Hardcastle wasn't certain if it was to help or referee.
"How you feeling this morning?" the judge asked, figuring it wouldn't hurt to start out in relatively neutral territory. "How was the visit to the ER?"
"Saw Hal Beaufort," Westerfield responded. It night have been a calculated non-answer, but that wasn't obvious.
"He didn't keep you, huh?" Hardcastle replied a little more pointedly.
"He wanted to," Mark interjected, making it clear he wasn't going to be a referee, though he'd probably cling to the Good Cop role for as long as possible.
Westerfield grimaced. "That was just his misplaced sense of humor. You have to know him."
Mark grunted, just short of a full harrumph.
Hardcastle shook his head lightly, then cocked it. "Got something I want to show you."
He saw Mark stiffen a little but Westerfield sat quietly, only his expression slightly more tense. It was obviously not going to be a surprise; no doubt McCormick would have predicted his modus operandi and already shared it with the doc.
"Some names, a list." He closed the newspaper and set it aside, revealing the pad that he'd brought up from the basement.
The other man's eyes tracked down, taking it in: a column and a half, over forty possible suspects. He'd done it in careful block print instead of his usual scrawl, which would have been decipherable by McCormick only.
He pushed the pad across the table, letting it sit for a moment there. "People who might have hired John Doe," he said unnecessarily, by way of introduction. And then almost apologetically, though he wasn't sure why, he added, "From the files."
As he'd expected, Westerfield seemed to get what it was all about without further explanation. He reached for the pad after only a moment's hesitation, though he didn't look pleased. Hardcastle watched him turn it toward himself and study it, his lips slightly pursed.
The judge wondered just how persuasive McCormick had been that morning. Westerfield looked tired, but not browbeaten. He looked slightly wary, as well. There were no immediate signs of recognition. Hardcastle wasn't too sure what that meant, and after a moment more of study, the psychiatrist pushed the list away and sat back in his seat.
"None of the people on that list are patients of mine," he said with calm finality, but there was a tension around his eyes that seemed at odds with the words.
Mark seemed to have picked up on the same thing. "Former patients?" he asked testily.
Westerfield shook his head, looking more subdued than defiant. The judge was considering tacks, and wondering just how hard he could push this thing before it snapped, when the phone interrupted.
Westerfield twitched, Hardcastle frowned, and Mark reached for it, answering with a terse 'hello'.
The younger man's frown deepened and he murmured a "Sure, Frank, he's right here," then handed the receiver over to the judge.
Hardcastle took it, not taking his eyes off the psychiatrist. "Yeah, Frank?"
Mark had edged in a bit, as if to hear whatever it was firsthand. Westerfield still sat a little huddled but was overtly interested.
Frank gave the news straight-up and unembellished, sounding like a man who knew his Sunday was shot to hell. This time, though, no assistance with the ID was required. The prints had turned up a pretty quick match from the local records. Hardcastle thanked him and hung up. Mark stood there with one eyebrow cocked.
"Spill," he said, after only a moment's silence.
"Not for sure," Hardcastle said, still watching Westerfield, "but they might have the shooter."
The doc's eyes shot up, suddenly very interested, undeniably relieved.
"Dead, though," Hardcastle added. "Shot."
Mark frowned. Westerfield's relief clouded over a little.
"Not the same caliber as Louie's, either, but they found the body a few blocks from where Louie was killed. A guy named Mickey O'Donell."
Mark mouthed the name, still frowning.
"Yeah, you've heard of him. He was on that list I made a few years ago, of guys who'd worked worked for Sylvester Romney." He watched Mark blanch slightly. Romney was dead but not forgotten, at least not the circumstances.
Westerfield was studying them both with a questioning expression.
"Romney's long gone," Mark explained tersely. "O'Donell was sort of free-lance, right?" he turned back to the judge. "He wasn't very high up on the list of known associates, if I remember right."
The judge nodded and shot a look back at Westerfield. "He did a lot of work for a hood named Cartori. Arnold Cartori." He reached out and tapped one finger on the pad, near the top of that list. "See?"
Westerfield's eyes stayed fixed on him, not the list, as though he thought his expression might betray him if he looked down.
Hardcastle sighed. "Tunis is still out there. Unless there's even more than two hit men, I'd say he popped O'Donell. And unless Tunis is carrying more than one gun, I suppose that leaves O'Donell as the guy who got Louie.
"But I don't think Tunis went out and joined the vigilante league. He's probably still on the clock and he's most likely still interested in you, Doc."
"I've never even met Cartori," Westerfield said quietly, but there was something in the phrasing that riveted the other two men.
The silence stretched out until Hardcastle snapped it with a terse, "But you've heard of him?"
"Would you say that's an uncommon name?" the psychiatrist asked, quiet and tense. There was a long pause again. By the end of it, Westerfield seemed to have made his mind up about something. "Not my file. You can't have that. There won't be anything useful in that. Honestly, she said he was in business. I think she said wholesale meat."
Hardcastle nodded eagerly. "That's Arnie. He uses the shipments as cover for a bunch of other stuff. What's your connection, Phil?" he added, in a tone that was meant to brook no more hesitation.
There was just a little more, but clearly exigencies were starting to define themselves.
"A . . . member of his family, a possible member of his family, might be a patient of mine." Westerfield pinched his lips down as though he'd already said something regrettable and wished he could take it back.
"Doc, you wanna be a little more specific or do we have to get a subpoena?" Mark had abandoned all pretense of being the good cop and was pinching the bridge of his nose.
Westerfield gave him an irritated glance then finally slumped a little more and said, "Magdalena Cartori, she's a patient of mine. She talks about her husband 'Arnie' a lot, nothing criminal, really. I thought he was a businessman. There's absolutely nothing in that file that would be useful for this, and certainly nothing worth killing someone over."
"But he wouldn't necessarily know that," McCormick pointed out. "It's possible that the idea of his wife talking to a shrink made Artie nervous, or . . . " Mark frowned, licked his lips once nervously, "he thinks he's got some other reason to not like you . . ."
Westerfield shook his head and smiled slowly. "Transference happens. But that's all it is. Just transference."
Hardcastle cleared his throat. "You know, Doc, guys who have people killed as part of the cost of doing business, they might not know the difference between 'transference' and their wife spending too much time talking to another guy."
"And if that is what's at the bottom of this," Mark pointed out, "Mrs. Cartori may be in some trouble with him, too."
Westerfield nodded worriedly. "I haven't seen her since Tuesday. She's been once a week lately."
"Problems with Arnie?" Hardcastle asked, not really expecting an answer. The silence was quite informative.
"There's a phone number in my records," the psychiatrist finally said, looking even more worried.
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It had been a quick decision after that—Mark would go and Westerfield would accompany him. On a Sunday morning it would take ID as well as a passkey to get past the lobby in his building.
The hallways were dimly lit and quiet. The waiting room looked undisturbed. All this normality seemed to be reassuring Westerfield, even in the face of a second murder, that whatever was going on didn't involve him except incidentally. By the time they got to the records area, in an alcove behind his receptionist's desk, he actually pointed out the undisturbed lock on the door.
"See?" It was a general and all-purpose observation. The doctor smiled thinly as he made it.
Mark looked down at the lock, which would have taken him all of fifteen seconds to get through, leaving no trace that he had been there. He made an even quicker decision that this wasn't one of those times where it was necessary to be right. He'd save his moral authority for when it counted. He asked for the key politely and waited while Westerfield fumbled with the key ring one-handedly.
Once past the door, the psychiatrist fetched the file out and thumbed through it. Then he reached toward the copy machine on the counter behind the receptionist's desk and turned it on. While it was warming up he leafed further and more slowly, as though he was reviewing the whole thing.
From all of this Mark gathered that he was only intending to copy the front page—only the demographic and billing information, and that he'd leave the rest of it behind, out of reach and therefore no sort of temptation.
"Doc."
Westerfield glanced up at this. It looked as if he'd immediately understood Mark's protest.
"It's been safe here so far," he said mildly. "Locked closet in a secure building."
Mark shook his head sadly, reset the lock and closed the door. Then he stepped past the puzzled man. He opened the top drawer of the receptionist's desk and, sending up a swift and silent 'thank-you' to whoever was in charge of his luck today, pulled out a thin metal nail-file and a heavy-duty paper clip.
His luck held. He inserted the first item into the lock and applied a slight pressure. It didn't even require any probing with the other—just a quick rake and it was all over. It was several magnitudes faster than Westerfield's search for the key had been.
Mark kept his expression even. He let the other man draw his own conclusions about the rest of the security system. It would have been by no means as much of a pushover as this last small hurdle, but certainly not in the same league, risk-wise, as killing somebody.
The doctor stared down at the open lock for a whole two seconds, then reached toward the copy machine and turned it off.
"It'll be safer with me," he said dryly, with only the slightest emphasis on the second pronoun.
Mark made no further demands. He carefully, and with not the slightest hint of irony, set the lock on the door again and closed it.
Then they departed.
The next part hadn't been on the itinerary they'd discussed with Hardcastle, nor was McCormick entirely sure who'd had the notion first. All he knew for certain was that almost as soon as they were back in the truck, Westerfield had the file open again and was staring down at the front page, lips pursed in a half frown.
Mark waited a little guiltily. He hated volunteering when he could just sit there and be drafted, but he didn't want to drive out of his way unnecessarily before Westerfield made up his mind to ask. Fortunately, the man didn't seem to have as many objections to deal with. Mark's hand had barely hesitated over the gearshift before he heard him clear his throat.
"Might run by there," he gestured off-handedly to the open file in his lap. "It's practically on the way home. Have a quick look. I'm not even sure if this is a place where we can reach her without him knowing. That'd be better, I think, if I had a little talk with her on the side. There's privacy issues on that end, too, you know."
It had come out quietly, but just slightly staccato. Mark suddenly recognized it as nervousness and uncertainty, carefully controlled by someone who didn't permit himself either luxury very often.
He nodded once in agreement. "Couldn't hurt. Just get the lay of the land; we won't do anything, unless it looks for certain that she's alone there," he let the speculation spin out. "If she is, it might be better to talk to her face-to-face, don't you think?"
"I don't know," Westerfield looked up from the page. "This is really pretty far outside my usual area of operation. I'm not even sure what to say to her." He closed his eyes briefly then nodded once, as if in decision and opened them again. "Yes, better in person, no matter what I say."
Mark glanced over at the page, just demographic information. He took the address in, and nodded once. He wouldn't be able to say later on that he'd put up much of a fight.
It's okay. I won't let him do anything stupid. This is just a quick reconnoiter.
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Hardcastle ate a perfunctory breakfast that was two parts coffee and one part toast. He'd already been back down to the basement to fetch the file that had been wisely unrefiled. He'd made a phone call, thinking that as long as Frank had already had his day ruined, a few more questions wouldn't be that much of a burden.
After an hour or so he was back in the kitchen, calculating times and distances and not liking the results he was coming up with. He finally opened the file he'd carried up from the basement and gave it one last glance. Then he made up his mind, feeling only a little guilty.
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It wasn't the white marble-colonnaded experiment in rococo excess that Mark had been expecting from a crime lord, but it also wasn't the get-away condo that his wife might occupy when she didn't want to be entertaining his fellow dons. It was somewhere in-between, and could have passed for any upper-level executive-type's digs. There were no immediate signs of who, if anyone, was currently at home, except for a car parked in the drive—a late model Caddie.
Mark pulled to the curb a discreet distance back and wondered how long they could sit there before their presence became noticeable to the neighbors, at least. He decided he didn't really care, not even if Cartori himself was watching. There came a point in these things where it paid to serve notice that you knew what was what, and it was hardly likely that the man would do anything rash out in front of his own home.
He gradually became aware that Westerfield was watching him, rather than the house, and that the expression on his face was expectantly curious. He finally turned slowly.
"If you're waiting for me to suggest something, I'm fresh out of ideas." Then Mark frowned. He'd caught a glimpse of something in the rearview mirror and turned even further, now staring hard over his shoulder.
The 'Vette wasn't one-of-a-kind, but its driver was. Mark straightened forward abruptly and let out a long sigh. Hardcase was already out of the car and coming up alongside the truck. In truth they'd only beat him there by a few minutes, but for all he knew there was a note back on the table in the kitchen at home, saying exactly where he'd gone, properly signed, dated and timed. Mark hunched down just slightly.
"It was on the way home," he muttered.
Hardcastle had both elbows on the open window sill and his arms crossed, leaning in a little. "Same address as Frank had as his last known. Anything interesting?"
Mark was about to explain, and not at all defensively, that they'd just gotten there themselves, but he'd had no time to answer before he felt a tug on his sleeve and heard Westerfield say, "Look."
He saw a woman exiting the house—middle thirties, attractively dressed in linen and silk, with more than a moderate amount of jewelry that was probably the real deal. She had a clutch purse tucked under one arm and was heading toward the car with a no-nonsense stride. So far she was alone.
"It's her." Westerfield had reached across himself and was opening the door, a moment too quick for Mark.
The movement caught the woman's eye. She stood frozen at the door of her own vehicle, then shaded her eyes for a moment with her hand. This dropped to her side after a second, but she made no further moves. Mark would have said her posture, briefly tense, now merely reflected confusion. Then she stepped out toward the sidewalk, as if to get a better look, and crossed the street on the diagonal, to intercept Westerfield before he reached her yard.
"Doctor Westerfield," she said, with a quick, angled, questioning glance at the other two men, drawing up a short ways behind him. "How are you? I'd heard—"
Exactly what she'd heard and how went unstated. She broke off and cast an anxious look over her shoulder. "This really isn't a good time," she added, as she turned back to him. "Perhaps Tuesday . . . you will be having office hours?"
"Your husband is home?"
"No," she said hastily, "we're living apart. It's recent, just a week now. But the staff, the neighbors. I wouldn't like this to get back to him."
"What 'this' do you mean?" Westerfield asked with a surprising amount of professional detachment.
The woman looked at him in astonishment. "You . . . being here." Then she frowned. "Why did you come here, anyway?"
Mark caught the doc's quirked almost-smile, and the silence that followed, as though the man was waiting her out, hoping she'd give her own theory. As interrogation tools went, it was subtle. Most people couldn't stand silence and would fill it with more information than you could get by asking straight out.
This time the woman chewed her lip, then drew herself up a little straighter and said, simply, "My husband is a dangerous man."
She might have been expecting more reaction to this than a simple nod and Westerfield's quiet, "So I've heard."
Her stare shifted over to Hardcastle and her apparent puzzlement deepened.
"I know you," she said stiffly.
"Presiding judge, your husband's last brush with the legal system. The trial where the one witness recanted and another one disappeared."
"Ahh." She smiled archly. "'Hardcase' Hardcastle. I remember now."
"Thought you might," the judge said dryly. "I remember you sat in the front row. Very devoted."
"Duty," she sniffed. "I was brought up properly. Family responsibilities." Her smile had flattened into something very brittle. "Now this," she added tersely.
Mark stepped in, trying to get the discussion back on the tracks. "We think your husband hired someone to go after the doc here, a hit man named O'Donell."
It was unmistakable; the woman's eyes had gone wide, but it was only momentary. She recaptured her aplomb and shook her head gently, as if they had committed some minor breach of etiquette and were in need of guidance.
"The shooting, I heard that a street person was involved, that his interference caused the accident, absolutely regrettable.
"At any rate," she sighed as though she found the whole thing rather tedious, "Mickey is not in my husband's employ. He might have done the odd job for him previously, but he would never do anything against my wishes. It was my father who gave him his start; he owes a great deal to my family."
"Well, then," Hardcastle said sharply, "you'll probably want to send flowers to his funeral."
This time it was a palpable hit. She paled and the recovery was a little slower, but recover she did. "Who?" was the only word that escaped her lips.
"A guy named Tunis, East Coast talent; you might not be familiar with him. But he most likely is in Artie's employ and it looks like he's a whole lot better at this stuff than poor old Mickey."
McCormick watched the judge standing silent for a moment, balancing forward just a hair, before he shoved it in to the hilt.
"What did you tell Artie," he said, suddenly harsh, "that you and the doc here had the goods on him? That's a hell of a negotiating ploy to get an extra cut of the pie. Community property wasn't enough, huh?"
"It was nothing like that," the woman flustered. "I told you he's dangerous. I had to take steps to protect myself." She glanced back at Westerfield, as though expecting understanding, and, when that didn't appear to be immediately forthcoming, she huffed lightly and turned again to the judge. "Mickey was there to make sure that my husband didn't have the doctor killed. It was all a foolish accident."
"All Louie did was get in the way," Westerfield said, "and he was killed for it."
He was quiet, but firm. He had her attention again, but it was only another slightly puzzled look, as if he had spoken a non sequitur. She gave up on it after the briefest of moments and resorted to a different tack. Mark thought the pout didn't fit her age or the subject matter, but it looked like it belonged to a woman who was used to getting her way.
"I had nothing to do with any killings."
"Look," Hardcastle said, "Your guy is dead, and the chances are high that he killed someone while working for you. Doesn't matter if it wasn't the guy you hired him to kill or even if you didn't spell it out for him. It makes you an accessory."
"You have no proof of any of this."
Hardcastle shrugged. "That may be, though I think I can find some if I keep looking. But even if I don't, even if you walk away from all of this smelling like that two-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume you've got on, you'll still have Artie to worry about, and pretty soon he's gonna figure out that you've been spinning a story, that the doc here doesn't have anything on him and just thinks he's in the wholesale meat business."
He squinted at her, then shook his head once, as if he'd done some quick calculating and come up with something undeniable but surprising.
"You are scared of him, huh? Sly Romney, he was what, your uncle? That's right, isn't it? And your dad, Max Romney, he was killed a year or so back. Was that an accident? Or maybe you're not sure. You've lost all your damn leverage, looks like—no wonder you got depressed and started seeing a shrink."
"No proof, none," she said. It almost sounded like a mantra.
The judge waved it away. "Doesn't matter. Don't need any. Artie still believes, that's all that counts. We go to him; we stir things up. Maybe we'll try and swing a deal of our own, cut you out."
"You wouldn't, that's . . . extortion."
"—or maybe we'll set him up, and take him down. You'd be grateful for that, wouldn't you? Except you know once he's busted, he'll throw as much dirt on you as he's got. It'll take a whole case of that perfume to get out from under the stink."
The pout was gone, and in its place a thin-lipped expression.
"Or . . ." he let it sit in the air for a moment, a hook to hang hope upon. "Maybe you'll throw in with us."
"But what about . . .?" She gestured with a nod of her chin toward Westerfield's bandaged shoulder. "And the other thing, that man you said was killed."
Hardcastle frowned. Mark watched him hold that, staring carefully in Westerfield's direction. It was a long moment, and the nod he got from the psychiatrist was barely perceptible, but it seemed to be enough.
"An accident. You sent the man to be a bodyguard. Louie spoiled his aim. The doc here is the only real witness."
"And the other part?" Mrs. Cartori said warily.
"Not your doing, not part of your deal with O'Donell. You were appalled to find he'd done such a thing. Assuming he even did it. No witnesses at all, no proof."
A smile crept onto the woman's face. It might have been momentarily triumphant. Then she cut another sharp glance in Westerfield's direction and it backed down to something far less smug.
Mark followed her gaze and understood the source of her unease. There was something in Westerfield's look that did more than echo the judge's veiled threats.
"I never meant any harm," she said. Her conciliatory tone sounded like she hadn't gotten much practice, but at least she knew what words to say, which was a start.
