Chapter 7
Frank gradually became aware that his eyes had been staring, unseeing, at the same paragraph for more than a few seconds. Microsleep. He sat up straight, rubbed his face with his hands, and glanced up and to his left. There was daylight coming in the second floor window of the gatehouse. He checked his watch, 6:45 a.m. They had, the both of them, been up for twenty-four hours straight, and Milt, just to make things more interesting, had taken a graze wound to the head.
He looked at the man sitting across the table from him. The judge was no longer studying the page in front of him. His eyes were fixed on a point on the opposite wall. For a horrible second, Frank thought he was out of it completely, some sort of seizure, some late effect of the head wound. He almost reached out to shake the man, to see if he could respond.
Then he looked over his shoulder, following Hardcastle's gaze. It was not, as he'd first thought, undirected. No, he was staring at a framed photograph that hung on the wall next to the door--Mark in his racing gear. Milt wasn't out of it, he was intensely focused.
Frank cleared his throat. Milt broke away and looked at him. "You know," Frank began, "Mark's plan did work. Tilton really thinks he's turned on you." There, he'd offered it, for whatever consolation it was worth.
Hardcastle grunted his response. Then he added, with gruff affection, "Yeah, the kid practically has a patent on B.S." His eyes were drifting back to that picture, when he suddenly blinked twice and darted a look back at Frank. "You know, there's something that was bothering me, early on, something I kinda lost track of."
Yeah, you've been a little distracted, Frank thought. "What's that?" he asked.
Milt looked down at the papers in front of them, at the scribbled list of names, all people involved in Tilton's case. "I think maybe we're going at this all wrong. Tilton has always been a big operator, 'make no small plans' kinda guy. You know he offered me a bribe once."
Frank's eyebrows went up.
"Yeah, way back before all the rest of," he waved his hand over the pile of papers, "this. Oh, he was pretty crafty about it, nothing I could prove if it came to that. But I let him know that if I could've, I would've nailed him on it. I think that's how this whole thing between him and me started." The judge frowned, as though it was a puzzle, as though if he could just get all the pieces to fit, everything would come out all right in the end. "Anyway, Tilton wasn't a guy who ever underestimated himself."
"So, what does all that mean?"
"I think the guy he's got on the inside is pretty damn close to the center. It's not going to be one of these." Hardcastle ran his finger down the list he'd made. "These are bit players."
Now Frank was frowning. "The D.A.?"
"Thompson? Nah, as much as I can't stand the guy, I don't think he's dirty. Shifty as hell, but not dirty." Hardcastle shook his head once. "Besides, he wasn't around for the last one. He was down in Sacramento working with the Governor's special task force on, God, what the hell was it?" Milt put his hand to his head. "Frank, I think maybe I'm not hitting on all cylinders here."
"Milt, you're doing at least as well as I am," Frank reassured him. "But I think you'd do a lot better if you'd take a nap. Just an hour."
"No . . . no, what I was trying to tell you. What was bothering me, though I hadn't really given it a lot of thought, was Riley."
"The D.A.'s investigator?"
"Yeah, he's been in on it from the get go. He saw all the evidence, knew what we had and what we were going to throw at Tilton, hell, he even knew where it was all being kept. And now, with him and me the two witnesses on this case, Tilton calls down the thunder on Mark, and leaves Riley standing there on the steps looking like nobody important."
"Doug Riley is an old pro."
"How much they paying investigators in the D.A.'s office these days, Frank?"
Frank trusted Hardcastle's instincts almost more than he trusted his own, but accusing a D.A.'s investigator on the basis of little more than proximity, well . . . of course he sure as hell did have the opportunity, a guy like Riley could come and go as he pleased in the file room. And, as for method, ditto.
With regards to motive, Frank had seen the big round numbers floating around in the Tilton file; the man had been worth multi-millions, and probably still had a substantial haul tucked away even now, and Riley was a middle-level civil servant, closing in on mandatory retirement and a state pension.
Frank had run this chain of reasoning in the time it had taken him to open his mouth in protest—and no protest was forthcoming. "Damn," he said, "Riley?" He reached for the phone.
Hardcastle's hand came down on his before he could pick up the receiver. "Wait a sec."
"Lemme at least put a tail on him, Milt. He may be our only lead."
"Frank, do you have anybody you can trust, who Riley doesn't know on sight? Spook him now and he goes to ground. I think maybe I've got a better idea."
Hardcastle reached for the phone himself and started to dial.
Frank had listened to Milt's early-morning rousting of Riley. They'd talked like old friends, at least from the judge's end of the wire. It would've taken years of experience, to have caught the nuances in Hardcastle's voice. On the surface it had been routine inquiries. How was Riley holding up? Any new angles on the investigation? Then came the tease and the hook.
A damn shame about the file, yes, very hard to prosecute without it. Back to square one except . . . except there was maybe another case against Tilton that the D.A. might be interested in. No, didn't want to discuss it prematurely, something from way-back but, hell, the statute of limitations never runs out on murder, does it?
It seemed like the conversation came to a close very quickly after that. Riley was excusing himself efficiently. But that all fit together with the judge's theory.
The phone was hung up now, and Milt was sitting in front of it with his elbow propped on his knee and his forehead buried in his hand. "Oh, God, Frank, if I'm right, about sixty seconds from now, Tilton's gonna know I'm still alive."
Frank frowned, "Is that what we want?"
Hardcastle picked up the phone again, apparently on impulse, and dialed a second time. "Busy signal." His eyes came up and met Harper's.
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Mark did what they expected him to do in the bathroom and, finishing that, took a few moments to investigate his surroundings. He opened the medicine cabinet slowly, hoping there'd be no tell-tale squeak.
Empty. Not so much as a bottle of aspirin. Then he saw one abandoned object--a hairpin lying on a hairpin-shaped rust stain trying hard to become one with the metal shelving. He pried it loose, considered it for a moment, then slipped it into his sock. He closed the cabinet with infinite care, easing it onto its latch.
He heard the phone ringing somewhere off in the house. He froze where he stood, listening hard, but could hear no voices. Still, it was information of a sort. There was someone else out there who knew about this place.
There was only one other thing of interest in the small room. High on the wall, above the ancient, footed bathtub, was a small window. Not large enough to be an avenue of escape but, a window. He stepped into the tub carefully. With the extra six inches of height, he could see over the sill. The glass was dirty, but the blurred image was of mountainous terrain, and the direction of the sun indicated he was looking south. San Fernando, the Santa Monicas, Malibu. He put his head down on the back of his hand, which rested on the sill. This is not a good thing to think about right now. He considered himself fortunate that at that moment the goon began pounding on the door.
The door swung open. Mark had only managed to get one foot out of the tub. He completed the second step with the goon's hand on his collar, dragging him out. "Hey, wait a sec--"
But it was Tilton's voice that brought things under control. "Now, Mark," he began quietly, "let's not be uncooperative." And though the words hadn't been directed at him, the goon eased his grip and allowed McCormick to get his balance. "That's better now, isn't it?" There was that silky sharp edge again. Even the goon seemed . . .subdued
"Did you enjoy the view?"
"Windows need cleaning," Mark muttered.
Tilton smiled. "Good to see you have your spirit back. I was getting worried. At any rate, I have a little project for you. Something I'm sure you'll be good at."
McCormick thought anything would be better than the talks. He shrugged and held up his hands to show the cuffs.
A quick nod from Tilton and they were off. So much for the hairpin.
"What kind of 'project'?" he inquired cautiously.
Tilton's smile grew a little broader. "Yard work," he pointed toward the back door.
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"Now what?" Frank asked quietly. "Maybe he was just trying to reach the D.A., to give him an update."
"Maybe," Hardcastle replied doubtfully. "But if I'm guessing right, Tilton is going to come charging back at me. God, that man cannot stand to lose face. And if that happens, we'll know who the leak is."
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"A shovel?" McCormick looked doubtfully at what he was being handed. Tilton had already taken a seat under a tree some distance away. There was something horribly incongruous about that man in a lawn chair. He was back in the expensive overcoat, with a pair of leather gloves. The goon was now Mark's immediate supervisor, and Tilton had apparently handed over the specs to him.
"Just dig," he grunted.
McCormick let out a sigh. His ribs still hurt like hell and the goon was still holding a gun. A shovel probably wouldn't turn the balance of power in his favor. He began to dig, slowly and methodically, under the goon's direction, until the general outline began to take on all-too-familiar dimensions.
This is some sort of test. He dug the grave with even less than his usual enthusiasm for manual labor.
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"So we might as well go back up to the house," Frank finally said, after they'd sat there in silence for a minute or two. "And if we're back to waiting for a phone call, you should lie down for a little while."
Frank watched the judge get up from the chair and steady himself for a moment, like an older man would. He quashed the urge to reach out and offer a hand. Milt wouldn't appreciate that right now. Instead, he gathered up the papers, studiously ignoring the slowness in Hardcastle's movements.
He saw him stop by the door, just a moment's hesitation, one last glance at the photograph. He's not going to be able to hold it together much longer, going on like this.Frank wondered if there would be a point where he might have to go back on his word.
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There was an indolent quality to grave digging, McCormick concluded by about the four-hundredth shovelful. After all, no one ever was in a rush for a grave. The goon, at least, seemed to be getting some quiet enjoyment out of the situation. As for himself, he was remembering a previous experience, out in the desert almost two years before.
That time he'd thrown the shovel back in their faces with some sort of crazy refusal. That time the judge had come riding up in the nick of time with the whole damn cavalry. He smiled to himself, and noticed that the goon seemed a little twitchier for a moment or two.
"Hey, Mister Tilton," McCormick shouted from where he stood, a good three feet down. "You think maybe I'm done here yet?" This pissed his guard off no end. He was clenching and unclenching the gun in his right hand. McCormick leaned the shovel up against the side of the hole and boosted himself up with both hands to sit on the side opposite the goon, still smiling.
Tilton had strolled over and was standing a short ways off, on the guard's side of the hole. He gave a nod of approval. "You do good work."
"Lots of practice," McCormick said. The smiling was getting easier. The whole idea of taking Tilton down had been, let's face it, ambitious. This would be a hell'uv'a lot easier. The judge would not be riding up to the rescue. Nope, you'll go find him this time.
Tilton was smiling right back at him, as though they were sharing some private joke, as he unholstered the .38. He brought the gun to bear but, in the moment Mark had to consider it, his aim seemed off.
The concussion of the shot echoed against the mountain and sent a hundred birds to flight on unheard wings. I'm still alive, McCormick thought, and his smile slipped as he watched the goon topple forward into the grave.
Tilton reholstered his weapon, stepped forward, and scuffed a small amount of dirt into the hole. "He lied to me." He looked down with disapproval. "You'd better fill it in."
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Frank fetched coffee, while the judge listened to the answering machine, mostly a series of increasingly irate messages from Thompson the D.A., asking where the hell he was and when the hell was he going to return the calls.
The den had a dampening effect. Frank's only comment on the tape was an eyebrow raised in inquiry, something along the line of, Do you really think he's planning on going through with the trial tomorrow morning?
Hardcastle swiped his nose once and shrugged. No telling what Thompson was thinking at this point. He'd originally planned the prosecution without the benefit of Hardcastle's files. But he desperately wanted the man himself. The judge picked up his cup of coffee and strolled out into the hallway and back toward the patio, Frank at his heels.
Out there, the unspoken conversation picked up where it had left off.
"Dunno," Frank said. "Sounds to me like we're on for Monday."
"It'll have to be," Milt replied, "even if it's just a motion to delay. The question is, will Tilton show?"
"My God, Milt, you think he would?" Frank looked astonished at the idea, "He came to your home and took a shot at you."
"Yeah, but he may still think he's killed me. And even if he finds out I'm alive, he's always got McCormick for leverage."
"Assuming he still thinks that means something to you," Frank said.
"You are tired, Frank. I drew on Tilton, down on the beach. I gave up the whole game, right there. He knows what that kid means to me." Hardcastle rubbed his forehead, wincing when he got too close to the bandage. "Anyway, if he doesn't show, his bond's revoked and the warrant goes out about ten minutes after that. And he'd like nothing better than to end it for once and for all tomorrow, with me on the stand stammering and saying 'Sorry, I don't remember all that much'. Seeing that'd be worth a big risk to him.
"The only question is," Hardcastle added flatly, "will it improve Mark's chances if Tilton doesn't leave that courthouse alive tomorrow?"
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It ought to have been easier. That's the guy who killed Hardcastle. He dropped the first shovelful in down by the legs. Nothing. No response. He's dead, for God's sake; just get this done.
Tilton had moved back a couple of paces. He was holding the .38 casually, but hadn't put it away. McCormick kept his eyes on what he was doing, and the only sound was the scrape of the shovel and the dirt falling.
Tilton cleared his throat, as if it might be impolite to interrupt a man at work. "Mark?" he began almost hesitantly, and McCormick spared him a glance out of the corner of his eye. "How did you know I wasn't going to shoot you?"
"I didn't," Mark answered bluntly. There. It was hard to know what effect that would have, but he was so sick and tired of these games that it really didn't matter to him any more.
The dirt now covered the goon's legs and torso. The man had sprawled face down, thank God, with his head turned away. His gun must've fallen underneath him. Another shovelful dropped onto the back of his shoulders, the dirt skittering down in rivulets alongside the head. McCormick watched, mesmerized.
"You'd better hurry up with that," Tilton said, coolly. Mark jerked up, aware that he'd been caught out. "We have things to do." Tilton looked down impatiently at his watch. "I'll leave you to it. I have some phone calls to make."
He strode off toward the house without so much as a look back. McCormick watched him go in mute surprise. His mind clicked back on. New game, new rules. Okay, he was out in the middle of nowhere, burying a man he hoped was dead, for a man who was . . . unhinged, and who was now just leaving him to it.
Fine, what next? If he walked away, where would he go? He was miles from nowhere, with no good cover within a hundred yards of the house. Start digging in the half-filled grave for the gun? He was fairly certain that, despite his nonchalance, Tilton would be watching from inside the house. He tossed another shovelful of dirt in, becoming increasingly certain, with each passing moment, that Tilton had no intention of letting him out of this alive.
I know where the bodies are buried.
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Frank kept his voice calm. Shouting wasn't going to help, "Milt, you spent thirty years on the bench, and how many before that as a cop? All of that enforcing the law. You'd throw all that away for a moment of . . . revenge?" he asked in disbelief.
"No," Hardcastle shook his head, "not revenge. Flagrant necessity. Anyway, Frank," he rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking like a man who was trying to gather his thoughts, "I'm an ex-judge, and an ex-cop. I gave nearly everything I ever had to that; I don't have a lot left that's important to me" There was a pause; he was running out of words. "And I'm not giving up one damn thing more."
Frank watched him carefully. Everyone has a breaking point. And yet he somehow believed that his friend was still just this side of okay.
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McCormick threw the last few shovels' worth onto the mound. He couldn't bring himself to tamp it down. It looked like a grave. He straightened up, back aching, and wiped his hands on his pants. Now that he was no longer exerting himself, the chill mountain air made the sweat dry on his skin. He shivered.
It occurred to him that he didn't even know the man's name. Goon, the goon's name. He shot the judge.
He planted the shovel deep into the loose dirt and turned his back on the whole thing. Then he walked up to the house slowly; there wasn't really anywhere else to go. As he'd expected, Tilton was standing in the kitchen, near enough to the window to survey the entire yard. The gun was back in its holster. He was smiling broadly when McCormick entered the room.
"Very good, Mark," he nodded. "I can see the judge put some effort into you." Then he made a face of mild disapproval. "But you really are a mess. Between the blood and the dirt, I don't think that shirt can be salvaged. I told you there were some clothes in the closet. Now get in there and find something." He made a little shooing gesture with his hand. "And get yourself cleaned up a bit."
McCormick kept the shudder of disgust under control until he had turned the corner into the familiar room. New game, new rules. Rule #1: He's gonna talk to you like that right up until the moment when he shoots you in the back of the head.
He took a deep breath and opened the closet door. There were only a few things hanging there. He pulled a denim shirt off a hanger and looked at it for a moment—a couple sizes too big. Goon-sized.
He crossed the hall to the bathroom, took his own shirt off and dropped it on the floor. He inspected the bruises over the left side of his ribs, then slipped the denim shirt on without many qualms, rolling up the sleeves, and tucking it loosely into his pants to take up some of the excess.
He washed his hands methodically, trying to get the dirt out from under his nails. He supposed he ought to leave some of it there; that was the sort of thing forensic pathologists doted on, but he was tired of being cooperative.
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And then the phone rang.
The telephone conversation had been terse from the judge's end and the phone on the patio had no speaker. Frank pushed his impatience down and watched Hardcastle's face, trying to find some meaning in that and the 'yeses' and 'nos' he was responding with.
The judge's final request, "I want to talk to McCormick," received a brief answer. Frank could hear the loud click from the other end, even from where he stood.
"Dammit." Hardcastle put his own receiver back in the cradle. He looked up at Frank, "A gas station, Canoga Park." He grabbed a notepad and pencil off the table and was jotting quickly. "He wants me to be by the phone there in forty minutes."
"Alone?" Frank asked.
"Of course."
"We'll have to take two cars, then. Can you drive?"
Milt blinked once, as if he didn't understand the question, "Sure, why the hell not?"
Frank merely sighed.
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Mark emerged from the bathroom warily. Tilton was not in sight but he heard his voice from the kitchen. For a flash he thought Tilton might have degenerated to the point of talking to himself but, no, this had the staccato pacing of a telephone conversation. By the time McCormick was close enough to overhear, Tilton was closing with a curt, "I don't think that's possible right now. Please follow my instructions precisely."
Then he was hanging up and turning toward the younger man, gun in his other hand. "Yes, much better, much more presentable. Well, we must be off now." He pointed to the handcuffs lying on the table. "You'll have to put them on yourself. You can manage that?"
"Behind?" Mark asked wearily. Tilton nodded and made a little 'hurry-up' gesture with the gun. Mark complied
Tilton pushed him against the wall just outside the master bedroom. "Please be so kind as to wait right here, Mark. Don't move. I'll be just a moment. It's personal." And then he ducked into the bedroom.
There's something more personal than kidnapping, extortion, and murder? But whatever it was, McCormick decided he didn't want to know. He didn't move.
Just a few seconds later, Tilton emerged from the room and directed him through the house and out onto the front steps.
"Now we have a decision to make. It's either the trunk," Tilton smiled, "or you can ride in the front seat, like a civilized person."
"Do I get a vote?"
"Actions speak louder than words, as they say." Tilton's voice had slid into something vaguely like a parent lecturing a child. "Now I think you've demonstrated some promise this morning, some ability to handle responsibility. I just want you to know, if you do anything untoward while you are riding in the car, I will consider our contract null and void, and I will shoot you."
"At least I won't have to dig the damn grave," McCormick muttered, almost before he had thought the words. The cuff came swift and hard and almost felled him.
He staggered, trying to clear the ringing in his ear and hearing Tilton's harsh voice even through it, ". . . and you will not use that tone with me again."
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Frank had campaigned hard for some undercover back-up. The judge had argued, with damnable rationality, that there was no way to get someone into place that fast, especially not knowing the layout in advance. It would have to be him and Frank, and he wished to hell that Frank would please be a little circumspect.
So Frank was nearly a half-block away, watching his friend stalk the phone in front of the Go-Rite gas station. He'd had to restrain the judge from showing up earlier than the appointed time. Surely if the little demonstration on the beach hadn't been enough, Milt's willingness to stand out on the curb in broad daylight, letting Tilton have another shot at him, would cinch matters for sure.
But Frank saw no likely sniper posts, no suspicious vehicles, and no one else taking any special interest in the man by the phone. Too far away to hear the ring, he saw Milt twitch and grab for the phone hastily. It wasn't a long conversation, and Hardcastle was scribbling something down as he listened.
The other party must've hung up. The judge was standing there, staring at the receiver for a moment before he put it back on the hook. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, and then scanned the surroundings carefully, one more time. Ex-cop, my foot; he'll always be one. Finally he walked back to his car, got in, and pulled away. Frank followed at a decent distance.
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New game, new rules. No hood. On the other hand, they'd stuck to back roads and areas that were nearly deserted on a Sunday morning. McCormick hadn't quite made up his mind about what he would do if, say, a police car were to show up. He knew damn well he wasn't going to try to get the attention of any innocent bystanders. He didn't much care what happened to him any more, but he hated the idea of taking someone else down with him.
Tilton had already made one stop--a public phone at a quiet intersection. He'd left the car door open and the gun discretely in his overcoat pocket. The conversation had been short and consisted mostly of directions. We're meeting somebody. Wonderful . . . replacement goons.
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"It's his game, his rules," Frank protested.
"Has been all along, Frank."
"Now he tells you to go to some place up in the Godforsaken mountains and you go?"
"Well, that's why I think you should stay here. But I think if he was planning on shooting me again, he just would've gone and gotten it over with back at the phone." Hardcastle looked down at the piece of paper grimly. "I don't think that's on his 'to-do' list today."
"Well," Frank sighed, "I'm sure as hell not letting you go up there by yourself. Mark'd kill me."
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Tilton had gotten back into the car looking very pleased with himself. "Mark," he said expansively, "you really are turning out to be quite a useful person."
McCormick considered this, then put it to the back, filed under Things to Worry About Later. And, since he was assuming there wasn't going to be a later, it didn't matter how much went into that file.
Tilton went on, practically humming to himself, "Now that we have all our chores done, I say we should take it easy for a little bit. Fortunately, I made some alternate arrangements."
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They'd taken the truck, twisting up into the mountains on the route that had been given to the judge. Frank didn't attempt concealment; they'd decided that extra eyes were more valuable. But the trip was uneventful. It ended, with half a mile of dirt track, at a kept-up, but empty-appearing vacation home, neat and tidy, with a utility shed around the side, and no vehicles in sight.
Hardcastle got out and, with no regard for caution, walked up to the front door. Frank paused for a moment, watching for any sign of trouble, then followed him. The door was ajar; the judge pushed it open slowly with one hand. Inside was a front room, sparsely furnished with the practical, boring sort of furniture that is left for renters.
There was a hallway leading back through the house. They could see the outlines of a kitchen at the far end. A room to the right, and one to the left—they were both bedrooms. The smaller one was poorly lit with one overhead light and a shuttered window. It had an unmade bed. Hardcastle stepped in. The sheets were thrown back and there was . . . sand scattered on bottom sheet, and a smear of blood on the pillow.
Hardcastle's face had become set. He looked around the room, seeing nothing more. They both stepped back into the hallway. The other bedroom was non-descript. If anyone had slept there, they had tidied up. The next door down was the bathroom, with something on the floor that stopped the judge in his tracks--a rumpled shirt--more blood, not just streaks, a lot of dirt and, he had reached down to touch it, still damp with sweat.
He would have picked it up, he honestly was just a moment away from it, when Frank stayed his hand and said one word, "Evidence."
He froze, then stood up slowly. Frank had already turned and left the room. He was still staring down at the thing on the floor when he heard Frank's voice from the back of the house, loud and a little higher pitched than ordinary.
"Milt, we got something back here in the yard."
