Chapter 5
In the end she came semi-willingly but insisted on taking her own vehicle. That left Mark and Westerfield back in the truck, sedately bringing up the rear of the little parade back to Gulls Way.
He was glad of it, really, glad to have some plan of action, or at least to know that Hardcastle had one, and especially glad not to have that woman occupying the seat between him and the doc, sniffing and pouting and looking put upon. On the other hand, the empty space and the tense silence was no picnic, either.
They were back on the Pacific Coast Highway, and picking up speed, when the man in the passenger seat finally let out a long breath.
"Tough day for personal integrity," Westerfield said with an almost audible grimace of self-deprecation.
Mark took his eyes off the road for a split-second. The man's rueful expression matched his tone.
He ran through the morning's actions and drew a blank. Then he squinted at the Caddie up ahead and finally said, "Well, she's a piece of work all right but, hey, she probably wasn't lying about not trying to have you killed. I don't think she's someone who feels like she has to lie. If something's in her best interest it is the right thing to do."
Westerfield exhaled again. "That's a pretty good insight, but that wasn't what I was referring to."
"What, then? I mean, yeah, she set the wheel in motion, at least the one involving you and Louie getting shot . . . Oh."
He glanced sideward again. The psychiatrist's mouth was set thinly.
"Louie, huh?"
Westerfield nodded. "It's kind of easy to misplace him in the bigger picture, I suppose. But I'll give Milt credit; he definitely flashed some signals before he offered her the deal. I can't say he went behind my back."
Mark sighed. "Look, it's practical justice. Sometimes that's the best you can get. Chances are O'Donell is the guy who shot Louie, and he's already answering to a Higher Authority. And Mrs. Cartori didn't even spare Louie enough thought to have had a direct hand in having him killed. And indirect, well, that'd be damn hard to prove even if O'Donell wasn't dead. We'll just have to take what we can get."
He ended with a decisive nod and then, after a moment, added, "Anyway, you'd be surprised how often what goes around, comes around."
The psychiatrist looked thoughtful for a moment and then finally answered, almost under his breath, "Louie might've half agreed with you on that."
00000
Mrs. Cartori looked mildly surprised to find herself in the handsomely appointed study at Gulls Way rather than an interview room at the police station. There was a slight crook to her smile, too, a hint of satisfaction as though the understated luxury of the surroundings, purportedly belonging to a mere judge, had convinced her that Hardcastle was someone she could deal with. She seated herself in a wingback chair with the air of entitlement.
McCormick held back for a moment and snatched for Hardcastle's arm, keeping him in the hallway as well. Westerfield, looking down pensively, nearly collided with them.
"What's next?" Mark asked, low but sharp, not wanting to risk a united front, but very much wanting to know which trench he was going to be occupying. "You have got a plan, haven't you?"
Hardcastle looked at him with some surprise. "Yeah, I've got a plan. If you wanna come in here, I'll lay it out for you."
McCormick frowned and glanced back at Westerfield, then gave the judge another hard look. "Maybe you want to give me a general outline before you explain it all to Lucretia Borgia in there. I mean, I'm not sure I want my client involved in anything too shady."
"Shady?" Hardcastle snorted. "Listen, kiddo, the day I listen to a lecture on ethics from you will be the day I hang up my cleats and take up fly-fishing full time . . . shady." He shook his head.
Mark didn't budge and didn't blink. Hardcastle frowned and finally glanced around the doorway at the woman in the chair, now sorting through her purse for something. She got a quick, reassuring smile from him, and gave nothing in return. Then he ushered the other two back through the front door and onto the porch.
"Listen," he said, with less impatience that Mark would've expected, a patently bad sign in the shady department, "it might be a little dicey but it's all ethical." He said that last word as though it was the most important one of all. "Anyway," he added a little defensively. "None of it's illegal. We've got a hit man running around out there. He's already shown he means business, and he's got at least one more contract," he jerked his chn in Westerfield's direction, "maybe two. But worse still, if we just get him, and not the guy who hired him, we won't even know where the next try may come from."
Mark cocked his head for a moment, included Westerfield in his glance, and nodded.
"So, I say we nail him," Hardcastle smiled thinly. "I mean Cartori, and nail him good. Be nice if we could get Tunis at the same time; it'd save Frank and his guys a lot of time and effort and not run the risk of Tunis skipping back to Jersey."
"There's only one way you can draw Tunis out," Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, "and that's with bait."
"Well, yeah," the judge replied, as though that part went understood. "And we've got the fixings for some prime stuff. She must've told the hubby she'd told the doc lots of dirt. That was going to be her lever. Only she didn't realize a lever won't work unless you have a place to stand. She's lost almost all her backing. It'd be easier for Cartori to kill her than pay her off. But she's got him just a little worried. Now he's got to get the doc here, and the file, before he can do her in."
He was facing Westerfield full on. "That wasn't the goodness of her heart that made her send O'Donell after you, to keep Tunis off your back. She was protecting her insurance—you and the dirt in the non-existent file."
"Sounds logical."
"But what we've got here is all the fixings of a fake file, between what's in my real file, your handwriting, and Mrs. Cartori's insider information. All we need to do is put together a couple of convincing pages. You've got some blank sheets in that medical chart there?" He gestured to the one Westerfield had tucked under his good arm. "Between the three of us, I think we'll be able to make him an offer he can't refuse. Only I'm betting he'll do a double cross and try to get it all for nothing."
Westerfield pondered solemnly, and finally gave it a nod.
"You'll need a go-between," Mark interjected, turning sharply to the doc before he could even open his mouth. "Makes sense. I'm your lawyer. Besides, I'm twenty years younger and haven't been shot yet this week. Makes a lot of sense to let me go point."
"It's not your problem," the shrink said quietly.
"It's isn't exactly yours, either," Mark replied with what he thought was self-evident logic. The doc looked stubbornly unconvinced.
Hardcastle pushed the argument to the back with a quick gesture. "Look, we'll figure out who does the deal after we have something to deal with." He ushered Westerfield before him, back into the house, Mark following along reluctantly. He spoke half over his shoulder to the younger man. "If it makes you feel any better, you can call Frank and get him on board and up to speed. However we do this, we're going to have some back-up."
"I'll bet this Tunis guy knows how to use a sniper scope," Mark said glumly, and no one tried to persuade him otherwise as the other two men headed back into the house.
00000
It was late-afternoon when Frank finally showed up. Mark let him in the front door, and led him past the closed doors to the den, temporarily ignoring his questioning look.
In the kitchen Mark allowed himself an expression of more open disapproval and said, brusquely. "They're conferencing."
"And you're not?" Frank asked as he took a seat at the table, laying a file down in front of him.
"I suppose you don't want your lawyer around when you're agreeing to do something stupid. That and nobody likes a wet blanket." McCormick shrugged. He fetched two cups of coffee and brought them to the table, casting a predatory eye on the file. "That's what you came up with on 'em?"
"The latest on Cartori, and everything we've got on Tunis. That bit is hot off the wires. Took a while for it all to come through. This is Sunday, you know."
"Lady Justice never sleeps—cat naps, maybe, but who can tell with the damn bandage over her eyes . . . and she definitely doesn't take weekends off."
"You're tellin' me," Frank sighed and then after a moment's contemplative silence, perhaps over past weekends and what they had been lost to, he added, "I suppose I ought to go in there and see how far they've gotten."
"Nope." Mark shook his head. "You won't approve, I'm pretty sure of that." He reached for the file. "You'd better stay out here and work on your plausible deniability."
The silence barely had time to settle in again before it was interrupted by footsteps, followed shortly by Hardcastle in the doorway, papers in hand, looking cautiously pleased.
"Hey, Frank, thought I heard you pull up. We were kind of preoccupied." He cast a glance at McCormick and the file, sidling in a little closer.
Mark kept a grip on what he was studying, only relinquishing it when Hardcastle wordlessly offered an exchange. Even that did little to relieve the tension. McCormick grimaced at the new reading material.
Frank sat there, eyebrows up just a bit, until it was finally handed over to him. The eyebrows rose further as he scanned the page.
"Hot stuff," he said dryly. "Is it all true?"
Hardcastle glanced up sharply from the file. "I hope it is."
"It'll probably bring the dogs out, if you let 'em have a sniff of this."
"We'll need a copy," Mark said casually. "Can't hand him the original; he'd never believe the doc'd do that."
Hardcastle studied him closely for a moment and then said, "No complaints? I'm not twisting your client's arm, making him spit on the Hippocratic Oath and all that?"
"I already tried that argument. Didn't work." He said it flatly, with no apparent rancor.
"Exactly," the judge smiled, "and he's not violating any oaths, not his professional code of ethics either." It was an obvious attempt at conciliation. "These aren't real medical records and the patient is sitting in there acting in full knowledge and cooperation."
"I already said you won," McCormick sighed. "I'll go make the copies." He was up from the chair and shifting his jacket on one-handed, never letting loose of the papers. "Sunday, mostly everything closed. I'll just run down to the office. Okay?"
Hardcastle was still eyeing him narrowly. Mark switched hands and finished shrugging the jacket on.
"Traffic's light. It won't take me that long," he added calmly. "Then what? You going to try and set it up today?"
It was all soothingly matter-of-fact and cooperative, without quite straining credulity. He watched the judge gradually relax as he worked through the next steps.
"Yeah, I think so. If we can reach him," he added. "Makes sense to do it quick while we've got all the pieces in place and before he has a chance to find out his wife went off with somebody."
Mark floated it one more time, very non-challenging, a mere suggestion. "I ought to be the go-between. I've had practice. He won't believe Westerfield would take a risk like this solo."
"Cartori doesn't know him, and the papers, without him, might not be enough bait. Besides, the doc wouldn't want to involve anyone else if he really was using those records to score a payment."
Mark gave this a nod, as if quietly bowing to the inevitable. Then, leaving no more room for a debate he wasn't going to engage in anyway, he departed.
00000
He took the Coyote. Speed was definitely going to be a factor, even though he did know of a place with a copy machine that was open on Sunday and a lot closer than the office. He made it there in just shy of ten minutes, fed the coins into the slot and had the job done in a couple minutes more.
He leaned against the machine, studying the document. Up to this point, what he'd done just qualified as efficiency. He could get in the car, turn north on the PHC and be back at the estate in another ten minutes.
Westerfield would make the phone call; he'd do whatever Hardcastle asked him to do. They were friends, and the judge could be damn persuasive. Add to that whatever guilt the doc was carrying around about Louie's death, and it was a perfect set-up for ill-considered risk-taking. He'd arrange the meet, and confront Cartori, or, more likely, Tunis himself.
Frank and the judge would make it as foolproof as possible, but they'd have to let the thing play out a little, to make the arrests stick. And how many of these crazy situations turned into a test of fast reflexes and a matter of knowing exactly when to jump?
Mark took one last look at the document. At least Westerfield's writing was fairly decent; he wouldn't have much trouble reading it out loud. He stepped over to the phone and dialed the number he'd committed to memory from the file Frank had briefly lent him.
00000
Mrs. Cartori had been abandoned in the den. The three men occupied the kitchen. It was another conference of sorts, the first part consisting of way and means, contingency plans and general coaching from Hardcastle to Westerfield. Slowly, though, and without any abrupt transition, the judge's attention began to drift.
It started with one quick look at the clock, followed a few minutes later by a confirmatory check of his watch. After that came a glance out the back door, down toward the garage, and finally another check of the watch.
"Traffic," Frank said quietly.
"It's light today," the judge bit back sharply.
Westerfield had caught the concern and was frowning now, too. "He wouldn't—" and then he interrupted himself with a shake of his head that indicated he was answering his own unasked question.
The judge was on his feet, already moving toward the phone even before it rang, briefly freezing him in his tracks.
He grabbed for it and kept his greeting to a terse 'Hello?'
The hello from the other end was impossibly, aggravatingly calm, and was followed by an equally mild, "Should I talk to Frank?"
"That depends," Hardcastle growled. "Where the hell are you?"
"Listen," Mark said, still quiet, still calm, "the call is already made. You can't do anything about it and yelling at me won't change a thing. Think about it; it's better this way. More believable, at any rate: the shady two-bit ex-con lawyer trying to turn a little profit on the side. That makes more sense than a guy with a list of credentials as long as your arm, trying to cash in on a one-time deal, and leaving himself at the mercy of a thug like Cartori."
Hardcastle said nothing. He didn't think there was anything he could say just then that he wouldn't regret in five minutes.
"Good," Mark said, apparently not picking up on what he hadn't said. "I'd hoped you'd get it. Now, I've got the meeting set for six p.m. I know that's not a lot of time, but, like you said, it's better to get this thing rolling before he's got time to think it through, right?"
The judge managed a growl. It might have, charitably, been interpreted as agreement.
"Don't worry; it's a good spot."
He gave the address, the parking lot of a restaurant closed for remodeling. They'd eaten there a few times in the past, and Hardcastle could picture the layout.
"See? I'm being sensible; I'm keeping you informed. I know I need the cavalry there, just not too many troops. That'd scare them off. I looked Tunis' file over. He is good with a rifle. That means he'll probably stay a ways off, and out of sight, but Cartori won't want him shooting from too far away, since he's going to be down there in the lot with me. He won't want it to be a hundred-yard shot."
"Yeah," Hardcastle finally grumbled. "There's a hill right behind the lot. That'd make the most sense."
"Exactly. One hill, how hard can it be to intercept him there?"
"In the dark? And we don't even know for sure that that's where he'll be?" The judge heard his voice rising.
"Sorry." The man on the other end of the line sounded contrite, but firm. "It's the best I could do on the spur of the moment."
"No." This time the growl was clear in its meaning. "The best would be to shut this down right now. Meet us here. We'll call him back and—"
"I told you," Mark interrupted, still very calm but equally firm, "it's done. Try to pull out now and we have nothing, except that Tunis will get one more contract, and we won't know when or where he'll deliver."
There it was, all on the table, with the minutes ticking by and no chance left for an appeal to reason. Still, Hardcastle tried.
"A wire and a bullet-proof vest—"
"No time. You get Tunis, he'll turn on Cartori. Besides, the guy favors a head shot, leastwise that's what the files say." There was a long, slow breath from the other end of the line. "Okay," Mark finally said, "I gotta get rolling; you, too. I'll see you when it's over. You can tell me what a total screw-up I am."
That was obviously meant to be light, but there was something in McCormick's tone that revealed the worry underneath. The judge wondered for a split-second if it was more the potential for getting shot at, or the fear of what would happen afterwards, even if he didn't.
And then, even before he could say anything, he heard the quick 'Bye' and the line went dead. He stood there for a moment with it in his hand, then gradually became aware that the other two men were staring at him, and he'd been scowling the whole time.
"Mark?" Frank asked unnecessarily.
He looked down at his watch then up at Frank. "How quick can you get me a couple of tach guys and maybe a sniper?"
"Milt, it's Sunday evening and we're all the way up here. Even if someone's just standing around waiting for the call it'll take time." Harper didn't look happy. "What's he gone and done?"
He told him. By the time he'd finished the quick outline, Frank was scowling, too, and even Westerfield looked troubled.
"Okay," Hardcastle rubbed his temple, "maybe a black and white. The closest one you've got, but they come here first and you get 'em organized. I'll go on ahead and try and get in position before these guys show up."
"Milt—"
"He didn't leave us a whole lot of options here, Frank. I don't have time to wait for the backup and we can't send them straight there."
He was already headed for the hallway toward the den, and the most convenient firepower he could lay his hands on quickly. Frank had moved to the phone. Westerfield was on his feet, too, only a couple steps behind him.
"What can I do?"
Hardcastle gave him a quick look over his shoulder. The man looked pale, worried, and deeply unhappy. The judge knew the next bit wasn't going to cheer him up any.
"Stay here. Keep an eye on that woman. I'd rather not have her arrested, but I don't want her to skedaddle when the cops show up here. You can keep her distracted?"
Westerfield frowned. He looked like a man who had just figured out his place in the greater scheme of things and wasn't too pleased about it. He finally let out a sigh.
"Sure, I'll talk to her. I'm pretty good at that." He flashed a wan smile. "Will you please be careful?"
The judge managed a smile back; maybe it was a little brittle. "Always," he said bluffly. Then he ducked into the den and headed for the wall safe.
The woman in the chair glanced up, only mildly interested, but more so when he pulled out a gun and holster. She started to sit up straighter and looked like she was going to pepper him with questions. The doc stepped in, propped himself on the edge of the desk that was between the other two, and transferred his smile to her, now subtly transmuted into a look of reassurance.
Hardcastle heard him say, "Things seem to be coming along pretty quickly. . ." as he ducked back out and headed for the front door.
00000
McCormick cruised in slowly, cutting his lights almost as soon as he hit the turnoff, hoping to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. It appeared that he'd beaten everyone else there, at least everyone who was willing to be seen.
There was always the possibility that Cartori wouldn't even show, that he'd send Tunis to do all his negotiating for him and that it would be the kind that wasn't done face to face. He'd bought himself all the insurance he could, reading off a couple of the juicier paragraphs out loud, assuring the mobster there was more where that came from, and that he wouldn't get it all until cash had changed hands.
He'd really left the man no option but to try and take him out, but preferably after he had his hands on the original document. What existed of that, all three pages of it, was stuffed under the passenger seat of the Coyote. Mark climbed up out of the parked car slowly, watching carefully for any movement on the shadowy hill behind the lot. The nearby sound of the surf covered subtle sounds.
Headlights cut across the lot. Mark turned his head away trying to save his night vision, feeling slightly relieved. It was another car entering. He just stood there, copy in hand.
A man emerged from the car, the back seat, so there was at least a driver, maybe more muscle.
He said what he was supposed to say. "I told you to come alone." He put a little nervous edge on it, which wasn't all that difficult under the circumstances.
Cartori was clear of the car now, stocky and very dangerous-looking even all by himself.
"You want a payoff, it'll be by my rules," the man said. He had a flashlight in his hand. "Bring it here."
Mark worked up a scowl, but complied. He needed to string this out as much as possible, without ever appearing to balk completely. The pages were handed over. Cartori didn't even bother to keep an eye on him. His whole attention was on the papers, moving his lips slightly, and squinting a little.
"They're copies," he finally growled.
"Course they are," Mark shrugged. "I'm not stupid."
"The originals?"
"In a safe place."
"And if I pay you, what's to guarantee you haven't made more copies?"
Mark let out an impatient, lawyerly sigh. "The copies won't mean a thing as evidence—too easy to diddle." He smiled and said, "Ask your lawyer."
Cartori shot him a look, then grabbed the papers up in a tight fist, crumpling them and then tossing them to the ground. "The doc, he in on this with you?"
"Nah." Mark shook his head slowly. "He came to me for advice, wanted to know what to do about this information he had. That was after one of your goons took a shot at him and he put two and two together."
"Not mine," Cartori growled. "That was Maggie's guy. Dunno why the hell she wanted to knock him off. Broads, who knows what makes 'em tick?" Then he scowled. "The doc must've pissed her off pretty good." The scowl deepened. "If he hurt her . . ."
Mark frowned. The last thing he wanted was to be confided in. The next thing would be a job offer, and then he'd never get shot at.
"Two hundred grand," he said harshly.
Cartori looked up sharply from his reverie. "You said a hundred thou on the phone."
"That's the half up front," Mark smiled insolently. "The rest I want on delivery. You'll get to inspect the goods." He was watching carefully now, half expecting a signal, something that would originate from Cartori, maybe reinforced with a blink of the headlights.
But, no, still negotiating. The mobster gave him a slow up and down and then said, "Might be even more in it for you than that, if you can give me the shrink, too."
Dammit, not that way. First an offer, then pretty soon an offer he couldn't refuse, and a quick hustle into the car. He tried to look pensive, like a man who was considering the step over the line between blackmail and murder, and hadn't quite made up his mind yet.
He looked over his shoulder one more time, hoping it wasn't too obvious. No signs of anything on the hill. He brought his gaze back to Cartori and took a slow, cautious step backwards.
"I dunno, have to think about it."
The back door of the vehicle was opening again, the driver's door, too. He supposed he might have miscalculated. Maybe Tunis hadn't been readily at hand, maybe Cartori would let the local boys handle this; in which case, he was earnestly hoping for a kidnapping, not a murder. His second step back was more definite, and then he pivoted suddenly and took off running for the Coyote.
He heard a shot, felt nothing, and realized they were aiming for the tires. They really did want him alive, at least for now. He did a quick calculation of how far he'd get in his car with at least one full flat, then bypassed it and had made it another ten yards before he was flattened from behind.
Another gunshot, this one with an echo, as though from a little further off, and the guy pinning him down was at least momentarily distracted enough to allow McCormick to get an elbow in his ribs. Some scuffling, but he wasn't getting the upper hand, then another gunshot, some shouting, and the sound of approaching sirens.
The whole thing balanced on the edge for a split second, while the man who had him pinned down apparently did some quick calculating. Then, just as suddenly, he must've decided he didn't want to go for employee of the month. Mark felt the pressure ease up. The guy scrambled away, trying to bolt into the darkness but suddenly caught in the lights from the squad car that had pulled up.
Mark heeded the general announcement for everyone to freeze. He'd only made it as far as his knees anyway and it would have been stupid to get shot at this point. He turned to look over his shoulder again, moving slowly, carefully. There were figures at the base of the hill, too far away and too poorly lit for him to be exactly sure who was who.
Then Frank was there, offering him a hand up.
"You okay?" he asked.
Mark got to his feet, straightened up slowly, felt a crick or two that might have something more definitive to say to him in the morning, and finally said, "Yeah, pretty much."
Frank nodded, still looking a little doubtful, and handed him a handkerchief. "Your face."
Mark reached up and touched it, his hand coming away damp and a little sticky. He put the cloth to it and muttered. "Nothing. A scrape." And then he looked back toward the hill. "We got 'em? Tunis, too?"
Frank nodded again, pretty reticent for a guy who'd just scored a big catch.
"Cartori says his wife hired O'Donell," Mark offered quietly.
"That's good," Frank exhaled, hands in his pockets. "They'll all probably be scrambling to dump the goods on each other. And Tunis isn't even one of the family." There was a pause, and then, "He had a rifle and a scope."
"And Hardcastle?" Mark was squinting worriedly now.
"Milt's fine; he got behind him while he was distracted, watching you." Harper frowned. "How much damage control am I going to have to do with what you said to Cartori?"
Mark thought maybe someday he'd get a tattoo. It'd say 'flagrant necessity', maybe with oak leaf clusters.
"I did what I had to do, Frank. I wasn't going to let the doc let himself get talked into one of these things. The learning curve is too damn steep."
"We'll need to hear it from you, all of it," Frank said flatly. "But we've got enough physical evidence for tonight. You can head home." There was an unspoken implication there, that maybe he was being given time to get his story straight.
More vehicles were pulling up. Mark looked back toward the Coyote, listing slightly back onto the now-flat rear tire. "I'll need a flatbed tow back to the estate. Maybe you could call in for me?" He cast one more worried look at the cluster over by the hill, then shook his head. "I can catch a ride home with the driver." He dabbed at his cheek again with the handkerchief and studied the results.
Frank nodded again, just once and said, "I'll call. Might take a bit."
" 'S okay, I'll wait. I'm fine."
He strolled back to the Coyote. From the corner of his eye he watched Harper walk off toward the hill. He did not follow that further, except to notice that one figure had detached itself from the small crowd and was intercepting Frank. After that he kept his eyes on the car, giving it a close inspection.
He'd stooped down to find the entry wound on the tire, when the shadow fell across him—a standing figure just to his right against the beams of one of the squad cars.
"You okay?" It was terse and gruff.
"Yeah," Mark looked up, over his right shoulder. He couldn't make out the expression against the back light. "You?"
"I'm fine. You got some blood on your face."
"Nothing. A scrape. I've got a hankie." He reached back into his hip pocket, pulled it out and held it in the light, more dirt than blood. "See? Fine." He realized his pitch had gone up, and there was more tension in his tone than he'd meant to reveal.
He backed it down a notch and said, very calmly. "I've gotta wait for the tow truck. They took out a tire." He was on his feet again, and kicked it once. "And that's what they were aiming for, too," he added.
"Okay." He heard the other man backing down, as well.
He supposed that was a good thing, though it didn't feel that way, much to his surprise. He turned to say something else, and found he was looking at Hardcastle walking away. He closed his mouth and leaned back against the rear quarter of the Coyote, feeling sore and tired, and very unsettled.