PART III
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.
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.”
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?”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
“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.”
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.”
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 the 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.”
Hardcastle followed Harper’s voice into the kitchen and then joined him at the back window. He opened his mouth to ask what had the detective so agitated, but his eyes had followed Harper’s gaze to the yard and he suddenly found that no sound was possible. In truth, just breathing had unexpectedly become a challenge, and he took a moment to focus. In. Out. In. Okay, I got it now.
No conscious thought had directed him toward the door, though his brain did engage just in time to keep him from barreling over the man blocking his exit. “I need to get out there, Frank.”
“No. You don’t.”
The firm conviction of the words surprised the judge and he took a half step backward. “What?” He shook his head quickly, wondering briefly if his head wound was suddenly causing some kind of delirium. “I need to get out there,” he repeated, and started around the detective, only to find the other man in his path again. “Frank…” the word had a decidedly threatening tone, but Harper stood his ground.
“What do you think you’re going to find out there, Milt?” the lieutenant demanded. He hated to be so blunt; he knew precisely what Hardcastle thought he would find. But this had gone on long enough. Things were out of control, and someone had to restore some order.
“I think…” Hardcastle let the words trail off, unable to complete the thought. He could no longer see the yard outside the window, but the image of the freshly mounded dirt was as clear as if it were right in front of him. He shook his head again. Harper had picked a hell of a time to get stubborn. He let his eyes meet the detective’s. “I can’t leave him out there.” He paused, then added, “I need to get out there. Let me pass.”
For just a moment, Harper worried that Hardcastle might physically remove him from the doorway. Then he worried that his resolve wasn’t strong enough to withstand the torment raging in his friend’s eyes. But in the end, neither man moved as years of friendship gave them the strength to get through the moment.
Finally, Harper spoke again. “I’m not giving up, Milt,” he began, “and I don’t want you to, either. But we need some help now. It’s time for us to quit doing this on our own.”
“But McCormick…” Hardcastle raised his hand wearily to gesture toward the yard, then let it fall limply back to his side.
“We don’t know that,” Harper insisted with a slight shake of his head, though he thought his sudden desire to rein in this independent investigation might have less to do with protocol and more with the idea that a man should never have to dig his best friend out of homemade grave.
“But, Milt,” Harper continued, “whatever we find out there-and I’m sorry-but whatever is out there is a crime scene. If-God forbid-it is Mark, don’t you want to preserve the evidence that will convict Tilton? We need to do this right.”
Hardcastle held his friend’s gaze for a long moment, then finally yielded. “I suppose evidence might be helpful, just in case.”
The detective’s eyebrow rose in sudden puzzlement. That was not the kind of agreement he’d been after. “Just in case what?” he demanded. And as Hardcastle turned away, the muttered reply was the last thing Harper wanted to hear.
“Just in case he gets away from me.”
“Where are we going anyway?” McCormick asked. He didn’t really expect an answer, but he had discovered that the silences with Tilton were almost as unnerving as the conversations.
Tilton barely spared a glance at his passenger, but he smiled warmly. “Home.”
McCormick felt a brief moment of unexpected hope. The cops will be watching his house. Followed immediately by, Though it might be easier if they weren’t. Let’s get this over with.
Almost as if reading his mind, Tilton assured him, “We won’t be disturbed,” and then lapsed back into silence.
Harper had wanted to leave the house, to call in the reinforcements from some other location, to get Hardcastle far away from this place. But the judge had been adamant about staying, and, ultimately, the detective had considered it a success that he still kept the older man out of the back yard.
On the other hand, it wasn’t all that encouraging that the jurist had spent the seemingly interminable wait sitting silently in the small room that had almost certainly been McCormick’s prison. Harper had first reminded him not to touch anything, then had tried unsuccessfully to engage him in conversation, but Hardcastle just sat, hands clasped in his lap, staring at the bed, which is exactly how Harper found him when it was time for the lab techs to process the room.
“He deserved better than this, Frank,” Hardcastle said softly.
Unable to come up with a suitable response, Harper simply ushered Hardcastle out of the room.
McCormick had been concerned with the familiarity of the scenery for a few minutes now. Surely not, he thought. Not even Tilton is that crazy. But after another few miles, it seemed impossible that they were headed anywhere other than Malibu.
Maybe he lives nearby, McCormick continued his silent argument. He did know the shoreline really well, even in the dark. But he couldn’t make himself believe it, even as desperately as he tried. This lunatic is determined to make what’s left of my life hell. He closed his eyes briefly as they pulled into the drive at Gull’s Way. “Ah, Mr. Tilton?”
“I told you we were going home, Mark,” Tilton replied, his silky smooth voice sending a chill to Mark’s soul. “You don’t think the judge will mind, do you?” Without waiting for a response, he reached into his overcoat pocket and retrieved a set of keys. Dangling them in the air, he said, “I’m sorry, but we did have to remove these from your pocket yesterday. I assume one of them fits this gate?”
McCormick stared for several seconds before giving a single nod. “The smaller, roundish one.” His mind was already calculating the contortions that would be required for a handcuffed man to get an idling car into gear and then accelerate into the gate, crushing Tilton in the process. But, true to form, the man was not careless. He shut off the engine and removed the keys before exiting the car to unlock the gate.
McCormick just sighed as he watched through the front windshield. Better this way, anyway. At least someone will find me.
Hardcastle stood in the kitchen, trying to answer questions, but his attention was drawn to the activity taking place outside the window. “They’re taking their time,” he said, jerking his head in that direction.
The Ventura County deputy glanced behind him; the forensics team seemed to have barely made a dent in their project, as they dug carefully through the dirt. “Never know what they might find,” he answered, almost apologetically. “They have to be thorough.”
Hardcastle tried to redirect his thoughts. “This place doesn’t belong to Tilton?”
“Not your Tilton,” the deputy, Flores, replied. “Property deed shows it belongs to someone named Lawrence Tilton. Relative, I assume.”
“Son,” Hardcastle replied shortly, “deceased.”
Flores jotted that down into his notebook. “And you believe that the senior Tilton is responsible for kidnapping Mr.….ah…McConnell?” He flipped through his notebook, trying to verify the information.
“McCormick,” the judge corrected angrily, “Mark McCormick. And it’s not a matter of what I believe, that’s what happened. The only thing I’m waiting on you guys to tell me is whether kidnapping has turned into murder.”
And then Frank was there, turning him gently but firmly toward the other room. “Deputy Flores, would you excuse us for a moment, please?”
When they reached the living room, Harper spoke. “Milt, will you please let these people do their job without giving them a lot of grief? We’ve got Ventura County and Ojai P.D. here, and I’ve called one of my detectives up here to be the official liaison for LA once I’m gone.” Seeing Hardcastle’s expression of concern, he immediately continued, “Don’t worry; it’s Lee Barkus. You know him.”
“Yeah,” Hardcastle nodded, “I do. Okay.”
“Anyway, they know what they’re doing; it just takes some time.”
“I know that,” the judge snapped.
“I know you know,” Harper replied patiently. “But I also know why you need to be reminded right now. We’re a little bit out of our jurisdiction here, Milt; let the professionals do their job.”
Hardcastle took a breath and nodded again. “I just need to know for sure.”
“Judge Hardcastle?”
The jurist looked up to find Deputy Flores stepping out onto the front porch-the best place he had found for staying out of the way. “Have they finished with the…out back?”
The deputy shook his head. “Sorry; not yet. Soon, though. But I wanted to ask if you know anything about the stuff in the house.”
“What stuff? We didn’t really search the place.” Waiting for the professionals, but he kept the thought to himself.
“There’s some kind of surveillance set-up,” Flores explained. “A listening station; receivable only. We found it in the back of a closet. Nothing going on, though, if it’s tied into anything. I just wondered if you had any ideas.”
“Oh, I have some ideas,” Hardcastle answered, as he followed the deputy back inside.
They found one of the technicians carefully dusting the compact electronic contraption. “Still no activity, sir,” he said with a quick glance at Flores. “Though everything seems to be working properly.”
“I don’t think you’re going to hear any activity,” Hardcastle said. “My guess is that used to be patched into my house, though I don’t know why he would cart the thing all the way up here.”
The young tech waited for a nod from Flores, then turned his attention to Hardcastle.
“Actually, sir, when I said it was working properly, I didn’t just mean that it’s in working order, I meant it’s working. Right now.”
“Well what’s he listening to out here?” Harper demanded. “We’re miles from anything.”
The technician gestured to the phone receiver cradled into the contraption. “This is a separate phone line from the main number. It’s dialed into something called an infinity transmitter,” he explained. “It works through the phone line. Reception is practically limitless. Just dial up the number and you can hear what’s going on in the room.”
“You’re kidding,” Hardcastle said.
“No.”
The judge shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He dismissed the idea as unimportant. “Are there any recordings?
“It does have recording capability,” the technician confirmed, “but the tape in it is blank, and we haven’t found any others.”
“Not too surprising,” the judge responded, “but it would’ve been nice.” He turned to head back for the porch, trying not to think about how the thing that would’ve been nice was to hear Mark’s voice just one more time.
“What is it we’re doing here again?” McCormick asked from his seat on the gatehouse sofa. His voice carried just the edge of nervousness.
After some initial acerbic comments about Hardcastle helping others rise above their station in life, Tilton had been content to sit quietly at the dining table, watching as McCormick struggled to cope with the strange concurrence of surroundings that were intimately familiar and circumstances that were anything but.
He smiled slightly at the young man’s hesitant question, seeming to take some pleasure in such a minor victory. “We’re meeting someone.”
McCormick couldn’t hide his surprise. “You’re bringing someone here?”
“And why wouldn’t I?” Tilton asked reasonably. The tone turned taunting. “No one else is getting any use from the place.”
McCormick swallowed, and bit back a response. New rules, he reminded himself. You might be useful, but he’s tired of pretending he doesn’t hate you.
And then they heard the muffled sound of a car coming up the drive, and Tilton rose from his chair. “Our visitor is here,” he said, all charm again. “I’ll show him in.” He paused at the door. “You’ll stay where you are, I trust.”
Mark nodded in resignation. “You’re the boss.” He tried to ignore Tilton’s satisfied chuckle as he watched the man disappear out the door.
It only took a couple of minutes for Tilton to return to the gatehouse. McCormick could hear him as he approached the door, chatting amiably with the newcomer-whoever that might be. I just hope this goon isn’t as dedicated to his work.
Tilton sailed back inside, followed far less enthusiastically by Doug Riley. McCormick stared wordlessly, and found his own surprise mirrored on the face in front of him.
“Tilton,” Riley whispered frantically, “what’s going on?”
“Doug, Doug, Doug,” Tilton admonished, “please do not be rude. Mr. McCormick here was the one responsible for obtaining those incriminating documents for me, and he was present at Judge Hardcastle’s unfortunate shooting. I believe that you can safely talk in front of him.”
Riley continued to stare at McCormick, clearly not convinced that this was a good idea. “If you can trust him, why’s he in cuffs?”
“Ah, so similar to some of Hardcastle’s final words. You legal types do all think alike, don’t you?” Tilton smiled with every appearance of truly enjoying himself, and continued quickly before Riley’s confused expression could find words. “But I have secured Mr. McCormick because it is just possible he would forfeit his twenty thousand dollars in order to be free from me just as he forfeited Judge Hardcastle’s generosity in order to be free of him.” He had moved to stand directly next to Riley now, and slung his arm over the other man’s shoulder companionably. “And it’s also possible that he would try to repay my generous offer by showing up tomorrow at the courthouse and causing some sort of trouble.”
Tilton’s voice had taken on that calming, almost disgustingly melodic quality that McCormick had come to associate with some type of predator lying in wait for its next meal, and Riley looked like he was falling for it. His face was beginning to relax, and Mark could see the tension leave his shoulders.
McCormick was certain Riley never saw Tilton reach smoothly into his jacket for the .38, just as he was sure the man never heard his shout of warning or the shot that ended his life.
Before the body had hit the ground, McCormick found the weapon pointed in his direction, and he froze in place. He hadn’t actually realized he was standing; that must’ve happened when he’d tried to warn Riley, though he hadn’t exactly intended to do that, either. It just sort of happened. Doubtful Tilton would believe that.
“Is there a problem, Mark?” Apparently, Tilton didn’t consider the dead man lying in the spreading pool of blood a problem.
McCormick shook his head wordlessly.
“I think the cops were on to him,” Tilton said by way of explanation. “Besides, he was supposed to take care of all the files and you ended up carrying his load. That kind of inefficiency cannot go unpunished.”
What the hell kind of rule is that?
But McCormick nodded silently; figuring this wasn’t the best time to point out that Riley would’ve had no way of knowing about Hardcastle’s personal files.
After a moment, Tilton re-holstered his gun again, taking care to meticulously rearrange his clothes back in place. “We’ll be leaving soon, Mark.”
“They’ve found a body.”
Hardcastle and Harper whirled around on the porch at Flores’ simple statement. The judge was already through the doorway and headed toward the back of the house before Harper managed to grab his arm. “Why don’t you let me go first?”
Hardcastle opened his mouth to answer, realized he didn’t know how to explain himself anyway, and let his eyes do the talking. Harper released his grip with a small nod. “Okay, let’s go.”
Hardcastle traversed the house quickly and Harper was almost trotting to keep up with him as he crossed the yard, but when he got close enough to see the shape of the black bag, the judge stopped short. How can I…?
Because you have to, his mind answered.
Because it’s your fault.
Because he would, if it were you.
He closed the few remaining feet between them, and squatted down slowly. He felt Frank’s reassuring presence as he reached for the zipper, and everything around him swirled into a muted background until there was only him and the bag. With a final prayer for strength, he pulled down on the zipper, and as he stared into the lifeless face, everything went gray.
He thought he was in that grayness for days, staring at an unfamiliar face, knowing a life was lost, but feeling only happiness and relief. But he could hear Harper’s whoop of joy, feel his hand clapping him on the back, and color slowly returned.
Hardcastle rose and turned to face his friend, feeling the smile on his face. “It’s not Mark,” he said, needing to say it aloud.
Harper’s head bobbed up and down as he steered the older man away from the scene. “It’s not Mark,” he repeated happily, and for just a moment, nothing else mattered.
McCormick was walking dutifully toward the drive when Tilton’s voice stopped him. “Not just yet, Mark. There is one other piece of business we need to take care of here.” He gestured toward the main house. “After you.”
Now what? He decided that was actually a fair question, if he could do it without the irritation. “Now what, Mr. Tilton?” Not bad.
Tilton shrugged slightly. “I would just like to make sure the judge didn’t have anything else that belongs to me. Besides,” he went on as they walked, “a guy like him, you never know what kind of things might be lying around for the taking. Information-such as that he had on me-can be very valuable. I have always believed in taking advantage of opportunity.” He glanced over at the young man. “And what about you, Mark? Anything inside that you wish you could have taken long ago, if only for the chance? Such a financially motivated young man as yourself; some of his stuff must be worth a pretty penny.”
McCormick just shook his head slightly and didn’t answer. But Tilton grabbed his arm and jerked him forcefully to a stop just as they reached the porch. “Or is it possible,” he said harshly, “that you didn’t have to steal? Maybe all you had to do was ask.”
Don’t look away! McCormick’s mind instructed frantically. He’s fishing. He’s messing with your mind. That’s all. He succeeded in holding his gaze steady, but he couldn’t force words from his throat. How can this guy know so damn much?
Tilton tried again. “Is it possible that you have realized that Hardcastle really did present you with an amazing opportunity? Have you begun to wish you’d been more grateful?”
And suddenly, McCormick could feel the futility of…everything. Just tell him the truth, his brain finally relented.
What truth? He argued with himself. That he was my best friend? That he probably saved my life with his crazy Lone Ranger and Tonto idea? That I can’t imagine being here without him? Is that the truth you’re talking about?
Yes.
McCormick stiffened almost imperceptibly as his resolve returned. He knew he wouldn’t be telling Tilton anything about Hardcastle; it wouldn’t be fair. Because I never told him.
Watching his prisoner closely, Tilton seemed to understand how close he had come to breaking through, but he also seemed to recognize when the moment passed. With a thoughtful smile, he held up a key on the ring. “Is this the one?”
McCormick nodded slowly, then stepped into the house as the door was pushed open. He paused in the entryway, almost overwhelmed by the sudden rush of memories. Why was he looking for Hardcastle to come walking down the stairs or out of the den, when he knew that would never happen again?
As Tilton closed the front door behind them, he glanced toward the interior double-doors, open and inviting as always. “I think this is a waste of time.” Don’t make me go in there. But Tilton was nudging him forward, so he crossed to the den, but he stopped just inside the doors as Tilton continued down the steps into the room.
Unreasonably, the sight of that man in the judge’s personal space angered McCormick more than anything that had been done to him this weekend, and he clenched his teeth to keep from blurting words that would’ve blown his cover story with the first syllable. He took a breath, then plunged ahead. “This is where Hardcastle kept his files and stuff, so whatever you’re looking for would be here.”
“Sort of the inner sanctum, right, Mark?”
McCormick nodded silently as he found himself thinking that it would be okay if Tilton decided to end it all right here. At least I’d die at home.
They were on the porch again, introducing Barkus to Flores, and going through a quick debriefing. Hardcastle’s interest in staying at the house had ended twenty minutes earlier at the gravesite, but he deferred to the logic of waiting on another representative of the LAPD.
“So why did he send you up here?” Barkus asked.
Hardcastle was still grinning, and didn’t even care that he’d already answered this question about half a dozen times before for the various represented agencies. “Because he could,” he said simply. “Because it’s his game. Because he wants me to know he’s calling the shots.”
“You think McCormick is still alive?”
The grin faded slightly. “Yeah, I do, but I don’t know for how much longer.” He glanced over at Harper. “We’re gonna have to find him soon.”
Harper nodded. “Barkus, we’re gonna head back to the station. You stay up here and- -”
“Deputy Flores,” an officer interrupted from the doorway, “we’ve got something on the receiver.”
Within seconds they were crowded into the bedroom, eavesdropping on a private conversation.
“…told you; I don’t think he had time to make copies.”
McCormick’s voice could be heard through the speaker. It was hollow, crackly, and distant, and quite possibly the best sound Hardcastle had ever heard. He heard his own breath catch, and focused enough to ask a simple question. “Is it recording?”
The tech nodded quickly. “Yeah; voice activated.”
“Frank, we need to get someone- - ” but Harper was already directing Barkus to the other room to call and dispatch a car to Gull’s Way.
They quieted quickly to hear the remainder of Tilton’s response. “…to check. I thought we just discussed the importance of efficiency.” The subtle intimidation was clear even through the bad connection, and Hardcastle winced. “I’m gonna kill him,” he muttered, and Harper shushed him into silence.
“Well feel free to look around, Mr. Tilton,” McCormick was saying, “but I don’t think you’re gonna find anything.”
There was no talking then, but sounds could be heard, and it seemed that Tilton was making at least a cursory search through the desk and bookshelves. “Is there a safe?” he asked after a moment.
“Sure, a locked one.”
“You don’t have access?”
McCormick snorted. “Gutters and grass, remember, Mr. Tilton? That’s a long ways from being trusted with the combination to a safe.”
Hardcastle could see the speculative rise of eyebrows in the room, but he couldn’t concern himself with that right now.
“Tsk, tsk, Mark. You have been so helpful up to now, first with obtaining the files and then with my personnel problems. Even the judge would probably have been impressed with the way you’ve managed to make this situation work to your advantage. I’d hate to think I’d lost your cooperation now.” A pause. “And I do hope you don’t believe that my associate was the only one capable of persuasion.”
“Just open the damn thing,” Hardcastle hissed.
“Look, the old donkey probably kept a few thousand dollars in that thing. Trust me, if I could open it, I would.”
The expressions of the officers turned from speculative to suspicious, and Hardcastle began to think he should take the time to be concerned. But then Tilton was speaking again. “All right, then, Mark, if you’re sure, we really should be going now.” Seconds later, there was the sound of a slamming door, then silence.
Hardcastle glanced at his watch; the entire conversation couldn’t have taken longer than a minute. “They’ll never get there in time.”
Even with Barkus running a lights-and-sirens escort, the drive to Gull’s Way took nearly thirty minutes. Frank had insisted on taking the wheel of the truck. With no police radio, they made the drive in anxious silence, though Frank knew if there’d been good news, Barkus would have pulled over and passed the message back.
The gates of Gull’s Way stood open, and a black and white was parked near the entrance. The officer waved them through. Further up the drive were another black and white, a police van, and an unmarked sedan. There was an officer on the front steps, waiting for them
“Anything?” Frank hollered as he climbed out.
A negative shake of the head from the officer. “Already hauled off. We’ve got a body, though, in the other house, over there.” The officer was pointing back towards the gatehouse.
Oh my God, no, he wouldn’t have had time to-Frank looked back at Hardcastle, standing frozen next to the truck. And then the officer was talking again, “A guy named Riley, someone from the D.A.’s office. Do you know him?”
The whole thing had been as fast as a gunshot and nearly as lethal. Frank closed the space between him and the judge in a couple of swift steps. “You’re going to come inside and sit down, now.” He took his elbow firmly and guided him toward the house, casting a glare at the confused looking officer as he passed.
They walked past the door of the den; inside were another officer and a detective, Bill Haversham. Frank gave him a nod and motioned him to join them. He kept Hardcastle pointed toward the kitchen and, once there, got him sitting down in a chair at the table.
“Frank, I’m okay,” he grumbled, but Harper thought it had taken him a damn long time to say it.
“Yeah, I know,” Frank said quietly, “just one too many gut-punches.” He went to the sink and got a glass of water. “Here,” he put it in the judge’s hand.
Haversham was leaning against the counter, taking it all in, waiting patiently to give his report. Frank finally turned toward him and gave a nod.
“It’s Doug Riley,” the homicide detective began tersely. “One shot to the chest, close range.” Haversham shook his head. “I knew Doug, thorough guy, professional.”
The judge looked up from where he sat, locking eyes with Frank.
Haversham continued, “Any idea what he was doing out here? Had you talked to him since yesterday, Judge?”
“This morning, on the phone,” Hardcastle began slowly, “early, maybe seven.”
“What about? Did you make some kind of appointment?”
Hardcastle leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, looking like a man who was about to say something that was distasteful and wouldn’t be received well. “Look, Detective, I had a theory. I thought Riley might be the leak to Sam Tilton. I think he was dirty.” There, all out in the open.
Haversham stared at him in disbelief, “Riley?”
“Yeah, Riley,” Hardcastle spat the name. “I fed him a line about another possible case against Tilton, then we sat back and waited for a sign. Sure enough, Tilton called me--how long did it take, Frank?”
“’Bout twenty minutes,” Frank replied, laconically, “maybe a little less.”
“Coincidence?” the detective looked unconvinced.
“Yeah, sure, and then Riley drives over here and decides to visit my gatehouse.” Hardcastle replied,
“If you invited him--” Haversham began.
“But I didn’t. I was up north of Simi checking out a shallow grave. He came here because Tilton invited him,” Hardcastle said impatiently. Then he straightened up, visibly trying to get a grip on himself. “Look, Detective, a lot has happened. Harper here can fill you in. We do know Tilton was here, probably moments before the first black and white arrived. We know he’s got another man with him, Mark McCormick, my . . . assistant.” He watched the detective’s eyebrows rise. “Kidnapped, hostage, yesterday,” Hardcastle’s voice had become very emphatic. “We don’t know what Tilton’s driving, but they can’t have gotten all that far,” this last part had a rising tinge of desperation in it.
A noise at the front door, voices, one of them angry--it was Thompson, the D.A., demanding to see the judge.
He was in the kitchen doorway a moment later. “What kind of game are you playing here, Hardcastle?” he shouted as he strode in. Frank stepped between the two men, putting a hand on Milt’s shoulder to keep him seated.
Harper turned to the D.A., “Listen, Thompson, we need to sit down and talk, all of us.”
Thompson still stood, hands clenched. “Riley,” he breathed the name. “What the hell happened to him?”
They’d gone north again, back toward the mountains, but a different route than the trip down. Tilton seemed a little less wired. Thank God. They’d passed a black and white going southbound--lights, no sirens--within a couple miles of the estate. Mark had watched it approach with a brief twinge of hope, but it went by in a flash, not at all interested in the sedately traveling, north-bound sedan.
Tilton had roused himself from his reverie and cast a glance at his passenger. “Maybe they’re headed for the estate, eh? Got out of there in the nick of time, I’d say.”
Mark wasn’t feeling up to answering. Tilton looked a little disappointed. The silence lasted a couple more miles; then he spoke again, in a lower, more confidential tone, “You know, this morning, when I walked up to you with that gun and you smiled at me, that was really quite remarkable.”
McCormick still said nothing.
Tilton shook his head slowly. “I only knew one other person who has looked at me that way when . . . when he was that close to death.” Tilton’s tone was completely different now, all the unctuous menace gone out of it. What was left was cold and desperately hard. “And I don’t think he really believed I’d do it.”
This time the compulsion to look was overwhelming. Mark turned his head just fractionally. Tilton’s eyes were on the road. In profile he looked rigid, set, immovable. He hissed out the next word, “Betrayal.” For a moment he said nothing more, and then, quietly, “That is the worst sin of all.”
Frank had told the story in his usual clipped style, passing lightly over the part about the file under the Coyote; it was wholly irrelevant in the greater scheme of things. When he’d gotten to the midnight assignation on Seagull Beach, Thompson had exploded in angry impatience.
“When the hell were you planning on informing the proper authorities?” he shouted at Hardcastle.
“I was there, Thompson,” Frank interjected calmly. “I made the call on this one. It was an undercover operation to try and recover a civilian hostage.”
“I’m not so sure you’re talking about a hostage,” Thompson seethed. “Sounds to me like you have got an accessory after the fact. Maybe he’s been using you all along, Hardcastle, even got you to deliver the file to Tilton.”
“He didn’t need to do that,” the judge answered quietly. “I was ready to hand it over.”
“Yeah but this way he can collect from Tilton himself, what was it, twenty thousand?”
“This is stupid, Thompson, and you know it.” The judge was reaching for something in his jacket pocket. “McCormick was a hostage, handcuffed, with a gun to his head.” He pulled the Polaroids out of his pocket, laying them facedown on the table, pushing them across to the D.A. “He was trying to scam Tilton, to keep him from killing me, most likely, anything to get an edge. It didn’t work.”
Thompson had picked up the pictures and turned them over in his hand. He was looking closely. He blinked once and put them back on the table. “All right,” he said warily, “what about Riley?”
Tilton had settled back into preoccupied silence. They were well out of town now, maybe further than they’d come from this morning, Mark thought, and not an area he was familiar with. He was thinking about things coming in threes, and then wondering if he should include the judge in that count, though Tilton himself hadn’t actually pulled the trigger. No, the count held at two, he finally decided; one more to go.
Tilton broke into this thought with a sideward look at him. “Almost there; I thought I might need a backup spot. Plan ahead. I laid in some supplies.” His smile was almost kind; Mark found himself edging up against the passenger door. “This is a place I’ve had for a long time. I think you’ll like it.”
The kindness seemed to be stretching a little thin in the silence that met Tilton’s comments. The man gripped the wheel tighter as he gave McCormick a longer look. “What the hell is the matter with you? Say something.”
Mark jerked his head up; he’d missed some signal, a change of mood again. Tilton was coiled tight. As much as he no longer cared if he died, the idea of being beaten to a bloody pulp was not appealing. “Um, just tired, I guess,” he mustered a nearly-truthful answer. Then he realized with a dull, distant shock, that he was hungry. The idea seemed traitorously inappropriate, but he blurted it out anyway, “I could use something to eat.”
Tilton seemed immensely pleased at these simple admissions. “Well, of course you are,” he said, nodding his concern. “You’ve had a busy day. All that digging and no breakfast; you look like you could use a rest.” Tilton reached out and patted the younger man on the knee. “Don’t worry; we’ll be there soon.”
“Seventeen years,” Thompson shouted. “You want me to believe that a man who’d done reliable, professional, work for the D.A.’s office for that long, would up and accept a bribe from someone like Tilton.” The district attorney was fuming. “And yet this ex-con of yours, a guy who’s only been out of the joint for, what is it?--two-three years?--he’s above suspicion.” Thompson was pacing now, shaking his head in angry disbelief.
“You know the one thing has nothing to do with the other,” Hardcastle’s voice was low, and very intense. “And just because I found the worm, and it was in your office all along, doesn’t mean you have to try to even the score somehow.”
Both men were poised on the edge of further words, when Officer Barkus appeared in the doorway. He looked around briefly, till he saw Harper standing on the opposite side of the room, preparing to physically restrain one or the other of the two combatants.
“Lieutenant? We’ve got a report from Ventura.” He stepped hesitantly into the room. Thompson’s voice had been audible well out into the rest of the house.
“What is it?” Frank asked, grateful for the distraction.
“Guy in the grave, Monte Gavone, small-time hood, mostly from back east. Prints all over the house, and the shed. One gunshot wound, back of the head, execution-style. No exit wound. Got a .38 casing at the scene.”
Harper nodded. “Anything else?”
“Prints. On the shovel. Couple are Gavone’s, the rest are this guy McCormick’s. Same in the house, but there it’s half and half.”
“What about Samuel Tilton?” Harper asked.
“Just reporting the other two, so far.”
Thompson harrumphed loudly. Harper looked at the judge.
Hardcastle shook his head. “So Tilton kept his goddamn hands in his pockets. You know him, Frank; he’d let the hired help do all the heavy lifting.”
“Yeah,” Frank replied slowly, “I know that, Milt, but--”
“Ventura County,” Barkus interrupted, “they’ve issued a warrant for McCormick’s arrest. They’re calling him potentially armed and dangerous.”
Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead. “Frank?”
“I’ll get on it.” Frank turned back to Barkus, “Look, I want you to get back up there, find Molina, work your way up the chain of command as far as you can. Try to explain things to them. If they won’t listen to you, get them to call me. I’ll either be here or . . . I’ll let the dispatchers know where.”
Barkus nodded, turned, and was gone. Frank looked back at the other two men, Thompson standing with his arms crossed, glaring down at Hardcastle as if to say ‘I told you so’, the judge glaring right back, defiantly.
“Enough,” Harper heard himself interrupt an argument that hadn’t even begun again. Thompson shot him a sharp look; the judge stared up in weary surprise. Frank barreled ahead stubbornly. “No disrespect, gentlemen, but you,” he nodded at Thompson, “are a prosecutor, and you,” he pointed down at Hardcastle, “are exhausted. I’m the only working cop in this room. Now listen. We find Tilton; we find Mark. Then we can all sit down and have a nice chat about exactly who did what and why.
“My guess is Tilton isn’t going to run far, and he’s not going to be able to check into a Motel Six if Mark looks like he did last night.”
“Unless he’s got him in the trunk,” Hardcastle muttered.
“Milt, that’s not his style. What Tilton does is talk. I used to think it’s the stuff he put up his nose but now I’m not so sure. All I know is there’s nothing he likes better than a captive audience.” Frank looked briefly appalled at his choice of words, then went on quickly, “The place up in Ventura County was listed under his son’s name, Lawrence Tilton.”
Thompson’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know he had--”
“Long story,” Frank interrupted impatiently, then he turned to Thompson face on, “What I need from you is some background work. It’s Sunday; you can get at this stuff easier than I can-property tax rolls, LA and Ventura counties, I hope not San Bernardino, but maybe there, too. Anything listed under Lawrence’s name, taxes probably being paid out of escrow, or by one of Sam Tilton’s dummy front companies; you already know all of their names. We’re looking for something rural, or maybe a warehouse. You have got some other investigators besides Riley?”
Thompson nodded.
“Good,” Frank took a breath, “I’m going to have my people start running the numbers, try and figure out what vehicle he might be using. Get the warrants rolling on his known LA addresses, and make sure Ventura hasn’t turned something up on their neighborhood canvas, not that there’s much neighborhood up there, but maybe somebody saw or heard something. And now that we’re not in double-secret mode,” he added, half to himself, “I need a trace on the phone line here.” Then he paused and looked at Hardcastle. “And you . . . “ Frank glanced toward the door. “They must be finished in there by now; you are going to go in that den and lie down on that sofa and wait for the phone to ring.”
Hardcastle opened his mouth in protest but got out not a single word before Frank concluded, “Because that’s all you can do right now, and staying on your feet until you drop isn’t going to get Mark back one minute sooner.”
“Let’s move it, people,” Frank addressed the D.A. and the judge as though he were in his own squad room, he himself already in motion. Then he added in gentle re-enforcement, “Milt. Sofa,” hoping the man wouldn’t notice the inconsistency. He didn’t want to point out that the judge had fifteen years on him and, anyway, he thought he could go another twelve hours on coffee if need be. He figured that was all it would be, one way or another. The window on this one was closing fast.
Mark stared dully out the passenger-side window at the cabin nestled in among the pines. It was cozy. He shuddered. Tilton was already half out of the car. He looked back in and inquired solicitously, “You all right?”
“Cold,” McCormick replied.
Tilton leaned back over and touched his forehead. “No, I don’t think so. Maybe a little fever. You might be coming down with something. See what comes of sleeping in wet clothes?”
McCormick frowned. He felt like he’d lost track of his place on the page. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to reply; he wasn’t sure it mattered any more. Tilton was over on his side now, opening the door. “Up you go.” His hand was under Mark’s arm, lifting. He staggered to his feet, hating to lean on Tilton but having little choice. “There, now, what do you think?” The man gestured to the cabin with a smile.
“Nice,” McCormick said quietly.
“See, I told you you’d like it.” He led the younger man by the arm, steadying him when he half tripped over a root. “Watch your step,” he admonished. “I used to come up here a lot. It’s a good place to think about things.” They were on the small covered porch and Tilton had the key out in his hand. The door swung open with the creak of seldom-used hinges, a faint waft of mustiness drifted out. Tilton ushered him in. “Wait here.”
There was no hallway. He was inside a pine-floored room, fireplace on the left, rocker, small sofa, another chair, incidental furniture all in sixties-style rustic summer cabin. A door to the left let into a kitchen. He could see the small white enamel-topped table from where he stood. Another door at the back was closed--the bedroom, no doubt.
He shivered again and took two steps toward the fireplace, a scattering of ashes and a half-burned log resting inside, cold and untidy. He lifted his eyes to the mantle, a piece of rough slab stone, not entirely flat on the upper surface. A fishing bobber, an open book of matches, a photograph, faded color--Tilton, younger by at least fifteen years, but still the same sardonic smile, and a boy, maybe thirteen, the resemblance was unmistakable. The older man’s hand rested firmly on the shoulder of the younger. Nostalgic.
Tilton cleared his throat. Mark jumped, reflexively; the man was not two feet behind him. McCormick turned guiltily, and saw him carrying a small nylon duffle and a brown paper sack.
“Come in the kitchen, Mark,” Tilton said quietly. “I’ll fix us something to eat.” He set the duffle down and reached into his pocket, bringing out a set of keys. “You’re going to behave?”
McCormick nodded.
“Turn around then, and let me get those things off of you.” It was done in a moment, the cuffs and keys back in Tilton’s pocket, Mark staring down at his own hands, not quite sure what to do with them. Then a second later came the aching rush of pins and needles and he felt Tilton’s hand on his shoulder. “Just sit down here. I’ll bring it when it’s ready.” The man straightened up, turned briefly toward the mantle, then carried the groceries into the kitchen. When Mark’s vision cleared he saw the photo had been turned face down.
With Thompson departed, and Milt reluctantly installed on the sofa, Frank had ducked back to the gatehouse to make the necessary phone calls. Despite his exhaustion, he felt normal for the first time in over twenty-four hours. It was so damn easy to get caught up in the Hardcastle sphere of influence and shove twenty-five years of police procedure right out the window. For a moment he felt a twinge of sympathy for Mark, on top of an already enormous heap of worry. And yet the kid stays . . . himself.
Now that he’d laid out the groundwork for the investigation, and set the wheels in motion, he returned to the main house. The only thing he wasn’t satisfied with was the Ventura end of it. It was hard to get very far up the chain of command on a Sunday afternoon, and the couple of guys he’d talked to had sounded unconvinced.
Still, if he heard an hour from now that Mark was cooling his heels in the Ventura County lock-up, he’d personally light a candle to St. Jude. As long as some over-eager deputy didn’t shoot the kid on sight.
He let himself in the front door. Haversham and the other officers had left, gone to fill out paperwork down at the station. No one was too happy about the Riley accusations, but there’d been a sort of grudging acceptance by the time they’d departed. Frank peered into the den. It was quiet there and dim, with the afternoon sun over on the other side of the house. For a moment he thought he’d actually succeeded in getting Milt to sleep, but as his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he saw Hardcastle looking up at the ceiling.
“Still awake?”
A nod.
“No calls yet?”
“None.” A pause. Then, “I really screwed this one up, didn’t I, Frank.” Not a question, but a statement.
Frank stepped down into the room and sank into a chair, rubbed his eyes for a moment and then said, “Yeah, well, sometimes the only right decision turns out to be stupid as hell.”
Hardcastle lifted his head off the arm of the couch and looked at Harper.
The lieutenant shrugged, “It’s something Mark said to me one time. He was talking about why he stole the Coyote. And he said, ‘Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for the right reason.’ That’s how he thinks, Milt. I don’t know if you’re ever gonna cure him of it. Hell, I’d say you caught it from him, except I think maybe you were the same way right from the start.
“Anyway, when this is all over,” he paused, just a moment’s hesitation, “and you’ve got him back, you know he’s gonna thank you for what you did--throwing the book out the window, saying he was more important than justice.”
“Yeah,” Hardcastle put his head back down on the arm rest, frowning, “he’s done that, thanked me for getting him out of trouble I got him into in the first place. What makes a person do that?”
“Milt, I dunno,” Frank smiled, “maybe you haven’t noticed, but you’re the first person in a long time who cared if he screwed up or not. That means a hell’uv’a lot to him. He’d put his hand in the fire for you.”
Hardcastle’s frown deepened, “He already has.”
Soup, he made soup--clam chowder with saltines on the side. He brought the two bowls in on a tray and put it down on the coffee table. Then he pulled up one of the other chairs and sat down facing Mark. “There, now.”
McCormick reached clumsily for the spoon, thinking for one horrified moment that Tilton might want to help him with that, too. Shaking again, not good, but he managed to get the bowl into his lap without sloshing too much. Now that the food was in front of him, he found the idea of eating very unappealing. Hardcase would say you were sick if he saw you like this.
“You are looking a bit peaked,” Tilton commented. Mark dropped the spoon. “Careful,” Tilton smiled, reaching down for it. Then he shook his head sadly. “Listen, Mark, enough.” He leaned forward, took the bowl, put it back on the tray, and rested his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Enough.”
McCormick dropped his head, elbows on his knees and hands limply clasped in front of him. He tried to shy out from under the hand. No, Tilton was having none of it. The grip became firmer. “I understand,” Tilton’s voice was the very parody of understanding; it cut to the bone of kindness, “You’re really not very good at lying, are you?”
I used to be.
“This past hour I’ve gotten maybe fifteen words from you. This morning you almost came right out and asked me to kill you. What am I supposed to think, Mark? The only question I have is why are you bothering to continue with this charade?” Tilton gave him a light tap on the shoulder and sat back. Then his perplexed look cleared a little, “Oh, I see. You thought maybe I’d let my guard down, allowing you to exact some revenge?” Tilton smiled and shook his head a little. “No, I don’t do that for anybody. Never.”
The shaking was worse--fear, frustration, anger, a little, but mostly a deep and abiding sorrow, now that it seemed pointless to suppress it.
“My God,” Tilton said softly; it was an expression halfway between wonderment and disgust. “I doubt the judge would even understand . . . this.” He gestured with an open hand in McCormick’s direction. “That man had no heart.”
“How the hell would you know?” The younger man’s voice was low, sullen and suddenly very dangerous. Tilton’s hand came back to rest just above the holster of his .38.
“Now, Mark, remember what I said about that tone of voice,” Tilton kept his own tone even, but the thin edge of fear was visible in his eyes. Guns are only effective when dying is a viable threat.
But Mark didn’t look up, and the moment passed. Tilton looked down at the untouched food.
“Well, I suppose if you’re not hungry, you might as well get some rest.” He reached back into his pocket for the handcuffs and tossed them onto the table in front of McCormick. The gun was out, pointed steadily. “Your choice,” Tilton said simply.
The younger man picked up the cuffs, considered them for a moment and gave the gun a barely concerned glance. He fastened one cuff around his left wrist. Tilton smiled, “Hope is a funny thing. Almost impossible to extinguish, isn’t it?” McCormick shrugged and started to reach behind himself for the free end.
“No, no, that’s fine for now. I’ll just need to show you to your accommodations.” Tilton had the front door open, still pointing the gun. Dusk had come quickly when the sun passed behind the hills to the west. In the deepening shadows, not far from the cabin, was the outline of a shed. Tilton pointed that way and McCormick preceded him. The door opened outward, hitching a little from disuse. Inside Tilton found a string overhead and gave it a tug. Light from a single bulb illuminated the cobwebs and the detritus of failed and unused machinery.
Tilton seemed to have a spot all picked out. He gestured McCormick to the corner, up against a heavy work table whose upright supports were bolted to the floor.
“Mister Tilton,” McCormick spoke as if the whole last twenty minutes had not transpired. “Any reason why my hands can’t be in front of me this time? I mean, aside from pure sadism?” He kept his voice calm, without a hint of challenge, despite the words.
Tilton considered for a moment. “I suppose that is not unreasonable.”
A moment later, Mark had dropped to the floor, cross-legged, and fastened the other cuff to his right wrist, with his hands on either side of the support. Tilton looked at the result closely, nodded, and then stood up. He grabbed a few burlap bags from a stack in the other corner and tossed them down in front of McCormick. “It gets a bit nippy up here at night. Good night, Mark.” Then he tugged the light cord again and was gone.
As his eyes adjusted to what little twilight filtered in through the cracks in the wall boards, McCormick saw the outlines of things that he had seen more clearly a few moments ago: an ancient Vespa, leaning against the wall, a generator, partly dismantled, and, most curious among the more battered odds and ends, a heavy-duty wood chipper in what looked to be a decent state of repair.
As dusk settled, neither of the two men bothered to get up and turn on a light. It was nearly dark when Frank finally rose, went into the kitchen, and put together some sandwiches. He needed something to do, he’d decided. It made a few more minutes pass. He had just begun to contemplate calling Thompson, when he heard the phone.
Hardcastle had it on the first ring. He hit the speaker button.
“Hello?” His voice was husky; every minute of the past thirty-four hours was audible in it.
“Did you have a nice trip to the mountains today, Judge?” The voice on the other end was smooth, very civilized, and full of polite inquiry.
“Tilton--”
“I’ll talk, Hardcastle, you listen. I know I only have a little time.”
Frank had already activated the tracing procedure, but at this he looked up, concerned.
“So tell me what you want, Tilton,” Hardcastle replied calmly. “I’m ready to deal.”
A harsh short laugh from the other end. “You only have one thing I want, Judge, and I’ve already got that. I just want you to know; he tried very hard. I do believe that man would have sold his soul for you.”
Hardcastle had lost track of the second hand on the desk clock; he’d lost track of everything except trying to parse the meaning in Tilton’s words. Past tense had taken on an ominous connotation.
As if he’d fathomed the unspoken thoughts, Tilton laughed again. “No, not yet, though he practically asked me to do it this morning. Has he been suicidal before?”
The judge said nothing. It was a monologue. He only hoped for a few moments more.
But Tilton must’ve been watching a clock, too. Hardcastle heard a soft exhalation. “Well, I just wanted to touch base with you, Judge. Let you know how things are going. But if you aren’t interested in talking, well--”
“Wait!”
“Good-bye.” A click, and silence.
Frank shook his head. “Not long enough.”