Veil. Part 7

"Sorry miss, we can't allow that," Durbin told her. "We know who you are, but this isn't one of your cases, so no pictures, no video tape."

"Then why'd you call us here, detective?" Robert asked, stepping inside the office.

"Well, when we got here we found your business card gripped tight in Mr. Miller's fist, and several eyewitnesses place you as the last person seen with him. Can you offer something different?" Robert looked into Miller's hollow blue eyes. His heart sank. "Like I said, I was here. Doesn't mean I killed him."

"Exactly what was your business with Mr. Miller?"

"A missing person's case," said Robert. "I questioned Mr. Miller as a possible lead."

"Who were you looking for?" asked Durbin, pulling several sticks of Juicy Fruit from his inside jacket pocket. He wadded them together and tossed them into his cavernous mouth.

"I'm sorry, that's confidential," answered Robert, picking up a slight odor of feces from Miller's body. It wasn't uncommon for an individual to s.h.i.+t themselves in the face of immense fear or death. In the field, he'd seen it happen to the best. h.e.l.l, he'd almost done it himself once or twice.

"Listen detective," Robert continued. "Do you think I'd leave my name and number in a man's hand after I killed him?"

"I've seen stranger things over the last thirty years. Besides," said Durbin, sarcastic and matter-of-fact. "Like I said, you were the last person seen with him. Now, you say you were following up a lead on a case?"

"A missing person's case," Robert repeated, irritated.

"But the only person who knows if that's true has a bullet in his head.

So you see our little problem here?"

Durbin's repet.i.tive questions annoyed Robert, but he wasn't going to bring up Charlie. What would I say anyway? Hey, I'm following up on a case connected to the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination, so back off. The only thing that would get me is a nice long stay in a straight jacket.

Thorne walked over to the detective. Tall, she still looked up at him.

"Listen Detective Durbin, or whatever the h.e.l.l your name is. If you had anything real, Robert would be in handcuffs. You wouldn't have called him down here; you would've picked him up. So either get on with it, or back the f.u.c.k off."

Durbin looked down and smiled the smile of a man who knew his own strength, yet made a conscious decision to keep it under control.

"It's just procedure Ms. Thorne," he said, gently. "We're required to follow up on every possible lead. You know that. I'm catching high-heat on this case. Mr. Miller was connected, respected, and well-liked." Thorne returned Durbin's smile, and took a step back.

"We understand," said Robert. "But I wasn't involved. If you'd like, I'll take a gunshot residue test confirming I haven't fired a weapon.

Better still, take my guns and test them. They haven't been discharged in a couple of days, and then only at the range. What was used on Miller?"

"From the size of the entry and exit wound, and the powder burn on the forehead, I'm guessing a twenty-two, twenty-five caliber. Most likely a silencer fitted Colt. That's probably why no one heard anything.

Sounds more like a mosquito whisper than a bullet." Robert stroked his chin. "Then whoever did this is a pro." Miller knew more than he revealed. Why did they kill him? Did he know where Charlie was and refused to talk? Wouldn't that be more reason to keep him alive?

Durbin looked as though he were trying to read Robert's mind. "It would be nice if you shared with us Mr. Veil. The man deserves to have his killer hung up by the toes."

Robert agreed. Seeing Miller lifeless only increased his anger. "Like I said, it's a missing person's case," Robert repeated. "I thought Miller might be able to help me find someone."

"A homeless person?" Durbin asked.

"I can't say."

"You need to tell us something."

"Why? I won't say this again. It's a confidential matter, and none of your f.u.c.king business!"

Durbin stepped toward Robert, Thorne slid in his way. "Is there anything else detective?"

Durbin's eyes flashed from Robert, to Thorne, then back to Robert.

"There's nothing at the moment," he said, backing up. "But I'll take you up on that gun residue test later, after we finish here. If anything comes up before then, I'll call."

Thorne moved a little closer to the detective, with a Grinch-like smile on her face. Gently, but firm, she grabbed his b.a.l.l.s. Durbin looked around, embarra.s.sed, grunting. Thorne smiled then slowly let go. "Just wanted to see if they were as big as the rest of you," she said. "I'll wait by the elevator," she told Robert, then left the room.

Durbin thudded back against the wall. Robert remembered something Thorne once told him. "It's hard not to be in control with a man's b.a.l.l.s in your hand. Without b.a.l.l.s, a man's just not a man." Robert cleared his throat. "Please be in touch, and let me know when you're ready for that test."

Durbin mumbled something that sounded like, okay I will, and Robert caught up with Thorne at the elevator. Outside on the street he pulled her to the side. "A little heavy handed wouldn't you say?" Thorne flashed a confident smile. "A girl's gotta have her fun." Robert shook his head in amazement. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Popeye. The old vet waved him over. "Wait here, I'll be right back," he told Thorne, and jogged across the street.

Popeye looked rattled, defeat in his eyes. "Wondered if you'd show up."

"It wasn't me Popeye," said Robert. "I didn't kill him. You must know that."

Popeye took a swig from his brown paper bag and looked off into nowhere. "I know," he said. "I saw you leave. I told everyone to say you were the last one seen with him. It was the only way to make sure you came back."

Robert knelt. "What do you know? Did anyone see or hear anything the police don't already know?"

Popeye sat back in his wheelchair, looked to see if anyone was listening, then leaned in close to Robert's ear. "Charlie was here," he whispered. "I saw him cut through the alley in back of the mission.

Next thing I know, the police are all over the place and Miller's dead." Robert watched Popeye fight back tears. "Did you get a chance to talk to Charlie?"

"Miller was the only one who really cared around here," Popeye said to the night. "A lot of people gonna just fold up and die." Robert put a hand on Popeye's shoulder. He looked up, and spotted the weasel who tailed him earlier. Their eyes met, the man lowered his head, and quickened his pace in the opposite direction, vanis.h.i.+ng down an alley.

"Thorne," Robert called, signaling for her to follow him. "That guy trailed me to the mission earlier today." Thorne caught up. They reached the alley. The weasel looked back, saw them following, and took off-a.s.s on fire. They sprinted hard and fast but he moved like a cheetah, cutting out of the alley, sprinting down a deserted street, disappearing into another alley at the far end of the block.

Robert and Thorne drew their weapons, each falling to a different side of the alleyway, taking cover behind crates and dumpsters.

Robert agreed with Detective Durbin. Most people couldn't tell the difference between a silencer and a mosquito whisper. He wasn't most people.

With a silencer screwed on, the added volume in a gun barrel allowed the gas to expand, and it whooshed out behind the bullet quietly, like air carefully let out of a balloon-a mosquito whisper.

Angry mosquitoes whispered past their ears, ricocheting off the surrounding buildings. He heard the man reload several times, but signaled Thorne not to fire back. He counted the shots, motioned for his partner to cover him, slid out on his belly and crawled toward the crates where the weasel hid.

Halfway there, Thorne bolted to the dumpster he'd just left, drawing fire. She let off a volley of gunfire, keeping the weasel pinned down.

He fired back, then focused his attention on Robert, sending streams of mosquitoes rocketing just above his skull.

Robert took a deep breath and pressed closer to the ground. Two clips later, he heard the weasel's gun disengage. Empty.

He sprang to his feet, jumped over the crates and garbage cans, cras.h.i.+ng down on top of the weasel. Wiry and strong, he wrapped over Robert like a full-grown boa constrictor.

Both men jumped to their feet, punching like cowboys in a western bar room brawl. The wiry little man surprised Robert, landing several fast blows to his face and neck, knocking him to the ground.

Thorne leapt like a panther, knocking the goon to the pavement with a roundhouse kick to the chest. Robert scrambled and rushed forward, like a crazed Chicago Bears linebacker.

Like shotgun blasts, two hard-soled shoes. .h.i.t Robert hard in the gut, sending him backwards in the air, cras.h.i.+ng to the concrete. He righted himself, head spinning.

The weasel sprang to his feet like an Olympic gymnast. Thorne rushed over and hit him with a combination to the body and face, like Sugar Ray Leonard in a Marvin Hagler fight. The man doubled over then snapped upright, back handed her in the head and kicked her hard between the legs, sending her cras.h.i.+ng into a pile of boxes.

Robert recovered, rushed over, and drop kicked him to the ground.

Back to his feet, the weasel picked up his gun and sprinted out of the alley, Robert on his heels.

Congestion on the street didn't slow the weasel. He knocked down unlucky pedestrians, stomping and kicking several rag-covered people asleep on the street. A couple of blocks down, he stopped and fired. His silencer gone, the gun erupted a familiar melody, and everyone dove for cover.

Robert dropped to the ground with them and felt for his guns, but both holsters were empty. The shooting stopped. He snapped to his feet.

s.h.i.+t!

The weasel, more than two blocks away, sprinted hard, fast, and disappeared around a corner. When Robert got there, the agile killer, with the strength of an anaconda, vanished.

Thorne limped up next to him breathing heavy, and handed him his guns. They searched the faces along the street, the buildings, and alleyways, but found nothing.

Sirens screamed, coming their way. Unwilling to endure more questioning from Durbin and the police, they gave up and headed back to Crossroads.

They reached the shelter as the coroner loaded Miller's body. A crowd of homeless men, women, and children looked on, sullied, sad.

Robert's anger seared like alcohol on an open wound.

Detective Durbin lumbered out of the mission, spotted them and walked over. He stopped in his tracks and looked them up and down.

"Should I ask?"

"Don't bother," said Robert.

"Another missing person case I guess," said Durbin, directing a facetious smirk at Thorne.

"Is there something you need from us?" asked Robert, exhausted.

Durbin laughed and shook his head. "It seems you're in the clear.

For the moment. Several people say they saw you leave while Miller was still alive, and the coroner's preliminary estimate of the time of death puts you at Judge Weiss' house at the time of the murder. But don't go too far. Doctors make mistakes."

"As have the police," said Thorne, wincing, and rubbing her behind.

"Don't worry detective," said Robert. "I'm as concerned about Miller's death as you are. So if you get any ideas let us know."

"Sure I will," said Durbin. The detective walked to his car and crammed his girth inside, stressing the black Crowne Victoria's shocks to their max. "Just as soon as you let me in on your missing person case." Durbin slammed the car door, took a long, l.u.s.tful look at Thorne, then drove off.

"I can't believe that little f.u.c.ker kicked me in the puss," she said, openly rubbing her crotch, to the delight of several officers and onlookers. "Only twenty-four hours and we're already in the mix. We better find your boy Charlie and figure out exactly what the h.e.l.l he's gotten us into. I don't mind a fight, but I want to know who the h.e.l.l I'm fighting."

"I'm with you on that partner," said Robert, stroking his jaw. "We better find him before that guy in the alley does. Did you notice his fighting tactics?"

"Yes," said Thorne. "Definitely Company trained. I guess the old man told us the truth."

Charlie told the truth. Miller's death and the man in the alley are confirmation. "Meet me at the office in the morning," said Robert. "I need a few hours sleep. I'm going home. I'll see you around eight.

Thorne agreed and walked gingerly to her Rover. Sliding inside, she swore profusely and sped off.

Twenty minutes later, Robert pulled into his parking complex, head reeling. A serial killer he couldn't find would strike again soon. The murder of a decent man, for reasons unknown, vexed him, and a professional tomcat whipped their a.s.ses in an alley. His hands quivered.

President John F. Kennedy. We're close. I feel it.

The elevator zipped to the eleventh floor. Robert trudged down the rich burgundy carpet to his apartment, eleven-twelve. He touched key to lock; the door cracked open. He pulled his weapon.

Braced against the wall, eyes closed, he took a deep breath, adrenaline churning. He rolled inside, came up on one knee, and pointed the nine-millimeter back and forth around the pitch-black room.

"No need to be alarmed," said a calm voice, from the darkness.

"Hands up in the air," Robert shouted. "Now!" The lamp next to his recliner clicked on. Robert trained his weapon.

His eyes focused, he holstered his gun, and sat down across from his visitor. Marilyn London.

"Sorry I startled you. I wanted to follow up from earlier today." Robert rested back in his chair. "Follow up?" Marilyn stood and removed her coat. A steel blue cat suit clung to her, leaving little to the imagination.

"Yes," she said, approaching. She straddled him. "I felt like we left things open."

Robert smiled. "You always this bold?"

"Always," said Marilyn, pulling close to his lips. "Scared?" Robert stroked her cheek. "Terrified."

The next morning, Robert awoke to an empty bed, a note on his pillow. It was better than I expected. Marilyn.

Robert laughed, jumped out of bed, and slipped on his pants. He heard stirring in the living room. His smile widened. "I'm glad you're still here," he said. "You can't just leave a note and run. That's my move."

He trotted into the living room. Charlie stared at him from the recliner. "She left about an hour ago," he said. "Nice." Robert sat down, forearms on his knees. "How long you been here?"

"Long enough. I waited for you in the stairwell, heard the elevator, and peeked into the hall. I saw your lady friend go inside your apartment, so I headed outside and slept between the dumpsters in the back. She drove off around six o'clock, and I came back upstairs." Charlie wheezed. "They killed Miller. They know I talked to you and now they'll try to kill us all. Unless you get to them first." Robert fixed on Charlie's eyes. "I believe you, I do, but you've got to tell me who we're up against. Who's running the show? Who are we after?"

Charlie sank deeper into the recliner. He stared at the floor, his face ashen. "Rothschild," he said. "Edward Rothschild." Robert mulled over Charlie's answer. He knew it would be someone highly placed, and most insiders considered the Rothschild clan as diabolical as they come. Rothschild lived in a cla.s.s of his own. Rich, connected, a n.o.bel Prize in economics, and very well respected.

"Are you absolutely sure? There's no room for error." Charlie's face reddened. He coughed and wrenched violently. Blood poured from his mouth. Robert ran to the kitchen for a dishcloth.

Charlie's coughing worsened. Blood spilled down the old a.s.sa.s.sin's chin painting his coat. A few moments later, the coughing stopped.

Charlie relaxed.

"Is there something I can get you? Should I call a doctor?" Charlie shook his head no, leaned back and closed his eyes.

I was right. The old man is sick. Probably why he's trying to clear the air.

Robert went back to the kitchen to get Charlie a gla.s.s of water. He heard a thud and raced back to the living room. Charlie lay face down on the carpet. He dropped the gla.s.s, ran over and flipped Charlie on his back. Unconscious.