Sleeping Dogs

Wolf dragged the last one into the garage. He was the one lying in the dining room, and he had been at least six feet three and heavy. Wolf closed the garage door, lifted the body into the back seat and propped it up with the other one, then looked at his little display. The three men sat in the car in three different postures of leisured comfort. He moved the last one’s right arm to the back of the seat so it looked as though he were resting it behind the other one’s head, and that helped to hide the hole and the blood.

Wolf opened the garage door again, got into the car, started it and pulled out into the driveway before closing the door again. He backed out as quietly as he could, letting the big car coast down the driveway to the street, then slowly accelerated away. As he drove, he made an inventory. He had cleaned the floors thoroughly, put the towels onto the car seats to soak up some of the blood and then prepared his companions for the ride. He still had two pistols with full loads and silencers, one under his coat and another at his feet under the driver’s seat. He had stuck Little Norman’s in the coat of the corpse in the passenger seat beside him. If he didn’t make any sudden stops or reckless turns, his companions would remain sitting in fairly natural positions. It had been at least three hours since the last of them died, and by now the beginnings of rigor mortis would help. It always started in the jaws and neck, then spread to the torso and legs.

It had taken a long time, but he had probably done as well as he needed to. If the police really went through the place they would undoubtedly find blood, hair and threads from these three, and from him and from the family that owned the house, and their dogs and cats. But they wouldn’t look.

After all these years Wolf wasn’t squeamish about handling bodies, but he didn’t want these three toppling over while he was on the highway. He had taken the precaution of searching their wallets to be sure they weren’t some kind of police, but all he had found was money and credit cards. Their names were Castelli, Petri and Fusco, but by now he didn’t remember which was which. They had all lived in Washington, and none of them had any kind of card that entitled them to medical or dental care. Vico obviously didn’t pay the employer’s share.

He had checked when he had come to town to see whether any of Vico’s businesses still had the same names, and some of them did. They were all called Acme or Apex or AAA or ABC, so that his contacts didn’t have to learn the whole alphabet to figure out where to drop things. Wolf had gone to a lot of trouble to be sure he didn’t run into Vico’s people by accident, but it hadn’t done him much good. He had even driven by the big house Vico lived in just so he would know where it was.

Vico had just finished making a formal complaint to the telephone company’s business representative. He had received a crank telephone call this evening, and had demanded a new unlisted number. While he was talking he could hear the woman clicking away on the keyboard, duly noting his request in the company’s computers in case his lawyer needed it later. He hadn’t decided what to do about Fusco yet. Carmine was the loyal-dog type, and once in a while he needed a rap on the nose with a newspaper, but you couldn’t expect a dog to climb trees for you. He was good enough at what he was expected to do, and right now he was making Vico a hero.

Vico sat back in his favorite chair and stared at the fire. He had always liked a fire. He had a vague sense that there were things he should be doing, but he wasn’t going to move. He was waiting for a call. He had at least two hundred people out there right now actively looking for the Butcher’s Boy, and that was part of his agitation. He had always believed that he had inherited a little bit of his mother’s witch quality. In her youth she had been one of those young girls who dreamed of train crashes and ships going down, and then when she was older she had been the one all the pregnant women in the neighborhood had gone to and asked if their children would be boys or girls. What he was feeling was probably the eagerness of all his people out there—a little bit scared, a little bit excited—as they turned the city into a tiger hunt.

The telephone at his elbow beeped patiently, and he picked it up. “Yeah?”

It was Toscanzio, of course. “You know who this is?” Of course he did; he had been waiting.

“Yes. I was sorry to hear about it. Is your family well?”

“I’ll tell them you asked. We have a little problem, eh?”

“I want you to know I’ve made arrangements for Paul’s … remains to be sent to his family out there. It’s all in their name, just as though they had picked the undertaker out of a phone book, but the bill … where do you want it sent?”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“Well, I’ll have it sent to you, and you can decide how you want to handle it.” That ought to give him the hint. Martillo never should have been operating in Vico’s town and not reporting to Vico.

“There’s going to be fallout from this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our friend in California. Pauly was talking to important people to see if he could work out something in the way of clemency. But the way he went … I don’t see how we can send somebody else to walk into some senator’s office and start all over again. They get skittish when the last guy got a bullet in the head.”

“Have you talked to anybody else?”

“Some people in Chicago.”

“You know what I mean. Did you call anybody in New York?”

“I didn’t think that was a good idea. Look, he’s going to get out sooner or later. When he does, I don’t want to be the one who said we gave up on his problem. Do you?”

Vico’s smile was audible. “I didn’t. I’m working on it right now. By morning I should have something to ship to his people in New York.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Vico could tell that Toscanzio was already trying to figure out if he should call the Balacontano family in New York, or whether there was some way of talking directly to Carl Bala in prison. Let him. If Vico did get the body, he would make sure Bala knew where it came from. If he didn’t, Toscanzio would be the one Bala hated for getting his hopes up.

“That’s good news.”

“I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

“Thank you. My best to your family.”

“Good-bye.”

Vico hung up the telephone and went back to staring at the fire. It was a good feeling. It was as though the whole world—not just the people, but the natural forces, the wind and the stars—were working for him.

Wolf switched off the headlights before he turned the car into the driveway, and stopped it before it could trigger the electric eye that would buzz the intercom inside. He turned off the engine, popped the hood and went around to the front of the car. In the last few days he had found that he wasn’t as good with cars as he used to be. They had changed a lot while he was gone, without changing at all. But he still knew how to yank out wires and hoses.

When he was satisfied, he closed the hood quietly and turned his attention to the electric eye. There was a little light and a receptor on each side of the driveway. If he didn’t disconnect both sides of it at once, a light was going to stop hitting a receptor and it would buzz. The way to handle this kind of system was to put a mirror at exactly the right angle in front of each box so that it detected its own light, but he wasn’t prepared to screw around with that. He studied the system carefully. The wiring would be steel-jacketed and buried inside a pipe, and some of it must run under the driveway. But the vulnerability of a system that had lights was that there must be a way to change a bulb without setting it off.

He stepped over the beam of light and knelt beside the gate. There was a lever that was designed to permit the electric motor that moved the gate to be disengaged in case it jammed, so he pressed the lever and pushed the gate open on its rails. It wasn’t hard to find the circuit box. It was mounted on the brick wall just inside the yard, with a holly bush planted in front of it. He opened the box and watched the electric eyes go out as he flipped the circuit breaker.

He went back to the car, released the brake, shifted into neutral and then hurried to the back to push. In the old days a Lincoln had been a hell of a lot of metal, and he had been wondering if he would be able to move this one up the incline by himself. At first it was hard to get it to budge, but finally it rolled through the gate and ten feet inside before the front wheels turned a little and it headed onto the lawn. He stopped pushing it near a birdbath with a naked nymph pirouetting in the center. Then he went around, reached inside the window, yanked out the keys and put them in his coat pocket with the wires he had taken out of the engine. He took out one of the pistols with a silencer and waited. After a minute or two, the light changed on a street somewhere nearby, and the driver of a big truck began to goad his diesel engine up through its gears. It was the only sound as Wolf walked toward the driveway.

He stopped at the gate. It was big and heavy and made of wrought iron, but it would be hard to keep somebody from moving it the way he had. He decided such a fine gate was worth a few more minutes. Following the dead line from the circuit box to the electric eye, he pulled a few feet of it out of the ground, cut it and stripped the insulation away for two inches. He wrapped the two bare wires around the bottom rung of the gate, then returned to the box and switched the circuit breaker back on. As he climbed over the wall to get back onto the street, he wasn’t sure how the sequence would work, but somebody was going to realize that it was important not to leave Martillo’s car in Vico’s yard, and that the only way to get it out was through the gate. When the button inside didn’t open it, somebody was going to touch the gate.

Wolf had walked half a mile before he found the right place to call for a taxi. On another night he might have stopped in one of the bars he had passed, but tonight Vico would have his army of collectors and parasites out looking for him, and it was always possible that he would run into someone who had seen his face in the old days. He had never had much to do with Vico’s people, but he was through with letting himself be surprised.

The safest sort of place was a telephone booth beside a closed gas station, and he waited until he found one. There were six or seven diseased cars parked beside the building, and he decided that his was one of them. It was the new Chevy on the end, and he had pulled it in there and left it, in case the cab driver was curious. But when the driver arrived, he wasn’t curious. He was young and a little bit frightened because this was the way cab drivers got robbed. Somebody called them from a public address where there weren’t any other people and there wasn’t much light. Then there would be a gun against the driver’s neck, a whole night’s receipts went up some guy’s arm and the driver probably got killed. But this one was okay. He was old—at least thirty-five—and he wanted to go to Alexandria, and he only seemed tired, and looked as though he had some money.

* * *

Jack Hamp’s flight from Chicago was within inches of touching down at Washington National just as a freak tail wind blew in from nowhere, and in order to keep the wing from dipping, the pilot had to give the engines another punch. There was no doubt in Hamp’s mind what was happening because when the wheels touched the ground the tires gave a screech like a buzz saw, and the plane rattled along the runway taking the regularly spaced bumps at about twice the normal speed. He barely had time to brace himself for the drag of the brakes before he felt his head go forward in a bow so that he was looking at his knees. He wasn’t particularly concerned, because a hot-wheels landing wasn’t unusual, but he was impatient because now the plane would have to sit on the runway until the brakes cooled. To pass the time he read over the preliminary report from the Washington office again, occasionally glancing out the window beside him at the men in coveralls down on the tarmac playing flashlight beams over the tires and undercarriage.

He’d seen the whole procedure a few times in his days as a birdwatcher at LAX. The ground crew always stood fore or aft of the wheels because on the rare occasions when they did pop, the hot debris and metal would tear straight out along the wings. There wasn’t a hell of a lot anyone could do until the night air cooled the wheels down to a temperature that would at least let the ground crew move a portable gangway up to get the passengers out.

As he read, he thought about Elizabeth Waring. She might not know who these victims were any more than he did. That was what bothered him most about this case. You had to be an organized criminal yourself to know who these guys Bartolomeo and Martillo were—and a well-organized criminal at that. It didn’t make any sense as an offensive move. The only thing that might help the Butcher’s Boy right now was noise; the victim had to be big enough to cause a stir. If he was in Washington, it would have to be Jerry Vico, or at least somebody who had made his bones with Vico.

The Butcher’s Boy was in a special sort of fix right now. He had to do things which weren’t predictable, but which made some kind of sense in retrospect. If they were predictable, there would be people waiting for him, but if they didn’t make sense when you thought about them later, then they wouldn’t help him get out. The organization would assume that he was completely round the bend, like a rabid animal. If this happened, he was dead, because you couldn’t see something like that and figure you would just wait until it wandered away. You wanted to know exactly where it was during every second until you killed it. If the report said he was popping unknowns who hadn’t done anything to him, then something was missing.

Elizabeth could probably help him out on this one. As he thought about her he felt a shudder of regret and embarrassment. He never should have made that joke about her being ugly; what if she really was ugly? No, it was worse than that. Just about every woman he had met who was worth anything thought that she was ugly. It was some kind of mass delusion. What on earth had led him to trigger a reaction he would have known was likely if he had stopped to think? But there was something about the anonymous present that bothered him. At first it had surprised him and made him feel panicky because maybe he was supposed to have sent her a present and hadn’t known it, so he had pushed it away with the first smart-ass remark that came to mind. He had even said something about its being a bomb, as though nobody would send her anything unless he wanted to …

Hamp could feel his scalp begin to tighten, as though his hair were actually going to stand up. Martillo and Bartolomeo were such little fish that only a criminal would recognize them, and one had. The Butcher’s Boy had seen those guys in Washington and they had seen him, so he had shut them up. It all made perfect sense, but only afterward. Hamp unbuckled his seat belt, stood up and started to sidestep his way into the aisle. The stewardess saw him and hurried up the aisle toward him to let him know he was busted. “Sir—”

But he took out his identification wallet and held it up in front of her face. “My name is Jack Hamp, and I’m a special investigator for the Justice Department. I have a car waiting in that airport, and I need to get to it now.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it will be a few more minutes before we can deplane. It isn’t something we can do anything about. It’s an FAA regulation.”

Hamp took a step forward and she sensed that she had to move with him or step aside, so she came with him. “The wheels are hot,” he said. “If they were going to blow, they’d have done it by now, but we’ll sit here an hour or more just to be safe. Explain to the pilot that I’ve got an emergency.”

“But, sir. Mr.—”

“Hamp. Do it. Because if you don’t I’m going to crank that hatch open myself.”

* * *

Hamp couldn’t believe it. Elizabeth had actually told him about it the minute she had gotten the damned present, and he hadn’t figured it out. He drove fast along Jefferson, changing lanes and keeping the pedal down as far as he dared. He was what might have been called a professional speeder, since that was what cops in L.A. had to be to get anywhere while the bodies were still warm. He instantly wished he hadn’t thought it in those words. Because now it all made sense, and he hoped this didn’t mean that it was already over.

The mistake was in thinking that the Butcher’s Boy was just wandering around slaughtering the big bosses because they were big. He wasn’t in any position to take on something like that. All he was doing was what Jack Hamp would have done in his place: trying to stay alive. Though to a man like the Butcher’s Boy it meant that you figured out who was giving you the most trouble, and then you killed him. So now he was in Washington, but he hadn’t come here to find a pair of nonentities like Martillo and Bartolomeo. That had just been an accident. Somehow he had figured out who was giving him the worst trouble, the one who had kept him from leaving the country in the first place and would keep closing in on him until he couldn’t move at all—Elizabeth Waring.

Wolf had the cab driver go all the way up the block past his house before he told him to stop at the end of the street and got out. He waited for the driver to disappear before walking back down the block. He was still watching for the fourth man. Somebody had brought those three to his house this evening, and he still hadn’t spotted the man or his car in the neighborhood. But he wasn’t in a position to spend any time looking for him. He had started the sequence, and now he had to finish it and get out.

As he went to E. V. Waring’s kitchen door, he tried to remember the exact layout of the house. There were no alarms or even serious locks to stop him, and she had cleaned the place before he had come to dinner, so there wouldn’t be eight hundred toys on the floor to trip over in the dark.

He reached into his pocket, found a credit card from one of the men he had left in Vico’s yard, slipped it between the door and the jamb and moved it up and down until he found the plunger. He depressed the plunger, but the door wouldn’t move. He could feel that another bolt somewhere near the knob was engaged. He got down on his knees on the concrete steps and pushed on the rubber flap of the cat door that was cut into the lower panel. He measured the length of his arm from the cat door to the doorknob, and judged that it was long enough. Lying on his back on the steps, he stuck his arm inside all the way to the shoulder and felt for the bolt. The tips of his fingers barely touched it, but he managed to turn it and pull it out. Opening the door, he crawled inside, then closed it carefully.

Wolf stood up and made his way slowly into the dining room, where they had eaten, then glided silently across the living room where the thick carpet muffled his steps. He could feel his left knee brush against the couch where they had sat, and this helped him orient himself. He stood absolutely still so that he could let his mind work without distraction. He was inside, but he still wasn’t sure what he was going to do. At any other time of his life he would have gone down the hallway to her bedroom and put a hole in her temple before even attempting to do anything else. He might make a noise in the next few minutes, and she would wake up. Or there might be some blood at his house that he had missed, and then she would be alive to give the FBI an accurate description of him. But while he constructed the argument for it, he already knew that he wasn’t going to do it. He was not here to kill this woman. He might have to do it to survive, but he was determined to at least try it the other way first. If he could just get into the room, take what he wanted and get out, there would never be any reason for her to tell anyone what he looked like. He began to move again, but at the entrance to the hallway he stopped. When she had walked onto this floor, she had taken off her shoes, so he did the same.

Inside the door he could hear the sound of a child breathing slowly and deeply. He stepped to the side and felt his way along the wall until he identified the woodwork that framed the closet door. He groped for the knob and squeezed it tightly in his fist to swing it open without making any noise. He reached up to the top shelf and felt something made of leather. A baseball glove. Then there was the soft texture of cloth. Sure, a baseball cap. Now the smooth, sharp corner of the box. He reached both hands up to the shelf to be sure he could lift it without sliding it across the wood.

“Who are you?” came a little voice.

It was high and piping, and there was something shaky about it, like a bird. Oh, God, he thought. I don’t want to kill this kid. “Mr. Richardson,” Wolf said softly.

“Oh,” said the boy. He waited for the kid to say something else, but there was no sound. He lifted the box and turned. “What are you doing here? I was asleep.”

“I’m sorry, but I had to come. I’ll be gone in a minute.”

“Where’s my mother?”

“She’s asleep. If we’re quiet, she won’t wake up. She needs her rest.”

The light came on and the click sounded like a hammer hitting a piece of metal. He was a tiny little boy, skinny, with his hair standing up on his head. He still had his hand on the lamp beside his bed, and he was squinting. “What are you doing with that?”

“It’s for work. We need one of these pictures of your trip to England at the office right away.”

“Which one?”

Wolf opened the lid. “London. The Parliament building. We’re going to enlarge it so we can see what’s going on inside.”

“How can you do that?”

Wolf regretted having said it. How old was this kid—four? “We blow up the part we want so we can see in the window, and we transfer it to a computer. Then we can make a three-dimensional image and turn it around every which way.” He made a slow rotating motion with both hands.

“What for?”

“I shouldn’t tell you,” Wolf said. Jimmy looked at him skeptically. “Well, we think somebody in Parliament isn’t who he says he is.”

“Who is he?”

“We don’t know yet. That’s why we need the picture.”

Jimmy seemed to contemplate the plan, and finally to enlist, but he was a little worried. “You can’t see much.”

“We have to try. Can you show me which one?” Wolf took the sheaf of papers out of the box as he set it down on the kid’s bed. While the little boy shuffled through the pictures, he worked the rubber band off the papers with one hand.

“This one,” said Jimmy, and he held out a picture of his mother standing in front of the Houses of Parliament.

Wolf felt the passport now, and in a second he had it in his coat pocket with the pistol. He took the picture and scrutinized it. “It’s perfect,” he said. “Thanks, Jimmy.” He stood up, returned the photographs and packet of papers to the box and put it back in the closet. Then he turned to the little boy. “I’m sorry I had to wake you up. You’d better turn the light out and go back to sleep now.”

“Okay.” Jimmy clicked the light off and lay back on his pillow.

As Wolf made his way into the hall and closed the door, he could hear the boy stirring. He walked quickly out of the hallway to the living room, stepped into his shoes and moved to the front door. As he opened it, he sensed that he wasn’t alone. He was going to have to kill him.

This time the voice was a tiny whisper. “Good night.”

“Good night, Jimmy.” He stepped outside and closed the door, then hurried down the steps and across the lawn to get to the sidewalk and the place where the darkness began. In an hour he could be on a plane to London.

Jack Hamp crouched in the bushes across the street from the Waring house and watched the lone man walk toward him. The man was cautious, first turning his head to look at Elizabeth’s house, then at the one beside it and finally at the one where Hamp was hiding. He walked slowly, but there was nothing casual or leisurely about it. He had sensed that something wasn’t the way he wanted it, and he was scanning for some sign of another person. It was mesmerizing to watch him. He was going to assure himself that the whole block was clear before he made an attempt to break in on Elizabeth. Attempt? Hell, he still couldn’t overcome his years of talking like a cop. If this guy decided to do it, Elizabeth was going to have a visitor.

Hamp slowly pulled his big .45 out of his coat, trying to keep the movement steady and silent. He had the hammer cocked and the safety engaged. The man was already moving toward the lawn in front of Hamp; in a second or two he would be on top of him. Hamp spent part of the second remembering that the Butcher’s Boy was probably more than a match for him in the dark. By temperament, training and experience, Hamp desperately wanted not to have to squeeze a trigger on anybody, and this would make him hesitate.

Hamp disengaged the safety with his thumb, straightened his legs enough to bring the pistol up above the top of the bush and hoped that it was all that the Butcher’s Boy could see clearly. “Justice Department. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

It was exactly as he had seen it a dozen times in his imagination. The man didn’t stop to think and didn’t hesitate. In the second that it took Hamp to see that his right hand was going to his coat, it was already there and coming back out. Hamp fired. The report of the heavy military pistol clapped the air and the man took the round square in the center of his chest. As the man flopped backward onto the sidewalk, Hamp could see that he had almost gotten the barrel clear of his coat. It slid off his chest onto the pavement and Hamp walked over to pick it up. He stared down at the man. He was about the right age, and he was nondescript and ordinary enough to have survived for a long time while people were looking for him. Hamp could also see that the hollow-point round had made a terrible mess of his chest.

Hamp looked around him at the lights going on in upstairs windows all along the block. He noticed that his mouth had gone all dry and cottony. The last time this had happened, he had thought it was the shock from taking the bullet in his leg, but it must have been another reaction. He began the process of composing himself for the first of the conversations he would have to go through now: you know the fellow you’ve been trying to find? Yes, the one you’ve wanted for ten years. I’m afraid he can’t tell you anything now. I just killed him. My name is Jack Hamp.

Elizabeth looked at the two sets of fingerprints, and then at the report from the FBI. She had been awake half the night waiting for this, and she wondered if the strain, surprise and sheer fatigue had simply obliterated her ability to comprehend. But it hadn’t. She moved past the standard preprinted paragraph about the required thirteen points of comparison and read the conclusion again. It was positive. Suddenly she remembered that Jack had been waiting even before she had begun, and it was thoughtless to make him wait any longer.

“His name is Gilbert O’Mally. He has four arrests: grand theft, assault, aggravated assault and a parole violation.”

“That isn’t what I’d figured,” said Jack. “I didn’t think they’d even have him on file.” It was going to take him some time to give this the proper amount of reflection. Elizabeth Waring didn’t look the way he thought she would at all, but she was exactly the way he had hoped she would be. The suspect looked pretty much as he had expected, but nothing else about him was right. “I expected no arrests, no convictions.”

“You were right,” said Elizabeth. “Ten years ago was when this man was serving his time for aggravated assault. He’s a local criminal.” She waited for this to sink in, but Jack didn’t say anything. What was he feeling—disappointment, relief? “It isn’t him. This isn’t the Butcher’s Boy. He’s still out there.”