Free to Die, Page 4

  CHAPTER 4

  Monday Afternoon

  Brad drove skillfully. He had that knack for sensing the flow of traffic around him and automatically adjusting his speed accordingly. He wished he had a few tools; he could at least smooth out the performance of the gutless rental Amanda had provided. He couldn’t depend on acceleration to escape minor difficulties. Instead, he maintained a slower speed. Horns behind him testified to any slight overreaction with the brakes. He paid little attention; people who used horns, instead of brakes, did not impress him.

  Mentally, he reviewed the morning’s courtroom scene again. He reconsidered every word and gesture, and the beet-red face of the angry judge. “We’re not prepared to dismiss at this time.” The words replayed themselves repeatedly.

  He had been coming back. His path from Mexico through Texas, Georgia, Illinois, Montana, and finally Las Vegas, might lack directness, yet he knew it led to LA. But he’d planned to come in quietly by the back ways to which he’d become accustomed. The money belt was full. With the right moves and a little luck, he’d have found who killed Gerald Allison.

  Now he was spotlighted for all to see. The tiny hairs on his lower neck told him someone was out there, adjusting the scope. Another click, maybe, and he’d be centered in the crosshairs. He could sense the closeness of it. The quiet ways of stealth he’d planned to use must be set aside.

  Finally came the small mental shrug that set aside the last hand and turned attention to the cards being dealt. It’s not much, he thought. But maybe Tuckman’s good for openers.

  He traveled east on Wilshire and was soon skirting the central part of the city. He got lost for a minute, near Chinatown, but held a general course toward the railroad yards. He found Tuckman’s warehouse, pulled up among the rigs and parked. As he moved through the scurrying bustle, he noted the tight efficiency of the operation. In response to his question, a man with a clipboard pointed to a stairway. At the top of it, “Willard Tuckman” was painted in bold red letters on the door. He knocked.

  “Hold your pants.” A moment later, Tuckman opened the door.

  “Hey, Ashton,” he said. “Real glad ya could make it.” The smile on his face was not reflected in his eyes. “Come on in,” he urged.

  The office was a place of work. The furniture was substantial, comfortable and functional, without frills. Everything in the room was nicked and scarred from hard use, including one of the two men who studied him intently, seated in one corner.

  “The boys,” said Tuckman, with an expansive wave in their direction. “Sometimes they answer the door. Know what I mean?”

  Brad turned to face them. He remembered the size of them flanking Tuckman in the courthouse. The man on the left was wearing a light gray suit; it clashed with marks of past bruising encounters on the pock-marked face. The second man had a smooth, pale complexion. The pistol he was carrying under his left arm spoiled the drape of his jacket.

  Tuckman laughed, breaking the mood. “They’re good boys. Not to worry. They do like I say.”

  The latent menace brought Brad’s attention back to Tuckman; he met the hard look squarely. As if satisfied with a point made, Tuckman moved around the big desk and seated himself in the oak swivel chair. Without waiting to be asked, Brad chose a seat facing Tuckman from which he had a good view of “the boys.”

  “So, can ya beat the rap?” asked Tuckman in a way that made it plain he didn’t care either way.

  “So they tell me.”

  With his coat off, Tuckman’s well-muscled chest and brawny arms were revealed. The pencil with which he was doodling seemed lost and out of place in his huge, hairy hand. “Walden’s good,” he said casually. “I used him once in a smuggling beef with one of my boys. He blew them clowns away.” He grinned, remembering. “Fact is, they got burned so good they ain’t bothered me in over two years.”

  “You must haul interesting cargo,” Brad commented, watching the big man’s reaction.

  “This is a tough business,” Tuckman said defensively. The thick lenses of his glasses enlarged his piercing brown eyes. “I got over three hundred loads on the bricks any time ya wanna pick. I didn’t get where I’m at, worrying what was in them crates I hauled. Besides, if ya do it right, there ain’t nothing to it,” he said slyly. “Ya just gotta cover all the angles.”

  “It figures,” Brad said, “that I’m one of those angles. Right?”

  Tuckman nodded. “I got a good proposition.” His broad smile contrasted with the calculating expression in his eyes. “I want ya should listen good.”

  Brad nodded.

  “This goes back to Art Allison, Lydia’s papa, my sister’s old man. When he started that air cargo racket, Overnite Air, he ran right quick into the shorts. He needed money bad. On account of my sis, I listened. It didn’t sound bad, but Christ, a million bucks.” His eyes showed a slyness now.

  “So I hocked myself, raised the dough and give it to him. I got twenty-five percent of Overnite Air and a note. The note’s in writing and I got the stock. There’s still a few bucks owed, but it’s coming in regular. Got it so far?”

  Brad nodded again, waiting for the kink. With an operator like Tuckman, there had to be a kink.

  “Art also drew a will. I was to get the airline if he died sudden-like, with a flat cash settlement to his brats.

  “So I’m real surprised when Art and my sis drive off Topanga Canyon. Damn near a hundred feet straight down, it was. The bastard screwed me; he had drawn a new will that left the airline to his brats. And worse yet, Lydia, she jumps right in and the business is losing money so fast my stocks ain’t worth shit.”

  A pleased expression replaced his earlier slyness. “So I got me a top-type shyster and dragged the deal into court. An old will and a verbal agreement ain’t much, but you should see what that lawyer type’s doing with it. He’s good. He tells me it’s gonna cost a chunk, but I’m gonna own an airline real soon.” He leaned back, contented and pleased.

  “So?” Brad asked.

  “That shyster, he says maybe you got some claim to that airline.”

  “Crap,” Brad snorted. “Lydia and Gerald got it while I was in Nam. When she divorced me, she took everything. She even grabbed my folk’s place.”

  “She did. She did! But it was a Vegas divorce, uncontested. Ya could maybe go back and jab her for fraud even, taking your parents’ place and all. Then with me, ya wouldn’t win nothing, but ya could file a nuisance suit and cost me to beat it.

  “I built So-Cal Trucking by not leaving no loose ends. What I’m offering is twenty-five thou for a release of any interests ya may have, now or later.”

  “A waste,” Brad said, surprised at the amount.

  “Maybe,” responded Tuckman confidently. “But the offer stands. Ya gotta cover your butt from all angles. If you don’t, somebody’s gonna kick it hard.”

  In response to the puzzlement on Brad’s face, Tuckman continued, “Look, I got this nailed. I’ll win in court in a matter of months. I just don’t want no complications. Ya could easy cost me twenty-five thou, just being a pest.”

  Brad studied him carefully, looking for more. “Did you kill Gerald?” he asked softly.

  “That’s crazy,” thundered Tuckman, rising and pacing behind his desk. The two men in the corner straightened in their chairs. Tuckman calmed a bit, faced Brad and fixed him with a sharp, hard look. “Matter of fact, I thought you bumped him.”

  Brad shook his head.

  “I’ll be damned. Wonder who did?” A speculative gleam livened his eyes, as if he was wondering how a dollar could be made off this new information.

  He leaned on the desk, his head and shoulders well forward. “I didn’t have no reason. The little shit was gonna sell me his half. I have it in writing. Now he’s dead and Lydia’s got his half too, on account of Art’s second will. Besides, I mostly don’t kill people to get what I want.” He underlined “mostly” with a sly grin. “There’s lots of ways, and I know ’em all. Where’d ya get that idea
?”

  Brad shrugged, watching the big man closely. “Ever try a deal with Lydia?”

  “Oh, Christ. Don’t remind me.” He leaned back out over the desk. “I made a really good offer, maybe a mil more than she’ll get when I wipe her ass in court. She told me to go play with myself.

  “Me, I decide I’ll try one more time, maybe raise the ante some. So I go back. Before I can open my mouth even, she hauls out a nickel plated .38 and starts blasting. She damn near killed me.” He shook his head, as if he still didn’t believe it had happened.

  “Sounds like her,” Brad said with a faint chuckle. “But if she’d wanted you dead, she wouldn’t have missed.” He stood up. The man with the pock-marked face also stood and moved to the door.

  “Where ya going?” Tuckman demanded. “We ain’t made a deal.”

  “Sounds good,” Brad responded. “Maybe later.”

  “Now don’t go getting cute with me. I been snacking on guys like you for years. I ain’t slowed down so’s ya’d notice.”

  “Sounds like a threat.”

  “Take it any way ya like. I want a deal. Now. For five years I been working this out. Maybe tomorrow you’re gone again. I say we deal now.”

  “No.” Brad turned toward the big man who was blocking the exit. The pock-marked face showed the eager anticipation of a puppy for a fresh bone. “Maybe later is all you get just now.” Brad spoke without turning around. He could feel the tension build. He noticed the other man had a hand close to his pistol.

  “Yeah,” Tuckman grunted. The big man grudgingly moved aside. Brad opened the door and left. He would remember the disappointment he’d seen on the broad, pock-marked face.

  * * *

  Brad drove west and north through town, then onto the Golden State Freeway, letting his thoughts drift. Tuckman seemed capable of anything and didn’t care much about people in his way.

  As for the offer, he’d wait. He smiled, remembering what his dad had often said. “Don’t be greedy. But don’t be too excited about that first offer.” Right now, Tuckman’s offer didn’t matter much. Money wasn’t what he needed.

  “Sure. I’m going to find a killer,” he said aloud. How? That he alone could find a killer among twenty million people was purely a dream of the night. In the bright light of day the task was clearly impossible. He didn’t have even a hint of where to begin.

  Tuckman said Gerald had agreed to sell his share of Overnite Air, and Lydia got it when he was killed. Could Tuckman have killed him because he backed out of the deal? Could Lydia have killed him to get his share? The thought startled him. Lydia a killer? He knew there was more hope than substance in his thoughts, but still it may be a place to start.

  He passed a car parked on the shoulder of the freeway as a lovely pair of legs settled to the ground. He only glimpsed the girl. The image was immediately shattered by a much stronger one of Josie.

  He watched her move and liked it. He saw her sitting in a chair, legs crossed, confident and poised. He saw her toss her gleaming, black hair back over her shoulder. Then he thought of her long, strong legs, and the way they would feel . . .

  The big tractor-trailer locked eighteen wheels and veered into his path. He headed quickly for the shoulder, his own brakes locked. It was then he noticed the pale green Ford in the rearview mirror, also sliding toward the side of the freeway, struggling for control. He looked again. Was it the same car he’d seen parked by the fire hydrant in front of Tuckman’s place?

  Moving again, Brad studied the Ford in the mirror. It dropped back, leaving three cars between it and Brad’s. He took a firmer grip on the wheel.

  He took the 118 west and was soon on the San Diego Freeway southbound. He got off at the Burbank exit and drove east. The Ford lagged behind, but traveled the same route. Even with the cool breeze through the open window, his palms were sweaty, slippery on the wheel.

  He stopped at a delicatessen and picked up a salami, some German cheese, two quarts of milk, and a roll of French bread. In the car again, he drove north on Sepulveda to the hotel. The Ford was still behind him. What the hell did it mean?

  He parked his car, entered the hotel and took the elevator to the fourth floor. From the window in his room, he could see the Ford, parked four spaces from his rental, two rows further back.

  Two men approached the car, apparently from the hotel lobby. Both men were well dressed in light brown suits and ties. Both wore dark glasses. They got into the car and drove off, the blond behind the wheel. Brad munched on a piece of cheese, thoughts of Judge Tofler and the morning courtroom scene, now overridden with questions.

  Who were they? Who would want to follow him? Why? He tried the office number Hank had given him, but had to settle for leaving a message. He broke off another piece of cheese and turned back to the window, his questions unanswered.

  * * *

  An hour later as Brad was pouring another cup of coffee, there was a firm knock on the door. He opened it with coffee in hand. It was the two who’d followed him from Tuckman’s place. Each held an identification wallet open.

  “We’re with the CIA,” the older man said, as if reciting from the ID wallet. “I’m Agent Cogswell. This is Agent Feldersen.” He nodded toward the younger man with the long, well-groomed blond hair.

  Brad felt intimidated in some way and was bothered by the feeling. Their eyes reflected hard indifference and nothing of their slight smiles. But that wasn’t it. What was bugging him?

  “May we come in?” Cogswell asked.

  “Why?”

  “We’d like to ask a few questions, Mr. Ashton.”

  “Why me?”

  Feldersen tipped his head slightly forward as if to accent his reply. “We’re not here to answer questions.” His quiet voice contrasted sharply with his hard, piercing look. “But you’ll know more after we’ve talked.”

  Brad shrugged, then turned, walked to the couch, and sat down. He heard the door close behind him. He took a sip of coffee; it eased the dryness in his throat.

  Cogswell sat down facing Brad at the far end of the couch. Feldersen sat in the chair opposite him and asked, “What’s your relationship to Willard Tuckman?”

  “He’s my uncle by marriage.”

  “We know that, Mr. Ashton. Let me put it this way. How are you involved with him?”

  “I’m not.”

  Feldersen raised a blond eyebrow skeptically. Brad met his hardness with a look of calm he did not feel. Feldersen spoke sharply. “What did you discuss with him today?”

  “Business.”

  “What business?”

  “Not yours.” Brad guessed Feldersen was accustomed to having his way; he saw the flash of anger in his eyes and a firming of the jaw. He couldn’t remember seeing a federal officer display petty emotions.

  “As I asked at the door,” Brad said, “why me? Why did you two follow me from Tuckman’s place?” He noticed the hint of chagrin pass fleetingly across Cogswell’s face, a touch of wounded pride at having been caught. Feldersen gave no indication he’d even heard the question.

  “We understand you like Mexico.” The hardness in the blond’s eyes was present in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you spend a lot of time there?”

  “Some.”

  “And some of it in jail?”

  Brad was surprised. So far as he knew, only Lydia knew about that night. “You’ve been talking to my ex-wife, haven’t you?”

  Cogswell replied with his own question, “What makes you think that?”

  Brad turned to face the man. “One night in Acapulco, Lydia gave a couple fellas the wrong idea. I had to get her clear and spent a night in jail for my troubles. I was never that proud of it to tell anybody.”

  Cogswell nodded; there was no indication whether he believed Brad or not. “I’m curious, Mr. Ashton.”

  Brad waited, watching.

  “Why can’t you be as frank in answering our other questions?”

  Brad made no reply. It was
becoming more difficult to stifle anger.

  “Where’d you learn Spanish?” Cogswell asked politely.

  “Here and there.”

  Cogswell sighed, as if being sorely tried, but his eyes didn’t change expression. “What’s your relationship with your ex-wife?”

  “There isn’t any.”

  “You’ve been away about three years. Were you in touch with her?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you during that time?”

  “Places.”

  “Tell us about Mexico.”

  “I spent five months on a drilling platform.”

  “You’d need papers for that.”

  Brad made no reply. He’d had papers, but they’d been in the name of Tom Fairchild. He mentally stepped on surging anger.

  “Answer the man,” Feldersen snapped, leaning toward Brad, “unless you want to come downtown for a formal interrogation. I’m sure we can think of a charge.”

  “Anytime.” The anger was in his eyes now, despite his best effort. “First get a warrant.”

  “We don’t need a warrant.”

  “Blondie, that tough, dangerous look of yours needs lots of practice. Right now you just look silly.” He braced himself as Feldersen moved his feet for better leverage, his face mottled with rage, his jaws clenched tightly.

  “Mr. Ashton,” said Cogswell calmly, without a hint of impatience. He leaned out over the corner of the coffee table toward Brad, drumming his fingers slowly on the polished surface. His other hand rested on his thigh. “We need answers.” His voice was mild, almost disinterested. “While we’re not in a position to discuss our investigation, I can say our interests are unrelated to the local charges against you. Let’s just say your name came up. We need to check it out. It is important or we wouldn’t be taking our time or yours. We’d sincerely appreciate your help.”

  “What sincerity?” Brad snapped. “You shove your way in like you own the place and everything in it, including me. You’ve suggested a sneaky deal with Tuckman, something shady with my ex-wife and black deeds in Mexico. You scare me, but not in the way you think. If you’re America’s finest, I’m real scared.”

  “Just a little help,” said Cogswell patiently. Feldersen was ominously quiet. Brad ignored him.