Страница 87 из 90
After Jon’s mother died and Lionel and Mona married, his father’s output had leveled off. He’d written two more books, which hadn’t sold well, and a third he’d been forced to publish himself. For years he was still sought after on the lecture circuit, and he was paid well for his appearances, but Jon had heard the same talk, with the same wry pauses to allow for the polite laughter at the mildly amusing jokes. By the time Lionel died, Jon saw him as shrunken and weak. Mona had sucked the light right out of him.
Meticulously, he went back over his preparations. He had almost a hundred thousand dollars, in hundreds, packed in two body wallets that scarcely showed under his sport coat. For two thousand dollars he’d bought an airline ticket, one-way, first class, to Caracas, Venezuela. Once there he’d purchase another ID-driver’s license, passport, and birth certificate-and retire both the Jon Corso and Lionel Corso identities. After he found a place to settle, he’d write his next book and submit it to a New York literary agent, under a fictitious name. He knew whom he’d approach, a woman who’d turned him down when he was desperate for an agent early in his career. She’d jump at the chance to take on a Jon Corso-style writer, having forfeited a fortune by rejecting the original.
He shrugged into a windbreaker and slid the gun in his right pocket. How nice that an item he’d stolen from a neighbor twenty-one years before had now set him free. By the time the police put it all together, if they ever managed it, he’d be long gone and, he hoped, impossible to trace. He folded and packed his favorite sport coat, his raincoat, and six shirts just back from the cleaner’s. He went into the bathroom, added a few toiletries to his Dopp kit, and tucked it in the suitcase as well. His second bag was already closed and waiting downstairs near the front door. He sat down at his desk and called Walker at work.
As soon as Walker picked up, Jon said, “Michael Sutton just called. He wants to meet.”
“Meet with us? Why?”
“How do I know? Maybe he wants to make a deal. We pay up and he keeps his mouth shut.”
“A shakedown?”
Jon kept his tone matter-of-fact. “Now that he knows where you work, it doesn’t seem out of the question.”
“Shit. I told you he was trouble.”
“We don’t know that. Maybe we can come to an agreement.”
“A deal? How long would that last? We give him money now, it’s only a matter of time before he comes around for more.”
“True, but you’re talking about turning yourself in anyway so I can’t see what difference it makes. By the time he comes back with his hand out, you’ll be in jail.”
“I told you I was thinking about turning myself in. I haven’t done anything about it.”
“Oh, sorry. You seemed pretty sure of yourself when we last spoke.”
“Because I couldn’t see an alternative.”
Jon said, “The way I look at it, a payoff now might buy us a couple of months, during which you might change your mind. I should probably point out that your confession will lose its impact if he gets to the cops before you do.”
“So why talk to him at all?”
“I’d like to hear what he has in mind.”
Walker was quiet for a moment, mulling over the idea. “Where does he want to meet?”
“He mentioned the coffee shop down the street from the bank. I guess he thinks he’ll be safe out in public.”
“Suppose he comes wired? Then anything we discuss, we’re both screwed. I thought the whole point was to find a way I could go to the cops without jeopardizing you.”
“That was before this came up.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either, Walker. We turn him down, he’ll go to the police for sure.”
“You told me he didn’t have anything on us. We were just two guys burying a dog. Didn’t you say that?”
“Suppose he has an ace up his sleeve? That’s what worries me. I don’t like surprises. We’re better off knowing what it is.”
“Shit.”
“I don’t see a way around it,” Jon went on. “I mean, maybe the guy’s harmless, in which case, lucky us.”
“I don’t think we should be seen together. These days, every other business has security cameras. We don’t want that on film, the three of us huddled together in a coffee shop. It won’t look good.”
“I can always call him back and suggest someplace else if you can think of one.”
“What about Passion Peak? We’re the only ones who go up there. If you’re worried about a wire, all you have to do is pat him down.”
“You were the one worried about a wire, but it’s not a bad idea, a quick body search. If he’s clean, he won’t object.”
“When does he want to meet?”
“Well, that’s just it. He says soon. He sounds a bit anxious for my taste so the sooner the better. Would you have a problem cutting out of there for an hour?”
“Probably not. I’d have to reschedule a couple of things.”
“Why don’t you do that? I’ll call Michael and tell him I’m swinging by to get you and then we’ll meet.”
“Does he know about the park?”
“If not, I’ll give him directions. You cool with this?”
“I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right. I mean, how’d he get your name? I’m the one he saw.”
“That’s something we’ll have to ask him. Clearly, he knows more than we thought.”
“I don’t know about this.”
“Fine. Say the word and I’ll tell him it’s a no-go.”
“We should probably hear him out.”
“Agreed. That’s my point. If there’s a problem about the place, I’ll call you back. See you shortly.”
I walked back to the office in a state of suspended animation. Sutton’s death seemed incomprehensible. For the moment, I didn’t feel sorrow, I felt dismay. He’d gone off to meet someone and ended up dead. Unbelievable. Walker McNally couldn’t have done it. I’d seen him at the bank at 10:00. He had a morning full of meetings. It was 11:30 now. I didn’t see how he could have slipped away, driven up to Seashore, shot Sutton, and scurried back again. I assumed his license had been yanked because of his accident and he surely wouldn’t have hired a taxi or bummed a ride. Of course, killers probably aren’t that fussy about obeying traffic laws.
At the same time, if I was correct about Jon Corso and Walker being in cahoots, Jon could have been the shooter. He lived near the back entrance to the Ravine. Seashore Park wasn’t far from his house, three miles at best. He could have driven to the park, killed Sutton, and returned home, and who would be the wiser? I opened my Thomas Guide and checked his house number, tempted to cruise by and see if he was there. I had no intention of knocking on his door, but it wouldn’t hurt to look.
I went out to the Mustang and fired up the engine, plotting my route as I pulled away from the curb. The shortest path was to cut the two blocks over to Capillo and drive up the hill to the intersection where Capillo and Palisade crossed. I’d spent quite a bit of time in that area on a case I’d worked earlier in the year. If I turned left on Palisade and drove a mile, I’d be at Seashore; a right turn would take me past Little Pony Road, and then up another hill and into Horton Ravine.
Traffic was slowed by road construction and it took longer than I’d anticipated before I reached Horton Ravine and passed between the stone pillars. My Grabber Blue 1970 Mustang was conspicuous under ordinary circumstances, even more so in this upscale neighborhood where most vehicles (except those of the hired help) were late-model luxury cars.
As I passed Corso’s house I was startled to see him emerge from the front door, a suitcase in each hand. The car sitting in his driveway was a sleek black Jaguar. I resisted the urge to stare, directing my attention instead to the road ahead. At the next corner I turned right and drove as far as the first estate entrance, where I did a quick turn and crept back toward Ocean. Jon had gone back for a briefcase. On the porch he took a moment to lock up and then returned to the car, where he arranged his bags. When he slid under the wheel, I was close enough to hear the faint slamming of his car door and the engine begin humming. He pulled out of the drive and headed right, toward Harley’s Beach, back along Palisade. I gave him a twenty-second head start and pulled out after him.