CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I was surprised when Arthur Morrison tried to kill me, but it made me keen for the chase, because I knew it would bring Bloggs X out of the shadows. Let me explain. The term “Bloggs” in some British prisons is a code name for a protected witness, a villain giving evidence to the coppers. Since there are a lot of them, they are known by numbers, Bloggs 1, Bloggs 2, etc. In the 1995 Range Rover murders in England, for instance, the informant was Bloggs 19. The odd goings-on in this case indicated a surprise witness was lurking around, someone who could run to the law, if pushed far enough.

This was the person I called Bloggs X, and he or she was the reason I was jacking up Bracknall and Morrison. When the secret sharer came to the fore, the whole scheme would unravel. My plan would have worked, if it hadn’t been for the personal dynamics that led to so much violence.

It all started with Morrison. Of course, he did not go after me directly. No punch in the neck in the parking lot, following by a flurry of kicks to the head, finished with a crushing blow from a handy rock. He didn’t have the muscles for that. He was soft from years of eating rich food purchased with crooked money, pasty from crawling around in late-night lounges, weak-hearted from sleepless nights assaulted by guilty reckonings. He needed a gun, and even then he would sweat as he popped the trigger. Where would he get the gun? Well, Morrison was equal to that task, at least. As soon as we’d settled ourselves again in my superheated car, Morrison made his play.

“All right,” he said. He looked at his hands and drew a few breaths, as if trying to work up his courage. Rubbed at his neck and turned away. Turned back, a question in his eyes. Then he sighed deeply. “I’ve got something to show you.”

It was either a performance or not, and I didn’t really care. I cranked the key and the engine caught, sending a gush of hot air from the air-conditioner vents. I cracked my window, waiting for the compressor to reach speed and turn the air cool. The heat bubbled inside my clothing like panic. Outside the car, Phoenix was sharp edges, blocky buildings against a sun-washed sky, palm trees nodding their heads in a breeze that would never reach the ground.

“High time,” I said. “What’s our destination?”

“My place,” Morrison said.

I laughed. “So you have a place, then?” I said. “I thought you were a pilot fish, fastening yourself to any shark drifting by.”

“There’s no need for insults,” Morrison replied, and I knew I was for it then, because of his sudden boldness. I crunched my left shoulder down, to reassure myself with the feel of the .45 scratching my armpit. The Americans say “butterflies in the stomach,” “big game jitters,” “stage fright.” I had them all now, but I was glad. Give me information or give me death. Morrison delivered the directions, and then we were out of the parking lot, speeding to our fate. Bring on the chill. In the middle of a Phoenix summer, the only way to cool off is to die.

* * * *

Twenty minutes later in the antiquated Willo neighborhood south of McDowell Road, Morrison surprised me. The home he pointed out was English Cottage style, built in the 1920s. A middlebrow palace that should have been set in a copse of elms in the Cotswolds, with hares hopping about on dewy grass and the sound of church bells echoing across the rolling English countryside. Instead, it huddled on a postage stamp of grass in a Valley straight out of the Arabian Nights—fiery rock and cruel sun and dateless palm trees. Even so, it was the real thing—walls of massive, rusticated stone combining brick and stucco, a large brick chimney, small-paned casement windows, a medium-pitched gable roof, segmented window and door openings. A few spindly trees guarded it, gasping for water.

I cruised to a stop. “Not yours, surely?” I said.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because it’ll go $400,000 if it’ll go a penny,” I said. “And you spinning nickel and dime fantasies, waiting for Rhea to cash in and wet your beak.”

He didn’t even answer—another bad sign. I reviewed the last two hours. Had he gotten a chance to call someone and set me up? Of course. He’d ducked out of the corpse carve-up. When I’d emerged, he’d looked done in. But he had a cell phone and it would have been the work of a minute to alert a confederate. Sweat sparked on my palms. Morrison cranked the door open and climbed out, giving me his back. He must have done some fast talking, either to Bracknall, or to someone. So be it. I braced up and joined Morrison on the pavement.

“I’ve got a big dog, so you’ll have to be careful,” he said. “Doberman pinscher. A strong attitude, and a reluctance around strangers. We’ll need to stroll around back, and I’ll soothe him.”

I nodded, not believing this for an instant, but also not wanting to argue within earshot of whoever was inside. A weak-kneed type like Morrison would never share living space with a Doberman pinscher. A dog like that would make him brown his briefs. Encouraged by my silence, he urged me toward the driveway—one of those old-fashioned, split affairs, with two concrete tracks for the wheels of a car. The ground was graveled. Our shoes squeaked and scratched as we skirted the house and made for the wooden gate in the picket fence closing off the back yard.

Morrison unlatched the gate and in we went. A densely grassed yard, heavy with shade under shaggy oleanders, a few ornamental orange trees scattered about, trunks white with the paint that discourages insects. Two floral-print deck chairs and a patio table with a round glass top, quite clean. The brick patio swept, a candle in a tin holder pinned to the back wall of the house. The dirty sweet odor of compost. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Morrison slipped up a step to the nearest back door—there were two. He fumbled with his keys.

Over his shoulder, he said, “Don’t see that dog under the bushes, do you? Sometimes the maid lets him out.”

I shot a glance over my shoulder, heard the clink of his key in the lock as I did so. I saw nothing. What had that been about? I turned back as he jerked open the door. A small kitchen, black-and-white tiles, a narrow wooden counter, flowers in a vase, a breakfast set of blond wood. A bit . . . feminine. Like the neatness of the yard, the floral deck chairs. Feminine, and with a Doberman pinscher supposedly ranging through the rooms. Quite a contrast. Be ready, I told myself. Be ready to step lively and shoot quick.

As Morrison flicked his head to invite me through the doorway, I undid my Colt automatic and used it to direct him. His expression didn’t waver. He’d been expecting trouble. Still, he wasn’t happy about the situation.

“We need a certain amount of trust here,” he said.

“You’ll get into that house,” I told him, prodding him under the floating rib with the Colt’s muzzle. “And you’ll make the acquaintance of that dog, if he exists.”

“Exists?”

“There’s no dog house in the yard. A great, walloping dog that needs its exercise, and no dog house.”

“Built a special place for him,” Morrison said. “In the second bedroom.”

Without bothering further, he stepped into the kitchen, with me right behind. The room was clean as a whistle. Freshly redone and repainted cabinets, polished aluminum light fixtures, melon-colored walls. A spanking modern microwave installed above the electric stove. Spice rack above the counter. I kicked the door shut behind me, frustrating the heat snarling at my back. The inside air was icy. An air-conditioner compressor pulsed and sighed.

“Live here long?” I asked.

“The records are in the office,” he replied. “If you’re interested.”

His head bobbed to our left, toward a narrow hallway.

“Is that what we’re after here, records?” The unlighted hallway was gloomy. “I came up here on faith, you know.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gave a little hop to jumpstart himself and pottered off down the hallway, inviting me to follow. I moved close with him, the gun half-slanted down. The house was cubbyholed with rooms, and I wanted my flesh-and-blood shield in front of me when the spray of gunfire began. To our right, a cove-shaped opening gave on the living room, which was filled with the Art Deco shapes of soft furniture, chintz-shaded lamps and an odd large lump on the floor, something like a rug bundled. Curious. It drew me through the open doorway, with only a quick glance around as I went. A heavy, animal smell. Then I reached and touched the lump. A dog. I caught one ear and pulled back the gouged head, and saw blood oozing past the ivory teeth onto my trousers. The Doberman.

Behind me, Morrison blurted in amazement, “There was a dog.”

What was making his breath whistle? I dropped the beast’s head and looked up. A tiny automatic fluttered in his right hand, its muzzle reflecting light, winking at me. He knew the house, all right, and its hidden places.

“Not your dog,” I said. “I hear no remorse in your voice.” He hadn’t told me to drop the Colt, stupid bastard, but I kept it low and away to the side. Morrison was no killer, and that made him dangerous. He was likely to pop one off by accident.

“Not your house, either,” I said. “The door was open, and you had to distract me so you could fake using your key.”

“Stop talking,” he snapped, his head tick-tocking toward the darkened end of the hallway to his left. His situation was clear. There was supposed to be someone down there to handle me, because Morrison clearly could not. Where was his back-up? And who was his back-up? Bloggs X?

“Bracknall’s a shy boy, isn’t he?” I said. I didn’t move my gun an inch. As soon as Morrison’s relief stepped out of the shadows, the con man would back off, and I’d have a perfect pot at the real bad person. If I wanted it. What I really wanted was information. I wouldn’t get that through slaughter.

Silence. What in Christ was going on? Morrison started toward the end of the hallway. The stress had pushed him too far. He wanted help. Didn’t get it, though, got the sharp end instead. A hellish snarl battered him. He shrieked. A writhing bunch of darkness flashed out, snatched him by the throat, and shook him like he was stuffed. His scream choked into a snuffle, his pistol took wing and clattered off the plaster wall, he collapsed moaning under a body nearly as big as his own. Tearing and snapping. Blood slopping on the walls and floor. Animal musk, fouling the air.

I crouched, hunching my shoulders, stricken by supernatural horror like a gap-mouthed kid. Had the Doberman come to life? I glanced right and down, and the corpse was still there, its fur corroded by blood. I got a grip on my guts, then my gun, as my brain registered the obvious. Two dogs, one down and one up. Someone had double-gamed Morrison. He’d thought there was no dog, and there were two, one so vicious it had been put down. My heart was hopping about in my chest, but I thumbed off the Colt’s safety and got down to business.

Again and again, I flung shots into the trembling mess of flesh, hoping to hit dog and not man. The flash-bangs stung my ears, the gunpowder smell bit my nostrils, the fear flooded my veins. Against a Doberman, you have to get lucky, even with a .45. Its slanting bone deflects bullets, its gristle frustrates lead. I sprayed the magazine empty, every shot exploding like gelignite. The dog whipped about as the bullets forced their way in, but it still coughed, teeth clicking, and Morrison was silent. I heard a horrid wet, licking sound. The dog turned toward me. Its eyes were furious, and it clutched a flap of whiteness in its teeth, a skin handkerchief. Morrison’s left cheek.

The Doberman stepped toward me and rumbled low, like a badly-tuned motorcar. It took another step, slurped and swallowed the rag of flesh. Another step. It was still hungry. That had only been a canapé. It was steadying itself for the leap, heedless of the pitter-patter of its own blood. My leg muscles spasmed, frantic to move. My brain wouldn’t say yes, but I was suddenly falling, my right foot pinned to the floor by the dog corpse. The empty Colt went somewhere, and I splayed my hands as I hit the floor, using them as a pivot to flip my body around.

I was on my hands and knees, breath blazing in my throat. Face to face with the monster, three feet away. Only the corpse lay between us, and that wasn’t much. The animal seemed to chuckle. I could see its chest muscles gathering and vibrating. I could smell the stink of blood on its breath. Then it sighed and slid downward. Its muzzle bumped and twisted on the polished wood floor. It rolled half left attempting to get up, and then it died.

From the back of the house, I heard the squeaking of a door, the rattling of a Venetian blind on glass, steps tapping on concrete, then thudding on grass and earth. Shakily, I stumbled in that direction. Light and heat roared through the open door. I got there, looked out, not wanting to see. To see was to have to pursue, and I was done with pursuit. It didn’t matter, I’d lost again.