“Hey, sleepyhead. Glad to see you back among the living. I was afraid I would have to call the EMTs. Here, have an eye-opener,” an exuberantly alert Ken said when Randolph finally popped open one eye.
It was a Bloody Mary.
Ken was dressed in Oscar De La Renta silk briefs that accentuated his contours. Randolph noted that his fingernails had been freshly manicured, and that the man’s toenails had been freshly painted a very fetching pink passion.
“Thanks, Ken. What time is it?”
“Quarter of eight.”
Randolph sat bolt upright in bed. Ken was standing close beside him.
“Ken, I forgot. I have an appointment at nine. My life depends on being on time!”
Ken saw that there was no coquettishness or guile in his new-found friend’s face. He knew that Randolph was sincere, but he had no intention of allowing the man to get away that easily. He had taken a Viagra, and he had seen the morning news.
“I washed out and pressed your shirt and ironed your suit. You have some time…Dick.”
The ironic way Ken enunciated Randolph’s hastily chosen pseudonym ignited Randolph’s adrenocortical system. This was trouble.
“I don’t, Ken. Sorry. Much as I would like to go to nirvana with you, I can’t this morning. Let’s take a rain check until this afternoon, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay, chum. You imposed on my considerable hospitality, and I got zip. I know who you are; and I’ll tell you; I want a little memory to share with the boys. Now let’s get on with a quickie, and you can go without anyone ever being the wiser that you were here. What do you say, sweetie?”
“Thanks for the drink, Ken. Thanks for pressing my clothes, and no thanks for the rest. I don’t swing that way; you might as well know that. No offense intended, but I needed your place as a hidey hole, not an introduction to the AIDs culture.”
He was standing now, muscles tensed for whatever would come next. He was naked and felt completely vulnerable, but nothing about his demeanor revealed that to Ken.
“The quintessential Judas straight. I should have known. Maybe the cops would like to know what your straight little buns have been doing for the past twelve hours.”
He took a step toward the phone.
“Don’t,” Randolph said in a quiet voice edged in menace.
Ken flexed his considerable muscles and put on his marine gunnery sergeant face.
“And if I do?”
“You think I lived this long on the run by letting people with plans like you just suggested survive?”
It was a flagrant bluff, but Ken could not know that. Randolph had no recourse except intimidation—and if that did not work—as much violence as he could muster, knowing that it would be a losing battle against the marine.
Ken searched Randolph’s face for any wavering. When his eyes reached Randolph’s, he was convinced that there was not a flicker of pity left in them. The pale irises were the blue of a hard glacier and as cold. He averted his gaze.
“Then, just get out. I don’t need the grief. Get out!”
“Sorry, Ken. I can’t leave you to let the cops know where I am.”
For all of his marine training and bravado, Ken was truly afraid now. He had a fleeting thought that his martial arts training would be inadequate against this cold blooded killer. He instinctively glanced down at the drawer of the bedside table. It was nearer to Randolph by two steps than it was to him.
“It’s not worth it, Ken. I’m not worth dying for.”
Without removing his eyes from Ken’s, Randolph crouched down and felt for the ornamental latch on the drawer. He rummaged very briefly in the drawer and drew out a .357 Magnum revolver. He pushed the firing mechanism off safety, and pulled back the hammer. He took a quick look at the front of the gun to reassure himself that it was loaded.
“That was a naughty thought, my friend. Now you are going to have to spend the day highly inconvenienced.”
Randolph gestured to the floor with the gun. Ken sat.
“Hands on the top of your head, fingers intertwined.”
Randolph asked quietly, “Where do you keep the duct tape, Ken?”
“Now I should help you tie me up; so, you can kill me? I don’t think so.”
“Ken, think. If I wanted you dead, you would already be dead. I am either going to kill you right now, or I am going to tie you up. I have no time to dilly-dally. Choose.”
It was the coldest voice and the worst threat Ken had ever heard.
“In the pantry. You promise you won’t kill me. I’ll cooperate. I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?”
He was pleading and it shamed him; but indeed, it was better than the alternative. Besides, no one would ever know. If he lived, it would be him telling the story, not the criminal.
“Crawl on your hands and knees to the pantry. I’ll get the tape. If you make me nervous, I’ll fire off as many rounds as thing can put out and as fast as it can. I have nothing to lose. How about you?”
Ken scurried along on his hands and knees ignoring the discomfort from the hard wood floor. He was thoroughly beaten and completely subservient now, and he did not even give it a thought. Randolph used the butt of the pistol as a club and whipped it across the back of the crawling sergeant’s skull. Ken dropped flat on his face and was still. Randolph felt for a carotid pulse and was relieved to find one. He ran to the kitchen pantry and found the duct tape after a few moments of frustrating search. He twisted the unconscious man’s wrists behind his back and taped them with multiple layers. He stuffed a dish cloth in Ken’s mouth and wound several layers of the stiff tape around his head to hold the gag in place. Randolph taped Ken’s bare ankles so tightly that they could not move, and for good measure taped around his knees as well. Ken began to come around.
Randolph moved swiftly into Ken’s bedroom, found his uniform boots and tore the bootlaces out. He returned to the terrified marine and tied his big toes and his thumbs together. He thought for a moment. Ken could still make a noise by thumping his heels on the floor, and Randolph could not take the least chance. He dragged Ken to his bed, then sat him up. He heaved with all his might, and was able to hoist his inert victim to the edge of the bed. He got on the bed and with his full strength was able to pull Ken over onto the mattress. He taped a noose around Ken’s neck and fixed it to the iron filigree of the head board and tied his ankles to the foot boards. That ought to be enough, he thought. He looked at his watch. Eight-ten. He had to hurry like he never had before.
He collected himself. The problem was how to get from Ken’s apartment to Hartley Proctor’s building in three-quarters of an hour. The trick would be to do so undetected and in safety. His excitement had ebbed, and his cognitive forces were back to full function.
Randolph dialed Hartley Proctor’s law office on Ken’s cell phone.
“Law offices.”
“I need to speak to Mr. Proctor. It’s urgent.”
“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?
“Tell him it’s his most famous client.”
“Yes, sir.”
If she knew who the caller was, she did not let on. In ten seconds, Proctor answered.
“Proctor here.”
“This is Randy. I don’t have much time. In case you haven’t noticed, my life became somewhat more complicated in the last twenty-four hours. Before we go any further, you don’t happen to know who put the cops onto me, do you? Like maybe the lady fibbies or the newspaper woman?”
“I have no idea, but I doubt it is either of them. What would they have to gain? Where are you?”
Randolph knew he had to let down his paranoiac guard. He had no reason to mistrust Proctor. He sucked in a brave breath.
“I need you to drive your big old limousine to pick me up.”
He gave Proctor the address.
“Better make it in fifteen minutes. There are cops all over the place, and they will cause delays. I will be wearing a dark suit, ready for the meeting with the deputy U.S. attorney if you still think it’s safe and worthwhile.”
“I’ll be there. It’ll take some doing, but I think we can still do the meeting and that the parties are all ready to conduct it in good faith.”
“Okay, remember, I’m the most skittish guy on the face of the earth right now. I see a cop, and I will take off. If you are more than twenty minutes, I won’t be here; and the meeting is off.”
“Look, Randolph, you told me you had to trust someone. I am on your team. Relax on that account.”
“As much as I can,” Randolph said.
He put down the receiver. He looked around the room carefully and gave it some thought. He replaced the .357 Magnum back in its drawer after wiping off his fingerprints. He could not afford to be caught with a gun in his belt. He hurried around the room and wiped off everything that he could remember having touched. He threw on his pants, shirt, tie, socks and shoes, and his suit coat, picked up his briefcase and checked the contents. Everything was still there. He closed the door to the apartment behind him and tested that it was locked. He descended the stairs to wait behind the glass doors of the apartment building until the limousine came.
The police were methodically moving through the neighborhood with their door-to-door inquiries. Randolph could see them three-quarters of a block away on Jefferson Place. Fifteen minutes passed; and they were less than half a block away; and there was no sign of Hartley Proctor’s limousine. He checked his watch. He willed himself to wait a full five minutes more. Time crept by making Randolph more tense by the minute.
A pair of uniformed policemen descended the front stairs of the building two doors down and ascended the stairs of the building next to the one in which Randolph was hiding. He walked back down the hallway to plot an escape route and saw that the rear door led into a small backyard enclosed in a high cinderblock fence—too high to climb over. He was beginning to sense panic. He turned back and saw that the limousine was now parked in front of the apartment building. Randolph ran back to the front door and peered out, up and down the street. Across the street a different pair of police—a man and a woman—rang the entrance buzzer and were admitted inside. He could see no other indication of law enforcement personnel anywhere near and presumed that both sets of cops were inside their buildings going methodically through their search.
He gritted his teeth, and walked out of the apartment building as if he owned the place, as if he always rode to work in a stretch car. Proctor’s driver hurried around and opened the door for Randolph, and the lightly sweating fugitive stepped in. The police men came out of the building next to Randolph’s and moved to the one in which he had been hiding just as the limo pulled away from the curb. Before they opened the door, the two men gave a perfunctory wave to the unseen occupants of the huge black Mercedes limousine. The driver returned the wave—looked both ways—then completed his move into the heavy post-riot traffic.