Plastic cuff straps cut his wrists and he smelled the stale, dusty aroma of canvas. McGuire opened his eyes, leaving one blackness and entering another. They had cuffed his wrists behind him and placed a black canvas sack over his head, fastening it securely at the neck.
The van was travelling on a highway. He sensed the speed and heard traffic in other lanes.
There were three of them, McGuire calculated. A driver and two others.
“He’s awake,” someone said.
The van reduced its speed and made a shallow right turn, slowed to a stop, turned sharply left, and resumed speed again, leaving the freeway behind.
McGuire counted the seconds, trying to estimate distance. Within a minute the van left the pavement; gravel crunched under its tires for a few feet, and then it stopped.
The side door slid open. Hands seized each of McGuire’s shoulders, lifting and propelling him out of the vehicle onto a hard, flat surface, steering him without words across a concrete floor and through a door that opened with a pneumatic hiss and closed solidly behind. They passed through two more doors before McGuire was guided into a soft armchair. One hand pushed him forward until his head was between his knees, while another released the plastic wrist-bindings.
The canvas bag was lifted from his head and McGuire blinked at the light that flooded his eyes.
It was not what he’d expected. There were no cold concrete walls, no utilitarian metal furniture, no harsh overhead lights, no one-way viewing windows.
Instead, he appeared to be in a suburban den, seated on a comfortable wing chair upholstered in a plaid woollen fabric. He was facing a Colonial pine wall-unit which displayed a stereo system and television among shelves of books. A small reading lamp glowed on a desk in the far corner. Muted light reflected back from the ceiling; the fixtures were hidden behind the coving of the wall-unit. Beneath his feet, thick broadloom stretched from wall to wall. Other chairs, matching his own, sat in a grouping around a small antique table.
“Would you like something to drink?” a voice said from behind him.
McGuire turned as a tall, slim man in his late thirties strode past him. The man wore a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. Thick glasses in heavy black frames sat atop a straight, patrician nose. The man opened a wooden panel in the wall-unit, and the light from a small refrigerator shone into McGuire’s eyes.
“I’m a police officer,” McGuire said.
“We know that,” a second voice said from behind McGuire. A hand appeared over his shoulder, dropping McGuire’s detective badge into his lap.
“Orange, grapefruit, lemon-lime or punch?” The man in the glasses was looking at McGuire, one hand indicating the contents of the refrigerator. “We also have mineral water or milk, if that suits your taste.”
McGuire tried to turn his neck but a strained muscle shot him a sharp warning. He winced and reached to rub it. “Who are you guys?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
“You don’t want something to drink?” asked the man at the refrigerator.
“I’ll take a mineral water,” the second man said, moving into McGuire’s view for the first time. He was heavier than the other man and perhaps a few years older, with eyes like knife-edges and rapidly thinning blond hair. Dressed in a dark suit of the same conservative cut as his partner’s, the fair-haired man accepted a bottle of mineral water from his partner and poured it into a clear crystal glass.
Goggles and Baldy, McGuire named them. He didn’t expect to see identification, so Goggles and Baldy it would be. It’s their show, McGuire told himself. Let them run it. For now.
Goggles set a glass of orange juice on a table next to McGuire’s chair. “In case you get thirsty,” he said. A smile appeared briefly and was gone. Baldy chose an armchair among the grouping to McGuire’s right, where he sampled his mineral water in small sips and studied McGuire as though viewing a painting in an art gallery.
“How did you obtain that telephone number?” Baldy asked in a curious voice.
“Somebody gave it to me.”
Goggles moved out of sight behind McGuire, where the room was noticeably darker. McGuire turned to locate him, but the wings of the heavy armchair shielded his view, and the pain in his neck warned against twisting his head further. He looked back at the fair-haired man in front of him. “I never met him. He was at the Palm Springs Desert Museum last night. He called me twice at my motel room, then again today. Told me to wait at a blackjack table in the Flamingo. He left your number in a phone booth. I called, and you know the rest.”
“Anything noticeable about his voice?” Baldy asked.
“I think he’s borderline insane. But I’m getting used to that around here. Now tell me who you are.”
“You know who we are,” came the reply. “Our credentials are at least as valid as yours. In fact, much more so.” A modulated voice, carefully trained, words clearly enunciated. A Mormon, McGuire decided. They’re probably both Mormons. Good foot soldiers. No alcohol or tobacco. White shirts and no vices. Point them and they march.
“You interviewed Bunker Crawford,” McGuire said.
“We did indeed.” It was Goggles, gliding silently back and forth across the room in the darkness behind McGuire.
“I had a warrant for his arrest,” McGuire responded. “And you people interfered with a legitimate exercise of interstate criminal prosecution.” Shit, McGuire realized, I’m talking like Fat Eddie Vance.
“Academic now, isn’t it?” Baldy watched McGuire with amusement over the rim of his glass.
“There’ll be hell to pay over this.” McGuire leaned back in his chair.
“Not by us.” The man lowered his glass. “Let’s begin to make some progress now, shall we? You came down here with your unfortunate partner to take custody of Bunker Crawford and return him to Boston for trial. We had no quarrel with that. In spite of our manner of bringing you here, McGuire, we are as much interested in the execution of the law as you are. But in a slightly different sphere. In any case, in a move of astounding stupidity, you permitted Mr. Crawford to be murdered in an open public area, thus preventing the very exercise of justice you were here to participate in.”
“Did you kill him?” McGuire asked calmly.
“Of course not. First, we wanted him alive. And second, if we had chosen to eliminate him, we would hardly have used such a clumsy method.”
“What did you say to scare him so much?”
The man with the mineral water shook his head. “Classified, McGuire.”
Goggles appeared suddenly at McGuire’s side. “Tell us what you know about Crawford,” he said in a bored voice.
“It’s classified.” McGuire smiled.
“McGuire, how many people would give a damn if your body was found tossed into a ravine somewhere between here and Death Valley?” Goggles asked pleasantly.
“Probably not a hell of a lot.”
“Good guess. We know about your career in Boston, about your two failed marriages, one ex-wife dead, the other shacked up in Florida with a drug dealer. We know about your hiatus in the Bahamas. No close relatives, no deep personal relationships with anyone except a burnt-out retired quadriplegic detective. And absolutely nobody to make a connection with us. Trust us on that one, McGuire. Now tell us what you know about Crawford.”
“He wasn’t crazy,” McGuire offered.
“An unqualified opinion,” Baldy said. He drained his glass of mineral water and positioned it carefully on a coaster in the middle of the table.
“Look, you don’t care what I know about Crawford,” McGuire said. “You’ve got it already. You’ve seen the file material we transferred to Palm Springs and you know all about his shooting of Ross . . .” He paused, smiled, snapped his fingers. Suddenly he knew. “That woman who answered Ross Amos’s home phone number as his wife. It was the same one who answered your number tonight. She just dropped the phony southern accent.”
The two men were unimpressed.
“She was supposed to be in Virginia, or Maryland or somewhere when I called,” McGuire continued. “A kitchen in a nice suburban tract house. The hell she is. She’s probably sitting at a switchboard with direct lines from area codes all over the country. . . .” He paused, looked around. “Maybe in this building, right?” They were letting him talk, he knew. Letting him function as both inquisitor and source.
“Tell us again about this mysterious man who called and suggested you come to Las Vegas.” It was Goggles. His approach was more clipped than his partner’s, his mind more focused on the problem at hand. He would be the more dangerous of the two, McGuire estimated. More ruthless. More blank-faced as he pulled the trigger or drew the garrote tighter.
“I said I never met him,” McGuire answered. “But he told me about Lafaro.”
Something drifted across the faces of the two men, a shadow that altered their expression. Goggles flexed one hand involuntarily.
“What,” Goggles said, measuring each word, “did he tell you about Lafaro exactly?”
“Nothing much,” McGuire responded. The climate in the room had altered significantly. McGuire was no longer to be intimidated and manipulated by his interrogators. He had acquired a bargaining chip. Now he was the driver of the bus, not just a passenger. “He said he had to feed Lafaro, take care of him,” McGuire continued. “That’s all I know about him,” he added.
“You never saw this Lafaro?” Goggles demanded. “You never spoke to him?”
“Never.”
“Why was Bunker Crawford in Palm Springs?” Baldy interrupted.
“I don’t have any idea.”
“Who is Glynnis Vargas?” It was Goggles. He was gliding behind McGuire again, addressing him from the darkness in back of his chair.
“A very wealthy widow who used to be married to a Brazilian jewel dealer. That’s all unconfirmed. You might want to check it out.”
“We already have,” Baldy responded. “It’s true. Her husband died in a plane crash just over a year ago. She’s in this country legitimately.”
“Okay, here’s one for you,” McGuire offered. “Why was Bunker Crawford running around her front garden like a mad man, shooting at random and screaming obscenities?”
Neither man responded.
McGuire pushed himself upright, out of the chair. “You don’t know much more than I do,” he said. His left ear was ringing from the pressure applied on his carotid artery to render him unconscious. He inserted the tip of his pinkie in his ear and twisted the finger but only managed to dislodge some wax. Goggles glided into view from the darkness and looked at McGuire with distaste. “You guys did a good job on me,” McGuire said, the ringing only slightly more distant. “As long as we need spooks like you to survive in this world, at least I know we’ve got good spooks. Maybe I’ll sleep better thinking about that. Maybe I won’t.”
“Sit down, McGuire,” Baldy said in a tired voice.
“I’d rather go, thanks very much. Just slip me my canvas hat and another pair of adjustable cuffs and load me in the welcome wagon.”
“If you want to leave, it can be arranged,” Goggles replied. He sat in one of the armchairs facing McGuire and crossed his legs. “But it would be better for everyone if you stayed a few minutes longer.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Baldy said in the same weary tone. “We’re going to tell you a few things you don’t know.”
“I don’t know a hell of a lot.”
Baldy smiled. “True. Very true. And we’re not going to tell you much more.”
“Why tell me anything at all?”
“Because as inept as you are, McGuire, you could be of some value to us and your government.” It was Goggles, relaxed in his chair. “There are still some things which are . . .” He looked for the word on the ceiling, couldn’t locate it, waved it away with his hand and continued. “. . . awkward in a democracy. So we use other means.”
“You’re not very smart, McGuire,” Baldy said. “But you’re not corruptible either. You have no idea how rare that quality is in our society.”
“Am I being enlisted here?” McGuire asked.
“Somewhat.” Goggles inspected his manicure. “We satisfy a little of your curiosity. You satisfy a little of ours when the opportunity arises.”
McGuire sat.
“You know Bunker Crawford was in the army at the same time as the colonel . . .” Baldy began.
“Who?” McGuire asked. He decided to sample the orange juice.
“Colonel Amos,” Goggles said from his chair. He seemed exasperated with McGuire.
“In spite of what you may think, they barely knew each other,” Baldy resumed. “Due to the nature of their duties, the units were strictly segregated.”
“Crawford worked in a small detail led by a man named Lafaro,” Goggles said. “Rocco Salvatore Lafaro.”
Baldy pulled a plastic-encased photograph from his inside pocket and held it in front of McGuire’s eyes. “You ever see this man?”
McGuire squinted. He was looking back at a hard and handsome Sicilian face, the nose slightly hooked, the hair thick and coal-black, the eyes challenging the world. He shook his head, and Baldy withdrew the photograph, returning it to an inside jacket pocket.
“There was a third man in the detail,” Goggles added. “Named Samuel Littleton, also known as Little Sam. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Never.” McGuire took another sip of orange juice and leaned back, his hands folded loosely in his lap.
“We know where Little Sam lives.” It was Baldy, leaning against the bookshelves. “And we kept tabs on Bunker Crawford for over twenty years.”
“We?” McGuire grinned.
“The department,” Goggles said. “This has been a department priority case since . . .” He paused and glanced at Baldy, who was shaking his head solemnly. “. . . for several years,” Goggles added. “Look, McGuire, let’s understand things.” Goggles aimed a finger in McGuire’s direction and seemed to sight along it, as though it were a rifle barrel. “We’re telling you only what you need to know to help us in this matter. We also have total deniability, by the way. You don’t know us, you don’t know where you are, you don’t know why Bunker Crawford was killed, and you don’t know why we’ve been following him. You don’t need to know. All you need to do is cooperate with your government in upholding the law, especially in matters of national security.”
“Jesus,” McGuire muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” Goggles said quietly.
“What happened, somebody miss their cue? Shouldn’t I have heard ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ behind that speech?”
“Get him out of here,” Goggles hissed, turning his back on McGuire.
Baldy held up a hand in caution to the other man, but he directed his words to McGuire. “Lafaro, Littleton and Crawford were performing special duties as part of their military assignment,” Baldy continued. “On one of these assignments, they were located within an army defence area when Lafaro seized his two companions, disarmed them, secured them so they could neither follow nor alert others, and fled the area in a military vehicle.”
McGuire looked from one man to the other. The pain in his neck had softened to dull discomfort. “He went AWOL.”
“That’s right. In a spectacular fashion.”
“He took something with him,” Goggles said from his armchair. “A piece of top-secret material. A few weeks later, he and a companion offered to return the equipment to the US government for three million dollars in cash.”
There was a pause. Neither man seemed prepared to continue.
“And?” McGuire finally prodded.
Both began speaking at once, but Goggles deferred to Baldy and folded his arms, avoiding the eyes of the other men.
“The ransom was paid.” Baldy carried his empty glass to a sink above the concealed refrigerator.
“And you got the equipment, or whatever it was, back,” McGuire offered when neither man volunteered more information.
Goggles looked uncomfortable. Baldy studied McGuire solemnly from the wall-unit before replying. “No,” he said. “It was not returned.”
“You mean some two-bit sergeant picked Uncle Sam’s pockets for three million dollars and disappeared?” McGuire grinned. “For twenty years? And took a piece of military junk with him?”
Again both men began to speak, and again Goggles, his face flushed, demurred to his companion.
“You may think this is a laughing matter, McGuire. Or just an embarrassment to the government. Well, it’s much more than that. Two, perhaps more people, have died because of what happened back then. And many more could follow.”
“Tell me about Amos.” McGuire settled back in his chair again. “How does he fit in?”
Goggles continued to avoid McGuire’s eyes.
“Colonel Amos was in charge of transferring the ransom money and retrieving the equipment,” Baldy explained.
“And he blew it,” McGuire offered.
“He was unable to obtain the material, that’s correct.” Baldy stood with his arms folded. “He then asked for and was granted the duties of leading a special task force assigned to track Sergeant Lafaro down and retrieve the missing equipment.”
“He spent twenty years at this?” McGuire asked.
“He devoted the balance of his military career to it. His life, in actual fact.”
“And what was he doing in Boston last month on Bunker Crawford’s doorstep?” McGuire’s eyes flew between Goggles and Baldy, willing them to answer.
This time, Goggles took the initiative, speaking quickly as though to soften the effect of his words. “Colonel Amos reached the conclusion that Lafaro hadn’t acted alone. He determined that, in spite of their stories, Littleton and Crawford had been part of the conspiracy all the time.”
“It was an early theory,” Baldy said. “But there was no solid proof. You saw Crawford’s file. If he participated in the ransom, there was no evidence that he benefited from it. He was under surveillance during the transfer of the ransom and has been almost continuously since.”
“Last year, the colonel began a new tactic,” Goggles added. “You don’t have to know the details, but it was a matter of selective, uh . . .”
“Harassment,” Baldy finished. “Let’s not become lost in semantics. There were cryptic messages sent to Crawford and Littleton, the usual things to flush out suspects.”
“And then, one day, Amos appears on Crawford’s doorstep,” McGuire interrupted. “And Crawford shoots him.”
“That’s what we believe happened.” Baldy was watching McGuire for his reaction.
“Where’s the other guy, Littleton?” McGuire asked.
“He lives near here,” Baldy replied. “Still under surveillance.”
“You’ve heard enough, McGuire,” Goggles said, pushing himself out of his chair. “We’ve told you this much because, in spite of your spotty career record, you have a reputation for being trustworthy with important information. Now that you know what you’re dealing with, you can either set your curiosity aside and back away from where you’re not wanted. Returning to Boston would be an excellent start. Or, if you continue to remain in this area, we expect you have an obligation to report to us.”
“Report what?”
“Anything at all. Especially any information you may have on Rocco Lafaro. You don’t take any action. You don’t probe any deeper. You simply act as a conduit of information to us like any good citizen would.”
“Like Bonnar, the Palm Springs cop?” McGuire asked. “Is he your model citizen?”
“Captain Bonnar is aware of some of these facts, yes.” It was Baldy, looking impatient. “He has agreed to assist us in a confidential manner. We expect you to do the same.” Baldy tossed a business card on the arm of McGuire’s chair. On it was the telephone number McGuire had dialled in the telephone booth. Beneath it, printed in stylish script, he read: “24 hours a day, 7 days a week.”
Baldy glanced at his watch. “If you are contacted again by the man who referred to Lafaro, whoever he is, call that number. Immediately.”
“What if I choose not to get involved?” McGuire asked. “And just leave you spooks to chase each other around the desert for another twenty years?”
“That’s your choice, isn’t it?” Goggles answered. “In a free and democratic society, each citizen makes his own choice.”
“Just don’t make your choice a dumb one,” Baldy warned.
“This guy who called me. Who is he?” McGuire asked.
“We think it’s Lafaro.” It was Goggles, gathering the cuffs and canvas sack from the side table.
“And who are you guys?” McGuire asked.
“Don’t be silly,” Goggles scoffed, and he lowered the canvas hood over McGuire’s face again.