Backflash. Part 7

Short and stout, with thick black hair and a round face wearing a habitual expression of grievance, Lou Sternberg was in a rumpled brown suit and open Burberry raincoat, and he walked with slow difficulty, twisted to one side to balance the heavy black garment bag that weighed down his right shoulder. A smaller brown leather bag dangled from his left hand. He looked like a businessman escaping a war zone, and p.i.s.sed off about it.

"Travels light," Wycza commented.

"He likes to be comfortable," Parker said.

"Yeah? He don't look comfortable to me."

Sternberg had seen them now, so Parker turned around and walked out, Wycza with him, and Sternberg trailing. They went out past the line of people waiting for taxis, and the inner roadway full of stopped cars at angles with their trunks open, and paused at the outer roadway, where Wycza pushed the traffic-light b.u.t.ton.

Before the light changed to green, Sternberg caught up with them, huffing and red-faced. He was known for dressing too warmly for any climate he was in, so he was sweating now, rivulets down his round cheeks.

Parker said, "Dan, Lou."

Wycza nodded. "How ya doin."

"Miserable," Sternberg told him, looked him up and down, and said, "You look big enough to carry this bag."

"So do you," Wycza told him, but then shrugged and grinned and said, "But what the h.e.l.l." He took the garment bag and put it on his own shoulder, and it seemed as though it must be much lighter now.

The light was green for pedestrians. They walked over into the parking lot and down the row toward the car Wycza was using, a large forest-green Lexus, big enough so Wycza could ride around in it without feeling cramped. Unlocking the Lexus, they put Sternberg's bags in the trunk and Sternberg in the back seat, where he sat and huffed like a long distance swimmer after a tough race.

Wycza drove, Parker beside him, and as they headed out of the airport Parker turned partway around in the seat to tell Sternberg, "The guy you've got to look at is in Brooklyn, but there aren't any hotels in Brooklyn, so we're putting you in one in Manhattan, but way downtown, so it won't take you long to get over there."

Sternberg had taken out a large white handkerchief and was mopping his face. He said, "Who's financing?"

"We're doing it ourselves, as we go," Parker told him. "There isn't that much for the setup."

"So I must be here legitimately," Sternberg said. "I know, I'm looking at art."

"Then that's why you're downtown," Parker told him. "Near the galleries."

"I think of everything," Sternberg agreed. Then he said, "I don't know our driver here, Dan thank you, Dan, for carrying that G.o.ddam heavy bag but I take it he's a good friend of yours. Who else is aboard? Anyone I know?"

"Two you know," Parker told him. "Talking about art. Remember that painting heist went wrong?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

There was a girl in it, Noelle Braselle."

"Oh, yes," Sternberg said, brightening up. "A tasty thing. Tommy Carpenter's girl, isn't she?"

"Was. He's off the bend, she's still on."

"I liked looking at her, as I recall. So that's a plus. Who else?"

"Our driver's Mike Carlow, he says he worked with you in Iowa once, with Ed Mackey."

"I do remember him," Sternberg said. "He came in at the last minute, something happened to the first driver, I forget what. He seemed all right. Anybody else?"

"I got a river rat to run the boat we need," Parker told him. "He isn't one of us, isn't a part of the job, he's just the guy with the boat. So we don't tell him a lot, don't hang out with him."

"Where'd you get him?"

"A fella named Pete Rudd, that's reliable."

"I don't think I know any Rudds, but I'll take your word for it. Does this river rat get a full share?"

"No."

Sternberg smiled. "Does he get anything?"

Parker shrugged. "Sure, why not. If he does his job, and lets it go at that."

4.

All-City Surgical and Homecare Supply occupied an old loft building in the east twenties of Manhattan, among importers, jobbers, restaurant equipment wholesalers, and a b.u.t.ton manufacturer. Because there are petty thieves always at work in the city, every one of these buildings was protected at night by heavy metal gates over their street-level entrances and display windows, plus gates locked over every window that faced a fire escape.

Because none of the businesses on this block did much by way of walk-in trade, they all shut down by five or six in the afternoon, so when Parker and Car-low drove down the block at quarter after six that Wednesday evening nothing was open. One curb was lined with parked cars, but there was very little moving traffic and almost no pedestrians.

They stopped in front of All-City Surgical and Homecare, and got out of the van they'd lifted earlier today over in New Jersey. On both sides, the van said, TRI*STATE CARTAGE, with a colored painting of a forklift. Carlow stood watching as Parker bent over the padlock holding the gate and tried the half-dozen keys in his palm, one of which would have to work on this kind of lock.

It was the third. Parker removed the padlock, opened the hasp, and shoved the gate upward. It made a racket, but that didn't matter. It was full daylight, they were clearly workmen doing a legitimate job, they had a key, they weren't trying to hide or sneak around, and what would they find to steal, anyway, in a place full of wheelchairs and crutches?

The fourth of another set of keys opened the entrance door, and as they stepped inside Parker was already taking the small screwdriver from his pocket. Right there was the alarm keypad, just to the left of the door, its red light gleaming in the semi-darkness. While Carlow lowered the gate and shut the door, Parker unscrewed the pad and pulled it from the wall. He had either thirty or forty-five seconds, depending on the model, before the pad would signal the security company's office; plenty of time. He didn't know the four-digit code that would disarm the system, but it would work just as well to short it across these two connections back here.

Done. He put the pad back in the wall, screwed it in place, and Carlow said, "There's some over here."

Wheelchairs.

It was a deep broad dark shop, with a counter facing forward near the back, and two doors in the wall beyond it leading to what must be storage areas. Here in the front part, there were shelves and bins down both sides, behind lines of wheelchairs, motorized and not, plus scooters for the handicapped and wooden barrels with forests of crutches standing in them.

Parker found a switch for the overhead fluorescents, turned it on, and they went over to see what was available. A lot of different kinds, it turned out, but what they wanted was a non-motorized wheelchair with handles that extended back so someone could push it. There were different kinds of those, too, so next they were interested in what was under the seat of each kind.

"Take a look at this," Carlow said.

He'd found one with an enclosed black plastic box built in beneath the seat, curved across the front and angled where the sides met the back. There was a chrome handle in the middle of the back, and when Carlow had tugged on it the whole box slid back. It had no top except the seat, against which it made a tight fit, though the seat didn't move with the box, and the inside was filled almost completely by a white plastic bowl with an arced metal rod attached to it. When stashed, the metal rod lay flat in a grove on top of the bowl, but when the box was pulled out the rod could be lifted into a carrying handle, and the bowl would lift out.

They looked at this thing. Carlow lifted the bowl out of the box and looked at the blank black s.p.a.ce inside it, shaped to fit the bowl. He put the bowl back. Meantime, Parker looked at the seat and saw the cushion was a donut, with a hole in the center, and a round panel in the plastic seat itself could be swiveled out of the way, revealing a hole above the bowl. "It's so whoever's in the wheelchair can go to the can," he said. "There's probably tubes and such, somewhere around here."

"Jesus," Carlow said. He pushed the box back under the seat, where it clicked into place. "What a life," he said.

"You'd get used to it," Parker told him. "People get used to everything but being dead."

Carlow went on to look at other wheelchairs, but Parker stayed with the one with the bowl. He studied the way the parts were put together, the wheels and the frame and the seat and the back and the foot supports and the handles.

After a while, Carlow came over again. "This one, you think?"

"Is there another one like it?"

"Yeah, same gray. Over there."

"We'll take them both," Parker said.

"What do we need two for?"

"Because I want the second box. If we walk out of here with two wheelchairs, no signs of entry, nothing f.u.c.ked up, they'll think their records are wrong. And if they don't, the cops will. But if we take just the box and leave the chair, they'll know somebody was in here. I don't want a lot of cops looking for a hot wheelchair."

"Okay." Carlow gave the wheelchair a critical look. "You sure that's big enough down there?"

"We can move the seat up, d.i.c.k around with it a little. There'll be room."

Carlow was still not sure, although Parker was already walking one of the wheelchairs toward the door. Carlow called after him, "Won't they pull that handle? Won't they look in there?"

"Not twice," Parker said over his shoulder, and Car-low laughed and went to get the other wheelchair.

5.

Normally, Parker would stay as far as he could from any civilian that might be involved with a piece of work, and he'd prefer to stay away from Cathman, too, but he couldn't. The man bothered him, he rang tin somehow. Was he a nutcase all of a sudden, after all those years running in the squirrel cage, liking it? If so, what kind of nutcase was he, and how much trouble could he cause if he flipped out the rest of the way? And if not, if Cathman actually had some sort of idea or plan behind what he was doing, Parker needed to know that, too. No civilian agendas allowed.

According to Claire, Cathman had owned his home, a single-family house in an Albany suburb called Delmar, for twenty-seven years. Mortgage all paid up, his free and clear. His three daughters grew up there and married and moved out. His wife died there, seven years ago. He was still in the house. It ought to know everything about him by now.

Parker drove the Subaru down that block at three-thirty in the afternoon. Small two-story clapboard houses dating from the late forties' building boom lined both sides, each with a neat lawn in front and a neat driveway to one side. They'd started out looking all the same, cookie-cutter tract houses, but owners had altered and adapted and added to them over the years, so that by now they looked like relatives but not clones.

Cathman's was number 437, and his additions had been an attached garage at the top of the driveway and the enclosing of the front porch with windows that bounced back the spring sun. Shades were drawn over those windows and over the front windows upstairs.

Parker took the next left and drove two blocks back out to the main shopping street, where there was a supermarket on the near right corner. He left the Subaru there, put on the dark blue jacket that read Niagara-Mohawk Electric across the back, picked up the clipboard from the pa.s.senger seat, and walked away down the sidewalk, the only pedestrian in miles.

In front of Cathman's house, he stopped to consult the clipboard, then walked up the driveway. A narrow concrete path went around the garage, and he followed it to the back yard, which was weedy and s.h.a.ggy and uncared for. Chain-link fence separated it from the better-kept yards to both sides, and a tall wooden fence had been built for privacy by the neighbor at the rear. Some kids were playing with toy trucks in a yard half a block down to the right; they never glanced Parker's way.

The lock on the kitchen door was nothing. He went through it without damaging it, and spent the next hour tossing the house, careful but thorough. He moved furniture so he could roll up carpets to look for trapdoors to hiding places. He checked the ceilings and back walls of closets, and removed every drawer from every dresser and table and desk and built-in in the house. He stuck a knife in the coffee and in the flour, he took the backs off both TVs, he took off and then replaced every light switch and outlet plate. At the end, he put everything back the way it had been.

Nothing was hidden, nothing here changed the idea of Cathman as a solid citizen, predictable and dull. The only thing new Parker learned was that Cathman was looking for a job. He'd written more or less the same letter to about twenty government agencies and large corporations, listing his qualifications and stating his availability. The answers he got and he always got an answer were polite and respectful and not interested.

Clearly, he did this stuff at home, in this office upstairs at the back of the house that must originally have been a daughter's bedroom, because he didn't want his Rosemary Shields to know he was on a job hunt. That consulting business was just a face-saver, it cost him money instead of making money. He wasn't strapped yet, but how long could he keep up the fake show? Was that reason enough to turn to the heisters?

Parker finished with the house at ten to five. There was no beer in Cathman's refrigerator, but an open jug of Italian white wine was in there, cork stuck partway back in the bottle. Parker poured himself a gla.s.s, then sat in the dim living room and thought about the things that needed to be done. Noelle. The wheelchair. An ambulance or some kind of van that could take the wheelchair with a person in it. The limo for Lou. The chauffeur uniform. The guns. And Cathman's part: ID.

He heard the garage door motor switch on, and got up to go to the kitchen, where the side door connected with the garage. He refilled his gla.s.s, and poured a second, and when Cathman walked in, slope-shouldered and discouraged, Parker was just turning with a gla.s.s in each hand. "You look like you could use this," he said.

Cathman stared at him, first in astonishment, then in fear, and then, when he understood the gla.s.s that was extended toward him, in bewilderment. "What what are you-"

"Take the gla.s.s, Cathman."

Cathman finally did, but didn't immediately drink. And now, because of having been startled and scared, he was moving toward anger. "You broke in here? You just come in my house?"

"We'll talk in the living room," Parker told him, and turned away, and Cathman had no choice but to follow.

The electric company jacket and the clipboard were on the sofa. Parker sat next to them, drank some wine, put the gla.s.s on the end table beside him, looked at Cathman standing in the doorway unable to figure out what to do next, and said, "Sit down, Cathman, we got things to talk about."

Cathman blinked at him, and looked around the room. Trying to sound aggrieved, but coming off as merely weak, he said, "Did you search in here?"

"Naturally."

"Naturally? Why? What did you want to find?"

"You," Parker said. "You don't add up, and I want to know why."

"I told you who I am."

Parker said nothing to that. Cathman looked at the gla.s.s in his hand, as though just realizing it was there. He shook his head, walked over to sit in the easy chair to Parker's right, and drank a small sip from the gla.s.s.

Parker wanted to shake him up, disturb him, see what fell out, but at the same time not to spook him so much he couldn't be useful any more. So he'd come in here and show himself, but not make a mess. Not sit in the living room in the dimness when he comes home, but stand in the kitchen and offer him a gla.s.s of wine. Give a little, then get hard a little. Watch the reactions. Watch him, for instance, just take that tiny sip of wine and put the gla.s.s down. So he's under good control, whatever's driving him it isn't panic.

Cathman put the gla.s.s down, and frowned at Parker. "Did you learn anything, coming in here like this?"

"You aren't a consultant, you're a guy out of work."

"I'm both, as a matter of fact," Cathman said. "I know your type, you know. You want to be just a little menacing, so people won't try to take advantage of you, so they'll do what you want them to do. But I don't believe it's just bluff, or I'd wash my hands of you now. It's habit, that's all, probably learned in prison. I'll do you the favor of ignoring it, and you'll do me the favor of not being more aggravating than you can help."

"Well, you're pretty cool, aren't you?" Parker said. "I came in here to read you, so now you're gonna read me."

"I see you disguised yourself as a meter reader or some such thing," Cathman said. "But I'd rather you didn't do it again. If something goes wrong and you get arrested, I don't want to be connected to a criminal named Parker."

Ignoring that, Parker said, "What I need is ID, two pieces."

Cathman frowned. "What sort of ID?"

"You tell me. If an a.s.semblyman is out on an official job of some kind, he might ask for bodyguards, right?"

"Not bodyguards, not exactly," Cathman said. "Oh, is that what you're going to do, go on board as a.s.semblyman Kotkind? Is that why I gave you his letterhead stationery?"

"What do you mean, not exactly bodyguards?"

"He might ask for a state trooper, to drive him, if it's official."

"In a patrol car?"