Whatever It Takes

By

Brian Drake

“You Steve Dane?” the dark-haired man said as he rose from the patio chair, extended a big hand that looked like somebody had modeled it from granite. His manicured fingernails were as out of place as a well-dressed fashion model at a nudist camp.

I said: “I’m not Paris Hilton.”

“Thank the Cosmos for that!” He laughed, we shook hands. He had a weak grip. “I’m Murray Fulton, but you already knew that.”

I had wondered how long it would take before he said something self-indulgent. Should have put money down.

He invited me to join him at a table with an umbrella extending from the middle. I did. Looking around, I was glad we were out on the patio rather than inside. The back yard featured a pool, a large section dedicated to roses, with a massive smog-free view of the entire city, clear out to the bay.

My host popped opened a bottle of sparkling water, poured two glasses, handed me one. Knee-deep in sin, were we.

I scanned Fulton’s face, wondering how often he had a botox shot. His face was way too smooth for somebody over 50. He kept his real age a secret, as if it mattered, while fostering the image of a high-flying, risk-raking, grab-all-you-can businessman, emerging as a quasi-national celebrity. A guy could find Fulton’s cool gray eyes and youthful smile inside the pages of the gossip rags quite often. His Hollywood friends always invited him to their parties, and he flew out to oblige them in his private jet.

I wasn’t buying the flash, though. His thick black hair looked dyed to me, and it sat on his head like a wet towel. The mustache and goatee combo around his mouth and chin, both oily black like his hair, made his face seem small. His eyebrows were black, too. All that black made his gray eyes stand out. Those eyes bored into me as he sized me up.

I took a long drink of water. It was nice and chilled and bubbly with a hint of lime and I liked it.

Fulton said: “You’re not an easy man to reach, Mr. Dane.”

I’m not exactly in the yellow pages, either. The trail begins at a bar called Lucky Tom’s Orbit Room where an individual asks for me. That person is told that I’m not there and to leave their name, number. When they leave, a fellow to whom I pay a monthly retainer follows the person to make sure they’re not a former enemy setting a trap – there are plenty of those. Whether or not they’re a citizen honestly looking for help is pretty obvious after the first day or so. That’s when my people step in and take a look and give me their verdict. If it’s a go, I return the call, arrange a meet. If it isn’t, I don’t.

Fulton waited for me to make a comment; when I didn’t, he watched the bubbles in his glass a moment. “Somebody is stalking my daughter,” he finally said, “and I want you to put a stop to it.”

“You’ve managed to keep her out of the public eye this long,” I said. “What went wrong?”

For all his phony flash, Fulton never let any paparazzi near his 16-year-old daughter Suzi, which included punching a photographer who tried to crash her 15th birthday party. The photographer sued instead of pressing charges. Fulton paid him off.

He said: “All I know is that somebody is following her and scaring her and I want him stopped. They told me you’re good at making problems go away with no fuss. It’s very important that I avoid any fuss in this matter.”

“Don’t you have your own security people who could handle this?”

“None that I can trust to keep their mouths shut. I’m told that’s the other service you provide – silence.”

I swallowed the rest of my water. It tingled down my throat. “I’ll need to speak with Suzi,” I said.

He gave me a look that suggested a frown but his face didn’t move at all. If it surprised him that I knew his daughter’s name, he let it pass. He wasn’t hiring an amateur.

“She’s upstairs,” he said, adding: “I’ll get her,” as he rose from the chair, went inside the house.

I turned my seat to take in the view, the massive city about as quiet as it would ever be, the bay a shimmering oasis. A guy could easily get lost in his thoughts with a view like that, so I tried not to think. When that didn’t work, I poured some more water and watched the bubbles.

Fulton returned within a few minutes. I stood up, expecting to see his daughter, but he stood alone, his lips a flat line. I could tell he wanted to twist his face up to show anger but the botox wouldn’t cooperate. You can look pretty or angry – not both.

“She’ll see you upstairs, Mr. Dane,” he said. “She can be impossible sometimes. She collects stuffed animals, and I’ll be damned if I can pull her away when she’s fussing with them.”

I followed him through the quiet house, up a flight of stairs, down a hallway. Large windows looked out on the back yard and view on one side, rooms on the other. We passed through a doorway, where the hall narrowed, and Fulton finally stopped in front of a plain white door. He pulled it open, and another set of steps – steep – greeted us. There was only room for one of us to go up at a time. Fulton went first, stopping before he reached the top. The roof slanted sharply downward, preventing anybody from rising to full height.

Fulton said: “Mr. Dane is here, Suzi,” and came back down, eyed me oddly, and I went up. Fulton shut the door.

I sat on the top of the steps. Suzi Fulton rested on her knees, tending a harem of stuffed animals. Rabbits, turtles, dogs and cats, along with lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my. She held a brown bear dressed in a business suit. She stroked it; her eyes didn’t leave the black plastic pieces that stood for the bear’s eyes.

She said: “Hello.”

“Hi, Suzi.”

She had long blonde hair. Frizzy. It needed a good brushing. Plump and pretty. Loose T-shirt with the logo of the local football team in the center, baggy jeans, no shoes.

“Did Dad tell you about the scary black man following me?” she said.

“Is that what he looks like?”

“No. That’s what Mom said when I told them about it. ‘Was it a scary black man,’ and then she laughed. So retarded.”

I said: “So who is following you.”

“I don’t know. But he isn’t black.” She put the bear down, grabbed a pig that wore farmer’s overalls, a straw hat.

She finally looked at me with bright blue eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Your father wants the problem solved.”

“How do I know you won’t sell this to the tabloids?”

I smiled. A spunky kid, she was. Reminded me a little of my sister – if she’d lived as long.

I said: “I don’t like publicity any more than you do. I do all I can do to avoid it. People like your father hire me because of that.”

“Are you one of those private detectives, like on TV?”

“No.”

She blinked a few times. “Are you a lawyer?”

I shook my head.

“So what do you do?”

I shrugged. “I help people with problems.”

Her eyes dropped to the spot where my jacket had opened, noticed the butt of my .45-caliber Colt automatic.

She said: “Ever kill anybody?”

I covered the gun. “I don’t want to talk about me anymore, Suzi.”

She turned back to the pig, traced one of its eyes with her right index finger.

I said: “When did you realize somebody was following you?”

“I don’t talk to the hired help,” she said.

Okay, fine. What was it her father said about her being difficult? I remained for a few more minutes but she acted as if I wasn’t there. Maybe I should have given her a body count. How many would it have been okay to kill before she called me names? I scooted back down the steps, out the door. Her father stood by one of the windows. When I shut the door he turned. I just shook my head as I walked passed him. Kids either learn from their parents, or they don’t.

“So what do you think?” Fulton said. We’d moved to his study where he broke out the good scotch and we sat across from each other on a soft leather sofa. I told him about his daughter’s reaction, added: “I don’t know if she’s scared, lying, or frustrated that you and her mother aren’t taking it seriously.”

He huffed. “If I wasn’t serious, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Tell her that.”

“As for my wife,” and he shook his head, “she has a questionable sense of humor sometimes.”

“Where is she?”

“Out.”

I looked over at a picture on the far wall that showed the front of a large white building surrounded by palm trees while I rubbed the mole on my chin. Fulton sat quietly long enough for me to count the palm trees, and make up my mind. I downed the rest of my scotch, stood up.

“I’ll work on this for three days, see what happens,” I said. “You will pay me five thousand dollars now with more expected if I go past the three days.”

Fulton put his glass down on the floor, went to a large desk in one corner. He lifted a gray metal box from a drawer, unlocked it with a key, and began counting out good old American greenbacks.

“Here’s six thousand,” he said, handing me the roll. “Whatever it takes, Mr. Dane. She’s the only thing I have that’s worth anything.”

I heard the screaming before I reached the source. I didn’t try very hard to get there, either.

In the middle of downtown, amongst tall gray buildings that blend together in such a way as to be almost invisible, stood one building in particular that saw a lot of traffic because of all the offices on its floors. On the ninth floor of this building were the offices of Crowley-Howe Investments.

The company never took on any clients.

None of their investment advisors wrote books, showed up on TV, or wrote guest editorials in the Wall Street Journal.

Because there weren’t any.

Nobody paid any attention to the lack of activity on the ninth floor. My people and I were constantly going in and out, so the space did see some use, the cleaning crew vacuumed and emptied the trash at the end of each day, and the lease terms were always fulfilled

In an open space near the windows were my two assistants, Jack Shepherd and Wendy Ross. If I was Batman (and I wish – he has a really cool car) they were Robin and Batgirl. They traded kicks and punches, yelling and grunting with effort, their sweat clothes sticking to parts of their bodies. Kung fu practice.

As Wendy snapped out one of her long legs in a high kick, Jack ducked and countered with a quick jab to her other knee. She yelped and jumped back, arms up to block Jack’s advance; I clapped, said: “Knock it off, you two.”

Jack spun around, his chest moving in and out as he caught his breath. “But I was winning!”

Wendy swung the back of a hand into his chest. He coughed. “Don’t wake up,” she said. “It’d be a shame to ruin your dream.”

Jack stood about six feet, solid up and down; blonde hair in a trim crew cut; small skull-and-crossbones tattoo beneath his left ear. A former Marine and good in a fight, but also quiet and reserved.

Wendy almost matched him in height. Long legs, narrow hips, little breasts, a mane of long brown hair, presently tied back. Small scar on her cheek left over from an operation to put her face back together after a car wreck that almost killed her. She was good in a fight as well, and never failed to speak her mind.

Jack said: “What’s up?”

“Work.”

We grabbed coffee from the kitchen, moved to the conference room, sat around an oval table. I gave them the rundown, said: “Wendy. Counter-surveillance on the girl. Spot her tail and report back. Jack. You’re on Fulton and his wife. See if somebody’s following them, too. Let’s assume the daughter is just the starting point and somebody may be after her parents. If Suzi isn’t lying.”

Wendy: “If you have your doubts, why are we bothering? There’s plenty of other work out there.”

“We’re being paid for three days,” I said, “so we work three days.”

Wendy pushed back her chair, started out of the room. “See you boys later,” she said. Jack nodded good-bye and departed as well. I scooted my chair to face the window and looked out at the buildings across the way, made circles with my cup, kicked around a few theories. Some research would tell me if I was on the right track. By the time I tasted my coffee again it had gone cold.

I went back home to my suite at the Irvington Arms, sat at my computer, logged on to the Internet. My glance fell upon an old family photo taken before my parents and younger sister were murdered in a home invasion robbery that spared me because I’d been at a friend’s house that night. I focused on the freckled face of my sister. She’d been 12, four years younger than me. As soon as Wendy saw Suzi Fulton, she’d know why I insisted we work this job.

I Googled Murray Fulton, piled a stack of printouts high enough to make the recycling zealots orgasmic. Out on my deck chair, the music of the city below, pigeons flapping overhead, I cracked open a Coke and did me some reading.

I didn’t learn much more about Fulton, except that he liked Atlantic City. Ponies and high stakes cards. We had something in common there. I mainly wanted details of his business. Who he worked with. Merged his company with. Bought out and closed down. Who his associates were. All of this I could have learned from him, of course, but knowing the answers to certain questions before you ask them is always a good idea. My pet theory at the moment: that an associate or competitor was trying scare tactics to influence a decision from Fulton. Gossip and rumor would give me a better starting ground than any guarded info he would provide.

The next morning. I sat at a park bench with a bag of bread pieces in my hand, tossing the pieces at the sea of pigeons gathered around. The fresh air was nice, and I was the only one there. The pigeons loitered, heads bopping back and forth, going nowhere; when one took off, several others would follow. For no apparent reason. Like people, they don’t know what they’re doing, but follow the first one who moves.

Feeding pigeons is good, cheap therapy. I told them about Murray Fulton, both verbally (but quiet) and in my head, bouncing ideas around. The birds could be trusted not to repeat anything, and their cooing sometimes punctuated a thought in just the right way. But I knew that as soon as I ran out of bread, even if I hadn’t finished talking, they’d find another benefactor. Fickle beasts.

Presently Wendy and Jack joined me after kicking some pigeons aside to get to the bench. The birds didn’t want to move and either cut in front of the pair or flapped wings in protest. As Wendy started to sit I tossed some crumbs near her feet and several birds swarmed her ankles. She said: “Oh, gross,” kicked them away.

“Filthy things,” she said, sitting down, crossing her legs. “How can you – Jack, what are you doing?”

I looked left and saw Jack holding a pigeon in both hands, staring into its eyes. The pigeon fidgeted and jerked its head.

Jack said: “They ain’t so bad.” He opened his hands and the pigeon flew away.

“How’d everything go yesterday?” I said.

“I’m not buying it so far,” Wendy said. “The mother took Suzi to the mall and dropped her off. Suzi prowled around a little by herself, bought a stuffed animal, and then met three girlfriends. They shopped, had lunch, shopped, had some ice cream, shopped - ”

“I get it, Wendy.”

“At no point,” she said, “did I see anybody paying the slightest bit of attention. Except teenage boys, of course. She and her friends met a few for lunch. Cute guys, too. One had shaggy dark hair and if I wasn’t - ”

“Fine,” I said. “Jack?”

“Business as usual at the house,” he said. “Couple cars drove up, some guys got out and went inside. Fulton and his wife didn’t leave all day, until the mother left to get Suzi at the mall, of course.”

Fulton was negotiating to buy out another company, a rival, supposedly so he could shut it down. I wondered if the visit was related.

But it looked like Suzi’s story wasn’t holding together.

I tossed more bread crumbs and let the silence between us linger a bit. The pigeons cooed.

That night the three of us gathered at my suite, dinner courtesy of room service. Jack stood by the open window looking out at the street below, hands clasped behind his back. Wendy lay on the couch, long legs crossed at the ankles, eyes on the ceiling. I sat at the table tapping cigarette ash onto my empty plate.

Our second day hadn’t been any different than the first.

I rubbed the mole on my chin, said: “I have two theories. One: those opposed to Fulton’s takeover of his rival, CompuSoft, are using scare tactics to make him back off. They know Suzi is his weak spot. Two: there’s a rumor going around that he had to sell off a bunch of stock to cover gambling losses. If he still owes, maybe the bookies are trying to scare him into paying.”

Wendy said: “Nope.”

I took a drag on my smoke. “Still think this is bogus?”

“Nothing I’ve seen or heard you say makes me think otherwise.” Her eyes didn’t leave the ceiling. “Good theories, though. You’d make Sherlock Holmes proud, boss.”

I said: “The pigeons thought so, too. Jack?”

He faced me. “I’m with you.”

Wendy: “So predictable.”

“Look at it this way,” Jack said, joining me at the table. “If an enemy of Fulton’s is planning something, maybe they called off the surveillance because they have her movements memorized. From what you described at the house, with her and that harem, and the duplicate visit to the mall today, her pattern probably doesn’t change much.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I said. “Let’s keep our assignments. Wendy, I’ll ride with you. I want to see what Suzi does for myself.”

“Then you’ll believe me,” she said.

“See what I mean?”

“I’m still not convinced,” I said.

We sat at a small table in the mall’s crowded food court. Greasy pizza for me, spaghetti for her. Across the crowd, Suzi Fulton and two girlfriends, eating, laughing, packages safely stored underneath the table.

Nobody appeared to have any interest in Suzi.

Later, a pair of teenage boys joined the girls and the good time continued. Wendy and I used the crowd for cover when Suzi gathered up her packages and left with one of the boys, a stocky, shaggy-haired kid in a long black coat, blue jeans. Wendy said that was one of the boys from the first day and the one she thought was a hunky dude.

We tailed Suzi and the boy all the way to the parking lot. Wendy stayed with them to the boy’s car – an old Nova, I noticed, with a few dents and chipped, peeling paint. I wanted to give him a lecture on the proper care of fine automobiles, but I grabbed our vehicle instead.

I almost lost the Nova on the busy expressway. The old car didn’t look like much, but the young man could make it move. My Mustang kept up nicely once traffic cleared up. We kept the Nova in sight all the way to a quiet suburban neighborhood where the young man stopped in the driveway of a respectable two-story home with an immaculate lawn and blooming rosebushes.

Suzi left her packages in the Nova, followed her companion inside.

I had stopped down the street. Wendy let out a sigh, said: “Told you so.”

“This doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense if she’s making it up. Her parents are so caught up with being celebrities she needs this sort of thing to get their attention. Does she behave like somebody who’s nervous? We’re wasting our time, Steve.”

I rubbed the mole on my chin, considering her idea. I said: “I’ll make my decision after I speak with her father again.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Dane! I’m glad you’re here!” Fulton rushed out to my car as I exited. He shoved a cell phone in my face. “They called! They have Suzi!” His face had a red flush to it. Other than that, he still couldn’t make a real expression.

We went to his study. His wife, Kimberly, sat on the sofa in a trim white pantsuit, black hair down to her shoulders. Her pretty face showed that she required no botox. She looked me up and down as her husband introduced us, said nothing, resumed staring at the wall. Fulton dialed the cell’s voicemail, gave me the phone.

Suzi’s voice was obvious enough. “Daddy!” she screamed. Another voice, male: “Fulton. You have 24 hours to cancel the buy-out bid of CompuSoft or you’ll never see your daughter again.” Click.

Now the mother turned her head toward me. The father, his mouth open, breathing hard, took the phone back. I wandered over to the window, looked out into the evening twilight, the peace outside something I wished I could have inside. But Fulton was talking. He explained that the police had already visited, said Suzi’s boyfriend’s car had been run off the road. The young man, Daniel Stark, with whom Suzi had been going out with a lot lately, had been seriously hurt and taken to the hospital. He stated that two men grabbed Suzi before he lost consciousness. Fulton said he was calling in a few favors to keep the kidnapping quiet, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

I couldn’t say anything for a few moments. Inside my head, a constant pounding – my pulse, racing. I said: “Who at CompuSoft could be behind this?”

Fulton said: “Anybody from the rank-and-file to the board of directors. But I don’t think it would be anybody high up. They’re business men and lawyers, not kidnappers. Jim Mitchell is the CEO. He and I have a good relationship.”

“You’re either right, or you’re incredibly naive.”

“What are you going to do?” Fulton said.

“How far you want me to go?” I said.

“Whatever it takes.”

I needed to talk to Daniel Stark and get a statement from him. The third-hand report from Fulton wasn’t enough. There are one or two members of the local law enforcement community who quietly make themselves available whenever I make a request. I called a friend in the district attorney’s office and explained what I needed. She agreed to accompany me to the hospital and clear any obstacles.

But Daniel wasn’t in any shape to talk. The doctor let us into his room for a few moments, where the young man lay in bed firmly sedated and badly mangled. He’d just come from surgery. The doctor said he’d be okay, but had a long recovery ahead.

Back at the office, Jack, using one of our office computers, hacked a hole in CompuSoft’s security network so huge that it would take weeks to repair. He compiled a list of the company’s top three, including Jim Mitchell, the CEO Fulton thought so much of, along with all pertinent personal information.

Below the CEO on the totem pole was Trish Newman, President; and Lorne Miller, Vice-President. They were a place to start, mainly because Trish and Lorne were against Mitchell’s willingness to sell. Newspaper articles from the ‘net told us that.

Trish Newman lived in a small condominium with her husband and autistic 10-year-old nephew, of whom they were legal guardians. Lorne Miller, a divorced father of three, lived alone.

In the garage of our building, we keep a pair of plain white utility vans. Jack and I slapped some magnetic decals on the side identifying them as phone company vehicles and hit the road, Jack for Lorne Miller’s place, me for Trish Newman’s.

I parked at the phone pole down the street from Trish Newman’s condo complex, pulled out a heavy tool belt loaded with gizmos, and climbed the pole to the junction box. My stomach quibbled at the height, so I didn’t look down.

Popping open the junction box, I gave the set of wires and connections a quick look, plugged in my portable phone unit. Quite a process of elimination followed as I rang each line, asking for Trish.

Finally: “This is she.”

“Mrs. Newman,” I said, “you’re one of the lucky few who have been chosen - ”

“Not interested.” Click.

I smiled. Perfect. I tugged her line free of the mess of wires and detached my portable unit, dropping it back into the tool bag suspended from my belt. From another pocket, I pulled a small remote transmitter and connected it to the box’s power outlet, then wired it into Trish’s line. A light on the transmitter flashed when I pressed a small button on the side. I plugged my portable phone into the box again, reached Wendy. “How’s it look?”

“Got tone,” she said, “ditto with Jack’s at the other place.” She paused, then: “Steve, what if this is the wrong play?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” And as I hung up, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my gut that had nothing to do with being up on the pole. But enough of that – there was still work to do.

While Wendy monitored the phone lines, Jack and I stuck with Trish Newman and Lorne Miller. Trish was a short, thick brunette with short hair, looked about 32. Miller was much older, maybe 55, with gray hair and also thick, especially in the middle. The next afternoon they went to lunch together and had a very animated conversation while they ate. They said nothing unrelated to the buy-out. Jack and I sat parked across the street, covering them with a directional microphone.

At the end of the work day, we took separate cars, continued the surveillance, this time switching targets to keep ourselves alert. Trish Newman picked up a take-out dinner and went home, Jack reported. I followed Lorne Miller to a bar.

He sat in a booth near the back. I parked on a stool, ordered a scotch, fired up a cigarette.

Presently an older blonde in a black dress joined him; they kissed, shared a bottle of wine. They were on their third glass, talking quietly, when my cell chirped. Wendy. She said: “Trish Newman just took a call from a guy who said the 24 hours were almost up and what are they going to do with Suzi.”

“I’m on my way.”

Jack and I drew our dart pistols as we approached the Newmans’ door. I rang the bell, stepped back. Her husband answered. Before he could open his mouth I fired a dart into his chest. His eyes rolled back and he dropped. We pushed inside. Trish screamed, rose from the couch; a dart from Jack’s gun stuck in her chest and she plopped back down. The 10-year-old nephew, unsteady on his feet, gaped at us from the kitchen with a glass of milk in hand, but my dart kept him from calling out. He hit the floor, the milk spilling over his shirt, the floor.

Jack threw Trish Newman over his shoulder and we hustled out to the car.

The juice wore off within a half-hour – we hadn’t loaded the darts with much. When Trish’s eyes fluttered open, she found herself strapped to a hard metal chair, a metal table in front of her, with a bright lamp shining straight into her face.

Wendy, Jack, and I stood behind the light.

As the CompuSoft president squinted against the light, I took the .45 automatic from under my jacket, leaned into the light to show her the muzzle. I said: “Tell us where Suzi Fulton is or I’ll blast your head in half.”

Anybody else would have argued the logic of that statement.

But not her.

“How desperate can you be to arrange a kidnapping?” Jack said as I drove.

“You heard her. This would be the second time she’ll lose a job because of Fulton. She has a huge responsibility to her nephew. That’s all it took to push her over.”

With the help of two associates at CompuSoft, Trish Newman arranged for a gang of two-for-a-quarter thugs to grab Suzi.

“Fulton is a piece of work, too,” Jack said. “How much money does he need?”

“Just a little more,” I said.

My hands tightened on the wheel as I pondered what Suzi might be going through.

It took an hour to reach the cabin, the Newmans’ weekend home, where the hired goons had stashed Suzi and were waiting for further orders. I wondered why somebody so worried about her next paycheck would even have a second home when it could easily be sold when times turned tough, but logic obviously meant little to Trish Newman.

I stopped the car at the beginning of the long driveway. We stayed in the shadows as we moved up the length of the drive, hid in some bushes near the front. The drapes were closed.

Jack held a heavy steel cylinder by its forward and rear hand grips – a battering ram. He smashed open the door and I raced in with the .45 in hand. From the hallway in front of me, a man in baggy clothes dug behind his back and drew a pistol; I fired twice and the man went down.

A girl screamed from somewhere in the house.

A gunman with long hair swung around a corner across the room and zeroed his gun on Jack’s chest. Two rounds from Jack’s .357 crashed through the gunman’s head.

Down the hallway, the living room. As I rounded the corner, two more males in T-shirts and jeans let a few rounds go and I hit the floor. Rolled up on my side, fired twice; fired again. The fat slugs pinned the pair to the couch. My eyes hit the screaming, wrecked figure on the floor near the television, covered in soiled blankets. Suzi.

She wore only her T-shirt, no pants or underwear, hair in tangles, face and inner thighs bloody. When I tried to touch her she screamed, pulled knees to chest, tried to bury her head in the blankets. There was another loud shot somewhere upstairs. Jack returned with the all clear, cursed when he saw Suzi, ran for clean blankets. Suzi peeked at my face, recognized me, stopped screaming and started crying. Jack returned with the blankets and we wrapped her up.

We took Suzi to the home of a doctor – Harry McNeil – who could be trusted not to ask questions or report to the cops. He’d patched up me and the others enough to have tools standing by for unannounced calls. He treated Suzi in a back bedroom, after we woke him up. His wife helped set up an IV drip, cleaned Suzi up. I called her father, gave him the address.

He said: “Is it bad?”

“Yes.”

The doctor said there wasn’t anything else to do until Suzi’s parents arrived, so he offered us some coffee. Jack accepted while I went into the bedroom to sit with Suzi.

I felt tired, worn down. McNeil had given her a sedative; she slept quietly. I sat with my elbows on my knees, watching her breathe, thinking about where I’d gone wrong. Maybe Wendy and I should have covered her longer. Maybe Wendy could have been her bodyguard for a few days. We could have - but enough of that.

It didn’t make a difference anymore.

Fulton showed up with his wife. She didn’t take the news well, and McNeil’s wife led the crying Mrs. Futon into another room while the doctor said to the father: “There’s a lot of blunt trauma. No fractures or broken bones, though. The physical wounds will heal. The rest – well, I know a good rape counselor if you’d like her name.”

Fulton asked to talk to me out in his car. We sat in the back seat.

“Tell me everything that happened since I saw you last,” he said, and I did.

He said: “Where is Newman now?”

“Where we can get to her.”

“Options?”

“She can be found in an alley with a broken neck and her associates can have a couple of nasty accidents, or I can turn her over to you.”

He said nothing for a long time. Just stared out the window.

“She’ll say this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said. “She’ll say she only wanted me to back out.” He looked into my eyes. “Give her to me. My people will take it from here. And the police. Whatever it takes, I’ll bring all of them down.”

“The gunfight - ”

“It helps to be rich in a case like this. Forget it.”

He let out a breath, examined his shaking hands, shook his head. He held together, though. I sat there with him until he was ready to go back inside.

The news and gossip rags were all over the story for the next few months. Fulton’s big sound bite, as the CompuSoft crew was led away in handcuffs, had been: “Whatever it takes, my family will get through this. My daughter will be okay.”

The botox had worn off, and his face actually made lines here and there as he spoke. He looked just fine.

And Fulton, again, punched out a photographer who tried snapping a picture of him and Suzi as they left the hospital where she was attending her counseling sessions.

I had a hard time sleeping over those next few months, as the trial of Trish Newman and her two CompuSoft compatriots dragged on. I’d dream about smashing into that cabin, but I could never get to Suzi in time. Eventually the trio was convicted and each received a couple of years, but it was a slap on the wrist considering what would happen next.

I was smoking an after-breakfast cigarette one morning with the TV news on low when the anchorman talked about a young woman who sped onto the Richardson Bay Bridge, reached the middle of the span, and tried to drive off into the water. When her car did nothing but scuff the concrete protective barrier, she blasted out of the front seat, leaped over the barrier, and let the dark water below swallow her whole. Three days later, Suzi Fulton’s body washed ashore.

I’ll see Trish and her friends again. When they get out.

THE END