Part 17 (2/2)
”Anything to do with banks and property, put it in the bag. Also, anything that looks personal.”
”What about Falcon Trace?” asked Danny Pogue. ”That's what Mrs. McNamara said to get.”
”That, too.”
They used pocket flashlights to examine the files because Bud Schwartz didn't want to turn on the lights in Kingsbury's office. They were on the third floor of the administration building, above Sally's Cimarron Saloon. Through the curtains Bud Schwartz could watch the Wild West show on the dusty street below. Tourists shrieked as two scruffy bank robbers suddenly opened fire on the sheriff; bloodied, the sheriff managed to shoot both bandits off their horses as they tried to escape. The tourists cheered wildly. Bud Schwartz grunted and said, ”Now there's a job for you. Fallin” off horses.”
Sitting on the floor amid Kingsbury's files, Danny Pogue looked orphaned. He said, ”I know lawyers that couldn't make sense a this s.h.i.+t.” He couldn't take his eyes off a portable Canon photocopier: seventy-five bucks, staring him in the face.
”We'll give it an hour,” said Bud Schwartz, but it didn't take him that long to realize that his partner was right. The files were impenetrable, stuffed with graphs and pie charts and computer printouts that meant nothing to your average break-in artist. The index tabs were marked with hopelessly stilted t.i.tles like ”Bermuda Intercontinental Services, Inc.,” and ”Ramex Global Trust, N.A.,” and ”Jersey Premium Market Research.”
Bud Schwartz arbitrarily selected the three thickest files and stuffed them in the camera bag. This would keep the old bat busy for a while.
”Look here,” said Danny Pogue, holding up a thin file. ”Credit cards.”
The index tab was marked ”Personal Miscellany.” Inside was a folder from the American Express Company that listed all the activity on Francis X. Kingsbury's Platinum Card for the previous twelve months. Bud Schwartz's expression warmed as he skimmed the entries.
Reading over his shoulder, Danny Pogue said. ”The guy sure knows how to eat.”
”He knows how to buy jewelry, too.” Bud Schwartz pointed at some large numbers. ”Look here.”
”Yeah,” said Danny Pogue, catching on. ”I wonder where he keeps it, all that jewelry.”
Bud Schwartz slipped Kingsbury's American Express folder into the camera bag. ”This one's for us,” he told his partner. ”Don't show the old lady unless I say so.”
Danny Pogue said, ”I heard a that place in New York. Cartier's.” He p.r.o.nounced it ”Car-teer's.” ”That's some expensive s.h.i.+t they sell.”
”You bet,” said Bud Schwartz. Another thin file had caught his attention. He opened it on his lap, using his good hand to hold the flashlight while he read. The file contained Xeroxed copies of numerous old newspaper clippings, and three or four letters from somebody at the U.S. Department of Justice. The letterhead was embossed, and it felt important.
”Jesus,” said Bud Schwartz, sizing things up.
”What is it?”
He thrust the file at Danny Pogue. ”Put this in the d.a.m.n bag, and let's get going.”
Danny Pogue peered at the index tab and said, ”So what does it mean?”
”It means we're gonna be rich, li'l pardner.”
Danny Pogue contemplated the name on the file folder. ”So how do you p.r.o.nounce it anyway?”
”Gotti,” said Bud Schwartz. ”Rhymes with body.”
THIRTEEN.
Rummaging through a dead man's belongings at midnight was not Joe Winder's idea of fun. The lab was as cold and quiet as a morgue. Intimate traces of the late Will Koocher were everywhere: a wrinkled lab coat hung on the back of a door; a wedding picture in a bra.s.s frame on a corner of his desk; a half-eaten roll of cherry-flavored Turns in the drawer; Koocher's final paycheck, endorsed but never cashed.
Winder s.h.i.+vered and went to work. Methodically he pored through the vole file, and quickly learned to decipher Koocher's daily charts: size, weight, feeding patterns, sleeping patterns, stool patterns. Some days there was blood work, some days there were urine samples. The doctor's notes were clinical, brief and altogether unenlightening. Whatever had bothered Koocher about the mango-vole program, he hadn't put it in the charts.
It was an hour before Joe Winder found something that caught his eyes: a series of color photographs of the voles. These were different from the glossy publicity picturesa”these were extreme close-ups taken from various angles to highlight anatomical characteristics. Typed labels identified the animals as either ”Male One” or ”Female One.” Several pictures of the female had been marked up in red wax pencil, presumably by Will Koocher. In one photograph, an arrow had been drawn to the rump of the mango vole, accompanied by the notation ”CK. TAIL LENGTH.” On another, Koocher had written: ”CK. MICROTUS FUR COLORa”is THERE BLOND PHASE?” In a third photograph, the animal's mouth had carefully been propped open with a Popsicle stick, which allowed a splendid frontal view of two large yellow incisors and a tiny indigo tongue.
Obviously the female vole had troubled Koocher, but why? Winder slipped the photos into his briefcase, and turned to the next file. It contained a muddy Xerox of a research paper t.i.tled, ”Habitat Loss and the Decline of Microtus mango in Southeastern Florida.” The author of the article was listed as Dr. Sarah Hunt, PhD, of Rollins College. In red ink Koocher had circled the woman's name, and put a question mark next to it. The research paper was only five pages long, but the margins were full of Koocher's scribbles. Winder was trying to make sense of them when he heard a squeaking noise behind him.
In the doorway stood Pedro Luza”pocked, bloated, puffy-eyed Pedro. ”The f.u.c.k are you doing?” he said.
Joe Winder explained that a janitor had been kind enough to loan him a key to the lab.
”What for?” Pedro Luz demanded.
”I need some more information on the voles.”
”Haw,” said Pedro Luz, and stepped inside the lab. The squeaking came from the wheels of his mobile steroid dispenser, the IV rig he had swiped from the hospital. A clear tube curled from a hanging plastic bag to a scabby junction in the crook of Pedro Luz's left arm; the needle was held in place by several cross-wraps of cellophane tape.
The idea had come to him while he was hospitalized with the ferret bites. He had been so impressed with the wonders of intravenous refueling that he'd decided to try it with his anabolic steroids. Whether this method was effective, or even safe, were questions that Pedro Luz hadn't considered because the basic theory seemed una.s.sailable: straight from bottle to vein, just like a gasoline pump. No sooner had he hung the first bag than he had felt the surge, the heat, the tingling glory of muscles in rapture. Even at ease, his prodigious biceps twitched and rippled as if prodded by invisible electrodes.
Joe Winder wondered why Pedro Luz kept staring down at himself, smiling as he admired the dimensions of his own broad chest and log-sized arms.
”Are you feeling all right?” Winder asked.
Pedro Luz looked up from his reverie and blinked, toadlike.
Affably, Winder remarked, ”You're working mighty late tonight.”
Pedro Luz grunted: ”I feel fine.” He walked up to the desk and grabbed the briefcase. ”You got no authorization to be here after hours.”
”Mr. Chelsea won't mind.”
Invoking Charlie's name made no impression on Pedro Luz, who plucked a leaf out of Joe Winder's hair. ”Look at this s.h.i.+t on your head!”
”I spent some time in the mangroves,” Winder said. ”Ate snake-on-a-stick.”
Pedro Luz announced: ”I'm keeping your d.a.m.n briefcase.” He tucked it under his right arm. ”Until I see some f.u.c.king authorization.”
”What's in the IV bag?” Joe Winder asked.
”Vitamins,” said Pedro Luz. ”Now get the h.e.l.l out.”
”You know what I think? I think Will Koocher was murdered.”
Pedro Luz scrunched his face as if something toxic were burning his eyes. His jaw was set so rigidly that Joe Winder expected to hear the teeth start exploding one by one, like popcorn.
Winder said, ”Well, I guess I'll be going.”
Pedro Luz followed him out the door, the IV rig squeaking behind them. To the back of Winder's neck, he growled, ”You dumb little s.h.i.+t, now I gotta do a whole report.”
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