He pulled over and parked. It was a slum street off Fourteenth Street Northwest. He ignored the black kids playing on the sidewalk. He had to think. He slid down in the seat and leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes but that wasn’t any good. He started it up again and drove aimlessly.

They were waiting for him. What for? An innocent message? Perhaps. Two of them in the car. It didn’t take two men to deliver a message.

Dynamite blows up in my office and nine hours later two guys are waiting for me.

The office. The answer had to be there.

He found a meter on the street; it was after seven and he didn’t have to put a dime into it; he signed in at the security man’s ledger and went up to the seventh floor knowing what he would find and hoping he wouldn’t find it.

In his office he tore things apart methodically. He wasn’t expert but he had a feeling he’d know it when he saw it. He opened the drawers and felt their bottoms. He got down flat on his back and inspected the undersides of the furniture. He unscrewed light bulbs. Then he took the desk radio apart. He inspected his own tape recorder to make sure no extra wires led away from it. Then it occurred to him to check the telephones. He started unscrewing mouthpieces and earpieces. Nothing there; he unscrewed the bottoms and opened the phones up.

He found it taped to the plastic inside the second phone. It looked a little like the kind of flat disk battery he used in his electric wristwatch but it had tiny grille holes and he knew what that meant.

He sagged back into the swivel chair. That was it, then. Ezio. It had to be Ezio. The two men in the green hardtop—he could figure out their instructions without much difficulty.

Ezio, he thought again. The computer auditor—Robert Zeck—Ezio had sent him. A plant, to give Ezio something on tape he could take to Frank. Ezio had always hated him. And Frank would buy it. And there was no way on earth he could talk Frank out of it.

He got up slowly and walked out of the office.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

New York City: 5 October

1

MATHIESON LOOKED DOWN THROUGH THE WINDOW AT THE Forty-fourth Street traffic. It was thick with empty taxis coming east from Times Square after having dropped their fares in time for the 7:30 curtains. The panes were coated with an oily grime of soot.

Behind him Diego Vasquez said, “You’ve left him a few choices.”

“Not many.”

“He may even try to pay you the blackmail money.”

Roger said, “That’d be fine and dandy by me.”

Mathieson said, “I hope he does.”

“I doubt he’ll have time,” Vasquez said. “Ezio Martin was taping the whole conversation. The minute he listens to the tape, you may as well have killed Gillespie.”

Mathieson turned away from the window. “Is that what you think?”

“Certainly. You’re making artificial distinctions.”

“I think you’re wrong. Gillespie’s quick enough—he’ll make a run for it. He’s an opportunist. He’ll see he’s got only one way out.”

“Only one?”

“I think so. He’ll go to Glenn Bradleigh.”

Vasquez smiled slowly. “If you’re right that’s a nice irony.”

“He’ll have to turn the bag upside down and shake it, otherwise it wouldn’t be worth Bradleigh’s while to give him immunity and protection.”

Roger said, “By the time Gillespie stops talking there’ll be enough raw meat on the floor to feed a dozen grand juries.”

Vasquez took a ball-point pen from his pocket and played with it, clicking it. “Maybe—maybe. It may cause some trouble for Pastor and company. But it won’t solve our problem. It doesn’t cancel the threat. Oh, don’t think I’m not impressed.”

Vasquez sat with his legs crossed, his shoes polished, his tie neatly knotted; he looked as old-fashioned as the hotel room. It had been designed by Stanford White. “It may put Pastor off balance—then again it may only influence them to tighten security.”

“That’s what I want them to do. I want them to know what it feels like to know they’re under attack. Not knowing where or when it’s going to hit them next.”

Vasquez clicked the pen. “Waste of time. They’re already paranoid, by definition.”

“I want them to know I’m coming.”

Roger had a slow chilled smile that had thrown fear into a hundred movie villains. He drawled softly, “Now you’re talkin’, old horse.”

A leather briefcase leaned against the base of Vasquez’s chair where he’d dropped it. Vasquez opened it. “You asked for the file on George Ramiro—I assume he’s your next target.”

“Yes. Because he’s dangerous. We don’t want him behind us when we move on Pastor and Martin. What have we got on him?”

“Not a great deal. You can’t expect to flush him as easily as you did Gillespie.”

“No. Gillespie made it easy.”

“Ramiro’s not a bright man. In fact his brainlessness may make it harder to attack him. You can’t be subtle with him.”

“Will you stop clicking that pen?”

“Sorry.” Vasquez put the pen away and opened the file folder in his lap. He set the photographs aside and scanned the typewritten pages. “Has a license—it must have cost him at least seven thousand dollars—to carry a Colt Python revolver, caliber three fifty-seven Magnum.”

“A Magnum? I’ll bear that in mind,” Mathieson said dryly.

Vasquez flipped a page. “Seems to patronize one call girl with some regularity …”

“Name and address?”

“They’re here but it wouldn’t be a worthwhile angle of approach.”

“Why not?” Roger said drowsily. “Catch him with his pants down.”

“Your jokes are bad.” Vasquez returned to Mathieson. “Catch him and do what? You’re determined not to kill him.”

Roger said, “We could have him worked over by experts. Break a few arms and legs.”

“No. If he’s beaten up he’ll only call in six friends to get even for him. No. He’s got to be taken right out of the game. The way Gillespie was.”

“Tall order. Very tall,” Vasquez observed.

“He can be framed,” Mathieson said. “Anybody can.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back in an hour.”

2

When he returned to the hotel from his errand he found Homer in the room with Vasquez and Roger. Mathieson hung his coat in the hall closet and rubbed his hands together.

Roger said, “Right. Us Californians get thin-blooded. I’m still not thawed.”

Vasquez didn’t rise from his chair. “Homer’s been talking to Nick D’Alesio.”

“The reporter?”

“The same,” Homer said. “Very interesting guy. He knows the New York mobs as well as anybody alive outside the mobs themselves.”

Mathieson opened one of the ginger ales on the room-service tray. He scooped a handful of ice cubes into a glass. “What did you find out?”

“First you ought to know what I had to give him in trade. Detectives and reporters—we’re all in the same business, you know. Information.”

“So?”

“I gave him a nice scoop. Told him how the Benson shooting in Oklahoma and the bomb attack on your house in California were connected.”

Mathieson looked at him sharply. “How much did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything that Pastor doesn’t already know. Relax. I didn’t say anything about Gillespie. The only time your name was mentioned was in connection with the explosion in Sherman Oaks and the sniper on the motorcycle. It’s a bit of news that hasn’t been reported anywhere else. He’ll have to attribute it to an informed source or something like that. I told him he couldn’t use my name.”

Vasquez said, “But don’t be surprised if you see the name Edward Merle in the newspapers tomorrow. They’ll probably go back into the morgue files to dig up a summary of your testimony against Pastor.”

Mathieson said wryly, “I always like to see my name in the papers. OK, what did you get in return?”

“A lot of detail about Pastor and Martin. I’ll type up my notes in the morning.”