CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Kurtz had just headed east on Sheridan when his phone rang. He fished it out of his peacoat pocket, thumbed it on while trying to avoid an old woman in a Pontiac swerving from lane to lane, and heard only dial tone. A phone rang again in his other pocket.

"Shit." He'd answered the Gonzaga cell phone by mistake. He found his own phone.

"I've got some of the information you wanted," said Baby Doc.

"It didn't take you long," said Kurtz.

"I didn't know you wanted me to take a long time," said Baby Doc. "That would have cost you more. You want to hear this or not?"

"Yeah."

"The guys I chatted with didn't sell Mr. G. the metallic article you were asking about," said Baby Doc.

Kurtz turned left off Sheridan and translated—Baby Doc's people hadn't sold Yasein Goba the.22 he used in the shooting.

"But these guys I mentioned have had some contact with our friend."

"Tell me," said Kurtz. He was looking at house numbers in the more upscale neighborhood here south of Sheridan Road. The trees were larger here than in Rigby's neighborhood, the street quieter. The wind was blowing hard and skittering yellow and red leaves across the pavement ahead of his slowly moving Pinto.

"The guys were asked to do some special paperwork for a friend of his," said Baby Doc.

Forged visa? thought Kurtz. Passport?

"What friend?" he asked.

"A lovely girl named Aysha," said Baby Doc. "Our late friend's fiancée. She's coming from the north to visit Sunday night, as it turns out. Evidently her people don't keep abreast of the news up there. Probably because they live on a farm."

Goba's fiancée, Aysha, was being smuggled across the Canadian border tomorrow night. Neither she nor the smugglers had heard of Goba's death in Canada where they'd been hiding out and waiting to cross.

"What time tonight? Which place?" said Kurtz.

"You want to know a lot for not much in return," said Baby Doc.

"Add it to my bill." Kurtz knew that his offer to return a favor would be called in sooner or later. He was going into a lot of debt this day. He just hoped that Baby Doc's favor didn't include him having to fly to Iran to shoot someone.

"Midnight Sunday night," said Baby Doc. "Blue 1999 Dodge Intrepid with Ontario plates. The span of many colors. She'll be dropped off just beyond the toll booths at the entrance to the mall."

It took Kurtz only a second to translate this last. They were smuggling her across the Rainbow Bridge, just below the Falls, in two days. The Rainbow Centre Mall was near the first exit after the Customs booths.

"Who's meeting her?" said Kurtz.

"No one's meeting her," said Baby Doc. "All of her friends on this side went on to other things." Translation—Goba's dead. Any deal we had with him died when he did. We keep the money he paid us and she fends for herself.

"Why not cancel the delivery?" said Kurtz.

"Too late." Baby Doc didn't elaborate on that, but Kurtz assumed it just meant that no one cared.

"How much did our pal pay for this generosity?" asked Kurtz. Goba worked at a car wash and hadn't been out of jail long enough to save much money.

He heard Baby Doc hesitate. This was a lot of potentially damaging information Kurtz wanted in exchange for nothing more than a promise of future friendship. But then, he knew what Kurtz had done for his father.

"Fifteen bucks," said Baby Doc. "For each side."

Thirty thousand dollars for the paperwork and smuggling, split between Baby Doc's people and the Canadian smugglers.

"Okay, thanks," said Kurtz. "I owe you."

"Yes," said Baby Doc, "you do." He broke the connection.

Peg O'Toole's townhouse was much more handsome than Rigby King's—brick, two-story, large windows with fake six-over-six panes; her unit shared its building with only three other townhouses, a four-door garage was set tucked away in back and mature trees shaded the small yard in front. The clouds were moving grayer and lower now, the wind blew colder, and the last of the leaves were being torn from the trees like the last survivors dropping off the upended Titanic.

Kurtz found a parking place and crossed the street to look at the townhouse. He had his breaking-and-entering kit in the backseat of the Pinto, but he wanted to think about this first. His concussion headache had grown worse, as it tended to do in the afternoon, and he had to squint to think.

While he was standing there squinting, a man's voice said, "Hey, Mr. Kurtz."

Kurtz whirled, one hand ready to move toward the.38 in its holster under his peacoat.

"The security and personal protection guy, Officer O'Toole's fiancé," Brian Kennedy, stepped out of an orangish-red SUV, crossed the street, and held out his hand. Kurtz shook it, wondering what the fuck was up. Had Kennedy tailed him here?

"How do you like it?" said Kennedy, turning slightly with a flourish.

It took Kurtz a second to realize that the handsome young man was talking about his sport utility vehicle. "Yeah," Kurtz said stupidly, following Kennedy back across the residential street toward the big SUV. He'd been wondering if his defensive alertness and powers of observation were suffering because of this stupid concussion, and now he knew. If someone could sneak up on him and park an orange two-and-a-half-ton SUV behind him while he was gathering wool, then perhaps he wasn't quite as alert as he should be.

As if reading his mind, Kennedy said, "I was parked here listening to the end of something interesting on NPR before going in to Peg's apartment when I saw you drive up. Like it?"

Kurtz realized that he was still talking about the truck. "Yeah. What is it?" He wasn't familiar with the badge on the high grill. Kurtz didn't give the slightest goddamn about what make it was, but he wanted to keep Kennedy talking a minute while his aching brain came up with some excuse for him to be standing out in front of the dying Peg O'Toole's townhouse.

"Laforza," said Kennedy. "Limited production out of Escondido. It's not an SUV, it's a PSV."

Pretentious Shithead's Vehicle? thought Kurtz. Aloud, he said, "PSV?"

"Personal Security Vehicle." Kennedy pounded the driver's side door with his knuckles. "Kevlar door inserts. Thirty-two millimeter Spectra Shield bulletproof glass on the windshield, side windows, and sunroof. Hands-free communication and a transponder inside. Supercharged GM Vortec six-oh liter V-8 under the hood that produces four hundred twenty-five horsepower."

"Cool," said Kurtz, trying to make his voice sound like a fourteen-year-old's.

"My personal vehicle is a Porsche 911 Turbo," said Kennedy, "but I drive the Laforza sometimes when I'm around clients. Our agency gets a small kickback from the people in Escondido if we help place an order."

"How much would one of these set me back?" asked Kurtz. He kicked the front left tire. It hurt his foot. He'd just expended his entire cache of car-buying expertise.

"This is a PSV–L4," said Kennedy. "Top of the line. If I get you a discount, oh… one hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars."

Kurtz nodded judiciously. "I'll think about it. I'd have to talk to the missus first."

"So you're married, Mr. Kurtz?" Kennedy was walking back toward the townhouse and Kurtz followed as far as the sidewalk.

"Not really," said Kurtz.

Kennedy blinked and folded his arms. He may look like the current James Bond, thought Kurtz, but he doesn't seem quite as fast on his intellectual feet as the superspy.

As if responding in delayed reaction, Kennedy laughed twice. He had the kind of loud, easy, unselfconscious laugh that people loved. Kurtz could have happily used a shovel on the man's head at that moment.