Liars & Thieves (11 page)

As the attendant rushed the gurney through the swinging doors, I turned to the window where the admitting lady sat with a client.

I’ll be right with you, sir,” she said. “Please take a seat.”

“I’ll park the car and be back,” I said.

As I got behind the wheel and headed for Wisconsin Avenue, I wondered if Willie did tell them about Dorsey O’Shea. Well, they were dead, so even if he did, it didn’t matter.

Unless they called someone, of course. Maybe that was what the guy in the kitchen was doing when I rudely interrupted. I didn’t recall seeing a cell phone in the kitchen. Of course, he might have put it in his pocket as he drew his pistol, after I fired the first shot.

Perhaps I should go back to Willie’s and search the bodies.

I decided to do it. I had the brains to come down a side street and look toward Willie’s before I turned that way and committed myself, which saved my silly ass. Two cop cars with lights flashing were parked in the street.

I turned the other way and fed gas. As I drove I heard the moan of an ambulance.

My arm was leaking blood where the bullet had grazed me.

I hoped they were dead. All three of the sons of bitches.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into a McDonald’s and parked. The sky was turning light. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it soon would be. The vehicle registration certificate was in the glove compartment. The car was registered to a Donald P. Westland in College Park. His insurance certificate verified the address. I used his cell phone to call information.

“I’m sorry,” the operator said. “I don’t have a listing for a Donald Westland in College Park.”

“Could it be an unlisted number?”

“No. I have no listing at all for anyone by that name.”

I read her the address. “It might be under his wife’s name,” I said.

After a moment of silence, she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I have no Westland listed.”

I thanked her and broke the connection.

I was getting quite a collection of cell phones. I punched my way through the stored numbers on this one, looking for one I recognized. They were all new to me.

I turned the telephone off and sat there trying to think. My heart was still beating a mile a minute. I was leaving bodies all over, and I didn’t know who these guys were.

What if this was a government car, and the name and address on the registration and insurance were merely cover? I got out, opened the door, looked for an oil change sticker. And there it was: Jiffy Lube.

I opened the wallet. The driver’s license was for one Johnson Dunlap, Bethesda. The mug staring at me from the license was the balding getaway driver outside of Willie’s. That certainly wasn’t conclusive—my employer routinely issued fake ID to back up false identities. The credit cards were also in the name of Johnson Dunlap. Couple hundred dollars in bills in the wallet, several credit card invoices, a dry cleaning stub, and an AAA membership card.

I turned on the telephone and called information. The operator gave me a number for Johnson Dunlap. That number was one of the ones stored on the telephone memory. I dialed it.

After ten rings I broke the connection.

Perhaps Johnson Dunlap was a real man. I tapped his driver’s license on the steering wheel as I considered. If he was a cop or federal employee and lost his wallet containing his real driver’s license while committing a serious felony with three colleagues— now dead—whoever was running this show was going to be very unhappy with Mr. Dunlap. He would undoubtedly realize that. Would he share the bad news with them?

I had another wallet in my pocket, the one I took off the driver who wrapped his SUV around a tree on Allegheny Mountain yesterday. I got it out and gave the driver’s license a close look. Jerry Von Essen, Burke, Virginia. I called information. They gave me a telephone number, so I dialed it.

After four rings, I got a sleepy female. “Hullo.”

“Is Jerry there?”

Talk about a hot woman—she went thermonuclear in two seconds. “The son of a bitch hasn’t come home yet,” she snarled.

“Think he’d take the time to call? You see the bastard, tell him I’m not taking any more of his shit! I’m moving out.”

Before I could reply she slammed the telephone down.

Johnson Dunlap. Should I go check on him, or should I hotfoot it back to Dorsey’s? Willie probably blabbed Dorsey’s name, so they would show up before too long.

I glanced at my watch. My sense was that I had a little time, and God knew I needed information.

I thought about calling Dorsey, warning her. Hell, she didn’t even own a weapon. The only thing she could do would be to load Kelly in a vehicle and run for it. Or call the police. Neither option seemed very attractive to me. I couldn’t protect the women if they were running around the country, and I wasn’t ready for the police.

Yesterday’s clouds had dissipated. No rain today. Terrific.

Johnson Dunlap lived in an older tract home in what had once been a fashionable neighborhood, perhaps sixty years ago, immediately after World War II. The maples, oaks, and tulip poplars that blocked out the sky looked about that old.

His house looked similar to every other house up and down the street—single story, brick facade, not much grass in the front lawn due to the deep shade cast by the huge trees. The driveway was empty.

I checked my watch, then drove down to the main arterial and along it until I came to a convenience store. I bought a newspaper from the box near the door and got back behind the wheel to look it over. The paper contained nothing on the massacre yesterday in West Virginia, not an inch. No story on a massive manhunt; nothing at all on fires and murder and corpses in the forest.

I started the engine and drove back to Dunlap’s. I parked in his drive in front of his single-car garage.

As I walked around the house I checked for a security system, which would have been out of place in this neighborhood. Nope.

I let myself into the backyard through a gate. There was dog poop scattered about, so I wasn’t surprised when the pooch began yapping inside the house as I picked the lock on the kitchen door. As I opened the door a small canine rluffball shot through. Apparently he, she, or it was more interested in relieving bladder pressure than taking a hunk out of my leg. Once in the kitchen, I firmly closed the door behind me.

There were several stacks of mail on a small stand near the kitchen table, but I bypassed them and headed for the bedroom. Sure enough, there was Baldy and a woman in framed photos on the dresser and nightstand. So Baldy was indeed Johnson Dunlap, a real person. Somehow establishing that fact seemed important.

I glanced around the bedroom and went back to the mail in the kitchen. If there was a pay stub or pay summary in one of those piles that gave the name of his employer, it would make my day. I was flipping through the envelopes when I heard another car pull into the driveway.

The dog in the back yard began yapping. I sat down at the kitchen table, got out the automatic, and laid it in my lap.

From where I sat I could see the front door. The key turning in the front door lock was plainly audible. The door opened and a woman in her early thirties dressed in a nurse’s white uniform entered the house. She had a bag in her arms and was so intent on getting in and not dropping the bag or her keys that she didn’t see me. She closed the door and turned to walk along the hallway to the kitchen. That’s when she saw me.

She stopped, tried to recognize my face. The light wasn’t great, so she took several more steps toward me.

“Johnson?” She raised her voice. “Johnson?” Then to me: “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I came alone.”

“But the car?”

“I borrowed it from your husband.”

She entered the kitchen. She set the bag containing groceries on the kitchen counter and extracted a half gallon of milk, which she placed in the refrigerator. She had short dark hair, was a tad plump, and had had an accident with some food during her shift—there was a stain on her blouse. It looked like mustard.

“Did you just get off work?” I asked.

“Yes.” She named the hospital. She glanced around the room again, noted the dog in the back yard, made eye contact with me and asked in a worried voice, “Where is Johnson? Has he been hurt?”

“He’ll be along shortly.”

“How’d you get in here?”

“You left the back door unlocked.”

She passed over that—she probably had forgotten to lock the door many times in the past—and said, “Would you like some coffee?”

“I could use a cup,” I admitted.

She was getting a little steamed, I could tell. “You have a name?” she asked as she went about putting a filter and coffee and water in the machine on the counter.

“Tommy Carmellini. And you?”

“Michelle.”

When the coffeemaker was going, she turned to face me, crossed her arms, and leaned back against the counter. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

“Who does Johnson work for, Michelle?”

“Don’t you know?”

“We met only once, earlier this morning.”

She stood silently with her butt against the counter, staring at me as the coffeemaker gurgled.

“He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

She visibly sagged. “What agency are you with?”

“CIA.”

She covered her face with both hands. After a bit she lowered her hands and tried to get her breathing under control.

“I don’t know who he’s working with or for. He said he could make some serious money. For the last two weeks he’s been working odd hours.”

I didn’t say a word. She waited for the question that didn’t come, examined my face carefully, then continued: “He’s been looking for a real job since he left the FBI. That was last August. He couldn’t find anything. Since they forced him out, he couldn’t use the bureau as a reference, couldn’t get any law enforcement agency to talk to him. He’s got a degree in law enforcement, worked for a police department for five years before he got accepted by the FBI. He’s never done anything else. I thought, this time …” She ran out of steam and had to use a hand to brace herself against the counter.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunlap.”

She bobbed her head.

“What’s he done?” she said, her voice a whisper.

“Tell me the truth!”

“They killed some people.”

She tried to keep a straight face. She looked around, saw the coffeepot, got cups from the cupboard, and poured. She brought one over, handed it to me, then sat across from me.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She bit her lower lip.

“So you don’t know … ?”

She shook her head.

I tasted the coffee and realized I didn’t want it. I got up, and put the pistol behind my belt in the small of my back. She watched me do it, didn’t say anything. I went out the front door, closed it behind me, got in her husband’s heap, and drove away.

I guess I was pretty paranoid as I drove back to Dorsey’s shack in the forest. These guys had gotten to Sal Pulzelli and Willie Varner—it was only a matter of time before they got to Kelly Erlanger and Dorsey O’Shea. I had figured I had a few hours. Now I was hoping I hadn’t figured wrong.

Amazing how the mind works. My pea brain, anyway. Johnson Dunlap had seemed important two hours ago—now he didn’t. I’d forgotten how time was rushing on. Now, as I drove toward Dorsey’s, I could think of nothing else. I must have looked at my watch fifty times. Of course, when you are in a hell of a hurry every old fart and white-haired lady in the state gets out on the street in his or her Lincoln or BMW or Cadillac and drives slowly and erratically. They had nowhere to go and all day to get there. Me, I knew my time was fast running out.

I passed cars and vans and trucks on the right and left, ran a couple red lights and pushed the speed all I dared. If I had been stopped by a traffic cop, I don’t know what I would have done. Wrap him up and take him along would have been my only option. Actually, I could have used a cruiser with a siren and overhead lights right about then.

So these dudes weren’t Russians, weren’t suicidal ragheads. They were plain old American scum who killed for money and the sheer fun of it.

That fact relieved me somewhat. At least when I caught one of them and put the fear in him, he would know my language. If he died before he could get his conscience polished clean, at least we wouldn’t have had one of those tragic failures to communicate.

I used Westland’s cell phone to call Dorsey. I had difficulty remembering her phone number. I never used to forget the number of a beautiful woman—so either the lack of sleep was getting to me or I was losing it as I aged.

The telephone rang four times before she answered.

“It’s me. Are you and Kelly still alone?”

“Where are you, Tommy? I have never in my life had a man sneak out of bed after sex. What’s the matter—wasn’t I good enough for you?”

“Hey, babe, I had a few problems I had to check on. I’m on my way back to your place. Are you two women alone?”

“Very much so.”

“For Christ’s sake, don’t call anybody. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Keep the doors locked and stay away from the windows!”

I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

“Get outta my way,” I shouted at one old lady who slowed a half block before she turned left. I was tempted to give her the finger, but reserved it for a van driver who looked as if he learned to drive yesterday.

I whipped across traffic into Dorsey’s drive and stopped. No one was parked nearby. The traffic kept flowing past. I zipped back to the trunk and unobtrusively rescued the MP-5. Put it on my lap and checked the safety and tried to think logically.

These guys might come through the woods like they did at the Greenbrier safe house, avoid the driveway altogether. I looked at my watch again. It was still there—right on my wrist.

Ahhh shit! How did I get into this mess, anyway?

I drove slowly up Dorsey’s drive, looking around like a naked shoplifter. Saw a lot of trees. In addition to money, Dorsey had a zillion trees, by God. Didn’t see a living soul.