Nightwork (24 page)

The single window of the bedroom looked out at a fence leaned on by lantana, flowers of calico red and yellow. The bed was unmade, an open book lying on it, reading glasses lying on the book. Pajamas on the floor, corduroy slippers. Under a brass lamp, behind a clock radio on a nightstand were stacked four books, jackets faded and chipped around the edges. Biographies of celebrities. By Michael Underhill. Dave eyed them. He seemed to remember that they too were short on facts.

Sweaters, shirts, underwear, socks lay neatly in drawers. Slacks and jackets hung clean and cared for in a closet. The loafers, Hush Puppies, sandals on the floor were in good shape. This was a man down but not out. But a man also not going anywhere: luggage stood dusty on a high shelf. In the small bathroom, a rumpled towel lay across a closed toilet seat. It was damp. The medicine chest held only expected items—razor, shave cream, toothpaste, and the like. No prescription drugs, no illegal drugs. All correct and dull.

A buzzer rasped in the kitchen. Dave left the bathroom and stepped into a short hall. The front door had a big glass panel, but it was bright outside, dark in here. He took off the reading glasses and tucked them away. The man on the stoop was no one he knew. Aged about forty, he had ginger hair, tightly curled, and a sandy mustache. Under a vest of thin leather his T-shirt was stenciled with a biplane, circling it
MCGREGOR FLIES FOR HIRE
. His belly was a little bulgy. The belt buckle there was large and tough-looking, the belt wide and sweat-darkened. This was nobody he had to explain his presence to. He went and opened the door.

“Where the hell have you been?” the man exploded. He gave Dave a push in the chest, barged inside, and slammed the door. “You were supposed to meet me in Escondido at ten thirty this morning. I been phoning and phoning. What happened?”

“My name is Brandstetter,” Dave said.

“What?” The man had grown red in the face. Now he turned pale. His voice lost volume. “What are you—a cop?” Dave didn’t answer. He gave the man time to look him over. “No. The clothes are wrong. What is that? Brooks Brothers famous summer poplin, right? Three hundred bucks, right? You’re no cop. Who are you? Where’s Mike Underhill?”

“What was he going to meet you in Escondido about?”

“That’s my business,” the man said, “and his.”

“How can you have business with a man you don’t even know?”

“He was a go-between. It was a cash deal. I didn’t need to know him. I knew the principal.”

“Adam Streeter—right?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Where do you fit in?”

“Streeter is dead. Shot. He won’t be needing that aircraft you were going to sell him. That’s what the deal was, wasn’t it? Underhill was supposed to bring you the purchase price this morning. Why?”

“The seller needed his money fast. That’s why he was letting the plane go so cheap. Shit. What the hell am I going to do now?” He squinted at Dave again. “Shot? Then you are some kind of cop, aren’t you? Somebody killed him.”

“Possibly,” Dave said. “I’m an insurance investigator. And you’re McGregor.” He nodded at the T-shirt. “That says you fly planes. It doesn’t say you sell them.”

“These days, every asshole with too much money, too many cars, boats, houses buys a plane. And once they learn, they fly it a few times and then it sits there. They’re like kids—don’t know what they want. Sometimes I can persuade one of them to get rid of the damned thing. I hate to see a beautiful flying machine sit on the ground. It makes me sick.”

“Only this one’s going cheap, you said. What kind is it? His daughter says Streeter wanted to fly to faraway places with strange-sounding names.”

“He was a foreign correspondent,” McGregor said. “It’s a Cessna 404 twin engine. No, it wouldn’t fly around the bloody world, but he was only going to Tegucigalpa.”

“It’s a model popular with drug smugglers,” Dave said.

McGregor’s face got red again. “I don’t know why the owner wants to unload it. I don’t ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s a way of covering your ass,” Dave said. “Selling hot aircraft could get you into trouble. A hundred thousand?”

McGregor turned for the door. “Yeah, well. It’s zilch, now, isn’t it?”

“Cash, right?” Dave said. “Drug dealers prefer cash—so they tell me on the five o’clock news.”

McGregor opened the door, turned back. “Look, I was only in this like Underhill was. A go-between, understand? A broker. It was nothing to do with me.”

“It’s a lot of money,” Dave said, “and a man is dead.”

“I was way the hell down the coast. Why would I kill him, anyway? I liked the man. We met in Nam. I flew supply helicopters. Afterward, when he was in a rush, he’d have me fly him places. Also teach him to fly. Then he threw this deal my way. He was money in the bank. Why would I kill him? You start worrying about that hundred thousand. Where is it?” He laughed sourly. “Same place as Mike Underhill, right?”

“It looks that way,” Dave said.

But he couldn’t locate him. Using Underhill’s telephone, he rang every number in the man’s thin, leather-covered book. But no one who answered had seen Underhill in days.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1984 by Joseph Hansen

Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

978-1-4804-1683-3

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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