The Client (55 page)

She smiled. “I have. Less than three hours ago. Muldanno’s men were trying to get it, but we scared them off.”

“We?”

“Mark and I.”

They both studied her intently, and waited for the precious details of this wild, impossible little story. The coffee arrived, and they ignored both it and the waiter.

“We’re not eating,” Reggie said rudely, and the waiter left.

“Here’s the deal,” she said. “There are a few provisions, none of which are in the least bit negotiable. Do it my way, do it now, and you might get the body before Muldanno carries it away and drops it in the
ocean. If you blow it, gentlemen, I doubt you’ll ever get this close again.”

They nodded furiously.

“Did you fly here on a private jet?” she asked Lewis.

“Yes. It’s the director’s.”

“How many does it seat?”

“Twenty or so.”

“Good. Send it back to Memphis right now. I want you to pick up Dianne and Ricky Sway, along with his doctor and Clint. Fly them here immediately. McThune is welcome to come. We’ll meet them at the airport, and when Mark is safely on board and the plane is gone, I’ll tell you where the body is. How about it so far?”

“No problem,” Lewis said. Trumann was speechless.

“The entire family enters the witness protection plan. First, they pick the hospital, and when Ricky is able to move, they’ll pick the city.”

“No problem.”

“Complete change of identification, nice little house, the works. This woman needs to stay home and raise her kids for a while, so I’d suggest a monthly allowance in the sum of four thousand dollars, guaranteed for three years. Plus an initial cash outlay of twenty-five thousand. They lost everything in the fire, remember?”

“Of course. These things are easy.” Lewis was so eager, she wished she’d asked for more.

“If, at some point, she wants to return to work, then I’d suggest a nice, cushy government job with no responsibilities, short hours, and a fat salary.”

“We have plenty of those.”

“Should they desire to move at any time, and to any place, they’ll be allowed to do so, at your expense, of course.”

“We do it all the time.”

Trumann was smiling now, though he was trying not to.

“She’ll need a car.”

“No problem.”

“Ricky may need extended treatment.”

“We’ll cover it.”

“I want Mark examined by a psychiatrist, though I suspect he’s in better shape than we are.”

“Done.”

“There are a couple of other minor matters, and they’ll be covered in the agreement.”

“What agreement?”

“The agreement I’m having typed as we speak. It’ll be signed by myself, Dianne Sway, Judge Harry Roosevelt, and you, Mr. Lewis, on behalf of Director Voyles.”

“What else is in the agreement?” Lewis asked.

“I want your assurance that you’ll do everything in your power to compel the attendance of Roy Foltrigg before the Juvenile Court of Shelby County, Tennessee. Judge Roosevelt will want to discuss a few matters with him, and I’m sure Foltrigg will resist. If a subpoena is issued for him, I want it served by you, Mr. Trumann.”

“Gladly,” Trumann said with a nasty smile.

“We’ll do what we can,” Lewis added, a bit confused.

“Good. Go make your phone calls. Get the plane in the air. Call McThune and tell him to pick up Clint Van Hooser and take him to the hospital. Get that
damned bug off her phone, because I need to talk to her.”

“No problem.” They jumped to their feet.

“We’ll meet right here in thirty minutes.”

CLINT HAMMERED AWAY ON HIS ANCIENT ROYAL PORTABLE. His third cup of coffee shook each time he slapped the return and rattled the kitchen table. He studied his hurried chicken-scratch handwriting on the back of an
Esquire,
and tried to remember each provision as she’d spouted it over the phone. If he finished it, it would be, without a doubt, the sloppiest legal document ever prepared. He cursed and grabbed the Liquid Paper.

A knock on the door startled him. He ran his fingers through his unkempt and unwashed hair, and walked to the door. “Who is it?”

“FBI.”

Not so loud, he almost said. He could hear the neighbors now, gossiping about him and his predawn arrest. Probably drugs, they would say.

He cracked the door and peeked under the safety chain. Two agents with puffy eyes stood in the darkness. “We were told to come get you,” one said apologetically.

“I need some ID.”

They stuck their badges near the door. “FBI,” the first one said.

Clint opened the door wider, and waved them in. “I’ll be a few more minutes. Have a seat.”

They stood awkwardly in the center of the den as he returned to the table and the typewriter. He pecked slowly. The chicken scratch failed him, and he ad-libbed the rest. The important points were there, he
hoped. She always found something to change in his typing at the office, but this would have to do. He pulled it carefully from the Royal, and placed it in a small briefcase.

“Let’s go,” he said.

AT FIVE-FORTY, TRUMANN RETURNED ALONE TO THE TABLE where Reggie waited. He brought two cellular phones. “Thought we might need these,” he said.

“Where’d you get them?” Reggie asked.

“They were delivered to us here.”

“By some of your men?”

“That’s right.”

“Just for fun, how many men do you have right now within a quarter of a mile of this place?”

“I don’t know. Twelve or thirteen. It’s routine, Reggie. They might be needed. We’ll send a few to protect the kid, if you’ll tell me where he is. I assume he’s alone.”

“He’s alone, and he’s fine. Did you talk to McThune?”

“Yes. They’ve already picked up Clint.”

“That was fast.”

“Well, to be honest, we’ve had men watching his apartment for twenty-four hours now. We simply woke them up, and told them to knock on his door. We found your car, Reggie, but we couldn’t find Clint’s.”

“I’m driving it.”

“That’s what I figured. Pretty slick, but we would’ve found you within twenty-four hours.”

“Don’t be so cocky, Trumann. You’ve been looking for Boyette for eight months.”

“True. How’d the kid escape?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll save it for later.”

“You could be implicated, you know.”

“Not if you guys sign our little agreement.”

“We’ll sign it, don’t worry.” One of the phones rang, and Trumann grabbed it. As he listened, K. O. Lewis hurried to the table and brought his own cellular phone. He jumped into his chair, and leaned across the table, his eyes glowing with excitement. “Talked to Washington. We’re checking the hospitals right now. Everything looks fine. Director Voyles will call here in a minute. He’ll probably want to talk to you.”

“How about the plane?”

Lewis checked his watch. “It’s leaving now, should be in Memphis by six-thirty.”

Trumann placed a hand over his phone. “This is McThune. He’s at the hospital waiting for Dr. Greenway and the administrator. They’ve made contact with Judge Roosevelt, and he’s on his way down there.”

“Have you debugged her phone?” Reggie asked.

“Yes.”

“Removed the salt shakers?”

“No salt shakers. Everything’s clean.”

“Good. Tell him to call back in twenty minutes,” she said.

Trumann mumbled into the phone and flipped a switch. Within seconds, K.O.’s phone beeped. He stuck it to his head, and broke into a large smile. “Yes sir,” he said most respectfully. “Just a second.”

He jabbed the phone at Reggie. “It’s Director Voyles. He’d like to speak with you.”

Reggie took it slowly, and said, “This is Reggie Love.” Lewis and Trumann watched like two kids waiting for ice cream.

A deep and very clear voice came from the other
end. Though Denton Voyles had never been fond of the press during his forty-two years as director of the FBI, they occasionally captured a brief word or two. The voice was familiar. “Ms. Love, this is Denton Voyles. How are you?”

“Just fine. The name’s Reggie, okay.”

“Sure, Reggie. Listen, K.O. just brought me up-to-date, and I want to assure you the FBI will do anything you want to protect this kid and his family. K.O. has full authority to act for me. We’ll also protect you if you wish.”

“I’m more concerned about the child, Denton.”

Trumann and Lewis glanced at each other. She had just called him Denton, a feat no one had dared to attempt before. And she was not the least disrespectful.

“If you want, you can fax me the agreement here and I’ll sign it myself,” he said.

“That won’t be necessary, but thanks.”

“And my plane is at your disposal.”

“Thank you.”

“And I promise that we’ll see to it that Mr. Foltrigg has to face the music in Memphis. We had nothing to do with the grand jury subpoenas, you understand?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Good luck to you, Reggie. You guys work out the details. Lewis can move mountains. Call me if you need me. I’ll be at the office all day.”

“Thank you,” she said, and handed the phone back to K. O. Lewis, the mountain mover.

The assistant night manager of the grill, a young man of no more than nineteen with a peach-fuzz mustache and an attitude, walked to the table. These people had been here for an hour, and from all indications they
had set up camp. There were three phones in the center of the table. Some papers were lying about. The woman wore a sweatshirt and jeans. One of the men wore a cap and no socks. “Excuse me,” he said curtly, “can I be of assistance?”

Trumann glanced over his shoulder, and snapped, “No.”

He hesitated, and took a step closer. “I’m the assistant night manager, and I demand to know what you’re doing here.”

Trumann snapped his fingers loudly, and two gentlemen reading the Sunday paper at a table not far away jumped to their feet and whipped badges from their pockets. They stuck them into the face of the assistant night manager. “FBI,” they said together as they each took an arm and led him away. He did not return. The grill was still deserted.

A phone rang, and Lewis took it. He listened carefully. Reggie opened the Sunday New Orleans paper. At the bottom of the front page was her face. The picture was taken from the bar registry, and it was next to Mark’s fourth-grade class photo. Side by side. Escaped. Disappeared. On the run. Boyette and all that. She turned to the comics.

“That was Washington,” Lewis reported as he placed the phone on the table. “The clinic in Rockford is full. They’re checking on the other two.”

Reggie nodded and sipped her coffee. The sun was making its first efforts of the day. Her eyes were red and her head was hurting, but the adrenaline was pumping. With a little luck, she would be home by dark.

“Look, Reggie, could you give us an idea how long it’ll take to get to the body?” Trumann asked with
great caution. He didn’t want to press; didn’t want to upset her. But he needed to start planning. “Muldanno’s still out there, and if he gets it first, we’re all up a creek.” He paused and waited for her to say something. “It’s in the city, right?”

“If you don’t get lost, you should be able to find it in fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes,” he repeated slowly, as if this were too good to be true. Fifteen minutes.

     40     

CLINT HADN’T SMOKED A CIGARETTE IN FOUR YEARS, BUT he found himself puffing nervously on a Virginia Slim. Dianne had one too, and they stood at the end of the hall and watched as the day broke over downtown Memphis. Greenway was in the room with Ricky. Next door, Jason McThune, the hospital administrator, and a small collection of FBI agents waited. Both Clint and Dianne had talked to Reggie in the past thirty minutes.

“The director has given his word,” Clint said, sucking hard on the narrow cigarette, trying to extract a little smoke. “There’s no other choice, Dianne.”

She stared through the window with one arm across her chest and the other hand holding the cigarette near her mouth. “We just leave, right? We just get on the plane and fly off into the sunset, and everybody lives happily ever after?”

“Something like that.”

“What if I don’t want to, Clint?”

“You can’t say no.”

“Why not?”

“It’s very simple. Your son has made the decision to talk. He’s also made the decision to enter the witness protection program, so like it or not, you have to go too. You and Ricky.”

“I’d like to talk to my son.”

“You can talk to him in New Orleans. If you can change his mind, then the deal’s off. Reggie’s not dropping the big news until you guys are on the plane and in the air.”

Clint was trying to be firm, yet compassionate. She was scared, weak, and vulnerable. Her hands trembled as she placed the filter between her lips.

“Ms. Sway,” a heavy voice said from behind. They turned to find the Honorable Harry M. Roosevelt standing behind them in a massive, bright blue jogging suit with Memphis State Tigers emblazoned across the front. It had to be a triple extra-large, and it stopped six inches above his ankles. A pair of ancient but seldom used running shoes covered his long feet. He was holding the two-page agreement Clint had typed.

She acknowledged his presence but said nothing.

“Hello, Your Honor,” Clint said quietly.

“I just talked to Reggie,” he said to Dianne. “I’d say they’ve had a rather eventful trip.” He stepped between them and ignored Clint. “I’ve read this agreement, and I’m inclined to sign it. I think it’s in the best interests of Mark for you to do the same.”

“Is that an order?” she asked.

“No. I do not have the power to bind you to this agreement,” he said, then flashed a huge, warm smile. “But I would if I could.”

She placed the cigarette in an ashtray on the windowsill,
and stuck both hands deep into the pockets of her jeans. “And if I don’t?”

“Then Mark will be returned here, placed back in detention, and beyond that, who knows. He will eventually be forced to talk. The situation is much more urgent now.”

“Why?”

“Because we now know for a fact that Mark knows where the body is. So does Reggie. They could be in great danger. You’re at the point, Ms. Sway, where you have to trust people.”