The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (89 page)

“Fuck,” he cursed angrily, but it was from frustration backed by resignation; there was no fight there.

“Better sort that out.” Milton indicated the intercom. “You hit the button by mistake. Tell them it’s all right.”

He stood aside.

Efron’s breath was still a little ragged. He pushed the button to speak. “It’s Jarad,” he said. “I pressed the wrong button. Sorry. Can you reset it, please?”

“Yes, sir,” the girl said.

The elevator started to rise again.

It reached the fifth floor. The doors opened, no one got on, the doors closed, and the car continued upwards.

“Is your office on the tenth?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll go inside and shut the door. Don’t do anything stupid, and I’ll be gone in five minutes.”

They reached the tenth floor, and the doors opened again. Efron stepped out first, and Milton followed. The floor must have been reserved for StrongBox’s executive team. Milton looked around. The big lobby was bright, daylight streaming in through huge floor-to-ceiling windows. One of the windows was open, leading out to a terrace area. The room was airy and fresh, very clean, the furniture and décor obviously chosen with great care and a generous budget. Efron led the way to an office with a wide picture window that framed the gorgeous landscape beyond: the deep green of the vegetation, the brown flanks of the distant mountains, infinite blue sky, crisp white clouds. There was a leather sofa, and Milton indicated that Efron should sit. He did as he was told. Milton shut the office door and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Efron said. “You’re not staying.”

“You better hope so. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll be on my way.”

“What’s your name?”

“You can call me Smith.”

“So what do you want, Mr. Smith?”

“Just to find the girl.”

“What girl?”

“The girl who went missing after the party.”

“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Playing dumb is just going to mean this takes longer, Mr. Efron. And I’m not the most patient man in the world.”

“What’s her name?”

“Madison Clarke.”

His shrug didn’t quite mask a flicker of disquiet. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“But you own a house in Pine Shore.”

“No, I don’t. The company owns it. We’re expanding. Hiring a lot of new talent. Time to time, we have new executives stay there while they’re looking for places of their own. It’s not mine.”

“There was a party there.”

“Okay. So there was a party there. Your point?”

“Madison is a prostitute. She was hired to be there.”

“You’re fucking crazy. We’re gearing up for an IPO. Do you know how stupid it’d be to invite a hooker onto company property?”

“You weren’t there?”

“I was in Boston.”

“That’s strange.”

“Come on, man. Enough with this shit!”

“No, it’s strange, Mr. Efron, because you hired her.”

“What?”

Milton saw him swallow.

“I didn’t!”

“You’ve never used Fallen Angelz?”

“No.”

“Yes, you have. You paid, in advance, with a credit card registered to your company.”

He was starting to panic. “Someone used a StrongBox credit card?” he gasped. “So? Maybe they did. Lots of people have a company card.”

“Including you?”

“Of course. I’m the CEO. But it wasn’t me.”

“I thought you might say that, Mr. Efron, so I did a little extra checking. The things you find out when you speak to the right people, know what I mean? Here’s what I know: I know it’s not the first time you’ve used that agency. I know you’re a valued customer. One of the regulars. I know the girls speak highly of you. A good payer, they said. A nice guy.”

He swallowed again, harder.

It was a bluff. Milton looked at Efron, setting aside the bland mask and letting him see him as he really was: a seasoned, iron-willed operative. “Now,” he said. “Bearing that all in mind, you want to reconsider?”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, yes. I hired her. All right?”

“Better. Keep going. And you were there.”

“Yes.”

“You saw her.”

“Only briefly. I was hosting.”

“What happened to make her so upset?”

“I didn’t know she was—not until afterwards.”

“You know she hasn’t been seen since the party?”

“Yes—but only because the police said.”

“Have they spoken to you?”

“Not to me, but to a couple of guys who work for me. We said it was their party, and that’s how it needs to stay. The IPO is everything, man. I got three hundred people working here. Their jobs depend on getting it right. I get involved in a scandal now, we’ll have to pull it.”

“I don’t care about that, Mr. Efron. I just want to find out what happened to Madison.”

“And I told you I don’t know.”

“Someone who was there does know.”

“Maybe it was nothing to do with the party at all.”

“Give me a list of the people who were there.”

“You’re kidding?” He shook his head. “No way.”

“Last chance. Don’t make me ask you again.”

“I can’t do that.”

Milton got up and walked straight at Efron. The man scrabbled backwards, into the chair, and held up his hands to ward him away. Milton swatted them aside, hauled him out of the chair, and dragged him across the room to the terrace. He struggled, guessing what Milton had in mind, but his right arm was jacked up behind his back with the fingers splayed, almost pointing all the way up. The more he tried to free himself, the harder Milton pushed his palm, flattening it, each added ounce of pressure closer to breaking Efron’s wrist and fingers.

“Last chance.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Your choice.”

Milton shoved him up against the wooden balustrades, the rail at waist height, then forced him over it until his feet were raised off the floor. He fixed his right hand in the waistband of his trousers, locking his bicep to bear the weight, and used his left to press him down. Efron’s head went almost vertical, looking straight into the ten-story drop.

Milton kept his voice calm. “Who was there?”

“Jesus!”

“Who was there, Jarad?”

“Shit, man, please! I’ll tell you, I’ll fucking tell you!”

MILTON TOOK THE ELEVATOR back down to the ground floor. He had a sheet of A4 paper that Efron had printed for him; he halved it, then quartered it, and slipped it into his inside pocket. He waited patiently as the car descended, the floors ticking off with the same pleasant chime as before. He reached the ground floor, and the doors parted. He wasn’t particularly surprised to see the two security guards waiting for him.

“It’s all right, boys,” he said. “No need for any trouble. Your boss is fine, and I’m leaving.”

They each had their hands resting on the butts of their identical Colt .45s.

“Don’t move,” the nearest one ordered. He was a big boy—bigger than Milton—and stood with the kind of lazy confidence that a guy gets from being young, a little stupid, six-three and two-ten. The other one had a similar stance: quarterback type, jock, used to getting whatever he wanted. That age, Milton thought, they’d probably tried out for the police but been shitcanned because they weren’t bright enough. They didn’t fancy shipping out to the desert in the army, so private security was their best chance to wear a uniform—they probably thought they looked cute doing it—and wield a little authority.

“You sure you want to do this?”

“Turn around.”

Milton shrugged, made it look like he was resigned to doing as they asked, but as he turned he flung out his right hand in a streaked blur of motion, his fingers held straight with his thumb supporting them beneath. The jab caught the first guard above the larynx, hard and sharp enough to dent his windpipe; he fell backwards, his mouth open in a wide O of surprise, his hands flapping impotently, gasping for breath that wasn’t getting into his lungs as easily as it had done before. The second man went for his holstered .45. Milton hit him high on the cheekbone with his right fist, rocking him back, fired in a left jab, then shoved the guy in the chest to bounce him off the wall, and as he came back toward him, he delivered a head butt straight to his nose. He caught the man’s wrist in his hand, yanked his arm around, and pivoted so that all of his weight propelled him back into the elevator. He bounced face-first off the wall of the elevator car and landed on his knees. Milton caught the second man by the belt and collar and boosted him into the elevator after him, reaching around the corner and slapping the button for the tenth floor.

“Tell your boss if he does anything stupid like that again, I’ll be back.”

He stepped back as the doors closed and the car began to ascend.

Then he turned. The two receptionists and the handful of staff in the lobby were all gawping helplessly at him. He pulled at his jacket to straighten it out, squared his shoulders again, wished them all a good morning, and then walked calmly and purposefully into the parking lot to his car.

ARLEN CRAWFORD SAT AT THE DESK in the hotel room with policy papers scattered around him. There was a stack on the desk, three distinct piles on the carpet by his feet, and a pile—ready to be read, digested and sorted—spread out across the bed. The speech at the Moscone Center that afternoon was starting to look a whole lot like a coronation, and he wanted to make sure that everything about it was perfect. He had CNN on the flat-screen TV that had been fixed to the wall inside a frame to make it look like a painting—it didn’t work—and he was drinking from a glass of orange juice, staining a paper on fiscal prudence with wet, concentric circles.

He looked up at the TV. The newscaster was introducing a panel discussion on the San Francisco killings. A third girl had been found, and they were describing the perpetrator as a serial killer. The producers had a stable of pundits for the big crime stories—medical examiners, criminologists, forensic scientists, former prosecutors—and the serial-killer category had its own roster of subspecialists. Three had been deputed to discuss the case. They opined upon what could be discerned from bones that had been left outside and exposed to weather. They considered what the location of the bodies might say about the killer’s signature. They made comparisons with the Green River Killer, explaining how Gary Ridgway had acquired his nickname after burying his victims near the river of the same name in Washington. They discussed methodology and how Denis Rader had been dubbed B.T.K. after his
modus operandi
of binding, torturing and killing had been made public. Then they focused on how the most pertinent recent historical analogue, the Zodiac Killer, had never been caught. One enterprising expert even swung for the fences by suggesting that this new killer might even
be
Zodiac. That hypothesis was quickly rubbished—if he was still alive, Zodiac would have been at least seventy by now—but the discussion was feverish and excited, and that, Crawford knew, could only be good for ratings. The discussion moved onto what the newcomer should be called.

The consensus seemed to settle on the Headlands Lookout Killer.

He was roused from his distraction by a soft knocking at the door.

Crawford got up, took a sip of the OJ, and padded across the room in his stockinged feet. It was just after breakfast, and he wasn’t expecting anyone.

He opened the door. Karly Hammil, the young female staffer who had been with Robinson after the speech in Woodside, was on the other side.

“What is it, Karly?”

She was anxiously chewing her bottom lip. “Could I have a word?”

“Yes, of course. Come in.”

He stood back, and she came into the room, closing the door behind her.

“What is it?”

“This is difficult, Mr. Crawford.”

“Call me Arlen.” He felt a moment of apprehension. He pointed to the opened minibar. “You want anything? Water?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Want to sit?”

“I’d rather stand if that’s all right.”

“Well, I’m going to sit.”

She stammered. “I-I—”

She was nervous, and that made him nervous, too.

“You better tell me what it is.”

She drew a breath. “There’s no point sugar-coating this, I guess. All right, then. Okay.” Another breath. “Okay. I guess you know some of this already. Five weeks ago, the governor made a sexual advance to me. I know he has a reputation, everyone knows that, but I couldn’t believe it. And I resisted it at first, I told him to forget about it, it was a crazy idea, but then he tried again the day after that. I told him no again, but he was more persistent. You know what he can be like, so persuasive, that feeling you get when he fixes his attention on you, like you’re the most important person in the world. Well, that’s what he made me feel like, and he persuaded me that he really meant all those things he was telling me.”

Crawford felt himself deflate, the air running from his lungs.

“We’ve been sleeping together once or twice a week ever since.”

“You have been—this is past tense?”

“He’s stopped it. I saw him last night after the speech. He said he couldn’t do it anymore. Something about his wife. It’s bullshit, obviously. I guess he’s just had what he wanted. He doesn’t need me anymore. He’s probably already onto the next one.”

Crawford tried to marshal himself. He needed to deal with this. He needed to be diplomatic. He needed her to think that he was sympathetic and understanding. He had experience with this kind of motherfucking nonsense—plenty of experience—and he knew what he needed to do. “I’m sure it isn’t like that, Karly. You know what he’s like.”

“He’s unsafe for a woman to work around is what he is,” she said angrily.

“Why are you telling me? What do you want me to do?”

She looked at him as if he was stupid. “Seriously?”

“Tell me.”

“You need to look after me.”

“Of course you’ll be looked after. I’ll make sure you get an apology. And it’ll never happen again.”

“Not like
that
.”

“Then like what?”

“Come on, Mr. Crawford. You want me to spell it out?”