The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (92 page)

He stopped abruptly and turned to him. “Do you know what happened to her?”

Crawford took a quick breath and covered his discomfort with a vigorous shake of his head. “No, sir, I don’t. But we’ve been lucky so far. No one has said anything about the two of you. I just don’t see the point in pushing it.”

“Noted.”

“So you’ll let me handle this?”

“No. I want to speak to him.”

He pushed through wide double doors and into the kitchen that served the conference centre. The doors banged back against Crawford’s shoulders as he followed in his wake. It was a large space, full of scratched and dented metallic work surfaces, large industrial ovens and burners, walk-in fridges and freezers, dinged pots and pans hanging down on racks suspended from the ceiling. Chefs in grubby white jackets were preparing the lunch that would be enjoyed by the governor’s guests. The space was filled with noise, warm aromas and clouds of steam. Robinson walked right into the middle of the busy chaos; the man to whom he had been speaking was waiting for them at the edge of the room, standing next to the two security guards who had brought him back here. Crawford hurried in his wake, straining for a better glimpse of his interlocutor.

He didn’t recognise the man. He was a little over six feet tall and slender, at least when compared to the muscular security on either side of him. He had dark hair and a scar across his face. A cruel mouth. His eyes were blue, crystal blue, and they were cold and calm. There was something unsettling about him. He looked perfectly composed, a centre of calm in the frantic activity that clattered and whirled around him. He wasn’t fazed by the guards. He wasn’t fazed by the governor, either.

“What’s your name, sir?” Robinson asked him.

“John Smith.”

“Let’s get this over with as quickly as we can.”

“I think that would be best.”

“So—what is it you want to say?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer this to be in private?”

Robinson told the security guards to stand aside.

“Who’s this?” Smith asked, indicating Crawford.

“This is my chief of staff. I have no secrets from him. Now—please—what do you want to tell me?”

“I know that you were having an affair with her.”

“How do you know that?”

“There was a party in Pine Shore. A fund-raiser for your campaign. Jarad Efron hosted it.”

He frowned. “And? How is that relevant?”

“Madison Clarke was there. Obviously, you know she was an escort.”

“The governor doesn’t know that,” Crawford interposed hurriedly. “And he doesn’t know who the girl is, either.”

“It would be better if we didn’t waste time,” he said, looking straight at Robinson rather than Crawford. “I spoke to Mr. Efron. He said you were at the party. And he said that you and Madison were seeing each other. I understand that he introduced the two of you—he said that he was a client of hers and then you took a shine to her. I believe you had been seeing her for several weeks. He arranged for her to be there.”

Crawford felt a red-hot scorch of anger. Why had Efron said that? What was he thinking? And then, a flash of divination: there was something about Smith. It was self-evident what had happened. There was a deadness in the man’s eyes. It was unnerving, a little menacing. Crawford guessed that he could be very persuasive.

“You were seeing her, weren’t you?”

“I was,” Robinson confirmed quietly. “She’s special. I’m very fond of her.”

“Did you see her at the party?”

“The governor wasn’t at the party.”

“Arlen—”

“You know she went missing afterwards?”

Robinson looked at Crawford, then back at Smith. “I had no idea.”

Crawford felt a shiver of anxiety.

“She hasn’t been seen since.”

Crawford stepped forwards. “What does this have to do with you, Mr. Smith?”

“I drove her to the party.”

“So, what—you’re her friend? Her agent?”

“I’m a driver.”

“And so what’s this about? What’s it
really
about? You want money or you’re going to the papers? They won’t believe you, Mr. Smith—”

“I don’t want money,” he interrupted. “I want to know what happened to her.”

“Arlen—”

Crawford ignored the governor. “Let’s say he did know her, just for the sake of argument. She was a prostitute, Mr. Smith. You said so yourself. Maybe she had money problems? Maybe she’s hiding from someone? Maybe she had an issue with drugs? There could be any number of reasons.”

“Arlen—”

Smith pressed ahead. “Those things are all possible, but unlikely, considering the circumstances. I waited for her that night. I was going to drive her back into the city again. But then I heard her screaming.”

“It was
that
party?” Robinson said to Crawford. “I remember. You dragged me away? She was there?”

Crawford clenched his teeth.

“I went into the house to get her out,” Smith said. “She was in a terrible state—panicking, she said someone had threatened to kill her.”

“Arlen?”

“This is news to me.”

“She ran away and disappeared.”

“So she’s hiding somewhere,” Crawford said sharply. “Report it to the police.”

“I did that. But now I think she might not be missing. I think she’s been murdered. The bodies that have been turning up along the coast road—”

“How on earth is that relevant—”

“—up on the headland?” Robinson interrupted.

“Yes. You know about that?”

“Only vaguely.”

“But your speech tonight?”

“I didn’t write it,” he said, as if the man was stupid. “I just say what they tell me to say.”

“I think her disappearance might be connected.”

“You think the governor has something to do with that?” Crawford managed to splutter.

“I didn’t say that. But he might know something that could help find her, one way or another.”

Crawford felt like he was losing control of the conversation and, beyond that, his tenuous grip on the whole situation. “That is all speculation,” he protested. “Dangerous speculation with no basis in fact. And it has nothing to do with the governor.”

“Of course it does, Arlen! I was seeing her, and then she disappears. Maybe something has happened to her. Of course it’s relevant. At the very least, I need to speak to the police. Maybe I can help.”

Smith pressed. “You’ve no idea what happened?”

“Of course he doesn’t know!”

Smith ignored him; he moved around slightly so that he was facing away from him, placing his shoulder between himself and Robinson so that Crawford was temporarily boxed out of the conversation. “If there’s anything you can tell me, sir, I would appreciate it.”

“I can’t think of anything. Really—I can’t.”

Crawford pressed himself back into the conversation. “What are you going to do?” he asked him.

“That depends. You need to speak to the police. I think you should do it right away. I’m not an expert at these things—crisis management, I suppose you’d call it—but it would probably be best for you and your campaign if you’re seen to be volunteering information. Maybe they can keep it confidential, I don’t know. But you have to speak to them. I’ll wait until tomorrow, and then I’ll tell them what I know.”

“We’ll tell them,” Robinson said. “Right away. Thank you for speaking to me, Mr. Smith. I really do appreciate it.”

The governor had a dazed look on his face. He shook the man’s hand, an automatic reaction after these long months of campaigning, and made his way out of the kitchen. Crawford turned to follow, then paused, turning halfway back again, wanting to say something to the man, something that might make the problem go away, but he didn’t look like the kind of person who could be intimidated or bought off or deflected from his course in any way whatsoever. His posture was loose and easy, and he returned Crawford’s angry stare with implacable cool. It was unnerving.

Crawford turned back to the door again and hurried after the governor.

He was waiting for him in the service corridor.

“We need to think about this, sir.”

“What’s there to think about? It’s obvious what we have to do.”

“We mustn’t act hastily. Everything is at stake.”

“I have to speak to the police.”

“That’s a bad idea. A terrible idea.”

“No, Arlen. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Jack, please—this doesn’t have to be a threat. All he has is what Efron told him.”

“But it’s true.”

“All he can say is that you were at the same party as she was.”

“And I was seeing her.”

“No one can prove that.”

“It doesn’t matter if they can or they can’t. She’s missing. Those girls have turned up not five miles from there. Maybe this is connected. And maybe there is something that I can help the police with. Don’t you think it’s possible?”

“No, I don’t. But if you’re determined, then, all right, fine—but let me speak to them.”

“No,” he said. “It has to be me.”

MILTON GOT INTO his car and drove. He wasn’t sure how to assess the meeting. Had he scared Robinson enough? He was confident that he had. The governor had gotten the message, but it was obvious that Crawford held significant influence over him. There was a base cunning there, Milton had seen it clearly, and he could see that he would try to limit the governor’s exposure. How would he do that? Milton wasn’t sure. Would he be able to stop him from going to the police? Perhaps. All he had were guesses about what would happen next. Milton had meant what he said, though; he would give them until tomorrow to do the right thing. If they did not, he would take matters into his own hands and go to the police himself.

He checked his watch: six. He was late for his next appointment. He drove quickly across town to Pacific Heights and parked in a lot near to the Hotel Drisco. It was a boutique place, obviously expensive, everything understated and minimal. Milton climbed the steps to the smart lobby, all oak panelling and thick carpet, a little out of place in his scruffy jeans, dirty shirt and scuffed boots. The doorman gave him a disapproving look, but Milton stared him down, daring him to say anything, then walked past him and into the bar.

Beau was sitting at a table beneath an ornate light fixture, a copy of the San Francisco
Chronicle
spread out on the table before him. His glass was empty, so Milton diverted to the bar, paid for a beer and an orange juice, and ferried them across.

“Evening,” Milton said, sitting down.

“Evening, English.”

Milton pushed the beer across the table.

Beau thanked him and drank down the first quarter of the glass. “That name you got from the Lucianos—you do what you needed to do?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And thanks for your help.”

“I should know better than to ask what it was all for?”

“Probably best.”

“You’re a secretive fella, ain’t you?”

Beau folded the paper but not before Milton saw the news on the front page: an article on the bodies that had been dug up on the headland. He said nothing and watched as Beau drank off another measure of the beer. “How long are you here for?” he asked him.

“Couple days. I’ve got some work to attend to.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not particularly. I ever tell you about my other business?”

“I don’t think we ever had the chance.”

Beau put the glass on the table. “I’m a bail bondsman—well, least I used to be. You have them in England?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Guess the whole thing is a little Wild West. I got into it when I got out of the Border Patrol. Probably why I used to like it so much. I don’t do so much of that no more, though, but it’s still my good name above the door, still my reputation on the line. An old friend of mine who runs the show while I’m away got shot trying to bring a fellow back to San Diego to answer his obligations. This fellow’s got family up here, and the word is that he’s hiding out with them. Sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, he’s coming back down south with me. You calling was good timing—I was going to have to come up here anyways. Two birds with one stone. Now I’m going to have a look and see if I can find him.”

Milton sipped his orange juice. Time to change the subject. “So—did you speak to the Italians?”

“About the other thing? The loan shark? I did.”

“And?”

“They did a little looking into it. Like you thought—your Mr. Martinez has been running his operation without cutting them in. Strictly small-time, just a local neighbourhood kind of deal, but that ain’t clever on his part. You want to play in that particular game, you got to pay your taxes, and he ain’t been paying. They were unhappy about it.”

“Unhappy enough to do something about it?”

“Oh, sure.”

“What are they going to do?”

“Let’s call it a hostile takeover. You just need to tell me where he’s at, and I’ll see that it gets sorted.”

“I can do that. What about my friend?”

“They’ll wipe out the debt.”

“How much do they want for it?”

Beau held up his hands. “No charge. They’ll be taking over his book—that’s worth plenty to them. His debt can be your finder’s fee. They’ll give it to you.”

Milton took his orange juice and touched it against the side of Beau’s beer. “Thanks, Beau,” he said. “I owe you.”

“Yeah, well, about that. There’s maybe something we can do to square that away. This fellow I’ve come to take back down to San Diego, there’s no way he’s going to play nice. Some of the runners we go after, they’re real bad-ass until it comes down to the nut-cutting, and then, when the moment of true balls comes around, most of them capitulate. This guy, though? There’s always one asshole in the crowd who has to be different, and I’m not getting any younger. I was thinking maybe I could use a hand.”

“When?”

Beau finished his beer. “You doing anything now?”

THE PLACE WAS in the hills outside Vallejo. It was a clear evening, and for once, there was a perfect view all the way down to the Golden Gate Bridge and the lights of the city beyond. Beau could see returning saltwater fishermen out in their boats on the San Pablo Bay and the wide, leafy streets of the town. Beyond it and across the straits, you could see the big iron derricks, the rotting piers, the grey hulks of battleships, and the brick smokestacks and derelict warehouses of Mare Island. It had been a pleasant place, once—Beau remembered coming here with his father when he was travelling on business—but the cheap housing units of plasterboard and plywood that had been thrown up to accommodate the boom years after the end of the Second World War had fallen quickly into disrepair. The seventies had seen the place struggle with race hatred that begat violence and unrest; the stain was only now being washed away.