When Last Seen Alive (14 page)

“Damn. So Jack’s gone and gotten political on us, huh?”

“Maybe. But I think it’s much more likely he was just a hired gun. Otherwise, he’d have done the victim for free, right?”

Before Little Pete could answer, Gunner heard his name being called, turned to see Pharaoh Doubleday addressing the house with the telephone in his hand. “We got an Aaron Gunner in here?” the big man asked again, his voice no less commanding than that of an agitated professional wrestler.

Gunner raised his hand to attract his attention, and said to Little Pete, “These flyers you say you’ve seen. Where do you think I could find one?”

“They’re all around, like I said. On telephone poles, and bulletin boards, places like that. I saw one yesterday over on the board at Will Rogers Park, in fact.”

“You Aaron Gunner?” Pharaoh asked, reaching Gunner’s place at the bar.

“Yeah. Thanks.” The investigator reached up and plucked the cordless phone out of the bartender’s hand, then slipped off his stool and addressed Little Pete once more. “Sorry, Pete, but I’ve gotta take this. Do me a favor and ask around a little, see if you can turn one of these Defenders up, huh?”

“Be glad to,” Little Pete said.

Gunner started to walk away with the phone, saw that Lilly’s new employee was still standing there, waiting to be either properly acknowledged or properly dismissed, one or the other.

“I’m just going to take this over there, all right, partner?” Gunner asked, pointing to an empty booth near the door.

The big man named Pharaoh eyed him with stonelike stoicism, giving no thought whatsoever to looking to Lilly for help, then broke down and nodded his head. “Go ahead,” he said.

Gunner and Little Pete exchanged a quick glance—this guy was going to be fun to have around—before the investigator removed himself to the empty booth as promised.

“Good evening, Councilman,” he said into the phone as soon as he sat down.

There was a long pause as the party on the other end of the line gathered enough resolve to speak. “Who is this?” Gil Everson asked.

“You already know my name. And the rest we can get into later. But not over the phone.”

“Look. What do you want? If this is some kind of extortion attempt—”

“It’s not. But to find out what it is, you’re gonna have to see me in person. Tonight, right here, in one hour. Would you like directions?”

“You must be insane. I’m not meeting you anywhere tonight.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

Gunner hit the flash button on the phone to hang up on him.

Lilly came over to his table, having finally taken notice of him, and said, “What’ve I told you about tying up my phone, Gunner? Huh?”

“This is only going to take a minute, Lilly. Relax.”

“I’ll relax when I’m dead. Right now, I got a business to run, and I can’t run it without a phone.”

The phone began to ring.

“Just let me take this one call,” Gunner said. “I’ll keep it short, I promise.”

The big woman eyeballed him, pursing her crimson lips in disgust, then walked away.

“That you, Councilman?” Gunner asked, speaking into the phone again.

And this time Everson spoke right up, said, “This ‘Acey Deuce’ where you’re at. I take it it’s a public place?”

“That’s right. But nobody from the local press is likely to spot us here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We can’t meet someplace more private?”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid not. Not that I don’t trust you, but I’d feel safer if we met right here, in the company of a few friends. You understand.”

Everson didn’t say anything for a good length of time. Then: “How do I get to this place?”

After Gunner told him, he gave Lilly her phone back and ordered himself another drink.

The trouble with baiting the hook for sharks with one’s own flesh was, sometimes you actually got a bite.

Gunner had been waiting forty minutes in a dark, distant booth in one corner, his Ruger P-85 pinned flat between the cushion of his seat and his right thigh, when Gil Everson and his ubiquitous bodyguard entered the bar. The investigator was relieved to see the councilman here himself—his presence made it all but a certainty that no violence toward Gunner was in his immediate plans—but his sizable black friend was not so reassuring. Though Gunner had seen him many times before during his own surveillance of Everson, it was still highly unsettling to be faced with him here again, in such close quarters, and Gunner couldn’t help but wonder if Sly Cribbs hadn’t felt the same way almost twenty-four hours earlier.

He watched Lilly point him out for the big man, then fingered the Ruger nervously as the two men slowly approached him.

Everson reached him first, his companion hanging just behind so as to better watch the councilman’s back, and said, “You Aaron Gunner?”

“Yeah. Thanks for coming down, Councilman.”

Everson took the seat opposite him in the booth on his own initiative, gestured for his man to do likewise at an empty table nearby. The flat-topped bodyguard in the crisp, double-breasted green suit obeyed the command without so much as blinking. “Let’s cut the bullshit here, Mr. Gunner,” Connie Everson’s slightly graying, though still strikingly handsome, husband said. “I’m not your councilman, and you’re not one of my constituents. Our business here tonight is all about money, so why don’t you just name your price and get the fuck on with it?”

“Because I’m not a blackmailer. I told you that before.”

“I know what you told me. And I’d like to believe you. But it’s for damn sure you didn’t take those photographs of my friend and me just to try out a new camera, now, isn’t it?”

“Actually, I didn’t take the photographs. They just happen to be in my possession. The person who did take them is over at Daniel Freeman, recovering from a couple of gunshot wounds he received late last night.” He slid his eyes over to the councilman’s bodyguard, saw no discernible reaction. “Maybe you heard about it.”

“No. I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“He’s just a seventeen-year-old kid. Goes to college, lives with his mother. Wants to be a photojournalist some day.”

“That’s fascinating.”

“But somebody nailed him in his car on his way home, just around eleven o’clock. Shot him twice with a forty-five caliber automatic while he was waiting for the light to change over on Exposition and Vermont. The cops think it was a carjacker, but I have a theory of my own.”

The big man in the green suit remained as expressionless as ever.

“Get to the point, Mr. Gunner,” Everson said.

“Somebody was after the photographs you’re so interested in. They thought he had them on him, but he didn’t.”

“And you think that somebody was me, is that it?”

“You or your goon over there. He does have a handgun under all that fabric, doesn’t he?”

He’d said it just loud enough for the big man to hear him, as was his intention, but the councilman’s friend only winked at him in response, no easy man to rile, apparently.

“Rafe was with me at eleven o’clock last night,” Everson said. “He wasn’t anywhere near the intersection of Exposition and Vermont.”

Gunner smiled, nodded his head. “That’s a great alibi. He was with you, and you were with him. You two should rob banks.”

“Look. I don’t know what the hell this is all about, but if you don’t start making some sense quick, I’m going to the police. And what you do with the photographs after that is your problem.”

He seemed completely sincere. He was more frustrated than angry now, and Gunner’s little game of cat and mouse was getting on his nerves.

“All right, Councilman. Settle down,” Gunner said.

“Settle down, my ass. Are the photographs for sale or not?”

“For sale? No.” Gunner shook his head. “They’re not for sale. But I might be willing to exchange them for something.”

“Exchange them for something? Like what?”

“Like information. A few simple answers to some questions I’d like to ask you and your friend here.”

“And my questions? What about
them
?”

“You mean like, who am I, and who am I working for? That sort of thing?”

“Exactly.”

“The answer to the first question is, I’m a private investigator. As for the second—”

“A private investigator?” He was far more surprised than he should have been, Gunner thought. His wife had told Gunner just hours earlier that she and the councilman had discussed everything, and that all of her suspicions about a street hustler with a limp had been laid to rest. But if that were true, her husband should have figured Gunner for his wife’s private investigator from the start.

Fifteen seconds went by before the councilman shook his head, a small grin crossing his face. “That goddamn Connie …”

“Who?”

“My wife, Mr. Gunner. Your client.”

“You think your wife is my client?”

“Of course she is. I must’ve been an idiot for not seeing it sooner. Not every attack upon me is politically motivated, after all.”

“No, probably not. But you’re a black city councilman with a promising future. You think your wife’s the only person who could want photographic evidence that you’ve been having an affair with a prostitute?”

Everson bristled at this, said, “You trying to say there’s something perverse about that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I have to say about it. But if someone looking to derail your re-election wanted to put that particular spin on it …” He let a simple shrug complete the thought.

“All right. To hell with who you’re working for, for now. All I care about are the photographs. You give me those, and the rest won’t matter.”

“Fine. All I want is my friend’s shooter. You help me nail him, and the photos are yours.”

“Your friend’s shooter? I don’t know who shot that kid!”

“You didn’t know he was following you around last night?”

“No.”

“Or about the photographs he’d taken of you and the lady?”

“No! I didn’t know anything about the photographs until this afternoon, when I went down to my car and found that goddamn envelope on my windshield.”

Gunner nodded toward the silent big man seated nearby. “What about him?”

“Rafe? He’s a security man. Not my mother. His job is to protect me from physical harm, not do damage control.”

“All the same—was he really with you last night around eleven o’clock? Or was that something you said just to make conversation?”

Everson took too long to answer the question, rendering his reply all but unnecessary. “I don’t say
anything
just to make conversation, Mr. Gunner,” he said.

“Then he was with you when the photographs were taken.”

“You mean at the hotel? Yes, but—”

“All night.”

“Yes, goddamnit, all night! He was in the suite right next to ours, he was there the whole time we were.”

“He couldn’t have spotted the kid taking the photos and followed him afterward?”

“No. I
told
you—he’s a bodyguard. Not a hitman.” When Gunner failed to pursue the matter further, he said, “I’m sorry, Gunner, but it’s really very simple. I didn’t have anything to do with your friend getting shot, and neither did Rafe, or anyone else under my employ. I’m sorry it happened, of course, but it had nothing to do with me.”

“I see. You think maybe I should be talking to your girlfriend, instead?”

“No! You leave Shelby—” He stopped, instantly aware of his mistake, and started again. “You leave the lady out of this, Gunner. She couldn’t possibly help you.”

“Couldn’t she? She’s the second adulterer in the photographs, Councilman. And depending on who she is and what her circumstances are, she could have just as much to lose if they were to go public as you do.”

“She doesn’t. You can take my word for that.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you and I are going to stop talking and start swinging. Both figuratively and literally.”

“What, here? Right now?”

“You know what I mean. You go anywhere near the lady in those photographs, and I’ll nail your ass to the cross, so help me God.”

It wasn’t just an idle threat; Everson meant every word. Gunner could see that in his eyes alone.

“Now,” the councilman went on. “Do I get the photographs, or not?”

Gunner let him wait a long time for his answer, carefully thinking things through before choosing his next move. “The kid shot a full roll of twenty-four. One print is already in your possession. I’ll messenger you another twenty-two tomorrow, plus the negatives, and keep one print for myself.”

“What? Like hell you will!”

“You have my word it won’t be used against you in any way. No one will see it, or know about it, but me.”

“Fuck your word! The deal was, I answer your questions, and you give me the photographs.
All
the photographs!”

“I know what the deal was. But if you want me to trust you about the lady, you’re going to have to trust me about this. It’s a two-way street, Councilman.”

“Bullshit!”

“I told you: I don’t care about anything but finding the person who capped my friend last night. As long as that isn’t you or your boy Rafe, you’ve got nothing to fear from me, with or without the photographs.”

“And your client? What about her?”

“You mean what about
him
?”

“Him, her, whatever!”

“I guess I forgot to mention. I don’t have that client anymore. I was fired earlier today.”

“And you never—”

“Showed my client the photographs? No. I didn’t.”

Now Everson was the one thinking things through, trying to decide what to do next. He was in a tight spot, and he didn’t like it there one bit.

“I don’t know anything about you, Gunner. Why should I think I can trust you?”

“The short answer? Because you don’t have a lot of choice. The long answer’s that, plus the fact you know who I am and where you can find me. Neither of which I’d’ve allowed you to know if my intent all along was to fuck you over, right?”

Everson fell silent, discovered he had no rejoinder for this argument. “I want that last photo, Gunner. If you think I’m going to let you hold onto it forever, you’re crazy.”

“I tell you what. As soon as the cops make an arrest in my friend’s shooting that looks like it’s gonna stick, you can have the photograph. I’ll put it in a nice frame for you and everything.”