Fall Down Easy Page 5

  The stud introduced himself. His name was Randy Lucas. He told Greg to make himself at home, and went into the kitchen, to mix a pitcher of vodka martinis.

  Hilary sat on the sofa on the far side of the room, about as far away from Greg as she could get. He gave her a warm smile, but she refused to meet his eye.

  Greg watched Randy work around his balled-up jacket, not touching it but coming close.

  Randy finished fooling around with the martinis and brought the pitcher and drinks into the living room on a tray. He lowered the tray carefully down on a coffee table, poured three drinks, handed one to Hilary and one to Greg.

  Greg slipped.

  Randy said, “While you were out there on the balcony, Hilary gave me a very brief rundown of the situation. I want you to know that it comes as a complete surprise.”

  Greg said, “Yeah?”

  Hilary said, “I’ve already explained to Randy about how we met at a mutual friend’s and both had too much to drink and you insisted on driving me home and then maybe got a little bit aggressive. I’ve always wondered what happened to my key. Now I know.”

  Greg said, “The door was open. I phoned you at work but they said there was a robbery, told me you were busy and I couldn’t talk to you.” He gave her a nice, warm smile. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Randy’s been taking care of me.”

  The stud said, “She was a little shook up, but she’s okay now.”

  Greg ignored him. He said, “We had a date, remember?”

  Hilary glared at Greg. “Why do you keep bothering me? What’s wrong with you?”

  Greg glanced at the stud, to see if he was buying all those lies. The guy was buying, all right, and he was paying retail. Greg said, “We had a date.”

  “I called and cancelled this afternoon. I left a message on your machine. I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t have agreed to go out with you in the first place. I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings, that’s all.”

  From Greg’s point of view, Randy’s wardrobe was a tad on the conservative side — it looked as if he’d found his clothes in a mound of cow dung. But he sure was a good martini mixer. Greg drained his glass and helped himself to a refill. He settled back, letting the cushions take his weight.

  Randy said, “Just before I left town, Hilary and I became engaged.”

  Greg nodded, smiled.

  “To be married,” Randy explained.

  Greg said, “Well, that’s terrific. Congratulations all around.”

  Hilary said, “Randy and I have known each other for a very long time.”

  Greg said, “No kidding.”

  Randy said, “We work in the same building. I’m with McQuade and McQuade. Was assigned to the Toronto office about six months ago, a particularly difficult case.” He smiled. “Just got back this morning.”

  Greg rubbed his jaw, mulling it over.

  “Criminal law,” said Randy, refreshing Greg’s memory. He paused, letting it hang, and then said, “What line of work are you in, by the way?”

  “Actor. I’m an actor.”

  “Really?” Randy leaned forward a little, interested. “Television, the movies … ?”

  “This and that,” said Greg. “Basically, whatever my agent thinks is good for my career. Might make him a few bucks, in other words.”

  “You working on anything now?”

  “I got a callback on a series of Toyota commercials. Nationwide stuff. Should hear about it in a couple of days.”

  “Well,” said Randy, “best of luck.” He raised his glass in a kind of half-assed toast, drained the contents and put the empty glass down on the table. Greg’d been dismissed, and all three of them knew it.

  He stood up. Jingled the change in his pants pocket, smiled. “I’ll just get my jacket and briefcase, and be on my way.”

  Randy said, “Fine.” He gave Hilary a wink.

  Greg took a line towards the kitchen that should have forced Randy to move aside a little bit to avoid contact. Randy didn’t even seem to notice Greg moving in on him, and Greg, shoulders hunched, was forced to alter course. He went into the kitchen and grabbed his jacket, held it firmly in his left hand so the gun wouldn’t fall out. He’d thought the briefcase might be on the floor by the fridge, but it wasn’t. He turned and looked behind him. Where’d the damn thing go?

  Randy was watching him closely, as if suspecting he might pinch the silverware. “Lose something?”

  “Can’t seem to find my briefcase.”

  Randy glanced around the apartment, frowned.

  Greg came back into the living room. He felt as if his body temperature had risen by at least ten degrees. The briefcase was out on the balcony. He took a quick step forward, and it metamorphosed into Hilary’s goddamn summer tires. He turned on Randy. “Listen, I understand why you’re upset. But I want my briefcase back, and I want it now.”

  Randy said, “I think you better leave, pal.”

  Greg squeezed the windbreaker. “Whose pal are you talking to? Not me, buddy”

  Randy flushed.

  Greg started towards the bedroom. Randy moved to block him. Greg stepped sideways, as if attempting an end run, then kicked Randy in the knee as hard as he could.

  Randy lurched sideways, going down. A rib cracked as he hit the corner of the coffee table.

  Hilary said, “Oh baby, are you all right?”

  Greg reached down to pat her on the head. He said, “Don’t worry about it, he never laid a finger on me.”

  “Not you, asshole!” Hilary was down on the carpet, cradling Randy’s head on her restless thighs. The lawyer lay there, staring up at Greg. Hurt but still game, gathering strength.

  Greg said, “Take my advice, buddy. Stay right where you are. Do the smart thing, not the right thing.” He smiled fondly at Hilary for a moment, then turned back to Randy, letting his eyes go cold. “Otherwise, there’s no telling who might get hurt.”

  Randy glared at him, not blinking.

  Greg said, “See, I never took any night school lessons in the manly art of self-defence, but I got a black belt in bad attitude.” He caught the flicker of uncertainty in Randy’s eyes, knew he had him.

  There was a Polaroid camera and two empty glasses and a champagne bottle in a clear plastic ice bucket on the night-stand. A tangled heap of black and white striped sheets trailed from the bed to the floor. Shiny silver handcuffs dangled from the bedpost. A dozen photographs were spread out on the bed like a winning poker hand.

  Greg checked out the champagne. Mumm’s. He tilted the bottle against the barred light streaming in through the blinds. There was a mouthful left. Greg drank it down, tossed the empty bottle on the floor. He picked up the camera and took a shot of the bed and handcuffs, stuck the Polaroid and the rest of the photographs in his pants pocket.

  The bedroom was small. The only furniture was the bed and the nightstand and a bureau with a mirror that was tilted just so. The closet was just big enough to hide a midget. It took Greg about ten seconds to decide that if he wanted to find his briefcase, he better look somewhere else. There was a pinstripe suit hanging in there, though, and in the pocket of the jacket, a black eelskin wallet. Greg helped himself to the cash and credit cards.

  He tossed the Polaroid camera at the bureau mirror, smashing the glass.

  In the living room, Randy had fainted or died, and Hilary was punching buttons on the phone.

  Greg ripped the line out of the wall. He checked Randy’s pulse, and said, “He’s gonna be okay. If anybody asks, just tell them what happened — you had a couple too many, were goofing around. He tripped and fell on the table.”

  Hilary pointed a finger at him and yelled, “You’re going to jail, Greg! You broke into my apartment and assaulted my boyfriend. I hope they put you away for life!”

  Greg said, “You ought to talk it over with Randy, before you phone the cops. See, a thing like this could be bad for his career.” He smiled. “How about you and me — I bet if we worked at it, we could patch thi
ngs up just as good as new.”

  Hilary threw the phone at him, missed.

  Greg said, “Okay, that does it — we’re through!”

  And he meant it, because he’d just that instant remembered where he’d left the briefcase full of drug money. It was in a towaway zone, on the front seat of the abandoned and unlocked Taurus.

  Six

  Bradley introduced Martin Ross to Willows and Parker. Several hours had passed since the robbery and murder, but only now did Ross seem sufficiently recovered from his ordeal to be interviewed. During the interval, the crime scene had been sketched, measured and photographed. Every scrap of physical evidence had been gathered and marked for identification — the bank’s walls deeply gouged where techs had recovered Greg’s early wild shots.

  The bank’s staff had suffered through preliminary interviews and been sent home.

  Body Removal Services — what the cops called the ghoul patrol — had bundled the anonymous victim’s bullet-riddled corpse into a leakproof green plastic bag and transported it to the morgue.

  Ross’s injuries were painful but superficial. He’d accepted but so far hadn’t ingested the painkillers and tranquilizers the medics had given him. He assured the two homicide detectives that he realized it was essential that he keep his mind clear.

  Parker smiled, showing her appreciation. According to the paramedics, Ross had suffered a minor concussion. It had taken him a long time to get his act together, and although neither she nor Willows were very happy about it, they didn’t let it show.

  Martin Ross was in his late fifties, but he’d taken care of himself over the years, kept his weight down. He dressed well, had a rosy complexion and silver hair, perceptive but kindly blue eyes. He was thinking that the female cop, Claire Parker, was probably young enough to be his daughter. But what the hell.

  Ross looked her over, openly admiring her. She had a nice trim figure, jet black hair, huge brown eyes and a movie star’s complexion. There were a few small lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. A homicide cop, she’d have seen a few things. He had a feeling he’d have to dig pretty deep to come up with a compliment she hadn’t heard a dozen times before, and that she’d be well worth the effort.

  Willows said, “I guess my first question, Mr Ross, is how well you knew the victim.”

  “I hardly knew him at all. He’d dropped by my office once or twice during the past year, but I’m not even sure he had an account with us.”

  “What was the nature of his business?”

  “He sought general financial advice. My opinion on the trend in mortgage rates, that sort of thing. How’s Hilary doing, by the way? She going to be okay?”

  Parker said, “She went home quite some time ago. Her fiancé picked her up.”

  Ross massaged his forehead. “Greg, is that the young man’s name? Very pleasant.”

  Willows said, “We haven’t been able to identify the victim yet. It would be very helpful if you remembered his name, Mr Ross.”

  Martin Ross looked down, studied his wounded hand. He said, “Yes, I’m aware of that. I wish I could help, but I simply can’t remember.”

  Bradley said, “How long have you been a bank manager, Mr Ross?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Ross said, “Seventeen years.”

  “And at this branch?”

  “Five years.”

  Willows said, “What was in the briefcase?”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea.”

  “Then why did you risk your life to retain possession of it?”

  Ross shrugged. He said, “I was trying to detain the killer, not the briefcase. It wasn’t a particularly intelligent thing to do, I suppose. Obviously I wasn’t thinking straight, but the situation was completely out of control … ”

  Willows pressed a little harder. “Presumably — from the dead man’s point of view — the briefcase contained something fairly valuable, something worth dying for.”

  Ross gingerly touched his head. He had a hell of a headache, but he wasn’t ready to take any medication — not just yet. He said, “I have no idea what was in that briefcase, but as I’m sure my staff have already told you, the man who looked like a boxer shot first. Or rather, he drew his weapon first, and the dead man fired in self-defence. I may be wrong, but I was under the impression the boxer was completely focused on robbing my bank. In fact he didn’t show any interest at all in the briefcase until the dead man tried to hide it from him.”

  Willows said, “Only one member of your staff happened to notice the victim before the shooting started. She’s unclear as to whether the man was waiting in line to see a teller, or to see you.”

  “He hadn’t requested an appointment, I can tell you that much.”

  “That’s true, but your office door was partly open, and he was positioned so he could keep an eye on it. You were with another customer just prior to the robbery, is that correct?” Ross nodded. The way his eyes glinted, Willows had a hunch the banker had called somebody on a demand loan.

  Parker said, “The shooter — had you ever seen him before?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Willows said, “The reason we ask, he might’ve been a junkie wandered in off the street, but we have reason to believe otherwise. If we’re right, he probably cased the bank for days or even weeks before he made his move.”

  Ross said, “A man like that — it wouldn’t have taken long for someone to notice him.”

  Parker said, “I just can’t understand why you took such an enormous risk.”

  Ross said, “I wish I knew. The circumstances were so eccentric. I suppose I felt responsible for the damn thing.” He glared at Bradley. “I acted instinctively, without regard for my personal safety. That hardly seems cause for such a rigorous interrogation.”

  Bradley smiled. “Would you like to get in touch with your lawyer, Mr Ross?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Because that’d be just fine and dandy with us, if that’s your preference.”

  Ross said, “Did I miss something?” He turned his bright blue eyes on Parker. “Am I a suspect, for God’s sake?”

  “No, of course not.” Parker gave the banker a warm smile. It was her favourite lie.

  Willows took out his spiral-bound notebook and a cheap ballpoint pen, turned the notebook to a blank page and wrote down the date and time. He said, “Let’s start with the shooter. What can you remember about him, Mr Ross?”

  Ross took his time, wanting to get it right. After a moment he said, “The thing I remember most clearly is the gun. It was an automatic. Old, and well-used.”

  Willows got it down, waited.

  “The other thing,” said Ross, “is that he had, what do you call them, that boxers get … ” He held his hands up to the side of his head.

  “Cauliflower ears,” said Bradley, a fan.

  “Yes, that’s right. And his nose had obviously been broken, it was pushed over to the side of his face.”

  “Recently broken?”

  “No, I don’t think so; that isn’t what I meant at all.”

  “What about the scar?” said Willows. “Where was the scar located?”

  Ross brought his wounded hand to his chin, and then his thought processes caught up with the situation and he said, “Since you already have this information, why are you wasting my time?”

  Willows sensed Bradley frowning at him from across the room. Toying with witnesses wasn’t usually a great idea, but he wanted to keep Ross off balance, wondering what was next. He shrugged, smiled politely and answered Ross’s question. “You may turn out to be the best witness we’ve got. Naturally I’m interested in your observations and recollection of events.”

  Smooth, thought Parker.

  Willows said, “Mind if I use your phone?”

  The banker nodded. “Help yourself. Dial nine for an outside line.”

  Willows rested a hip on Ross’s oversized oak-veneer desk, picked up the phone and rested it in his lap. He di
alled a nine and then the number for the local weather forecast, picked up a ballpoint pen and drew a revolver on Ross’s scratchpad.

  The phone rang twice and then there was a click and the taped message began to play.

  Parker resumed questioning Ross about the victim’s identification. Ross was becoming agitated — why were they so interested in the dead man instead of the guy who shot him?

  Parker paced the office as she grilled Ross. She dropped her notebook, knelt to pick it up. Her ballpoint pen slipped from her hand.

  Ross stared at her, enjoying the view.

  Ross’s leatherbound appointment book lay open on his desk. Willows quickly hung up and put the phone back on the desk, turned the notebook towards him. Ross was a very busy man. His calendar was jammed, but only until 4:30.

  From 4:30 on, the page was blank, his time clear and free.

  Parker collected her notebook and pen. She stood up, straightened her skirt. Willows thanked Ross for the use of his phone. The banker swivelled in his chair, stared blankly at him. “You get through?”

  Willows said, “Every time it rains, it pours.”

  Parker smiled at him.

  Willows said, “Your secretary tells me you had a very busy day, Mr Ross.”

  “Nothing unusual.”

  “But that you specifically instructed her not to make any appointments from four-thirty right through to the end of the day.”

  Ross reacted to Willows’ bluff by seeming to withdraw a little deeper into his pinstripes. When he’d collected himself he said, “Exactly what are you implying?”

  Willows stared blankly at him.

  Ross turned to Bradley. “If possible, I often leave a block of time open at the end of the day. It gives me an opportunity to tidy up any loose ends that might have developed, make a few last-minute phone calls, deal with emergencies. I’m sure you understand … ”

  Bradley said, “Yes, of course.”