Fair Game Page 2

  “Standard operating procedure. Every candidate attracts a few wackos. This one is no exception. Fair has his own people, but they like to remain in the background. They need a couple of blues around to boost confidence. The commissioner wants us to ‘cooperate fully.’”

  “So what does that involve?” Martin said, sighing resignedly.

  “You hang around and watch him, go where he goes, no big deal. They’ve sent us the file on the great man, and I’m having it Xeroxed right now. There are copies of questionable letters, transcripts of nut phone calls. No death threats yet, but some nasty messages. The Senator is a flaming liberal, as you may know, and he attracts the sort of lunatic fringe who think his fondness for social programs is going to sell this great country of ours down the river. In other words, the usual political stuff.”

  “Isn’t this a job for the feds?”

  “Not unless something actually happens. And nothing will. Don’t sweat this one; it’ll be a walk in the park.”

  Martin was still wearing a remarkably unfestive expression.

  “Look, Tim,” Rourke said in a serious tone, “you could use a rest. You practically lived here during that Donelly case, and your vacation isn’t coming up until August. You can’t breathe this job twenty-four hours a day. You need some relaxation. A hobby, an outside interest. A woman.”

  “I had a woman. She left me,” Martin said quietly.

  Rourke skirted that delicate subject, wishing he hadn’t brought it up, and said instead, “My point is, this is an opportunity for you to take it easy for a while. Go hold the Senator’s hand, stand on the sidelines and scare off the crazies, play poker with Capo while Fair catches forty winks. What have you got to lose?”

  “Am I to understand that I’m being selected for other than cosmetic reasons?” Martin asked directly.

  “Let’s just say that you fit the bill in more ways than one. You’re the right size and shape, and you need the down time.” Rourke raised his bushy ginger brows. “Who breaks this to Capo, me or you?”

  “I’ll tell him,” Martin said.

  “Fine. He follows you around like a puppy anyway. This will give him an excuse to do It. He’s out on a call now, so you can go home and get your stuff, then catch him later.”

  “Right. When does it start?” Martin asked, as if anticipating a death sentence.

  “Today.”

  “Today?” Martin repeated, staring.

  “You’re scheduled to meet Senator Fair and his daughter this afternoon at two.”

  “Thanks for giving me advance notice, Gerry,” Martin said dryly.

  “What do you need notice for? To pack some underwear and socks? Now, here’s the address of his hotel,” Rourke said, handing Martin a slip of paper. “You just stick with Fair and the girl wherever they go. They’ll have a printed itinerary ready. There’s a woman named Drummond on the staff; she’ll handle all the hotel arrangements. She said that the Senator wants the senior man with his daughter, so when they split up, you go with her and Capo can take Fair.”

  Martin nodded sourly.

  “And Tim, be on your best behavior. No swearing, no spitting, no gum on the shoes. Pretend you’re on a SEPTA bus.”

  Martin smiled thinly. “I’m going to get you for this.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rourke replied, laughing. “Don’t be a stranger. Keep in touch.” He waved and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Martin looked after him for a moment, then sighed heavily, picking up his coat again.

  He’d better go back to his apartment and pack.

  Peter Ransom gazed up at the conference-room window from the safety of his rented car. There was nothing unusual about it; the window looked like every other window in the Pittsburgh hotel. It was still as ordinary as it had been when he first checked it, before dawn several hours earlier. He got out of the car, strolled through the parking lot around to the front of the hotel. The doorman, busy flagging cabs in the morning rush hour traffic, didn’t notice him as he examined the brick facade closely, hands in pockets in a casual posture. When the doorman paused in his labors and glanced around, Ransom drifted past him, ascending the stone steps and passing through the revolving door into the lobby.

  He noticed everything, fading into the wallpaper himself, passing through the flow of hotel guests like a wraith. He was dressed for obscurity in light gray slacks and a dark gray jacket. His blond hair was short, neatly and conservatively styled, and he wore dark sunglasses that hid his eyes and disguised his expression.

  No one paid any attention to him.

  Peter Ransom was not his real name. He remembered his real name, which had been made up by the nurse who found him, but he rarely thought about it, the way he rarely thought about old weapons he had discarded for newer, more useful ones.

  Ransom stopped at the foot of the main staircase and pretended to peruse one of the magazines left for the entertainment of the guests. He checked out the bank of elevators and the activity at the registration desk, then dropped the magazine and walked up the curving main staircase.

  He avoided elevators as a matter of practice.

  Ransom turned the corner to the second-floor corridor, then fell back and glanced around it, his hand going to the pistol nestled in the small of his back.

  It probably wasn’t a setup, but his almost supernatural caution had kept him alive more than once.

  The hushed, carpeted hallway was empty.

  The conference room was at the end of the hall. He walked toward it slowly, checking out the closed doors all along the way, trying the handle of a service closet as he passed. He finally paused before the conference room door, listening, and then knocked on it, his hand still in position to draw his gun if necessary.

  “Come in,” a male voice called.

  Ransom accepted the invitation. He opened the door halfway and looked inside, then entered the room.

  There were three men, dressed in suits, seated at a large oval table. The man in the middle had a stack of manila folders at his place, and his heavily veined hands were folded on top of them. The men on either side of him, one short, one portly, wore identical sober expressions.

  Ransom glanced at his hosts, then around the room. He had checked it out before they arrived, going back to his car to watch each of the men come to the hotel separately.

  Everything seemed to be in order. He relaxed marginally, eyeing the leader.

  “Please be seated,” the spokesman said.

  Ransom hiked one leg up onto the edge of the table and waited.

  The leader cleared his throat. “You know the purpose of this meeting,” he said in a soft, modulated voice. “It was explained to you when this was arranged that we represent a group with quite a large stake in preventing Senator Fair from coming to power. We feel that we are unable to run the risk of the forthcoming election....”

  Ransom raised his hand, interrupting the speaker. “I don’t care why you want it done,” he said flatly. “Your politics and your motivations are of no interest to me.”

  The leader fell silent, watching him.

  “I think you are familiar with my terms, but I’ll go over them again just so there is no misunderstanding,”

  Ransom continued. “These terms are not negotiable. They will be met or I will not take the job.”

  The men waited.

  “First, I’ll require half of the stated fee up front, and the second half on completion of the assignment. You will not contact me at all after today, and you will not discuss me or my assignment with each other or anyone else outside of this room. If I discover during the course of preparation that you have not complied with these terms, I’ll keep the money I have and consider the order terminated. If I complete the job and the second half of the fee is not deposited in the numbered account I have indicated within three business days of completion, I will come after each of you. Personally. Right now I know you only as nameless customers, through my contact, but I’ll find you. Believe me.”


  The three men exchanged nervous glances. They believed him.

  Ransom pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, inhaling luxuriously as he relaxed. These men were afraid of him; there was no threat here.

  “Second,” he went on, “I pick the place and time of the hit, and the method. I’m the professional; I’ll make the professional decisions. You supply me with the information I require, and I’ll formulate the plan.”

  The leader shifted in his seat. Ransom waited, but the man didn’t speak.

  “Third,” Ransom continued, “the identity you manufacture for me will be discarded as soon as the job is done. All papers, pictures, and other items will be destroyed immediately, and the name and occupation never re-used.”

  Ransom looked at each man in turn. He was met with expressionless stares.

  “Fine,” he said, aware that this lack of protest was assent. “What do you have for me?”

  The leader passed the stack of folders down the table to him. “All the background information you requested on the Senator, his family, and close associates. His itinerary for the eight-week campaign tour of Pennsylvania, including what details we could obtain. Security is already tight. Not a lot was available.”

  “I’ll get what I need,” Ransom replied shortly, riffling through the papers. He examined the contents of two packets and put them aside. “Is this my identity?” he asked, opening another folder.

  The leader nodded. “Social security card, employment ID card, driver’s license, credit cards, all made out to the name Peter Ransom. The photo you gave the contact was used for the pictures.”

  “Where am I working and what am I doing?” Ransom asked, picking up the ID card.

  “You lease office space for a real-estate concern,” the leader informed him. “Real estate was one of the areas of expertise that you indicated to your contact.”

  Ransom smiled slightly. He had worked in real estate for a short time after the army, until he determined that killing people for a living, as opposed to killing them for his country, was a distinctly more lucrative field.

  “Do you have a monitor on this number?” Ransom asked, indicating the telephone exchange on the ID card.

  “Monday through Friday, nine to five,” the leader replied. “She’ll answer with the indicated company name, say you’re out for the day or away from your desk, and take any messages for you.”

  Random nodded. The company had to seem real if anyone checked.

  “There’s a stack of business cards there, too, and stationery,” the leader added.

  “How about the location?” Ransom asked.

  “It’s an office building. We took a suite and put the name on the door. The girl monitoring the phone will be at the reception desk.”

  “What did you tell her?” Ransom asked.

  “She thinks that we’re opening a new branch of the business and won’t be moving in for a while, so we need an advance guard to make sure we don’t miss any calls. The girl’s an evening college student; she doesn’t care what’s going on there. She’s just collecting her pay while she reads her textbooks and hopes the phone doesn’t interrupt her.”

  “Okay. What about after hours?”

  ‘The door will be padlocked from the inside, and we’ll have a guard on duty there at night. If somebody got curious, they’d have to break down the door, and then have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “Good,” Ransom said. The deception would hold up short term, time enough for him to get the job done; he was never around long term.

  “Here are the keys you’ll need,” the leader said, indicating a thick envelope. “This one is for the apartment we rented, and there’s a copy of the lease. It’s rented in the company name, furnished, in a luxury high rise in Philadelphia. The address is there. Wardrobe has also been supplied, as requested. The car is leased in the company name, like the apartment. Any questions?”

  Ransom opened the envelope, looked at the contents briefly, then shook his head.

  “The rest of it is miscellaneous,” the leader said. “The Senator’s quirks and habits, hobbies, favorite restaurants, anything we could find. We didn’t know what might be helpful, so we put it all in there.”

  Ransom looked up. “Where’s my money?” he said.

  The short man to the left of the leader spoke up for the first time. “Wait a minute,” he said stiffly. “So far we’ve made a substantial investment in you merely on the recommendation of your contact. How do we know you’ll perform as expected?”

  Ransom stubbed out his cigarette in the hotel ashtray, not bothering to answer.

  “How do we know Fair will be eliminated in accordance with our timetable?” the short man insisted.

  Ransom directed his hazel gaze to the speaker, and the man held it for only a moment before looking down.

  “The Senator will not survive this tour of Pennsylvania,” Ransom replied flatly. “That’s all you need to know.”

  The short man looked up again. “I don’t like it,” he said defiantly, looking at each of his companions in turn. “We don’t know this guy that well.”

  The leader, who had heard this from him before, moved to silence him, but Ransom intervened.

  “Do you want to kill the Senator, little man?” Ransom said to him scornfully.

  The short man flushed, his hands gripping the table.

  “No?” Ransom persisted, his lips twisting with disdain. “Too much at risk? Career, kiddies, sterling reputation?”

  The short man looked away.

  Ransom nodded. “Well, that’s the difference between me and you, junior. I got nobody, and I got nothing to lose.”

  The leader sighed heavily, shaking his head. He wanted to secure this deal as bloodlessly as possible; it was a mistake to get into personalities.

  “So I guess you’ll have to rely on me to get the job done, won’t you?” Ransom concluded sarcastically.

  There was no reply.

  “Look,” Ransom said, standing, “I don’t have to prove myself to you people. If I made a practice of stiffing my clients, I’d be out of business. I realize that it’s upsetting for solid citizens like yourselves to talk to me, but I insist on an initial meeting with the paying customers, and we’ve had it. You won’t see me again, so you can forget this ever happened and just look forward to the result.” He shrugged with an air of finality. “The contact knows my track record. He discussed it with you. Now, if that’s not enough, just say so, and I’m gone.”

  The leader held up a placating hand, drawing a final envelope from his inside breast pocket.

  “We’re satisfied,” he said. “Here’s your retainer. Good luck.”

  Ransom took the money and counted it before stowing it inside his jacket.

  “Gentlemen,” he said with a faint, sneering emphasis on the word that did not escape his audience, “it was a pleasure doing business with you.”

  He walked around the table and left the room.

  “Bastard,” the short man said when Ransom was safely gone.

  “You don’t have to love him, Charlie. You’re not getting married,” the leader said. “He can be as arrogant as he likes as long as he gets the job done.”

  “He’s charging a fortune,” Charlie said furiously.

  “Murder comes high,” the leader said. “And he’s the best. Twelve hits in the last five years. Only one of the targets survived, and he’s now a vegetable, due to extraordinary medical intervention. Ransom uses the mob method: two shots, head and heart. He never misses.”

  “I still don’t like it,” the short man complained.

  “Do you want Joseph Fair to become the next President of the United States?” the fat man asked rhetorically, speaking for the first time.

  The short man didn’t answer.

  “Then we have to make sure he isn’t alive to run. Stop being such a chickenshit, Charlie, and face up to what must be done,” the fat man said.

  The leader stood, closing the hasps of his b
riefcase. “I think our business here is completed,” he said, and his colleagues rose to follow him as he left the room.

  When Martin got back to the precinct house, Capo was seated behind a desk in the open booking area, typing with two fingers on an old portable. He was wearing an intense, pained expression.

  “Hey,” Martin greeted him, sitting on the edge of the desk.

  “Don’t interrupt me. I’m concentrating,” Capo said. “Why don’t they get us one of those computers like they have in Burglary? I feel like George Washington writing the Declaration of Independence with a quill pen.”

  “George Washington didn’t write the Declaration of Independence. Thomas Jefferson did.”

  “Excuse me, Joe College, I stand corrected.”

  “You don’t have to go to college to know that, Capo. Fourth-graders know that. My nephew is in second grade and he knows that.”

  Capo ignored the razzing, searching out another key and stabbing it with his forefinger. Then he said, “Damn it.”

  “What?”

  “Made another mistake.” He yanked open the desk drawer to get the bottle of correcting fluid.

  “Didn’t you take typing in high school like everybody else?” Martin asked, smiling.

  “I barely took high school,” Capo replied absently, unscrewing the plastic cap.

  “What is that, anyway?”

  “Interview report. This woman listed her husband officially missing this morning. Seems he was a gym teacher and he got suspended by the Board of Education for taking weird things from the kids’ gym lockers. Jock straps, baseball gloves, track shoes. She says he was so humiliated he may have killed himself. Or somebody else killed him. Anyway, he’s disappeared and she thinks he’s dead, which is why she was talking to me. She wants a homicide investigation, and he’s been gone long enough.”

  “You sure do catch the garbage, don’t you?”

  “That’s because whenever somebody calls in and they sound like they’re one step away from a psychiatric ward, Rourke sends me to talk to them.”

  “Maybe he thinks you’re on the same wavelength.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Capo said, unoffended.

  “Well, forget that. You can give it to somebody else to finish. We’re got something more important going.”