"Who?"
"McDeere. It's time he and I had a little talk."
"About what?" Lambert asked nervously.
"You let me handle it, okay? Just stay out of my way."
"I think it's a bit premature," Locke said.
"And I don't give a damn what you think. If you clowns were in charge of security, you'd all be in prison."
Mitch sat in his office with the door closed and stared at the walls. A migraine was forming at the base of his skull, and he felt sick. There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," he said softly.
Avery peeked inside, then walked to the desk. "How about lunch?"
"No, thanks. I'm not hungry."
The partner slid his hands into his trouser pockets and smiled warmly. "Look, Mitch, I know you're worried. Let's take a break. I've got to run downtown for a meeting. Why don't you meet me at the Manhattan Club at one. We'll have a long lunch and talk things over. I've reserved the limo for you. It'll be waiting outside at a quarter till."
Mitch managed a weak smile, as if he was touched by this. "Sure, Avery. Why not."
"Good. I'll see you at one."
At a quarter till, Mitch opened the front door and walked to the limo. The driver opened the door, and Mitch fell in. Company was waiting.
A thick, bald-headed man with a huge, bulging, hanging neck sat smugly in the corner of the rear seat. He stuck out a hand. "Name's DeVasher, Mitch. Nice to meet you."
"Am I in the right limo?" Mitch asked.
"Sure. Sure. Relax." The driver pulled away from the curb.
"What can I do for you?" Mitch asked.
"You can listen for a while. We need to have a little talk." The driver turned on Riverside Drive and headed for the Hernando De Soto Bridge.
"Where are we going?" Mitch asked.
"For a little ride. Just relax, son."
So I'm number six, thought Mitch. This is it. No, wait a
'minute. They were much more creative than this with their killing.
"Mitch, can I call you Mitch?"
"Sure."
"Fine. Mitch, I'm in charge of security for , and—"
"Why does need security?"
"Just listen to me, son, and I'll explain. has an extensive security program, thanks to old man Bendini. He was a nut about security and secrecy. My job is to protect , and quite frankly, we're very concerned about this FBI business."
"So am I."
"Yes. We believe the FBI is determined to infiltrate our firm in hopes of collecting information on certain clients."
"Which clients?"
"Some high rollers with questionable tax shelters."
Mitch nodded and looked at the river below. They were now in Arkansas, with the Memphis skyline fading behind them. DeVasher recessed the conversation. He sat like a frog with his hands folded across the gut. Mitch waited, until it became apparent that lapses in conversation and awkward silence did not bother DeVasher. Several miles across the river, the driver left the interstate and found a rough county road that circled and ran back to the east. Then he turned onto a gravel road that went for a mile through low-lying bean fields next to the river. Memphis was suddenly visible again, across the water.
"Where are we going?" Mitch asked, with some alarm.
"Relax. I want to show you something."
A gravesite, thought Mitch. The limo stopped on a cliff that fell ten feet to a sandbar next to the bank. The skyline stood impressively on the other side. The top of the Bendini Building was visible.
"Let's take a walk," DeVasher said.
"Where to?" Mitch asked.
"Come on. It's okay." DeVasher opened his door and walked to the rear bumper. Slowly, Mitch followed him.
"As I was saying, Mitch, we are very troubled by this contact with the FBI. If you talk to them, they will get bolder, then who knows what the fools will try. It's imperative that you not speak to them, ever again. Understand?"
"Yes. I've understood since the first visit in August."
Suddenly, DeVasher was in his face, nose to nose. He smiled wickedly. "I have something that will keep you honest." He reached in his sport coat and pulled out a manila envelope.
"Take a look at these," he said with a sneer, and walked away.
Mitch leaned on the limo and nervously opened the envelope. There were four photographs, black and white, eight by ten, very clear. On the beach. The girl.
"Oh my god! Who took these?" Mitch yelled at him.
"What difference does it make? It's you, ain't it?"
There was no doubt about who it was. He ripped the photographs into small pieces and threw them in DeVasher's direction.
"We got plenty at the office," DeVasher said calmly. "Bunch of them. We don't want to use them, but one more little conversation with Mr. Tarrance or any other Fibbie and we'll mail them to your wife. How would you like that, Mitch? Imagine your pretty little wife going to the mailbox to get her Redbook and catalogues and she sees this sftrange envelope addressed to her. Try to think of that, Mitch. The next time you and Tarrance decide to shop for plastic shoes, think about us, Mitch. Because we'll be watching."
"Who knows about these?" Mitch asked.