Finders Keepers Read online

  Hodges slams the passenger door and regards Madden cheerfully. "Here we are, Oliver. Snug as two bugs in a rug."

  "You can't do this," Madden says. He sounds pretty good for a man who should still have cartoon birdies flying in circles around his head. "You assaulted me. I can press charges. Where's my briefcase?"

  Hodges holds it up. "Safe and sound. I picked it up for you."

  Madden reaches with his uncuffed hand. "Give it to me."

  Hodges puts it in the footwell and steps on it. "For the time being, it's in protective custody."

  "What do you want, asshole?" The growl is in stark contrast to the expensive suit and haircut.

  "Come on, Oliver, I didn't hit you that hard. The plane. Cramm's plane."

  "He sold it to me. I have a bill of sale."

  "As James Mallon."

  "That's my name. I had it changed legally four years ago."

  "Oliver, you and legal aren't even kissing cousins. But that's beside the point. Your check bounced higher than Iowa corn in August."

  "That's impossible." He yanks his cuffed wrist. "Get this off me!"

  "We can discuss the cuff after we discuss the check. Man, that was slick. First of Reno is a real bank, and when Cramm called to verify your check, the Caller ID said First of Reno was what he was calling. He got the usual automated answering service, welcome to First of Reno where the customer is king, blah-de-blah, and when he pushed the right number, he got somebody claiming to be an accounts manager. I'm thinking that was your brother-in-law, Peter Jamieson, who was arrested early this morning in Fields, Virginia."

  Madden blinks and recoils, as if Hodges has suddenly thrust a hand at his face. Jamieson really is Madden's brother-in-law, but he hasn't been arrested. At least not to Hodges's knowledge.

  "Calling himself Fred Dawlings, Jamieson assured Mr. Cramm that you had over twelve million dollars in First of Reno in several different accounts. I'm sure he was convincing, but the Caller ID thing was the clincher. It's a fiddle accomplished with a highly illegal computer program. My assistant is good with computers, and she figured that part out. The use of that alone could get you sixteen to twenty months in a Club Fed. But there's so much more. Five years ago, you and Jamieson hacked your way into the General Accounting Office and managed to steal almost four million dollars."

  "You're insane."

  "For most people, four million split two ways would be enough. But you're not one to rest on your laurels. You're just a big old thrill-seeker, aren't you, Oliver?"

  "I'm not talking to you. You assaulted me and you're going to jail for it."

  "Give me your wallet."

  Madden stares at him, wide-eyed, genuinely shocked. As if he himself hasn't lifted the wallets and bank accounts of God knows how many people. Don't like it when the shoe's on the other foot, do you? Hodges thinks. Isn't that just tough titty.

  He holds out his hand. "Give it."

  "Fuck you."

  Hodges shows Madden his Happy Slapper. The loaded toe hangs down, a sinister teardrop. "Give it, asshole, or I'll darken your world and take it. The choice is yours."

  Madden looks into Hodges's eyes to see if he means it. Then he reaches into his suitcoat's inner pocket--slowly, reluctantly--and brings out a bulging wallet.

  "Wow," Hodges says. "Is that ostrich?"

  "As a matter of fact, it is."

  Hodges understands that Madden wants him to reach for it. He thinks of telling Madden to lay it on the console between the seats, then doesn't. Madden, it seems, is a slow learner in need of a refresher course on who's in charge here. So he reaches for the wallet, and Madden grabs his hand in a powerful, knuckle-grinding grip, and Hodges whacks the back of Madden's hand with the Slapper. The knuckle-grinding stops at once.

  "Ow! Ow! Shit!"

  Madden's got his hand to his mouth. Above it, his incredulous eyes are welling tears of pain.

  "One must not grasp what one cannot hold," Hodges says. He picks up the wallet, wondering briefly if the ostrich is an endangered species. Not that this moke would give a shit, one way or the other.

  He turns to the moke in question.

  "That was your second courtesy-tap, and two is all I ever give. This is not a police-and-suspect situation. You make another move on me and I'll beat you like a rented mule, chained to the wheel or not. Do you understand?"

  "Yes." The word comes through lips still tightened with pain.

  "You're wanted by the FBI for the GAO thing. Do you know that?"

  A long pause while Madden eyes the Slapper. Then he says yes again.

  "You're wanted in California for stealing a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, and in Arizona for stealing half a million dollars' worth of construction equipment which you then resold in Mexico. Do you also know those things?"

  "Are you wearing a wire?"

  "No."

  Madden decides to take Hodges's word for it. "Okay, yes. Although I got pennies on the dollar for those front-end loaders and bulldozers. It was a damn swindle."

  "If anyone would know a swindle when it walks up and says howdy, it would be you."

  Hodges opens the wallet. There's hardly any cash inside, maybe eighty bucks total, but Madden doesn't need cash; he's got at least two dozen credit cards in at least six different names. Hodges looks at Madden with honest curiosity. "How do you keep them all straight?"

  Madden doesn't reply.

  With that same curiosity, Hodges says: "Are you never ashamed?"

  Still looking straight ahead, Madden says: "That old bastard in El Paso is worth a hundred and fifty million dollars. He made most of it selling worthless oil leases. All right, I flew off with his plane. Left him nothing but his Cessna 172 and his Lear 35. Poor baby."

  Hodges thinks, If this guy had a moral compass, it would always point due south. Talking is no use . . . but when was it ever?

  He hunts through the wallet and finds a bill of particulars in the matter of the KingAir: two hundred thousand down, the rest held in escrow at First of Reno, to be paid after a satisfactory test flight. The paper is worthless in a practical sense--the plane was bought under a false name, with nonexistent money--but Hodges isn't always practical, and he's not too old to count coup and take scalps.

  "Did you lock it up or leave the key at the desk so they could do it after they put it in the hangar?"

  "At the desk."

  "Okay, good." Hodges regards Madden earnestly. "Here comes the important part of our little talk, Oliver, so listen closely. I was hired to find the plane and take possession of it. That's all, end of story. I'm not FBI, MPD, or even a private dick. My sources are good, though, and I know you're on the verge of making a deal to buy a controlling interest in a couple of casinos out on the lake, one on Grande Belle Coeur Island and one on P'tit Grand Coeur." He taps the briefcase with his foot. "I'm sure the paperwork is in here, as I'm sure that if you want to remain a free man, it's never going to be signed."

  "Oh now wait a minute!"

  "Shut your hole. There's a ticket in the James Mallon name at the Delta terminal. It's one-way to Los Angeles. Leaves in--" he looked at his watch--"in about ninety minutes. Which gives you just time enough to go through all the security shit. Be on that plane or you'll be in jail tonight. Do you understand?"

  "I can't--"

  "Do you understand?"

  Madden--who is also Mallon, Morton, Mason, Dillon, Callen, and God knows how many others--thinks over his options, decides he has none, and gives a sullen nod.

  "Great! I'll unlock you now, take my cuffs, and exit your vehicle. If you try making a move on me while I do either, I'll knock you into next week. Are you clear on that?"

  "Yes."

  "Your car key's on the grass. Big yellow Hertz fob, can't miss it. For now, both hands on the wheel. Ten and two, just like Dad taught you."

  Madden puts both hands on the wheel. Hodges unlocks the cuffs, slips them back in his left pocket, and exits the Navigator. Madden doesn't move.

  "You have a good day,
now," Hodges says, and shuts the door.

  7

  He gets into his Prius, drives to the end of the Zane Aviation turnaround, parks, and watches Madden grub the Navigator's key out of the grass. He waves as Madden drives past him. Madden doesn't wave back, which doesn't even come close to breaking Hodges's heart. He follows the Navigator along the airport feeder road, not quite tailgating but close. When Madden turns off toward the main terminals, Hodges flashes a so-long with his lights.

  Half a mile farther up, he pulls into the lot of Midwest Airmotive and calls Pete Huntley, his old partner. He gets a civil enough "Hey, Billy, how you doin," but nothing you'd call effusive. Since Hodges went his own way in the matter of the so-called Mercedes Killer (and barely escaped serious legal trouble as a result), his relationship with Pete has frosted over. Maybe this will thaw it out a bit. Certainly he feels no remorse about lying to the moke now heading for the Delta terminal; if ever there was a guy who deserved a heaping spoonful of his own medicine, it's Oliver Madden.

  "How would you like to bag an extremely tasty turkey, Pete?"

  "How tasty?" Still cool, but on the interested side of cool now.

  "FBI Ten Most Wanted, that tasty enough? He's currently checking in at Delta, scheduled to leave for LA on Flight One-nineteen at one forty-five PM. Going under James Mallon, but his real name is Oliver Madden. He stole a bunch of money from the Feds five years ago as Oliver Mason, and you know how Uncle Sam feels about getting his pocket picked." He adds a few of the more colorful details on Madden's resume.

  "You know he's at Delta how?"

  "Because I bought the ticket. I'm leaving the airport now. I just repo'd his plane. Which was not his plane, because he made the down payment with a rubber check. Holly will call Zane Aviation and give them all the details. She loves that part of the job."

  A long moment of silence. Then: "Aren't you ever going to retire, Billy?"

  That sort of hurts. "You could say thanks. It wouldn't kill you."

  Pete sighs. "I'll call airport security, then get on out there myself." A pause. Then: "Thank you. Kermit."

  Hodges grins. It's not much, but it might be a start in repairing what has been, if not broken, then badly sprained. "Thank Holly. She's the one who tracked him down. She's still jumpy with people she doesn't know, but when she's on the computer, she kills."

  "I'll be sure to do that."

  "And say hi to Izzy." Isabelle Jaynes has been Pete's partner since Hodges pulled the pin. She's one dynamite redhead, and plenty smart. It occurs to Hodges, almost as a shock, that soon enough she'll be working with a new partner; Pete himself will be retiring ere long.

  "I'll pass that on, too. Want to give me this guy's description for the airport security guys?"

  "He's hard to miss. Six and a half feet tall, light brown suit, probably looking a little woozy just about now."

  "You clocked him?"

  "I soothed him."

  Pete laughs. It's good to hear him do that. Hodges ends the call and heads back to the city, well on the way to being twenty thousand dollars richer, courtesy of a crusty old Texan named Dwight Cramm. He'll call and give Cramm the good news after he finds out what the Barbster wants.

  8

  Drew Halliday (Drew is what he prefers to be called now, among his small circle of friends) eats eggs Benedict at his usual corner table in Jamais Toujours. He ingests slowly, pacing himself, although he could gobble everything in four large gulps, then pick up the plate and lick the tasty yellow sauce like a dog licking its bowl. He has no close relatives, his lovelife has been in the rearview mirror for over fifteen years now, and--face it--his small circle of friends are really no more than acquaintances. The only things he cares about these days are books and food.

  Well, no.

  These days there's a third thing.

  John Rothstein's notebooks have made a reappearance in his life.

  The waiter, a young fellow in a white shirt and tight black pants, glides over. Longish dark blond hair, clean and tied back at the nape so his elegant cheekbones show. Drew has been in a little theater group for thirty years now (funny how time glides away . . . only not really), and he thinks William would make a perfectly adequate Romeo, always assuming he could act. And good waiters always can, a little.

  "Will there be anything else, Mr. Halliday?"

  Yes! he thinks. Two more of these, followed by two creme brulees and a strawberry shortcake!

  "Another cup of coffee, I think."

  William smiles, exposing teeth that have received nothing but the best of dental care. "I'll be back with it in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

  Drew pushes his plate away regretfully, leaving the last smear of yolk and hollandaise behind. He takes out his appointment book. It's a Moleskine, of course, the pocket-sized one. He pages past four months' worth of jottings--addresses, reminders to self, prices of books he's ordered or will order for various clients. Near the end, on a blank page all its own, are two names. The first is James Hawkins. He wonders if it's a coincidence or if the boy picked it deliberately. Do boys still read Robert Louis Stevenson these days? Drew tends to think this one did; after all, he claims to be a lit major, and Jim Hawkins is the hero-narrator of Treasure Island.

  The name written below James Hawkins is Peter Saubers.

  9

  Saubers--aka Hawkins--came into the shop for the first time two weeks ago, hiding behind a ridiculous adolescent moustache that hadn't had a chance to grow out much. He was wearing black hornrims like the ones Drew (then Andy) affected back in the days when Jimmy Carter was president. Teenagers did not as a rule come into the shop, and that was fine with Drew; he might still be attracted to the occasional young male--William the Waiter being a case in point--but teens tended to be careless with valuable books, handling them roughly, reshelving them upside down, even dropping them. Also, they had a regrettable tendency to shoplift.

  This one looked as if he would turn and sprint for the door if Drew so much as said boo. He was wearing a City College jacket, although the day was too warm for it. Drew, who'd read his share of Sherlock Holmes, put it together with the moustache and studious hornrims and deduced that here was a lad attempting to look older, as if he were trying to get into one of the dance clubs downtown instead of a bookshop specializing in rare volumes.

  You want me to take you for at least twenty-one, Drew thought, but if you're a day past seventeen, I'll eat my hat. You're not here to browse, either, are you? I believe you are a young man on a mission.

  Under his arm, the boy carried a large book and a manila envelope. Drew's first thought was that the kid wanted an appraisal on some moldy old thing he'd found in the attic, but as Mr. Moustache drew hesitantly closer, Drew saw a purple sticker he recognized at once on the spine of the book.

  Drew's first impulse was to say Hello, son, but he quashed it. Let the kid have his college-boy disguise. What harm?

  "Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?"

  For a moment young Mr. Moustache said nothing. The dark brown of his new facial hair was in stark contrast to the pallor of his cheeks. Drew realized he was deciding whether to stay or mutter Guess not and get the hell out. One word would probably be enough to turn him around, but Drew suffered the not unusual antiquarian disease of curiosity. So he favored the boy with his most pleasant wouldn't-hurt-a-fly smile, folded his hands, and kept silent.

  "Well . . ." the boy said at length. "Maybe."

  Drew raised his eyebrows.

  "You buy rarities as well as sell them, right? That's what your website says."

  "I do. If I feel I can sell them at a profit, that is. It's the nature of the business."

  The boy gathered his courage--Drew could almost see him doing it--and stepped all the way up to the desk, where the circular glow of an old-fashioned Anglepoise lamp spotlighted a semi-organized clutter of paperwork. Drew held out his hand. "Andrew Halliday."

  The boy shook it briefly and then withdrew, as if fearful of being grabbed. "I'm Jam
es Hawkins."

  "Pleased to meet you."

  "Uh-huh. I think . . . I have something you might be interested in. Something a collector might pay a lot for. If it was the right collector."

  "Not the book you're carrying, is it?" Drew could see the title now: Dispatches from Olympus. The subtitle wasn't on the spine, but Drew had owned a copy for many years and knew it well: Letters from 20 Great American Writers in Their Own Hand.

  "Gosh, no. Not this one." James Hawkins gave a small, nervous laugh. "This is just for comparison."

  "Very well, say on."

  For a moment "James Hawkins" seemed unsure how to do that. Then he tucked his manila envelope more firmly under his arm and began to hurry through the glossy pages of Dispatches from Olympus, passing a note from Faulkner scolding an Oxford, Mississippi, feed company about a misplaced order, a gushy letter from Eudora Welty to Ernest Hemingway, a scrawl about who knew what from Sherwood Anderson, and a grocery list Robert Penn Warren had decorated with a doodle of two dancing penguins, one of them smoking a cigarette.

  At last he found what he wanted, set the book on the desk, and turned it to face Drew. "Here," he said. "Look at this."

  Drew's heart jumped as he read the heading: John Rothstein to Flannery O'Connor. The carefully photographed note had been written on lined paper tattered down the lefthand side where it had been torn from a dimestore notebook. Rothstein's small, neat handwriting, very unlike the scrawl of so many writers, was unmistakable.

  February 19, 1953

  My dear Flannery O'Connor,

  I am in receipt of your wonderful novel, Wise Blood, which you have so kindly inscribed to me. I can say wonderful because I purchased a copy as soon as it came out, and read it immediately. I am delighted to have a signed copy, as I am sure you are delighted to have the royalty accruing from one more sold volume! I enjoyed the entire motley cast of characters, especially Hazel Motes and Enoch Emery, a zookeeper I'm sure my own Jimmy Gold would have enjoyed and befriended. You have been called a "connoisseur of grotesqueries," Miss O'Connor, yet what the critics miss--probably because they have none themselves--is your lunatic sense of humor, which takes no prisoners. I know you are physically unwell, but I hope you will persevere in your work in spite of that. It is important work! Thanking you again,