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  SPEAKING VOLUMES, LLC

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  2015

  Boobytrap

  Copyright © 1998 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  9781628152869

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by Bill Pronzini

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Dedication

  Tues., June 25—9:00 P.M.

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  For More Exciting Novels by Award-Winning Author Bill Pronzini

  For all the loyal readers

  who have helped keep “Nameless” and me

  in business for three decades.

  For Sharon McCone

  Who promises to keep me

  in the manner to which

  I’d like to become accustomed

  FROM THE NOTEBOOKS OF DONALD MICHAEL LATIMER

  Tues., June 25—9:00 P.M.

  I finished making the third bomb a few minutes ago.

  Except, of course, that it isn’t a bomb. It’s a “destructive device.” That’s the official legal definition in the California Penal Code. Chapter 2.5: Destructive Devices. Section 12303.3: Explosion of Destructive Device. I know that section by heart. It was drummed into my head at the trial. I read it a hundred, two hundred, three hundred times in the prison library.

  “Every person who possesses, explodes, ignites, or attempts to explode or ignite any destructive device or any explosive with intent to injure, intimidate, or terrify any person, or with intent to wrongfully injure or destroy any property, is guilty of a felony, and shall be punished by imprisonment in the state prison for a period of three, five, or seven years.”

  Point of law, Mr. Latimer.

  Ah, but that wasn’t enough for them. The destructive devices I made six years ago, the three destructive devices I’ve manufactured here and now, are more than just destructive devices. They are also Chapter 3.2: Boobytraps. Specifically, Section 12355: Boobytraps—Felony.

  “Any person who assembles, maintains, places, or causes to be placed a boobytrap device as described in subdivision (c) is guilty of a felony punishable by imprisonment in the state prison for two, three, or five years.” Subdivision (c) stating in part: “For purposes of this section, ‘boobytrap’ means any concealed or camouflaged device designed to cause great bodily injury when triggered by an action of any unsuspecting person coming across the device.”

  Point of law, Mr. Latimer.

  Guilty as charged, Mr. Latimer.

  Five years of hell in San Quentin, Mr. Latimer.

  The rage is in my blood again, pounding, searing. I have the old feeling, old terror, that it will burst my head like the bulb of an overheated thermometer. I can’t write any more now—

  Later

  Better. Calm again. Washed my face, came back and focused on the bomb, destructive device, boobytrap resting on the table. Such a simple, beautiful, deadly little object. Very soothing, especially when I imagine it in conjunction with the first device. Number one, Douglas Cotter: mission accomplished. Lying dead on his lawn with his self-righteous “You need psychiatric help, Mr. Latimer” four-eyed head blown off. Beautiful image, confirmed by this morning’s newscast. But Cotter is the least hated member of the trio, a minor collaborator in their legal conspiracy. Much more satisfaction when device number three, this little sweetie right here, pretty little surprise package number three right here, makes a pincushion of Judge Norris Turnbull.

  And then, ah then, the greatest satisfaction of all, when device number two, already built and installed, the biggest and best for the man I hate most, does its work. Oh, is that going to be a blast! And the best part of that one is, I’ll be there when it happens, maybe even see it blow and his body ripped and torn and bleeding and dead. Riskiest part of the Plan, but I can’t deny myself the pleasure. Thrill of a lifetime. The ultimate high—sky high. A fireworks display to dazzle the eye, soothe the soul, write finish to an enormous injustice.

  I’m so eager for it that I wonder if I ought to rethink my schedule, deliver number three to Judge Turnbull tonight. No, better not. The Plan is perfect, the timing is perfect, never tamper with perfection. Anticipation is half the fun. Knowing their miserable lives are in my hands, that I control their fate just as they once controlled mine. I’m the cat and Judge Turnbull is my second mouse. Toy with him one more day, let him live another twenty-four hours, and then—boom!—blow his fuzzy white head off and rip him up into little judicial pieces.

  Besides, I’m tired now, and hungry. Nothing to eat since eggs and toast this morning. I need food, rest, a good night’s sleep. I need to be fresh for the work and the pleasures to come.

  Vengeance is mine, saith Mr. Latimer.

  Boom!

  Boom! Boom!

  Then off to Indiana and

  Boom! some more.

  ONE

  KERRY SAID, “I CAN’T GO.”

  “... You’re kidding, right?”

  “I wish I was. Lord, I wish I was.”

  “Kerry, we’ve been planning this vacation for a month—”

  “I’m as disappointed as you are. More.”

  “Good old Jim Carpenter strikes again.”

  “It’s not his fault, this time.”

  “No?” I said. “Whose then?”

  “Milo Fisher’s.”

  “And who is Milo Fisher?”

  “Wealthy Houston businessman. Fisher Products. That’s where I have to be this weekend and next week—Houston. Texas in late June instead of balmy Baja. Lucky me.”

  “Lucky both of us.”

  “I’d get out of it if I could,” she said, “but I can’t. It all came up suddenly—that’s the way Fisher is, Mr. Spur of the Moment. He’s expanding into California, and Bates and Carpenter has a good shot at handling all of his company’s West Coast advertising. With the right presentation, Jim thinks we’ll land the account.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s a big account. Six figures annually.”

  “All right,” I said. “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know yet. There’ll be meetings, social f
unctions. And Fisher is arranging a tour of their factory for us. It looks like a full business week, at least.”

  “Us, you said. Carpenter going, too?”

  “Yes. Don’t be jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous.”

  “A touch, anyway, or you wouldn’t have asked if Jim’s going.”

  “Okay, a touch. I’m always jealous when you’re out of my clutches. Hot-looking number like you.”

  “I’ll be good,” she said seriously. “You know that.”

  “Sure I know it.”

  “You’re not upset about this?”

  “No. Business comes first for both of us—we settled that a long time ago.”

  “I know how much you were looking forward to our trip—”

  “We’ll go to Cabo San Lucas some other time. No big deal.”

  “You sure?”

  “No big deal. When’re you leaving?”

  “Friday morning. There’s a dinner that night and some sort of party at Fisher’s ranch on Saturday.”

  “Ranch, no less. One of those big Texas spreads?”

  “Like South Fork, only it’s near Houston.”

  “South Fork?”

  “The Ewing ranch. You know, Dallas.”

  “I’ve never been to Dallas. Who’s this Ewing?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “Listen, I have an idea. Why don’t you get away for a few days? While I’m gone.”

  “Now where would I go by myself?”

  “Well ... how about the Sierras? Fishing—you haven’t been trout fishing in a long time. And you wouldn’t have to go alone. Get Joe DeFalco to go with you. He’s a fisherman, isn’t he?”

  “A lousy one.”

  “So you can show him up. You’ve already made arrangements with Tamara to cover the agency next week and your calendar’s more or less clear anyway. Why not? Nice in the mountains this time of year.”

  “I don’t know ....”

  “No appeal at all? A few days of fishing in the Sierras?”

  “A little, maybe.”

  “More than a little. I can see it in your eyes. You need a vacation, you know you do, even if it’s only a short one. Why don’t you call Joe? See what he says?”

  “All right,” I said. “All right, I’ll call Joe and see what he says.”

  DeFalco said, “I can’t do it.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much. Short notice.”

  “It’s not that. Christ knows I can use a few days off from the rat race and normally I could swing it, but I’m jammed on this series we’re running on city politics—dissension in the mayor’s and D.A.’s offices, squabbles among the Board of Supervisors, all that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t sound so skeptical. All kinds of crap going on in this city, which you’d know about if you read the papers once in a while.”

  “My head’s stuffed with enough crap as it is,” I said. “Besides, I read one of your so-called exposés ten years ago and that’s enough yellow journalism to last me a lifetime.”

  “Ha ha,” he said. Then he said, “No kidding, I really would like to go along, but the way things are ... Hey, wait a minute. I just remembered something.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You know Pat Dixon? One of the assistant D.A.s?”

  “Talked to him a few times. Real fireball.”

  “Yeah, but a nice guy. He’d make a hell of a D.A., except he’ll never go after the job as long as Al Ybarra has it. One of Ybarra’s protégés and solidly in Al’s corner, unlike some of his disgruntled coworkers.”

  “What’s your point, Joe?”

  “The point,” DeFalco said, “is that Pat owns a cabin on Deep Mountain Lake in the Sierras. Know where that is, Deep Mountain Lake?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “Near Quincy and Buck’s Lake.”

  “Pretty country.”

  “That it is. Pat and his family go up there every summer, stay three or four weeks. They were supposed to leave this Saturday, but he’s had to delay a few days on account of a subpoena to testify in a felony trial. He was bitching about it to me just yesterday.”

  “So?”

  “So he’s got this friend, lawyer in Sacramento, owns the cabin next to his. And the friend won’t be using it at all this summer because he’s involved in a complicated tax evasion case.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Cabin’s just sitting there empty. Maybe the lawyer’d be willing to rent it out to the right party. Or even to a seedy private eye like you.”

  “For a price this seedy private eye can’t afford, no doubt.”

  “Not necessarily. How about if I call Pat, see if maybe something can be worked out?”

  “Hell, Joe, I don’t know. If I can’t find somebody else, I’d have to go all that way alone....”

  “You couldn’t stand your own company for a few days?”

  “Longer than I could stand yours, probably.”

  “Streams loaded with trout up there,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Big fat rainbows and cutthroats.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pan-fried in butter on a crisp mountain morning—”

  “Okay, okay. Shut up and call Pat Dixon.”

  Pat Dixon said, “I think I can set it up for you.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, Pat.”

  “No trouble at all. In fact, I’m pretty sure Tom Zaleski will be pleased at the prospect.”

  “How much you figure he’ll ask for a week’s rental?”

  “Don’t worry about that. When were you thinking of leaving?”

  “Well, any time after Friday noon.”

  “Saturday morning? Early?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You could do me a big favor, in that case. And in exchange I think I can make arrangements with Tom to let you stay at his place for a week free of charge.”

  “... You said free of charge?”

  “Except for utilities and your food and incidentals.”

  “Heck of a deal. What’s the favor?”

  “Take a couple of passengers along with you.”

  “Passengers?”

  “My wife and son,” Dixon said. “My vacation was supposed to start on Saturday, but I’ve got a court appearance next Monday that’s likely to carry over one or two more days.”

  “DeFalco mentioned that.”

  “So Tuesday’s the earliest I’ll be able to get away. And my son Chuck is especially eager to get to our cabin. If you’d take Marian and the boy with you, it’ll give them an extra four or five days at the lake.”

  “Your wife doesn’t drive?”

  “Not long distances or in the mountains, if she can help it. Makes her nervous. Would you mind?”

  “Not a bit. Even without the free rental.”

  “Sure?”

  “Long drives are monotonous. I’ll be glad for the company.”

  “You’ll like Marian. Smarter than I am, teaches at Dunhill Academy, and a hell of a lot better looking. She won’t talk your ear off, either. And Chuck—he’s twelve, well behaved, a good kid—”

  “I’m already sold, Pat.”

  “Sorry. I get carried away on the subject of my family.”

  “Don’t apologize. I think my wife is pretty special, too.”

  “Makes us both lucky men. All right, good. Let me talk to Tom, see what he says. Might take me a while to reach him if he’s in court today. You be in your office until close of business?”

  “I should be. If not, just leave a message with my assistant, Tamara Corbin.”

  Tamara said, “You better do it.”

  “Think so, do you?”

  “Free rent on a mountain cabin, no business hassles, nothing to do all day except murder a bunch of innocent fish.... Hey, I wish somebody’d offer me a deal like that.”

  “It’s a deal, no question. But I’d still rather be going to Baja with Kerry.”

  “Sure, I hear you. But you can do it another ti
me, right? Drive down to Baja.”

  “Fly down. Cabo San Lucas, all the way at the tip.”

  “Tourist trap, so I hear.”

  “Would you care if you were going there with Horace?”

  “Horace could take me to Milpitas and I be smiling the whole way.”

  “My point exactly,” I said. “It’s not the surroundings, it’s the company.”

  “So you be leaving first thing Saturday.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Pat Dixon hasn’t called back yet.”

  “He will. He better.”

  “Sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “Bet I am. Man ever needed a vacation, I’m looking at him.”

  “No argument. I saw the same guy in the mirror this morning.”

  “And don’t you go sweating about things here. I’ll take care of business.”

  “Just don’t take on any million-dollar industrial espionage jobs without consulting with me first.”

  “Hah. Job like that ever walked in here, we’d both pee in our pants and slip and slide on the wet spots.”

  “Do me a favor, Ms. Corbin. Try to restrain yourself from using such colorful language to clients while I’m away.”

  “Be butter, not crap, comin’ out my mouth.”

  “I’m so relieved. Can you work Friday morning? I’d like to drive Kerry to the airport.”

  “No problem. Friday afternoon, too, you want to take the whole day off.”

  “Can you afford to miss all your Friday classes?”

  “Hey, I could blow off a month’s worth and still finish the semester with a top-five-percent GPA.”

  “GPA. Grade Point Average?”

  “Right. No more A, B, C, D, and F like when you went to school.”

  “Back around the dawn of time.”

  “You didn’t go to college, right? How come?”

  “Not enough funds. Not enough smarts, either.”

  “Bull,” Tamara said. “Big old brain of yours got more stuffed into it than my Pop’s basement.”

  “If that’s a compliment—”

  “There goes the phone. Mr. Dixon calling you up to say it’s all arranged, what do you bet?”