"There are three possibilities," I said. "Communist agents, old enemies of Abruze, or someone who didn't like his putting a damper on the Asian drug deal."
Hawk spilled cigar ashes on his trousers and brushed them away. "Four possibilities. Remember my mentioning Abruze's $200,000 a year pension? He had the first year's payment here in the house. It disappeared along with the killers."
"Ripping off one of the Mafia's most feared capos? It would take a crazy man to come up with an idea like that."
Hawk stood up abruptly. "Look at those bullet holes. Do you think the man responsible for this was sane?"
He had a point.
I followed Hawk outside. "I've seen the house and heard the story, but you didn't rush me down here just for this. What's the rest of it?"
"There was another person in the cottage, one who escaped the slaughter. We've finally found her."
The girl looked like a million pre-inflation dollars. She was a blonde, young, and long-limbed. Although she wore a coat with the collar turned up, I caught a glimpse of her face as she came out of a restaurant and onto the street. She had high, prominent cheekbones and wide, dark eyes — a fragile set of features unmarked by the cynicism and toughness I had expected.
"Freeze it right there," Hawk said to the man operating the projector. We sat in the shadowy projection room of one of AXE's main bases studying the motionless image on the screen. "Her name is Sheila Brant, but she isn't calling herself that anymore," Hawk said. "We had a hell of a time finding her."
I was having trouble believing what Hawk had told me about Sheila Brant. It didn't go with the fineboned face and the soft eyes.
"You sure she was Frank Abruze's mistress?"
"No doubt about it. But we know very little about what she was before Abruze picked her up in Vegas."
I let out a disappointed sigh. I guess there's no law that says a beautiful girl of twenty-two can't find happiness in the bed of an aging Mafia hood. "The old Hon had taste."
"Much like yours, as a matter of fact," said Hawk, his voice grown sardonic. Then he continued, "When we learned that Sheila had been staying at the Florida cottage with Abruze and was not among the dead, we started looking for her. She had hidden her tracks well."
"Who is she running from? AXE, the law, the Mafia?"
"Possibly all three. And possibly someone else besides. You'll be happy to know that I'm going to arrange for you to ask Sheila that question."
I was looking forward to it. I glanced down at the luminous dial of my watch. Although I knew the briefing was necessary, I was beginning to feel the sharp edge of impatience. I was eager to get on the road and on the trail of David Kirby's killers. That trail was already much too cold to suit me.
"This film was made in a small town in Idaho called Bonham. Sheila Brant has been living there for the past two months. You'll have a cover story to explain your sudden appearance. We don't want to frighten the girl into flight again," Hawk told me. "But after you arrive, you'll have to wing it."
"Let's see the rest of the film," I suggested.
The projector started up again. We watched Sheila Brant, one hand in the pocket of her coat, walk to a parked car. Her movements had a fluid grace. As she opened the door of the car, her head jerked around as if she's heard a sound that set her nerves to jangling. When she realized that the sound was harmless relief touched her face.
She got into the car and drove away, the camera followed her until she turned a corner.
"Our man shot the film from a hotel window across the street from the restaurant. The girl works there as a waitress," Hawk said. This was eight days ago. Our man didn't try to make contact. That's your job. To establish contact with Sheila and if necessary a relationship. We need to know what she knows. All of it."
The projector clicked off and lights burst on, filling the room with brightness.
"Well, did the film tell you anything?" Hawk asked me.
"You were right. She is frightened. She was carrying a weapon in the right hand pocket of her coat. Also, she has good legs."
"I thought you'd notice all of that," said Hawk dryly. "Make sure you keep your eye on her right hand as well as her legs."
He handed me the folder he'd been holding in his lap. It contained AXE's file on Sheila and a summary of my cover story. I had the rest of the day to commit them to memory, to get my phony identification prepared, and to familiarize myself with the special equipment I'd be taking with me to Idaho.
I left the Sheila Brant file in the living quarters to which I had been assigned, then picked up my phony identification. The Ned Harper pictured on the driver's license looked exactly like Nick Carter. He had a hard face, but I rather liked it. Along with the identification, I got a suitcase packed with personal belongings appropriate to the part I would be playing in Idaho. The clothing looked neither new nor tailored, but it fit me perfectly.
I spent an hour in the arms room. I checked out a case that contained, among other deadly items, a high-powered rifle with a long range sight. Together with my personal arms the case gave me as much firepower as some police departments.
Another of my stops was the base's electronics department. Acting on orders from Hawk, our experts had packed a kit for me. It looked like a shaving kit but it contained sensitive bugging devices, a camera, and a tiny tape recorder. I doubted that I would need any of this equipment, but Hawk wasn't overlooking anything.
I had one more visit to make — to the shed where mechanics had been working on the car I'd be driving when I became a man named Ned Harper. One of the mechanics was a sturdy little man in his forties who said he'd heard a lot about Nick Carter and had been wanting to meet me. I decided not to tell him that half of what he'd heard probably wasn't true.
"Our orders were to give you a car that looked like it came off a cheap second-hand lot, but one that would really scat," he said with a grin. "That's what we've done. This baby isn't pretty, but I think you'll fall in love with her. She responds like a French whore."
We walked to the other side of the shed. The mechanic pointed toward a short stretch of obstacle-littered road. "That's where we try her out. A test driver is about to put her through her paces."
A three-year-old Ford, the paint flecked in spots and one of the fenders dented, sat purring at the end of the obstacle course. The driver, wearing a crash helmet, waved a hand to us, then abruptly slammed down the accelerator. The car took off like a scalded cat.
"I promise you can get 120 per hour out of her in a pinch," the little mechanic said proudly. "We've got her tuned like a concert violin."
The car was bearing down on the obstacles. I thought it would hit the first one, but the driver cut the wheel at the last minute. He zigzagged the car along the course, tires screeching. At the end of the course, he slammed the brakes and skidded the car into a deliberate spin, whipping it around with a Hollywood stuntmans flair before he straightened out and drove back to us.
"That man should be driving at Indianapolis," I said.
The mechanic's grin widened. "Do you like surprises, Carter?"
I saw what he meant when the driver got out of the car, removed the crash helmet, and shook out a mane of bright red hair. Even with her body concealed by shapeless coveralls, there was no doubt that the test driver was entirely female. Built on a large frame, the redhead was my height and would have made almost two of the little mechanic. In fact, she could probably have packed him on a five-mile hike without breathing hard.
Her cheeks flushed, she walked over to us, the helmet swinging in her hand.