I’d like to know what you were really doing during those four lost years.”
“Recuperating.”
“Where? In the Witness Relocation Program? You know more arcane facts about obscure organized-crime individuals than—”
Dain came to his feet in a single swift movement. “Maxton, huh? Let’s step on his tail, see if he squeals.”
Sherman felt the familiar delicious thrill of excitement.
“If Maxton’s really connected, is that wise?”
“Is living wise?” Dain countered as he stalked out with his
Tibetan Book of the Dead
under one arm.
* * *
Two days later, 7:30 A.M. , Dain was at the World Gym in Kentfield near the College of Marin, doing a circuit workout that built cardiovascular capacity
while strengthening the five major muscle groups. The few dedicated bodybuilders in the basement free weight room at that
hour were too busy with their own workouts to pay any attention to Dain, as he in turn ignored the morning-long shadow that
climbed across him.
“Dain? Edgar Dain?”
Dain was doing barbell curls with two hundred pounds, grunting with the effort. He finished, pouring sweat, the planes of
his chest shifting under his black sweatshirt with each heaving breath.
He said rudely, “Outside in an hour.”
When Dain emerged, the man was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the gym, legs slightly apart and heavy features set in
an angry scowl. He was a fleshy well-conditioned late- forties, five-nine, 190, with mean blue eyes and a stubborn jaw. Raymond
Burr during his early career as movie villain, with something of Burr’s indefinable dynamism that held the eye. Dain figured
he would make a lot of a certain kind of woman go weak in the knees.
“Theodore Maxton,” Dain nodded without offering a hand. “You’d make a good politician. Plenty of physical presence.”
“How the hell did you know who I—”
“I spotted your hired flunky following me around, followed him last night to the St. Francis. You’re in suite nine-oh-one.”
His car was parked in the lot of Taqueria de Marin, which didn’t open until eleven. Maxton had to trot or be left behind.
Dain pressed WALK for the three-way light at College Ave.
Maxton said almost reasonably, “Don’t be so damn difficult, Dain. Everybody likes money. I want you to find JamesZimmer for me—until a week ago he was a law clerk in my legal firm.”
The light changed. They crossed. Dain said, “How much did he steal, how, and from whom?”
“Who said anything about stealing? I just want him found.”
“How much did he steal, how, and from whom?”
Maxton snarled, “A client, Adelle Lorimer has—had—five million dollars’ worth of her late husband’s undeclared bearer bonds
in her safe-deposit box. Mrs. Lorimer is on an extended tour of Europe, our firm has power of attorney, Zimmer was her attorney
of record so he had access to the box. He extracted two million worth of the bonds, substituted forgeries, and disappeared.
Since the money is undeclared, Mrs. Lorimer does not want publicity that would bring IRS scrutiny.”
Dain paused beside the ‘84 Toyota Corolla in which he had driven Marie and Albie to Point Reyes five years before.
“Why was a law clerk her attorney of record, and why did he think he could get away with the theft?”
“Mrs. Lorimer knew his parents. As for the theft, in the normal course of events, the bonds probably would have remained untouched
in the box until Mrs. Lorimer’s death.”
Dain unlocked the car door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said as he slid into the car. “Or I won’t.”
“Hey, wait a goddamned…”
He stood in the deserted parking lot, glaring after Dain’s car and muttering curses under his breath. But Dain, driving away,
already was considering which data bases would give him best access to T. J. L. Maxton’s affairs. About the fugitive Zimmer
he thought not at all, except to wonder if Max-ton’s definition of drastic might include hiring a hitman
“Recuperating.”
“Where? In the Witness Relocation Program? You know more arcane facts about obscure organized-crime individuals than—”
Dain came to his feet in a single swift movement. “Maxton, huh? Let’s step on his tail, see if he squeals.”
Sherman felt the familiar delicious thrill of excitement.
“If Maxton’s really connected, is that wise?”
“Is living wise?” Dain countered as he stalked out with his
Tibetan Book of the Dead
under one arm.
* * *
Two days later, 7:30 A.M. , Dain was at the World Gym in Kentfield near the College of Marin, doing a circuit workout that built cardiovascular capacity
while strengthening the five major muscle groups. The few dedicated bodybuilders in the basement free weight room at that
hour were too busy with their own workouts to pay any attention to Dain, as he in turn ignored the morning-long shadow that
climbed across him.
“Dain? Edgar Dain?”
Dain was doing barbell curls with two hundred pounds, grunting with the effort. He finished, pouring sweat, the planes of
his chest shifting under his black sweatshirt with each heaving breath.
He said rudely, “Outside in an hour.”
When Dain emerged, the man was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the gym, legs slightly apart and heavy features set in
an angry scowl. He was a fleshy well-conditioned late- forties, five-nine, 190, with mean blue eyes and a stubborn jaw. Raymond
Burr during his early career as movie villain, with something of Burr’s indefinable dynamism that held the eye. Dain figured
he would make a lot of a certain kind of woman go weak in the knees.
“Theodore Maxton,” Dain nodded without offering a hand. “You’d make a good politician. Plenty of physical presence.”
“How the hell did you know who I—”
“I spotted your hired flunky following me around, followed him last night to the St. Francis. You’re in suite nine-oh-one.”
His car was parked in the lot of Taqueria de Marin, which didn’t open until eleven. Maxton had to trot or be left behind.
Dain pressed WALK for the three-way light at College Ave.
Maxton said almost reasonably, “Don’t be so damn difficult, Dain. Everybody likes money. I want you to find JamesZimmer for me—until a week ago he was a law clerk in my legal firm.”
The light changed. They crossed. Dain said, “How much did he steal, how, and from whom?”
“Who said anything about stealing? I just want him found.”
“How much did he steal, how, and from whom?”
Maxton snarled, “A client, Adelle Lorimer has—had—five million dollars’ worth of her late husband’s undeclared bearer bonds
in her safe-deposit box. Mrs. Lorimer is on an extended tour of Europe, our firm has power of attorney, Zimmer was her attorney
of record so he had access to the box. He extracted two million worth of the bonds, substituted forgeries, and disappeared.
Since the money is undeclared, Mrs. Lorimer does not want publicity that would bring IRS scrutiny.”
Dain paused beside the ‘84 Toyota Corolla in which he had driven Marie and Albie to Point Reyes five years before.
“Why was a law clerk her attorney of record, and why did he think he could get away with the theft?”
“Mrs. Lorimer knew his parents. As for the theft, in the normal course of events, the bonds probably would have remained untouched
in the box until Mrs. Lorimer’s death.”
Dain unlocked the car door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said as he slid into the car. “Or I won’t.”
“Hey, wait a goddamned…”
He stood in the deserted parking lot, glaring after Dain’s car and muttering curses under his breath. But Dain, driving away,
already was considering which data bases would give him best access to T. J. L. Maxton’s affairs. About the fugitive Zimmer
he thought not at all, except to wonder if Max-ton’s definition of drastic might include hiring a hitman
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