The Butcher's Boy by Perry Thomas & Connelly Michael

Author:Perry, Thomas & Connelly, Michael [Perry, Thomas & Connelly, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, thriller, Crime, Suspense, Adventure
ISBN: 9781588362964
Amazon: 1588362965
Goodreads: 10847117
Publisher: Random House
Published: 1982-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

18She stood in front of John Brayer’s desk with the computer copy in her hand. “Fieldston Growth Enterprises,” Elizabeth said. When Brayer didn’t react, she set the sheet in front of him and touched her finger to the line. He could hear her pointed nail tapping the glass top of the desk. “Fieldston Growth Enterprises is the name of the building where this lawyer Orloff was murdered. It’s also the name of the company that turned up in the investigation of the Veasy murder in California.”

“Oh, yeah. You didn’t get anything much on that one, did you? Too bad we had to pull you out so fast. You’re keeping up with what the locals are doing, aren’t you?”

“John,” said Elizabeth, letting just a hint of the exasperation she felt seep into her voice, “this company has turned up at least twice now in murders that might be professional within a week. It’s a match as it is, and I think there’s a third.” She waited until she knew he had to speak.

“All right,” said Brayer. “It’s slim, but I’m willing to pursue it, to a point. The third, if I remember, was that the initials turned up in something of Senator Claremont’s, right?”

“You know it is,” she said.

“What’s the name of the staff counsel on Claremont’s tax committee again?” He matched her impatience with a fair imitation of sluggish complacence, but she saw that he already had the telephone receiver in his hand.

“Justin Garfield,” she said in a sweet alert voice he would probably have believed in another conversation.

“You might as well go wait for me at your desk,” said Brayer. “If this guy says FGE is Fieldston Growth Enterprises, I’ll want a report I can use to get a subpoena for their records before you get on the plane.” He started to dial the telephone.

“What plane?”

“To wherever this company is—oh, yeah,” he said, staring at the computer copy she’d laid on his desk. “Las Vegas.”

HE KNEW WHAT HE HAD to do without stopping to think about it. When he drove past the Frontier he spotted two watchers without even turning his head. One was in a Mark VI parked in perfect position to block the front exit of the parking lot if he slipped the hand brake and let it roll forward five yards. The other was just inside the lighted front lobby, waiting for a taxi within a few feet of a half dozen of them. He drove eastward toward the other end of the city.

There was no simple way to do it without making a lot of noise. He wouldn’t have the kind of time it took to be clever, and there were sure to be a lot of people around who were ready to avert just this kind of thing. Castiglione was old, but he was old the way a retired president was old, living behind a high fence in a house that was built like a fort and cost somebody plenty. If you had a

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