The Partner (Page 45)

"Now that you’ve caught him, were your photos close?"

"Fairly close. The chin and the nose threw us off a bit."

"Please continue."

"We hurried to Brazil, and found three of the best private investigative firms in the country. One in Rio, one in Sao Paulo, and one in Recife, in the northeast. We were paying top dollar, so we hired the very best. We put them together as a team, and gathered them in Sao Paulo for a week. We listened to them. They developed the story that Patrick should be an American fugitive wanted for the kidnap and murder of the daughter of a wealthy family, a family now offering a reward for information about his whereabouts. The murder of a child was, of course, designed to arouse more sympathy than stealing money from a bunch of lawyers.

"We went straight to the language schools, flashing pictures of Lanigan and offering cash. The reputable schools slammed their doors. Others looked at the pictures but couldn’t help. By this time, we had a lot of respect for Lanigan, and we didn’t think he’d run the risk of studying in a place where questions were asked and records were kept. So we targeted the private tutors, of which there are only about a million in Brazil. It was tedious work."

"Did you offer cash up front?"

"We did what our Brazilian agents wanted to do, which was to show the pictures, tell the story of the murdered child, then wait for a reaction. If there was a nibble, then we’d gently drop the hint about some reward money."

"Any nibbles?"

"A few, here and there. But we never paid any money, at least not to language tutors."

"To others?"

Stephano nodded as he glanced at a sheet of paper. "In April of ’94, we found a plastic surgeon in Rio who showed some interest in Lanigan’s pictures. He toyed with us for a month, and finally convinced us he had worked on Lanigan. He had some photos of his own, before and after shots. He played us perfectly, and we eventually agreed to pay him a quarter of a million dollars, cash, offshore, for his entire file."

"What was in the file?"

"Just the basics. Clear frontal photos of our man before and after the surgery. It was really odd because Lanigan had insisted on no photos. He wanted no trail whatsoever, just hard cash for the alterations. Wouldn’t give his real name, said he was a businessman from Canada who suddenly wanted to look younger. The surgeon heard this all the time, and he knew the guy was on the run. He kept a hidden camera in his office, thus the photos."

"Could we see them?"

"Certainly." The lawyer was aroused for the moment and slid a manila envelope down the table to

Underbill, who opened it and only glanced at the photos.

"How did you find the doctor?"

"At the same time we were checking language schools and tutors, we were also pursuing other professions. Forgers, plastic surgeons, importers."

"Importers?"

"Yeah, there’s a Portuguese word for these guys, but ‘importers’ is a very rough translation. They’re a shady group of specialists who can get you into Brazil and then get you lost-new names, new papers, the best places to live and hide. We found them to be impenetrable. We had pretty much the same bad luck with the forgers. They can’t afford to talk about their clients. It’s very bad for business."

"But the doctors were different?"

"Not really. They don’t talk. But we hired a plastic surgeon as a consultant, and he gave us the names of some of his sleazier brethren who worked on the nameless. That’s how we found the doctor in Rio."

"This was over two years after Lanigan disappeared."

"That’s correct."

"Was this the first evidence that he was actually in the country?"

"The very first, yes."

"What did you do for the first two years?"

"Spent a lot of money. Knocked on a lot of doors. Chased a lot of worthless leads. As I said, it’s a big country."

"How many men were working for you in Brazil?"

"At one point, I was paying sixty agents. Thankfully, they’re not as expensive as Americans."

IF THE JUDGE wanted a pizza, then the Judge got a pizza. It was fetched from Hugo’s, an old family bistro on Division Street, near the Point and far away from the fast-food places lining the beach. It was delivered by a deputy to Room 312. Patrick smelled it as it left the elevator. He stared at it when Karl opened the box at the foot of his bed. He closed his eyes and sucked in the heavenly aroma of black olives, portobello mushrooms, Italian sausage, green peppers, and six different cheeses. He had eaten a thousand pizzas from Hugo’s, especially during the last two years of his old life, and he had been dreaming of this one for a week now. Home did have certain advantages.

"You look like death warmed over. Eat up," Karl said.

Patrick devoured his first slice of pizza without a word, then went for a second.

"How did you get so skinny?" Karl asked, chomping away.

"Can we get some beer?" Patrick asked.

"No. Sorry. You’re in jail, remember."

"Losing weight is between the ears. Make up your mind, it’s easy. I suddenly had plenty of motivation to starve myself."

"How fat did you get?"

"The Friday before I disappeared, I weighed two hundred thirty-six pounds. I dropped forty-seven pounds the first six weeks. This morning I weighed one-sixty."

"You look like a refugee. Eat."

"Thanks."

"You were at the cabin."

Patrick wiped his chin with a paper napkin and placed his slice back in the box. He sipped from his Diet Coke. "Yeah, I was at the cabin. It was around eleven-thirty. I entered through the front door, and didn’t turn on any lights. There’s another cabin a half a mile away, up on a ridge and visible from mine. It’s owned by some people from Hattiesburg, and while I didn’t think they were there that weekend, I had to be careful. I covered the small bathroom window with a dark towel, turned on the light, and quickly shaved. Then I cut my hair. Then I dyed it, a dark brown, almost black."

"Sorry I missed that."

"It was quite becoming. It was odd. I even felt like a different person as I stared at the mirror. Then I cleaned up my mess, wiped up all the hair and whiskers because I knew they would go through the place with a fine-tooth comb, and I packed away the dye box and tubes. I changed into heavy clothing. I made a pot of strong coffee and drank half of it. The other half went in a thermos for my journey. At 1 A.M., I left the cabin in a hurry. I didn’t expect the cops to show up that night, but there was always the chance. I knew it would take time to identify the Blazer and call Trudy, and someone might suggest that they go to the cabin for some reason. I didn’t expect this to happen, but by 1 A.M. I was anxious to leave."

"Did you have any concern for Trudy?"

"Not particularly. I knew she would handle the shock well, and that she would do a marvelous job of getting me buried. She’d be a model widow for about a month, and then she would get the life insurance money. It would be her finest hour. Lots of attention, lots of money. No, Karl, I had no love for the woman. Nor any concern."

"Did you ever go back to the cabin?"

"No."

Karl could not, would not, hold the next question. "Pepper’s shotgun and camping gear were found under one of the beds. How’d they get there?"

Patrick glanced up for a second as if surprised, then he looked away. Karl absorbed this reaction, because he would think about it many times over the next few days. A jolt, then a glance, and then unable to answer truthfully, a diversion to the wall.