BLIND TRIAL by Brian Deer (best books to read for beginners TXT) 📗

This wasn’t good. He’d been up for the fish. “Whatever you think.”

“I’d like to.”

Who was that guy? He’d been in Washington last week, with the Japanese outfit, Sanomo. He was Dr. Mitsubishi… Dr. Murayama… What the fuck was he doing out here?

“Isn’t that, you know, what’s his name? You know the guy I mean? He’s still wearing the same tie. You remember?”

Sumiko looked away. “Yes. You’re right. Yes. That’s Dr. Murayama. This is surprising. I’d better have a word with him now.”

Ben popped his seatbelt and beat her onto the sidewalk. “Dollar Rent-A-Car?” He raised a thumb.

The Japanese stared back, with a startled, phony grin, and called through the window. “Yes, Dollar.”

Sumiko climbed out. Murayama did the same. Everybody smiled. What else?

“Why, Dr. Murayama,” she said. “What a surprise. Nice to see you again, so soon.”

He was dressed the way he’d been every day in DC: black suit, white shirt, and red tie. “Yes, I couldn’t wait. You are making me wait. I hope for an answer to my proposition. So I came.”

WEDNESDAY JULY 23

Seventeen

WEDNESDAY MORNING, the 1280 West building, West Peachtree, upper Midtown, Atlanta. Theodore Hoffman squatted in the parking garage and rubbed his dry palms with excitement.

It was 09:18, and only a handful of vehicles remained on this, the fifth of 1280’s forty floors. Three bays to his left, sat a gray Mazda 6 that hadn’t been driven for a year. In the bay beside the Mazda, a red Chevy Malibu which minutes ago squealed up the ramp. And next to the Malibu, his ’86 Crown Vic, freshly serviced after her run to DC.

None grabbed his interest. He’d eyes only for another, still shrouded in silver polypropylene. He’d not seen this vehicle in eighteen years, since he warehoused her in upstate Michigan. The Flint Trucking Company dropped her off last night while he gulped canapés at Symphony Hall. For one week only she’d grace this garage and then be cocooned at the company’s Athens labs, safe from the cruelties of time.

Hoffman rocked on his toes and considered his options for effecting a satisfying reunion. He could drag the cover slowly, letting it linger on her body, as if unveiling at an automobile show. He might tease her free lightly: unwrapping fine china. Or snatch like the tablecloth trick.

Inches from his fingers, a tie protruded from a grommet. But not yet. He’d business to attend to. Last night, Ben called and left a breathless voicemail wanting “urgent instructions what to do.” Sanomo’s Murayama had turned up in Frisco with a “proposition” for Sumiko Honda.

The general counsel rose and tapped his phone.

“This is Ben. Leave a message, or WhatsApp me at this number. Get back to you quick as I can.”

Hoffman hung up and pressed the phone to his chin. For a moment, the kid’s voice lingered. The accent was different: Ben was from Chicago, while his daddy grew up in Detroit. The son sounded eager, while the father always chilled. Henry was as laid back as the Buddha. All the same, that voice was a message in a bottle, or the light from a distant star.

Time hadn’t erased Hoffman’s last visit to the Louvieres. There was Henry, Tony Demarco, and Marty O’Toole playing draw poker on a spring Sunday evening. Little Benny, nearly three, bumped his peddle-truck round the living room in bare feet and elephant pajamas.

The kid struck the table, climbed into Hoffman’s lap, stabbed a wet finger, and read his hand.

“Dymon, haar, cub, cub, cub.”

“Jesus G. Christ. Time for bed.”

Now Hoffman tapped a website with the Frisco Hyatt’s number, and they located a bigger Benny outside the restaurant.

“The fuck’s going on? That Sanomo guy’s there?”

“That’s right, sir. Yeah. Right outside her apartment, he was. Says he’s a tourist, but Dr. Honda was seriously shifty. In fact, they both were. They were lying. He was dressed in a business suit. Fresh shirt and everything. I reckon something shady’s going down.”

“What he say?”

“Not much. Thought I was an Uber driver till he remembered me from the conference. But he did get from Dr. Honda that Doc Mayr’s in town. Didn’t say what we’re here about while we were talking, but he was definitely very interested, I’m telling you. From the way he was acting, all shuffling his feet on the street, she probably didn’t need to tell him. I reckon he knew already.”

Hoffman circled the car, pressing shapes under the cover. The polypropylene felt as smooth as baby skin. “And what you tell her? I mean the old girl. What you tell Trudy Mayr about him being there?”

“Nothing yet. Haven’t seen her since yesterday. It’s only twenty after six here.”

“Good. That’s good. Now you don’t tell her nothing. Don’t say anything about the Jap. Nothing at all.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Through the cover, he felt a trunk as tough as a tank’s. Then his fingers found a curve, sloping upward from the lid, form-fitted around the rear body panel. “Look, we’re gonna need to do some thinking here… So… you say he’s got a proposition… She says he’s a tourist… Our license is Monday… He knows the old girl’s there…”

“Uh huh.”

“What else?”

“Nothing, I guess. But you know, I got his phone number. He was talking about meeting up for lunch. I mean, I didn’t say I’d do it. Told him, ‘not sure, I’m pretty busy.’ Thought I should check that with you.”

“Lunch? The fuck. Yeah, I reckon he would be talking about lunch with one of our people right now. But you don’t do that. Least, not till I’ve thought this out.”

Hoffman bent and stroked a hidden wheel arch. Then he tugged free a bowtie at a grommet. “With that Sanomo guy there, I’m thinking maybe I better come out there myself.”

“Sure… But won’t that make it look even more as if something major’s going down if you’re here too? I mean, that’s three of us.”

“Not if they don’t know I’m there. Which they won’t. And you’re not telling them, any