Bad Guys by Linwood Barclay Page B

new car and a daughter in college, it was the Magnusons of the world who could really put the screws to you.
     
11
     
    I’D PICKED A BAD TIME to leave the office. It was rush hour, and it took me the better part of half an hour to get uptown to our place on Crandall.
    As I was approaching our house from the south, I saw a blue Jag coming from the north. I scooted into our driveway, pulling far enough ahead to allow Lawrence to pull in behind me.
    “Nice timing,” I said, walking up to his car as he got out.
    “I wants ma money,” he said. He was leaving the car running, which I took as a signal that he didn’t have a lot of time to chat.
    “Hang on,” I said, running up the porch steps to the front door. I noticed, sitting in one of the wicker chairs we keep on the porch, a backpack I didn’t recognize. I unlocked the door, ran upstairs to my study, where I keep the checks for our line-of-credit account, and went back outside.
    “How’s the car?” Lawrence asked as I used the hood of his Jag to write him out a check for $8,900.
    “So far so good,” I said.
    Lawrence was casting his eye across the house and garage. “Nice place. You’ve only been here a year or so, right?”
    “That’s right. We lived on this street once before, then flirted with a house in the suburbs for a couple of years, then moved back.We used to live up there.” I pointed up the street.
    As I handed him the check I noticed his eyes narrowing, focusing on something at the far end of the driveway.
    “You got a visitor,” he said.
    “What?” I said, whirling around.
    “Someone’s hiding out behind your garage. I just saw somebody sneak in there.”
    “Seriously?”
    He nodded. We both began walking the length of the drive, past the Virtue, toward the single-door garage. Lawrence pointed for me to go down the right side of the garage while he went down the left. There were only a couple of feet between the back of the garage and a six-foot fence, so there wasn’t going to be anyplace for our mysterious stranger to go.
    Lawrence and I came around the end of the garage at the same time, and our eyes landed on a man—a young man, probably in his late teens, early twenties—about five-ten, slim, short-cropped dirty-blond hair, black lace-up boots, black jeans, long black jacket, dark sunglasses.
    He should have felt embarrassed, trapped and cornered as he was, but he stood there confidently, almost defiantly.
    “Can I help you?” he asked.
    I recognized the voice. “You must be Trevor,” I said.
    A slight nod of the head. “You must be Mr. Walker,” he said. He stepped forward, and as he did so, I noticed he tried to shove something between some tall weeds. He extended a hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
    I couldn’t think of anything to do but shake, so I did.
    “What’s that you stepped over?” I asked.
    “Hmm?” said Trevor.
    “Down there,” I pointed, just behind his feet. Trevor moved forward a bit, and we could all now see a six-pack of beer. Budweiser, in cans.
    “Someone’s stashed some beer back here,” Trevor said.
    “But not you.”
    “No, not me.”
    “Then if you’re not leaving beer behind my garage, what are you doing, Trevor?” I asked.
    He said, as if the answer were obvious and my question bordering on stupid, “Trying to find my dog.”
    “Really. You thought he might be trapped in here, between the garage and the fence?”
    He reached up, slowly took of his sunglasses, and looked at me with eyes like cold blue steel. “Yes.”
    “I don’t see any dog, Trevor.”
    “That’s because I haven’t found him yet.”
    Lawrence finally spoke. “Where do you live, Trevor?” He wasn’t just making conversation. This was his cop voice.
    Trevor slowly and warily turned his attention on Lawrence. “Around. I’ve got a room over on Ainslie, a block over. My dog wanders over here a lot when he gets loose. But I have this way of tracking him.”
    Lawrence again: “How might that be,