Free The Lasko Tangent by Richard North Patterson Page B

subjects. “I’d like some help from you, too. Sort of a trade-off.”
    His voice was noncommittal. “We’ll see how it works out. But don’t get your ass in a wringer, playing detective. You’re not a cop.”
    The thought seemed to give him some satisfaction. He stood up. We exchanged telephone numbers and a wary handshake. Gubner did the same, belatedly. Then Sergeant Brooks led us away.
    They took our statements in a pale green room with a metal lamp hung from the ceiling. Then the crew-cut cop drove us back to the Ritz. Gubner brooded out the window. I wasn’t much better. My game with McGuire had turned into murder.
    Giving the statement had made me feel more organized. But it didn’t help with anything else. Lehman’s chances had run out.
    I figured Lasko had killed him. Nothing else made much sense. The question was how he had known to do it.
    There were a couple of possibilities. I didn’t like them at all.
    Ten
     
     
    Gubner and I got out at the Ritz and wandered aimlessly through the lobby. We passed the bar without looking in, both of us carrying the weight of unsaid things. I decided to get them out.
    “Let’s talk, Marty.”
    He gave me a resentful look, like a trapped animal. Then he nodded. “OK, my room. But not long.”
    We went to his room. I selected one of two matched blue chairs and turned on all the lights I could reach, to push away the police station. Gubner fell into his chair with a thick-bodied slump. He looked like a man who could use a drink. But this wasn’t the kind of tough day you could ease away with gin. I felt sad and helpless.
    “This is pretty worthless, Marty, but I’m sorry.”
    Condolences didn’t interest him much, especially from me. The useless words hung in the air. Gubner looked at the wall with an air of deliberate choice.
    “OK, let’s have it.” The defensive sharpness in my voice surprised me. He turned on me with tired distaste.
    “How did they know about the meeting?”
    I wondered how he was so sure of the answer. “You can turn off your spotlight. I didn’t tell anyone outside of my agency. Try Lehman or yourself.”
    “I didn’t tell anyone,” he said distinctly.
    “That leaves Lehman.” I said it with the hollow feeling that Gubner had an answer.
    “I talked to Alec once. He called from a pay phone on the Mass. Turnpike. No tap possible. Sorry.” His voice wasn’t sorry at all.
    I decided to play out the string. “What about meeting you? That could have looked strange.”
    Gubner’s eyes flashed impatience. “I had lunch with Alec about seven, eight times a year. Almost every time I came to Boston. I was an old friend. Everyone knows that. And Alec swore he hadn’t told anyone else about meeting you. Not Valerie. Not anyone.”
    I believed him. I could see Lehman cowering in a lonely phone booth before I could imagine him calling Gubner from his office. His sad afternoon apologia had the freshness of catharsis.
    “Do you know anything more than what he told us?”
    He shook his head. “Not about what he had on Lasko.”
    I got up. “I can’t help you, Marty. But I may want to talk to you later—to get your help.”
    His eyebrows raised in bitter inquiry. “Why should I?”
    “You’ll have to answer that question yourself.” I let myself out, went down to my room, flopped on the bed, and stared at the bare ceiling, trying to pull my scattered thoughts together. A slow, sick anger spread through me like nausea. Lasko, Catlow, and a friend of theirs paraded around in my stomach. The phone rang.
    It was McGuire. I looked at my watch. 7:30.
    “Chris. I was at the office late. How was your wild goose chase?” His voice sounded reedy through the bad connection.
    “Not good.”
    “Cop out on you?”
    “Not exactly. Someone ran him over.”
    Silence. “You’re kidding me.”
    The anger rose and gripped my throat. “You want pictures? He’s dead.”
    The phone conveyed reedy awe. “Jesus. What happened?”
    “He got