theory holds water.”
I turned to Zola. “Does it?”
“Only if the hit man’s preposterously incompetent. T.J. claims he’s made four different attempts by four different means.”
Unorthodox as well as incompetent. “So what’s happening here?”
He shrugged.
“
Is
somebody trying to kill him?”
Lattimer said, “This may sound strange, but I’d like to believe someone is. If not, T.J.’s becoming a head case, and we’re
all going to be in trouble.”
“Paranoid?”
“Uh-huh. He’s exhibiting some classic signs.”
“So which is it—hit man or head case?”
Again they exchanged glances.
Zola said, “I vote for head case.”
Lattimer nodded.
* * *
“It happened right here,” Suits said. “You can see where the bullet hit the pillar.”
We were standing next to his vintage silver Corvette in the lower-level parking area of his building. On the copter ride back
across the Bay he’d told me of two additional attempts on his life: a hand pushing him into traffic while he stood on a crowded
street corner in the financial district—shades of an old Hitchcock film, I’d thought—and a shot being fired at him as he parked
in his assigned space late one night the week before last. I took a close look at the nick that he indicated on the support
pillar. Yes, it could have been made by a bullet. But given its height, it could just as well have been made by a car.
I wondered if Suits had watched many of the dozens of TV movies depicting shootings in parking garages.
“How come the security guard didn’t respond?” I asked.
“He wasn’t around when I drove in. And it was only a pop—the shooter probably used a silencer.”
TV movie, all right.
“You called the police?”
He nodded.
“They find the bullet?”
“… No.”
“What action’re they taking?”
“They’re investigating.” The set of his mouth was turning sullen.
“If you have the name of the officer in charge of the case, I’ll check on its status.”
“I’ve got his card someplace upstairs.” Suits moved toward the nearby elevator, but I stopped him.
“You’ve used the term ‘hit man’ to Russ Zola and Carole Lattimer. Do you think there’s a contract out on you?”
He looked down at the concrete floor, scuffed at something with the toe of his sneaker.
“If you do,” I went on, “let me reassure you. A pro wouldn’t have bungled it. He’d have come to town, made a quick hit, and
been long gone. And in the unlikely event that he failed on his first attempt, he wouldn’t have used a different method the
next time. That’s not the way the pros operate.”
Suits mumbled something to the floor.
“What?”
“I said, I know how the pros operate. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that whoever’s trying to kill me has a personal reason,
may even be somebody close to me.”
I ran my thumb over the nick on the pillar, trying to tactfully phrase what I needed to ask next. “Suits, you’ve been working
pretty hard this past year. Russ Zola says he’s seen no evidence you’ve ever slept—and he was only half joking. You’re not
using cocaine or—”
“You don’t believe me.” He didn’t sound angry, merely defeated.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Suits …”
He turned his back to me, began walking toward the elevator. “I am not using coke or anything else,” he said wearily. “Drugs
are a roller-coaster ride that’s not worth the price of the ticket. I am not imagining these attempts on my life; I don’t
have much imagination, except as it pertains to my work. I am not paranoid; paranoid people are not self-aware, and I am—painfully
so.” He lifted his hand toward the elevator call button, then let his arm drop to his side.
When he faced me, his lips were twisted in a lopsided, self-mocking smile. “You think I don’t know who and what I am? Try
this, then: Remember that bullshit I handed you this morning about how I
I turned to Zola. “Does it?”
“Only if the hit man’s preposterously incompetent. T.J. claims he’s made four different attempts by four different means.”
Unorthodox as well as incompetent. “So what’s happening here?”
He shrugged.
“
Is
somebody trying to kill him?”
Lattimer said, “This may sound strange, but I’d like to believe someone is. If not, T.J.’s becoming a head case, and we’re
all going to be in trouble.”
“Paranoid?”
“Uh-huh. He’s exhibiting some classic signs.”
“So which is it—hit man or head case?”
Again they exchanged glances.
Zola said, “I vote for head case.”
Lattimer nodded.
* * *
“It happened right here,” Suits said. “You can see where the bullet hit the pillar.”
We were standing next to his vintage silver Corvette in the lower-level parking area of his building. On the copter ride back
across the Bay he’d told me of two additional attempts on his life: a hand pushing him into traffic while he stood on a crowded
street corner in the financial district—shades of an old Hitchcock film, I’d thought—and a shot being fired at him as he parked
in his assigned space late one night the week before last. I took a close look at the nick that he indicated on the support
pillar. Yes, it could have been made by a bullet. But given its height, it could just as well have been made by a car.
I wondered if Suits had watched many of the dozens of TV movies depicting shootings in parking garages.
“How come the security guard didn’t respond?” I asked.
“He wasn’t around when I drove in. And it was only a pop—the shooter probably used a silencer.”
TV movie, all right.
“You called the police?”
He nodded.
“They find the bullet?”
“… No.”
“What action’re they taking?”
“They’re investigating.” The set of his mouth was turning sullen.
“If you have the name of the officer in charge of the case, I’ll check on its status.”
“I’ve got his card someplace upstairs.” Suits moved toward the nearby elevator, but I stopped him.
“You’ve used the term ‘hit man’ to Russ Zola and Carole Lattimer. Do you think there’s a contract out on you?”
He looked down at the concrete floor, scuffed at something with the toe of his sneaker.
“If you do,” I went on, “let me reassure you. A pro wouldn’t have bungled it. He’d have come to town, made a quick hit, and
been long gone. And in the unlikely event that he failed on his first attempt, he wouldn’t have used a different method the
next time. That’s not the way the pros operate.”
Suits mumbled something to the floor.
“What?”
“I said, I know how the pros operate. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that whoever’s trying to kill me has a personal reason,
may even be somebody close to me.”
I ran my thumb over the nick on the pillar, trying to tactfully phrase what I needed to ask next. “Suits, you’ve been working
pretty hard this past year. Russ Zola says he’s seen no evidence you’ve ever slept—and he was only half joking. You’re not
using cocaine or—”
“You don’t believe me.” He didn’t sound angry, merely defeated.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Suits …”
He turned his back to me, began walking toward the elevator. “I am not using coke or anything else,” he said wearily. “Drugs
are a roller-coaster ride that’s not worth the price of the ticket. I am not imagining these attempts on my life; I don’t
have much imagination, except as it pertains to my work. I am not paranoid; paranoid people are not self-aware, and I am—painfully
so.” He lifted his hand toward the elevator call button, then let his arm drop to his side.
When he faced me, his lips were twisted in a lopsided, self-mocking smile. “You think I don’t know who and what I am? Try
this, then: Remember that bullshit I handed you this morning about how I
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