by JJ Gould
People asked about his backstory. “You special forces?”
LaFave would bark a flat laugh. “Not a chance, and if I were you, I’d leave it at that.”
The capper came when a paunchy guy with a fake tan, a face-lift, and a thousand-dollar suit sat next to him at the Black Watch, a bar LaFave liked because it was dimly lit and had a guy that played pretty decent piano.
“Mr. LaFave?” The voice tried to be confident, but the mannerisms were nervous—tongue flicking at his lips, fingers fiddling with two rings or swirling the cubes around his drink.
LaFave eyed the rocks in each ring, trying to guess what his fee for Fido should be. He shrugged. “Yeah,” he said as if he might as well admit it.
“You, uh, help people out, I hear. People with problems.”
LaFave had seen this movie, too, and knew his line. “Depends on the problem. Depends on the fee.”
“The fee is substantial.” The guy darted his eyes around the room. LaFave watched him through the mirror behind the bar, waiting for him to get to the point. He was no expert, but it looked like the guy had had some work done, a face-lift probably.
LaFave had seen De Niro do a look in a movie that he liked, so he tried it out. Half-lidded, flat and cold, he paused, staring at Mr. Nervous. Then he picked up his tumbler and took a sip, the service ring on his pinky evident. “You got a problem I need to solve?” he said gently, the words wrapped in velvet.
Nervous and trying desperately not to be, the guy tried matching LaFave’s manner, taking a small sip of his drink, keeping his voice equally soft. “It’s my wife.”
LaFave felt his heart leap in his chest. At last! The big time.
Chapter 36 - Matt Bradley
Matt Bradley knocked on Stan Martin’s office door. The office still smelled like latex paint and drywall, like the rest of the radio station. Stan was sitting behind his desk, a big, battered relic from a place in town that sold used office equipment.
Stan’s wife—an impossibly beautiful woman who intimidated the hell out of Matt—and a huge Indian dude who scared him even more had shown up one day with a load of office furniture, file cabinets, and even an old discarded phone system scavenged from the police department. With the help of the two cowboys, Cal and Wes, they’d distributed the works throughout the building, jocks laying dibs on what they wanted, shoving the mismatched styles of three decades of office decor against new tan walls. The overall impression was well worn, no-nonsense, and utilitarian.
Stan was wearing his daily uniform, a white button-down oxford shirt and rumpled khakis. A black knit tie hung like a noose on a hook in the wall, a sign that Stan was going to be at the station awhile.
“What?” Stan looked up, focused and alert.
Matt leaned into the doorframe and adjusted his glasses. “I’ve got an idea.”
Stan looked at him, waiting.
“For a story.”
Stan raised his eyebrows.
Matt sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “I’ve been doing a little research. About the hospital.”
Stan adjusted the phone on his mostly empty desk, still waiting. Matt had learned that one of the tricks of interviewing was silence—it made people uncomfortable, got them talking more. Stan had the same habit with his employees.
Matt sighed again. He stood taller, tucked a shirttail in, adjusted his pants and glasses again, and leaned back into the doorframe. Focusing on a point on the wall behind Stan, he recited his findings.
“The medical industry is one of the largest in this country, a hundred and ninety billion dollars and growing at an annual rate of ten percent a year, making it possibly the fastest growing as well. It is also the third most common reason for death. About fifty-eight thousand malpractice lawsuits ended in payouts in the country last year on some pretty shady stuff, from Medicare fraud to unnecessary surgeries to incompetent doctors to corrupt nurses.”
Stan nodded. “Sounds about right.”
Matt continued. “South Dakota is small potatoes, just one fourth of one percent of the US population. So if the math works out, there should have been one hundred forty malpractice suits in South Dakota that ended with payouts.”
Stan leaned forward. “And how many were there?”
“Three. Two in Rapid City and one in Aberdeen.”
“None in Sioux Falls?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe they’re really good here.” Stan gave a sardonic smile.
Matt relaxed into the doorframe. Stan was interested.
Stan leaned back into his chair, an old wooden swivel rocker that reminded Matt of the TV show Gunsmoke. “It would be silly to think that Hall Media would overlook any medical inconsistencies at Hall Clinic.” Stan’s tone was ironic. After a moment, he started ticking things off on his fingers. “One—saying that there is no story is no story. Two—wading through stacks and stacks of files, looking for irregularities, would take forever, if they even give permission, which they won’t. Three—the only hope of finding a story is to find a whistleblower. Four—a whistleblower is scared for a lot of really good reasons and must be lured out slowly. Five…” Stan swiveled his chair, placed his hands on his desk and lowered his voice. “You are from this town. You know more people than you think. You are the person who will find this person, find the story, write the story and report the story.”
Matt felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Holy shit. Stan leveled his gaze, an icy-blue stare that made Matt’s stomach flutter.
“I will tell everyone you are reporting on the economic growth of Sioux Falls as a historic piece for our weekend-programming block that will require time for you to research. Report only to me when you get something, and keep your mouth shut. This could be a little dangerous.”
Chapter 37 - Trent Wheeler
Trent Wheeler had a bit of a dilemma. The Fourth of July landed on a Friday, a great chance to move his golf game to Thursday afternoon and get a jump on the weekend, but there was a big powwow scheduled at Hall Media, Thursday at one in the afternoon—big enough that they were having it on the third floor and they’d put notes everywhere. No big deal—he would claim an emergency client get-together. But at the last second, a pang of professionalism made him decide to go to the meeting. He could fake an emergency call and skip out early if it was what he suspected—a dog-and-pony show about the first two quarters’ sales numbers.
It was a big deal all right. Janitors had cleared out the central reception area. A couple of big dry-erase boards were rolled up front. Tables and chairs were set up classroom style in three concentric semicircles. The first tier of chairs was dominated by the TV journalists, with a few stubborn beat reporters from the paper dug in, refusing to relinquish status to the boob tubers. The second tier was filled in with the rest of the paper staff, and the last row held curious miscellaneous staffers and radio jocks. Trent sat amongst them next to the table of coffee and donuts.
Up front, facing the employees, the big dogs were perched on classy leather barstools. Dr. Harrison Hall IV was separated off to the left, mostly observing. Meyer the lawyer was center stage, looking impervious and smug, probably calculating his fee by the minute. And next to the dry-erase boards stood old Julian Virgil Smith himself.
Julian Smith lobbied hard for Hall Media and Hall-Hauptman Hospital and had the tan to prove it. Lobbying in Florida with senators, lobbying with congressional reps in Palm Beach, golf junkets, trips, fact-finding tours—the poor guy hardly spent a day in Sioux Falls. He had the unctuous voice of an old-time radio announcer with the tenacious bite of a junkyard Rottweiler.
He was now stabbing at the list of stories on the dry-erase board with particular venom. “For eighty years, Hall Media has been the hallmark of news excellence. We have taken our position seriously, for as Sioux Falls prospers, so does South Dakota, and as South Dakota prospers, so do we. Our purpose has been, and still is, to report news, root out corruption, and promote our city as a great place to live and w
ork. So how is this…” Words failed him for a moment. “Man”—he pointed to a picture of Charlie Hofer, posted on the first board—“able to buy, staff, promote, and operate an eight-hundred-watt AM station that he bought from us…” Wheeler stopped chewing his donut and slumped a little lower in his chair. “That is now the talk of the town in just three months?”
There was an icy pause. The only sound was the quiet thrum of air-conditioning. No one was sure whether it was a rhetorical question or he wanted an answer.
One of the dry-erase boards held a list of recent stories that had been broken by KCAH. Smith slapped them with his stick one by one, like he was swatting flies. “Bitter rivalry between the city street and water departments cause wasteful delays and redundant street repair—estimated cost fifty-five million.” Slap. “Superintendent of water department resigns after twenty years.” Slap. “Health department accused of bribery.” Slap. “Health department head let go.” Slap. “Sexual harassment charges at sheriff’s department—dispatchers seek damages.” Slap. “Local plant defies EPA regulations, illegally dumps sewage.” Slap. “Hall media flouts FCC rules regulating bandwidth.”
Slap, slap, slap!
“Ladies and gentlemen, you are getting your asses handed to you by a sleazy strip-club operator who hired an alcoholic has-been and his seedy little minions, and they’re operating out of a strip mall!”
Smith’s outrage was like a palpable wave of heat wilting the front row of Hall Media faithful. Trent’s mouth was dry around the donut. He was glad he was downrange from the fallout and secretly gleeful that the stuffed shirts were getting the full blast.
“Now, listen to this.” Smith’s voice grew low and venomous, biting off each syllable. “This piece of human excrement will now learn just what it means to flout the power of the real press. You will do your due diligence. You will seek and find and research and prove that only a fool starts a war with someone who buys ink by the barrel and electricity by the megawatt. You.” He pointed to Meyer. “Check all the permits that allow this parasite to exist. You.” He pointed to Christiansen from the crime desk. “Background checks on everybody that works there. Find dirt. Publish dirt. You.” He pointed to the rest of the gathered crowd. “Get off your dead-pampered overpaid asses, and do what apparently you have been unable to do, unwilling to do, or too damn stupid to do—find news and report it!”
Trent was already sneaking out the back, grabbing an extra donut, when he heard the sentence that ruined his day.
“And for God’s sake, find the stupid idiot that sold one of our stations to that weasel, fire his ass, and get the story of his firing on the air before Stan Martin does!”
Chapter 38 - Everett Meyer
Everett Meyer stood outside the room at Hall Media just after Julian Smith’s tirade, waiting for the crowd to scatter. As ranking attorney for Hall, Meyer had known Smith for years and knew just how blistering his meetings could be. Even so, the latest tirade caused him to consider some of his own strategies going forward. Not necessarily an exit, but certainly a scapegoat might be needed.
“Well?” Jessica Wright, the junior attorney, walked up to him.
Meyer raised a hand, waiting for the hallway to empty. “Here.” He handed her the legal pad with his notes. “You heard Smith. Head down to the records office at City Hall and check the permits on KCAH. Then check the county, the state, the FCC, you name it. I’m looking for a reason to shut them down even temporarily. This could be as minor as building-code violations or faulty tower-light inspections. Report to me at the end of each day with what you find.”
Jessica took the legal pad and added it to the folder she was carrying. She didn’t move.
“What?”
She shifted a bit, nodding to an empty side room. They moved inside, and he closed the door. “What is it?” he asked.
She paused as if searching for the right words. She finally said, “You heard what Julian said about the radio station. Despite their ownership, they seem to know what they’re doing. I think that maybe Hall-Hauptmann is… vulnerable.”
Meyer waited for her to continue.
With a nervous burst, the young attorney added, “I mean, this is ethical stuff they covered in law school. If we know of a crime, when does attorney-client privilege end? We still don’t know where the Panco sales rep, Devon LaCroix, is. That seems awfully coincidental… I mean, I want to represent our clients, for sure, but I don’t want to get disbarred either.”
Meyer gave a rolling, unctuous laugh. “My dear, that risk, be it ever so slight, is my purview and my responsibility. Trust me, I know where the edges are, and we are far away from any kind of danger or ethical issue.”
The girl sighed, and her shoulders relaxed. “Thanks, Everett. That makes me feel a lot better.”
“Nothing to worry about, Jessica.” He would have patted her on the shoulder—or maybe elsewhere—but you had to be careful about that stuff these days.
He watched her walk away. After she was out of sight, he came to a decision and smiled. He’d found his scapegoat.
Chapter 39 - Jessica Wright
After the meeting run by Julian Smith, the Hall Hospital lobbyist, Jessica Wright, had been worried about what her possible role might be in some shady business. Then she talked to Everett Meyer and felt a little better. Then she had a conversation with her college ethics professor and felt worse.
Then after stewing about it for a day or two, she remembered some of the stuff her grandpa Wright would say: “I may have been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.”
A feisty rancher, the elder Wright did a lot of deals on a handshake, but he’d told Jessica many times, “Rosie! I may settle on a handshake, but I never shake a hand until I know the person it’s attached to.”
Then she remembered the look Everett Meyer had given her and finally made up her mind. The South Dakota bar was located in Pierre, the capital. Jessica took the weekend to visit her family and the day off on Monday to meet with an advisory member of the bar. As she waited for the appointment, she patted the file that held notes and recordings taken around the events surrounding the botched surgery on Martha Elaine Sanderson by Dr. Harrison Benjamin Hall V.
She thought about Everett Meyer and smiled grimly. Sorry, pal.
Chapter 40 - Harrison Hall
The good doctor Harrison Benjamin Hall IV was at his home on the Oaks, staring down the sun-dappled summer fairway and a thousand yards beyond that, trying to see all the moves, countermoves, deceits, and deceptions that would get rid of his problem and leave him in the clear.
He should just let his spoiled brat of a son face the music, but of course, he had the same name, and even a little bit of splatter back on the famous Hall name he himself had worked so hard to burnish and maintain was unacceptable.
Deidre was even worse. He did not fully know—did not want to know—but he was certain that she was behind the disappearance of that Devon LaCroix salesman.
“Bitch.” He allowed himself to whisper the word in the privacy of his plush office. She’d found a way to exploit his weakness, he had to admit, but now he had the situation in hand, and just like cutting out a malignant tumor, he was ready to be rid of the problem forever. The man in the bar, LaFave, was unsavory, certainly, but willing and competent. He’d looked at a calendar. Hall planned to make a trip to the Florida Keys to spend a week or so at the condo. That would give him an excellent alibi.
There was a discreet knock on the door. “Dr. Hall? Mr. Warner is here. Do you have time?”
Hall smiled grimly. He knew what this was probably about. “Yes, see him in… Scotch, Chet?”
Chet Warner steamed in and was swearing before the door was closed behind him. “Did you hear the news this morning?”
Hall feigned innocence. “News?”
“That rat bastard Charlie Hofer and his muckraking piece-of-shit radio station! I’ll sue!”
Hall handed Chet a tumbler and told him to calm down, needling him with “Not t
he language of a gentleman, Chet.”
“It’s the government! It’s how it’s done! Everybody does it! You want to get a chance at a bid, you have to talk to the right people, and to talk to the right people, you have to donate funds.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars is a big donation.”
Warner stiffened. “So you did hear about it.”
Hall shrugged. “I thought it was a rumor.” In truth, Hall had listened to the whole story on the 7:05 morning news, the radio station signal so weak he had to plug it in by the window and sort through the static.
Warner Manufacturing had gotten a government contract to manufacture storage tanks for the defense department, a multimillion-dollar deal that was five years old. That was far enough back to make Chet Warner forget how much his mistress—a leggy college grad promoted out of her junior year into private-executive-secretary status—remembered.
The secretary had become spoiled by her instant success and entitlement and access to much information. When Chet got bored with her and cut her loose, she’d gotten even with him and was undoubtedly the “unnamed source” mentioned on the air. That had been gossip around the country club, and it was usually accurate, but hearing the dirty laundry broadcast for all of Sioux Falls to hear as confirmed fact was secretly delicious.
“Sophie will have my nuts!”
Hall could imagine. Sophie was no one to trifle with. Her brother was a lawyer in Omaha and would know how to extract the most cash in a divorce.
“How can I help, old man?” Hall occasionally used British slang at the club. He felt it suited his status.
“Harrison, my good friend.” Warner had never used the term friend before with Hall. He was leaning in for leverage. “You have to stop this guy. You have connections in the media. You can’t let this little prick run down pillars of the community like this!”