by Greg Iles
“A Good Samaritan. Come on, Andy.”
“Dad’s in 119,” he says, still eyeing Kirk, whose powerful physique is a little too obvious to ignore.
Three doors down from the ICU, the patriarch of the Royal clan is holding court from a padded chair beside a buffet of sandwiches, doughnuts, fruit, and cheese. A half-empty fifth of Maker’s Mark stands on a table beside him. Compared to his son, who looks like a high school tackle who never matured into a man, Brody Royal looks like a weather-beaten falcon. His slim face and aquiline nose contribute to this impression, but it’s the deep-set, predatory eyes beneath sleek gray brows that first mark me in the doorway. They flit to Kirk for a second, then lock back on me as though gauging the distance for a killing dive. My peripheral vision registers five other people in the room, three of them women. I glance away from Brody long enough to recognize two red-faced Royal nephews in their fifties—both employees of Royal Oil.
“Everybody out,” Brody says with the casual authority of a monarch.
Nobody questions his order. They don’t even hesitate. Brody glares at Andy, who has lingered in the doorway, and says, “Shut the door.”
Andy steps inside to obey, but his father says, “From the other side.”
After an awkward silence, his son yields. “Holler if you need me,” Andy says, backing out of the room.
After the door closes, Brody beckons me nearer. As I move toward him, I realize that age has not robbed him of his virility. He projects a restrained power, more like the aged Burt Lancaster than Charlton Heston, to whom Henry Sexton compared him. Royal has an acrobat’s proportions, which are accented by his tailored shirt.
“To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Mayor?” he asks without a trace of irony.
This opening takes me aback. I’d expected to confront a querulous old caricature of Theodore G. Bilbo, the red-faced, overweight archetype of Big Daddy, Boss Hogg, and all the other southern shouters. Finding myself facing a trim and courteous businessman is more than a little disconcerting.
“I need to tell you some rather unpleasant things, Mr. Royal. And then I need to ask you a favor—a couple of them, actually.”
The cool gray eyes don’t blink. “I’m a captive audience. Fire away.”
“Somebody shot Henry Sexton tonight. He survived, in case you didn’t know.”
Royal shrugs as if nothing could interest him less. “Can’t say I’m surprised. That boy’s been pushing certain people for a long time. Stands to reason they’d push back eventually.”
“And you know nothing about it?”
The eyes remain steady. “What would I know?”
I can’t help but smile in appreciation of Royal’s poker face—and at my knowledge of what is about to happen. This consummate power broker hasn’t had his will challenged for years.
“I’ve got good news and bad news for you, sir. The bad news is, I’ve got enough evidence to buy you a guaranteed seat on death row at Angola. That’s in the long run. In the short run, I’ve got enough information to destroy your reputation and the value of most of your companies by noon tomorrow.”
Royal’s face alters less than the surface of a rock when the wind passes over it. “What’s the good news?”
“I’m not that interested in forty-year-old murders today. I’m interested in one that happened this past Monday at five thirty in the morning. A woman named Viola Turner.”
Royal studies me like a gambler watching his opponent deal cards. “You haven’t said what you want, Mayor. You want to know who killed that old colored woman? Your daddy’s old squeeze? Is that what you came for?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I want you to listen for a minute. I want you to think about what I’ve told you. Then decide whether or not you’re going to do what I need you to do.”
“Well, get started. You’re boring the hell out of me so far.”
It suddenly strikes me that Brody Royal hasn’t said one word about his comatose daughter. Squatting before him, I look into the opaque gray eyes and begin my pitch.
“In July of 1964, you ordered the deaths of Pooky Wilson and Albert Norris. You threatened Norris in his shop the afternoon of the night he died, and you went back later that night to help kill him with a flamethrower. I know that because there was a witness. A witness who’s still alive, healthy, and willing to testify against you.”
Royal shows no reaction to this.
“The day after Norris’s store was burned, the Brookhaven klavern of the Ku Klux Klan kidnapped Pooky Wilson from a train station and delivered him to the Double Eagles for punishment. One of those men is ready to testify as to how and where Pooky died, and about your involvement in it.”
“Bullshit,” he says calmly.
Royal is right. That last part was a lie, but he can’t know for sure. And part of my purpose is to sow seeds of paranoia in the enemy camp. The predatory eyes narrow, the mind behind them judging odds based on variables unknown to me.
“You ordered the deaths of Dr. Leland Robb and everyone else on his plane. You told Snake Knox to sabotage it, and after Robb was dead, you married his wife. Killed two birds with one stone there. Nice trick. Only before Dr. Robb died, he told my father what Albert Norris had told him. And my father will testify to that in court.”
“You’re a book writer, aren’t you?” Royal says in a conversational tone. “I can see you’d be good at it. Because every bit of this sounds like hearsay to me.”
Reaching into my back pocket, I take out Caitlin’s tape recorder. “Let’s see if this sounds like hearsay. You might want to take a shot of that whiskey before I press play.”
The falcon’s eyes settle on the tiny Sony. “What’s that you got there?”
“You’ll understand soon enough. Listen up.”
Before Kirk and I entered the hospital, I cued the recorder to the point where Katy begins to implicate her father. As her slurred voice repeats the damning words, the old man’s face goes gray, then white.
By the way Brody is staring at the recorder, I’m betting that Randall Regan already told him about the tape recorder Caitlin left behind—which contained no incriminating information. Brody probably doesn’t know enough about cell phones to know they can also record memos.
“Speaking as a former prosecutor,” I tell him, “that doesn’t sound like hearsay to me. It sounds like your daughter is accusing you of murdering her mother, among other people. And if she dies, I’d say that what you just heard becomes a dying declaration given prior to suicide. Claude Devereux could challenge the recording in court, of course, along with your daughter’s mental status, but by that time your reputation will long since have been destroyed. So … if you don’t do exactly as I ask—tonight—what you just heard will be published tomorrow morning in every newspaper owned by the Masters Media Group. That’s six or seven million readers, at least. By noon you’ll have CNN setting up cameras in the lobby of your bank. There’s nothing like a Klan story to give the liberal media a taste for blood. Think about Trent Lott. He had ten times the connections you’ve got, and he quietly exited stage left when only a hint of this kind of scandal touched him.”
“You print that,” Brody says calmly, “and I’ll own John Masters’s media group.”
“No you won’t. You’ll be watching a jury listen to how you forcibly committed your teenage daughter to an institution where she was given electroshock therapy against her will—and sexually abused—all because she fell in love with a black boy. Crucifixion, flaying … the murder of those women from Royal Insurance. Christ, man. The DA will have a hell of a time even seating a jury who doesn’t want to string you up on the courthouse lawn. But you might actually prefer that to spending your last years in Angola with large, angry African-American gentlemen who are well informed about your past.”
Royal’s eyes are still on the tape recorder.
“Don’t waste time wondering how I got this. It’s only a copy. One of many, and soon to be numbe
r one, unless you do what I ask—tonight.”
Royal raises a hand and rakes the gray stubble on his chin. I sense anxiety mounting in him, charging him with energy, like the armature of an electric motor. Despite all his wealth and power, in this moment Brody Royal is nothing more than a cornered animal searching for escape. I half expect him to come out of the chair and throttle me. Instead, he rolls his shoulders to loosen them, then gets to his feet, takes a pull of Maker’s Mark, and gives me a knowing smile.
“Why don’t you tell me about this favor you need?”
I glance back at Kirk Boisseau, who’s staring at us in amazement.
“You want a sandwich?” Brody asks Kirk. “That chicken salad’s pretty good.”
“No thanks.”
A fraction of a second before I speak, inspiration strikes me. If I have Brody Royal by the balls, I’m a fool not to ask for everything I can get. After all, the APB is inextricably tied to the dead trooper. “I need two things from you,” I say, and then another possibility hits me. “Three, actually.”
“I’m all ears, son.”
“First, there’s a Louisiana State Police APB out for my father and a man named Walt Garrity, accusing them of killing a state trooper. I want that rescinded tonight.”
“I see. What else?”
“The death of that trooper will have to be written off somehow. Blamed on drug dealers or whatever else you can make work. I’m almost certain he was a dirty cop, but one way or another, you kill that case.”
“And the third favor?”
“I want Viola Turner’s case closed. To get the Natchez DA to do that, you’ll probably have to sacrifice a Double Eagle. I don’t care which, but you’d better pick one fast.”
Brody takes a deep breath, then nods amicably. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
The multimillionaire gives me an expansive smile, then chooses a chicken salad sandwich from the tray, takes a bite, and washes it down with Maker’s Mark.
“Mayor, I can see you’re upset. All I can say to you is, I wish you’d come to me sooner. Because you’ve come to the right place, if you want a situation handled in Louisiana. My daddy worked hand-in-glove with Huey Long, and I worked with Earl K. and Russell myself. When the public officials couldn’t quite make the mare go, I worked with the Little Man and his family in New Orleans. Hell, I’ve worked with every senator and governor all the way down to Edwin Edwards and his successors. I even dealt with the colored congressmen, these past few years. You’ve got to have an open mind to thrive in my state.”
Royal is actually bragging about working with Carlos Marcello, one of the most powerful Mafia chiefs in America during the twentieth century.
“Listen,” he goes on, “getting that APB canceled shouldn’t be more than a matter of making the right telephone call.”
Having come in ready for a pitched battle, I blink in surprise. “Even on the murder of a cop?”
Royal makes a clicking sound with his mouth. “That complicates matters a little. But Mayor, your father has treated me and members of my family many times during emergencies over the years. I can personally vouch for his integrity in the highest quarters. Why, I can’t understand how a decorated veteran and pillar of the community like Tom Cage could be caught up in such a sordid business.”
“How fast can you make that APB go away?”
Brody scoops some ice into a glass and pours himself a Diet Coke. “With a little luck, maybe two hours. More likely by nine or ten tomorrow morning.”
“And the Viola Turner case?”
Brody holds up his glass, watches the ice cubes as he swirls it around, then adds some whiskey to it. “On that matter, I’m going to have to confer with some people I’d prefer not to mention. They can be unreasonable at times, but one is a pragmatist. I feel certain that he can offer a solution—and maybe even a candidate, warm or cold—to fill the role of Nurse Turner’s killer by close of business tomorrow. You might say this kind of thing is his stock-in-trade.”
Royal’s got to be talking about Forrest Knox. But it’s the way he’s talking that leaves me speechless. His daughter lies comatose only a few feet away, yet he seems completely unconcerned about her. He’s discussing the commission of felonies as casually as he might a real estate deal. Despite having seen some abominable exercises of influence in Houston, I thought the time had passed when men could dispose of murder cases with telephone calls. But in Brody Royal’s world, all things remain possible. Apparently, laws are but inconveniences to fearless men who live by their appetites.
“Obviously,” Royal adds in a less casual voice, “I need to know what I’m getting in return. Every bargain has two sides, after all.”
I glance back at Kirk, who has picked up a banana from another tray and stands chewing it while he watches the door, now seemingly oblivious to our conversation.
“You obviously can’t grant me legal immunity,” Brody observes, “since you’re no longer a prosecutor. So what are you selling, exactly? I’ll need that tape, naturally, plus any and all copies.”
“You’ll get it. Also, a series of stories about Henry Sexton’s death and the old civil rights murders will break in the Masters papers tomorrow. If you deliver, neither your name nor your daughter’s will appear in those stories.”
“Or elsewhere in the papers,” Royal adds.
“Naturally.”
“What else? You mentioned several other potential problems.”
“My father’s lived a long time without telling what he knows about that plane crash. You play ball, he can stay quiet for a few more years.”
Royal smiles. “And the witness? The one who was there at the fire? I assume he was a friend of the Wilson boy?”
It’s perfectly legal for police detectives and prosecutors to lie to suspects to prompt a confession, and in this situation, I’m not bound by any rules at all. “I’ll give you the kid’s name,” I lie. “He’s not a kid anymore, of course. I’ll leave it to you to make sure he doesn’t tell his story to anybody. I’m assuming you’ll pay for his silence, but that’s your decision.”
Royal’s eyes glint with interest in my apparent pragmatism. “Who has he talked to, so far?”
“Only Sexton, who’s conveniently unconscious and almost sure to die by morning.”
Royal ponders these points for a few seconds. “How could I ever know I had all the copies of that tape?”
“You won’t. But you don’t need to lose sleep over that. The tape alone wouldn’t put you in the pen, especially if you can get your daughter to recant.”
He nods thoughtfully. “When do I get the witness’s name?”
“After my father’s safe in federal custody. That’s nonnegotiable. The same man saw you burn the Beacon last night, by the way.”
Royal finishes off his sandwich, sips his drink, then sets his glass on the credenza. “I don’t like it. But I guess I can live with it. There’s just one thing I don’t understand.”
“What’s that?”
“You.” The cool gray eyes gleam with curiosity. “I know about you, Cage. You’re a goddamn crusader. A bleeding heart. Why on earth would you do this deal?”
“In a word? Family. My father’s safety means more to me than some black guys who died thirty years ago. Nothing’s going to bring those men back. But this deal can keep my father alive.”
I almost believed this when I said it, to the point that it worries me. How far would I go to protect my father?
Royal considers my words, then chuckles with recognition. “Ain’t it something? When it comes down to family, a man’s basically got no choices. Everything else goes by the board. Blood trumps all.”
“We’re agreed, then?”
He cocks his head to one side, and again I see the raptor in him. “How do I know that once I give you what you want, your girlfriend won’t throw me to the dogs?”
“All I can give you is my word. But Caitlin loves my father, too. Even more than her career, and that’
s saying something. She knows I’m here, and why I came. I can’t promise you that the FBI won’t eventually pick up on something and come after you, but you and Forrest ought to be able to blame those old murders on the older Double Eagles. Maybe even dead ones. Hell, blame Norris and Pooky Wilson on Frank Knox.”
After a long last look, Royal holds out his hand to shake, but I can’t bring myself to go that far. “I’ll give you my cell number,” I tell him.
The old man gives me a haughty look and withdraws his arm. “Don’t worry about it. I can find you anytime I need you.”
“I hope so. The clock’s ticking.”
As I turn to make my exit, the door flies open and slams against the wall. Randall Regan fills the doorway, a large purple bruise covering his throat. He looks like he rear-ended someone and slammed into the steering wheel.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demands, starting toward me.
For the first time I remember the straight razor in my back pocket.
“Easy, Randall!” Brody barks, raising his hand to stop the charge. “Mayor, I believe you know Randall Regan, my son-in-law.”
“We’ve met.”
“Screw this,” Regan hisses. “I’m done playing with this guy, Brody.”
Regan takes another step toward me and reaches for my throat, but just then a soft yet commanding voice says, “Hold it, ace. Listen up a sec.”
Regan’s hand stops within inches of my throat, and he turns his head enough to locate the speaker. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks Kirk.
“Just an interested bystander.” Kirk faces Regan from an angle, as though prepared to throw him across the room if necessary. “But I’m not going to let you hurt anybody. Strictly for informational purposes, if you touch the mayor, you’re going to wake up in the ICU next to your wife.”
Regan’s eyes rake up and down Kirk Boisseau’s frame, estimating his speed and power.
“Randall?” Brody says, “I appreciate you coming to check on me, but you ought to get back with Katy. The mayor and I have come to an understanding.”
Regan straightens his jacket, his jaw working as he tries to ratchet down his fury. He’s had a hell of a day, and the idea of beating me senseless must be tempting. But Kirk looks a little too much like a spoiler to risk that. Regan holds his ground for a few face-saving seconds, his left cheek twitching, but at last he turns and stalks out, leaving the door wide open.