Eye of the Storm

by Sara Reinke

  * * *

  Paul sat bolt upright on his couch in the dead of the night, his eyes flown wide as it suddenly occurred to him who Howard Minz was. He had been dozing, a light slumber drifting off toward deeper sleep, born of utter exhaustion, but all at once, his mind was sharp and alert, like a bright, flourescent light had just flipped on inside his skull.

  “Holy shit!” he gasped, standing up and hurrying over to his desk. “Howard Minz.”

  He fumbled and sifted through loose papers until he found the pages Jason had printed off for him earlier that day. Among the print-outs of news articles and other information about Arthur Sinclair, chairman of the Greater Metropolitan Historical Preservation Society, he found the clipping from the newspaper’s society section that included a fuzzy, black-and-white photo of Arthur Sinclair and the city’s mayor, Bob Allen, laughing together at a Christmas party for the library’s board of regents. A third man was in the picture, yukking it up right along with them. Howard Minz.

  “I’ll be goddamned,” Paul whispered, opening the internet browser on his computer. He went to the library’s website and looked up their board of directors. He scrolled down the page, skimming through the alphabetized listing until he came to the Ms.

  Howard Minz.

  “I’ll be goddamn,” he whispered again. His cell phone sat beside the computer keyboard; he flipped it open and hit the speed redial for Jason Stewart’s line.

  “Huh…hullo…?” Jason croaked, sounding decidedly more unconscious than alert.

  “Jason, are you awake?” Paul asked, suddenly near to shaking with excitement. Christ, he’d forgotten the thrill of the a-ha moment, the point in an investigation when everything suddenly clicks into place, and all of the pieces of the puzzle coalesce into one distinct, crystal-clear picture. The last time this had happened to him had been when he’d realized the pattern of serial rapes and murders that had identified the Watcher’s history of violence. It’s been too goddamn long.

  “Paul?” Jason asked, clearly bewildered and dazed. “Paul, is…is that you…?”

  “Yeah, kid, listen―who’s the federal attorney working on the Milton Enterprises tax evasion case? You did the press write-ups for it. You’ve got to have talked to them.”

  “Paul, it…it’s four-thirty in the morning,” Jason said. “On a Saturday morning, Paul…”

  “Jason, goddamn it, would I be calling you if it wasn’t important?” Paul snapped. “Who’s the attorney?”

  “Uh…” Paul heard a rustling on the other end of the line as Jason, appropriately rebuked and shamed awake now, moved around, likely sitting up in bed. “Uh…hang on. Let me put my glasses on…”

  Jason wears glasses? Paul thought. He’d never noticed before.

  “Richard Keeling,” Jason said, after Paul had listened to a few more moments of rustling and clunking. “The federal prosecutor’s name is Richard Keeling. I talked to him a little bit, but he didn’t―”

  “Give me his phone number,” Paul said, interrupting.

  “Paul, all I’ve got is his office number,” Jason said, his voice nearly whining. “It’s four-thirty on a Saturday morning. He’s not going to be there.”

  “Track me down his home number, then,” Paul said, and when he heard the intake of Jason’s voice, the beginnings of protest, he frowned. “Goddamn it, would you stop giving me grief and just do it, Jason? I’ve got to look some other stuff up from here so that I can be sure, and you’ll be saving me a shitload of time.”

  “Sure of what?” Jason asked.

  “Just get me the number and call me back,” Paul said. “The minute you’ve got it, Jason.”

  He hung up the phone, snapping it closed again. He turned back to his computer, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. He Google-searched for three key phrases: Greater Metropolitan Historical Society, Keswick Investment Realty Group and Milton Enterprises.

  He wasn’t surprised to see the search results come back with more than a hundred viable hits. The first page alone was loaded with archived city records files: title transfers, deed recordings, land sales. All in the same predictable pattern―from the historical society to Keswick, and from them, to Milton Enterprises.

  The mayor sells the property cheap to Arthur Sinclair’s group under the premise of historical preservation, Paul thought, as he typed in a new search, plugging in the list of lucrative real estate ventures in town that Jason had provided to him, those subdivisions in which Keswick had been the developer of record. Keswick sells them cheap to Milton. Milton builds great big expensive neighborhoods on them and reaps in mega-profits.

  “Profits I’m sure they don’t keep all for themselves,” he murmured, as again, his search struck veritable gold. Montpelier Estates, Wyndham subdivision, Rolling Acres, Cedar Creek Point, Liberty Heights, the proposed Victorian Square…they were all there. The properties involved had all gone through a thinly disguised and systematic exchange of hands in the last five years―from the city to the historical society, then to Keswick and on to Milton.

  All during the tenure of Bob Allen’s mayorship. Allen was one year into his second mayorial term. He’d won in a landslide victory of his last opponent. A couple of quick internet searches confirmed Paul’s sudden suspicions. His good buddies Howard Minz, Arthur Sinclair and John Milton all pitched in with generous campaign contributions both times around.

  “Son of a bitch,” Paul whispered, grabbing his phone again and dialing Jason. “They’re taking their cuts off the top,” he said, not even giving the younger man time to say “hello.”

  “I haven’t found his phone number yet,” Jason said. “I’m trying, Paul, but he’s unlisted, and the feds are kind of funny anymore about giving stuff like that out, after the 9/11―”

  “Jason, shut up and listen to me,” Paul snapped. “Milton must have gotten sloppy. That’s why the feds have grounds for the tax evasion case―and why the mayor’s jumping through hoops to protect him. It’s not because they’re friends. It’s because Milton’s books can implicate Bob Allen, too.”

  Jason was quiet for a long moment. “What?” he asked at length.

  “Listen,” Paul said. He lit up a cigarette without thinking about it. His mind was whirling, alive and alight with excitement. “You were right about those three houses. The city probably is going to incorporate that area into the Victorian Square development eventually. And when it does, Arthur Sinclair is going to drop it like a hot fucking potato―sell it cheap to Keswick Investment Realty. That’s what they do. That’s what they’ve been doing all along, for five years now, in little bits here and there so no one gets suspicious, so no one will know unless they sit down and actually track down all the pieces to put together.”

  “I…I don’t…” Jason began.

  “Mayor Allen is tight with Sinclair and Minz―with John Milton, too. All four of them are library regents, and sit together on about a dozen other charity boards, too. They’ve been friends for years. So the mayor is able to have the city foreclose on different properties for different reasons―mostly tax forfeitures. He can’t sell the property for under its assessed property value unless he drops it to a non-profit organization, like the Greater Metro Historical Preservation Society, and in that case, it’s a tax write-off. So the city council doesn’t protest, and Arthur Sinclair gets prime chunks of real estate for a dollar apiece.”

  “Prime?” Jason asked, sounding bewildered. “You’re talking about those three houses sitting around crumbling that you and Dr. Wheaton―”

  “They’re crumbling at the moment, Jason, and that’s why Allen can get rid of them so easily. The city council doesn’t give a shit. Why should they? They’re falling apart, practically condemned―shitholes, Jason. At least for awhile. But a year down the road, maybe more, maybe less, and the historical society sells that land off cheap to Keswick Investment Realty. Nobody notices. If they did, nobody cares. And Keswick shows up with a pitch to the city to build a new shopping district or a new subdivision�
��expensive shit, Jason, sure to bring in big bucks in reconfigured property taxes once the development is finished. The city can’t say no to it. So who do you get to build these great big new developments? If you’re Howard Minz at Keswick, you use your old pal John Milton’s contracting company, who else?”

  Jason was silent on the other end of the phone. Paul let that sink in with him for a moment before continuing.

  “Milton Industries does all the building, and Keswick splits the money down the middle, with all of them getting a cut―Milton, Sinclair, Minz and Bob Allen. Only with the Liberty Heights development, they got too greedy. They picked a historical site that wasn’t a dump―they picked one people cared about, that had too much history to be ignored.” Paul thought about Susan telling him that a protestor had spit in her hair once during a live shot at the old sanitarium grounds, and how the so-called ghosthunter, Cameron Taylor, had told him Milton had to keep it under lock, key and razor wire to prevent curious trespassers.

  “So when someone started trying to save Liberty Sanitarium, they dug a little too deeply,” Paul told Jason. “They found some of Milton’s iffy tax transactions and alerted the feds. Bob Allen’s got to be about ready to shit his pants that he’ll get sniffed out along the way, too. Not to mention what his little buddies Minz and Sinclair must be thinking.” He paused for a moment, waiting for Jason’s reaction. When there was only silence, he frowned. “Goddamn it, Jason, have you heard a word I said?”

  He was suddenly, eerily reminded of his own conversation with Vicki that morning

  You weren’t even listening, were you? You weren’t paying attention to a single thing I just said.”

  and nearly grimaced.

  “Of course I have,” Jason replied. “I just…I mean, I…Jesus, Paul, do you know what you’re suggesting?”

  “I sure do,” Paul replied grimly.

  “You’re saying the mayor is involved,” Jason said, his voice somewhat pleading. “You’re saying Mayor Allen is a crook.”

  Jason sounded distraught, as if Paul had just revealed to him that Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny weren’t real.

  “Mayor Allen hired me…” Jason began.

  “He hired me, too,” Paul said. And he’s probably going to fire us both, too, when he finds out about this.

  “But I…I know him, Paul,” Jason protested. “I went to college with his son. I’ve had dinner at his house, for crying out loud.”

  “Well, crooks gotta fuck and eat, too, Jason,” Paul said bluntly, dryly. “Now do you want to finish looking up that federal prosecutor’s number, or do I have to do it myself? I think he’s going to be very interested in what I have to tell him.”

  “Maybe we should talk to him first,” Jason said. “Call his press secretary. Something. If this has something to do with that Melanie Geary case, than at least we should―”

  “It doesn’t have to do with Melanie Geary,” Paul said. And that’s the kicker of it, he thought. He’d had an epiphany in an investigation, alright―just not in the investigation he’d been hoping to solve. He still had no idea where Melanie Geary had been murdered. And without knowing that, I’ve got no proof I didn’t kill her, no evidence that what’s floating around in my mind are just dreams and not memories. I’ve got nothing but my own word I didn’t do it, and hell, I can’t even convince myself with that alone right now!

  “Jason, look,” he said, his tone softening, growing nearly gentle. He’d just roused the kid from a dead sleep and given him the verbal equivalent of a kick in the balls, from the sounds of things. That Jason sounded so upset, nearly distraught, left Paul feeling crummy. “Just because it looks like Bob Allen is involved in this doesn’t mean he is. All I’ve got is a paper trail. It’ll be up to the feds to make it something that will stick. And even if he is involved, it doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. Sometimes things just happen, and you forget yourself, or you see an opportunity you don’t think anyone will notice that you take, so you go for it.”

  Jason didn’t say anything, making Paul feel even shittier. “I have to let the prosecutor know about this,” he said. “The sooner, the better, Jason. I’m a cop. It’s my job to uphold the law. If I have this information―if I know about it, Jason, and I don’t say anything, then I’m not doing my job. I’m breaking the law.”

  He thought that might get to Jason. The poor kid wanted to be a cop. He had a badge, and he might have had a gun―Paul had never seen him with one―but for all practical purposes, Jason Stewart was a little boy playing pretend. He’d never walked a beat or worked a case in his life. He was a glorified security guard, no better than the overweight, paunch-bellied, balding assholes at the local junkyard or credit union.

  “Alright,” Jason said at length, sounding weary and defeated. “I…I know someone, a friend from school over in the FBI field office. I’ll give him a call, see if he can log into the civil service database from his home desktop and get me the number.”

  “Thanks, kid,” Paul said, smiling broadly. “I owe you.”

  “Again,” Jason said pointedly, and then he surprised Paul by hanging up first.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Daddy!” Emma cried, rocketing across the room and crashing into her father’s arms as he came through Paul’s front door. Her arms locked, vice-like around Jay’s neck, and the force of her impact simultaneously startled, staggered and nearly strangled him.

  “Hi, lamb,” he said with a breathless laugh, as her legs coiled around his middle, and he held her tightly against him. “Did you miss me?”

  “Something awful!” she replied, her voice muffled against his neck. She hadn’t believed that he would be okay, even after he had called Uncle Paul from the airport to let him know they had arrived safely and were on their way to pick her up. She had still been convinced that somehow, somewhere along the way something would happen, and her father would be hurt. Just like Grandma said.

  But there he was, completely unharmed, just like Paul had promised. Daddy was alive and well, if not slightly more suntanned, and he looked just as happy and healthy as he had when he and Jo had left.

  “Let me put you down, Em,” Daddy said with a low groan as he stooped, letting her drop her feet to the floor again. He laughed again, less breathlessly this time, as she slipped her arms loose of their throttle-hold around his neck. “Thank you.” He glanced beyond her and smiled. “Hey, M.K. Hey, Bethany.”

  “Hi, Uncle Jay,” the two girls said, their voices overlapping.

  In that moment, a disturbing thought darted through Emma’s mind, her grandmother’s voice whispering to her. He’ll try not to scream because he knows it will frighten them. They’ll be terrified enough, so he’ll try hard not to scream.

  “Hey, kid,” Paul said as Jay stepped toward him, his grin widening. Emma shook her head, forcing the ominous words from her mind.

  Daddy is okay now, she argued to Grandma. He’s not going to get hurt because he’s home now and safe.

  She watched Paul hook his hand against the back of Jay’s head and pull him near in a brief, but fierce embrace. “How are you doing?” Paul said into Jay’s hair, clapping him fondly on the back.

  “Tired as hell,” Jay said. “Hungry and jetlagged, but otherwise, we’re good. How about you, man?” Emma didn’t miss the way Daddy’s expression shifted, his brows lifting, his dark eyes clouding with concern. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” Paul replied with a laugh, stepping past Jay with his hands outstretched. “Here, Jo, let me take those.” He thought Jay was kidding, but Emma knew that he wasn’t. He sees it, too.

  “Hi, Paul,” Jo said with a smile, as Paul drew two laden plastic shopping bags from her hands. She pressed her lips against the corner of his mouth in greeting, and Emma could tell as plainly in her face as she had in Daddy’s. They see it, too, she thought. They know something’s wrong. They know he’s different somehow.

  Emma accepted Jo’s warm hug and flurry of kisses, and let her draw her in tow toward M.K. and Be
thany, who had begun fluttering and fussing over the shopping bags. Jo and Jay had brought back presents for everyone from their abbreviated trip to the Bahamas, and M.K. and Bethany were immediately arguing over an assortment of colorful halter tops, T-shirts and coral jewelry. Emma pretended to be interested, laughing and smiling as Jo dug out the pint-sized T-shirt and bright green plastic sunglasses they had brought back for her. But she watched out of the corner of her eye as her daddy and Uncle Paul stood back from the fray, lingering in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room.

  Uncle Paul had opened them each a bottle of beer, and as they stood there sipping, they spoke together quietly, soft exchanges Emma couldn’t overhear. Daddy’s expression hadn’t softened in the least; he knew something was wrong with Uncle Paul, and he was worried about him.

  Before Jay and Jo had arrived, Emma had pulled Paul aside, drawing him into the spare bedroom she had been using and closing the door so that M.K. and Bethany couldn’t listen. Paul had looked both amused and befuddled by her efforts at secrecy, but when she’d instructed him to sit on the bed, he’d obliged without protest.

  “Grandma wants me to tell you something,” she had told him. Emma didn’t know if Uncle Paul believed her or not when it came to Grandma. Grandma had given him a message through Emma that had helped him to catch the serial killer called the Watcher, but that still didn’t mean that Paul was inclined to believe.

  He’s a practical sort, like his father, Grandma had explained. These kinds of things don’t make sense to him, and he doesn’t like that. He likes for everything to have an explanation, a reason. He doesn’t just accept things on faith.

  But he had to that morning, and Emma had known it. She would be going home, and might not have another chance to tell him anytime soon. And Grandma had come to her the night before. She’d showed Emma things. She’d been adamant that Emma tell Uncle Paul about them.