Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “I was beginning to wonder when I’d hear from you,” he said. “I thought maybe you went off the deep end.”

  “How did you know?”

  “How did I know what?”

  “Never mind. If you’re free for dinner tonight, I’m buying. I’ve got a few things to discuss with you.”

  “I’m not known for turning down a free meal. When and where?”

  “How about K-Paul’s at eight?”

  “You know,” Fitch said, “if people recognize us as regular dinner companions, they might start to talk.”

  “You’re right. Try not to dress like a cop.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  It was good to be on terra firma, and to be home. There was just enough time for a hot shower and a change of clothes before dinner. He turned to look at his house from the sidewalk. He felt he was jilting the grand old lady. She deserved more of him than she was getting lately.

  K-Paul’s was crowded as usual, but Fitch had already arrived and secured a table. He waved as the judge walked in. Boucher smiled. Fitch was dressed for golf, probably the only civilian attire in his wardrobe that he wouldn’t wear to the police station.

  “So, where’ve you been?” the detective asked.

  Fitch did not get the sanitized version and about fell out of his chair as Boucher told him. As impressed as he was with the story, the menu brought by the waiter was enough to change the topic of conversation. Fitch asked what kind of food was served aboard ship and seemed disappointed that steak and potatoes were the fare in such exotic surroundings.

  “You must be hungry, then,” Fitch said, studying his menu. “I’ll have the blackened catfish,” he said to the waiter. “So, why am I here?” he said once the waiter had left with both of their orders.

  “I’ve got to get him. Before he gets me.”

  “Who, Perry?”

  “Of course Perry. He’s killed at least two people already. He won’t stop there.”

  “That reminds me,” Fitch said. “Since you’ve been away, that doctor who treated Judge Epson has been pitching a fit. He claims there’s no way the medication he prescribed could have caused the judge’s death. He was about to demand the body be exhumed and another autopsy be done before he found out that His Honor had been cremated. The doc didn’t say Epson was murdered, but he came damn close. I also ordered another search of the judge’s house: nothing. Perry had been there earlier, but nowhere near time of death. If someone killed Epson, it wasn’t Perry. It was a pro. He slipped in at night, did what he did, and left without a trace.”

  Their plates were brought. “Do you know of any professional killers working here?” Boucher asked.

  “If I could prove it, they’d be in jail. We’ve got the garden variety of violent criminals. This guy, though, if he exists, he’s different and he’s an expert. He didn’t want it to look like a crime. No message was being sent here. And I think he knew he’d get fingers pointing the wrong way with an injection, assuming that’s how he did it. Hell, the whole town knew Epson had a heart attack and was just out of the hospital. I mean, he could have just suffocated him. Do you mind if I eat?”

  “Sorry. Bon appétit. So you think Perry’s got a hit man working for him?”

  Fitch nodded, his mouth full, his expression pleading, Please let me eat. Boucher let him finish.

  “Ah, man,” Fitch said, “I love burnt fish.” Then he frowned. “So now you’ve got two things to worry about: a shot in the dark”—he made a pistol with thumb and forefinger—“and a shot in the dark”—with thumb and two fingers he mimed a syringe.

  “Like I said, we’ve got to get Perry—and his cohorts.”

  “You going home tonight?” Fitch asked.

  “That is where I live.”

  Fitch shook his head. “You barely escaped an attempt on your life, yet you sleep in a house without security. Anybody could walk in off the street. The locks on your doors are practically useless. I checked. You’re not safe there.”

  “I know. I’ve been thinking and I’ve got a plan. I want to run it by you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Don’t say that,” Boucher said, forcing a smile. He lowered his voice. “I’ve been thinking about going to Perry.”

  “What?” Fitch lowered his voice. “What?”

  “Look. Perry knows I’ve been asked to take leave from the bench. He probably had a hand in it. I go to him and say I’m a disgruntled judge. I want to make some money. I’m going to tell him Palmetto died in the submarine accident, and that I have access to his research. I’ll sell the information to him and use that as a way to get on the inside of his organization.”

  “Just what do you think you’ll accomplish?”

  “I think I’ll find what I need to hang him.”

  The waiter returned offering dessert, but both declined. Boucher asked for the check, but when it came, Fitch grabbed it.

  “This one’s on me. Don’t ask me why, you won’t like the answer.”

  “Oh, come on, Fitch. This is not my last supper.”

  But the detective refused. He paid the bill, stood, and said, “Tonight, I’ve got your back. Your place will be watched. But after tonight, I can’t promise you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Boucher said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I hope so.”

  Fitch left the restaurant and Boucher walked home, dawdling like a tourist in front of the various businesses he passed that catered to the night trade, but not venturing inside any of them. For a full five minutes he stood on a sidewalk leaning against a streetlamp, hands thrust deep in his pockets, listening to a jazz combo. He knew Fitch would cover him. When he thought he’d given the detective enough time to set up his surveillance, he headed for home.

  CHAPTER 20

  REXCON’S OFFICE WAS NOT far from the Federal Building, and the irony was not lost on Boucher next morning. His routine had been that of a regular judge with regular judicial responsibilities. But the final turn, into the underground garage of the office tower, would lead him to a far different destination. From the garage to the lobby to the elevator bank that led to the floor where the executive offices were located, he proceeded with a confidence bordering on arrogance. He wore his navy blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, a power color combination, but inside his chest his heart beat like a hummingbird.

  He approached the first secretarial line of defense and asked for John Perry. The receptionist asked his name and he used his title. That got him to the second tier. A second woman came out from a closed burled-mahogany door that must have been fifteen feet tall and asked him the nature of his business and if he had an appointment.

  “Mr. Perry will know the nature of my business. I do not have an appointment.”

  “I’m sorry, Judge Boucher, but Mr. Perry is not available at this moment.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  The lobby area on the executive level was massive, but there was only one small settee against the wall for visitors. There were no carpets. The decorator did not want to cover the expensive marble floor. Boucher’s heels clicked on the flooring and he fought the temptation to tap-dance across the grand entry to the sparse seating. He sat, crossed his legs, and clasped interlocked fingers around his knee, striking a pose of pure contempt. Just try and make me leave, his expression said. Minutes later, a third contingent of the protective phalanx came out, a matched pair of women this time, dressed in different versions of executive administrative business wear.

  “Judge Boucher,” the first one said, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I’ve looked through Mr. Perry’s calendar and I can’t find an appointment with you scheduled for today.”

  “As I said previously, I don’t have one,” Boucher said, without changing position. “Federal district court judges don’t make appointments.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “May I know the nature of your business?”

  I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, Boucher thou
ght and was tempted to say. He couldn’t suppress his smile and wondered if the adrenaline rush was making him giddy. “It’s a personal matter,” he said.

  The two women whispered to each other, and one left, returning the way she had come. The remaining assistant assumed a sort of at-attention posture, linking curved fingers of both hands in front of her midriff with her feet close together. “If you will wait just a moment longer, sir,” she said.

  “I’ll wait all day if I have to,” he replied.

  A minute passed, then several more. The woman stood over him as still and as mute as a statue. He got the feeling that if he made any sudden move she would have sprung to life and leapt at him like a cat. Even the receptionist protected behind the bulwark of her desk was frozen in stiff silence. Boucher shifted position to break the tension, and just to show he could. Finally the other assistant reappeared. She stood by the mammoth doors and said, “Will you come this way, Your Honor?”

  He stood and strode across the marble floor, the sound of his footsteps echoing. Down a short and thankfully carpeted hallway, the woman walked, then stopped before another massive door made of some rare exotic wood. She pushed it open with ease and motioned him to enter with a wave of her arm. He stepped into the inner sanctum.

  The chief executive sat behind an oversized desk far from the doorway. He waited, watching as his uninvited visitor took several steps, before he stood and came out from his power position to greet this stranger in his world, this Daniel entering the lion’s den.

  “Judge Boucher, I don’t believe we’ve met.” Perry approached, and with an almost invisible glance motioned his assistant to leave and close the door behind her.

  The two men met in the middle and shook hands, grips firm and testing as each stared into the eyes of the other as if this wasn’t a greeting but rather a game of chicken to see who blinked first. Perry’s office continued the theme of the reception area: open space, little furniture. Big difference—the office had carpeting ankle-deep.

  Finally Perry blinked, disengaging his grip. “What can I do for you, Judge?”

  Boucher looked around the office. There was an Oriental cabinet with collectible pottery, Southwestern or Mexican, against the wall to his right, a built-in bar to his left with fine crystalware on display, a sofa and coffee table behind him next to the door, and two leather chairs in front of Perry’s desk. Toward these he nodded.

  “Let’s talk,” he said, then walked to the chairs and took a seat. Perry followed him, seeking a way to regain the initiative in this, his own office.

  “I knew your colleague, Judge Epson,” Perry said.

  Boucher dismissed this comment with a wave. “I’m not here to talk about him.”

  “I’m curious to know just why you are here.”

  Boucher drummed the fingertips of both his hands together: one-two-three-four-five, one-two-three-four-five. It was an annoying gesture. Perry masked his irritation, but just barely.

  “I’ve learned something about methane hydrate recently,” Boucher said. “It appears to be a very promising energy source. Those involved should make fortunes, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It has possibilities. It’s going to be expensive, even dangerous. We could be years away from commercial production.”

  “I understand the Russians recently recovered samples from a lake bed, using a submarine.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I know more. Japan, China, India—all three have located massive fields, and are beginning extraction of methane hydrate. Think of those three economic powerhouses with their own energy sources. Might change the world’s balance of power, don’t you think? Of course, you are right. It is dangerous to produce. Undersea landslides causing tsunamis, greenhouse gases, separation and storage of carbon dioxide. What method do you favor, geologic sequestration?”

  “What do you want, Judge?”

  “Let me tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want to be making a hundred and seventy-four thousand a year for the rest of my life.”

  “You want a job?”

  “I’d prefer to call it a pension. What did Judge Epson call it? I’m sure he didn’t call it a bribe.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’d been on the edge of his seat, but now Perry sat back, assuming a more comfortable posture. This conversation was taking an unexpectedly favorable turn.

  Boucher smiled. He pulled out a three-by-five card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Perry. On it were written the last seven words the CEO had spoken: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  “I hardly know you, yet I know you. Mr. Perry, you’re very predictable. I wouldn’t have expected you to say anything else because it wouldn’t look good on tape, would it? Where is the camera and the mike, in that curio cabinet? In the bar? I bet it’s . . .”

  He stood up and walked to Perry’s desk and picked up a small bronze statue of an old horse head oil pump. He examined it from all angles, then smiled, holding it up.

  “Right with my first choice, wasn’t I?” He set it back down and returned to his chair. “In all honesty, I’m here because you are so predictable. With all the people you’ve had killed, I think it’s pretty predictable that you’ll come after me next. I’d kind of like to see that doesn’t happen. I’m sure you understand.”

  Boucher folded his arms across his chest and stared into the eyes of the man across from him. His cards were on the table. Perry had to show his or fold. Seconds ticked on a clock somewhere in the office. Perry displayed a bad habit. He flicked the nail of his right thumb against his front teeth. It was a sign he was about to give in.

  “Where’s Palmetto?” he asked.

  Boucher breathed an unnoticed sigh of relief. He knew he was in. He pulled a second card from his shirt pocket, shaking his head. This card he handed over, saying, “Again, predictable. I knew that would be your first question. I just didn’t expect you to take this long to get to it. Where’s Palmetto, you ask? The answer’s in your hand. It’s one of my favorite movie lines.”

  Perry studied the card. It read, He sleeps with the fishes.

  “What does this mean?”

  “I think you know. There was a ‘seismic event’ off the coast of South Carolina a few days ago. Unfortunately, a mini-sub from the Marblehead Oceanographic Institute was conducting research on the sea floor at the time. One of the submariners was killed. His name was withheld pending notification of next of kin. It was Bob Palmetto.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I was on the research vessel Beagle. Your next question will be what was I doing there, and my answer is that I had taken Palmetto into custody in connection with the murder of a woman named Ruth Kalin. He was found in Marblehead, where he was a guest of one of the scientists with the Institute. You can check that out. It’s a matter of record. Palmetto had asked me to let him conduct one last research mission. I agreed. He was right. It was his last mission. Now it’s time for you to talk. Not here; not with the surveillance you have in this office. Let’s go somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  Boucher looked at his watch. It was not quite ten in the morning.

  “You like beignets?”

  They left the offices of Rexcon separately and met at the Café du Monde, the oldest tenant in the famous outdoor French Market. For over two hundred years, beginning with Native Americans and followed by African-Americans, Spanish, French, Italians, Germans, even Moors from the Holy Land, traders from the world over had engaged in commerce on this spot at the mighty river’s edge. The tradition of trading was continued by the two men who sat by themselves in a far corner with their café au lait and powdered-sugar-coated pastries.

  “I don’t need a judge,” Perry said. “I’m not involved in litigation and I don’t expect to be. Besides, I have friends there already.”

  “I know what you need,” Boucher said. “You need what Palmetto entrusted to me. Besides, I don’t plan on being a judge much longer. I’
ve been asked to take a leave from the bench—as I’m sure you know—and I don’t think I want to go back.”

  “What did Palmetto entrust to you?”

  “I have his work product, all of it. Extraction of methane hydrate, separation of CO2, a system of transporting the methane. Everything he had twenty years ago and everything he’s done since. The man was a genius.”

  “What do you want for it?”

  Boucher held up his right hand with five fingers spread. Then he raised his left hand—with five fingers spread.

  “Ten million?” Perry wheezed.

  Boucher nodded and bit into his beignet. He was quick with his napkin to wipe the powdered-sugar ring around his mouth.

  “You’ll be making billions,” he said.

  “Not for ten years, if then.”

  “You know that’s not true. There’s going to be a headlong rush into this energy source. It’s a perfect storm: tension in the Middle East threatening our major oil supply; our four greatest economic rivals—China, Russia, India, and Japan—moving toward the use of methane hydrate; and the unpopularity of offshore drilling after the Gulf oil spill. Palmetto explained to me how methane hydrate extraction could be accomplished with little or no ecological damage. If the United States is not the first off the mark with extraction and production, there’ll be no expense spared playing catch-up. It will be like the space race all over again.”

  Perry wrinkled his nose. “This smells like extortion,” he said.

  “Bullshit,” Boucher said. “Palmetto’s dead, the goose that laid the golden egg. I inherited and I’m trying to sell a valuable product at a fair price. You’re not interested? I’ve always wanted to go to India. I bet they’d be glad to see me. I look at how you’ve handled this matter to this point and I have to say I’m glad I’m not one of your shareholders. I think you’re too dumb to run your own company.”