“You were wrong. Wrong about your dad, and wrong about Ellie,” Zaffer said, but with less heat now that he’d made Milo eat dust. He sat cross-legged, as though they were resting after a run. “She thinks Pearce is just a creep who plays with fire. She doesn’t know what he’s trying to protect.”
“She wanted to do it,” Milo muttered. “She feels bad about your shop.” Even to himself he sounded sullen. Zaffer’s punch had knocked some ugly truths into his head.
“Of course she does! She’s not her father. That’s my point.” Zaffer sighed. “So we were both wrong about him. I fell for it too, every bit, and he didn’t lie to my face and show me a confession in my dad’s writing. He’s brilliant, I’ll give him that. In some ways. But he’s not a fraction of the man your dad was. Not a tenth. He’s a liar—”
“He’s a murderer.” Milo spat dirt out of his mouth.
“Possibly,” Zaffer admitted.
“I want him dead.”
“You want to kill him?”
Some of his fury had been beaten out of Milo, replaced by something colder. “No. That would upset my mother.”
“Well…I hear Michigan doesn’t have the death penalty. How about getting him life in prison?”
Milo’s grin turned into a grimace, and he touched his jaw. Nodded. “It’s a start.”
Over the Saturday Trucker’s Special Breakfast, they plotted. Zaffer was all for simple—call the cops. “With what we can tell them, they’ll re-open your dad’s file.”
“And should we tell them Alf Farnon’s a killer while we’re at it?”
“Ah. What, then?”
“We get him to confess.”
Zaffer gagged on his toast. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I mean it,” Milo said. “I go to see him. I tell him I got the flash drive after all, before the fire—Pearce couldn’t have found it or he wouldn’t have torched the place. I act all excited because I found notes on it that show Pearce was the embezzler, not my dad. I say I want some answers.”
“But Shoe. Even if he admits something—and that’s an if the size of the Big House—he’ll just deny it later—”
“The Spy Pen.”
Zaffer opened his mouth and then closed it. He jabbed his finger three times at Milo. “We’d have him on tape.”
“Yep.”
“That’s good. That’s brilliant. I am so in.” Then he scowled. “Except it’s illegal to tape people without their permission. You couldn’t use it in court.”
“I don’t care. I want to hear him say it.”
“All right. All right, Shoe. But what makes you think he will say it? If he’s the mastermind behind it all—Jesus, I can’t believe we never even thought of him—sorry. Why should he confess to you? Why not just pull out a gun and shoot you? Or tell Pearce to whack you on the DL?”
Milo had the answer. “Guilt.”
“He’s hidden that pretty well up to now.”
“No, listen. I think he feels bad about what happened to my dad, even if he’s the one who did it. Because he was the one. Think about it, Zaffer. Why would he let me work at Wolverine in the first place? He didn’t come looking for me. But when I came to him with questions, why didn’t he say, sorry, kid, I can’t help you? Why spin me that incredible mess of lies—with just enough truth in it so I swallowed every bit? And then when I buy it, when I even ask him if I can make amends for what my dad did by working there myself, why does he let me?” He paused. “It’s not smart.”
“Duh.”
“But he’s a smart man. So why?”
Zaffer raised his eyebrows. “Guilt?”
“Bingo.”
Milo remembered every sentence Alf Farnon had ever said to him. That sincere, man-to-man voice. “No question, sacrifices must be made,” he’d told Milo across a diner booth just like this one. Milo had assumed his hero meant fifteen-hour days, obsession, neglect of family, the usual trade-offs of success. But Farnon had meant more. Integrity. Conscience. His soul.
“Enough guilt to come clean?” Zaffer was skeptical.
“Maybe. I’m thinking of what he’s done already. Pearce didn’t think it was smart to hire me, but Farnon persuaded him they owed my family something. Whatever Farnon did that night—and it had to be bad, or why hush it up?—Pearce knows.”
Milo thought of the time he’d bumped into the two of them with his noisy cart coming back from the storage shed. Pearce’s suspicious glare, Farnon’s vagueness, the absent way he’d called him “Arlo.” Like he barely knew who Milo was. Yet Farnon hadn’t been vague at their first meeting, nor anytime since.
“Farnon brought me in but he didn’t want Pearce to think it was a big deal. They’re in this together, all right. But I’m not sure he’s calling the shots. I think Pearce makes him nervous.”
Zaffer was still frowning. “He can get in line. It’s a lot of guessing, Shoe. Good guessing, don’t get me wrong—but good enough to die for? The Spy Pen won’t save you if one of them pulls a weapon. It’ll just record the shot.”
Milo drained his coffee cup and set it down with a thump. “You’re right. Can you get a gun?”
***
Chapter 21
The humid Saturday had cooled into a muggy evening when Zaffer came for him that night. To the west storm clouds were gathering, and the air had a yellow, brooding quality. Milo had told his mother the Zaffers’ store had burned, but not why, and Gloria was so busy clucking over Zaffer and his family she didn’t ask any question about where he and Milo were going. He gave the twins hugs and hugged his mother as well, which surprised but pleased her. Then he hurried Zaffer out to the truck before they had to tell any more lies.
“Tell me again what he said.” Zaffer’s terse command was in contrast to his cheery wave at Joey, who as usual had run down the driveway to see them off.
Milo had called Alf Farnon’s cell phone. “He said if my news was so urgent, I should stop by his office tonight. He didn’t go for the restaurant plan. I didn’t push it.”
“And you didn’t mention the flash drive.”
“I didn’t have to. Which is good—he won’t have time to cook up another story.”
“Goddammit. It’s going to be hard to cover you on the seventh floor,” Zaffer said with a frown. “How will you get in?”
“There’ll be a guard in the lobby.”
“Could you wedge the side door open for me?”
“Not in front of the guard. Anyway, Farnon won’t shoot me in his own building, with a security guard downstairs.”
Zaffer used his wrist to wipe sweat from his forehead. The hot breeze from the window brought little relief. “So you hope. I’ll drop in on Harry and get the key to the side door. It hangs with the other ones—he won’t miss it. Then if you give the code word—”
“Titan,” Milo supplied.
“—I’ll come running.”
The outbuildings of the Wolverine plant appeared in the distance, the main tower and the long assembly plants looming black against the threatening sky. Milo checked the Spy Pen clipped to his T-shirt. It looked ridiculous, a pen on a T-shirt neck, but when he put on his windbreaker the pen would be hidden. “I wish I could hear you on this.”
“Yeah. Well, the two-way ones cost a fortune.” Zaffer bristled at any criticism of his espionage gear. “Now remember. Ask him right off if he killed your dad. Shock him.”
“Got it.”
“Tell him you’ve got the proof.”
“I know. I know all this.”
Zaffer had found an article online about police interrogation techniques, and all afternoon had drilled Milo on it. Milo humored him. The only people he’d ever forced to confess were five-year-olds, and they were usually wearing the evidence of their crimes.
Zaffer glanced over. “We can still call this off. Go get a milkshake.”
Milo smiled briefly. “No.”
“When you get up there, say something into the mike. I’ll honk the horn so you’ll know I can hear you.”
They’d tested the pen from distances up to a quarter-mile, and the reception was clear. But the highest point they’d been able to access was the top of Zaffer’s house. Alf Farnon’s office was a lot higher than that.
“Where’s Pearce right now?” Milo asked.
“Still at The Smokehouse. Ellie’s bored out of her mind. She left her CDs in the Mustang and she claims the neighbor’s car only gets country western.”
Janine had said Pearce spent Saturdays until closing at his restaurant. Apparently arson didn’t change his routine. “What’d you tell her we were doing?”
“Waiting till the cop that handled your dad’s case came on duty.” Zaffer sounded troubled. “I still don’t like lying to her. Or putting her in danger.”
“She’s got that wig on, right? And she’s in a strange car. Her own father wouldn’t know her.”
Guilty he might feel about lying to Ellie, but Milo doubted she was in danger. No, it wasn’t Farnon’s daughter who was preying on his mind. It was Farnon himself.
Milo had never been so wrong-footed in his life. All summer, from the first day he’d come to Wolverine, it was Gordon Pearce who’d been the nasty piece of work. Each new revelation—the van, the matches, the storage shed records, Fatso—had stoked Milo’s need to see Pearce punished. Mostly because Pearce deserved it. But he had to admit that part of his drive to get the guy had been exactly for the reason Zaffer had beaten out of him: so Milo could bring Pearce to his hero like a dog delivering a stick. Look what I brought you.
He writhed at the thought. Get over it. All right, so it was Farnon, not Pearce, who was the “someone from work.” He could still get vengeance. He had enough rage to go around.
Zaffer put his blinker on. They were coming up on the gates of Wolverine Motors.
“It’s time,” he said.
Zaffer greeted the night guard in the little booth. “Hey, Pinky. You know Milo.” Milo waved from the passenger seat. Pinky was so fat there was barely room in the booth for him and his little TV. “I’m just dropping him off.”
“Sure, Zaffer. Busy place tonight. We got caterers and fireworks guys rushing like hell to finish up before the storm.” Pinky raised the metal gates. He pointed toward the Security Offices in the main plant twenty feet away. “If I’m not here when you drive out, just bang on the door over there.”
“Will do.”
Zaffer drove past the vans and pickups huddled near the side entrance. Workers had rigged a temporary ladder on the north side of the roof—faster than using the elevator, Milo supposed. It clanked in the hot wind.
Zaffer stopped in the circle driveway before the main doors.
“He might be watching.” Milo remembered the crow’s nest view from Farnon’s office.
“That’s why you’re getting out here. I’ll go behind the storage shed; he can’t see back there. Now remember. Say the code word and I’ll come.” Zaffer patted the striped beach towel beside him on the seat. Under it was his father’s Glock 22. Which he assured Milo he had fired often—and accurately—at the range. “Just stay alive till I get there.”
Milo put his hand on the door. It was conceivable he was about to make an incredible fool of himself, because he was a paranoid, grieving son. And yet— Zaffer wasn’t grieving, and he was here. “I can’t see Farnon trying to hurt me here, at his own plant,” he said again.
“Shoe. If this guy was where you think he was the night your dad died, then he’s really good at accidents.” Zaffer’s brown eyes were deadly serious. “Assume nothing. Keep your options open.”
“Moscow rules?”
“They’ll work in Michigan.”
The guard at the front desk buzzed him in without comment. Farnon must have given him Milo’s name. In the elevator Milo checked in the mirrored panels that the Spy Pen didn’t show under his jacket.
The doors slid silently open at the seventh floor. He stepped to the closest window and said into his shirt, “I’m in.” A muffled honk of a truck horn below answered him. Good. On the thick carpet he crossed like a ghost through the shadows of the reception area, past Margaret’s desk, toward the light spilling from Farnon’s open door.
He’d expected a scene of activity, given all the preparations the president was overseeing. But Alf Farnon was sitting at his wide, bare desk, his big hands clasped quietly before him. He’d taken off his suit jacket and sat with his shirtsleeves rolled up. Milo had made no noise. But Farnon looked up as though he was exactly on time. “Come in, Milo. What’s your urgent matter?”
Milo held up the camo flash drive Leslie had given him. “I got this from the pawnshop yesterday before it closed. Before it burned down.”
Farnon didn’t say, what pawnshop? He knows. A sliver of hope Milo hadn’t known he harbored, died.
Farnon glanced at the drive. “So it really is waterproof. Well, what’s on it?”
“My dad’s ‘To Do’ list, for one. On December twenty-third he had a meeting at The Smokehouse. With an AF. You were with him the night he died.” Milo spoke with the certainty of an eyewitness. “For a long time I thought it was Pearce, but you were the ‘someone from work’ he went to meet. We were desperate to hear something all that week; we had to drug my mother, she was so frantic. But you never said a word.”
Farnon gave a slight nod. Milo’s hands clenched, and he forgot about the Spy Pen, about Zaffer outside in his truck. He walked into the room and grasped the back of the leather chair he had sat in once before. “Why not?”
“It wouldn’t have helped,” Farnon said.
“For his family to know he was dead? That wasn’t important?”
“There were…larger issues at stake.” Farnon gestured toward the chair. “Please. Sit down.”
“I’ll stand.”
“It’s a long story.”
“So start talking. And no lies this time. That Restitution Schedule is on here. All the pages, going back three years.” It could have been, too; it would have been like Tim. “So don’t even try to pretend my dad cheated Wolverine Motors.”
Farnon glanced out the wall of windows, where masses of clouds were bringing full darkness early. Inside, the office was lit only by a desk lamp, and by the floodlight on the front lawn shining on the giant, rippling flag.
He turned back to Milo. “All right,” he began. “Three years ago Wolverine landed a big order from a city in California—a whole fleet replacement. We’d beaten out the big names, it was a tremendous chance. But it meant building a new paint shop—the old one couldn’t handle the schedule they wanted. Only we were already into the banks up to our necks. I couldn’t tap more credit till we’d paid off the first loans.
“That’s when Gordon came to me. He’d only been with us a month, but already he’d had some good ideas.”
“Did you know he was an ex-con?”
Farnon gave him a look that suggested the question was naïve. Milo found he no longer cared what Alf Farnon thought of him.
“Of course I did. Gordon had heard we might lose this order. He said companies often gave themselves temporary loans by delaying their corporate payroll taxes.” Keyes had said this, but hearing Farnon confirm it so casually made Milo’s breath catch. “The IRS can’t monitor everyone, he said, and most of the time they didn’t catch you unless it went on forever, or someone sold you out. Neither of which was our situation. Only he and I would know. We’d build the paint shop, then tell the IRS there’d been a mix-up, we’d pay the tax and any penalty out of the new sales, and we’d be in good shape.”
Farnon pushed his chair back. “I’m a big picture guy, Milo. Just show me the bottom line. I said, fine, do it, just don’t involve me. But Gordon wanted some insurance. So I wrote him a letter authorizing him to ‘retain’ the corporate tax account for a one-time internal use, and we both signed it. We each have copies. I couldn’t turn him in without incriminating myself, see?”
Milo came around the front of the chair and sat down. How could a smart guy like Farnon have s
igned that letter? Milo could see him agreeing to the scheme. That fit with the big vision, the refusal to lose, even with the loyalty to his workers, in a perverse way. All the traits Milo admired. But honesty—hell, common sense—where had those been?
“So we did it,” Farnon was saying, “and Gordon was right. No one caught on. I promoted Gordon to controller. I knew he was keeping some of the money—a service charge, he called it—but as long as he financed our growth, I didn’t kick. The happier Gordon was, the safer we all were, see?”
Milo saw. “Did you pay the IRS back?”
“We meant to. But then we had a shot at a big military contract. It meant a third shift, hiring more workers—so no, we didn’t pay the IRS right away. More opportunities followed, and…we never did settle up. They’ve never noticed.” Farnon blinked his pale eyes. “When I count the working families we’ve kept off food stamps, I think the government should be paying us. Oh, it bothered me at first. Tax-dodging. But after a while, I don’t know…”
“You got used to it.”
Farnon glanced at his watch, then shrugged. “I didn’t track the exact amount. I left all that to Gordon. My job was to run the company, and that meant growing sales.
“And I did. Let me tell you, Wolverine Motors never needed a public bailout, not on my watch.” This was said with no irony. Farnon’s voice grew scornful. “Not like the auto companies. Just when you thought they’d hit bottom, they’d start digging. Chrysler, GM. The worse they did, the more money the feds threw at them. What kind of incentive to think smarter is that? When the White House came up with this high-speed rail scheme I thought, dammit, you shouldn’t have to be a failure to make it in this country. We’re going for it. And it was in the bag, it was all but ours…when your dad found out about the payroll tax.” For the first time ill-usage colored Farnon’s tone. But not, it seemed, because of Tim Shoemaker. “I blame Gordon for that. He got careless. Tim should never have seen those records.”
Milo shook his head. Farnon gave him a rueful smile, as though he shared Milo’s chagrin. “I know! At the Christmas party Tim came up to me. Wanted to see me in private. I hadn’t thought about the payroll business in months. I said let’s wait until Gordon’s back from Denver, but Tim said no, it involved Gordon. It couldn’t wait.
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