by Steve Bailey
Arthur Rackham's house was a sprawling affair of mixed heritage: gables, a widow's walk, octagonal breakfast nook, six corbelled chimneys. A couple of landscapers were manicuring the greenery. I parked in the spotless driveway, crossed a bluestone border, and rang the bell.
Rackham answered the door, crushed my hand, eyed my unwashed Camaro, and led me to the study. He was a big man, maybe forty pounds overweight, florid face set in an expression of permanent irritation. He looked me over with hard gray eyes.
"I'll get right to the point, Stubblefield. Someone is threatening to kill me if I fail to meet certain demands."
"Which are?"
"Well, only one, really." He handed me a sheet of paper on which were pasted words clipped from a newspaper. It read:
How much is your life worth?
Answer: $368,000. You will be contacted.
No police.
"That arrived two days ago."
"It's a matter for the police," I said, "regardless of what it says here."
Rackham waved that away. "No police. Not yet, anyway. You see, I think my son may be involved." He glanced over my shoulder as the door opened.
"Mr. Stubblefield, my wife, Miriam."
Miriam Rackham was tastefully attired—gray skirt, cream blouse, black silk scarf, hair drawn back and held with a silver barrette. She was attractive in a bland generic way. Probably in her early thirties, making her about half her husband's age. She wheeled a coffee service to the table and offered me a limp, dry hand.
"We won't be long," said Rackham.
She hesitated for a moment and then withdrew, having uttered not a word.
"Miriam is not aware of the situation, nor do I wish her to be."
"And the situation is what, exactly?"
"A little background. My son and I are estranged. His mother and I divorced several years ago and Jared does not approve of my second marriage. But the trouble started before all that. I was trained as an architect as was my father. I expected Jared to follow in my footsteps. Instead, when he entered college he enrolled in philosophy and literature courses. Useless subjects. I told him he could pursue that stuff on his own, told him to get into engineering and architecture programs. Come sophomore year he ignored me and stated his intention to major in the humanities. What can you do with a degree in English, for chrissake, or philosophy or sociology? Teach school, be a social worker, if you're lucky enough to find a job in today's market. Might as well take vows of poverty. I confronted him, he remained adamant, so I pulled the plug, told him if he wanted to waste his potential he could do it on his own dime."
"Did he?"
"No. He dropped out. Where was he going to find 40K a year for school? He stayed on in Boston and got a job working for a demolition company." He snorted. "You don't have to be a psychologist to figure that one out: the architect's son blows up buildings for a living. That was a couple of years ago. I don't know what he's doing now."
"And you think his animus is so great that he would threaten your life in an extortion attempt?"
Rackham looked out the mullioned windows at the waves riffling the Sound. "I'd like not to think so. Maybe it's his friends. From what I hear, Jared is living out here again and associating with losers…anarchists, Occupy Wall Street rabble, I don't know who. No doubt they've convinced him that capitalism is the devil's work. Economic oppression, social inequality, all that Socialist claptrap about the 1%. 'Hey, Jared, your old man's a fat cat. Let's restore some of that money to the people!' Given Jared's feeling toward me, he might well go along. And then this morning I found this."
He reached into a drawer and came up with a hand grenade.
"I left the car in the drive last night. When I opened the driver's door this morning I heard a 'ping.' This had been wedged between the seat and the door with the pin pulled. I open the door, the thing is armed. Obviously it's been rendered inoperative or we wouldn't be having this conversation." He handed me a paper. "This was next to it."
It was another note, same construction:
Anyone can be gotten to. We are not playing. Get the money now.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Find Jared. Explain that I'm willing to meet with him and discuss his future. With a little compromising on both sides I'm sure we can work this out."
"And if not?"
Rackham's eyes narrowed. "Then remind him that I'm not easily intimidated, and that if this doesn't stop it will become a police matter. That might register with him coming from a private eye, especially if you explain the penalty for extortion."
Rackham had lost track of Jared and had no idea where he was staying. The phone book yielded nothing, which meant plowing through the nether world of public records.
On the other hand, there was Ricky Tan. Ricky is a journalist who specializes in what he calls "the little stuff:" local oddities, human interest bits, the homeless, and street crime, including gangs. Luck was with me. Ricky was at home.
"Come in, Charles. Coffee?"
Years ago Ricky painted a huge compass rose on his living room floor. All 360 degrees are represented by black lines and the furniture is precisely situated in accordance with those lines. Every New Year's Day he shifts everything a degree or two in order to adjust, so he says, for the local yearly variation in magnetic north. I've never questioned his compulsion. We all have strategies for navigating the world.
"You still writing about the mutts?"
"No shortage of mutts," he replied, handing me a steaming mug. "Let's see…last time it was skinheads. Who now?"
"How you fixed for anarchists?"
"We host a small cadre. Lightweights. A few got arrested in Seattle and up in Montreal protesting the G8 conferences. Mostly they're fools on stools, barroom ranters. Anyone in particular?"
"Jared Rackham."
Ricky smiled. "Any relation to Arthur Rackham?"
"Son."
"Interesting name, Rackham. Ever hear of Captain John Rackham, aka Calico Jack?"
"Cat fancier?"
"Woman fancier. And a well-known pirate in the early 1700s. Did pretty well for himself until they captured him and hung him up on a gibbet at Deadman's Cay."
"How do you know this stuff?"
"I've always had an affinity for those who live contra mundum, outside the law. They're so much more interesting than model train enthusiasts or members of the garden club."
"You ever live the life yourself?"
"Once a friend and I got his car up to a hundred on the turnpike. He took his hands off the wheel and we steered by opening and closing the doors."
I laughed. "Sure you did."
"Well, maybe we did just discuss the idea. At any rate, our Arthur Rackham is a bit of a pirate himself."
"How so?"
Ricky shook his head. "Talk to Phil Cook. He can tell you more than I can."
"Any idea where I can find Jared?"
"He and his buddies used to hang out at the Foc'sle."
"Drinking rum, no doubt."
"Yo ho ho."
The Foc'sle is a waterfront bar that has so far escaped the relentless upscaling that is blighting Cape Cod. Its days are numbered, though. The boatyard and sail loft next door recently closed and sold out to developers. The hunger among the wealthy for second and third vacation homes has laid waste to local culture from Woods Hole to Provincetown. The Chamber of Commerce types call it progress. No doubt they would call it progress if cannibals began using microwaves.
I pushed through the door with the porthole and took a look around. Everything seemed intact: scarred wooden tables, fishing nets sagging from the rafters, buoys, quarterboards, and harpoons adorning the walls. The usual crew of watermen and tradesmen were busy slaking their thirst. The bartender drew me a beer and pointed out Jared who was sitting alone at a table with several empties in front of him.
"Hi Jared."
He looked up, alert despite the five empty Coronas.
"I know you?"
My name is Stu
bblefield. I have a message from your father."
Jared had his father's gray eyes, but that was all. He was slim, almost delicate looking, with spiky black hair and a small gold ring in one ear.
"Take it back to him and tell him to stick it where the sun doesn't shine."
"It's about your attempt to extort a few hundred thousand dollars from him."
Jared's eyes widened. "What? Are you crazy?"
I sat down and looked him squarely in the eye. "Tell me you're not shaking down your old man."
"Okay. I'm not shaking down my old man. He says I am, he's a liar. I don't want anything from him. I don't want to talk about him. And I don't particularly want to talk to you, so why don't you get the hell out of my face."
I held up my hands. "Easy does it. Someone's threatening your father. He hired me to look into it. Any idea who it might be?"
"No, I don't, but he thinks it's me, right? Makes sense. He thinks everyone is like him."
"How is that?"
"He's money simple. Views everything through the lens of his bankbook and what it can buy. You've seen the mansion."
"Yep."
"And the trophy wife."
"Uh huh."
He finished his beer and slammed down the bottle.
"Tell him to go to hell."
I met Phil Cook at The Rudder for breakfast the following morning. Phil is a lawyer I'd saved from a bad beating a few years back and he's never forgotten it. When I need information he can be counted on to provide it. I asked him about Rackham.
"Ah yes, the Prince of Perfidy. You recall the StrykerDyne scandal a few years back?"
"Something about windmills, wasn't it?"
"Right. StrykerDyne was an energy startup. Wind power. Big hoo-haw. Energy independence, green technology, no more pollution, kiss off the Saudis. Cheap power to the people. All a scam."
"Rackham was involved? He's an architect."
Cook nodded, took a cautious bite of his omelet. "Yes, he's an architect. Took over his father's firm. He's also an accountant. Got his degree in the former, went right back to Harvard for an MBA. A driven individual. Hired someone to manage the architectural firm and went to work for some large corporation or other. Made a pile. But not enough, apparently."
"How much money does one need?"
"Silly question. People like Rackham have a hole inside them that they try to fill with money. After a while it isn't driven by actual need. It becomes a game, or a sickness if you'd rather. You've seen the bumper sticker: 'He who dies with the most toys wins.' Anyway, he went to work for StrykerDyne. An old college buddy was the CEO. Man with a plan."
"How did it work?"
He took another tentative bite of the omelet. "Classic Ponzi scheme. They finagled a no-bid sweetheart deal to lease federal waters off the coast of Rhode Island. They set up a few windmills out there with the promise of a couple hundred more to come, and then went looking for investors."
"At which they were successful."
Cook nodded. "It was an easy sell, really. He was offering tax-sheltered partnerships which, of course, appealed to greedy investors. And people were fed up with the war in Iraq, terrorism, high prices at the pump, mounting electricity bills. Wind power was the next big thing."
"How did Rackham fit in?"
"He was hired as an independent auditor. He prepared prospectuses, annual reports, that kind of thing, and in them issued false and misleading information. Had to, you see, because StrykerDyne was producing very little electricity. But, the initial investors were receiving large royalty checks."
"Which was coming from subsequent investors."
"Correct. People heard about those big payouts and tore the pockets off their pants getting their wallets out. StrykerDyne hosed a lot of people, and a lot of them lost all they had."
"And it collapsed."
"Oh, yeah. The feds got onto it, of course, but by then the company had filed for bankruptcy. In the end the CEO and two of his honchos went down on violation of SEC regs, conspiracy, and mail fraud. Club Fed. Fines of 15 or 20 million. Rackham cooperated with the investigation, ratted the rest out, received three years probation, community service, was fined a million and change. Didn't spend a day in jail."
"Any redress for the investors?"
"Not really. Hundreds of the poor bastards still haven't seen a dime. Recovery efforts were focused on whatever liability insurance the company had, but nobody's holding their breath." He pushed away his half-eaten omelet.
"You eat here often?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
"Got to make every day as exciting as you can."
An hour at the courthouse revealed that there had been a class action suit brought against StrykerDyne. The clerk provided me with the records. I ran off copies of the names of the plaintiffs and returned the file.
My talk with Jared led me to doubt that he was threatening his father. His disaffection and denial seemed authentic and besides, Phil Cook had provided me with a better candidate: some poor schlub who'd sunk his life's savings in StrykerDyne only to lose it all and then have to watch one of the men who'd robbed him walk away with a lot of his money still intact. It could make someone angry enough to take matters into his own hands. With this many angry people to choose from, I'd have to narrow it down somehow.
It was raining an hour later when I got back to the office. He was waiting for me in the alley beside my building. He didn't waste time talking, just came at me with a fungo bat that he swung down at my head. I had only enough time to cross my forearms and take the blow in the V they provided. The pain was immediate and stunning, but it blocked the strike and gave me the second or two I needed to respond.
I drove a sidekick into his gut that doubled him over and propelled him back into an SUV. He was still holding the bat, so I grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face down hard onto my knee. He dropped the bat and fell to his knees, all the fight gone out of him. Blood streamed from his ruined nose and mixed with the rain, forming a pink puddle on the pavement.
My left arm was useless. With the right I dragged him by the hood of his slicker under an overhang and waited for him to recover. I'd seen him before. He was one of Rackham's gardeners.
"What was that all about?" I asked when he was breathing normally.
He shook his head.
"I asked you a question, Jim."
He gave me the finger. I grabbed his hand, placed it in a wrist lock, and applied pressure.
"Alright! I just wanted you to back off. Jesus, you broke my nose."
"Back off what?"
"Rackham hired you to find me, didn't he?"
"Maybe."
"What a loser. If he can't keep his wife happy what the hell does he expect?"
I released his arm. "You're tagging Rackham's wife?"
He looked confused. "Isn't that why he hired you, to scare me off?"
"How did you know who I was?"
"The gateman told me when I asked."
"Unlikely."
"I asked him nice, okay? Brought along his buddy, Jim Beam."
Procope of the blossoming nose.
"You been sending Rackham notes?"
"What are you talking about?"
"A draft horse like you can't afford a filly like Miriam Rackham. Maybe you had the bright idea of scaring some money out of the old man and heading for Tahiti with the lady."
He laughed at that. "Right, like she'd leave Fort Knox for me. All I do is put a smile on her face once a week. Look, I'm married. You're not going to tell him, are you?"
I got up to go. "I don't care what you and the lady do. Her husband hired me on another matter. Some advice, though: he's a hard man. You keep it up, sooner or later he'll figure it out. When he does, you'll look back on our little encounter fondly."
I stopped at Cumberland Farms and bought a bag of ice that I draped over my forearm while I drove to Hillbourne Estates. On the way I considered two things that were bothering me. First, the extortion dem
and. $368,000 struck me as an unusual figure. You would expect a round figure, half a million or a million. This demand was quite specific and I thought I might know why.
Second, the hand grenade. Hillbourne Estates was a well-guarded gated community with roving security on duty twenty-four hours. Yet someone had been able to get into the compound, monkey with Rackham's car, and get out undetected. It could be done, of course, maybe by landing a boat on the beach. I thought there might be another way.
Rackham met me at the door and started in full throttle. "Where the hell have you been? I've called you half a dozen times."
"I was at batting practice. What's the matter?"
He led me to the study. "I'll show you what's the matter." He opened the door and motioned for me to go in. I did, and found myself staring down the barrel of shotgun. It had been taped to a chair and positioned so as to point at the door. A length of twine led from the inside doorknob, around the room, and back to the trigger. Whoever opened the door would be blown in half—if the gun was loaded.
"Another bluff, another note telling me to stay by the phone. I did. He called."
"And?"
"He said to put the money in a dinghy, tow it out exactly ten miles on a course of 175 degrees, and cast it off."
"When?"
"Tonight. Two a.m."
"What did you say?"
"I told him to go screw himself. No way I'm paying this guy off. You think Jared is involved?"
"I don't think so."
"You saw him?"
"Yes. He was quite emphatic in his denial."
"You relayed my offer to meet with him?"
"I did. He said…well, he wasn't receptive to the idea. Look, Rackham, who hires the people who work here? The front gate, security, gardeners, plumbers, that sort of thing."
"The Homeowners Association. Why? You think someone here is doing this?"