The Knowland Retribution

by Richard Greener

  From the air the city of Atlanta appears to have multiple downtowns. In that sense it bears some resemblance to Los Angeles. Walter’s view from seat 4A showed the original downtown, a collection of modern office towers, two stadiums, a massive dome, and a group of skyscraper hotels taller and more attractive to his eye than LA. Farther north another downtown of sorts sprung up. He could make out the rash of construction cranes, toiling in their never-ending endeavor, building the offices and high-rise condos of Atlanta’s ritzy Buckhead neighborhood. He remembered reading that Elton John and Coretta Scott King lived in one of them, in the same building. “How could she afford that,” he wondered? Somewhere nearby, where new money commingled with old privilege, Carter Lawrence lived. Beyond that, two more substantial groupings of tall buildings stood separated by ten miles of the perimeter highway that encircled the city. Looking south, through the window across the aisle, Walter could plainly make out all of Atlanta’s growth to the north.

  When he checked in, the desk clerk at the Ritz-Carlton handed him an envelope from Stevenson, Daniels, Martin, P.C. Attorneys at Law. Inside, handwritten on the firm’s letterhead, was a short note signed by Nicholas Stevenson. It ended with, “Call me tomorrow.” Walter was pleased. He showered, had dinner delivered to his room, watched a little television, and went to bed early. In the morning he called the number indicated on the note as Stevenson’s direct line. Nick Stevenson answered with a cordial, “Good morning, Mr. Sherman.” Caller ID had long ago taken all the surprise out of the telephone. Walter knew if the tiny screen didn’t say Ritz-Carlton, Stevenson had familiarized himself with the hotel’s number and recognized it when it rang. Either way, the thoroughness impressed Walter, who ranked preparation high on his list of admirable characteristics.

  “Thanks for leaving the number,” he said. “I often find it difficult to reach somebody when we’re both strangers.”

  “Not at all. I’m not the President. I’m easy to get ahold of.” Walter liked the accent and the casual manner that accompanied it. It registered right away that Stevenson’s tone showed he knew this call had nothing to do with real estate.

  Walter said, “Is it convenient to meet sometime today?”

  “Why, exactly?”

  “You want to know now? Right here, on the phone?” That sort of directness was unexpected. It irritated him a little.

  “It’s my private line, Mr. Sherman. Why not?”

  Walter did not like being taken by surprise, especially on such a simple matter as arranging an appointment. It unnerved him, and he struggled slightly to regain the measure of composure he felt the situation required. A sip of coffee, a short cough, and then, “I’d like to talk to you about Leonard Martin. The people I work for . . .”

  “And who might they be?”

  Walter was unruffled. He felt completely in control of himself now. Did Stevenson know what Leonard Martin was up to? Could he be helping him? Questions that needed answers, but this was not the time. Walter could make assumptions on the phone, but then he remembered Sherlock Holmes. He needed to see Nick Stevenson, to sit face-to-face with the man before coming to any conclusions—any worthwhile ones. He said, “I’ll be happy to give you all the details I have—everything—when I see you.” Stevenson’s office was only a ten-minute cab ride from the hotel. They agreed to meet there in a half hour.

  The ride, short as it was, was straight north on GA 400, a highway designed to quickly connect Atlanta’s richest suburbs with both Buckhead and downtown; a road built directly through one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city itself. It was a remarkable political achievement occupying a unique spot in the annals of American urban renewal and suburban sprawl; it displaced rich people to benefit others even richer. Its course ran like a vein graft in a bypass operation, pumping new blood to meet the increasingly demanding needs of the heart of Atlanta, the growth of business. And like a bypass, it was not a cure, just a temporary fix. It was not long before a new downtown budded, like the Bradford Pears that dominated the area along what was already being called the 400 Corridor. Stevenson, Daniels, Martin was on the fifteenth floor of the Queen—one of two apparently identical buildings of black reflective glass, each topped with a huge, but different, ivory-white architectural sculpture. They had the look of enormous chess pieces, especially at night, when their white crowns, bathed in light and held aloft by their black base, shone brightly against the night sky. Their identity as the King and Queen had been immediate. They stood adjacent to GA 400, just north of the I-285 interchange, surrounded by luxuriously landscaped grounds. As his cab approached, Walter examined the building tops and wondered if the King and Queen were what the architect had in mind.

  Nick greeted him politely. Had they been anywhere other than the South, where such cordiality was the rule, not the exception, Walter might have called it warm and friendly. He took in the room at a glance. Simple, and, surprisingly, not comfortable. A large couch against the wall; one easy chair with ottoman; a low coffee table and three serviceable chairs for visitors. There appeared to be nothing special about Stevenson’s desk, and there were very few personal items in the room. Walter figured Nick Stevenson for a man who liked to work at work and saw no need to bring his private life into the office.

  Nick said, “And who are the folks you work for, Mr. Sherman?”

  “Walter. Please call me Walter.”

  “Do you go by ‘Walt’?”

  Walter smiled. “No. No, I don’t. Not since grade school.”

  “Never liked it, huh?”

  “Never did.”

  “Well, Walter—and please do call me Nick—who are the folks you work for, and what kind of work is it you do?”

  “I work for some people in New York. You wouldn’t know their names . . .”

  “Try me. I’ve been to New York.”

  “My client is a prominent person. Let’s leave it at that,” Walter said. “I don’t divulge names. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do. And I respect that. But I don’t talk to people when I don’t know who they are. I’m sure you understand.”

  Walter had no response. He just sat there. In a moment, Nick rose, extended his hand, and said, “Nice meeting you, Walter.” In the next moment Walter made a decision completely foreign to his experience, one he’d never even considered. Nick Stevenson had information that could very well be critical to finding Leonard Martin. Walter’s best guess was Nick wouldn’t talk to him, not about Leonard or anything else, without knowing who he was really speaking to. He judged Nick as a man who could be trusted, and said, “I work for a New York businessman named Nathan Stein.”

  “He wouldn’t be the Stein of Stein, Gelb, Hector & Wills, would he?”

  Walter smiled again. “More than once, I see.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve been to New York more than once.”

  “I have. Yes, indeed. Bought some stock too. Made a few deals, you know. Met a few fellas down on Wall Street.”

  Walter saw the mischievous streak in Nick, and he liked it. It reinforced the judgment he’d just made on which he’d risked so much. He liked Nick Stevenson too. He was more than just a closing attorney. “You handled the case against Knowland, didn’t you?” Walter said. “I’ll bet you did it all by yourself.”

  Now it was Nick’s turn to be surprised.

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he said, but obviously he did. His demeanor gave him away, and he knew it too. After an awkward pause he finally said, “What else do you know?”

  “You can assume that everything that can be openly discovered, I’ve got—and perhaps some things that can’t.”

  “Like Knowland?”

  “Like Knowland.”

  “What are we trying to talk about here?” Nick said.

  Walter asked if he could have something col
d to drink. “Diet anything,” he said. Nick buzzed his secretary, and almost immediately she produced a cold can and a glass with ice. “Thanks,” said Walter. “My clients—and Nathan Stein is one of a group—believe your partner, Leonard Martin, is going to kill them.”

  “You never said what it is you do, Walter.”

  “I find people. I find people who can’t be found or don’t want to be found.”

  “A private investigator? Bounty hunter? You’re surely not law enforcement.”

  “None of those. I’m no PI, no license, not for hire for that. I’m no bounty hunter either. I never work on commission. And I don’t go around hurting people. I’m not a hired goon. I just find people.”

  “I didn’t know Leonard Martin was missing.”

  “Nick, we can go round in circles for as much time as you’ve got. I’ve got nothing else to do today. But I’d rather get serious. I’m not an adversary, not to you or Leonard Martin, not to anyone. That’s not what I do. Nathan Stein wants to find Leonard. He can’t do it himself so, he hired me.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did he hire me or why does he want to find him?”

  “The latter.”

  “Stein and his crew,” Walter began, leaning forward in his chair to be closer to Nick, who reclined as far as he could behind his desk, “they believe that the same person who’s already killed other people, including Christopher Hopman and Billy MacNeal, will try to kill them. They don’t know yet who this person is. They came to me. Long story short, that person is Leonard Martin.” Walter looked closely for any reaction at all from Nick Stevenson, anything that might tell him if he knew about this already, might even be part of it. He saw it: a quick halt in Nick’s respiration, then a return to normal. Not enough by itself to draw a meaningful conclusion, but enough to raise certain questions. Perhaps he knew what Leonard was doing. Perhaps he was part of it. Perhaps he was worried he might be found out. Perhaps, also, he knew nothing and was shocked to hear the allegation, but careful enough not to give himself away. Perhaps only Walter’s experienced eye caught the momentary change in Nick’s breathing pattern. He probed further.

  “He’s not in the Bahamas—you know that?”

  “I know about Hopman and MacNeal down in Texas. I read the papers too. Now you’re telling me Leonard Martin is a killer, a cold-blooded murderer? That he shot these men? That’s not possible.”

  “Nick, I’ve been doing this kind of work for more than thirty years. Take my word for it—anything’s possible. When Leonard Martin left here, more than two years ago, you say he went to the Bahamas.”

  “No, I didn’t say that, but you seem to know anyway. Leonard said that.”

  “Yes, he told you he’d bought a place there—a boat too, I believe—and left. Is that right?”

  “Yes. That’s what he said.”

  “And you probably got a letter from him some time later, perhaps even an address, and my guess is you haven’t heard from him since.”

  “What is it you want, Mr. Sherman?” Nick Stevenson was getting a bit testy.

  “Hey,” Walter said, holding up both his hands in mock surrender. He most certainly did not want this meeting to spiral into distrust and anger. “Please, it’s Walter. I’m only trying to let you know there are things I already know. We don’t have to do this this way. I’ll tell you straight out that I do not know what you know, if you know anything, about Leonard Martin’s whereabouts and activities the last few months or the past two years. All I’m looking for is to communicate with him. I have to find him before I can do that. If you can help me contact him, or do it for me, that would more than satisfy my needs. That’s all I want. Will you help me?”

  Nick buzzed his secretary. When she picked up he asked her to bring him some tea. They waited in silence while his tea arrived, and Walter said nothing until Nick had taken a sip.

  “I mean no harm to him, Nick. You have to believe that. That’s not what I do. I need to talk to him or with him. It’s in his best interest. Will you help me?”

  Nick Stevenson shook his head, grimaced, and took another sip of his hot tea. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

  “You haven’t—”

  “No, I haven’t. I haven’t seen him since the day he said goodbye, haven’t talked to him since the day he left, and haven’t communicated with him since then—except for the note I received, as you said, with Leonard’s address in the Bahamas. Are you sure he’s not there anymore?”

  “Never was. It was a decoy. You’re a real estate lawyer. You must have seen these kinds of purchases before. With his expertise my guess is that he flew in, closed on the property and the boat—if you can call it that—and flew out. Might not have spent even one night there.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Nick.

  “I live in the Caribbean, Nick. I know the area he bought in. I’ve checked thoroughly. He was never there.”

  “It’s all Knowland, isn’t it?” Nick said. “Knowland and your clients too.”

  “Yeah, it certainly is,” Walter said. “At some point, probably shortly before he left Atlanta, Leonard came across information about the people who were involved in that sorry episode. He fashioned some sort of list of those he felt knew about the scope of that disaster, understood the danger in advance, and now he’s killing them, one by one.”

  “Because they didn’t stop it?”

  “Because they didn’t stop it.”

  “Leonard Martin is my friend. My partner. Thirty years and you think you know a man. Then his entire family gets wiped out and he doesn’t recover. How could he? It’s all quite amazing,” Nick said. “‘Revenge is the wet nurse to madness.’ You know who said that?”

  “No, I sure don’t,” said Walter.

  “Me neither. Forgot. But I liked it since the first time I read it in college. It’s true, you know. Tell me, how do you know this killer isn’t one of any number of others who suffered a similar loss?”

  “I can account for all the others. I won’t bore you with the details, but—”

  “Yes, of course you found the others. You find people, don’t you?”

  “But I can’t find Leonard Martin. And it’s because he doesn’t want to be found. He’s left behind all the earmarks of someone who’s hiding.”

  Nick was as sad as he was puzzled. He told Walter he knew Leonard Martin to be a peaceful man, a man who despised hunting and never, to his knowledge, even touched a handgun or a rifle. Also, at the end, two years ago, Leonard was a pitiful figure of a man, fat and sloppy, out of shape. He just couldn’t imagine him being able to do this sort of thing.

  Walter said, “I’m sure you’re right. Leonard is a man with a deep sense of character. That’s why he’s come forward to protect Harlan Jennings. I’m convinced he’s a decent man with a strong commitment to justice. Isn’t that what he’s doing? His own form of justice? As for being out of shape, two years is plenty of time to get oneself fit,” said Walter. Nick did not seem to be buying that line, and, frankly, Walter wasn’t a hundred percent convinced himself. He knew Leonard Martin had gained weight steadily over a couple of decades and ballooned in the months following the death of his family. A man in his fifties, with that sort of history, doesn’t often turn it around, no matter how much time he has. As for the guns, that too worried Walter. Leonard would have to start from scratch, and he would have to acquire the skills of a marksman without assistance. Not an easy thing to do, even in two years.

  “I know people,” Nick said, “who are fervent hunters. They damn near love it, but they’re no marksmen. Some of them can’t hit the side of a barn. I don’t see how a man like Leonard Martin can begin at square one and be a proficient shot—hell, a goddamn sniper!—two years later. You can imagine the sort of weapons you’re talking about. It doesn’t seem possible they could belong to the Leonard Martin I know. It
must be someone else. There must be someone you haven’t found yet.”

  Nick Stevenson had been too young for Korea and too old to be drafted in the ’60s. He had no military experience and was not himself a hunter. In fact, he had not fired a weapon of any kind, ever. Walter told Nick he’d been in Vietnam, where he’d known men like Leonard who turned out to be natural shooters. They had an ability to shoot at, and hit, targets that others who worked much harder could not. They came from all walks of life, all circumstances. They were few and far between, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it. Perhaps Leonard Martin was one of them. Perhaps two years with nothing to do except hone those talents was plenty of time.

  “Where could he do that?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t know,” Walter said. “Not yet.”

  They talked a few minutes more. Walter again assured Nick he meant no harm to Leonard. He explained to him, as he had to Isobel, that he believed Nathan Stein would try to buy his way out of this mess. He said, “You’ve no idea what kind of money we’re talking about.” Nick said he didn’t think money would count for much.

  “Leonard has so much,” he said, “and, if you’re right, apparently nothing to spend it on except revenge.”

  Walter’s conviction about Stein’s ultimate solution remained steadfast. “These people are all about money. They believe in the power of money like some believe in the baby Jesus. ‘Enough’ and ‘money’ don’t go together. If they don’t have enough, nobody does.”