by Sydney Bauer
‘But how?’ asked a tired-looking Sara who had moved to a straight-backed chair in an effort to relieve the ache in her shoulders. She was over eight months pregnant and, David knew, feeling more uncomfortable by the day. In fact, while he was selfishly excited at these new revelations, he had noted the immediate disquiet on her face the moment the name ‘Logan’ had been uttered.
‘Even if we do find a link,’ Sara went on, ‘what can we do about it besides going to the ADA. And who is to say she would even believe what we were claiming, given she is the last person wanting to cut us a break. Don’t forget, there is still the matter of those dual restraining orders against us, which means we can’t take this to the children – which means we have no hope of . . .’
‘Sara’s right,’ said Arthur, taking an icy cold water from Nora before she rushed from the room to monitor their calls. ‘The 209A is a problem. And besides all that, our evidence is sketchy at best.’
‘So we have to find the link,’ said Joe. ‘Golan is a long shot, but in the very least we know someone who knows Nagol – and if at some stage Nagol came in to buy his guns from Blackmore’s outfit personally, then we might be able to get an ID and match it with the smarmy Doc Hollywood himself.’
‘But you said it yourself, Joe,’ said Sara. ‘The gun laws in Nevada don’t require you to front up in person, and if anything we can assume Logan has been super careful when it comes to hiding his multiple identities.’
‘Sure,’ said David, picking up on Joe’s tack. ‘He’s careful now, but what about years ago before he became so famous. Blackmore told Rigotti that Nagol had been a customer from way back. Maybe he wasn’t always as cautious as he is now.’
Before he had a chance to change his mind, David rose from the sofa and moved towards Arthur’s desk, picking up the phone before pressing four digits and waiting for the operator to pick up.
‘Nevada, please,’ he said, when the operator asked him for the state before enquiring if the number he wanted was residential or commercial. ‘It’s a business. Hunting Rifles Inc in Las Vegas.’
‘Jesus,’ said Joe, rising from his seat. ‘What in the hell are you doing, David? I thought we all agreed we can’t alert Blackmore to . . .’
But it was too late.
‘Mr Blackmore?’ asked David, and the others in the room immediately picked up on his accent. Marc Rigotti was a born and bred New Yorker and thus had the tendency to speak in that edgy, punctuated dialect that those from the Big Apple favoured.
‘This is Marc Rigotti. I am sorry to bother you again.’ And in that moment David switched the phone to speaker, hoping beyond all hope that Blackmore would not notice – or, even worse, protest.
‘Honestly, Mr Rigotti,’ said an obviously exasperated Blackmore. ‘Your calls are now verging on harassment. I have spoken to Mr Nagol and he has assured me he has spoken to you. I have a business to run, sir, and I . . .’
‘I am sorry, Mr Blackmore,’ said David. ‘There is just one more thing – and I am happy to say it has nothing to do with the Logan case. It’s just that after all of our conversations another idea came to me. Mr Nagol seemed like a very nice man and I was kind of in awe of his shooting accomplishments. And I thought that maybe he might make a good subject for a character piece – you know, man against elephant – that sort of thing.’
Silence . . . as Blackmore took a breath and all in the room waited anxiously for his response.
‘Well, that sounds more like it,’ said Blackmore. ‘We have been supplying him with rifles for years, you know. He must have a tremendous collection by now. I would be happy to talk about our business and how we go out of our way to supply our loyal customers and – as in Mr Nagol’s case – lifelong gun enthusiasts with the pieces they desire.’
‘So you’ve obviously known Mr Nagol for some time then? It’s funny, I have been sitting here trying to imagine what kind of man takes on the most powerful animals on the planet – I mean, the guy must be pretty big to have the guts to . . .’
‘Oh no, sir,’ said Blackmore.
‘He’s of average size then,’ said David, barely able to hide his excitement. ‘Is he tall or slim or . . . ?’
‘My “no” didn’t refer to Mr Nagol’s stature, Mr Rigotti.’ And David felt his heart begin to sink. ‘But to the fact that I have never seen him. He orders most of his guns by email or telephone and we send them to various places around the country, depending on where he is at the time.’
It wasn’t much better.
‘But Little Willie has seen him,’ added Blackmore.
‘Excuse me, Mr Blackmore?’ asked David, lifting his head to meet his colleagues’ eyes.
‘Little Willie – or more specifically William Dukes, my second-in-charge. Willie used to compete against Jason Nagol when they were teenagers – you know, at local shooting competitions, target rallies and the like.’
‘And is Mr Dukes available to . . .’
‘Well sure,’ said Blackmore. ‘In fact, if you hold on a moment Willie is just finishing up with a customer. He could call you back if you like. I have your number at the Tribune.’
‘No!’ protested David, almost a little too enthusiastically. ‘I mean, I can hold if that is okay.’
‘Well, all right then.’
Moments later, Dukes was on the line.
‘Jason Nagol was the best damn shot I ever come across,’ said Dukes after their introductions. ‘I’m a darn fine shooter, Mr Rigotti, but my talent comes from hours and hours of practice. Jason, on the other hand, could well have been born with a gun in his hand. With Jason, the ability to shoot come natural, the gun was like an extension of his arm.’
‘So you are saying that the fair-haired Jason had always been big,’ David was fishing. ‘Strong enough to control his weapons even at a young age when . . .’
‘No, sir, you get me completely wrong. First up, Jason was dark – long brown hair that always covered his face, tanned skin and, if I recall correctly, dark brown eyes. And he was never a physical kid, if anything he was average in build – maybe even what you would call scrawny. But my point was, Mr Rigotti, that Jason knew how to control a weapon with his mind.’
David said nothing, hoping that Dukes would go on.
‘I remember him arriving at various pistol shoots in the back of his mom’s ’82 Buick. He’d jump from that car like a boy obsessed, already summoning the calm it would take to kick our asses to hell and back.’
‘His mom used to drive him to the contests?’
‘As far as we could tell she had no choice. Jason said he used to force his mom to take him – even joked about holding a gun to her head so that she would get into the car.’ And Little Willie laughed, a strange high-pitched giggle. ‘That Nagol was some controlling son-of-a-bitch, all brooding and tormented and smug.’
David nodded, knowing the ‘controlling’ comment was probably the understatement of the year.
‘And his mother,’ said David. ‘Do you remember her too?’
‘Well, sure,’ said Dukes. ‘In fact, she was particularly hard to forget because she was such a looker. If I recall correctly, Jason’s mom was a sort of celebrity in her own right – she used to headline at the Bellagio or the Sands or . . . anyway, I believe her moniker was Lovely Legs McCall.’
‘His mother was a Vegas showgirl?’ asked David.
‘That’s what I heard. But that was years ago and from what I recall there was some story about her passing early, in some car accident I think – something about her and Jason’s dad being taken out by a semitrailer heading west on the Interstate Fifteen.’
David shot a glance at Joe. ‘So they are both deceased,’ he said.
‘Like I said, that’s what I heard.’
‘And Lovely Legs McCall was the show name she used when she danced in the Vegas clubs?’
‘I think so, and judging by those pins, Mr Rigotti, I am guessing she certainly did not disappoint.’
Just then, a loud noise rung out across
the office and David looked up to see Nora in the doorway, the pitcher of cold water now in pieces around her feet. And in that same moment, Dukes said he was being called away to help another customer. Sara rushed to mop up the debris and David took Dukes’ home number before thanking him for his help and hanging up the phone. Then he met Nora’s eye, knowing – just knowing – that his beloved secretary had something important to share.
‘God save us,’ said Nora, before turning to hurry from the office, the others standing to follow as she went to her desk and emptied her in-tray by tipping it upside down in total disregard of her usual sense of order.
David moved around her desk and, taking her by her shoulders, forced Nora to look at him. ‘What is it, Nora, what’s wrong?’
But Nora only shook her head in frustration, before turning to face the confused group beside her, then once again meeting David’s eye. ‘The article on Ms McCall – it’s missing, lad. Your only link to Jeffrey Logan – it is gone.’
46
The Vanity Fair arrived at 3.45pm. She was at home, which was not unusual considering Jeffrey seemed to be requiring her less and less at the studio these days. It came via messenger, ‘hot off the presses’, as the saying goes – one of the first copies of the soon-to-be-released August issue, with a strikingly handsome Jeffrey Logan on the cover. The shot, taken by world-renowned Vanity Fair photographer Annie Leibovitz, showed Logan at the wheel of a large white cruiser, the wind lashing across his olive-skinned face, the grey clouds massing overhead, the hint of sea spay glistening on his left cheek, and his knuckles tensed, white, as he steered the massive powerboat through the rough seas.
The image, Katherine noted, while meant to portray a sense of loss and loneliness also spoke of determination and resolution. It was, she thought, incredibly powerful, the expression on Jeffrey’s face saying: ‘I will not be beaten no matter what life throws at me – and I dare anyone, anyone, to divert me from my course.’
There was a truth to this, she knew – just as she also knew that the tide was turning. That Jeffrey was cutting her out of the loop. That she was no longer captain of their ship. The evidence was in the small things – his asking her to execute menial tasks, making decisions without consultation and, most unnervingly, treating her differently around their staff. She had seen the looks on their faces – the flashing glance here, the raised eyebrow there when Jeffrey complimented her on her appearance, put a subtle hand on her shoulder, or stood that fraction closer to her than he did to anyone else.
And how must that look? How must that look? She asked herself the unnerving question over and again as she took a long slow swallow of the deep red claret before her. Did they . . . could they be thinking that she was somehow involved in all that had come to pass – that Jeffrey . . . that she . . . that the children . . . ? It was far too dreadful to contemplate – and way too distressing to address.
So much had changed of late. For starters, Jeffrey had done a complete turnaround when it came to the handling of his children’s cases. His defence strategy was suddenly that there was no defence strategy – that his two teenagers were guilty and would plead accordingly.
Then there was his new demeanour – that fresh spring in his step as if things had been dealt with and the fact that his family had been whittled from four down to one in less than three months was, if anything, a pleasant change in the mix – which made Katherine wonder if Jeffrey had not been captain of his ship from the outset.
She grabbed for her wine. She looked at the magazine again, and this time noticed the two yellow post-it notes protruding from separate pages; one at the front of the issue, and the other closer to the back. Her finger flipped to the second post-it first, and she realised that this page had been highlighted, with a note from Jeffrey which read ‘What Do You Think?’, because it marked the beginning of the feature article, a ‘painstakingly honest exclusive’ written by a journalist by the name of Hamilton Trent.
The second post-it, the one at the front, was stuck on one of the many pre-feature advertising pages that Vanity Fair seemed to specialise in – this one from Cartier, of some incredibly gorgeous woman wearing little but an expensive diamond bracelet around her flawlessly skinned, slender right wrist.
Just as Katherine took another sip of her wine, just as she dismissed this post-it as an anomaly and was about to flip back to the feature to read what she knew would be one of the best public relations exercises in decades, the doorbell rang again, this time determinedly, prompting her to rise from her sofa and make her way down her long, plush, carpeted hall.
‘Package for Ms de Castro,’ said the UPS man, already holding out one of those electronic receiver gadgets for her to sign – which she did, quickly, before walking back to her living room, collecting the magazine and wine, and moving to the kitchen annexe where she retrieved a pair of scissors. Sitting down at the table, she unwrapped the small cardboard box.
The flash of scarlet caught her eye immediately, and as she removed the tissue and picked up the small, leather bound box beneath it, her fingers began to shake.
‘No,’ she said to herself as she prized open the clasp on the bright red container.
‘No!’ she repeated, but this time aloud.
Sure enough, it was exactly as she had anticipated – the Cartier bracelet from the magazine, with the briefest of notes – ‘To K with love’ – attached. And as she sat there, at the end of her kitchen table, a wine and a Vanity Fair placed just within her reach, she looked up towards the kitchen door and realised just what role she had been cast to play.
47
‘Hello,’ said Nora Kelly, after the young female voice on the other end of the line answered the phone with: ‘Miss McCall’s Dance Studio. This is Tracey speaking, how can I help you?’
‘I . . .’ Nora cleared her throat. ‘Tracey, I was wondering if I could speak to Miss Deirdre McCall. This is a friend of hers calling, and I won’t take but a moment of her time.’
After they had found the number of Deirdre McCall’s dance studio through Las Vegas directories, their decision had been unanimous. Given Nora’s description of Deirdre McCall’s extreme nervousness during their last conversation, they concluded that, while not ideal, it was best if Nora be the one to approach her again. They knew McCall would be apprehensive, but still believed that Nora’s gentle Irish manner was the better alternative to that of the three lawyers, or one homicide cop, currently occupying the room.
‘Oh,’ said the girl after a pause. ‘I . . . ah, I’m sorry. Did you say you were a friend?’
‘Yes,’ said Nora. The phone was once again on speaker and Nora’s eyes were set firmly on the plastic handset before her. ‘We last spoke a couple of months ago, about a friend of mine who wanted to join her “Follies”.’
‘Well, I am afraid your friend . . . What I mean to say is . . .’ They all noted the shakiness in the receptionist’s voice. ‘Ms McCall has been the victim of a terrible incident. The police say it was a case of mistaken identity – or a random act of violence.’
At that point, with his heart racing, David could not bear to sit back a moment longer. ‘Tracey,’ he said into the speaker, not wanting to scare the girl but determined to get to the truth. ‘My name is David Cavanaugh and I am a lawyer from Boston. I am standing here with a lieutenant from the Boston Police, a man named Joe Mannix – and if you want to take his name down you can call BPD and check.’
‘Ah . . .’ began the girl. ‘Okay, but I . . . ?’
‘The thing is, Tracey, we believe Ms McCall may have unwittingly become involved in a case we are defending. She has done nothing wrong, but she may be linked to an individual who does not have her best interests at heart.’ It was a slight stretch of the truth, but even as he said it, he prayed that the girl would neither run a mile, nor worse, contradict his use of the present tense when it came to his references to McCall.
‘Ms McCall is in a coma,’ said Tracey, and David knew that she was crying. ‘She was shot a few
Fridays ago – she was walking home from class and was almost at her apartment when a car full of Asian guys pulled up alongside her and shot her in the head.’
David’s breath caught in his throat.
‘The police say it was a gang-style shooting,’ the girl went on. ‘The detectives came in here and questioned us and asked all sorts of things that we did not understand.’
‘What kind of questions?’ asked David. ‘And what didn’t you understand?’
‘They asked if any of us knew that her real name wasn’t Deirdre McCall. That McCall was a name she used to use on stage. That her real name was Diane Nagol and that she had been hurt once before.’ The girl took a breath. ‘The thing is, Mr Cavanaugh, I have known Ms McCall for over ten years – first as a student and then as a teacher here at the studio, and she never once told me her name wasn’t her own. She said she never married, had no kids – that her students were her life.
‘I always believed I was the closest thing she had to family. But when I went to the hospital, after the shooting, the doctors asked me all these questions about her medical history, about why a CAT scan showed she was missing a small section of her brain, about the previous traumas she had experienced, about any possible next of kin.
‘They thought she would die, you see, but in the end they could not find anyone else to call – and I was so glad that I could be there for her. She has been holding on for almost three weeks now, defying those know-it-all doctors at University Medical who told me she would probably not last the week. But Ms McCall is a fighter, and she simply refuses to give in.’
‘Tracey,’ said Joe, before stealing a glance at David. ‘This is Lieutenant Joe Mannix. Do you remember the name of the Las Vegas detectives handling Ms McCall’s case?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘The main guy on the case is a detective named Michael Lopez. He gave me his card.’
And as Tracey went to retrieve Lopez’s card from her purse, David whispered something into Joe’s ear. Joe was still shaking his head fervently in the negative when Tracey returned to the phone.