by Bill Eidson
“Jesus Christ,” Ben said. He sat back in his chair, stunned.
Sarah looked at him sharply. When he looked back at her, she seemed to withdraw slightly, her face closing down.
There was a brief silence, with both cops smiling with grim satisfaction.
It was Ludlow who broke it. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything,” he said. “Let’s get back on track. There’s the physical evidence in the suspect’s room. Let’s work together here and make some sense of it.”
Calabro rolled his eyes. “Is that what they teach in ‘media relations’ at the academy these days?”
Ludlow said, mildly, “Seeing as the bomb may well have been meant for Mr. Harris here, that he has already been assaulted once, and that Lee Sands drew a bead on him right in front of you, our feeling at the FBI is Mr. Harris should be regarded as the target—not our adversary.”
Sarah jotted down Sands’s name. She said, “What about that physical evidence? Does it point to Johansen or McGuire?”
Brace and Calabro looked at each other and Calabro grinned. “Keep your eyes peeled for the evening news. Or maybe we’ll do an exclusive with the Boston Globe. Either way, your interview is over.”
Kurt’s secretary, Lisa, smiled wanly at Ben when he and Sarah got back to the office. “Kurt wants to see you,” Lisa said. “He’s in the conference room.”
Huey appeared. “Kurt told me to process this last roll right away.”
When Ben gave it to him, he practically scuttled off. He looked over his shoulder, grinning.
Ben looked around the newsroom. He could see it in the studied casualness of the others: the way Ed Liston gave a smile that was more of a grimace before turning; the way Lucien talked on the phone with his eyes following Ben.
Sarah caught it all. “You want me to come and back you up?”
Ben shook his head. “The agenda’s longer than what happened to Sands.”
As he started away, she caught him by the elbow. “Listen, I’m having a hard time seeing you as someone on the wrong side of a restraining order.”
“You and me both.”
Ben looked through the window of the conference room. Kurt stared back at him impassively, a notebook and a blue personnel folder on the table in front of him. Ben said, “But I’ve given some reason, I’m afraid.”
Sarah took out her business card, and jotted an address on the back. “Tell me about it. That’s my home address. Dinner at seven.” She squeezed his hand. “Good luck in there.”
Ben sat down opposite Kurt.
Both waited in silence momentarily, simply looking at each other. There was a noticeable bruise on Kurt’s cheekbone, his lip was swollen, and there was a small bandage on his forehead.
“What’s this about a restraining order?” Ben said.
Kurt didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “Maybe this thing with Johansen has made you feel that you are the news. The police tell me that your showboating resulted in the death of a suspect and put innocent lives in danger.”
Showboating. Ben felt his face flush. “You haven’t even asked what happened and you accuse me of that?”
Kurt’s lips curled slightly. “What’s clear here is that we’ve got personal as well as professional issues that aren’t going away.
So I’ll put it to you bluntly. Take the assignment I offered you before. Go out and do the logging story in Oregon.”
Ben shook his head. “I can’t do that, Kurt. I’ve got to follow this up.”
“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”
“You’re telling me because you want me out of your life.”
Kurt released a sigh. “You’re not leaving me any choice. Your next option is to resign now, and stay away from the family at least until this business with Johansen is settled. Otherwise, I’ll go after you through the court system. For your assault on me, my attorney tells me we have an excellent chance of securing a restraining order.”
Ben said quietly, “You know damn well what happened last night wasn’t just a one-way street. You threw the first punch.’’
“My word against yours.”
“Jake knows what happened.”
“And Jake wants you to go away.”
“Bullshit. Are you that insecure? For Christ sakes, you and Andi are already married.”
A dull red flush moved up Kurt’s neck to his face. “We’re not here to talk about me. It’s your career that’s the issue. I’m prepared to offer you a two-month severance package if you resign now. Time to work on that book of yours.”
From the folder, he gave Ben a signed release giving him permission to use those photographs Ben had done on work-for-hire basis for the magazine. “As you can see, we’re prepared to be generous.”
He held the severance package agreement, and then put it back in the file. Basically waving it in Ben’s face. “However, if you fight us, you get nothing. You’re not union, you’ll have no recourse.”
“Nonsense. There are plenty of attorneys that’ll take on a wrongful termination.”
Kurt shrugged. “You might get back on staff—but you’ll never get the prime projects again, I can assure you. I suggest you accept that we’ll all be better for it if you just move on.”
“You must have been doing some serious lying to Reed and Andi to get them to go along with this.” Even as he said this, Ben knew he could expect no help from Reed. As publisher, he was far more concerned with advertising pages than he was with editorial. He would leave any such staffing decisions entirely to Kurt.
“Reed doesn’t like reporters getting killed,” Kurt said.
“Since when did either of you hesitate to send me where it’s hot? You remember Biafra or Sarajevo? Or that it was you who assigned me to Johansen? This is all part of my job and if I’m not complaining there’s no reason why you should.”
Kurt shook his head stubbornly. “You seem intent on putting yourself and others in harm’s way. Sarah could’ve been killed out there today. You think her daughter should lose both her parents for you?”
Ben spread out his hands on the table. It was a little hard to breathe. “Watch yourself, Kurt.”
“You threatening me again?”
Ben said, tightly, “It’s not clear yet who killed Peter or why.”
“It is to the police.”
“What’d they tell you? They said there was physical evidence.”
Kurt shook his head. “We’re not here to discuss that.”
Ben slapped his palm on the table. “Don’t play games with me on this, Kurt! You had Huey waiting by the door to make sure you have my shots for your story, the least you can do is tell me what you heard.’’
“Of course Insider will cover it,” Kurt said. “And those photos were shot for a story you were following up in our behalf. There’s no question they fall under our work-for-hire arrangement.”
“What about McGuire sending Dawson to my place?”
“I don’t know,” Kurt said. “That’s for you to take up with the police.” Abruptly, he shifted topics, adopting a frank, confidential tone. “Look, it’s true that Andi would rather we don’t go for the restraining order if you’ll agree to stay away. But she’ll go along if you don’t.”
“That I’d need to hear from her directly.”
“Not at this moment. You’ve got a decision in front of you right now, before you leave this room.’’
“I’m not leaving town and I’m not resigning,” Ben said.
“All right.” Kurt sat back. “That’s your choice.” He opened the blue folder to pull out another typewritten letter. He signed it and tossed it across the table to Ben. “In which case, you’re fired. I’ll have Security walk you to the door.”
CHAPTER 23
THE FBI TOOK UP FIVE FLOORS AT ONE CENTER PLAZA IN GOVERNMENT Center. Ben waited in the lobby for about ten minutes before a woman of about forty with dark hair and great cheekbones came down to escort him to Ludlow’s office. She put her hand out
to Ben. “I’m Cynthia,” she said. “I want to thank you for what you did for Agent Parker. We like him around here.”
Ludlow was pouring himself coffee when Ben walked in. The agent said to the woman, “Didn’t I tell you we’d probably be seeing the intrepid Ben Harris sometime soon?”
“The trained investigator knows all,” she said, before going back to her desk.
“So what can I do for you?” Ludlow sipped his coffee. His handsome/ugly face was friendly enough, but he didn’t wave Ben back to his office. Cynthia looked at him and waited.
Ben said, “Seems that I’ll be following up on this story on a freelance basis.”
“Fired your ass, huh?”
“That’s right.”
Ludlow made a sympathetic noise, but there was faint amusement in his eyes. He said, “We’ll think of you when we need surveillance photography.”
“I was thinking of something a little more immediate.”
“Oh, I bet you were. But I have to agree with the Boston Police that investigations are best handled by law enforcement. Give me your card, and if something breaks where there may be some sort of photo opportunity I’ll be sure to call you.” He winked. “Maybe you can scoop your former employer.”
“I understand there was enough evidence in Sands’s room that the cops are saying he set the bomb that killed Peter. What can you tell me?”
He looked faintly annoyed. “Weren’t you listening?”
Ben held up his portfolio case. “Let’s trade. I’ve been following McGuire for more than a week now and I’ve got prints of everything. I’ve gotten through to one informant of Peter’s who gave me some background … and you said it yourself. I seem to be the target, or at least a target for some reason.”
Ludlow lifted his eyebrows. “Well, I’m sure Parker told you that this is Boston Police’s show and they’re pretty satisfied that the bombing was a result of Sands seeking vengeance for what you did to Johansen.”
“Tell me why you’re so certain. Everyone’s just dropping the fact that McGuire sent Dawson to my studio.”
Ludlow sighed. “Come on back and show me some pictures.”
Inside the office, Ben pulled out a half dozen shots of McGuire going through his day: McGuire in and out of his car; McGuire going into his office. The video grab shots inside McGuire’s office, including the two other men around the conference room table. Shots of McGuire with Dawson. McGuire coming out of the police station with his attorney, and then coming and going from his uncle Clooney’s house.
“Nicely focused and composed,” Ludlow said. “But I don’t see anything here.” Nevertheless, he looked carefully at all the shots. “These two guys in his office. I don’t recognize them from Adam, but I’ll run their photos, see if we come up with something.”
“Has McGuire’s phone been tapped?”
“Not by us. His uncle, yes. But I led a small investigation into McGuire myself soon after he came back from college and we never found any evidence to support racketeering charges.”
“Isn’t the Dawson killing enough to get a tap?”
“Boston Police tried. Judge said the likelihood of him talking about that on the phone was so little that it amounted to a fishing expedition on our part. And that just won’t cut it these days.” Ludlow shrugged his shoulders. “Let me see what Gallagher took.”
“You haven’t seen them?”
“No, and I’ve asked. Boston Police have used us where they’ve wanted us. Haven’t parted the kimono on those.”
Ben laid out the photos Peter had taken. Ludlow shuffled through the pictures fast. He stopped at the one of the man outside the candy store; he said, “So he was with Red Donnelly. Now that might have embarrassed him. Red’s a tough old shit. He’s one of the boys that gave Charlestown the rep for home-grown armed bank robbers. Supposedly retired to run a little candy store, but he’s definitely into loansharking, numbers, that shit … and he and Uncle Pat are not the best of friends. Maybe some turf problems going on here.”
Ben told him about the meeting at the NESF with Teri Wheeler.
“We ran her name at the Boston Police’s request,” Ludlow said. “She’s there, simply because she’s a political consultant. No criminal record.”
“Is she part of the Free America group?”
The agent shook his head. “No evidence of that. More to the center. In fact, the D.C. field office tells me there was a move afoot by the GOP to start grooming her as a candidate herself—start her off as a state rep, maybe. Smart, attractive young woman. Makes sense these days. She said no. Wanted to keep focused on the business at hand. She’s on just about any national board you want to name that could affect Internet legislation or software standards. Word is she’s got informal links that are as strong as steel with other lobbyists from transportation to the NRA. Now Alexander Goodhue has a rep as a right-winger, but not in the Free America league, not that extreme.”
“OK,” Ben said, waving to the table covered with prints. Showing that he’d done his part. “What can you tell me about Sands?”
“Who was that informant you mentioned?” Ludlow idly picked up a pen.
Ben smiled. “Tell me about Sands.”
Ludlow smiled back. “Pretty good for a shutterbug. OK, Lee Sands. Special Forces, made it to the last years of Vietnam, apparently loved it. Forty-five years old, kept himself pumped up like he was an athletic thirty. Has shown up in all sorts of nasty situations, and has spent more than twelve years on two different convictions behind bars. Wasn’t the brightest bulb on the planet, but he seemed to have a real talent for destruction. Clever with his hands. That bomb that took out Gallagher definitely used the same type of detonator that took out that preacher in the black church in Alabama earlier this year. He was questioned right after, but he had a couple of buddies provide an alibi and we had to let him go. Now one of those buddies is in trouble himself and is singing a different song.”
“Was Sands part of the Free America group?”
“If he was, he never admitted it. Mind you, I’ve never talked to him myself. But from what I’ve read of the report, we considered him more of a rightist zealot than your basic mercenary. Grew up on a hardscrabble farm in Alabama, Bible-thumping father. Vietnam and Special Forces simply gave him some new skills.”
“Alabama,” Ben said. “Johansen’s home state. You think he’s working for Johansen?”
“Certainly possible. Again, whether directly or simply taking his own initiative, it’s not clear.” Ludlow slid open his drawer and took out a file folder. “Now you can look at my photos. See if you recognize anything. I took these this morning in Sands’s apartment.”
Ben opened the folder and found several acetate sleeves holding Polaroid shots of an austere apartment. There was a wide shot of a series of burned photographs laid out on a bedsheet, and then close shots of each. Most of them were burned beyond recognition, but others were just singed.
“These were in the fire?”
“These were the fire,” Ludlow said. “In the garbage can. Apparently, he set it just before running up to the rooftop. Squirted some lighter fluid on them, tossed a match.”
In several of the photographs, there was enough remaining, an edge here and there, which made Ben uneasy at first and then hit him with a jolt. “That’s the parking lot behind my building … that’s my old van … that’s the hall outside my studio …”
He flipped the sleeve and fell silent. These shots were virtually unscathed by the fire.
The inside of his studio. His kitchen. Bedroom.
Ben felt ill.
There were more shots. Close-ups of the van. The undercarriage of the van.
The camera bag.
“Like I said, not the brightest bulb, keeping these photos in his sock drawer,” Ludlow reiterated. “Looks like he used them for a reference. Scope out your place, go home, make up the bomb and triggering device to fit right in. Definitely a talent in his own right. Maybe putting the bomb in the bag was his b
est way of ensuring it was you who got killed. He was wrong, but the logic was there. Or maybe it was his idea of poetic justice. You being killed while trying to take a picture. A preacher being killed just as he was about to preach. See? I tend to lean toward that angle.”
“The sort of thing Johansen might order.”
“Or Sands might do as his own act of vengeance for what you did to Johansen,” Ludlow said. His voice was sympathetic.
Ben felt lightheaded suddenly and had to look away from the agent. It was one thing to suspect. It was quite another to know.
The agent’s words crashed over him.
“Either way, the evidence is fairly conclusive that Lee Sands set the bomb—and that he was trying for you when your friend bought it.”
CHAPTER 24
“SO,” SARAH SAID, WHEN SHE OPENED THE DOOR FOR BEN. “I SUPPOSE you’ll need the leftovers to tide you through until unemployment starts?”
Ben forced a smile. “Sounds like Kurt made an announcement.”
Sarah took Ben by the hand, and pulled him in. She quoted, “‘We’re all members of a team, and no matter how talented any one individual is, the team, comes first.’” She slipped her arm through his, walking him down the hall. “He said this through a fat lip. You?”
“Long story.”
“Reporters love long stories.”
Ben shook his head.
Sarah was wearing black jeans, a blue sweater that brought out the color of her eyes, and small silver earrings. The effect with her rich black hair and fine cheekbones was simple, casual, and absolutely stunning.