Tonight I Said Goodbye

by Michael Koryta

  “He’d been doing this for years. Working for this one man.”

  “Jeremiah Hubbard,” I said, speaking for the first time since she’d begun her story. She looked at me and smiled.

  “Very good,” she said. “You obviously do your job well, Mr. Perry. Do the police know, too?”

  I shrugged. “We’ve told them, but I don’t know how seriously they took us.”

  “I see. Well, yes, it was Mr. Hubbard. And then one day, the whole beautiful arrangement fell apart. Wayne told me he’d been shooting video surveillance—using cameras that had been illegally installed, of course—and he’d videotaped a murder.”

  “A murder?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who was killed? Or who killed him?”

  “I don’t know any names. Wayne didn’t want me to know them.”

  “Okay,” I said, not wanting to distract her from the story. “Go on.”

  She took a breath and paused, remembering where she had left off. “He’d videotaped a murder. He told me this, and I stared at him, and said, ‘So what’s the problem? Call the police.’ But he said he couldn’t. He said the people involved were too dangerous. He said they were professional criminals, part of a national Russian crime syndicate, and we’d have to go into witness protection if we turned the tape over. He said they’d come after all of us, him, me, even Betsy. I couldn’t believe it. Witness protection. We’d have to throw our whole lives away.” She shook her head vigorously, aggravated by just the memory of the night.

  “I told him to call the FBI,” she said. “That’s what you do in a situation like that, right? If it’s too serious for the police, then you call the FBI. And he told me he couldn’t do that, because the cameras had been illegally installed. He said he’d committed a crime just to get the videotape. But that was absurd; obviously, the police wouldn’t care about something so minor if it solved a murder for them. I told Wayne that, and he said he didn’t trust the FBI or the police—the men involved in the murder were too smart, too powerful, too dangerous.

  “And,” she said, her voice tinged with anger and disgust, “he told me that Mr. Hubbard wouldn’t like it.” She raised her eyes to me. “Mr. Hubbard wouldn’t like it. That’s what he said to me. Can you believe that? My husband came home and told me that my daughter and I were now in danger because of his stupidity, because of his greed, and why couldn’t we go to the police? Because the rich bastard who’d put him up to it wouldn’t like it. He wouldn’t like it.” She spat the words out like they were something foul in her mouth.

  “He told me that, and I just stood there and stared at him. I was still holding the damned meat tenderizer, just standing there at the counter, listening to my husband explain how our lives were falling apart. And, eventually, I asked him what we were going to do.”

  Her eyes seemed to grow distant as she looked at me. “I bet you’re dying to hear that part, aren’t you? I bet you’d love to know the master plan.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “Great,” she said. “I’d love to tell it. It’s all worked out so perfectly, you know.” The sarcasm in her voice rivaled anything uttered by Jerry Seinfeld or George Carlin. “He told me he was afraid the Russians already knew about the tape.”

  “How?”

  “I have no idea. I asked him that, too, but he ignored me. He said we were in danger now, that we had to run. He said Hubbard was going to give him enough money to get away. And all of this is happening so fast. I mean, I’d just come home from the grocery store. I’d bought a week’s worth of groceries, and now I was being told to run for my life.”

  “So you came here?”

  She nodded. “It was supposed to be temporary, though. A stopover. Wayne said he wanted me to take Betsy and leave. He’d stay an extra day, work out the money arrangements with Hubbard, talk to his father, and fly down to join us. From here, we were supposed to go to South America. He had a job all worked out. He was going to be a scuba-diving instructor for some sort of resort. He told me it would be great, living in paradise, waking up each morning for walks on the beach.” She shook her head sadly. “Paradise. That’s where we were going to go.”

  “So he told you this, and you left the same night?”

  “No. This was the day before we left. He thought we had a little time. We had dinner and put Betsy to bed and then stayed up all night talking about it. As scared as I was, it sounded like the best option. If we stayed in the city, we were going to be killed. If we entered witness protection, we’d hand our lives over to the government. They’d tell us where to live; Wayne would be given a job at Wal-Mart or something like that. But if we did it Wayne’s way and didn’t go to the police, then Hubbard would pay for us to leave. He’d give us plenty of money to create a new life.”

  “What about your family?” I asked, thinking about John Weston and the agony he was suffering.

  “I’m an only child, and so was Wayne,” she said. “My parents are dead. I was going to be leaving some good friends behind, of course, but as far as family it was just Wayne’s father and a few cousins. Wayne was going to tell his dad. But someone murdered him first.” Her voice broke a little when she said that, and I could tell that despite all the shock and disappointment her husband had provided her, she still loved him.

  “What happened that night?” I said. “The night Wayne was killed.” She rubbed her fingertips against her temples, trying to drive away the beginning of a headache, maybe, or perhaps the lingering of a memory.

  “He came home nervous,” she said. “He was real scared that afternoon. He came home and took me right into the bedroom. He told me he thought the Russians knew about him. He said I had to take Betsy and leave that night. He’d leave the house but stay in the city, and he’d talk to his father the next day and finalize the arrangements with Hubbard. He’d rented a car using false identification, and he piled us into it and told us to drive to Columbus. He didn’t want us to use the Cleveland airport, so he’d arranged for a flight to Myrtle Beach from Columbus. He said Randy knew everything, and he’d take care of us. Randy was Wayne’s closest friend. His most trusted friend.” Her voice was a clipped monotone now, an obvious effort to hide all emotion while she told the story.

  “We flew into town, and Randy picked us up at the airport,” she said. “He told me not to worry, that he would take care of us until Wayne came down and we left. But the next afternoon we still hadn’t heard from Wayne, and I was starting to get nervous. Then Randy came up to the room and told me Wayne had been murdered. He’d found a story about it on the Cleveland newspaper’s Web site.”

  She stopped talking. I said, “And?”

  “And?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “And what the hell have you been doing since then? It’s been days.”

  “I wanted to call the police right away. I figured I could tell them everything, and we wouldn’t be in any danger. But Randy told me not to. He said the Russians were still going to be looking for us, because they knew we were alive, and they knew we could testify against them. And he didn’t trust the police or the FBI for the same reasons Wayne hadn’t—he thought Hubbard could pull strings. So we stayed here, waiting to see what the police would turn up. When it was obvious they weren’t producing anything, Randy went to Cleveland to sort it out.”

  “Sort it out?” I said. “How?”

  She frowned. “By killing the Russians, maybe? By killing Hubbard? By killing everyone involved? I don’t know, but I’m sure that’s what he had in mind. Randy is a very dangerous man in his own right, Mr. Perry. I’ve known him for years, and I’ll admit he still scares me. I know he would never hurt Betsy or me, but I’m certainly not comfortable around him. After we found out Wayne had been killed, Randy made it clear he was in charge. I didn’t argue. I was scared, and alone, and I had no one else to turn to. He told me he’d go to Cleveland and be back in a few days.”

  “So you let him go.”

  She pushed her hair away
from her face and tucked it behind her ears. “What was I supposed to do? Stop him? Argue with him?” She shook her head. “You’ve obviously never met Randy Hartwick.”

  “I met him,” I said. “For about ten seconds, until someone put a bullet through his chest.”

  She lifted her hand halfway to her lips and held it there, frozen, her mouth open and her eyes wide. “Randy’s dead?”

  “Randy’s dead. That’s what led me here. I wasn’t expecting to find you; I was just trying to find out more about him.”

  She eased slowly into the plastic deck chair beside me, as if this last bit of news had extinguished the final flickering embers that had fueled her.

  “So the Russians killed your husband?” I said, knowing she wasn’t up to more questioning but still trying to sort out the details.

  She swiveled her head and met my eyes, “No. The Russians did not kill my husband. Whoever killed him made it look like a suicide, Mr. Perry.”

  “Lincoln.”

  “Whoever killed him made it look like a suicide, Lincoln. The Russians would never have been able to get inside our home to do that. Wayne was too smart for that.”

  “So who do you think killed him?”

  “Jeremiah Hubbard,” she said flatly, as if there were no room for doubt in her mind.

  I didn’t know about that, but I didn’t argue with her. It was easy to believe Hubbard might have been involved in Weston’s death, but I had trouble imagining the aging real estate mogul doing his own gun handling.

  “So you’ve stayed hidden in this hotel,” I said, “because Hartwick told you not to go to the police?”

  “That was my decision,” she said firmly. “My life as I knew it is over. I understand that, and I have to accept it. My husband has angered the most dangerous group of men in the country. They will kill my daughter and me if they can find us. Jeremiah Hubbard will do the same. If we go to the police, we will be placed in witness protection and forced into whatever life they decide to give us. That is not how I will raise my daughter. But I also can’t let the world believe Wayne killed Betsy and me like they’ve been saying on the news. And I can’t let Jeremiah Hubbard get away with this.”

  “So what are you planning to do?” I asked.

  She looked away. “I don’t know. Randy told me to wait here, and that’s what I was doing. But I know we’re not safe here anymore. You proved that by finding us.”

  For a while we sat in silence. Then I said, “So that’s the story? I know everything I should know now?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Well, almost. There is one other thing you should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember the videotape Wayne shot of the murder?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “I have it.”

  CHAPTER 15

  WE STAYED on the balcony for another hour, but I could tell she was fatigued, so around midnight I told her I would leave so she could sleep. She stopped me at the door, though, and asked me to sleep on the couch.

  “I can stay,” I said, surprised by the request but not unhappy. I’d had a slight fear I might wake up in the morning to find they’d checked out of the hotel and disappeared. Then I’d get the pleasure of calling Joe. Yeah, good news, Pritchard. I found Julie and Betsy Weston. Where are they? Well, um, that’s a good question. You see, they kind of slipped away while I was asleep.

  I told Julie I’d be right back, and then I went down to my own room. It was nice to have a moment alone. It had been only a few hours since I’d left, but it seemed as if it had been days. I closed the door to the balcony and then found my bag. The Glock was inside with a full clip and one spare. I checked the load in the gun and put it back in the bag. It was a Glock 26, known as a “Baby Glock” because of its short barrel, but still outfitted with a ten-shot clip. The gun was small enough to conceal easily in a spine holster and powerful enough to do some serious damage in a short amount of time. It was the first handgun I’d ever bought. An old friend now. I had no reason to believe I was going to need a weapon, but I still felt better knowing it was there. The last man who had tried to help Julie Weston was Randy Hartwick, and I’d watched him die in front of me. Before that, someone had killed her husband. I had no desire to repeat the pattern.

  Before going back upstairs, I used my cell phone to call Joe again. This time, I called him at home, knowing he would be there, likely asleep. Joe didn’t have an answering machine, and the phone rang eight times without being picked up. I let it keep going, though, trusting he’d be pissed off enough to get it eventually.

  “Hello?” He finally answered, and he definitely sounded unhappy.

  “Greetings from the beautiful beaches of South Carolina,” I said. “Are we having an enjoyable evening, Mr. Pritchard?”

  “What the hell do you want?” Testy.

  “I found Julie and Betsy Weston. They’re here in the hotel where Hartwick worked. I just spent the last two hours talking to Julie.” I could hear him take in his breath sharply, but he didn’t speak.

  I summarized everything Julie had told me, but I didn’t mention she had the murder tape. When he spoke again, he was wide awake and all the irritation was gone from his voice.

  “When did he shoot the tape of the murder?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does she?”

  “Maybe. I didn’t ask.”

  “Ask.”

  “All right.”

  He exhaled loudly. “Nice work, Lincoln. I guess the case is closed, eh?”

  “I guess so,” I said slowly. “How do we handle it from here on out, though?”

  “How does she want it to be handled?”

  “She’s not sure. She said Hartwick went to Cleveland to ‘sort things out.’ She doesn’t know what this meant, but she thinks he was probably planning to leave some bodies behind. She said she can’t let the media think Wayne killed her and the girl, but she’s also afraid to enter witness protection.”

  “Afraid they won’t keep her safe from the Russians? Why would the Russians bother coming after her if Weston is dead?”

  “A couple of reasons,” I said. “First of all, like Cody said, they’re crazy. Second, they surely assume her husband told her things that could hurt them, and they know she’ll be asked to testify. Third, they might suspect she has the tape of the murder.”

  “Why would they think that?”

  “Because she does have it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Not yet. I hope to tomorrow.”

  “So she produces the tape, testifies if she needs to, and they go to jail,” he said. “End of story. Except that’s not how it works with the mob. She testifies, they go to jail, and their buddies hunt her down and kill her just to make a statement.” He sighed again. I’d really spoiled his night with this call.

  “I guess it’s not our problem,” I said. I didn’t want to hand Julie and Betsy Weston over to the FBI, but it seemed the logical way to handle the situation.

  “You’re thinking we turn them over to the police?”

  “We have to,” I said, “don’t you think?”

  “I’m a little hesitant to do that now, and here’s why: While you were lounging poolside today, Kinkaid and I were doing some damn fine work. We spent the day wearing out shoe leather and interviewing anyone who might know anything about our Soviet acquaintances. Guess what we found out?”

  “No idea.”

  “Turns out Dainius Belov is a silent partner in a number of local businesses. You know, fronts that he can use to launder cash. And one of these said ‘businesses’ is located in the Flats. It’s a charming little establishment called The River Wild.”

  “You mean the strip club Hubbard’s trying to buy out?”

  “The very one.”

  I stared out at the dark ocean and thought about that. If Wayne Weston had been shooting film for extortion purposes and pissed off
the Russians, it could likely have been at The River Wild. The timing was perfect, since Hubbard was actively pursuing the property.

  “What are you thinking?” Joe said.

  “Just that it makes sense. Heard of any murders at The River Wild lately?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ll check it out.”

  “Do that.” I switched the phone to my left hand and leaned against the wall, watching the white crests of the waves glitter on top of the black water as the moonlight hit them. “A minute ago you said you were hesitant to hand the Westons over to the police. I’m not arguing with you, but I don’t understand your reasoning.”

  “That’s because I didn’t get a chance to finish. Like I said, Kinkaid and I had a productive day. Finding out Belov owns a stake in The River Wild was just a small portion of that productivity. I also decided to check out our man Cody, since I never had a good feeling about him. I didn’t like the way he had us misled initially, and I also didn’t like the way he blew off our tip about Hubbard.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, we ran a pretty thorough background check on him. Turns out Mr. Cody is ten years out of law school.”

  “Okay.” That didn’t surprise me; many FBI agents are law school graduates. The best way to get into the Bureau without a police background is to have a degree in either law or accounting.

  “While he was in law school, Cody held a summer internship in Cleveland. I’ll bet you can’t guess where he did his internship.”

  “Hubbard’s real estate company?”

  “Nope, but close. I’ll give you a hint; you called him Dicky D.”

  My smart-ass comment in Hubbard’s office when he’d referred us to his attorney.

  “Cody worked for Richard Douglass?”

  “Uh-huh. He worked three summers in a row for Mr. Douglass and his associates. Then, when he graduated from law school, he came back and worked another year and a half with the firm before he was accepted into the FBI Academy.”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “You’re saying Hubbard’s pulling the strings in this investigation?”