In the center of the room was a massive darkwood antique desk. Jergens sat at the desk, leaning back, his hands locked behind his head.
“Rogan,” he said. “Anybody ever tell you that you have an extraordinarily large set of brass balls?”
“Standard issue in my line of work,” I told him.
He nodded. “Come over here and sit down.”
I made myself comfortable in a wing back chair.
He opened an intricately carved cigar box and shoved it across the desk in my direction.
“Care for one?”
I picked up a cigar and examined it. It was an H. Upmann.
“Only if you promise it won’t explode.”
He tossed me a well-worn Zippo. On it was the anchor, globe and eagle. I raised my eyebrows and looked at him.
“Fifth marines,” he said.
“The hell you say.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
I lit up, took a deep puff, and digested that one.
Then I took another puff and said, “Why did you kill Alicia?”
“I didn’t kill anybody.”
“She was blackmailing you.”
“Big fucking deal,” he said. “So what?”
“That’s a good reason to kill somebody.”
“Not in my book.” He stuck his jaw out, like he was daring me to contradict him.
“You were paying her off.”
He smiled for the first time. “Yeah, her and ten thousand other freeloaders.” He stopped and squinted at me. “I pay people for what they can do for me.”
“Yeah. And what was that?”
His grin took on the look of one of those evil clown masks. “She was a sexy bitch. I wanted to ream her out.”
I took another puff and let the smoke out slowly. The cigar was starting to taste foul. “And what happened?”
Jergens laughed. “Exactly fucking nothing. The bitch had principles in her own way, you know. She would fuck me, but she wouldn’t fuck me.”
I stared back at him. “She had the goods on you—falsified financials, fraudulent 10K’s. She was going to knock your whole operation down like a stack of toy blocks. That’s why you killed her—to shut her up before she could. Only you didn’t count on one thing. She sent a duplicate set of documents to her sister, so you had to whack her sister too.”
He looked at me for a long time, then he said, “Rogan, you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“What do you mean?”
He leaned across the desk, picked up the Zippo and started toying with it. “You didn’t do your fucking homework,” he said.
I let him continue. He fiddled with the Zippo until it gave off a light as big as a flame thrower. Then he stopped playing with the lighter and put it down on the dark polished desktop.
“She didn’t have to shoot me down,” he said finally. “I was finished before she came along.” He looked me square in the face. “Didn’t you check the short interest in my stock?”
“No,” I said. I was starting to get an uneasy feeling in my liver.
“Go and scope it out. It’s been getting bigger every month for the last few months. The word is out on the street. Every cocksucker and his brother knows about the scam. The only thing that kept the stock from collapsing was that there was a small float and I kept buying back shares to squeeze the shit out of the shorts. Only now I’m tapped out, so the stock’s gonna drop like a rock. Then the fucking SEC’s gonna come poking around and I’m going up the fucking river.”
He reached over and lit up a cigar. The lighter shook as he tried to steady the flame.
“They’ll send me to Club Fed for two to three. Then I’ll be back, bigger and badder than before.” He sucked on the cigar and blew out a large cloud of smoke that hung in the air over his head.
“Why did you send those two clowns to nail me in my garage?” I said.
He shook his head. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I didn’t send anybody after anybody. You were the one who came after me, remember? I didn’t even know who you were until you started showing up in my face.”
I got up. “If you drop the soap, don’t bend over to pick it up,” I told him.
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Always glad to help out a fellow jarhead.”
“Semper fi,” he said as I walked out.
“Yeah,” I said. “Whatever.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
It was one of those early summer thunderstorms that come down fast and hard and leave the city cleaner and cooler in its wake. The only problem was that it took ten minutes to flag down a cab. I was soaked to my skivvies as I climbed in and headed South back to my office. When I got there, I took off my jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair and slung my holster over it. The suit needed to go to the cleaners anyway.
I logged onto Dow Jones online and called up the short interest history on Jergens’ company. Sure enough, it looked like the guy was telling the truth.
Starting back in February, there had been an exponential increase in the short interest each reporting period. To double check, I called a buddy who ran a hedge fund downtown.
Without missing a beat he said, “You got it, bucko. Company’s got a ten million share float. Out of that, there’s four million short. There’s no way in hell Jergens can keep it afloat. He’s going down with the ship.”
“How did you get wind of this play?”
His answer didn’t come back for a couple of seconds. “I can’t talk about that now, bucko. I’m on a cell phone. You know how those boys in D.C. are about this kind of thing.”
“OK. I get your drift. Catch you later.” I hung up.
I noodled around with the figures for a while, then turned and watched the rain sheeting on the windows as the sky began to lighten in the distance.
Laura’s face kept coming back into my thoughts, dark and painful. Then it finally hit me and it hurt like hell. I’d never seen a dead woman before. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to see her more than anything.
Never again. Never again. There was a heavy rock sitting right on my heart.
And the rain kept on falling.
I didn’t turn around when I sensed someone in the outer office. There wasn’t a sound. Just a sort of presence. At first, I thought it was one of those invisible cleaning ladies in their light blue smocks who appear after dark to clean up all the mistakes of the day.
Then there was the hint of a squish, like a wet shoe on the floor.
A chill went up the back of my neck. It was like the half-second that hangs suspended in the air for what seems like forever between the time the wire is tripped and the flare goes off.
I dove for the deck. Before I hit it, a slug shattered the frosted glass between the offices. I rolled over and grabbed the Glock from the back of the chair and pumped two shots through the hole where the glass had been.
It was enough to scare the hell out of whoever it was. The outer door slammed and then there was silence.
Silence except for the rain hitting the window.
I got up and went into the other room. There was nothing but a couple of wet footprints on the carpeting. I poked around on my hands and knees until I found the shell casing. It was a .38 Remington rimfire. I went back into my office and dug the round out of the wall. The slug was a hollow-nose and it had left a nice size hole.
Whoever the shooter was, he wasn’t very good. He hadn’t come within a country mile of where I was sitting.
That made me feel much better.
Was this turkey just a bad shot?
Or was he trying to send me a candygram?
CHAPTER XXXV
The Linxweiler House was a dilapidated two-story frame structure on the Post Road in Westport, located between a McDonald’s and a pool and patio shop. The lawn, if you could charitably call it that, had long ago gone to weed. It looked like whoever tended the grass had given up in despair and gone on to take care of lawns that would actually respond to h
is efforts. The grass was long and spotted with weeds and brown patches. The house looked like it hadn’t been painted in decades. It was covered in worn dull gray shingles that were separating from the insulation beneath. The gutters sagged under the weight of years of accumulated debris and neglect. It was one of those houses that gave the impression of always having been there, at least in the memory of those still living.
No one I stopped to ask for directions had ever heard of the house. Its purpose was too far a stretch from the ordered pace of their daily lives. It was incongruous to see such a run-down wreck on such an expensive piece of real estate. The town was rich, judging by the prices of the stores on Main Street, and there were so many SUVs on the road the place looked like a staging area for a military convoy.
I pulled into the rutted driveway and parked next to the rusted-out hulk of a long-deceased car. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life in the house. I walked up some rickety steps and stood on the porch, my back to the front door, looking across the traffic on the Post Road. On the other side of the street was a Japanese restaurant named Sakura and next to that an upscale clothing store.
Such was life in the suburbs. Neat, safe, comfortable, with none of the lurking random menace of the city. Only here, the danger lay behind expensively-carved front doors where you were likely to be whacked with a sterling silver candlestick by your enraged wife because your bonus wasn’t large enough to buy the vacation home in Palm Beach that she had her little heart set on.
The screen door rested precariously on rusted hinges. I knocked but there was no answer. The door shrieked like a banshee when I swung it open and stepped inside. A feeling of gloom hung in the air like faded hopes and dashed dreams. It was dark. The only light was a dim bare bulb that lit the hallway. The dirty wooden floor squeaked with each step I took. No one could ever sneak unannounced into this place. It had its own alarm system, and it didn’t need a central station monitor or monthly fees.
It smelled like a locker room, and that was being kind. The place probably hadn’t been washed down or disinfected since Elvis was young and innocent and thin.
At the end of the hallway was a living room. I could see the flickering light from the TV, but there was no sound. I looked around the corner. There were two men on a couch, watching a baseball game on a black and white TV. They sat without moving or talking, frozen like a photo from the Fifties.
I walked into the room. One of the men glanced up at me and then turned his attention back to the game.
“I’m looking for Wheelock,” I said.
The man who looked up kept his eyes on the television. “You came to the right place,” he said.
I waited. He didn’t say anything else. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he was grinning. Both of the men looked defeated, drained of any energy, and badly in need of a shave. They had the appearance of guys who’d been dried-out for a long time but had never lost the desire for a tall one.
“Yeah, and…?” I said.
Still no reply.
“So, where is he?”
“You came to the right place.”
“You said that already.”
The guy was grinning. “He ain’t going no place.”
“That a fact?” I said.
The other man moved for the first time. “I can’t enjoy this game if you keep talking.”
“I’ll stop talking as soon as you tell me where Wheelock is.”
He jerked his head in the direction of a doorway on the other side of the room. “Take a look in there. He’s not going nowhere. That is, if he didn’t crap in his pants already.”
I walked across their line of sight and stood in the doorway. It was a kitchen. The only light in the room came from outside through a couple of unwashed windows. Dishes were stacked up on the table in the middle of the room and in the sink. The counters were covered with opened cereal boxes and cans of vegetables, both opened and unopened. Newspapers were scattered around on the floor.
A man sat hunched over at the table staring straight ahead. He was motionless, except for a slight tremor that gave the only sign he was alive. There was something familiar about his appearance. A hint of a presence I had once known. But it didn’t seem possible. There was nothing of the vigor, nothing of the tension. The creature sitting in front of me was no one I knew.
“Wheelock,” I said.
He turned his head slowly. At first, there was no sign of recognition. Then, by degrees, his expression changed. His eyes flickered. His lips twisted into an approximation of a smile. He started to speak. It was painful to watch.
“Hell.., hell.., hello, Rogan.” He had difficulty getting the words out. He seemed to be pulling the words out, one by one, from a reluctant set of lungs. His voice was soft.
I moved closer. He must have had some kind of wasting disease. Maybe it was insensitive of me, but I said, “What the hell happened to you?”
He tried to rise. His body gave him trouble as he got to his feet with an unsteady motion. He held onto his chair for support. Then he began to walk toward me. It was more of a shuffle than a walk. His steps were short, halting, feeble. It took an eternity for him to cross a short distance. Finally he stood in front of me. He was a couple of inches shorter than I remembered him. He stared straight at me. His eyes were dead.
His words didn’t want to come out. He gave me a sad smile. “I…I…I’m not…well.” His hand reached out and stayed in mid-air, trembling like a dying bird, then fell to his side.
Schadenfreude is not a nice emotion. Happiness at someone else’s misfortune. The krauts nailed it perfectly with that one word. I tried not to feel satisfaction. I tried really hard.
“I…I…I’m glad…you came…to see me,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t mention it.” As if he could. I took a deep breath.
I had to read Emerson’s essay on compensation again. Maybe you were rewarded or punished for your actions in the long run. Maybe there was an unseen symmetry to the world, after all.
I turned and started to leave.
“I…I’m…so sorry, Rogan,” was the last thing I heard as I walked away.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Mrs. Chisolm was just getting off the Nautilus when I caught up with her. She was wearing tight purple shorts and a pink tank top that showed to the world at large everything she had and was proud of. Her face was buried deep in the fluffy white folds of a large towel. She was still, leaning against the machine. Her body was taut, small-breasted and supple. Small beads of sweat covered her upper lip where it showed below the towel.
There was no one else in the health club yet. It would start to fill up in another half-hour.
I stood there waiting for her to lower the towel. When she saw me, she raised her neatly-plucked eyebrows and said, “You’re up early, lover boy.”
“I have to get up early to beat you.”
Her reaction was markedly different from the last time we spoke. Maybe she’d had time to reconsider or maybe the workout had gotten her juices flowing. Her face was flushed and she was breathing deeply. She pursed her lips. “Would you beat me?” she teased. “Promise?”
I shrugged. “Depends on what kind of answers you give me.”
“I have any kind of answers you want and some you don’t.” Her eyes ran over me the way you look over a piece of horseflesh. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know if you’ll get out of that suit and into a jock strap and some skimpy gym shorts.” Her smile was as old as Eve.
“I don’t have time right now.”
“Make some time. You won’t be sorry. I’ll give you some answers you’ll never forget.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. It was warm and sticky. I gave her what I hoped was an engaging smile. “Thanks, but I’ll pass on your pass, honeybun.”
“Don’t touch me unless you intend to finish it,” she said with a pout.
“I’ll finish it, but not now.” I pointed to the juice bar. “Can I interest you in a broccoli and kel
p cocktail?”
She laughed. “I’ll take some pure natural Polish water fresh from the faucets of Warsaw.”
“Deal,” I said.
I took her arm and guided her across the newly-washed floor, threading our way between the exercise machines. We sat on the juice bar stools and she started revolving slowly, pushing herself around and around, like a little child.
“Why do you have to do this kind of work?” she asked. “It’s so demeaning, so tawdry.” She wrinkled up her nose like she’d just smelled something foul.
“Why does a fish swim? Why does a bird fly?”
She must have decided it wasn’t worth pursuing this line of reasoning. She fell silent, stopped spinning and started rubbing her foot against mine.
“Did you know Alicia’s sister was killed?” I said.
She pulled her foot back abruptly. “No,” she said with a shake of her head.
“She was killed with the same gun that shot Alicia.” I studied her face. “Do you have a gun?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t like guns. They make loud noises. They frighten me.”
“Does your husband have a gun?”
“No,” she said in the same voice.
“Did you know your husband banged Alicia’s sister too?”
Her jaw tightened. “My husband and I have an arrangement.”
“Indeed?”
“He can see whoever he likes and I can see whoever I like.” There was a flame deep inside her eyes. It might have been lust or it might have been anger. “Sometimes we even see each other.”
I leaned back on my stool. “Well, that sounds eminently reasonable to me. Who could ask for a fairer arrangement?”
The flame flared brighter. “Don’t patronize me. You live your damn life the way you want to and I’ll live mine the way I want to.”
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