Fever Dream

by Dennis Palumbo

  “So who is he?”

  “A known associate of Roarke’s. Name is Ronny Baxter. Apparently they worked at Blackwater together. Baxter’s ex-Army. Got bounced from Blackwater soon after Roarke. He’s built up a sweet criminal record since leaving Iraq. All ground level stuff. Assault, B and E.”

  “FBI have any idea where he is?”

  “Not yet. They hit his last known address a couple hours ago, but he’d cleared out. An apartment in Dayton, Ohio. So the Bureau’s going nationwide with the search. Like with Roarke.”

  “Well, at least that’s something. Progress.”

  “Tell me. About time we caught a break, too.”

  I heard another rush of new voices, much closer. Doors banging open. Laughter.

  “Gotta go,” Eleanor said. “Some sisters in blue are crashing the party. I better grab a shower before they use up all the soap and hot water. And you’re welcome.”

  “For what?”

  “For that image. Have a nice day, Doctor.”

  Chapter Forty

  We were about twenty minutes out of Harrisburg, cruising through a cloudless sky. Sam had just finished radioing his position to the airport tower, receiving instructions back as to available runways. Earlier, he’d explained that, for safety and security reasons, private and corporate planes were routed to a special landing area far to the west of the big carriers.

  “Gets us in and out faster, too.” Sam scanned the horizon, aviator shades hanging by a cord around his neck. “Which is good, because I want to get back by seven, if possible. Sinclair’s scheduled a press conference to address concerns about the attempt on his life.”

  I had to smile. “He got the cops and feds to cancel theirs, only to have one of his own. Probably figures he can control the message a lot better that way.”

  “You’re right. Word is, he plans a short speech to assure voters that he won’t be intimidated by the criminal element. That his tough law-and-order stand has always entailed risk. But he has every faith in law enforcement, has no concern about any further attempts, and is looking forward to the debate on Saturday.”

  “Smart move. He addresses it, puts it in a box, then puts the box behind him.”

  “If he can get away with it. On the other hand, maybe Jimmy Gordon takin’ a shot at Sinclair did him some good. Did you see the latest polls this morning? He’s pulled slightly ahead of Garrity since it happened. And his favorables are up among blue-collar and undecided voters.”

  I looked at his profile. His jaw tightening.

  “You really don’t like him, do you, Sam? You really think he’s dirty.”

  “I don’t know, man. Hell, they’re all dirty to some extent. Politics is a dirty business. Always has been. The stakes are too goddam high. And as long as there are lobbyists and PACS, politics will stay dirty. I mean, in the end it doesn’t matter who the candidate is. What kind of person. Just depends on how much dirt you’re willing to roll around in to get elected. And stay elected.”

  “Sinclair’s a hard-ass, no question. And ambitious. But how can you be so sure he’s in bed with the wrong people?”

  “I’m not. But my source says he can prove it. Unless he’s full of shit. That’s what I have to find out.”

  Sam gave the wheel a slight turn, and the plane banked to the right. A square of sunlight moved across my line of sight, set the windshield ablaze for a few seconds, then moved on. As though a living thing, seeking something.

  Finally, I said, “How long are you gonna be cagey about this guy, Sam? Who is this source? What’s his name?”

  “Sorry.” He chuckled behind the mike. “Old habits and all that—never divulge the name of a source.”

  “Except I’m going to be looking him in the eye pretty soon, right? Probably catch his name at some point, too. You invited me, remember?”

  “I know. I also figure I can count on your keeping his identity confidential. But there’s something about this guy, Danny. Something…I don’t know…I guess I just need a second opinion.”

  Sam stifled a yawn. Like me, he’d had a pretty long night, and probably as little sleep.

  “His name’s Henry Stubbs. A former investigator with the Federal Trade Commission. One of those guys who looks into alleged illegalities committed by law firms. Or specific lawyers in the firm.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “No reason you should. Just another retired government drone with a pension and health problems. But I bet you’ve heard of McCloskey, Singer, and Ganz.”

  “Sounds familiar. ’Course, I could be thinking of Crosby, Stills, and Nash. I take it you’re talking about a law firm.”

  “Not just a law firm. One of the biggest, and very influential. Offices in New York, DC, Chicago, Atlanta. Represents huge clients. The ones with deep pockets. Agribusiness. Pharmaceuticals. Major retail chains.”

  “What do they have to do with Sinclair?”

  “According to Stubbs, plenty. He knows the firm inside and out. Spent a year investigating them on charges of financial malfeasance, fraud, unethical practices. A whole laundry list. Came down here from New York.”

  “Here?”

  “Harrisburg. The home office. Turns out it’s where Evan McCloskey is from. Started the business from a small office near the capitol building. Took on Singer and Ganz as full partners after the firm won that huge class action suit for Consolidated Feed and Grain.”

  “I remember seeing that on the news. The environmental impact claims against them were reversed. It was considered a major defeat for the green movement.”

  “That’s because it was. The point is, McCloskey’s firm really took off after that. Became the go-to guys for corporations in trouble over government regs. Or hassled by activist groups. Made McCloskey very, very rich.”

  I tried to recall if I’d ever seen McCloskey’s picture somewhere. Online, on TV, or in a magazine. But no image sprang up in my mind. “He must keep a pretty low profile.”

  “All these guys do. We know the names of the firms, maybe. Know about their biggest cases. But the partners are always these faceless white guys in designer suits. In a private world of golf, company jets, and cocktails. And always smart enough to let the spotlight stay on their famous clients. You know who Donald Trump is, right? And Warren Buffet. What they look like. But do you know what their lawyers look like?”

  “I get it. But what does this have to do with Henry Stubbs? Or, more importantly, with Lee Sinclair?”

  “I told you, Stubbs has been inside the castle. Down below, where they keep the dragons. And the bones of the poor bastards the dragons had for lunch.”

  “Jesus, I hate it when you get all cryptic. Does Stubbs know something he shouldn’t about the firm? About Evan McCloskey?”

  Sam turned enough to let me see the corners of that familiar, crooked smile.

  “It’s not just what he knows. It’s what he heard. And can prove. When McCloskey was talking about Sinclair’s campaign. And how the firm might get involved.”

  “Involved? What does that mean?”

  “I’m looking forward to finding out. One juicy tidbit Stubbs told me already. To whet my appetite, I guess. One of the things McCloskey said about Sinclair.”

  “Which was?”

  “That it was going to be fun to own a governor.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Twenty minutes later, we were on the ground at Harrisburg International, a satellite strip some short distance from the main terminals. Twenty minutes after that, we were standing under a merciless sun, deepening our tans against our will, at a curbside car rental stall. Waiting for the sedan Sam had ordered ahead of time.

  “Don’t worry, I got a Buick.” Sam wiped his brow with a sleeve. “Lousy gas mileage but great AC.”

  The valet was just pulling the late-model Buick up to the curb when Sam’s cell rang. He put down his carry-all, lifted the cell to his ear and walked a few feet away. In moments, a mask of consternation and frustration etched itself onto his fac
e.

  After getting the keys from the valet, I swung into the passenger seat and rolled down the window, letting out stale hot air. Then Sam hung up, retrieved his carry-all and trotted to the car. Motioned for me to shove over to the driver’s seat, while he took mine.

  “You want me to drive?”

  “You better.” His eyes were angry points. “Since you’re the only one going.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He pulled his carry-all up onto his lap, started un-zipping it.

  “That was my editor. He wants me to do a detailed sidebar on the Sinclair shooting. Rehashing all the Felix Gordon stuff. The trial, the threats by his brother Jimmy. All the way up to Felix getting killed in prison.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “Tell me. He wants it to accompany the story on Sinclair’s press conference tonight. Run it down the whole left side, front page.” A dark smile. “Total steal from the LA Times, but, shit, it got them a Pulitzer, right?”

  By now, he’d taken out his laptop computer, and, using the carry-all laid across his knees as a desk, was booting it up.

  “Can’t it wait till after we talk to Stubbs?”

  Sam shook his head. “Boss wants it now. As in right now. Gonna take me at least two hours to write it up and email it in. Gotta drag up all the old files, previous Gordon stories. Total pain in the ass.”

  I peered at his laptop screen.

  “So what are you doing now?”

  “Bringing up all the stuff I have on Henry Stubbs. My plan was for you to read it on our drive out to Harville. Get you up to speed on the guy.”

  He tapped some keys, hit SEND, and closed the laptop’s lid. Turned in his seat.

  “Okay, here’s the deal: I gotta go find a quiet room and a six-pack of Red Bull. So I just emailed everything I have to a buddy of mine, an editor at the Harville Sentinel, the local rag. He’ll have somebody print it out for you.”

  I held up my hand. “Wait a minute, Sam. You want me to go see Stubbs myself?”

  “No choice, Danny. Take the car, go meet the guy. Tell him you work for me. Get him talking, and try to make it stretch. Ask a lot of questions. Whatever. Soon as I get my story in, I’ll rent another car and join you.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “Then it’s right up your alley, isn’t it?”

  He’d already zippered the laptop back in its pouch in the carry-all. Then he opened the passenger side door.

  “Stubbs may not go for this.” Did I sound as lame as I suspected?

  “He’s a source, remember? Stubbs contacted me. No matter what, this guy wants to talk.”

  I saw his logic. “Then we both better get it in gear.”

  “Now we’re talkin’. We each got our marchin’ orders, right? See ya when I see ya.”

  ***

  The girl told me the oversized letter jacket she wore belonged to her boyfriend. Good thing, too, despite the heat, since her boss always kept the office temperature cold enough to hang meat. Besides, Billy liked her wearing something of his so she’d keep him in mind.

  “Like I’d forget about him or something.” She reached in front of me to adjust the printer. She was cheerleader-pretty, but with grave green eyes that hinted at some rough times in the past. Her name was April. She was seventeen and interning at the paper.

  It had taken only forty minutes to make the drive from the airport to Harville. After I got off the interstate, the route west took me through the same rural landscape I’d seen from the air. Which only looked more sun-blanched and isolated at ground level. More a sprawling, topographical quilt of fallow pastures and ill-tended groves. Only the hardiest of maples, oaks and sycamores showed healthy green leaves, and this primarily due to the automated sprinklers and irrigation pipes put in by the larger, still-viable farms.

  In fact, as I neared Harville, what struck me most was the thickening expanse of trees. In an area left unshorn and uncultivated for farmland, perhaps because of a poor quality of soil, I drove along entire stretches of highway shouldered on either side by dense forest. For the first time since leaving Harrisburg, I found myself passing through deep shadows, offering a much-needed solace from the blazing sun.

  At last, I spotted the exit sign the car rental valet had described. Sam had been right about the town of Harville: it barely qualified for the term. Isolated, a hodge-podge of small, desiccated-looking farms, it boasted only a few proper civic buildings and retail outlet stores. A forlorn minimall at either end of the main business street. A McDonald’s. A convenience store. Mobil station.

  It didn’t take me long to find the Depression-era brown-bricked façade of the Harville Sentinel’s two-storied building. A few cars were unevenly parked at the open-air lot in the back. I joined them.

  Then I went inside and introduced myself to Lionel Perkins, Sam’s editor friend. Red-faced, heavy, and sweating, he’d merely grunted a greeting and handed me over to Apri, who’d walked me over to a corner desk in the small, cluttered office.

  Where I sat now, the teenager handing me the print-out a page at a time. And complaining about the rigors of dating, as well as an ongoing conflict with her parents about her going away to college.

  “Like I wanna stay here, and end up folding sweaters all day at Banana Republic.”

  Finally Perkins called her away and I had the desk to myself. Only a faint whiff of her scent—part perfume, part sour-apple jawbreaker—remained.

  I spread all of Sam’s materials on the desk. Then, for clarity’s sake, began arranging the old newspaper clips in chronological order.

  First came a number of stories about Harrisburg’s own Evan McCloskey, and the growing success of his new law firm. The posed press photo accompanying one of the articles revealed a prematurely gray-haired, pale WASP type in a conservative suit standing in front of a stereotypically impressive shelf of law books. He looked like a million other guys in positions like his, in firms like his.

  I kept reading. When he and his team won the case for Consolidated Feed and Grain, it made headlines in most of the national papers. Then came the announcement that Singer and Ganz had been promoted to full partners, though it was understood that McCloskey was still the head honcho. The “invisible face” of the firm, as one legal pundit observed in a New York Times Op-Ed from some years back.

  Despite opening offices in other cities across the country, McCloskey kept the home office in Harrisburg. He lived in town with his wife and children, but often spent weekends at his sprawling estate in nearby Harville. As I learned from a feature spread in the Sunday Sentinel, displaying photos of the impressive building and its broad, manicured gardens.

  Then the tone of the stories changed. A number of articles from national papers, as well as the state’s major dailies, covered the arrival in Harrisburg of a Federal Trade Commission investigator named Henry Stubbs. He’d been called in from Washington at the request of the state attorney general to uncover evidence of malfeasance and fraud, long rumored to be rife at the prestigious firm.

  Three articles later, Henry Stubbs is being quoted extensively as to the result of his investigation. He asserts that the firm’s been cleared of any wrong-doing, and that the FTC has ended the investigation. There were also quotes from Evan McCloskey, stating how gratified he was by the FTC’s decision.

  Not two months later, the Style section of the paper ran a story about Henry Stubbs’ decision to stay in Harville, “and make it my home.” He goes on to explain that during the course of his work he “fell in love with the place,” and that he was tired of big-city life. After all, he’d grown up in a small town in Montana and was still “a country boy at heart,” despite his years in Washington. He was happy to report that he was retiring from government work, and would be using his pension to buy a nice home in the area.

  The next article Sam had pulled up for me detailed Stubbs’ decision to run for Sheriff of Harville and his subsequent victory. Apparently the voters were impressed by those “big-city” credent
ials, in addition to his obvious affinity for their town. He did well enough in the job to run unopposed for a second term.

  I sat back from the desk and stared at the last piece of material April had printed out for me. It was a front-page story, complete with photo, about Stubbs’ swearing-in ceremony. He stood tall and lanky, jacket unbuttoned, with a trimmed mustache. A real urban cowboy, but with a cop’s glint to his eyes. Flanking him stood the Mayor, some city council members, and a number of campaign contributors. One of whom, smiling broadly, was Evan McCloskey.

  I got to my feet and stretched. Then, bending to gather up all the hard copies, I called over to Perkins, thanking him. He didn’t glance up from his own cluttered desk.

  As I headed out of the office, I waved my thanks to an equally-oblivious April, who was flirtatiously playing with a handsome fellow intern’s shirt collar as they bent over some paperwork.

  Billy’s jacket had been thrown over a nearby chair.

  Chapter Forty-two

  I called Henry Stubbs at the number Sam had provided.

  The phone rang ten or eleven times. Nobody picked up. No answering machine. No voice mail.

  I’d be arriving uninvited.

  I drove the Buick out of town and turned onto a dusty, two-lane blacktop. I’d gotten directions from an attendant at the local liquor store, a retired Sears employee who still remembered Stubbs’ house as “the old Stafford place.” He also warned me that finding the residence in such densely-forested woodlands wouldn’t be easy.

  He was right. I drove past the dirt access road twice before spotting the tell-tale elm tree. Its lightning-split trunk rose up like a gnarled tuning fork against the pale azure sky.

  As soon as I started down the rutted, serpentine road, I was plunged into a kind of semidarkness. The tree canopy blocked most of the sun, and the woods on either side of the road faded into gray-black streaks, like an Impressionist’s brush-strokes.

  After about five miles of twisting, bouncing road, I made out a barbed-wire fence to my right. I quickly pulled over, raising a curving tail of dust, and got out.