by Harry Dolan
“No? Just as well. I was a political candidate. Does that surprise you?”
“Nothing surprises me today.” I gestured toward the inner office. “Why don’t you have a seat.”
I stood by the door and let him pass through. He was carrying a book under his arm, and he laid it carelessly on the edge of the desk as he sat down in the guest chair. The book was a hardcover with the dust jacket gone. I couldn’t see the title.
“I was a candidate for city council,” he said. “Never mind where. I ran my entire campaign out of an office much like this one.”
“Did you win?”
He smiled indulgently. “That’s what people always want to know. Not what goals I hoped to achieve, or what issues I wanted to address.” He shrugged. “No, I didn’t win, Mr. Loogan.”
I took my seat. “What issues did you want to address?”
“I had one issue. I wanted to fix the zoning laws.” He tilted his head. “That doesn’t sound very idealistic, does it? But I’ll tell you, they make a difference. Get the zoning right and you get businesses coming in. That brings in smart, skilled people. Broadens your tax base. That pays for police, firefighters, schools, parks—things the smart people need to raise their families. Get the zoning wrong and it runs the other way. All those smart people go somewhere else.”
“Why do you think you lost?”
“My opponent was a family man. He had a fine thick head of hair. He appeared in television commercials with his sleeves rolled up, out among the common people, talking to them very earnestly. Of course you never heard what he said, you only heard the music and the announcer’s voice.”
Beckett let out a huff of air and added, “He’s still a city councilman. I’ve advised a U.S. senator, and I hope to advise another.” He nodded toward the bottle of Macallan on my desk. “I see you got my gift.”
“I got it,” I said warily. “I don’t know what the occasion is.”
“Call it a peace offering. You and I have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
He rubbed his thumb over his chin. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I feel a certain responsibility for the senator. I have to be careful about who gets close to him, and what their intentions are.”
“I’ve chatted with him twice,” I said. “I like him. I don’t have any intentions.”
“He likes you too. That may be why I’ve been unfriendly toward you. I don’t mind admitting it. I had to spend years gaining his trust, but he took a liking to you right away. I felt a little envious.”
He sounded subdued, almost humble. The effect was disarming.
“How’s the senator doing?” I asked him.
“He’s fine. What you saw the other night—well, he has his bad days.” Beckett dismissed the subject with a raised hand. “The senator’s not the reason I came here.”
“What’s the reason, then?”
“I thought you might be willing to do me a favor.”
I felt myself smile. “Is that right?”
“I’d like you to talk to Lucy Navarro,” he said. “Get her to drop all this nonsense about Terry Dawtrey and Henry Kormoran—this ridiculous claim that Callie helped Floyd Lambeau case the Great Lakes Bank.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Do you believe the claim is true, Mr. Loogan?”
“No.”
“Do you think any purpose is served when politicians are subjected to baseless charges in the press?”
“If the charge is baseless, the problem solves itself, doesn’t it? As you said, the claim is ridiculous. Even if the National Current prints it, no sensible person is going to believe it.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve found,” Beckett said, “it’s that the world is full of people without any sense. If the Current prints that claim, it’s bound to find traction with a certain segment of the population.”
“That’s a problem for you. But I don’t think pushing Lucy to drop her story is the solution.” I picked up a pencil from the desk. Pointed it at him. “You realize that’s just what she expects, don’t you? She already thinks the Spencers may have had a hand in killing Dawtrey and Kormoran. If you try to buy her silence now, it’ll only make you look guilty in her eyes.”
Beckett’s lips came together in a pained expression. “I think it goes without saying that Callie Spencer had nothing to do with the deaths of Terry Dawtrey and Henry Kormoran. And I don’t know where you got the idea that I wish to buy Lucy Navarro’s silence.”
“You’re not offering her anything in exchange for dropping her story?”
“Of course not. That would be completely improper.”
“And you’re not offering me anything for convincing her to drop it?”
“I’m asking it as a favor.”
I sat back from the desk and studied him. His cheeks were pink as a baby’s. The garish colors of his shirt made him look like a buffoon. But his eyes held a keen intelligence.
“You’re good,” I said. “I don’t see how anybody ever beat you, no matter how fine a head of hair he had.”
“I’m sure I don’t understand you,” he said.
“I got a call from Amelia Copeland today. Am I supposed to believe you didn’t put her up to that?”
He smiled. “Amelia is a lovely woman. A dear friend of the Spencers and the Casterbridges and, I’m pleased to say, of mine. But no one ‘puts her up’ to things.”
“So it’s a coincidence that she called to tell me how enchanted she is with Gray Streets, and that she wants to lend the magazine her support?”
“I’m not surprised you heard from her. She’s always been a fan of mysteries. Her library at home has shelves full of Agatha Christie and Patricia Highsmith. She could do you a good turn, if she wanted to. That foundation of hers has more money than God.”
“She wants to get together next week. Why do I get the feeling that the meeting could go well or badly, depending on whether or not I help you convince Lucy Navarro to drop her story?”
“I think you’re being overly suspicious. I don’t have any control over who Amelia gives her money to.”
“You have no interest in the matter, then? You won’t care if I decline her offer?”
Beckett plucked at a thread on his sports coat. “It’s nothing to me, one way or the other. But I should think a man in your position would welcome Amelia’s generosity.”
I steepled my fingers under my chin. “And what’s my position?”
“You’re in the business of publishing short stories, in a world where hardly anyone reads them anymore. How are your circulation numbers, compared to a year ago?”
“I think they may be up a little.”
“I believe they’re down, and more than a little. You’re being kept afloat by Bridget Shellcross. She’s an author, I gather. Writes books about an art dealer who solves crimes with her cat.”
“You’ve been misinformed.”
“Have I?”
“It’s her dog.”
“I don’t see how it would matter. Are you on good terms with Ms. Shellcross?”
“We get along.”
“How long do you think she’s going to keep putting money into the magazine?”
“We haven’t discussed it.”
He dropped his voice a bit. “How old are you, Mr. Loogan?”
“That’s getting a little personal, isn’t it, Al?”
“You’re thirty-nine. Your annual salary is unconscionably low.” He named a figure, like a carnival worker guessing my weight. It was close enough that the difference didn’t matter. “And for that,” he said, “you’re expected to carry this operation on your shoulders.”
“When you put it that way,” I said, “it does sound unconscionable.” I aimed my steepled fingers at him. “Let me ask you something. Lucy Navarro doesn’t have a magazine that needs funding. So what did you offer her?”
“I’ve offered her nothing,” he said. “Just as I’ve offered you nothing.”
“Naturally. It’s all Amelia Copeland’s doing
. She waves her wand and my pumpkin turns into a carriage, my mice into horses.” I stared at him. “How long do you think you’re going to be able to keep a lid on this scandal surrounding Callie Spencer?”
“There is no scandal surrounding Callie Spencer,” Beckett said.
“She decides to run for the Senate, and suddenly the Great Lakes Bank robbers—including the man who shot her father—start dying. If that’s not a scandal, it’s getting awfully close.”
“None of that has anything to do with Callie.”
“No, how could it?” I said. “Callie’s golden. People like her. The press likes her. They’re willing not to ask too many questions. But there’s still a killer on the loose. He’s after Sutton Bell. He tried once and failed. What if he succeeds the next time? Is everyone still going to say, ‘Well, this can’t have anything to do with Callie Spencer’?” I watched for some reaction, but Beckett seemed entirely at ease. “And then there’s the fifth robber, the driver. He’s a wild card, isn’t he? I’m wondering when he’ll turn up. Aren’t you?”
That earned me a puzzled look. “The driver has managed to stay hidden for seventeen years,” Beckett said. “Why would he show himself now? I don’t think that’s anything to worry about.”
“I think you are worried about him. Otherwise you wouldn’t have broken into my office.”
The puzzlement faded from Beckett’s features, but only for a second. Then it came back strong and deliberate. His pink brow furrowed. “You invited me into your office,” he said.
“I’m talking about the last time you were here.”
“I’ve never been here before today.”
“You were here over the weekend,” I said. “Someone cut a square of glass out of the door.” I waited a beat. “The senator told me two things about you the other night. He said you came from Battle Creek and your father was a tradesman. I’m an overly suspicious man, so I ran a Google search on ‘Battle Creek’ and your last name. One of the results was Beckett Glass. Your father was a glazier.”
“That’s true,” he said with a shrug, “and I can understand why it would arouse your suspicions. But why would I break into your office?”
“Because all men by nature desire to know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a quote from Aristotle. You broke in because there was something you wanted to know. It all goes back to last Wednesday.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Last Wednesday someone tried to kill Sutton Bell,” I said. “But before he did, he left a manuscript outside my door. It was a description of his crimes—how he beat Charlie Dawtrey to death and tried to shoot Terry Dawtrey, how he strangled Henry Kormoran.”
“Would this be the manuscript Detective Waishkey brought with her on Sunday night?”
“That’s right.”
“But Sunday night was the first time I heard about it.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Elizabeth faxed a copy to Walter Delacorte in Sault Sainte Marie last Thursday. Delacorte sent it on to Harlan Spencer, his old boss from seventeen years ago. Spencer told Callie about it, and Callie told you.”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
“I’m really only making one—that all you people talk to each other. Elizabeth wanted Delacorte to take the manuscript seriously, so she had to tell him where it came from, and he would have passed that information along. So you knew it had been left at my door. But you didn’t know why. If the killer wanted it to go to the police, he could have sent it to them directly. If he was looking for notoriety, he could have sent it to the Ann Arbor News, or one of the Detroit TV stations.”
“So you think I broke in here to find out why the killer delivered his manuscript to Gray Streets.”
“Not quite. I think you found the answer to that without breaking in. It’s not hard to figure out. Something attracted the killer to Gray Streets. We know he’s fixated on the Great Lakes Bank robbery. Gray Streets published a story about a bank robbery earlier this year—‘Only Paper’ by Peter Fletcher. It’s based, very loosely, on the Great Lakes robbery. It’s told from the point of view of the driver, and it’s the story of his revenge on the other robbers. The details don’t matter. What’s important is that it’s on our website. Anyone looking for a connection between Gray Streets and the Great Lakes robbery could have found it. Just like you found it.”
“So you say.”
“So I say. You found it and you got curious about the author, Peter Fletcher. The bio note that accompanies the story says he’s from Hell, Michigan. You would have discovered that while there is a town called Hell in Michigan, no one named Peter Fletcher lives there. So it must be a pseudonym. That’s why you broke in here—to find out the author’s real name.”
“And why would I care enough about the author to go to such lengths?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve got a couple of ideas, but you’ll think they’re outlandish. One is that you thought the story had been written by the real driver from the Great Lakes robbery, and you wanted to see to it he didn’t make a nuisance of himself and interfere with Callie Spencer’s run for the Senate.”
“You’re right,” said Beckett. “That’s outlandish. What’s your other idea?”
“I’m not sure I want to say.”
“Oh, come.”
“All right, but you have to tell me something first. How old are you?”
I was echoing a question he had asked me, and it threw him. But he answered.
“Forty-three.”
I didn’t try to hide my surprise. “All along I’ve been thinking fifty,” I said. “But if you’re only forty-three, then it’s possible.”
“What’s possible?”
“That you were the driver in the Great Lakes robbery. You would have been twenty-six at the time, a little older than Bell and the others, but in the ballpark.”
He let out a short bark of a laugh. “You’re an amusing man, Mr. Loogan.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I said. “If you were the driver, you might have read something in the story that bothered you, some detail that cut too close to the bone. You might have wondered if your secret was safe. That might have prompted you to break in here looking for the identity of the author.”
“Amusing, as I said. But I’m not the driver from the Great Lakes robbery.”
“What were you doing back then, seventeen years ago?”
“That would have been just after I lost my bid for the city council.”
“You must have been disappointed.”
“Yes.”
“That might have made it easier for Floyd Lambeau to recruit you.”
“I never met the man,” Beckett said. “That autumn was when I first began working for the senator. I didn’t have time to rob any banks.”
“Well, it was just a thought,” I said. “The bottom line is, I don’t know why you broke in here this weekend, but I know you didn’t learn anything about Peter Fletcher.”
“No?”
“No. We don’t even have a file on him. The man doesn’t exist.”
“Then who wrote the story I was supposed to be so interested in?”
“I wrote it. But I never publish in Gray Streets under my own name. I’m the editor-in-chief; it wouldn’t look right. I always use the name Peter Fletcher.”
Beckett rubbed his palm over his scalp. “That’s fascinating. But of course I never had any interest in Peter Fletcher, and I’m not the one who broke into your office.”
“If that’s the way you want it, it’s fine with me,” I said. “As long as we understand each other. I don’t want to find out later that some poor bastard named Peter Fletcher got run off the road on a dark night because I wrote a story under his name.”
“You have a very active imagination, Mr. Loogan.”
“Yes, I do. And as for Lucy Navarro, I can see how she might be a thorn in your side, but I confess I’ve grown a little fond of her. Whether she
goes ahead with her investigation or not is up to her—I don’t intend to advise her one way or the other. But if anything should happen to her, I’m afraid my imagination might get the better of me. I might imagine that there’s an elaborate conspiracy at work, and that you’re at the center of it.”
“I think perhaps you’ve read too many stories, Mr. Loogan.”
“I’m just telling you how it is. What was it you said about the senator—you feel responsible for him? It’s the same with me and Lucy Navarro. As far as you’re concerned, she’s under my protection.”
Beckett braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself up from his chair. “That’s a noble sentiment,” he said, “but I can assure you Ms. Navarro has nothing to fear from me. I’d like to persuade you of that, but I won’t take up more of your time.”
He nodded his farewell and turned to go. I got up to see him off. He had only taken a few steps when I noticed he’d left his book behind.
“You forgot something,” I said.
He paused midstride and looked back. “No, I brought that for you. Think of it as one last argument to convince you to help me.”
I came out from behind the desk and watched him cross the outer office. When the hallway door closed behind him I reached for the book. The cover felt dry and slightly rough. A glance at the spine told me the title—Stakes—and the name of the author: E. L. Navarro.
CHAPTER 27
Elena Lucia Navarro,” I said.
“You got me, Loogan. You’ve discovered my dark secret.”
We were sitting in her yellow Beetle with a view of Callie Spencer’s Ford—a distant patch of silver parked beside the cottage. I had the book in my lap.
“It’s really good,” I said.
“Oh, go on,” said Lucy.
“I’ve only read the first few chapters, and I usually don’t go in for urban fantasy—”
“Not so many caveats, Loogan,” she said. “You had me with ‘It’s really good.’ ”
I wasn’t alone in my opinion. I’d done some searching online and found glowing profiles of the author in the Los Angeles Times and the Chicago Tribune . The piece in the Tribune had a picture of Lucy: younger, paler, with her hair dyed jet black. She looked vaguely Gothic, which must have been the point. Stakes was a novel about vampires.