by Roy Johansen
“You don’t get it, do you?” Bill pulled Hound Dog closer to him on the landing. “She’s not important. We’re set, buddy. The money…it’s ours!”
Ken aimed the gun down at Bill. “It’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Yes, it does. Put the knife down.”
Bill kept the knife where it was. “Kenny…”
“When did life get so cheap to you?”
“I didn’t want it to be like this.”
“Then how did it happen?”
“I had to do it, Kenny. I didn’t want to go to jail. Sabini was gonna fold. And that investigator was gonna turn me in if I didn’t cut him a piece!”
“Then why didn’t you pay him off?”
Bill didn’t answer. He leaned over, grimacing in pain from his still-bleeding puncture wound. He kept the knife at Hound Dog’s throat.
Ken took a step closer to him. “Drop it.”
“I was looking out for you, man. That’s why I sent Sabini to you in the first place! I knew you needed the money.”
“Don’t pull this bullshit with me. You were out for yourself.”
“Kenny, that Valez guy was gonna kill you. If I hadn’t—”
“Murdered him?”
“He would have killed you.”
“You wanted me around to finish Sabini’s training. That’s all.”
“No. Look, we can carve up the money. Just me and you. Margot doesn’t even know about it!”
“I said it was over!”
“No. It’s not. Listen to me. Sabini gave me the codes I needed to monitor Vikkers’ secret transactions. Channels they use to bribe foreign politicians to get contracts, that kind of stuff. Get this: They’ve been funneling money to the governor. Our governor!”
“I don’t care.”
“I have the printouts to prove it. Don’t you see? He can grease the wheels for us.”
“Drop the fucking knife!”
“I’m trying to help you!”
Ken shook his head. Bill actually believed his own bullshit. Just like everyone else in the world.
Blood started beading on Hound Dog’s throat.
Ken squeezed the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the house.
Bill spun around, wheezing and gasping for air as his chest was ripped apart. He tumbled down the stairs.
“Liar,” Ken said.
—
Ken paced in the driveway of Margot and Bill’s house, looking at the surreal scene playing before him. Swarms of police officers scurried about, some with dogs, others with high-powered flashlights. Several arc lamps lit up the garage and yard, casting the house in a harsh white glare. It was a quarter past four in the morning.
Ken felt sick.
Bill.
The guy he had known since he was thirteen years old.
They had taken their first sip of beer together.
Their first cigarette.
On the night Ken lost his virginity, Bill was the first person he told.
And tonight he had ended his friend’s life in a fraction of a second.
Hound Dog stepped toward Ken. She, like he, was now accessorized in gauze bandages.
“They don’t need all this,” Ken said. “I told them where it was.”
“How are you so sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She followed him to the garage, where police mechanics were conducting a search of Bill’s vintage Corvette. As they watched, an officer rolled out from under the car with a plastic-wrapped bundle.
“Lieutenant!” the officer shouted.
Gant stepped forward and took the bundle into his plastic-gloved hands. He peeled back the wrapper to reveal a hefty stack of treasury certificates and accounting forms.
Gant joined Ken and Hound Dog in the driveway. He motioned back to the car. “You were right.”
Ken nodded. He hadn’t had any doubts.
Margot appeared in the doorway. Ken had been the one to tell her about Bill, and she had reacted with shocked disbelief. When he left her side, he still wasn’t sure the death had really registered.
She now looked at Ken silently, with eyes that communicated more sadness, more disillusionment, than he had ever known. If only he could take that pain away.
She turned and went back inside the house.
She was gone forever, Ken thought. Like Bill.
“We have a lot to sort out,” Gant said. “I just talked to the hospital. Myth Daniels will be okay. I need statements from all of you.”
Ken nodded.
Gant held up the accounting forms. “Electronic fund transfers,” he read aloud.
“Someone should look at those,” Ken said. “They may show that the governor of Georgia has been earning some extra cash from Vikkers Industries. At least that’s what Bill said.”
Gant shook his head as he put the forms and treasury notes into an evidence bag. “I’ll make sure the FBI is present for your statement. They’ll want to hear this.” He pointed to the garage. “How’d you know where to look?”
Ken looked down at the Corvette. “Bill always said this car wasn’t for driving. He said it was for dreaming.”
EPILOGUE
In the days and weeks that followed, Ken couldn’t shake the image of his friend twisting and twirling backward, his chest blown open, eyes rolled upward, mouth pulled into a horrible grimace.
It was the worst thing he had ever seen.
Or done.
When the police lab called to tell him he could have his gun back, he thanked them and said he would pick it up the following day. He never did.
The investigation continued, and though he was called upon to clarify aspects of the case several times, he was never formally charged. Neither was Myth, though the state bar took a close look at her actions. She was helped by the fact that the National Polygraph Association refused to admit that it was possible to beat polygraph exams.
That did not, however, prevent the trade group from suspending Ken’s license for ninety days.
No sooner had that missive come down, when he was contacted by the Emory University psychology department. They wanted him to assist in a new study relating to polygraph effectiveness. Apparently, media coverage of his case prompted the study, and Ken suddenly found himself making more money than he had ever made as an examiner.
The Vikkers president, Herbert Decker, was headed for trial for Securities violations and conspiracy to commit murder. Although the man was suspected of ordering Don Browne’s killing, he was not charged, due to the fact that his presumed hatchet man, the late Ted Michaelson, was incapable of turning evidence against him.
The accounting forms did incriminate Governor Holden, helping to cement the government’s case against Vikkers Industries. Holden claimed to be unaware of the numbered account the company had credited, but the FBI, following the same trail Bill had discovered, traced it back to the governor. Decker refused to confirm their findings. As the government’s probe continued, Holden announced he would not run for another term so he could launch his own investigation and clear his name. In the meantime, he quietly began to solicit financial support for a U.S. Senate campaign.
Ken missed Margot. He had not seen her since Bill’s funeral, a day he wished he could forget. He felt more alone than ever, unable to share his grief and frustration with anyone.
Margot told him she wanted some time to herself. He understood, but he still jogged every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, hoping to see her one day at her usual start-up point on the trail. He began to realize he’d been right about losing her that night.
One Saturday afternoon he finally made himself look for the brick that Bill had bought for him in Centennial Olympic Park. It took some searching, but eventually he found it. It wasn’t the good-natured insult Ken was expecting. Instead, it read KEN PARKER—BESTEST BUD.
He wished it had been an insult.
He visited Hound Dog and her boyfriend, and happily, Mark was on his way to a full recove
ry. Hound Dog was back on the streets every night, scanner on, waiting for crime scene info.
One bright spot in Ken’s life was seeing his brother testify before the congressional committee in Washington. Ken surprised Bobby by driving all night to be at the hearing. Bobby spoke eloquently, with passion and conviction, moving other witnesses to tears. Ken had never been prouder of his younger brother. Although no money had yet been appropriated, the fact that it was a congressional election year could work in Bobby’s favor.
Ken spent a lot of time driving, trying to reconcile himself to the changes in his life. Bill was gone, Margot was out of the picture, and Myth…
He made no attempt to contact her, though she had tried to call him several times. It didn’t feel right. She had shown him a part of himself he hated, a part of himself he would always associate with her. The liar. The master of self-deception. If there was any good in this, he thought, it was that he had finally confronted who he really was. And maybe, just maybe, he had beaten back his darker side.
He was finally evicted from his office building, not for late rent payments, but because Downey had determined he was a “disruptive presence” in the building. Ken knew he could have fought it, but there was no use. He still had several weeks to go on his license suspension, and the rent was only a drain on his funds.
—
“Keep or throw away?” Hound Dog held up a stack of polygraph industry newsletters.
“Throw away.”
It was Ken’s last day in the office, and Hound Dog was helping him pack up. He folded in the flaps of a large cardboard box. “I think I’m actually going to miss this place,” he said.
“It’s been a big part of your life.”
“It’s ugly, dilapidated, and probably unsafe, but it was comfortable. I almost feel like I’m abandoning a crippled, one-eyed dog nobody wants. I’ll even miss the receptionist.”
“I won’t,” Hound Dog said. “She gives me the creeps.”
A knock sounded on the open door. They looked over to see a young man with a baseball cap. “Ken Parker?”
“Yeah.”
“I have a delivery for you, sir.”
The kid handed him an envelope. Ken signed for it, and while he tried to decide whether to tip him, the messenger disappeared.
“You should have tipped him,” Hound Dog said.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Ken opened the envelope and pulled out several papers. On top was a note handwritten on Myth’s letterhead.
Dear Ken,
I’m not writing to apologize, though I am sorrier than you will ever know for what has happened.
Enclosed is a promissory note from Vikkers Industries’ insurance company for the return of the stolen funds. I want you to have it all, Ken. I hope it gives you an opportunity for the “new start” you’ve been looking for.
Myth
He looked at the papers underneath. After wading through the legalese, his eyes zeroed in on the numbers.
Five hundred and sixteen thousand dollars.
The finder’s fee. It was all his.
Five hundred and sixteen thousand dollars. It was a fortune, but still a pittance compared to all he had lost.
He handed the papers to Hound Dog. She read the letter and found the dollar amount. “That’s great, Ken.”
“I want you to have half.”
“No.”
“You earned it.”
She shook her head. “I’m getting a trust fund in a few years that makes this look like spare change. If, of course, my folks don’t cut me off.”
“See? You may need it.”
Hound Dog thought for a moment. “Maybe you can give a little to Mark, so he doesn’t have to work at the strip club anymore.”
“Sure.”
“We’ll discuss it over dinner. You’re still coming, aren’t you? Mark’s making one of his specialties.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Hound Dog tied a plastic trash bag and hoisted it over her shoulder. “I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Cheer up. If you’re real good, maybe later I’ll tell you why everybody calls me Hound Dog.”
He smiled. “It’s a deal.”
She gave him a squeeze on the arm and left the office.
He looked around. Everything was neatly boxed and ready to go.
Go where?
To his apartment? He had enough junk there already, he thought. And that’s what all this stuff was. Junk. Artifacts of a life he’d just as soon forget.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his trick deck of cards, and tossed it into the waste can. He turned off the lights and took one last look around.
There, silhouetted in the room, was his beat-up old polygraph. With its sensors removed, it looked like a quadruple amputee, helpless on its metal stand.
How fitting, he thought.
He walked out of the office, slowly pulling the door closed behind him. It groaned and creaked, finally swinging shut with a click. Ken took a deep breath, taking in the building’s familiar musty smell one last time.
He never looked back as he walked down the stairs and stepped into the pale orange light of dusk.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not have been possible without the support of so many people who helped nourish the story throughout its long and unusual genesis:
Patricia Karlan, Don Roos, Courtenay Valenti, and Bruce Moccia, who lent such vital encouragement when the book was in its earliest stages.
My literary agent, Andrea Cirillo, who first urged me to try my hand at novel writing, and my motion picture agent, Joel Gotler, whose belief in this story continues to inspire me.
My editors extraordinaire, Beth de Guzman and Nita Taublib, whose skill and gentle guidance gave me a terrific introduction to the publishing world.
My lovely wife, Lisa, the most honest person I’ve ever known.
And last, but certainly not least, I owe a debt of gratitude to the polygraph examiners I visited—and their complete inability to determine that I was lying to them.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ROY JOHANSEN’S first screenplay, Murder 101, was produced for cable TV and won an Edgar Award as well as a Focus Award, which is sponsored by Steven Spielberg, Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas, and Martin Scorsese. He has written projects for Disney, MGM, United Artists, Universal, and Warner Bros. He lives in southern California with his wife, Lisa.
Look for Roy Johansen’s next novel
BEYOND BELIEF
available from Bantam Dell.
Maybe tonight was the night he’d learn to believe in magic.
Not damned likely, Joe Bailey thought.
Over the years, he’d received too many calls that promised something extraordinary but never actually delivered. Why would tonight be any different? He unbuttoned his overcoat as he climbed the polished granite front stairs of a mansion on Habersham Drive. He checked his watch: 1:40.
The call had come only fifteen minutes earlier from Lieutenant Vince Powell, who headed the evening watch at the station. There had been a homicide.
“I’m in bunco,” Joe told him. “You’re sure I’m the guy you want?”
“I know who you are,” Powell said. “You bust up all the phony séances, psychics, and witch-doctor scams.”
“Among other things, yeah.”
“Well, we got something right up your alley. It’s scaring the shit out of the officers on the scene. You wanna take a look?”
No, he didn’t want to take a look, but he was here anyway. He strode through the open door. It was a cold February night in Atlanta. Mid-thirties, he guessed. He could still see his breath in the air as he walked through the foyer and looked for the uniformed officer who usually secured a crime scene.
Probably upstairs getting the shit scared out of him.
There were voices echoing down the stairway. Not the matter-of-fact grunts he’d heard at the few murder scenes he’d visited; the wo
rds were the same but uttered faster and louder. A totally different energy.
But whatever it was waiting for him up there, he was sure it wasn’t magic. He always tried to allow for any possibility, but in his six years on the bunco squad, he had yet to see the genuine article. He’d been a professional magician in his twenties and early thirties, so the smoke-and-mirrors stuff had quickly become his specialty. It was still only a small part of his job, but when the squad needed someone to pull apart spirit scams or sleight-of-hand cons, he was the man.
He’d never been asked to investigate a murder.
“Who the hell told you that you could be a real cop?” a voice drawled from the top of the stairs.
Joe looked up to see Carla Fisk, a detective he had once worked with on a beauty-juice investigation. The perp had been selling bottles of tonic that supposedly made its female users flower into beautiful specimens of womanhood. Carla, who cheerfully admitted that her face looked like the “before” picture of almost every beauty ad ever printed, had worn a wire and purchased a few of the bottles. She was no glamour girl, but she was one of the most beautiful people Joe had ever known.
He smiled. “It’s past your bedtime, Carla. You’re not working nights, are you?”
“Nah, I was down the street at Manuel’s Tavern. Everyone wanted a look at this one.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. How’s that little girl of yours?”
“Furious. She wasn’t happy about being woken up and shuttled to the neighbor’s place so I could go check out a Buckhead murder scene.”
“She’ll understand.”
“Maybe if I come back with Yo-Yo Ma tickets.”
“You gotta talk to your kid about the music she listens to. People are gonna think she has a brain.” Carla grinned, flashing yellow teeth. Then she cocked her head down the hall. “You’d better get down there. They’re waiting for you.”
He walked down the long hallway, feeling a sudden chill. Was it getting colder? No, it was probably just his imagination, fed by the nervous voices at the end of the hall.