Find Virgil (A Novel of Revenge)

by Frank Freudberg

  The next day he made an appointment on an emergency basis and subjected himself to an examination, a battery of tests, and X-rays. Three days later, a diagnosis. Stage 4 lung cancer. And a prognosis—he’d survive for six months at the most.

  Pensacola rushed back in on Muntor like a wave crashing over his shoulders.

  He had nodded off thinking about his unceremonious termination. He opened his eyes at the sound of the standard theme music that heralded a CNN Special Live Report.

  He reached for the remote and turned up the volume.

  21

  En route to Asheville

  At the Philadelphia airport, Fallscroft and Rhoads shook hands and separated.

  In the Learjet, waiting to take off, Rhoads sat forward in the seat closest to the pilots. He was the only passenger. Rhoads guessed the pilots weren’t told much about their mission, just that something big was going on and that Rhoads figured in somehow.

  Rhoads made a few attempts to converse with the pilots but they weren’t too responsive, so he buckled his seatbelt and settled in.

  “How long is this flight going to take?”

  “You have about an hour,” the pilot said, checking his watch.

  “Okay,” Rhoads said. “Shout back and wake me before we get there.”

  They gained on Asheville while Rhoads slept.

  Fifty minutes later, the huge red-brick-and-glass edifice that was Old Carolina Tobacco, Inc.’s world headquarters squatted like an Aztec pyramid on a grassy hill in front of the Great Smoky Mountains. A minute before touchdown, they woke Rhoads. The Learjet landed on Pratt’s private mile-long strip.

  As the airplane taxied in toward the ground crew, the sun blinded Rhoads. He squinted and looked out at Old Carolina Tobacco, Inc. He wasn’t quite able to believe he was back a year after quitting.

  A minute later, Rhoads heard the banging of the ground crew as they clamped the exit ladder in place. The copilot got out of his seat and unlatched the door. It swung open.

  Rhoads stood up, rumpled. “Thanks, you guys.”

  Rhoads exited and took the service elevator down to the Fitness Center in the basement of WHQ. He needed a shower and a change of clothes. He smiled, thinking he’d buy a couple nice suits and charge it to the company.

  Twenty-five minutes later, when he stepped into the elevator in the basement en route to the fifth floor, Rhoads was dressed in the same clothes he had worn for three days, but at least he was clean-shaven.

  22

  Asheville

  The fifth-floor lobby reeked of arrogance and power.

  A full-sized marble replica of Blind Justice, the scales of which contained a display of Old Carolina’s various cigarette brands, towered in the lobby, greeting visitors. Fifty feet of polished marble floor led to the reception desk. Two uniformed armed guards were stationed at either side, their posts manned twenty-four hours a day.

  As Rhoads exited the elevator, three men brushed past him and entered. Rhoads then pushed through the huge plate-glass doors that led, on one side, to the board of directors’ conference room, and on the other to an expanse of computer workstations.

  In the workstation area were rows of file cabinets and a sign that read “Corporate Documentation Division.” From an office beyond the computer workstations, Mary Dallaness entered, striding briskly, her wavy brunette hair cut short and bouncing as she approached. She moved with the quick grace of a dancer.

  Rhoads hailed her, and she waved back. They had never had any official business between them but they knew each other through her brother-in-law and years of bumping into each other at WHQ. Once, Mary and Anthony Dallaness had invited Rhoads and a date over for the Fourth of July. It had rained like hell that day, he remembered.

  “T.R.!” she said. “You quit. Without saying good-bye. And you never even called me.”

  Rhoads crossed the terminal area and greeted her with an affectionate one-armed hug. If only she weren’t married. He didn’t want to pursue that line of thinking. Her husband was dying.

  “Okay. Goodbye,” he said. And in a whisper added, “Spur of the moment thing, Mary D. Trouble with Pratt. But I’m back now for a little bit. They want some help with this guy who’s killing people. Apparently he’s distributing the product without a proper resale license.”

  She didn’t smile. “It’s nothing to joke about. We just heard six more of the injured died from complications. The company’s a zoo, especially here in Documentation. I can’t figure it out. Some lunatic starts killing people, and all of a sudden, everybody needs irrelevant documents that are years old.”

  Rhoads squinted. The cop in him reacted to something that didn’t add up. “Archived documents? What kind?”

  “What do you think? Level Three, naturally. The kind nobody can authorize but me. At three o’clock in the morning, at eleven at night. Any old time. And there’s a certain redheaded party who’s about one irritating telephone call away from…” Dallaness stopped herself.

  “Really? Who might that be?” Rhoads was aware that Mary knew he and Trichina had been together, and that she didn’t like it. There had always been something between him and Mary, but as long as she was with Anthony, Rhoads wouldn’t make a move. And still he felt bad about Mary’s jealousy.

  23

  In Valzmann’s room in the World Headquarters subbasement, an enormous array of color video monitors, green and amber lights, switches, reel-to-reel tape recorders, telephones, and other devices squatted on shelves and lined the walls.

  Valzmann, who wore a tiny ivory stud earring in his right earlobe, stared without expression at Video Monitor #65. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he reached out and slid a glide switch forward, causing a ceiling camera on the fifth floor to zoom in on Rhoads and Dallaness in conversation. He tapped a key that activated a directional microphone as he pulled a headset over his ears.

  The sound quality was tinny but audible. He clearly heard Dallaness’s response to Rhoads’s question.

  “Your ex-boss, Trichina,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Rhoads could be heard saying. His back was to the camera. “She always likes to get her hands in everything. She’s probably just trying to find an excuse to run to Pratt with some kind of brilliant idea. She may actually think she’ll crack the case by reviewing the list of people who’ve been reprimanded for parking in the ‘Executive Only’ lot.”

  24

  Rhoads grinned goodbye to Dallaness and walked back past the reception desk to the Executive Suite entrance. The two guards, formerly his subordinates, nodded.

  As Rhoads moved toward the closed boardroom door, what could only be an FBI agent moved to block him. Rhoads attempted to squeeze by but was again blocked.

  From inside the boardroom, Pratt opened the door and shouldered the agent aside.

  “Rhoads,” Pratt said. He ushered him in as if he were a VIP. The room was half the size of a football field and dominated by a long walnut conference table with dozens of matching chairs.

  Clustered around one section of the table were Trichina and two FBI men. From a wall paneled in burled cherry, another two FBI agents removed a gold bas-relief sculpture of a tobacco leaf. In its place, they tacked up a huge map of the United States upon which Rhoads assumed were tampering death locations marked with bright red flags. Also on the wall was a giant enlargement of the counterfeit consumer-opinion survey letter the killer sent with the poisoned cigarettes.

  “Good of you to join us, Thomas,” Trichina said.

  Rhoads ignored her.

  Pratt turned to the FBI agents. “I’d like to introduce our former chief of security, Thomas Rhoads. He’s broken off his vacation to be with us.” The agents nodded, but Rhoads sensed that Pratt knew about Teddy and probably the boat, and he knew that put him at a disadvantage. Pratt introduced Franklin and Brandon. The men nodded at each other, but Rhoad
s didn’t offer to shake.

  “Have a seat, Thomas,” Pratt continued. “These fine gentlemen don’t believe it was you who sent the letter. Obviously you aren’t, and have never been, in our marketing department.”

  “That’s not even my signature,” Rhoads said, staring at the letter with bewilderment. “Hell, I might not have the greatest handwriting, but I don’t chicken scratch like that.”

  “Right now this investigation isn’t focused on you. Handwriting samples run through analysis indicate it’s not your signature,” Pratt said. “We were just discussing a former employee. Loren Benedict.” Pratt’s eyes bored into Rhoads’s.

  Benedict had gone missing in the last weeks of Rhoads’s employment with Old Carolina. He had had access to sensitive documents, and Pratt had sent Rhoads to Denver to find him. In the end, he didn’t find Benedict, but he had learned enough to know he couldn’t work for Pratt any more.

  Pratt said, “The FBI has put him on their most-wanted-to-interview list. For one thing, they’ve discovered evidence that he received psychiatric treatment during the period that he was in our employ. It seems an improbable connection to me, but then I’m not an FBI agent.”

  Franklin spoke to Rhoads. “Perhaps you can help us. Information about Mr. Benedict seems to be in short supply. The fact is, there’s no record of him anywhere after he left the company. Does this ring any bells for you?”

  “I remember the job. There was nothing suspicious about Benedict except the way he left. Suddenly and without notice. Which doesn’t strike me as a crime. It happens.”

  “Yes. It does happen,” Trichina said. “Sometimes people just drop out.” She shot a quick glance at Rhoads. “Don’t they?”

  Rhoads saw that Franklin had picked up on the static between them.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Franklin said. “But here’s our problem. Employee files in your HR department list him as being the lead in a research project you all called ‘Midas.’ That’s all there is in the file. No CV, no address, no performance appraisals. Nothing. And there’s no explanation of what Midas is.”

  “I’ve told you,” Pratt said. “Midas never went anywhere. Midas has nothing to do with this tampering problem. It was some pie-in-the-sky new product effort. These marketing guys have a thing about secrecy. Whatever it was, it was a bust, believe me, or I’d remember it. We withdrew funding. That’s probably why Benedict quit. The documentation division manager is looking for the Midas files now. Last year we had a computer blowout. That cost us a lot of archived data. We still have the hard copies, but they’re not at our fingertips. You’ll get them as soon as I do.”

  Brandon turned to Rhoads. “Do you have any recollection of the Midas project?”

  Rhoads knew what to say. He had signed a confidentiality agreement with Old Carolina, and whatever he suspected, he couldn’t say anything or he’d be sued until he had nothing. He turned to Brandon.

  “I didn’t have any contact with Benedict personally,” Rhoads said. “At one point, after he left, we wanted to check his office. I went to Denver, boxed up his files, and shipped them to documentation for safekeeping. If anything had been missing, I’m sure I would have been notified to take follow-up action. But I never got any such call. That was the first and last of Midas, and Benedict, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Then,” Franklin said, “I guess we work on other ideas until your documentation people find the Midas files. Unless, Mr. Pratt, there’s somebody here in Asheville or back in Denver who was involved with Midas.”

  Pratt tried to mask a sour expression. “I won’t know who was assigned until our archivists come up with the files. I assure you, I’ll have that information very shortly.”

  25

  A cell phone chirped in Brandon’s pocket. All turned to watch his reaction. As he listened, his eyes opened wider. To Rhoads, it looked like bad news.

  Brandon mumbled something into the telephone, hung up, and pulled Franklin aside.

  He looked at Franklin, who nodded that he could share it with the room. “Chief, two things just came in to FBIHQ. One’s bad news. Five new deaths reported, and not FedEx envelopes—cigarettes sold over the counter. All in Pensacola, Florida. The field team says it looks like our man, not a copycat. The other thing may be good news. A man claiming to be ‘Cyanide Sam’ called minutes ago. The call came from Pensacola. Caller says he wants to talk to Rhoads. Says he’s going to call HQ again at two o’clock.”

  Franklin nodded expressionlessly. He said something quietly to Brandon who in turn issued instructions to the other FBI agents in the room. Then Brandon left.

  “I need to get back to Washington,” Franklin said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll borrow Mr. Rhoads here so we can continue our interview in the air. He may know of some characters we should be talking to. And Mr. Pratt, Ms. Trichina, I’ll trust you will call me as soon as you find any information about Mr. Benedict and the Midas project.”

  “Of course. Of course,” Pratt said, “I understand. And, yes, take Rhoads if you think he’ll be helpful. But might I have a word with Mr. Rhoads before you go?”

  Franklin had Rhoads by the elbow and was already half a room away from Pratt. Rhoads, puzzled, looked back at Pratt and gave a small shrug.

  Franklin turned back, too, still moving. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pratt. We’re in quite a hurry.”

  “Yes,” Pratt said. “I understand. Thomas?” He raised his voice to be heard by the departing men. “Give me a call as soon as you get a moment.”

  26

  Asheville, en route to FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

  The pilot and Brandon sat up front. The Blue Ridge Mountains flashed by below. Franklin and Rhoads were strapped into two rear seats. Franklin glanced at Rhoads, who was looking out the window. He didn’t know what the FBI really wanted, but he knew it wasn’t his help with the case. The Feds didn’t work that way. He had decided to go along for the ride. The payoff and the boat depended on it. He knew the FBI Director would come on friendly at first and then try to ambush him later, but he didn’t mind. He knew how it worked, and he had nothing to hide.

  “This thing’s a real bitch, isn’t it? Guy killing all those people. Makes me wonder,” Franklin said.

  “Doesn’t make me wonder,” Rhoads said, “People are out of their minds.” He could as easily have said nothing, made Franklin work for it, but what was the point? He wanted to get to whatever Franklin planned on surprising him with as soon as possible. Let the man play his games. Then Rhoads would know what Franklin really wanted and he would be in a better position to know how to play it.

  “Something I wonder about in particular though —“ said Franklin.

  “It’s funny,” Rhoads said, interrupting and looking around the interior of the helicopter. “Pratt’s chopper is bigger, better, faster and has more range than yours. Costs two or three times as much. Now he has that, but he’s not exactly running around trying to catch psycho serial killers and save lives. He uses his to pursue dollars.”

  Franklin went on. “—is why one of the world’s preeminent CEOs, a guy who Forbes magazine says is worth a quarter billion dollars, would be so determined, I mean I’m talking about a smart guy who’s facing the greatest crisis of his career—you with me on this, Rhoads?—would bend over backwards to press into service a total fuckup. Like you.”

  Rhoads smiled. Franklin had overplayed his hand. The FBI didn’t hire stupid, and he didn’t believe for a minute that Franklin believed anything that Philly P.D. or Pratt might have to say about him. Rhoads’s record spoke for itself, and he wasn’t going to be rattled by an offhand insult.

  Franklin wasn’t finished. “Can you explain that for me? I mean I can only think of about eight thousand more qualified guys than you that Pratt can have with the snap of his fingers.”

  Rhoads was starting to see where Franklin was going.

  “I couldn�
�t say,” Rhoads said. “Maybe you should ask Pratt. Except Pratt’s not the kind of guy that would tell you the time unless he got paid for it, and you don’t have any leverage with him. He’s got too many friends. Maybe he’s friends with your boss, or your boss’s boss. So no point in going to him for the truth. So what’s your play? You looked at my file, and you made some calls. You can read between the lines, so you know that I’m not bent, no matter what Philly P.D says. But you figure you can make me think that’s what you believe.”

  Rhoads raised his hand when Franklin opened his mouth to say something. “I got it—you heard I was a drinker. Maybe you talked to my lieutenant. He told you about how my wife died, and maybe my employees let something slip. You know the lieutenant’s a piece of shit, and you know I did some reconstructive surgery on his head with a bat, so you know he’s full of it. But you want me to worry, to think about all the bad things I’ve done. Cause I’m a drunk, and drunks have secrets. I start sweating now and you figure all you have to do is lean on me until I spill, and then you own me.”

  “Rhoads —” Franklin said.

  “No, it’s not a bad plan,” Rhoads said, “The only problem is that there’s nothing to hide. You know the truth about when I was a cop. I drink, but I’ve never done anything dumb while I was drunk, nothing you can use. You know about my brother—hell, you probably know about the boat, and you know I need the money. But sure as shit you know I quit consulting for Pratt because he’s a crook. So really, what do you have? As I said, it’s not a bad approach. But it assumes that there are skeletons somewhere in my closet, and there aren’t.”

  “I don’t think you’re understanding me, Rhoads.”

  “Oh, I think I am, and I think you know it. But I don’t mind. It’s the same game I played every time I arrested some scumbag. Look—let’s just skip to the end. You want to know why I’m here, why I signed on with Pratt, even though I know what he is. It’s the money. You know that, but you think maybe there’s more. I need the money. I have family to take care of. The deal is this: I help catch the guy, I get the money I need. If I have to work with Pratt or you to do that, I will. So why don’t we just get to the part where you tell me what you want and threaten me if I don’t agree to deliver. It’s going to be real awkward if we don’t finish this conversation before we land, and I have to tell you, I need a nap.”