Poole acknowledged Aubrey’s presence with the barest nod as he stepped in and turned to face the doors. This was normal, not unusual, and yet something else was different. Poole’s normal expression was a satisfied smile. Aubrey would have expected it, especially this morning, assuming that Poole had heard the news that someone had shot Philip Ragland. His expression, however, seemed glazed, almost haunted. No matter, thought Aubrey. Dyspepsia, perhaps. He would soon give Poole something to be haunted about before relieving him with a solution.
He waited until the other passengers stepped off. “You’re aware, are you not, that Philip Ragland has been shot?”
Poole moistened his lips. He didn’t answer.
“And no doubt you have prayed for his speedy recovery.”
Poole swallowed hard. He said, “I had no part in that.”
“No part in shooting Ragland? Who said that you did?”
“I do not choose to discuss it.”
This was curious behavior, even for Poole. Poole normally would not volunteer a denial. To do so would suggest that there might be some basis for even considering that he might have been involved. His normal reaction was more likely to be a pious expression of shock.
Wait a minute, thought Aubrey. Poole must know about Whistler. That idiot, Lockwood, must have called him as well. If he has, he’ll pay dearly for ruining the surprise.
“Shall I…take it that you’ve heard from Mr. Lockwood this morning?”
Poole blinked a few times. He asked, “Who?”
“I think you heard me.”
“Oh, Lockwood. Your man? Why would I speak to him? I don’t even know what his job is.”
This again was normal. He chose not to know Lockwood. Very well. Rule out Lockwood. “Let me ask another way. Do you know who else was at the scene of the shooting?”
“I know nothing of that incident. I’m in no way connected.”
“And of course you know nothing about Adam Whistler.”
“Him? What about him? No, don’t tell me,” said Poole. “Whatever he’s up to, you deal with it.”
This was getting beyond curious. Could he really not know? If he didn’t, what could possibly have him so out of sorts?
“Mr. Poole…I’ll ask again, and this time I’ll speak slowly. Are you aware that Adam Whistler and his lady friend were present when Philip Ragland got shot?”
The color drained from Poole’s face. He seemed unable to speak.
“And did you know,” Aubrey added, “that, acting together, they subdued the man who shot Philip Ragland? Did you know that they saved Ragland’s life?”
Poole could only stammer. This was news to him, clearly. Aubrey, at least, could now enjoy Poole’s discomfort, but he still didn’t know why Poole had bothered to insist that he was innocent of any involvement. It was clear that Poole knew a good deal more than he was saying.
“Want to hear the best part? It was actually the girl. It seems that young Claudia has used her sabbatical to acquire a few lethal skills.”
Poole gave no response. He merely tightened his jaw and averted his eyes. This also was normal. He could say he never heard.
Aubrey said, “Very well. Never mind. Here’s our floor.”
“Wait a minute,” Poole whispered. He was chewing his lip. “You say Whistler…and the girl…?”
“Too late. I don’t wish to discuss it.”
This was the sort of game that they played all the time except that this one, again, was somewhat different. Stanton Poole almost never asked a question directly. Nothing asked, nothing known, was his watchword. But Poole, it was clear, hadn’t heard about Whistler. He had only known that Philip Ragland had been shot, and that news alone had affected him greatly. Then the mention of Whistler in connection with Ragland had nearly the effect of defibrilator paddles applied to his private parts.
Poole wet his lips once more. All he managed was, “Whistler?”
“We’ll talk when you’re ready to share.”
When one has an advantage, one doesn’t discard it without getting something of value in return. Aubrey said nothing further. He would go to his office. He would wait until Poole could stand it no longer. He would let Mr. Poole come to him.
It took longer than he’d thought. On reaching his office, Poole told Robert, his assistant, his bodyguard really, to cancel his appointments for the day. Moreover, he’d be taking no calls.
“Will you be in prayer, sir?”
One had to know Robert.
“I am…always in prayer.”
And one had to know Poole.
Before closing his door, Poole reached into his wallet and extracted a card key that he carried in its folds. Aubrey knew that the only card key lock in that room was the one to a cabinet that concealed a safe where Poole kept his private papers. He could hear Poole at the cabinet, yanking it open. He heard him say, “Shit.” Poole never said, “Shit.” Mr. Poole was indeed not himself.
Some ten minutes later, Poole burst from the room, a thick folder under his arm. Aubrey heard him tell young Robert to get up from his computer and to go get some breakfast, read his Bible or something. The assistant, a mountainous young fellow, obeyed. Poole watched him go and then sat at Robert’s desk where Robert kept a photo, framed in turquoise, of his mother and a coffee mug that asked, “What would Jesus do?” Robert also wore a pistol strapped to his ankle, which was, one assumes, what Jesus would have done if he’d known what the Romans had in store for him. He would probably have used it on Judas.
Poole pushed the photo and the mug to one side and went to work on Robert’s keyboard. He spent another ten minutes bringing up files. Every so often, he would reach his right hand to the lower right corner of the keyboard. Aubrey seldom spent much time at computers, but he knew that that was where the delete key was found.
Aubrey couldn’t resist. He got up from his desk. He said, “May I ask what you’re doing?”
Poole’s response was, “Damn you, Mr. Aubrey.”
This was odd in itself. Stanton Poole never cursed. Surely, he used “damn” or “damned” on occasion, but only to describe the eventual circumstance of all but a few living humans.
He said it again, “Damn you, Aubrey.”
“But for what, in this instance? And what is it you’re erasing? And whatever it is, you wouldn’t have to erase it if you hadn’t put it there in the first place.”
Poole ignored all but the first part of the question. “Damn you for this. This folder right here.” He jabbed a finger at the folder that, one assumed, had lately come out of his safe. "It's your ledger, Aubrey. Your damnable ledger. Damn you and your damnable ledger.”
It was not the book itself. It was only a copy. Whistler’s father had kept the original. Aubrey said, “Now I’m confused. Yes, Whistler was there. But why is everyone leaping to the conclusion that Whistler and Ragland are in concert?”
“Whistler. You’ve confirmed that? He’s a part of this now?”
An exasperated sigh. “A part of what, Mr. Poole?”
“What Crow did. With Breen. Those two shot Philip Ragland. Breen is dead or near it. They’ve identified Breen. They know that the one who escaped must be Crow.”
Aubrey hadn’t heard that the assailants had been named. “And…who are these two? What have they to do with us?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Aubrey.”
One should never admit that one doesn’t know something. One should smile and say, “Oh, that,” as if it’s under control. But Aubrey could not. This seemed much too important. He said, “I’m afraid I’m not playing.”
“You’re a liar, Mr. Aubrey.”
“Ah…what if I swear…may my parents burn in hell…if I have the least idea of what you’re talking about?”
Poole threw back the cover of the folder at his side. He whipped through
several pages, knocking some to the floor. He found one page and he reached for a pen. He drew a great circle around a notation that was written in Aubrey’s ow
n hand.
“There. It says, ‘Recon.’ That is your abbreviation. It says, ‘JC.’ That is your abbreviation. Here it says ‘idiotic.’ That is your assessment. I ask you, who is the idiot now? Whose ledger got us into this disaster?”
Aubrey blinked. He remembered. Joshua Crow. The JC of his ledger was Joshua Crow. Oh, this was too delicious, if true.
“Crow. The Reconstructionist. Their money man. That Crow?”
All Stanton Poole could do was close his eyes.
“He’s the one who throws bombs into gay bars and such? Now he’s shooting our critics? With Adam Whistler watching? It’s your own Mr. Crow whom we have to thank for that?”
“You as well. Don’t be modest. You above all.”
“You’ve given them millions. And it was idiotic. No, no, I withdraw that. It was lunacy, sir. Show me one thing that you gotten in return, other than one of their ridiculous lapel pins. Which reminds me, I see that you’ve retired that pin. Or did one of their number come and rip it from your coat because you were tardy with donations?”
Felix Aubrey was instantly sorry that he said it. It evoked a crackpot rationalization that Aubrey had already heard several times. Poole felt perfectly justified in diverting this money. That to do so was illegal, a crime, had no relevance. These monies, themselves, were the wages of sin. The problem with that was that Poole no longer cared whether victims of seizures were innocent or guilty. It was enough, in his eyes, that they were probably immoral. “Honest men,” he’d once said, “do not acquire great wealth. And some have been born into undeserved wealth that is better used doing God’s work.”
Felix Aubrey might not have objected to this if God’s work had involved such traditional activities as caring for the sick and the poor. Well, truth be told, he would have. Unless caring for the poor involved having them spayed, spending money on them would have been wasteful. But the work that Poole was funding envisioned nothing less than a new and more terrible inquisition. Not that Aubrey would have minded a burning here and there. He’d known plenty of people who were long overdue. In fact, he still had the list that he’d started in his teens. People who’d slighted him, bullied him, belittled him. Grown women, later, who would roll their eyes when he did nothing more than try to speak to them. Some of these, as time went on, married well, had lovely homes. Not so many have those homes any more.
Stanton Poole was still whining. Aubrey waited him out. At the moment Poole was fretting that Whistler must know that Poole, Breen and Crow are connected. Well, he doesn’t. Almost surely. Aubrey couldn’t see how. But Poole seems to think that if he doesn’t, he will. He thinks that Whistler will remember those notations in the ledger – those sums that were earmarked as Recon-JC – and instantly realize that they must mean Crow and his Reconstructionist lunacy. Not likely. Not remotely. There were hundreds of notations. Whistler would have to focus on those few in particular and make an improbable logical leap. The term “Recon” could have any number of meanings. Given Whistler’s background, the first of those meanings that would pop into his mind would be that it was short for “Reconnaissance.” And “JC” could mean anything from Jesus Christ to the Junior Chamber of Commerce.
Aubrey tried to remember when last he’d seen Crow. Two years ago? Longer? Crow had come to see Poole. Whenever it was, Crow and Poole had prayed together. The occasion was when Poole advised Mr. Crow that he’d best not be seen in this building again. Leonard Breen, it seems, had murdered two people, one of whom was Breen’s former wife. He had actually, literally, stoned them to death, and had gathered an audience to witness the event. While he did so, it was Crow who kept the audience at bay, describing what they were to see, and why, and distributing literature to them.
Poole realized, belatedly, that Joshua Crow had finally gone over the edge. He pointed out to Crow, as tactfully as he could, that this sort of thing could cause problems. He said that although it might not be a crime in God’s eyes, the law would surely take a less enlightened view. The coming of Christ would solve that problem, of course, and we know that He is coming any day now. Until then, however, Poole thought it would be prudent if Crow were to make himself scarce. Crow agreed to do so. He took Leonard Breen with him. Those two took their show on the road.
“Mr. Poole…settle down. I’m in need of some answers. I take it that you’ve been in contact with Crow.”
“Me? I have not. I have severed all ties.”
“That’s a fib, I’m afraid. I was here when you handed him some traveling money. I was here when you promised that you’d send him all he needed.”
“I…recall no such thing. You’re quite wrong.”
“You have aided and abetted. That’s a no-no, Mr. Poole. May we stop this little game and move on?”
“I need to pray.”
“Yes, but first let us deal with the here and the now. Did you send Breen and Crow after Ragland?”
“I didn’t. I swear it. All I ever said…”
“So, you have spoken to him. Was this recent? By what means?”
“He…sometimes leaves a message. He leaves a number on my pager. When I call, it is only to urge him to surrender.”
Aubrey curled his lip. Save that line for the police. “Yes, but why does he call? Surely not to hear that. Does he call when he’s in need of financial assistance?”
“No,” Poole said sharply. Then he added, “Well…no.”
“So the answer is ‘partly.’ Why else does he call?”
“He…wants me to know that he’s…doing good works.”
“He calls to inform you of his latest atrocity? That makes you an accessory after the fact.”
“No, no. All he says is, ‘Read the papers tomorrow.’”
“You say he calls your pager. Does he have a pager?”
Poole rose to his feet. He clapped his hands to his cheeks. “I…believe so. But I’ve never…”
“So you do have his number. You can reach him if you must.”
“Call him now? After this? I would have to be insane.”
“No, what would be insane is to let him be caught. What do you suppose he would say to the police? Will he agree that you didn’t ask him to shoot Ragland?”
“He would. All I said was that Ragland was scheduled to address a conference being held on that island.”
“Its topic?”
“It’s nothing connected with us. It’s some group that’s in favor of infanticide.”
“So this group is pro-choice. You told Crow that was the topic?”
Poole was rubbing his face. “I…may have mentioned it in passing. It was merely a discussion. I never intended…”
“No, you never do, do you? This time, however, you have a problem. Its solution can benefit us both.”
Poole looked up at him hopefully. “You can...help to resolve this?”
“I can save your skin. I can make this go away. How much cash is in your safe at the moment, Mr. Poole? Say none, and this conversation is over.”
“I keep a fund for contingencies. A few hundred thousand.”
“A good start. It’s now mine. In addition to that, I will want an amount that equals what you’ve given to Mr. Crow’s church.”
Poole stared, his mouth open. “You’re talking three million.”
“Not talking. Extorting. I’m extorting three million. You’re refusing? Then have a good day.”
“Wait a minute. What next? What if I agree?”
“You will make one more call to Mr. Crow’s pager. You’d better hope that he returns it. I will tell you what to say. After that, you will never hear from him again. Do you wish to know how I can assure you of that?”
“I must…trust in your good judgement. As always.”
“So the answer is no. You’re going to leave this to me.”
“But Whistler…he’s involved…what will you do about Whistler?”
He can wait, thought Aubrey. First things first. This took precedence. The task at hand was to put Mr. Lockwood in contact
with our inconvenient friend, Mr. Crow. How to do so had already taken shape in his mind. Mr. Lockwood will see to it that we see no more of Crow. That accomplished, Aubrey would then make the call that would put Whistler’s face on every front page.
“He’ll have problems of his own, Mr. Poole.”
TWENTY
Claudia, thought Whistler, had apparently been right. All Moore wanted was to know that he’d done the right thing in letting them distance themselves from the shooting. Perhaps admiration figured into it somewhere, admiration of Whistler for his Special Ops past. Or perhaps that admiration was directed more toward Claudia. Moore seemed not a little enchanted by her. Whistler felt sure that Moore would take no action on those charges still pending against her. He’d observed, but he would not report.
Whistler, however, would have one more score to settle if he ever met up with Felix Aubrey again. They had buried the charges against Claudia and her mother but had not, as they’d claimed, had them wiped off the books. He supposed that he should not have been surprised.
He would need to tell his father, but later, not now. His father would ask him how he came to find out and he’d have to admit that he wasn’t quite truthful
about having no involvement in last night’s events. For now, though, he just might get out of this clean. There was no need to worry his father.
As for Aubrey’s deceit, his father might not even care. He might say, “Big Deal. He kept a card up his sleeve. It’s not much of a card. He knows he can’t go to trial. There’s no one left to testify, remember? The most he could do would be to have them picked up and kept on ice for a few days, tops. If he does, and tries to deal, I’ll snatch his mother if he has one. Forget it. Let him think he’s been clever.”
“Yeah, but then what’s the point of him keeping them open?”
“Adam, you heard. It’s observe, but don’t detain. He’s just trying to track you for his own peace of mind. As long as you don’t do anything that threatens him directly, he’s not going to risk taking action.”
Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series) Page 20