Nick said, “And who are the folks you work for, Mr. Sherman?”
“Walter. Please call me Walter.”
“Do you go by ‘Walt’?”
Walter smiled. “No. No, I don’t. Not since grade school.”
“Never liked it, huh?”
“Never did.”
“Well, Walter-and please do call me Nick-who are the folks you work for, and what kind of work is it you do?”
“I work for some people in New York. You wouldn’t know their names …”
“Try me. I’ve been to New York.”
“My client is a prominent person. Let’s leave it at that,” Walter said. “I don’t divulge names. I’m sure you understand.”
“I do. And I respect that. But I don’t talk to people when I don’t know who they are. I’m sure you understand.”
Walter had no response. He just sat there. In a moment, Nick rose, extended his hand, and said, “Nice meeting you, Walter.” In the next moment Walter made a decision completely foreign to his experience, one he’d never even considered. Nick Stevenson had information that could very well be critical to finding Leonard Martin. Walter’s best guess was Nick wouldn’t talk to him, not about Leonard or anything else, without knowing who he was really speaking to. He judged Nick as a man who could be trusted, and said, “I work for a New York businessman named Nathan Stein.”
“He wouldn’t be the Stein of Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills, would he?”
Walter smiled again. “More than once, I see.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve been to New York more than once.”
“I have. Yes, indeed. Bought some stock too. Made a few deals, you know. Met a few fellas down on Wall Street.”
Walter saw the mischievous streak in Nick, and he liked it. It reinforced the judgment he’d just made on which he’d risked so much. He liked Nick Stevenson too. He was more than just a closing attorney. “You handled the case against Knowland, didn’t you?” Walter said. “I’ll bet you did it all by yourself.”
Now it was Nick’s turn to be surprised.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he said, but obviously he did. His demeanor gave him away, and he knew it too. After an awkward pause he finally said, “What else do you know?”
“You can assume that everything that can be openly discovered, I’ve got-and perhaps some things that can’t.”
“Like Knowland?”
“Like Knowland.”
“What are we trying to talk about here?” Nick said.
Walter asked if he could have something cold to drink. “Diet anything,” he said. Nick buzzed his secretary, and almost immediately she produced a cold can and a glass with ice. “Thanks,” said Walter. “My clients-and Nathan Stein is one of a group-believe your partner, Leonard Martin, is going to kill them.”
“You never said what it is you do, Walter.”
“I find people. I find people who can’t be found or don’t want to be found.”
“A private investigator? Bounty hunter? You’re surely not law enforcement.”
“None of those. I’m no PI, no license, not for hire for that. I’m no bounty hunter either. I never work on commission. And I don’t go around hurting people. I’m not a hired goon. I just find people.”
“I didn’t know Leonard Martin was missing.”
“Nick, we can go round in circles for as much time as you’ve got. I’ve got nothing else to do today. But I’d rather get serious. I’m not an adversary, not to you or Leonard Martin, not to anyone. That’s not what I do. Nathan Stein wants to find Leonard. He can’t do it himself so, he hired me.”
“Why?”
“Why did he hire me or why does he want to find him?”
“The latter.”
“Stein and his crew,” Walter began, leaning forward in his chair to be closer to Nick, who reclined as far as he could behind his desk, “they believe that the same person who’s already killed other people, including Christopher Hopman and Billy MacNeal, will try to kill them. They don’t know yet who this person is. They came to me. Long story short, that person is Leonard Martin.” Walter looked closely for any reaction at all from Nick Stevenson, anything that might tell him if he knew about this already, might even be part of it. He saw it: a quick halt in Nick’s respiration, then a return to normal. Not enough by itself to draw a meaningful conclusion, but enough to raise certain questions. Perhaps he knew what Leonard was doing. Perhaps he was part of it. Perhaps he was worried he might be found out. Perhaps, also, he knew nothing and was shocked to hear the allegation, but careful enough not to give himself away. Perhaps only Walter’s experienced eye caught the momentary change in Nick’s breathing pattern. He probed further.
“He’s not in the Bahamas-you know that?”
“I know about Hopman and MacNeal down in Texas. I read the papers too. Now you’re telling me Leonard Martin is a killer, a cold-blooded murderer? That he shot these men? That’s not possible.”
“Nick, I’ve been doing this kind of work for more than thirty years. Take my word for it-anything’s possible. When Leonard Martin left here, more than two years ago, you say he went to the Bahamas.”
“No, I didn’t say that, but you seem to know anyway. Leonard said that.”
“Yes, he told you he’d bought a place there-a boat too, I believe-and left. Is that right?”
“Yes. That’s what he said.”
“And you probably got a letter from him some time later, perhaps even an address, and my guess is you haven’t heard from him since.”
“What is it you want, Mr. Sherman?” Nick Stevenson was getting a bit testy.
“Hey,” Walter said, holding up both his hands in mock surrender. He most certainly did not want this meeting to spiral into distrust and anger. “Please, it’s Walter. I’m only trying to let you know there are things I already know. We don’t have to do this this way. I’ll tell you straight out that I do not know what you know, if you know anything, about Leonard Martin’s whereabouts and activities the last few months or the past two years. All I’m looking for is to communicate with him. I have to find him before I can do that. If you can help me contact him, or do it for me, that would more than satisfy my needs. That’s all I want. Will you help me?”
Nick buzzed his secretary. When she picked up he asked her to bring him some tea. They waited in silence while his tea arrived, and Walter said nothing until Nick had taken a sip.
“I mean no harm to him, Nick. You have to believe that. That’s not what I do. I need to talk to him or with him. It’s in his best interest. Will you help me?”
Nick Stevenson shook his head, grimaced, and took another sip of his hot tea. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”
“You haven’t-”
“No, I haven’t. I haven’t seen him since the day he said goodbye, haven’t talked to him since the day he left, and haven’t communicated with him since then-except for the note I received, as you said, with Leonard’s address in the Bahamas. Are you sure he’s not there anymore?”
“Never was. It was a decoy. You’re a real estate lawyer. You must have seen these kinds of purchases before. With his expertise my guess is that he flew in, closed on the property and the boat-if you can call it that-and flew out. Might not have spent even one night there.”
“You’re sure?” asked Nick.
“I live in the Caribbean, Nick. I know the area he bought in. I’ve checked thoroughly. He was never there.”
“It’s all Knowland, isn’t it?” Nick said. “Knowland and your clients too.”
“Yeah, it certainly is,” Walter said. “At some point, probably shortly before he left Atlanta, Leonard came across information about the people who were involved in that sorry episode. He fashioned some sort of list of those he felt knew about the scope of that disaster, understood the danger in advance, and now he’s killing them, one by one.”
“Because they didn’t stop it?”
“Because they
didn’t stop it.”
“Leonard Martin is my friend. My partner. Thirty years and you think you know a man. Then his entire family gets wiped out and he doesn’t recover. How could he? It’s all quite amazing,” Nick said. “‘Revenge is the wet nurse to madness.’ You know who said that?”
“No, I sure don’t,” said Walter.
“Me neither. Forgot. But I liked it since the first time I read it in college. It’s true, you know. Tell me, how do you know this killer isn’t one of any number of others who suffered a similar loss?”
“I can account for all the others. I won’t bore you with the details, but-”
“Yes, of course you found the others. You find people, don’t you?”
“But I can’t find Leonard Martin. And it’s because he doesn’t want to be found. He’s left behind all the earmarks of someone who’s hiding.”
Nick was as sad as he was puzzled. He told Walter he knew Leonard Martin to be a peaceful man, a man who despised hunting and never, to his knowledge, even touched a handgun or a rifle. Also, at the end, two years ago, Leonard was a pitiful figure of a man, fat and sloppy, out of shape. He just couldn’t imagine him being able to do this sort of thing.
Walter said, “I’m sure you’re right. Leonard is a man with a deep sense of character. That’s why he’s come forward to protect Harlan Jennings. I’m convinced he’s a decent man with a strong commitment to justice. Isn’t that what he’s doing? His own form of justice? As for being out of shape, two years is plenty of time to get oneself fit,” said Walter. Nick did not seem to be buying that line, and, frankly, Walter wasn’t a hundred percent convinced himself. He knew Leonard Martin had gained weight steadily over a couple of decades and ballooned in the months following the death of his family. A man in his fifties, with that sort of history, doesn’t often turn it around, no matter how much time he has. As for the guns, that too worried Walter. Leonard would have to start from scratch, and he would have to acquire the skills of a marksman without assistance. Not an easy thing to do, even in two years.
“I know people,” Nick said, “who are fervent hunters. They damn near love it, but they’re no marksmen. Some of them can’t hit the side of a barn. I don’t see how a man like Leonard Martin can begin at square one and be a proficient shot-hell, a goddamn sniper!-two years later. You can imagine the sort of weapons you’re talking about. It doesn’t seem possible they could belong to the Leonard Martin I know. It must be someone else. There must be someone you haven’t found yet.”
Nick Stevenson had been too young for Korea and too old to be drafted in the ’60s. He had no military experience and was not himself a hunter. In fact, he had not fired a weapon of any kind, ever. Walter told Nick he’d been in Vietnam, where he’d known men like Leonard who turned out to be natural shooters. They had an ability to shoot at, and hit, targets that others who worked much harder could not. They came from all walks of life, all circumstances. They were few and far between, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it. Perhaps Leonard Martin was one of them. Perhaps two years with nothing to do except hone those talents was plenty of time.
“Where could he do that?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know,” Walter said. “Not yet.”
They talked a few minutes more. Walter again assured Nick he meant no harm to Leonard. He explained to him, as he had to Isobel, that he believed Nathan Stein would try to buy his way out of this mess. He said, “You’ve no idea what kind of money we’re talking about.” Nick said he didn’t think money would count for much.
“Leonard has so much,” he said, “and, if you’re right, apparently nothing to spend it on except revenge.”
Walter’s conviction about Stein’s ultimate solution remained steadfast. “These people are all about money. They believe in the power of money like some believe in the baby Jesus. ‘Enough’ and ‘money’ don’t go together. If they don’t have enough, nobody does.”
“He must be paying you a handsome sum,” said Nick. Walter nodded. It was clear to him now that Nick Stevenson knew nothing.
“If you hear from him, please give him my message.” Walter handed Nick a small notepad page with the Ritz-Carlton logo at the top. On it he’d written a telephone number. “My cell phone,” he said. “Call me at this number. Anytime. Day or night.”
“You’ve not made my day any brighter,” Nick said.
“I’m sorry,” said Walter.
They shook hands and Walter left.
Atlanta
Carter Lawrence lived in an apartment building on Lenox Road in the midst of what might reasonably be interpreted as luxury run amok. Walter was surprised at the modesty of his building, surrounded as it was by far grander and more gaudy residential achievements. It was an older, off-white stucco structure set back from the street, only five stories high. It appeared to lack most of the exorbitant amenities: pools, fitness centers, uniformed staff, and even valet parking, conspicuously available everywhere else nearby. Carter Lawrence had not been wealthy until the Knowland settlement. Walter knew that. He measured wealth as being able to maintain one’s lifestyle simply on the earnings from one’s assets. No aspect of work was required. “Rich” just meant you made a lot of money. In Walter’s experience, he found many who were rich and few who were wealthy. Whatever amount Carter got from Knowland, he hadn’t spent it on a new place to live. Walter thought that was a bad sign, particularly if he was part of Leonard Martin’s operation. It would be difficult to tempt a man with money if he wasn’t spending what he already had. Leonard, on the other hand, had obviously been spending his. The question was: Was he spending it all on this project? Were either of these men the type to be bought off? Then again, who could refuse the kind of money Nathan Stein had to offer? He pushed the thought from his mind. Contemplating that kind of money brought unnecessary complications. His job was only to find the man. That was always just his job, and he was content with it.
Walter had favors to call in from many places: former clients eager to be so obligated; past contacts who liked him and would gladly help him again; even law enforcement with whom he was cordial. And he cultivated that rich garden, harvesting its fruit as the need arose. A phone call was all he needed to get a picture of Carter Lawrence. Taken by a photographer from the Atlanta Journal Constitution, it dated back to the funeral of his sons. A staff member attending to one of Georgia’s most well-known citizens had delivered it to him at the Ritz-Carlton. Fifteen years earlier Walter had been hired to find that man’s wife. After an indiscretion on her part, and a bad reaction on her husband’s, she bolted. Two weeks after she disappeared from her Tuxedo Drive mansion, he found her ensconced in a lesbian bar in Miami. The husband sent two other men to Florida to bring her home. The press was told she had been visiting friends in Boca Raton, and she was back in Georgia before anyone (except her frightened and angry spouse) missed her. Like all of Walter’s cases, he did what he was hired to do-find somebody-and the details never became public. Clients like the one in Georgia felt they owed a life-long debt to Walter, and they frequently exhibited a need to show their gratitude. Anything they could do to help him, they would. No questions asked.
Around noon, Carter walked out of his residence. Walter saw him from across the street, where he had been sitting on a bench. He crossed Lenox Road and followed Carter into the parking lot.
“Excuse me,” Walter yelled. Carter turned and stopped. Walter approached him, keeping a respectful distance. It was broad daylight, an open parking lot in plain sight. Nevertheless, he was careful not to appear as a threat of any kind. For all Carter Lawrence knew, this stranger wanted nothing more than directions to the mall. “I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Lawrence.”
“What?”
“My name is Walter Sherman, and I’m looking for Leonard Martin.”
Carter’s obvious, growing agitation was a concern to Walter, and he knew, at times like this, that some people under stress could forget everything said to them. So, he repeated himself. “My nam
e is Walter Sherman. I only want to talk with your father-in-law. Do you know where he is?”
“Who are you?” the skinny lad said, eyes darting, mouth and jaw noticeably tightening.
“Carter, I’m Walter Sherman. If you don’t know where Leonard is today, when you hear from him can you give him a message? I really need to talk with him. Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Carter said, still visibly uncomfortable, although he no longer looked like he was about to start running. “I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you heard from him? In the Bahamas?”
“No. Two years ago, that’s when. After he left I never heard from him. Not in the Bahamas. Not anywhere. Who are you again?”
“If you hear from him, give him this,” Walter said, handing the young man a page from the same Ritz-Carlton notepad he’d given Nick Stevenson. On it he’d jotted down his name and a telephone number. “Day or night. Anytime. Will you do that?” Carter reached out and took the note, folded it without looking at it, and held it tightly in the palm of his closed left hand. Walter thought the youngster was about to cry. He asked him, “When was the last time you saw Leonard?”
“I won’t be able to help you, Mr. Sherman. It’s more than two years since I heard from him.” He said “him” in a way that made Walter believe Carter couldn’t bring himself to say the name Leonard. He saw in Carter’s face and the way he moved his hands a sadness verging on outright misery, a feeling of loss too heavy for his bony shoulders and pencil neck to carry. He knew, then and there, that Carter Lawrence had no contact with Leonard Martin. Walter looked curiously into Carter’s eyes. He couldn’t help wondering what it must be like to lose your wife-wife, ex-wife, there’s no difference-and both your children at the same time, the same way. It was clear he’d lost his father-in-law too.
“Thank you,” said Walter. He smiled and reached out to touch Carter Lawrence’s arm. “I wish you the best. I really do.” With that, he turned and walked away.
The Knowland Retribution l-1 Page 17