“Seen Walter?”
“No.” She had Ike’s usual in hand, and set it onto one of Billy’s fancy new bevel-edged coasters.
“Billy,” he called out. “Where’s Walter?”
“Beats me.” Billy was boisterous with the huge success of the lunchtime shift. “Where’s Jimmy Hoffa, Judge whatshisname, or the guys who really killed OJ’s wife? They ain’t here neither, in case you need to know.”
Ike exchanged sympathetic glances with Jenna. He raised his glass to her and she smiled before moving on to other more profitable duties.
Ike saw Billy sending him a long, significant glance across the room. It said, “I make it a hundred to one they been fucking their brains out all day long.” It also said, “What do you think?”
Ike fixed his mouth to turn his smile down at the sides. He did this to reinforce the silent message he sent back to Billy. The message was this: “More chance you fucked three different goats during lunchtime!”
In this kind of situation, Billy accepted Ike’s “no argument” rule. These small subtleties mystified Billy, but Ike always seemed to get them straight.
At that moment Walter and Isobel were dissecting Isobel’s meeting with Leonard Martin. In terms of method, they picked up where they’d left off in New York. That process exhilarated Isobel. It was what she’d tasted in Oxford, savored in Annapolis, quickly given up on at the New York Times: a truly pure collaboration; a protracted scientific conversation in words; an authentic treasure hunt of the mind-unencumbered by emotion; tightly disciplined. That was the word: “disciplined.” This time, of course, there was an added element, a kind of secret. But it was metaphysical to the issue; strictly a preface to the play, nothing to do with the action; nothing to do with who, where, what. It was, in fact, about herself, nothing to do with, not precisely about, the business at hand. Certainly not the kind of thing to throw in the mix just now. Isobel kept her secret secret.
The magic was in the rhythm of the thing. Each led until it was time to switch; both knew exactly when that time arrived. As Isobel had the new information, Walter led with questions most of the time. When something came up that gave her a sense of direction, she led for as long as that lasted. Most of what they said was questions and answers, or back-and-forth construction of ideas. Parallel issues and brainstorm items got noted, or just remembered, and put to the side, then brought into play when a line of discussion had run its course. Things used to go that way with her father until he lost patience or interest. There were times she thought the Moose had potential.
Walter’s focus was single-minded; he wanted clues to help him find Leonard. If he could not see how a fact or a thought would get him there, he put it aside for later discussion, if Isobel wished, but not for immediate scrutiny. Isobel could only report that Leonard had refused to talk about the past two years. He only wanted to lay out his case. They spent some time on that. They went over the four targets Leonard had named for Isobel, and his brief against each. They went over and over each one. But Walter said he was suspicious; for all they knew, Leonard had mixed in details designed to mislead. His purpose was to not get caught-or help Isobel prevent another crime. All Leonard had to do was give details after the fact, as he’d already done in letter two, which saved Harlan Jennings. Walter wasn’t sure why Leonard wanted to meet her at all. Leonard knew she would publish the points he wanted made. He’d already given her journalistic presence. Why should Leonard doubt that she’d continue to serve? He had other ways to plead his case for preventing false convictions: via e-mail, snail-mail, telephone, throwaway cell phone-many safer ways. Why risk a meeting at all? It baffled him. And why the blindfold? Why refuse to acknowledge his identity absolutely? Leonard’s lawyerly explanation did not sell with Walter. When he asked Isobel, she shook her head, returned his searching look, proclaimed with her eyes that she only wished she could offer an explanation.
Ganga Roy’s complete report was on the disc Leonard gave Isobel, together with her notes and written comments about the rancorous, ominous meeting in Nathan Stein’s office. They printed out two copies and each of them worked from their own. What Leonard told Isobel about Ganga Roy’s revelations, what they could plainly read for themselves, and what Tom Maloney confided in Walter did not jibe. They spent an hour on those points of difference, talked about Ganga Roy’s notes-her presentation and observations-and speculated briefly on the inner struggle that very likely ended in suicide. Walter never assumed that Tom Maloney had been fully truthful. He allowed as much for every client. The Roy materials helped him draw a more confident picture of where Tom lied. What else had been a lie? Walter kept thinking about Maloney saying, “How do I make the check out, Sister?”
They went over and over Isobel’s “kidnap” and interview. She repeated the story twice from beginning to end, printout in hand, original notebook next to her. Isobel told Walter how she told Leonard Martin she knew who he was-even repeating her assertion that she couldn’t see him-and of his refusal to admit his identity. Despite that, they spoke of details exclusive to Leonard’s experience. There was no doubt in her mind that she met with and spoke to Leonard Martin. When Isobel described her pique at being felt up by the driver, something seemed to flash in Walter’s eyes. Something boyish. .. jealousy? That did not seem right, anyway, not enough. “Do you know who that guy was?” she asked again.
Walter did not respond. Given the rhythm they’d established, his hesitation signaled a moment. She felt it. Probably he did too. “Do you know who Kermit is?” she said.
“Maybe.” Walter said.
She gave him what she intended to be a curious, dissatisfied look. Then a series of unconnected thoughts brought Laticia’s voice to mind and she knew that must be leading somewhere.
“The b-bloody canyon!” she squeaked.
“Canyon?” His face made it clear that he knew she had something. She had the thrilling sensation of something approaching a boil.
“I think we should look at the guns. It’s something we know, something we actually have. Jennings was a shooter. So is Leonard. They have to use a firing range. Laticia said you can’t shoot off guns wherever you please.”
Walter picked it up. “Some of Leonard’s rifles have a range of fifteen hundred yards or more. He killed Hopman from four hundred fifty yards. Who knows how far out on Lake Mead he was?”
“Locate the ranges. We narrow the whole thing down. Ranges or wherever else he could practice undetected.”
“You can buy those weapons on the net. They’re expensive. The Holland amp; Holland double rifle goes for about twenty-seven thousand dollars,” said Walter.
“The other stuff, the equipment he left for me, it’s all top of the line, six, eight, ten thousand dollars apiece. How do you get things like that? If people see things like that they remember. We work it from the guns, where they came from, where they went. Can we find that?”
Walter said, “They’re not as hard to get as you might think, but he’s not walking in and buying this sort of equipment over the counter.
He must have a shipping point, a drop, maybe even a dummy name. Wherever that is, that’s where you’ll find the firing range. Unless-”
“Unless what?”
“Unless he’s been using his own range. Unless he’s got open space. He bought that hut in Jamaica. Maybe that isn’t the only place he bought.”
“You mean someplace where he’s been living?”
Walter was nodding, trying as hard as he knew how to rid himself of a nagging doubt. “Everyone has to live somewhere,” he said quickly, adding, “you have to avoid making judgments, Isobel, coming to conclusions based on speculation. Speculation is good, but only if it leads you in one direction or another. Eventually there has to be evidence. Physical evidence. Something you can see and touch. Something real. Work with what you know, not what you think you know. You never get everything right all the time. Errors happen, but if you have a starting point that’s beyond question-you go back and take another
turn. And what do we have that’s beyond question? The guns. We have the guns. Begin with the guns. Nice going.” Walter leaned back in his chair, a visible sense of relaxation having come over him. Isobel saw it. She imagined this to be the work product of a man who’s been through this very process many times. The effect on her was exactly the opposite. She was exhilarated.
“Now tell me about the other thing,” she said, her excitement spilling out with her words. “Kermit.”
“I already did. I only said maybe.”
“Are you going to make me guess? I’m the one who got abused.” She tried to work up some indignation but couldn’t quite bring it off. She tried a smile, but Walter was serious now.
“It’s just the way I work,” Walter said. “Some things I keep to myself.”
“I tell you everything I know.” Her eyes grew wide, implying hurt. She hadn’t forgotten about her secret, but she had convinced herself it didn’t count.
“I tell you too,” he said. He meant that he shared everything he knew, and that was true, but not everything he thought.
Like Sherlock Holmes, whom he read soon after getting into this business, often behind warehouse crates, Walter made a practice of drawing no conclusions, and certainly sharing no half-baked ones, until he had sufficient facts in hand. The revelation that Sherlock Holmes observed this rule lent grandeur to what had been a chafing, sometimes desperate need. Walter had left Vietnam, but had Vietnam left him? His mother saw the root of it as soon as he got back. Or maybe she heard the screaming in his head. She demonstrated her love by keeping her distance; allowing him to do the same. His work-finding people-eased his troubles.
His clients craved privacy, but Walter craved it even more. His work not only gave him a living, it allowed him to hold on to his secrets. And when he finally found whoever it was he was looking for, everything was all right again. No one held the secrets against him because he’d helped; he’d done the work.
His wounded nature reshaped itself around a peculiar structure of isolation. That peculiarity killed his marriage. It kept her out. And who wants to live with that? Gloria waited for him to let her in, but he never did. After four years she told him she had to go. She loved him, but that was all she could do. He knew she was right and he hated being without her.
He tried to try, but whenever she threatened to touch him at a certain depth of feeling, an iron door shut hard in his head. And when that happened he froze her with the look in his eye and the deathly sound of his voice. And all that lasted until his mind relaxed and his shame unclenched and he could think and act like a normal man. It happened, and happened, and happened because the threat was unrelenting. Both of them came to understand it. When she left, Gloria told him, “You’ll be fine Walter. You really will.” He never doubted it. And she had been more right than wrong. That iron door had grown rusty over the years. No one had wandered back there for decades.
And now, he thought, this girl. And this idiotic thing about who drove the car-Kermit. For reasons he could not imagine, he felt the rusty hinges move. Yes, he had a fine working method, and it should certainly be maintained. No point at all to pointless speculation. Never bend the rules that matter most. But he’d never had a partner before. He’d made that rule number three (after not promoting himself and never accepting supervision). And it’s different with a partner, like it or not. You have to exchange ideas in a different way. Besides, they had conjectured together. They traded hypotheses, worked them to theories, set out conditions for proving facts.
“Are you okay?” She looked concerned.
Walter knew he’d broken a sweat. He knew that she saw his agitation, had to have glimpsed the fear. At the moment it thrashed and towered. It felt like a wave breaking over and inside his eyes. The door squeaked louder; he could hear it. Once it thundered shut he would shiver and freeze again after all those years.
But if he let this other thing out…
He confronted the prospect of thirty years of heavy protective machinery wrecked around him. He wondered what the arrangement would be after that.
He said, “I think he’s Carter Lawrence.”
And then, to his amazement, he slumped quite comfortably into his sturdy bamboo chair, remembering the time he and Gloria flew to Denver. He’d loaded her up with valium to cut her fear. He’d held her hand as the plane taxied into position. He’d smiled at her as she turned to look out the window. And when the engines fired up and swept them into the smooth silk sky she put her head on his shoulder and giggled. He’d done that. But it was long ago.
“Kermit,” Isobel said, “… is Carter Lawrence?”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure why I think so.” Walter felt more than comfortable now-he felt euphoric.
He enjoyed a deep breath of moist Caribbean air. His thoughts jumped like unruly pets.
“So where does this leave us?” said Isobel.
He went to autopilot. “If Carter’s the guy, he may help a lot. There’s always a way when people are…” He waited for the word. They waited together. “Vulnerable,” he said. “He may be vulnerable.”
Isobel offered ideas for going at Carter, reworking their background, designing a quick, simple plan of action aimed to open him up.
By then Walter’s mind had shifted back to the point he needed to care about most: the widened gap between what Tom Maloney had told him and the version Dr. Ganga Roy gave to Leonard Martin. To the extent that Roy had it right, and Walter had no reason to doubt it, Maloney and Stein were far from the relative innocents Tom described, mistakenly targeted by a madman. They were the ones who set the death train in motion. How did Leonard put it? He labeled them “premeditative mass murderers.” Accused them of making a cost-benefit analysis. And he said they “decided to kill my family for money.” That altered the picture. It suggested questions. What else didn’t Walter know about his clients? And what did they really expect for their million dollars?
New York
“I’m turning into an addict. Prozac doesn’t do it anymore. I get up at five and swim sixty laps. I have an agitated depression. Exercise doesn’t help. My shrink is useless too. He doesn’t listen. I don’t listen. I dream about getting shot-over and over again-which might be alright, but it never kills me. I can’t even die for a minute.”
Louise Hollingsworth’s eyes were inflamed. She’d been flying apart for weeks. Nothing she wore seemed to match. Her stiff yellow hair was at war with itself. Her high hawk nose and razor mouth had become unattractively mobile. She paced like a neurotic crane. Her thin soprano voice had developed a rasp.
“Every time I leave my apartment. Every time I leave the office. Every time I go anywhere. It’s all I think about. I am decompensating. Nothing is worth this experience. Not all the money you can…”
The meeting had been a bad idea. Getting them all together like this had only reinforced the shared perception of danger. Tom Maloney tried again to offer a drink.
“I’m loaded up with Prozac,” she wailed. “Prozac and whiskey? I don’t think that’s wise.”
“I’ve done it a hundred times. Maybe you can take a nap. You can take a nap right here.”
“Bourbon,” she sniffled. “But not too much.”
The others watched as he fixed her drink and got her to sit in one of the black leather chairs.
Tom was calmer than he’d been in months. In the past few days he’d worked out some ideas. He thought his new thinking might help the others get a grip. But today in Nathan’s office was proving to be the wrong time and place.
From the other end of the room, Nathan watched Louise with momentarily calm contempt. He moved the odd-shaped crystals on his desk as though he were playing chess, a game he never understood.
“What’s with Sherman? Where’s the report?” he asked when Louise was settled. “Didn’t he call you, Tom?”
“He doesn’t call. I got an e-mail.” Louise looked up from her drink. Wesley Pitts in the other black chair grunted curiously.
&
nbsp; “He knows who it is,” said Maloney.
“No shit!” said Wes, on his feet, athletic again for a second. He clapped his hands. “He’s going to get him. He’s going to nail his ass.”
“Who is it?” asked Louise. “Anyone we’ve looked at?”
“I don’t know,” said Tom. “He’s a fellow named Leonard Martin.”
“Well that’s great, just great. Why didn’t you call him?” Nathan shouted, no longer calm and composed, out from behind his desk, heading for the other three. “We know the guy. Where is he? What’s the story there?”
“I called him,” Tom replied. “He doesn’t like to talk.”
“ He doesn’t like to talk!” Nathan climbed the register. “Fuck him, he doesn’t like to talk. He works for me!”
“I work for you. We all work for you. Sherman’s an independent. Very independent. When I called him he told me not to do it again. He meant it. That’s how he is, whether we like it or not. He’ll be in touch when he thinks it’s time.”
“What did the e-mail say?” Wesley Pitts’s enthusiasm died. There was a flag on the play.
“Just that he knows who he is.”
“So, where the fuck is this… Leonard Martin?” demanded Nathan.
“He’ll tell us when he’s ready. The entire country wants this guy. Walter Sherman found him.”
“Did he say he ‘found’ him?” Nathan’s anxious face turned shrewd. “Or does he just say he knows who he is?”
“He didn’t say he found him. But it’s only a matter of time. That’s Sherman’s history. That’s why we went to him. He will get the job done.”
Wesley had slumped back into the chair. “Somebody better kill this guy in a hurry. I can think of a couple of guys who will do it for a car.”
Tom Maloney looked at Nathan Stein; they needed to talk. He said, “You two stay here a while. Relax. Unwind. Support each other.”
The Knowland Retribution l-1 Page 21