The nurse came out to tell me that Emmit was alert, and I went in. He looked pale, but better than I expected, and he greeted me with a small smile.
“That really went well, huh?” he asked.
“Smooth as silk.”
“What exactly happened?”
“You got shot; I had a couple of beers, and then drove you back here. Ruined my whole day.”
The banter out of the way, I filled in all the details about Kagan and Gallagher. He seemed to be straining to listen, as if just doing so required an enormous effort.
When I finished, he said, “So you kill his brother, he threatens to kill yours, and then he saves your life. Complicated guy.”
“Yeah.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I called in to find out what I can about Kagan, see if it leads us back to Carlton.”
Emmit nodded. “It might just do that,” he said. “I can’t think of anyone else we’ve pissed off, at least not in the last few days.”
“That’s how I figure it.”
“You think you can get me something to drink?” he asked. “I’m thirsty as hell.”
I went out to tell the nurse the request, but when I came back Emmit was sound asleep. There was no sense waking him, and no reason for me to hang around. I didn’t know what I was going to do next, but I knew I was going to do it quickly.
Complicating matters, of course, was the need to now be careful. There were people who wanted to kill me, and if Frank Kagan was any indication, they were people with experience at it. I’d never had a particularly well developed self-preservation instinct, but in this case I knew that my death would ensure Bryan’s.
I called in to the office to get updated on what they had so far uncovered about Frank Kagan. He was a hit man out of Vegas, which was not quite as interesting as something else they learned. He was known to partner with an old army buddy named Tommy Rhodes. It turned out that Rhodes was an expert in bomb making and, more important, bomb using. It was those kinds of devices that were responsible for Richard Carlton no longer having a guesthouse.
As soon as I hung up, the cell phone rang. “Lieutenant Somers. This is Ice Davenport.”
Because of the strange name, it took me a moment to make the connection. It was Nate “Ice Water” Davenport, longtime friend of Daniel Brennan and unofficial counselor and confidant to his wife.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“You said I should call you if I wanted to talk some more about my friend.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I’m ready to do that.”
“Ice Water” Davenport lived on 88th Street and Riverside Drive in Manhattan.
To my amazement, I found a parking spot. The sign said that parking was OK except on Monday and Thursday mornings, which is when street cleaning allegedly takes place. I have my doubts about that, since I’ve been there on Monday and Thursday afternoons and suffice it to say that the streets do not look spotless.
He greeted me with a fairly tense, “Thank you for coming,” and offered me something to drink. I took coffee; it had not been a great week for sleep.
We sat in the living room. The apartment was huge; I hadn’t seen other doors when I got off the elevator, so it was possible that it occupied the entire floor of the building. The furniture was extremely modern, mostly glass and stainless steel, and the place was spotless. The doorways were higher than usual, in deference to the inhabitant.
“I’d like to establish some ground rules,” he said, which is one of my least favorite ways to begin a conversation. “I will provide you with some information, which may or may not prove relevant to your investigation. You in turn will keep Denise Brennan out of this, and will do nothing to damage Daniel Brennan’s impeccable reputation.”
“I’ll do my best,” I lied. The stakes being what they were, the last things I’d be concerned about were reputations or public personas. If I had to publicly brand Daniel Brennan as a Taliban-loving pedophile to save Bryan, I would not hesitate.
It seemed to satisfy him. “I’m speaking to you on behalf of Denise Brennan,” he said, continuing one of the longest preambles to an interview in recent memory. He spoke carefully and precisely, as if each word had been vetted and cleared before takeoff.
“Why isn’t she speaking for herself?”
“Believe me, I tried. Her allowing me to speak represents a major concession. But almost all of what I will tell you represents her feelings and relates events as she experienced them.”
I didn’t understand why “Ice” needed someone to “allow” him to speak, but I figured I’d find out soon enough, so I waited.
“In the weeks prior to his death, Judge Brennan had seemed under stress. I noticed it, but I didn’t spend much time with him. Denise saw it much more clearly, and was quite worried about it.”
“What was the cause?”
“She initially believed it to be financial. Despite an amazing career, Judge Brennan was not a wealthy man. He was injured before he could attain a large salary in basketball, and judges certainly earn far less than what would be commensurate with their importance to society. And I include Appeals Court judges in that.”
“With his name and reputation, I assume he could have earned far more practicing law?”
He nodded. “Without question. But he wanted to contribute to the greater good. So he was happy in his work, but concerned that he would not leave Denise financially stable upon his passing. His father died a very young man.”
I needed to move this along. “What does this have to do with his murder?”
“Perhaps nothing. And perhaps his increased stress was simply a result of the Appeals Court nomination process, testifying before Congress, and the like. But now there is this.”
He got up and walked over to his desk, opening the drawer and taking out a small folder. He opened the folder and took out a piece of paper, handing it to me.
I looked at it, but he told me what it was as I did. “It is a bank account in Judge Brennan’s name, opened six weeks ago in the Central Bank of Belize. There is one deposit, made two weeks later, in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars.”
“And Denise has no idea where the money came from?”
“She does not. And she tells me that there were no secrets between them, that they discussed finances and everything else as equal partners.”
I held up the paper. “How does she reconcile that with this?”
He shook his head. “She cannot. Which is why we are having this conversation. If it is somehow related to his death, then the likelihood is that the real killer has not been apprehended.”
“Where do you think he got the money?”
“I simply cannot imagine. My hope is that you will come up with a benign explanation.”
“You’d be amazed how few benign explanations I run into in the course of a day.”
I left there thinking that Judge Daniel Brennan may not have been the total paragon of virtue that his wife and friend believed him to be. I was also thinking that there was a damn good chance that the two hundred grand, however he got it, played a role in his death.
Given his job and position, my initial instinct would have been to think of the money as a bribe. But his taking the money would likely have signified his agreement in the matter, so why would he have been killed? Had he reneged, and was going to rule the other way?
I certainly did not know the answer to that, but there was one thing I did know.
Steven Gallagher did not give Daniel Brennan two hundred thousand dollars.
I never thought I’d say this, but I was happy to see Chris Gallagher.
He was sitting in his car in front of my house, probably in deference to the fact that it was raining outside. Apparently the great man was not impervious to water.
In any event, I needed to talk to him, to find out what, if anything, he knew. And, just as important, to impress him with how much I had learned.
&nbs
p; I got out of my car and we made eye contact, which was enough to get him to follow me into the house. He was carrying a suitcase; I hoped he wasn’t planning to move in. The first thing he did was walk into the kitchen and take a beer out of the refrigerator.
“Have I said or done something to make you think we’re buddies?” I asked.
“Not that I recall. I also don’t recall you thanking me for saving your life.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Following you, as was Kagan. You’re not that hard to keep track of; does your car have a rearview mirror?”
“That explains why you were there. Why are you here?”
“It’s time for an exchange of information. We seem to be getting somewhere, and the deadline is approaching.”
“It can be extended,” I say.
“No, it cannot. Everything we discover makes your killing Steven even more unforgivable. Now tell me what you’ve learned.”
I brought him up to date on everything I knew and suspected about Richard Carlton and the situation in Brayton, as well as my belief that it was my nosing around there that got Kagan after us.
He nodded. “The answer is definitely in Brayton.”
“You’re taking my word for it?” I asked, surprised at his certainty.
“No chance,” he said. “I paid a visit to Kagan’s hotel room, which was just outside Brayton. I found some explosives, but more important were the explosives I didn’t find. The box was mostly empty.”
“What kind of explosives?”
He opened the suitcase and showed them to me. “C-245,” he said. “You can keep it.”
I knew what that meant; I had quite a bit of experience with munitions in the army. “Shit.”
“And Kagan was not working alone. I believe the guy he is working with—”
I interrupted. “Tommy Rhodes.”
Gallagher smiled. “Very impressive. What have you found out about him?”
“They were army buddies. Rhodes would know how to use the C-245; he was a munitions expert in the service. Our information is that he was considered as good as it gets, that if you gave him some hairspray and a bottle of Drano he could demolish Argentina.”
He nodded. “That fits. You should also have someone take a look at this.” He handed me some drawings, which seemed to be some kind of geological maps. “I think it’s the land area that Carlton is selling, but I don’t know what it all means.”
“Beats me, but I’ll find someone who understands it. What I can’t figure out is what Rhodes could have been looking to blow up. If he’s working for Carlton, they’ve already won in court. Who could they be after?”
Gallagher frowned. “I should have stayed there and asked Rhodes when he came back to the hotel.”
“I’ll send some people to pick him up.”
“They may not find anyone,” said Gallagher.
“What does that mean?”
“There were empty timer cases in his room. He might have already planted devices on timers. If not, he could detonate them remotely. He may have been staying around to make sure that there were no hitches. But with Kagan gone, he might bail out of the area. Probably depends on when the next device is set to go off.”
“It’s probably soon,” I said. “Rhodes was booked on a plane back to Vegas Saturday night. I’ll have cops at the airport, but he’ll be aware that we know his name, so I imagine he won’t show up.”
Gallagher smiled. “Then Saturday is a really big day all around. Keep your priorities straight, Luke.”
He was telling me that I shouldn’t spend too much time worrying about what Rhodes might or might not have been targeting, because Saturday was already a big day.
It was the day Bryan was scheduled to die.
One thing you need to do, Lucas … you need to tell me the truth. It’s hard enough for me to prepare for this; I just can’t be taken by surprise. I’ve been thinking about my will … my life insurance … right now everything goes to Julie. Not sure if I should leave it like that. Of course, when you change a will, you need two witnesses to sign it. That might be a little tough in this case.
The moment the court decision was announced, Alex Hutchinson was on the move.
More accurately, she was on the phone, planning a strategy of action to prevent Hanson Oil and Gas from starting to drill on the land they had just purchased. Richard Carlton, as much as she loathed him, was no longer the enemy. He had sold the land to Hanson, which made them the threat.
The loss in court was far from unexpected. Alex was smart, and informed, and she was a realist. Similar cases were being decided with some regularity in favor of energy companies, in New York and around the country. And they had already lost in District Court; the appeal had been something of a long shot.
Her first call was to Mayor Edward Holland. He had been a stand-up guy throughout, even taking on the legal work himself, in deference to the town’s shaky finances. It had served him well; the publicity he received was national, and he was portrayed as a heroic figure fighting big business on behalf of the little people. While she recognized his ambition, in her mind he still deserved most of the accolades, even in a losing effort.
It became obvious early in the conversation that he had no more bullets left in his legal gun. “We don’t have the money to take this any further,” he said. “It’s not the legal fees; hell, I’m working for nothing. It’s the bond.”
As he had privately predicted to her, the court had imposed a bond requirement of five hundred million dollars that the town would have to put up, should they try to delay matters with a further appeal. It was the court’s way of saying that their case would not win on appeal, and that Hanson would suffer financial damages if the process caused a delay in drilling the land.
“We need to take action outside the system,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that we have to prevent the fracking from beginning. Once it does, we’ve lost.”
“Alex, we’ve already lost. Now we need to work with the EPA and other regulatory authorities to minimize the damage.”
“Great, we’ll just partially pollute the air and water supply. That way only half the town will get cancer.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Mayor, I personally appreciate all that you’ve done. But it’s moved to the next level.”
“Which level is that?”
“We are going to organize, we are going to take action, and we are going to stop this.”
“Those are just words,” Holland said. “And with all due respect, they’re not the brightest words I’ve heard.”
“There will be more than words. We have a rally planned for tonight. We’ll have made decisions by then.”
“No violence, Alex. It will be self-defeating.”
“Letting our children die is self-defeating,” she said. “The rally is at the high school at six o’clock in the evening. You are the Mayor, and our leader, so you should be there. People will want to hear you.”
“I’ll be there, but you may not like what I have to say, Alex. I’ll be preaching restraint, and lawful behavior. I share your anger, believe me, but there is no other way.”
“See you tonight,” she said, and hung up.
Holland took some time to think about the phone call, and to decide what to do. He then picked up the phone and dialed his police chief, Tony Brus. “Tony, I think we’ve got a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“People are upset, and I think more violence is a possibility. You’d better be ready.”
“Have you got any specific information?” Brus asked. He was not a big fan of politicians in general, and Holland in particular.
In addition, Chief Brus was harboring hopes of running for Mayor himself in the next election, and had no interest in doing anything that would make Holland look good. He saw no irony in the fact that he frequently expressed his disdain for politicians while angling to b
ecome one himself.
“No, but if they blew up Carlton’s guesthouse before we lost, there’s no telling what they’ll do now,” Holland said.
“OK, I’ll keep an eye on it.”
Holland got off the phone and started thinking about public relations. So far the entire situation had been a political plus for him, even with the court defeat. He had been the hero fighting the good fight; it was the other side, and the judges, that bore the blame.
But he was sure there was more violence to come, and he needed to come out against it before it happened.
So he called his high school sweetheart.
Adrienne Horton and Edward Holland had repeatedly expressed their undying love for each other throughout high school, but their commitment actually lasted only a few days past the Senior Prom.
She had only spoken to or seen him a few times in the past couple of decades, mostly at reunions. But they had spoken five times in the last couple of months. She had made the first call, in her role as a producer of prime-time CNN programming. The fight between Big Energy and the people of Brayton made for a compelling human interest story, and she wanted to get Holland on to talk about it.
He had been receptive, but preferred to wait until the legal proceedings had run their course, so as not to appear to prejudice them. She was so sure that he would eventually come around, regardless of the outcome of the case, that she had done background work. Camera crews had been sent to the town, and interviews were conducted. The piece was done and ready to go, and probably would have aired with or without Holland.
But he was a politician, and Adrienne knew that no politician would be able to resist such a platform. So when the call came to tell her that he was ready, she set it up for that evening, and Holland was there at 6 PM.
The interviewer was Anderson Cooper, and he first ran the taped piece providing background for the viewers who had not been familiar with the story. It included the interviews with local people in Brayton, expressing heartfelt concern for their children and their way of life.
The piece tersely said that Richard Carlton and representatives of Hanson Oil and Gas had both declined to comment on camera but had released packaged statements vowing that they would protect the environment while supplying much-needed energy resources.
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