Crime of Privilege: A Novel

by Walter Walker

  She was standing stalk still.

  I poured the contents of another drawer into the same box, covering the detritus that was already there. The stuff in this drawer looked more promising. Some brochures from places I once thought I would like to visit, records of my pension plan. Bizarrely, a picture of Marion floated out and landed faceup. In it she was posed, with one knee raised, her elbow on the knee, her fingers pointing down. She was smiling broadly, almost laughing, as if thinking of a big joke.

  “Hey, George, I’m trying to talk to you.”

  “And I’ve got nothing to say to you, Barbara.”

  “George, why are you doing this?” Her shoulders curled, her hands clenched. “Have you sold out, George?”

  “You, of course, wouldn’t have to sell out, would you, Barbara?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Why don’t you ask your husband?”

  “Hey,” she said sharply, “is that what this is all about?”

  I was getting out a third drawer, jerking it from the desk. “Is that what what is all about?”

  “You coming in here like you have this morning, acting like I’m the enemy or something. I don’t know what anybody said to you, but there’s only one reason Tyler and I are not divorced, and that’s because he won’t sign the damn papers.”

  “I guess you haven’t talked to him lately,” I said to Barbara while looking at the face of Marion.

  “Of course I haven’t. He’s still out on the ocean somewhere.”

  “Yes, he is, isn’t he? Sailing in one of the biggest races in America. One that takes six months to prepare for. Sailing with Peter Martin, as a matter of fact.”

  “So?”

  “So it was going to be awful hard for Tyler to hook me up with Peter when he was going to be hundreds of miles out to sea.”

  “I didn’t know that—”

  “But he would have. Tyler would have said Peter wouldn’t be there if you actually told him I was coming to meet him.”

  I dumped the third drawer into the cardboard box. One of the staff had gotten me a two-level push cart and I shoved the box onto the lower level.

  “Remember all those arrangements you made for me, Barbara? All those directions and everything that were supposed to lead to Tyler, but actually led right to his pal Billy?”

  She grabbed my arm. She had made it all the way across the room while I was busy not looking at her. “I didn’t know anything about Peter being in any race,” she said. “Ty told me he would be there. And who the hell is Billy?”

  “Billy knew you, Barbara. Why, his cute little elfin face lit up like a Christmas tree when I said I had a message from you. Almost like it was code. Oh, yeah, Tyler was gone, Peter was gone, but wouldn’t I really like to go to Costa Rica, see Jason Stockover? Only, guess what? When I get there, a woman named Leanne Sullivan, who just so happened to be Jason’s date on the night Heidi Telford was killed, had me kidnapped and handcuffed and stuck a fucking knife in my throat.”

  I grabbed Barbara’s hand and jerked it to my neck. “See this? Feel this? I was about one half-second away from being dead.”

  She fought me at first, tried to hold her fingers back, then let them touch the ridge that had formed. “Oh, my God, George.”

  “Yeah, ‘my God, George’ is right.” I pulled away from her and went back to jamming books and files onto the cart.

  She watched me until I could no longer think what to gather up.

  “You believe I planned to send you to Costa Rica to get you killed?”

  Her voice, I noticed, had gotten very soft. Her legal training was coming through, asking me a question I could not answer without either backing down from what I had said before or making something up to justify it.

  “No, I don’t believe that’s the way the Gregorys work. They don’t kill people, they control them with their wealth, power, influence. Only, things are spinning out of control on this particular nine-year effort because they never really did control a key guy, the Barnstable police detective who was in charge of the case. They relied on Leanne Sullivan to do that and Leanne has turned out to be a loose cannon.”

  “The Leanne who stabbed you?” Barbara looked like she was gamely trying to follow me.

  “The Leanne who, like I said, was at the Gregorys’ that night as Jason’s pickup date. The Leanne they got to move to Hawaii and the Leanne that got Detective Landry off the case by convincing him to move to Hawaii with her. And finally, Barbara, the Leanne who left Landry a broken-down old drunk in Kauai and returned to Jason Stockover in Tamarindo, Costa Rica.”

  “And?” She took a stand. “So what’s my connection in all of this?”

  “Your connection, Barbara, is that there are only two people on the planet who knew I was going to Costa Rica, you and that little boat rat, Billy, who seemed to be waiting for me to show up in Sausalito and mention your name. Your connection is that your family and the Gregorys have been intertwined since birth. And so when the Gregorys found out that Chief DiMasi had told me about Landry living in Kauai, they realized there wasn’t anything they could do to keep me from talking to him.”

  I looked directly into her eyes for the first time. “So, Barbara, that’s when you came into the picture. Showing up at my house, telling me to right the wrongs, do whatever is noble, go to Hawaii and talk to Landry—the very thing the Gregorys knew I was going to do anyhow. But your role, Barbara, was to make sure I stopped off in California on my way home so I could be directed down to where Jason and Leanne were.”

  She was confused. That was what her expression was meant to show. “If the Gregorys really were involved in a murder, why would they send you someplace where two people who aren’t part of the family could tell you what actually happened?”

  “Well, there are a number of possibilities, Barbara. One is that they knew Jason and Leanne wouldn’t tell me the truth because they’ve made good lives for themselves off the Gregorys’ largesse. But given the fact that Jason wasn’t there when I arrived, I’m not thinking that’s the most likely answer. I think it’s entirely possible that his absence means I’m supposed to suspect him.”

  “You’re not making sense, George.” Now Barbara’s expression was sad. It said she was concerned for me, that maybe she should get me an aspirin and a blanket and have me lie down.

  “Oh, I’m making perfect sense,” I assured her. “The noose is closing on the Gregorys and somebody’s head has to be stuck in it so that Peter Martin’s isn’t. Whether it’s mine or Jason Stockover’s, it really doesn’t make any difference, as long as it’s not Peter’s.”

  She continued to look concerned. “George, don’t you think you’re being paranoid?”

  “Oh, I am, I absolutely am. In the past couple of months I’ve been shot at and knifed and learned that my wife was a plant. I also found out that I’ve been followed for twelve years, so don’t you think I have a right to be paranoid, Barbara?”

  “Who …” The hands came up, the fingers stayed together. Like me, she was finding it hard to keep this conversation on a civil level. “Who’s been following you?”

  “The father of the girl down in Florida. And his minions. Or at least one black-belt, Green Beret, Special Forces, show-up-anytime-anywhere minion.”

  “So … couldn’t he have … you know, down in Costa Rica?”

  “He wants me to prove the Gregorys’ guilt, not steer me to someone else.”

  “And you think that’s what’s been going on, that you’re being steered—”

  “What would anybody think in my position? First I’m told not to do anything, then, when I do it anyway, when I start learning things that I wasn’t supposed to learn, all of a sudden my job is changed and I’m put in full-time charge of the investigation. Find the real killer, George. And, hey, make sure it’s Jason now, okay?” I pointed to the ceiling. “Mitch White practically directed me back to Tamarindo a few minutes ago.”

  “Well,” Barbara Belbonnet said, and then s
he waited a moment. “Good luck, George.”

  1.

  CAPE COD, August 2008

  I WAS NOT PREPARED.

  I probably had not ridden a hundred miles in the entire calendar year. I needed to get to Sturbridge and had made no arrangements for transportation. I needed a place to stay the night so I could be there for the 5:30 a.m. start time and I had made no reservation.

  It was possible, I realized, to call Sean Murphy, see if I could catch a lift with him, sleep on his floor, if there was nothing else. I sat at my desk in my new office surrounded by unpacked boxes and thought about it. Pledge a hundred bucks to Sean’s ride, don’t tell him I’m riding myself, wait till the day before the ride starts and then tell him I need help.

  Weird George. Wacky George. The guy they just moved upstairs. Can you believe it? Can’t even plan a bike ride.

  I GOT OUT OF BED at 4:30, ate a banana and an energy bar, drank some orange juice, and began riding at 5:00. I had to go five miles just to reach the starting line from the motel I had been lucky enough to get at the last minute. The motel wasn’t much, but the owner agreed to let me leave my car. I would ride five miles to the start, ride one hundred and ten miles to the finish, and then catch the bus back to Sturbridge at 7:00 p.m., pedal five miles back to the motel, and drive home.

  I would ride, and then ride, and ride again. Up at 4:30, be home on the Cape by midnight. It didn’t make any difference. I wasn’t sleeping much these days, anyhow.

  WE STARTED OUT FAST, the sun not yet up, several thousand riders bunched together, chattering excitedly, feeling good about what we were about to do. I had begun close to the front, and for half a mile I was in sight of the leaders. I hit the first hill too hard and wasted a lot of energy. There were no hills to speak of on the Cape and I was winded by the time I reached the first crest.

  People began passing me in droves. I concentrated on what I was doing, knowing the hills would keep coming, forty-five miles’ worth, none of them killers … well, maybe one, out in farmland, but I kept pushing, telling myself to take my time, locking onto those other riders who didn’t look to be in riding shape, trying to stay at least with the older people, the women with large bottoms and the men with big bellies, those whose gears clanked as they tried to downshift lower and lower as the road took us higher and higher.

  Older people passed me. Women with large bottoms got away from me. Men with big bellies discussed the Patriots as they cycled along.

  I couldn’t have done that. I couldn’t have talked even if I had the chance.

  I thought of giving up, but then what would I do? Walk? Wait by the side of the road for the race marshals to come by and load my bike and me into a van? The van of shame. It would be like riding to jail in the back of a police cruiser.

  One of the great things about cycling is that even when you think you can’t do something, you’re in the process of doing it. I told myself that’s what I was doing. What I was doing on the road, what I was doing in the Heidi Telford case.

  I won’t quit the race.

  I won’t quit the search for Heidi’s killer.

  I know who killed Heidi.

  I won’t give up till I prove it.

  Till I nail him.

  Fat bastard.

  Gets away with everything.

  Just because he’s a Gregory.

  Not even a Gregory by last name.

  Only by middle name.

  Has to go around telling everybody.

  I can make it halfway.

  I can make it three-quarters.

  Rape a girl. Lie about it. Let her life be ruined. Beautiful girl. Used to ride horses. Rich. Beautiful. Could have done so much. I could have said something.

  Get up, get up. Over the top. Now you can coast.

  He didn’t ask, though, did he? Fucking Ralph Mars. Fucking state attorney. What’s he now? Congressman Mars. And I was just a kid. A college kid. Who kept his mouth shut.

  I didn’t lie.

  Peter lied. And probably Jamie.

  I just kept my mouth shut. Answered what I was asked. No, the Senator wasn’t there. He stuck his head into the library, that was all. Saw we were there. Peter, Jamie, Kendrick, and me.

  No, he didn’t come in.

  No, he didn’t say anything.

  Drunk? I don’t know.

  I was drunk. I know that.

  We all were.

  Peter, Jamie, Kendrick, and me.

  I told him what I was doing.

  Looking at the Homer. The Winslow Homer. The boat with the big fish. Covered with dust. Fucking Winslow Homer. Fucking big fish.

  Kendrick. On the couch.

  Reclined. Did I say reclined?

  Peter. Just standing there. Next to the couch. When the Senator looked in.

  I didn’t lie.

  I answered what I was asked.

  Fuck you, George. You fucking wimp.

  WE TURNED ONTO a shaded lane in a rural town. There had been people all along the route cheering us on, sometimes offering water, clanging bells, blowing air horns. But this street was different. Cherry Street. Families were gathered out in front of their homes, displaying poster-size pictures of cancer-stricken kids. Big-eyed kids, hairless kids in nightgowns, kids who had terrible things happen to them that never should have happened to anyone.

  The families clapped as we went by. They called out encouragement. They yelled, “Thank you, riders!” They made us feel like heroes.

  If only they knew.

  I WOULD RIDE. I would ride until I fell off. Until I blacked out. I would never give up. I would never surrender. I will push the investigation. I will go wherever it takes me. I will ask all the right questions. All the right questions. Of anyone and everyone. Even if I have to go back to Costa Rica. Back to California. I will go wherever I have to go. Do whatever I have to do.

  IT WAS ABOUT 3:30 by the time I arrived at the Massachusetts Maritime Academy on the west bank of the Cape Cod Canal, the end of the first day’s leg. The end of the ride for me.

  A huge tent had been pitched, and inside was all the free food a person could possibly want. I went right for the beer. Harpoon Lager. Poured by people who thanked me for what I had done.

  I sat down at a long picnic table that happened to have an open space and listened to the others at the table talk. Some were eating burgers, some clam chowder, some ice cream. Some, like me, were just drinking beer. Those guys, the beer drinkers, wanted me in the conversation. We all agreed that nothing in the world could possibly taste better than a fresh, cold beer after one hundred and ten miles of riding in the midsummer heat.

  Where was I from?

  What did I do?

  “George?”

  Somebody had heard me identify myself. I turned. It was Sean Murphy, a large cookie in one hand, a beer in the other, staring at me as if I were an apparition.

  “Hey.”

  He looked at the rest of my table, searching for a familiar face. He didn’t find one. “You rode?”

  “I did.”

  “I didn’t know you even— Hey, can I talk to you?”

  The Murph-Dog, with a cookie and a beer, in tight Lycra shorts, a colorful Pan-Mass riding shirt, and click-clackety bicycle shoes, wanted to talk to me in private.

  WE FOUND A TABLE off by ourselves. Sean sat without using his hands. He was looking at me in a way he never had before. I assumed it was because he was impressed at my performance, my accomplishment, the mere fact that I was here in the beer tent at the finish line.

  He said, “Pretty good gig you got there on the Telford investigation.”

  I drank because it gave me a chance to lower my eyes to my plastic cup.

  “Office next to Reid Cunningham’s, huh?”

  He knew it was. I just nodded.

  “I saw all those uniformed officers delivering files, so obviously something big is going on.”

  “It’s been going on for a while, Sean.”

  “Cold case suddenly heats up, something new has
happened.”

  Sean was leaning forward, his wrists resting on the edge of the table, his hands still holding his beer and his cookie.

  “You taking it before the grand jury?”

  “Taking what, Sean?”

  He smiled as if he recognized that a certain code had to be used, certain protocol had to be followed. “Rumors are going around that there’s new evidence the Gregorys might have been involved.”

  I did not respond. This did not bother Sean in the slightest.

  “Is the Senator going to testify?”

  “Sean, tell me exactly what it is you’re hearing.”

  He looked left and right. He lowered his voice. “I’m hearing there might have been an orgy going on at the Gregorys’ that night the girl was killed. I’m hearing she might have been there and seen too much.”

  There was something childish about the way Sean was addressing me. Maybe it was the cookie.

  “You believe that?” I asked.

  “What I believe,” he said, his eyes sparkling, “is that Anything New Telford has been making the rounds for years telling people the Gregorys had something to do with the death of his daughter. What I hear is that he’s got your ear now. What I see is you’ve suddenly got prime office space and stacks of files. And I want in.”

  “Want in how?”

  “To assist you. To co-counsel with you. Whatever you’ll give me. I heard you turned down Barbara.”

  He took a big bite out of the cookie, what I thought was a rather vicious bite. Crumbs shot all over the place.

  “Guys are talking,” he went on, his mouth full. “They’re saying, ‘Why would he do that?’ People are saying, ‘Well, she doesn’t have enough experience.’ But me, I looked at it, I figured something else out altogether.”

  He washed the cookie down with beer, dropped his voice even lower, and said, “I figure, Barbara, she’s from around here. She’s tied in with those people. You can’t have her going after them like you and I could.”

  “By ‘those people,’ you mean the Gregorys?”

  “Damn right.”

  “And you wouldn’t care which Gregory might be involved, as long as it’s one of them. Is that what you’re saying?”