The Redemption Man

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The Redemption Man Page 11

by James Carver


  Cutter breathed more freely once Devlin had gone. “Greg, I think you have come perilously close to wasting police resources and public money on investigations which are frankly ill judged and which unnecessarily undermined the Office of the Chief of Police.”

  “Thanks. I agree, Jim. I’ll suggest Officer Miller put together the evidence summary.”

  “Wait a second,” interrupted Stevens. “Okay, so you’re sidelining me—that I understand. But Miller? Sergeant Taylor is the obvious choice.”

  “Time I think to jump a generation,” said Walker. “We need a level head on a high-profile public case like this. He’s a capable officer who has sensible judgment, and who turned up the video we just saw.”

  “He’s ambitious and he won’t question your command,” replied Stevens.

  “That’s right, Greg—both qualifications you don’t happen to have. I also want to say for the record that I’m unhappy with the way in which my deputy conducted this case. It has given me cause to doubt his investigative ability.”

  “Bullshit, Caleb,” Stevens shot back. “I happened, for the first time in my career, to voice an opinion that differed from yours. And that’s something you can’t abide. If there’s a reason for my abilities not being suited to the role of deputy, it’s that the main requirement is that he or she kiss your ass.”

  “That’s enough, Greg! You’re out of order,” barked Cutter. “And, if I may say so, you’re missing Caleb’s point. The problem is you’ve chosen to go against your superior officer on the biggest case we’ve ever faced. And after an established track record of toeing the line, that shows a concerning lack of judgment.”

  “Maybe it’s because it’s the biggest case we’ve ever faced,” said Stevens. And with that, he grabbed his report and left.

  With Stevens gone, Cutter and Walker exchanged unguarded looks.

  “I’m really sorry, Jim. This was a departmental matter that should have been handled and contained by me. I’m sorry it affected the case.”

  “It’s not your fault, Caleb. Don’t blame yourself. Let’s just move on as fast as we can. I’ll have the information officer issue that press line.”

  Devlin was sitting on a bench outside Halton PD smoking a cigar when Stevens finally joined him. It was early evening, and the two sat side by side looking philosophical about the whole thing.

  “What happened?” asked Devlin.

  “I’m not lead on the case, and Miller’s effectively taking over. I’ll be sidelined and pretty much a busted flush in this department. That smug son of a bitch Miller will be like the cat that ate the canary.”

  “You did what was right. So Walker and Cutter don’t like it, but you might be surprised how it changes the way the officers working for you see you.”

  Stevens didn’t answer and didn’t look wholly convinced. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and said. “Oh, hey, I almost forgot, Sergeant Taylor gave this to me.” Stevens gave Devlin a leaflet.

  “What is it?”

  “A leaflet for the Halton Medical Center.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a free clinic out on South Oakland Drive, just off West Main. I asked Taylor to see if he could turn anything up on that Lazard guy you asked me to run a license plate on. Turns out he didn’t need to look far; he saw leaflets being put out in the reception and picked one up out of curiosity. Lazard holds a surgery there a few days a week.”

  “He’s got an expensive car for a guy who works in a free clinic.” Devlin read through the leaflet and glanced at his watch. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “It shuts at six. I would have swung down there otherwise.”

  “You can try first thing in the morning. Did you turn up anything with Ed this morning?”

  “I’m not sure. Nothing and something.”

  “You still don’t know where he is?”

  Devlin turned to Stevens and blew a line of smoke over his head. “No. I don’t. Ed’s tracks have been covered so well that nobody, not me or I think anybody else, can find him.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “My next move? My next move is to hit a bar. You game?”

  “Oh yeah. I got a thirst like a camel.”

  “So show me where people go to get relaxed in a place like this.”

  18

  Clay had his hands pressed down on the leather top of his oak desk. He was breathing slowly and evenly, and his eyes were unblinking, unwavering. Not out of anger or fear, but out of the need for survival. This matter was nothing personal to him, even though it had every right to be personal. Marie Vallory watched with her arms folded from the side of the room. A spectator with a big stake. She had to admire Clay. It was never, ever personal. Feelings never came into it. It was all about how the outcome could be shaped in his favor. Experienced political opponents often didn’t even know they were being played by Clay. He was that good.

  “You attacked and nearly killed a ranch hand, Earl.”

  Earl sat opposite Clay looking surly and resentful. “I didn’t mean to nearly kill him. I just roughed him up a little.”

  “He’s lying in an intensive care bed in Dayton. He has grade one trauma to his right kidney. If he had been found any later, he would have died of internal bleeding.”

  “So why do you care all of a sudden? He’s a beaner; no one knows he’s here, and he wants it to stay that way. We had beaners injure themselves before, and we didn’t take any responsibility. This is bullshit, Clay. You’re just showing off in front of your new girlfriend.”

  “Dear God, how old are you?” said Marie. She was exasperated. Emotionally, Earl was a like a child. He had never progressed beyond his teens in his view of the world—a view that began and ended with a twenty-thousand-acre ranch. She couldn’t have despised him more.

  “No. Not injured,” continued Clay. “No one was injured here. He was hours away from death. You would have killed him.”

  Earl looked indifferent; whether the indifference was affected or not wasn’t easy to tell. He looked blankly at Clay and Marie. “So what anyway? He’s okay. He’ll live.”

  “So what? I’ll tell you so what—Packer doesn’t want to work alongside you anymore. He’s had enough. The men are terrified of you, and he won’t manage that any longer. He can’t pick up the pieces. He says either you go or he goes, and I can’t afford for him to go.”

  Earl’s indifference vanished, and his features twitched uneasily. “You can’t get rid of me. Half the business is in my name.”

  “No, Earl.” Marie stepped in. “Not half of the whole business.”

  “Shut up and be quiet—this has nothing to do with you.”

  “It’s everything to do with me. I am a partner with Logan Enterprises. I have millions of dollars wrapped up in your business. I am CEO of a company with a multibillion-dollar turnover, so when you do something like this, something criminal, I damn well won’t shut up. I’ll make sure we do the right thing.”

  Earl’s eyes flickered at the hint of a threat. “What ‘right thing’?”

  This time it was Clay’s turn to step into the ring. They were tag teaming, and Earl was only just beginning to see it. “Marie’s right about you not owning half of the business,” Clay said.

  “Bullshit. Dad left half of it to me. No question.”

  “Yeah, half of the business then. Not the business now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you own half of the traditional ranching business. The loss-making ranching business. I own half of that and all of the fertility plant, with of course investment from Freedom Medical. I own the profit-making part of the business, Logan Enterprises. And me and Marie are going to float that business. To raise more money. The ranch is just a withering stump on much bigger and far more powerful business.”

  “Look around you, Earl,” Marie continued. “The old ranch hasn’t changed in thirty years. But some things have changed. The building we’re standing in, built by
profits from the new business, the fertility lab. They’re like space rockets ready to launch into the stratosphere, leaving all the broken-down barns and trailers behind.”

  There was a silence. Earl glanced from side to side. “I ain’t going nowhere. I don’t care what Packer or you say. This is where I was born—it’s my home. And you’re my brother, Clay.”

  “I know, and that’s why I think we can come to a compromise. Packer will help me out with the lab. We’ll get a new foreman in for you to train up. But you have to promise me, leave the hands alone. No more violence. This is a final warning. It isn’t just down to me anymore. We’re in a bigger world now.”

  Marie fired the final shot. “You stayed still, Earl. While everyone else was changing, adapting, doing what needed to be done, you stayed still.”

  19

  Devlin had ditched his collar and was sitting up at the counter with Stevens in Charley’s, a sports bar and grill on Main Street. Stevens had likewise ditched his uniform for a plaid shirt, jeans, and boots. Bob Marley was playing, and Devlin had ordered a scotch on the rocks while Greg supped on a beer.

  “It’s shit is what it is—pardon my French, Father,” said Stevens.

  “It’s okay. You’re right. It is shit. Same everywhere you go. Gets to a point you’re butting your head against a consensus.”

  “That why you left the Air Force?”

  “No, that was down to Jane. She was happier with me not doing stuff that was dangerous or meant I had to travel.”

  “She sounds like a real worrier.”

  “She had plenty to worry about. Anyway…” Devlin raised a glass. “Cheers. Here’s to saying the right thing.” They clinked classes. Stevens drank, but Devlin put his drink down.

  “You not going to have that?”

  “No.”

  “Then why’d you order it?”

  “I just want to look at it. The shining beauty of it.”

  “You don’t drink?”

  “Not now. But boy I used to. I used to drink like I was afraid it would run out. I haven’t had a drop though in seven years, apart from one slip.”

  “So you order a drink just to look at it?”

  “Not just any drink—a 12 year DoubleWood Balvenie. I only look at top-quality liquor.”

  “Wow. Isn’t that kind of self-torture?”

  “I am a Catholic priest. I guess I like to look at things I can’t have. You want another beer?”

  “Yeah. But I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to keep up with you.”

  “Funny guy.”

  “I’m going for a leak. Keep my place free.”

  Stevens slid off his stool, and Devlin ordered another beer. He looked up at the long mirror behind the bar and scanned the room. The bar was loud and packed. It was a busy weeknight, and the place had pulled in a fair crowd. He caught sight of a lean, pretty, blonde woman, midthirties maybe, who was looking back at him. She was with some other guys about her age, office colleagues at a guess. He’d first noticed the group when he and Stevens had entered the bar. They were out partying and taking turns to do shots, and she seemed to be more than holding her own. The blonde smiled, and he smiled back. That was what being a priest got you sometimes, thought Devlin. Spontaneous, unforced friendliness. Except then Devlin remembered he wasn’t wearing his collar.

  Greg came back, and Devlin excused himself to go out for a smoke.

  Devlin stood on the sidewalk outside the bar under an awning. By the butts he could see around his feet, it looked like a popular spot. He drew out a cigar from inside his jacket pocket and lit up. As he took a lung-busting pull, the blonde in the bar walked up and stood beside him, cigarette in hand. Even though she’d just thrown back a load of tequilas, she looked about as sober as a judge.

  “Got a light?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He handed her his lighter. She lit up, took a drag, and handed it back.

  “S’okay, it’s only a cheap disposable. Keep it. I got another,” Devlin said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You can take your liquor.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve learned to keep up. I’m competitive like that.”

  She put the lighter in her back pocket, took a lug on her cigarette, and glanced over at Devlin. “Closest a normal person gets to feeling like a criminal these days, what with all the public disapproval you get.”

  “Sure. Probably more acceptable to take up leprosy,” said Devlin. “And cheaper.”

  “Yeah, especially with what you’re smoking. That’s a big cigar. You making a statement?”

  “Freud would have a field day.”

  “Freud smoked twenty cigars a day. You’re in esteemed company. Say, you been in a fight?”

  “Nope. I took a fall.”

  “Hell of a fall.”

  There was a silence, and they both smoked as car headlights occasionally lit up the sidewalk.

  “Where’s the accent from?” the blonde asked.

  “You have a keen ear. I was born in Belfast, but I left there a long time ago. When I was a kid.”

  “You live in Halton?”

  “No. I’m from Boston way. I’m looking up an old friend who’s proving resistant to the idea of being looked up.”

  “Oh. Who’s that?”

  “Guy called Ed James. Lived out east of Halton, on the corner of the highway going up to Fort Wayne.”

  “Don’t know the name I’m afraid. Halton’s small, but it’s not that small. What’d he do here, for work?”

  “He worked out of the Logan Ranch. Making deliveries.”

  “You been up to the ranch?”

  “Yeah. But no one’s talking much up there.”

  “It’s a pretty closed shop. I never get anywhere with them.”

  “You have dealings with them?”

  “From time to time. I’m a reporter on the Dayton Sun, and they’re the first family of the town. So they turn up somewhere in a lot of the news that comes out of Halton.”

  “What do you report on?”

  “I’m public affairs.”

  “Right…so that’s what? Everything?”

  “Pretty much. Crime, health, public transport, high school football teams, arts, public finance. I’m Katy. Katy Fox.” Katy extended a hand, and Devlin took it.

  “Devlin. Father Gabe Devlin.”

  “Father? You’re a priest?”

  “Yes.”

  “What denomination?”

  “Catholic.”

  “I see. You flash smiles at all the girls you see in bars?”

  “Only the ones that smile at me first. And, flattered as I’d like to be, I think it hadn’t escaped your notice that I’m with the deputy chief. So I’d say your interest is more professional than personal.”

  “Damn. Busted.” She flicked her cigarette to the ground, exhaled, and looked up at Devlin. “So straight out, what’s the deal on the murder up on Long Pine? Who uploaded that YouTube video?”

  “You’re talking to the wrong guy. I’ve got no idea.” But something made Devlin stop in his tracks. A thought. A thought about this tough blonde who could take her drink and had her eye on the main chance. A thought about how she could be of help.

  Fox had grabbed a stool and pulled it up to the bar next to Stevens. Devlin sat down on the other side. Devlin did the introductions, but Stevens looked wary.

  “Greg Stevens, Katy Fox. I met Katy outside,” said Devlin.

  “We know each other, Gabe. You’re a journalist on the local paper, right?” said Stevens.

  “That’s right, Deputy Stevens. We’ve crossed paths a few times. You don’t usually handle the press calls though?”

  “No, that’s Chief Walker’s beat, thank God.”

  “Greg, I got talking with Katy,” said Devlin, “and I think we could get to an agreement between the three of us that will be to all our advantage.”

  “What agreement?” asked Stevens.

  “Okay. So, Katy, you know the department’s view on the homicide?”


  Fox had ordered herself a bourbon and Coke. She took a sip and shot back her answer. “Yeah, it was ‘traveler related.’ We got some weak-ass, pissy press line from the mayor’s office this afternoon.”

  “But what if you could get behind the press line? Get to know what really happened in the police department?” said Devlin.

  “And who would help me do that? You guys?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Hey, hey, Gabe!” Stevens interrupted. “I’m not sure we should be leaking anything critical to the case. It’s not professional.”

  “Greg, it’s the only shot we got at the moment. We’ve lost our voice on this investigation; here’s a way to get it back. If we don’t do anything, Walker and Cutter are going to have it all their own way.”

  Stevens chewed it over and then said, “Okay.” He took a slug of beer. “In for a penny, in for a pound I guess.”

  Devlin turned to Fox, “Greg could fill you in on what’s really been happening. The divisions on the Long Pine case.”

  “What divisions?”

  “If you agree to run the story, I’ll tell you.”

  Devlin expected Fox to bite his hand off to get an exclusive like this, but Fox played it cool. “I’m interested...”

  “Damn right you’re interested,” said Stevens. “On a case like the Long Pine murder that’ll go down in the local history books an inside story could make a reporter’s name.”

  “Yep. Your name,” added Devlin.

  “So what do you get, Father?” asked Fox.

  “Greg gets a chance to air his case to the public,” replied Devlin. “And maybe gets a shot at influencing the direction of the case. And, most importantly, a shot at justice.”

  “Yeah, I get that bit. Your sainthood’s in the post, Father,” said Fox, zeroing in on Devlin. “But what about you? What do you get? You said an agreement ‘that will be to all our advantage.’”

  Devlin smiled. He’d only met Fox ten minutes ago, but already he knew she was sharp as a razor. And that was why he knew she was a good bet right now.

 

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