The Lacey confession l-2

by Richard Greener

  Billy took in a big breath of fresh air. He needed it. “See, people think you’ll do anything if you’re embarrassed enough. Even kill somebody. But that’s not what it’s about. It’s about the money. It’s always about the money.”

  “Where’s the money here?” asked Helen.

  “The husband kept a lot of cash in the house. The kind of business he was in made that a smart move. I’m telling you, a lot of money, probably a couple hundred thousand. So, the guy who’s fucking his wife finds out where the money is, where the husband stashed it in the house. He kills the wife-like I told you-and steals the money. And, to cover his tracks, he sets up the husband.”

  “How did the husband get off the hook?” asked Walter.

  “What makes you think the husband got away, Walter?” Helen asked.

  “Oh, he did. No doubt about that, right, Billy?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Walter. The husband had some friends and when we… when these friends saw the cash this guy was laying out, not so broke anymore, going to Atlantic City and stuff, they sort of put two and two together. They sat him down and it didn’t take much. He confessed the whole thing. Once that little shit stepped up, told the cops everything, the husband, they let him go.”

  “And the other guy, the one who did it, he went to jail?”

  “No, Helen. He never went to jail. He didn’t make his trial. Something happened to him before his case got that far.”

  “You mean, he…”

  “That’s another story which we’re not interested in,” said Billy, the tone of his voice making it very clear he had reached the end of his tale.

  Walter looked over at Ike. He motioned with his hands, a sort of unspoken question for the old man, like-what have you got?

  “Not me,” said Ike. “Billy, you wear me out. I got nothing for that. You are most definitely in a class by yourself today. Unless Walter has something to say. Walter?”

  “I’ll say only this, and then I’m getting the hell out of here, before the bushwhackers take over. I think we ought to vote on it.”

  “Vote on it? Vote on what?”

  “You said it, Billy. Love or money.”

  Ike said, “That’s good. That’s very good, but I do believe we need to throw embarrassment in there with them. We do need three, do we agree?”

  “Love, money and embarrassment,” said Billy scratching his recently clean-shaven chin. “Okay with me.”

  “Write it up,” said Walter.

  “Un huh,” echoed Ike.

  “Can I do it?” Helen asked. Billy looked to his friends and seeing no resistance, he flipped the chalk to her. She grabbed it out of the air, with one hand and a big smile that said- I’m one of you! And she slid herself over to the rimless chalkboard next to the old cash register and wrote, in strong capital letters: LOVE/MONEY/EMBARRASSMENT.

  Walter was already thinking about money.

  When Tucker Poesy walked into Billy’s she looked very different from the last time. Of course, the last time she didn’t exactly walk in. She was carried in on a chair, a chair she was attached to in a most unfriendly manner. Billy’s wasn’t exactly open then-she was brought in at four in the morning. And Walter was not on the island. He was already gone, off to Washington, he thought, but really to New Mexico. Walter was here now and he heard her behind him. She was dressed for the climate. This was a woman who traveled well. She wore shorts, tight, white shorts showing off her dancer’s legs. A bare midriff was topped by a blue t-shirt with a picture of the Dixie Chicks on it. Underneath them was written, FUTK. Walter had no idea what that meant. She had no baggage-it must have been stowed somewhere already, he thought-and she was as cheerful as any first-time bushwhacker, fresh off the boat from St. Thomas. She could easily have been from Pittsburgh or Minneapolis, come to St. John looking to spend some money and drink a few of Billy’s more exotic beverages. This was a woman Billy had some experience with-under the worst of all possible conditions. He had personally hosed her down when she needed it most.

  “Hello, Billy,” she beamed.

  “Hello,” he replied, more than a little tentatively. Walter had clued him in, but it was still a little difficult for him. It didn’t make any sense to him. What would he do, he thought, if somebody from Jersey, someone from his past-when he was another person, with another name-what would he do if they just walked into his bar and said, “Hello, Billy.” Shit, Walter must know what he’s doing.

  Walter turned in his seat, smiled broadly at her and said, “You look terrific, Tucker. I’m really glad to see you. Ike, Billy, Helen, I want you to meet my friend, Tucker Poesy.” She smiled to each, greeting Billy as if he was a perfect stranger. This girl’s got balls, he thought.

  “Nice to meet you,” Helen said.

  Ike’s warm, toothy smile, and a tip of his Cleveland Browns cap-Helen was sure he wore it to both honor Jim Brown and annoy her-did not obscure his immediate, first reaction. Boom! It just happened in his head. The old man couldn’t help it. He saw Isobel Gitlin, right there in front of him, clear as day on the water. Now, that girl had been nothing but trouble for his friend Walter. God only knew what damage this one had in store. Some people, Ike was sure, spent their whole lives waiting for something, for someone. Other people spent their lives running away from it-from somebody, most likely. He knew Walter was special-among the cursed, sad to say-and there was nothing he could do about it. He had one foot looking and the other running. Cursed, thought Ike, truly cursed. Still, his ancient, creaky bones and wrinkled face wished Gloria would hurry up and come.

  “What’ll you have?” Billy asked Tucker. She leaned in on him, so only he could hear her. “I eat and drink for free,” she said. He nodded his acceptance. It was the least he could do.

  “I’m starving,” she said, loud enough for all to hear. Then she ordered a steak-the biggest rib eye on Billy’s menu. “Is that prime beef?” she asked. Billy just looked at the floor. He made no effort to respond. “Fries and salad with that,” she said.

  “What are you drinking?” he asked, practically unable to look her in the eye.

  “How ’bout a big bottle of your best champagne. You know, the one that goes for a hundred and seventy-five bucks a pop.”

  “I don’t carry that.”

  “Well, order some. I may be here awhile. In the meantime, a Corona will do.” Billy walked away thinking he was getting off cheap.

  Walter and Tucker Poesy sat in Billy’s all afternoon. She ate her steak and drank her beer. He nibbled at a fruit and veggie plate Helen prepared for him and sipped his usual. He had given up all pretense. He talked business, right there at the end of Billy’s bar. A couple of times he thought about it-uneasy thoughts-but what the hell. Ike really was right. He was retired. There were no rules anymore. He was no longer working for Conchita Crystal. This was all on him. He bore the load. They killed Harry and he had become the Cowboy.

  He had it now. Almost the whole story, from beginning to end. Well, not quite. A few details still stumped him, especially the very beginning. Whatever he still didn’t know didn’t matter, at least for now. He wanted Tucker to get it the way he had. He didn’t want to tell her. He was afraid she might simply take his word for it. He wanted her to figure it out for herself. So, they talked about details, not the wider picture. He put his part in. He told her how someone had approached him with the job. He still did not mention Conchita Crystal. Walter had been protecting clients for forty years. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he could reveal one now. But it didn’t matter. It was what happened, the order of events, the puzzle and its pieces. No puzzle had to be perfect. Chita was a piece that could be left out. He told Tucker about Harry’s Aunt Sadie, and went over his discovery of Bergen op Zoom and how fortunate he was to have a contact in Holland-his old friend Aat. Finding Harry turned out to be the easiest part. He told her about Devereaux-about Il Localino. It rankled him still. Just the mention of it flushed his face. She had to notice. Devereaux knew he was on the job-knew ev
en who hired him.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “No. I can’t, Tucker. But it’s not important.”

  Once the narrative reached Amsterdam, Tucker filled in her side. Devereaux called her, in London, told her to meet Harry Levine and get the document from him. She never said, but Walter wondered if she would have killed Harry too. He meant nothing to her. Walter liked her. He liked her more the more he was with her. But she was a killer and she was the most dangerous of killers. She was what he had always thought of as a swatter. Like swatting flies, she could shoot anyone without asking why, without caring why-walk away without a second thought. Shooting people was what she did. The only question for Walter was, could she kill someone she knew, someone she had nothing against? Could she have killed Harry Levine? He’d never know. It turned out Harry showed up to meet her without the document. She didn’t do this well, and admitted as much to Walter. She scared Harry off and he lit out for Holland. Tucker said she got a call, from Devereaux, with Walter’s flight plans. She was there, waiting for him, when he landed in Holland. The rest was all her. She followed him to Bergen op Zoom and then all the way back to Amsterdam, spotted their little hideaway, and decided to make her move the next day. By then it was too late. Finally, Devereaux sent her to St. John.

  “He knew you were coming back.”

  “I came back to meet Abby O’Malley. Let me tell you something about her.”

  Abby O’Malley’s phone records showed a million calls to Louis Devereaux. Walter saw the regularity with which she called him and asked his contact in the phone company to check back as far as he could. Sure enough, she had been calling Devereaux’s home phone for as long as they had records of her calls. It was easy after that. It didn’t take much to find out they both went to the University of Chicago Law School. A few phone calls to people there turned up plenty of information about a couple of distinguished graduates. Abby O’Malley and Louis Devereaux, together as a pair, went back decades. That explained Sean Dooley.

  “You called Devereaux, didn’t you?” he asked Tucker.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “And you told him I was comfortably settled, with Harry Levine, in Amsterdam.”

  “Right.”

  “And you told him exactly where.”

  “Of course, and that I wasn’t going to do anything about it until the next day. Oh, fuck!” shouted Tucker Poesy, still pissed at her own stupidity. Billy looked down the bar, in her direction. She waved him off. “Sorry,” she mouthed, since there was no way he could hear her from there unless she screamed again. Then she apologized to Walter too.

  “Devereaux called O’Malley,” she said, having put two and two together and gotten four. “The sonofabitch. O’Malley gets her boy into action immediately. But he’s a fuck-up artist. You beat it out of him and then beat it out of there. All the while I’m sleeping in a hotel overlooking the canal around the corner.”

  “I like that,” said Walter. “The canal around the corner. Sounds like a Dutch country and western song.”

  He filled her in again on his travels with Harry. They had gone over this part in Puerto Rico, but Walter could never repeat things too much. Like an athlete, deep into an intense training regime, for Walter, it was the repetitions that were the key to success. The more a fact was scrutinized, the more certain he could be it was a fact. That brought them to St. John, and their first meeting. It seemed an uncomfortable moment for Tucker, but Walter was apparently undisturbed. She noticed that and it actually made her feel better. If he was cool with this, why shouldn’t she be?

  “This is where Devereaux fucked up,” he said. “Can you tell me how?”

  “Sure,” said Tucker Poesy, by now able to dissect this with the same detachment Walter had. “You were supposed to kill me. That fucking Devereaux-sonofabitch!”

  “Exactly right, my dear girl. I was supposed to kill you. I’m sure you do your job very well, but messing around trying to fool me isn’t part of your job description. You were set up. Devereaux knew you were impulsive. He knew you’d make some kind of move on me-even though it made no sense. And he figured I’d kill you.”

  “You didn’t have the document,” said Tucker. “He knew you didn’t have it. You would have been nuts to bring it with you. He sent me to get something he knew wasn’t there. But why did he want to get rid of me? Why did he want you to kill me?”

  “He didn’t need you anymore. He either already knew where Lacey’s journal was, or was about to know. You had too much information. You were the man-or in this case, the woman-who knew too much. You may not have known precisely what Lacey had written, but you certainly had to know it was worth killing for.”

  “He didn’t need me anymore? You mean he needed to get rid of me?” She sounded like she was shocked.

  “Yeah. Cover his tracks. Loyalty,” said Walter, holding his hands out like the scales of justice, pretending to be Devereaux. “To you-or to me? Snap decision. Easy. You were an asset that had become a liability. But, like I said, that’s where he made his mistake. He had you figured pretty good, but not me. He was sure I’d kill you, but I didn’t. I let you go once I realized you didn’t kill Harry.”

  “You took your sweet time about it.”

  “Water under the bridge,” said Walter. “We’re in a tough business, you and me.”

  “What now?”

  “Devereaux killed Harry Levine-or had him killed. He tried to kill you, through me. And, no doubt, his plans eventually called for getting rid of me too. Everything in due time. It’s time now. It’s his time.”

  “Let’s go get the little prick,” Tucker Poesy said.

  The house on Kalorama Road was a four-sided, red brick Colonial, with double-hung windows and black shutters, dormers at the top and a beautiful, arched doorway. The neighborhood was as secure as any in the Washington area. So many important people, top officials and those with as much power as top officials, had chosen to live in the upscale Kalorama district of Georgetown. The enormous price tag on the property was no concern for Devereaux. In fact, he bought the house at a substantial discount because, as his real estate agent told him, “A lot of people think the place is haunted.” She had correctly pegged Louis Devereaux as a man who could not possibly believe such nonsense. With someone else, she might have left that out. Crazy as it seemed, selling a haunted house was every bit as difficult as selling one in which someone had been murdered or committed suicide. “These things must be disclosed,” Devereaux’s agent told him. “And when they are, buyers get a little skittish.” To his advantage, these ridiculous concerns served to bring the price down. Even his realtor could not have guessed, but Devereaux would have gladly shared his home with a ghost or two. For sure, it would have been their ordeal.

  He arrived home about eight-his usual time. He went straight to his bedroom where he changed into a pair of more casual pants and a pullover top. He washed his face, brushed his teeth-for reasons he never came to understand, he had always brushed his teeth before eating as well as afterward-walked back into his kitchen to mix a drink. Drink in hand, he sat down in his favorite chair in the living room, grabbed the remote from the small table next to him and turned on the television.

  “Turn the TV off,” said Walter emerging from the hall that led to the downstairs guest room and private office. He carried a gun, pointed at Devereaux. The television went dark.

  “How did you get in here?” Devereaux was quite clearly baffled. It made Walter feel very good to see him as confused as he had been that night outside Il Localino.

  “You mean, how did I get past your alarm system? Your wiring-probably installed by the folks you work for, or better said, the folks who work for you-and your backup alarm too? I could tell you, but it would only be new information you’d be unable to use. So, forget about it, Louie. I’m here.”

  “What do you…” Devereaux caught himself before saying want. That would have been too melodramatic. It nearly caused a smile to crease his lips. Instead, he deci
ded to wait on Walter. If Walter wanted him dead, he’d be dead already. So, he must want something more. Devereaux felt confident he had plenty of time. Keep his mouth shut, that’s what he decided. Let Walter show his hand.

  “Did you think you could stay a step ahead of me forever?” asked Walter. “Did you think I was too old or something?”

  “I thought I knew everything about you,” Devereaux answered. “Vietnam. All those special cases afterward. A lot of them weren’t quite as confidential as you thought they were. Hell, you were the perfect combination of skill, great skill, a skill never seen before and perhaps never to be seen again, and vulnerability. There was always something about you, bubbling just beneath the surface, something by which you could be had. You were a figure of literary magnitude. Walter Sherman. Phantom. The Locator. Almost too good to be true. I admired you. You’ve no idea.”

  “At first,” said Walter, sounding as if he hadn’t heard a single word Devereaux said, “you figured it would be simple. Maneuver Harry into Tucker Poesy’s web, and she’d get the document for you. You thought that would work. I can understand that. I probably would have done the same. So, we’re on the right track, together, at the start. Right?”

  “No argument here,” said Devereaux.

  “But Harry doesn’t come, document in hand. And, on top of that, Tucker Poesy scares him off. Now, here’s where I come in. Harry’s gone. Someone close to him hires me to find him, and you-since you’ve obviously got me under your microscope-figure to piggyback on the deal. I’ll find Harry and you’ll have Tucker Poesy follow me. Simple?”

  “Your point being?”

  “My point? My point is this whole thing was a charade, a puppet show, and you were pulling all the strings.”

  “You think too highly of me.”

  “Too highly?” scoffed Walter. “Far from it. I think you’re a worthless excuse for a man.” There was contempt in his voice, and anger, a controlled anger. Walter was not about to lose it now-at the end.

  “Worthless excuse,” Devereaux repeated slowly, emphasizing each word equally. “Worthless excuse. Let me tell you something. This worthless excuse makes the world safe for hypocritical assholes like you. You sit in your island paradise, hide out in a world you keep to yourself, a world you think you can keep to yourself. And just how does that happen? Tell me. Who makes that possible? Who? A worthless excuse like me. That’s who.”