“You’re the guy in charge?” Walter mocked him and Devereaux, failing totally to catch the sarcasm in Walter’s query, shouted, “You’re goddamn right I am!”
“Amazing. You think you know everything, don’t you Louie?”
“What I know, what I know-yes, Mr. Locator-it’s what I know that keeps you free. Keeps you from going to jail. Keeps the IRS in the dark. Keeps your clients confidential. Keeps your-your Gloria safe. There’s no doubt about it. No doubt at all.”
“Ubi dubium ibi libertas,” said Walter.
“Latin? From you? Quite a surprise. I’m a little rusty on mine.”
“Translation-Where there is doubt, there is freedom. Harry Levine gave it to me, right out of Lacey’s journal. Poor Harry said it reminded him of Roy Orbison. You know, do the ubi dubi. What kind of man are you, Devereaux? You think you can order the killing of Harry Levine? You think you’re so great? You think you’re running the world, don’t you? You have-a wasted fucking existence. No idea. No clue.”
“Me? A worthless excuse? I have a wasted fucking existence-very funny, coming from you. A little crack in your elaborate facade. I’ll have to remember that.”
“Years ago,” Walter continued, in a much calmer tone, his resolve and purpose once more front and center. “When I was sixteen, seventeen-when we all got our driver’s licenses-we used to drive into New York City, on a whim. That’s a couple of hours, each way from Rhinebeck. One night, we’re tooling around town-I’m driving and Bobby Hatton, a friend of mine sitting next to me, says ‘Are we ready?’ He could only mean one thing. Drive to New York City. So, I take off for the Taconic Parkway, pathway to the Big Apple. I’ve got the car. I’m the king of the road. Just like you-I’m in charge. But, my other friend, Joel Adler, in the back seat, he doesn’t want to go. He’s pissed. He’s shouting. He’s doing everything short of grabbing me, which would be stupid because I’m driving. Finally, he gives up, gives in, sits back. There’s nothing he can do. But Joel doesn’t say a word for about an hour. Then, out of nowhere, he said something-you know what he said?” Devereaux looked at Walter with the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. He held back not wanting to antagonize a man holding a gun on him. “No, of course you don’t, Louie. How could you? Joel Adler said to me, ‘You’re a shmuk with an empty life.’ Think about it. Didn’t fit me, that’s what I thought. I thought it was very funny. Shmuck with an empty life. Someone like me-with the power? Someone like you-with the power? But my friend Joel-he meant someone with no power, no purpose. In the end, someone with nothing. And that’s exactly what you are and where you are. You’re a shmuk with an empty life and this is the end.” Devereaux had no reply.
Walter sat down in a chair directly across the room from where Devereaux sat. He kept his gun pointed at him. “When Tucker calls you from Amsterdam, you call Abby O’Malley. She sends that incompetent poor bastard, Sean Dooley, after me. Big mistake, or is it?”
“What are you saying?” Devereaux asked. “You think I had other motives?”
“We’ll get to that. You knew Abby O’Malley had been desperate to get Lacey’s journal. Her whole life revolved around it. But you also knew she couldn’t hurt a fly.” The reference made Walter chuckle. His laughter unsettled Devereaux because he had no idea what it was based in. “Abby would send in a fool. You were sure of that. And that’s exactly what she did. The last thing you wanted was for her to get the document. She’d burn it in a New York minute. You were sure I could handle anything she did. You could play with both of us and still come out on top.”
“Can I get a refill on this?” Devereaux asked.
“What are you, fucking crazy? Get a refill! Put the fucking glass down and see if you can’t concentrate all your attention over here!”
“I only…”
“Louie? Louie-listen to me. This is not a lesson in interrogation. This is it-the major moment. Don’t you get it? Let’s get back to Holland. When Harry and I take off, you’re lost. I’ll tell you where we went. I know you’re interested.” Walter detailed his trip from Holland to Belgium to Spain and Mexico. Finally, the bus ride to Juarez and across the boarder to El Paso. “I bought a car there and we drove to New Mexico, to the cabin.”
“Nice touch,” said Devereaux.
“Huh?”
“The car. The car. Buying the car. Beautiful.”
“Because you knew everything Abby O’Malley knew, that means you knew I was going back to St. John. She told you that. You knew I was going to meet her there. So, you dispatched Tucker Poesy once more. You told her to find me, get the document and get out. But there was something-something important-you didn’t tell Tucker.”
“What was that?”
“I didn’t have Lacey’s document. Of course I didn’t have it. I wouldn’t have brought it with me from New Mexico. You knew that too and you saw your chance. You had separated me from Harry-separated me from Lacey’s confession-that was the time for your best shot. In the meantime, you thought I’d get rid of an unnecessary part of your changing plan.”
“Really?” said Devereaux trying very hard to sound calm and doing a poor job of it. “And just what was that supposed to be?”
“Tucker Poesy.”
“Ah, The Bambino.”
“The what?” asked Walter, totally perplexed. Devereaux only smiled. “You were right about her,” Walter said. “It’s her nature to move on a target. Subtlety is not a weapon in her arsenal. When she struck, you were sure I would kill her. And that’s really what you wanted, at that stage of the game. You needed to be rid of her. She no longer served any purpose, and she knew too much.”
“Well,” Devereaux spoke up. “She did, didn’t she? Wouldn’t you have done likewise? Killed her too? Cleaned up after yourself? No, actually you wouldn’t, would you. You’re a loner, a cosmic loner. You never clean up, because you never get dirty. See, I told you, Walter. I’m not in your league.”
“So, you sent someone to see me, someone very beautiful, very mysterious, someone pretending to be Aminette Messadou. She was good. I don’t know where you found her. One of your actors, I suppose. I hope you didn’t tell her too much, because if you did, I’m sure she’s dead by now. She gave me quite a colorful story, a really good one. And, through her, you establish a straw man and send me chasing him down an empty road. You divert my attention from Harry. Then you send in another actor of yours, a guy who throws around the name Christopher Hopman. Wow, that’s a powerhouse for Isobel Gitlin. Right between the eyes. She has no idea what’s hit her. Okay, I can live with that. I can see where you had plenty of information about Leonard Martin, and about me. But you used Isobel in a real bad way. She gave Harry up. She didn’t even know him. She didn’t know anything.” Walter stopped, took in a deep breath and gazed straight into the eyes of the devil. “You sent someone to kill Harry Levine and take the document. You have the Lacey Confession.”
“Is that a question?”
“No. Not a question. You have it, and it’s right here, inside this house.”
“And you’re going to do what? Torture me until I tell you where it is? Are you going to slit my throat? No, I forgot, you only do that to teenagers with one leg. Go ahead, Walter. Have your way with me. Cut me, beat me, do anything.” He laughed. Whatever Devereaux was thinking, Walter knew a desperate, frightened laugh when he heard one.
“I’m not going to touch you, Louie. I may kill you, but I won’t touch you. I don’t torture people. I don’t need you to tell me where the document is. I’ll find it. Have you forgotten? I’m The Locator.”
“What do you want then?” Devereaux said it, asked it, but hated himself for it. Cheesy, melodramatic asshole! he thought. “You don’t have the whole story. No, you sure don’t. You’re missing the most important piece of the game, Mr. Sherman.”
“No, I’m not,” said Walter. “I’m not.” He took in another deep breath, the sort of inhale a man takes at a moment of terrible sadness. “I know about her. It must have been for her. Why els
e would you do this? The Czar’s gold? What do you need with the Czar’s gold?”
“You’re smarter than I thought,” Louis Devereaux said, then immediately caught himself in an error. “No, no. No, that’s not what I thought. I always knew no one was ever smarter than you. The Locator. But I thought you’d lost something by now. Not much. Just a little. Middle age. Retirement. But you haven’t, have you? Sonofabitch.” Devereaux was smiling again, this time with real delight. “I underestimated you and I didn’t even know I was doing it. My mistake. I apologize.”
“You haven’t told me why-why her? Why do all this?”
“You already know why, Walter. You simply haven’t put it together yet. You don’t need me to tell you. It’s the gold. It’s always been the gold. From the time I first told her abo ut Lacey and his father-in-law and the Czar’s gold, that’s all she talked about. She became obsessed with those people-the Georgians. I got some Russian cigarettes for her, just as a hoot, you know. She asked for more. She started smoking them. She wanted the gold. It’s all been about the gold.”
“There is no gold,” said Walter.
“Oh?”
“None.”
“None?”
“You won’t find the answer in Lacey’s confession. Because there is no answer, no hiding place. No tons of gold coins.”
“You…” Devereaux’s laughter brought him to a coughing fit. “I’m sorry,” he said, recovering. He wiped his nose and rubbed his eyes, a genuine smile still sitting wide across his face. “You bought Roy Rogers’ act. Imagine that. I’m just a stocks-and-bonds boy! And you bought that. You? Holy shit!” Then he laughed again. “There’s more gold than you ever dreamed of. It was for her. It was all for her, you
… idiot.”
Walter rose from his seat, crossed the room to where Louis Devereaux sat and placed his. 9mm pistol on the small table next to Devereaux. “You killed Harry. You’re responsible. You’ve got a choice to make, Louie. You can pick this gun up-there is a single round in the chamber-otherwise unloaded. Just one shot. You can take that one bullet and go out of here with at least a touch of dignity. Or I can shoot you. Your decision.” Devereaux looked at the pistol, then up at Walter, and again at the gun. “I know what you’re thinking,” said Walter. “I’d think it myself. But I need to tell you that if you pick up that gun and so much as point it in my direction, Tucker Poesy will put two in the back of your head, probably in the little soft spot just below the skull, and probably get both in the same hole. She’s that good.”
“You use this one all the time?” mocked Devereaux. “Tucker Poesy’s behind me? That’s a good one.” He didn’t exactly laugh out loud, but he smiled and the devil’s grin filled the room with a smell like acid on metal.
“Hi, Louie,” she said.
Louis Devereaux picked up the gun. He knew it was an untraceable weapon that would stay behind. For the first time he noticed that Walter Sherman was wearing gloves, thin white cotton gloves. Only Devereaux’s fingerprints would be on the handle. He didn’t look at Walter again. In fact, Walter saw him close his eyes. He put the gun up to his head, against his temple, by his right ear, and pulled the trigger.
The house belonged to Linda Morales. It was far enough outside Ponce to be called a retreat. That’s how she referred to it-my retreat, she would say. Few knew about it and fewer still knew where it was. There was nothing spectacular about the house itself. It was nice, but not unusual. Pushed into the side of a hill, nearly at the top-very much like Walter’s place on St. John-her view was a thing to behold. The whole of the Caribbean Sea lay at her footsteps. Walter Sherman had made his life’s work finding things others could not. Finding Conchita Crystal’s Puerto Rican retreat was no challenge for The Locator. He had resources everywhere. He used one to keep an eye on the place, to let him know when she arrived. Hours later, he was there. Unlike his own house, where the driveway snaked around and down the hill, this one had a drive straight up to the house. He parked his car at the bottom, off the road, behind some bushes, and walked. He rang the bell and waited.
“Walter,” she said, as if she was expecting him for cocktails and dinner. “Come in. You look wonderful. Have you done something… to yourself? You look great.”
“A little surgery,” he said.
“No. You’re not the kind.”
“Coronary bypass.”
“Oh,” her hand covered her open mouth, but he could see she was careful not to touch those delicious lips of hers. No smudges.
“It’ll do wonders for you. You should try one.”
“When? What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I came to pay my respects, offer my condolences.”
“Oh, really,” now he saw the chest heave and the muscles around that marvelous mouth tighten. “What for? Who’s died?”
“Louis Devereaux. I’m sure you’ve heard by now. They say he killed himself. Shot himself with the only bullet in a Glock nine millimeter. They found the gun in his hand. Did you know, if you shoot yourself in the head, you die so quickly your fingers cannot release the weapon. That’s true.” Chita said nothing. She stood there, like she was waiting for her director’s instructions. Stage right-stage left-kick and move-smile, smile! “That was a nice Glock. I bought it, on the street in Washington, a few hours before he killed himself with it. You still can’t say anything, can you?”
“I… I…”
“I know all about it, Chita. I know about you and Devereaux. His phone records. Your cell phone. The two of you go back a long ways. How? How did that happen? You and Devereaux?”
Conchita smiled. It was that warm, wonderful smile she was so famous for, the one Walter had seen and taken some measure of pleasure in before. “He called me. Just like he called you. You couldn’t just call me, not Chita Crystal. Not in those days. I had people who had people. But that’s exactly what Louis did. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Louis Devereaux. I’m a big fan. Let’s have dinner.’ That’s how. I needed help. He was there.”
“It never occurred to me,” said Walter. “The two of you. I see it now, but I don’t know why Harry. Harry was-what to you? Why him?”
“I don’t work as much as I used to,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you that? You should have listened.”
“The money? The Czar’s gold coins? The money was for you?”
“Of course. Look at me. This is my little bungalow, my most modest accommodations. Conchita Crystal is a business-no, she’s an industry. And, unfortunately, she ain’t what she used to be.” She saw Walter looking at her. She never doubted her appearance. She lived on it. Still did. That’s not what she was losing. It was the income. Simple and to the point. Conchita Crystal did not make as much money as she used to. Her lifestyle had not adjusted to her new economic conditions. Her motives were so simple. She needed the money.
“Devereaux had money,” he said, astonished that she should worry about her future in such a way-that she would kill for it-that she would kill family. “You had nothing to worry about.”
She laughed. “You don’t know a thing about real money, do you Walter? Louis told me about Lacey, years ago. He told me about Kennedy and he told me about the gold.”
“Still… I…,” he stammered.
“You cannot imagine what it costs to be me,” she said.
“So, it really was pure, dumb luck,” Walter said.
“You know about me and Louis. We were made for each other, truly we were. I love him. He loves me in a way he can’t love anything or anyone else. You’ll never know how good that feels.” Conchita Crystal was crying again. This time Walter didn’t give a flying fuck.
“He knew Lacey’s instructions were to open his will four days after he died,” Chita said. “It never mattered what day it was-when the old man died. The fourth day was a Saturday, but it could have been any day. Louis could have made it happen anytime. But we got lucky, with Harry.”
“But that was the American Embassy. What did that have to do with
Lacey’s will?”
“Don’t you see? Come on, you’re the fucking Locator! And you still don’t see it.”
“See what?”
“Louis knew-all along. He not only knew Frederick Lacey was behind the assassination of President Kennedy. He knew about Lacey’s confession. His dear friend, Abby O’Malley, kept him up to speed on everything she did. You know, Walter, Louis had a way of finding things even you couldn’t match. What do you find? You find people. He found knowledge. He found out things no one else could. And he was always right. Always.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? That’s such crap.”
“No, no, my dear man. Louis knew things nobody else knew, and now never will. The assassination was just one, one among many. He knew about Lacey’s private journal and he guessed Lacey’s confession was in it. He was right, wasn’t he? See what I mean? You won’t see another like him. He figured that when the will was opened the confession would be there. And in it, the location of the gold. Everybody looking for it assumed the lawyer had it, probably in a safe somewhere. Louis went with his gut. The lawyer would see the document, he told me, discover that his old friend had murdered John Kennedy, and offer the whole thing, on a silver platter, to the Americans to do with as they wished.”
“How long have you…?”
“How long? Years. Years,” she laughed at him. “Fifteen years ago,” she said. “He told me about Lacey at least fifteen years ago.”
“And you?”
“Me? You were right. The pureist, dumbest of luck. I had this nephew, a kid I’d only met a few times, whose mother was my sister, but I never met her at all. Harry Levine. He worked at the London Embassy. He wanted to stay there. Louis made sure he did. Louis said it was a piece of cake. He could have arranged for anyone he wanted to be the senior official on duty, on any day. Louis could do things others couldn’t dream of. When the old man died on a Tuesday, Harry was a natural. Open the will Saturday-have Harry be the senior official on premises. Bingo! The lawyer gives him Lacey’s confession. An act of incredible coincidence.”
The Lacey confession l-2 Page 35