The Silent Places

by James Patrick Hunt

  THIRTY-SIX

  Klosterman came in to Hastings’s office with a file on Kyle Anders and Ghosthawk. They talked for a while.

  Klosterman said, “He’s basically the Howard Hughes of contract security work.”

  Hastings said, “You mean mercenaries.”

  “He doesn’t like the word mercenaries, ” Klosterman said. “In fact, if you work for his company, you’re not supposed to call yourself that. He’s a funny guy.”

  “He didn’t seem funny when I met him.”

  “I mean funny—unusual. Since the Iraq War, Anders has made tons of money. He’s got contracts in Iraq, Afghanistan, some in Central America. These contracts, they’re worth millions and millions of dollars. You know, when I looked him up and saw Ghosthawk, I remembered the name. We got a couple of cops working there.”

  “Really?”

  “Not anyone in homicide, but, yeah, a few patrol officers quit the department and took jobs as bodyguards there. But it’s not like you can just get hired there. You have to go to this training facility he’s got in Tennessee and audition, so to speak. They don’t take too many cops, though. They might take one for every fifteen ex-military guys. You know what they call cops?”

  “What?”

  “Zipperheads.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I don’t, either. I can see why a young patrol cop would be interested in doing it, though. You get like a hundred thousand a year, minimum, for being over there, and it’s tax-free. And apparently it’s not like the work is that hard, either. You’re basically a guard. Escorting dignitaries, protecting contractors, and so forth.”

  “Sure,” Hastings said, “but you’re in a war zone. Car bombs, ambushes.”

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Klosterman said. “But these young cops, they want action, a rush. You remember how it was.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I don’t miss it, though.”

  “Besides,” Klosterman said, “they get to see the world.” Klosterman smiled, being sarcastic.

  “They get to see Iraq and Afghanistan,” Hastings said. “And that ain’t much.”

  “You never considered the military?”

  “Never. I guess I was never that curious. You?”

  “Ah, I thought about it when I was younger. But I was going with Anne and I didn’t want to leave her. Howard was in the navy; they paid for his college. He told me he joined because he wanted to see the world and he didn’t have any money for college.”

  “He told me he wasn’t that crazy about it,” Hastings said.

  “Yeah, he told me that, too. He saw more of Norfolk, Virginia, than anyplace else and he said it sucked. They slated him for aircraft mechanics and he thought he’d die of boredom. So he got out when his tour was up. Good thing, I guess. But you know Howard’s real serious about that serving your country stuff, even if it’s just for a while. He thinks we should still have the draft. I kind of agree with him, too.”

  Hastings did not, but he kept that thought to himself. He said, “So I guess Mr. Anders is something of a war profiteer.”

  Klosterman said, “Yeah, you could put it that way. If you want to be cynical about it.”

  Hastings smiled. “How would you put it?”

  “I don’t know,” Klosterman said. “He’s just a businessman, probably no worse than most.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Hastings said. “Do you think Senator Preston has a role in awarding these government contracts?”

  “It’s possible. Do you want me to look into it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Murph appeared in the doorway.

  “What’s up?” Hastings said.

  Murph said, “How you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Should you be at work?”

  “Doctor said it was okay,” Hastings said. Which was a lie, and they both knew it. But he didn’t want to have this conversation again. Hastings said, “You got something for me?”

  Murph said, “You wanted an update on Preston’s appearances. I’ve got it.”

  “Any changes?”

  “Yeah,” Murph said. “He’s speaking before the Veterans of Foreign Wars the day after Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh God. Where?”

  “The Soldier’s Memorial. It’ll be outside.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Reese was having a cup of coffee in the dining room, reading the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. That was how he found out Senator Preston would be giving a speech downtown. It made him think. The speech had not been posted on the senator’s Web site. Why would he do that? Why would he take such a risk? Preston was not a courageous man. He had to know. Why would he put himself in the open?

  Giving a speech to veterans, no less. Reese snorted to himself. Preston had never been in the service. Men like him didn’t do that.

  During his time in prison, Reese had kept tabs on Preston’s career. Had read about him being elected to the U.S. Senate, read about his avid support of the war in Iraq. It never changes, Reese thought.

  Now he heard a commotion coming from the other room. Reese ignored it for a little while, but it didn’t stop. Reese walked out of the dining room and into the lobby. The newspaper was folded in his hand.

  In the lobby, a tall, well-dressed man was standing at the front desk. Behind the desk was the proprietor’s teenage son. The tall man was holding a couple of papers in his hand. His tone was ugly and threatening. Reese imagined he was around forty. A bully who had probably not been in a physical fight since he was twelve.

  The boy was saying, “I’m sorry. But the policy is to put faxes in your box.”

  “This arrived over five hours ago. You should have contacted me immediately. ”

  The boy said, “I understand, but—”

  “What is the matter with this place? Can’t you do something as simple as that? Or is that something beyond your intelligence?”

  Reese moved closer to the desk. He said, “Excuse me.”

  The tall man stopped and looked over.

  Reese said, “Is there a problem?”

  “It’s none of your concern,” the man said.

  “It’s all right,” the boy said.

  Reese continued to stare at the man. He said, “If you have a complaint, why don’t you discuss it with the manager? He’s just a kid.”

  “I’m a guest here and I’m discussing an issue with an employee. Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “Or would you like to discuss it with me?” Reese said, and stepped just a little closer to the man.

  Reese had sized the tall man up correctly. Unsurprisingly, the man stepped back a bit. The man said, “What?”

  Reese did not answer him. He just stood there for a moment. Then he leaned against the desk, as if he would stand there as long as he liked. The whole time, he continued looking passively at the tall man. The man moved back another step, his fear showing now. Reese continued looking at his face and said nothing. The man looked at Reese and then at the boy. Then the he made some sort of sigh that was supposed to register impatience and insult but didn’t, trying to save face. The tall man walked away.

  Reese opened up his newspaper and began to read it.

  The boy said, “Thank you.”

  Reese said, “Forget it. Who was that guy?”

  “He’s a guest here. He’s a lawyer.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “He got a fax from his office. I guess he wanted us to tell him as soon as it got here.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  Reese waited for the boy to call the lawyer a name or otherwise cuss him. But the boy didn’t. He just returned to work. For some reason, this affected Reese.

  Reese said, “What’s your name, son?”

  “Connor.”

  “You’re Mrs. Mangan’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “You handled that guy pretty well.”

  “I didn’t do a
nything. He’d’ve kept yelling at me if you hadn’t come along.”

  “That’s all he would have done. He’s a bully. If he comes back and gives you any more trouble, give me a call.”

  “I can handle it,” the boy said, his tone defensive.

  Reese smiled. “Okay,” he said, and moved away.

  A couple of hours later, Reese was working on the rifle when he heard the knock on his door. He knew who it was, but he called out “Who is it?” anyway.

  “Mrs. Mangan.”

  “Just a minute,” Reese said, and stored the gun under the bed. He answered the door.

  Molly said, “Connor told me what happened. Is it true?”

  “I don’t know what he told you,” Reese replied.

  “He said that the guest from Lexington was being rude to him and that you ran him off.”

  “I didn’t run him off. I just made him see that he was … being unpleasant. It was not a big deal.”

  “It was to Connor. He was very impressed by it.”

  Reese made a sort of shrug. He was self-conscious. He said, “Would you like to come in?”

  The woman looked at him, a startled expression in her eyes.

  Reese said, “I don’t mean—I didn’t mean any—”

  “I know,” the woman said. “I know you didn’t. No, thank you. I guess I was hesitating because I wanted to tell you something else. Connor asked me to apologize to you.”

  “For what?”

  “He thinks he may have been rude to you after you helped him. He feels bad about it. He was embarrassed and he, well, he didn’t know what to say.”

  “He handled himself very well. You’ve got a good kid there.”

  Mrs. Mangan smiled. “Yes, I think so. Do you have children, Mr. Bryan?”

  “No. We’ No.”

  There was a silence between them, the woman hesitating.

  Reese said, “Well.”

  “Well,” Molly said. “Good night, Mr. Bryan.”

  “You can call me Paul.”

  “Good night, Paul.”

  She looked at him in a way that was terribly unself-conscious, and it struck Reese that she was actually very pretty. She smiled at him again and turned and walked down the hall.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hastings was stopped at the subdivision containing Preston’s house. There were four black Chevy Suburbans that he could see. A man in black jeans and a black turtleneck held a hand up in front of his Jaguar. Another man, also dressed in black, came to the car window as Hastings rolled it down.

  Hastings took him in. Tall and hard-looking. No security contractor here. This was a mercenary.

  Clu Rogers said, “What do you want?”

  Hastings showed him his identification and gave his name. He said, “I’d like to speak to the senator.”

  Clu said, “You’re not on the list.”

  “What list?”

  “The list of approved guests.” Clu pointed back down the hill. “So beat it.”

  “It’s police business,” Hastings said. “You interfering?”

  “I’m doing my job. You gonna arrest me?”

  “If need be,” Hastings said.

  They looked at each other impassively for a few moments, both of them armed and trying to hide their anger.

  Clu said, “You want to try that, you better come back with more men.”

  Hastings smiled at him. “Are you a tough guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what are we arguing about?” Hastings said.

  It confused the man for a moment. Then he regained himself. Clu said, “Listen, I’m going to—”

  “Hey!”

  Clu Rogers turned around to face Sylvia Preston.

  She was in her overcoat, putting her icy glare on him.

  “Mrs. Preston,” Clu said.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Ma’am,” Clu said, “he was trying to barge in here.”

  “It didn’t look like that to me. Now get out of the way.”

  “Ma’am, he doesn’t have an appointment.”

  “This is my home and nobody is going to tell me who comes and goes. Now step aside.”

  Clu looked at the other bodyguard, trying to save some face; then he stepped back and Hastings drove past him and parked the car. When he got out of it, Mrs. Preston was walking up to him.

  She said, “I saw you from the window.”

  “Thanks,” Hastings said. “Sorry about that. I guess I should have called first.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Sylvia Preston said. “About them. And about something else, too.”

  “What?”

  “We can talk about it later. Do you mind if I ask what you want to see my husband about?”

  “I don’t mind. I’d like to talk to him about the speech he’s going to give before the VFW.”

  Sylvia said, “You don’t want him to do it.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Come on,” she said, touching him on the arm, leading him into the house.

  Preston was alone in his study and on the telephone when Sylvia escorted Hastings in. Preston was dressed casually, slacks and a sweater. He saw Hastings, made a point of not acknowledging him, and continued talking on the phone. Hastings heard him say, “Well, he’s finished anyway. … Yeah, down by eleven points, and there’s no way he’s going to catch up.…” Then he laughed at something and bid the caller a warm good-bye.

  Preston said, “Mr. Hastings, I was informed you were no longer on this case.”

  “That’s right,” Hastings said.

  “Then what can I do for you?”

  Hastings said, “I’m conducting an investigation.”

  Silence as the men looked at each other. Then Preston said, “On who?”

  “John Reese.”

  The senator took his eyes off the policeman and put them on his wife. “Sylvia,” he said. “Would you excuse us?”

  Sylvia Preston looked at her husband, then at Hastings. Hastings nodded at her, a gesture of gratitude, and she left the room.

  When she was gone, Preston said, “I have a golf game in a half hour. I would appreciate it if you would come to the point.”

  “You’re going to play golf?” Hastings said. “Where?”

  “Not that I need to tell you, but a private club in Chesterfield. I doubt you’re familiar with it.”

  “Senator, there is a man in town who wants to kill you. And you’re golfing, making speeches outdoors. You’re exposing yourself to unnecessary risk. Why?”

  “You say there’s a man.”

  “No, you said it. You specifically asked the chief for police protection because you thought John Reese would come after you. It turns out you were right.”

  “My wife—”

  “Please don’t put this on your wife. It would not have been done if you hadn’t wanted it done.”

  The senator gave Hastings one of his authoritative glares. “Are you questioning my integrity, Lieutenant?”

  “Senator, I’m sure you have your reasons for doing what you’re doing. But I’m trying to find a man who’s threatening to kill you. For reasons I cannot comprehend, you seem unwilling to help me.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Preston said. “Just what is it you saw that night? Did you actually see the man who shot at you?”

  “No. Not up close.”

  “Well, I have seen him up close. I prosecuted him and put him behind bars, where he belongs. I spent the better part of a year building that case. And now you, who knows nothing about him, you come into my home and deign to tell me about him. When you didn’t even see him.”

  “The man who shot me was no junkie. He used a high-powered rifle. We have it. Do you want to see it? Will that make you believe it was him?”

  “I’m not interested, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir, he’s interested in you. And he’s not going away.”

  “Just what is it you propose I do? Stay here the rest of my life? Give up public ser
vice? I can’t do that.”

  “No one’s asking you to. Just lie low for a few days. I’ll bring him in. I’ll see he goes back to prison.”

  Preston shook his head. “This is not a homicide, Lieutenant. It’s not your jurisdiction.”

  “The city of St. Louis is my jurisdiction. And John Reese is wanted for assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “Well,” Preston said, “good luck with that. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  Burning at the senator’s patronizing tone, Hastings turned and walked out of the room. Fuck it, he thought. Fucking senator talking down to him, using his prosecutor’s voice. Let me ask you something? Jerkoff. Hastings told himself to write a report when he got back to the station, summarizing this conversation. At least his ass would be covered when the senator got shot playing the back nine. This officer tried to warn the senator that he would be killed by John Reese and the senator told this officer to go pound sand up his ass. Respectfully submitted, Lt. Hastings.

  Sylvia Preston caught up to him in the driveway.

  “Lieutenant,” she said. “Is that it?”

  Hastings stopped and took her in. She was a very pretty woman, too good-looking to be married to such an asshole.

  “Yeah,” Hastings said, “we’re finished.”

  Sylvia said, “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t, either. Mrs. Preston, a few days ago, you told me your husband was afraid. Is that still true?”

  “…I don’t know.”

  “What has he told you?”

  “He’s been … keeping his own counsel the last couple of days. I wish he would tell me more.”

  Hastings looked at her, saw that she was frightened. Maybe unhappy, too.

  Now she said, “Was it John Reese out there in the park?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Why? Why is he so intent on…”

  “I don’t know. Does your husband?”

  “Maybe. He won’t tell me.”

  “Ask him,” Hastings said.

  Sylvia Preston’s face contorted. “And then what? Report back to you?”

  “It would be for his benefit.”

  “Are you sure?”