"It won't run a word longer than it has to," Cotton said.
"I guess I won't need the memo," Danilov said. "Not if we have the yarn tomorrow morning." There was a click.
Cotton hung up the dead receiver, cutting off the dial tone. He thought: You'll get a memo, you son-of-a-bitch, because I'm quitting. You'll get all I can wrap up today in the story, and a memo with it. And the memo would tell Ernie Danilov what was left to be checked out and confirmed and it would tell Ernie and the Tribune to go to hell, effective on receipt.
And then it was time for the unpleasant part, the part he had always dreaded, the chore demanded by the conventions of objective reporting. He called Singer first, finding him finally downstate at the Seventh Division construction office. Singer's voice was pleasant.
"What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking into change orders on some jobs you handled," Cotton said. He identified the jobs. "It looks like just about all the change orders you signed increased the amounts on items Reevis-Smith bid high on, and cut back on items where they were low."
He realized he was trying to imagine what Singer looked like-trying to connect a man to the voice. Thinking as Janey Janoski would think. Cotton provided examples. "Is there an explanation for that?"
Singer's voice changed from pleasant to frightened and guarded. Conditions on the job required the changes, he said. It happened on every job with every project engineer. That was part of their duties, adjusting the project design to fit the site as construction developed.
"Just happened to be that way then?" Cotton said. "Coincidence?" Would Singer be married? Have children?
"You could call it that."
"Another thing," Cotton said. "The records show that you signed slips to pay Reevis-Smith for 13,786 tons of bulk cement on that FAS 007-211-3788 job. And that's the total amount delivered to the Reevis-Smith batch plant there at Ellis. But it looks like part of the mixed cement didn't go into the highway job. It went to the Reevis-Smith project over at the state park there-that Wit's End park improvement job." How much would he tell Singer now? Just enough to lead him into a lying explanation? And then just enough more to get a modification of the lie? And then enough more to demolish the lie? It was effective. Cotton felt slightly sick. To hell with it. If he handled it right, he was sure he could present the readers two or three contradictory lies. Singer's, contradicted by a separate lie from Herman Gay, and both contradicted by whatever spur-of-the-moment story the Reevis-Smith manager could come up with. Flowers would be smarter. He would refuse to comment. Three contradictory lies would make the story stronger. But to hell with it. He'd settle for a denial, spare Singer the role of public liar.
"We've got the records on it," Cotton said. "Exactly a grand total of 13,786 tons were delivered to the batch plant. You signed haul slips showing the same amount going into the highway. But we've got witnesses who can prove cement from that plant built the park improvements." Cotton paused, hesitating between the question leading to denial (wondering inanely if Singer had worked his way through college for the civil-engineering degree which would now be useless to him) and the question which would bring the "no comment," which would be smart for Singer but weak for the story.
"Do you have any comment on that? Do you have any comment on why you signed falsified hauling slips?"
"I didn't falsify any..." The voice was tight, frightened. "No comment," it said. "I don't want to say anything."
"You started to say you didn't falsify anything," Cotton said. "You don't want to say anything about that?"
"No. For God's sake. Is this going in the paper? Look, I've got a daughter in high school."
"I'm sorry," Cotton said.
And he was sorry. It surprised him, reminded him of something. How long ago? Fifteen years. The Carter County sheriff (What was his name?) fat and frightened behind his desk. The sheriff (Lowden it was, or maybe Logan, a fat man with the waxy complexion of those who have weak hearts) trying to explain how he had happened to be collecting more money than he had coming for feeding county-jail prisoners. A clumsy, inept affair-the sheriff's name signed to affidavits swearing his wife's caf‚ had served 760 prisoner-meals for the month. The county-jail roster showed only 208 prisoner-days served that month; 208 times 3 meals a day equaled 624 meals. Could the sheriff explain why he had claimed and cashed vouchers for 136 more meals than had been served? The sheriff could not. It was some mistake. An error in paperwork. A slip-up somewhere. Then could he explain how the error happened to be in his favor every month of that year, and how each month of his term the error grew slightly larger? And the sheriff sitting slack behind his desk, saying he would not discuss it, his face ashen. Cotton remembered it. He had felt an immense pity then. Pity for the man who would be removed from office, indicted by a grand jury, destroyed.
That had been the first one, and the worst one. The next one had been much easier-an assistant city manager cheating on travel expenses, who had simply lost his job. And after a while you hardly thought about it.
But he thought about it now-about Singer and his ruin.
Herman Gay was easier. Older and tougher. He denied, first, that it could be happening. Then blustered. Then complained that, after all, the construction engineer couldn't keep an eye on everything at once. Gay didn't have his signature attached to any false records, therefore saw escape. But there would be no escape for Singer. And, since Singer would be easy prey for any district attorney, there would be no escape for Gay, either. Singer would certainly implicate him.
Cotton caught Flowers at his law office.
Flowers listened with no more than an occasional grunt.
"Where are you calling from, Mr. Cotton? I'm busy now. I'll call you back." The voice was icy.
"That won't be necessary," Cotton said. "Why not just tell me what you have to say about this happening in your Quality Experiment highway program?"
"I think you're lying. Obviously I want to look into it before I say anything. But I'll check it out and call you back. Where can I reach you?"
"You can call our city desk at the Tribune and give them the statement," Cotton said. "They'll get it back to me."
"But I may need to reach you."
"You won't be able to," Cotton said. He would see to that. "I'll be out of pocket."
At Reevis-Smith, Cotton was referred to R. J. Putnam, the construction division manager. Putnam seemed genuinely puzzled and passed him on to the executive vice-president, a man named Gary Kelly. Mr. Kelly was not at all puzzled. He interrupted Cotton's preliminary account before Cotton could reach his concluding questions. The voice was slightly froggy.
"O.K., Cotton," it said. "This sort of stuff is going to cause us some public-relations problems. I think we could afford a nice fee for a public-relations consultant."
"I'm not in public relations."
"I think we could afford a lump sum. Like twenty-five thousand."
"I don't think you can afford me." Cotton's voice was tight with anger. How much had they offered Leroy? Did Hall place his value at $25,000?
"I think we better get together and talk about it then."
"All I want from you is some questions answered. Do you want to explain how you happened to charge the Highway Department for cement that didn't go into the highways?"
"Just a minute," Kelly said. "Be right with you in a minute."
No sound on the telephone. Mouthpiece covered with a hand, Cotton thought. He's seeing if he can get this call traced. Cotton hung up. Reevis-Smith would be reported as declining comment.
He sat a moment, thinking. The hunt for him would be in full cry now. No question of that. Could they find him? No way. Not unless there was a leak in the Police Department. Anyway, it didn't matter now if the pressroom knew he was back in town. He picked up the phone again.
"I've been trying to call you," Tom Rickner said, "but your line's been busy."
"Did you get anything out of the highway personnel files?"
"I've got some nam
es and dates for whatever they're worth," Rickner said. "But fill me in on all this. What's this secrecy jazz that Ernie's giving me, this sick-leave business, and..."
"I'll explain it later. Give me what you've got."
What Rickner had added little. It confirmed what the writer of the anonymous letters had told McDaniels about a flurry of transfers and demotions eight years ago, with many of the same names involved in another flurry of job shifting two years ago. Most of it would be useful only with more checking in the contract records-to connect the same names with roles in Reevis-Smith projects for follow-up stories later. But it did provide better ground for tying Herman Gay into the story.
Memos in the H. L. Singer personnel file transferred him from district to district to handle the Reevis-Smith projects. Each bore Gay's signature as construction engineer. That pleased Cotton. It meant that Singer, with his pleasant voice and his daughter in high school, would not stand alone in the villain's role in this first story.
"One other thing," Rickner was saying. "There's a letter here for you. Guess it's a letter. Marked personal. Sealed envelope somebody left at the desk here for you."
20
In the car it was warm, even with the heater fan now silent. Outside in the pools of dim yellow light under the old-fashioned statehouse street lamps it would be at least ten degrees below freezing-the cutting damp cold of early winter. Cotton buttoned his overcoat and glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes until three. A little too early. He pulled the letter from his coat pocket and read it again-carefully. Something about it tickled his subconscious-suggested vaguely that there was some odd fact that he should consider. But nothing came. It was like all the letters, the same tidy electric typewriter face, the same insolent arrogance of tone.
Mr. Cotton:
I gather that you have learned from Mr. Houghton that all is not well in Jason Flowers's so-called "Quality Experiment" highway projects. From what my sources tell me, you have been diligent and therefore deserving of a reward.
But first let me warn you to be careful. The late Mr. McDaniels of the Capitol-Press was working on this story in his inept fashion before his death. When one considers the personality of Jason Flowers and how much this story would embarrass him, one wonders if McDaniels's clumsiness was helped with a shove.
And now for the reward. I doubt if I can expect you to find enough to link the shrewd and careful Mr. Flowers directly to the thievery he has arranged. I have arranged for you to have some good luck.
The state income-tax return filed by Mr. Flowers and the corporate tax return filed by Reevis-Smith, Constructors, contain some interesting figures. As you know, these records are closed by law to all except tax officials. The law makes it a felony for tax officials to reveal information contained in returns to anyone. note: The legal penalty is for revealing the records, and not for inspecting them.
Therefore, if you happen to be at the capitol at 3 A.M. Thursday morning, you will find entry of the east-wing basement utility tunnel unlocked. If you happened to be in the Bureau of Revenue wing on the third floor of the capitol building at 3:05 A.M. you will happen to find that the door connecting the B-of-R records stacks with the east hall happens to be unlocked. If you enter you will find the tax file of Jason Flowers in the fifth row of file cases from the door. The file is about a third of the way back in the drawer. It is in the top drawer of the seventeenth file cabinet. The drawer is labeled "Individual, Fla-Flo." The Reevis-Smith file is in the thirteenth row from the door, the eleventh cabinet east of the aisle, near the front of the top drawer. If you want copies, as I suspect you will, you'll find a Xerox machine at the file clerk's desk.
While 3 A.M. is admittedly an inconvenient hour, I felt it advisable for two reasons. The person who will unlock the door for you does not, as you will appreciate, wish to risk being seen doing so. Second, you will wish to minimize the chances of being seen during your research in the bureau files. If you are early, you may frighten away our friend with the key. So be punctual.
And here he was, being punctual. Following orders just as McDaniels must have done, serving as a tool of some anonymous hater. Cotton stared into the darkness. He had parked in the executive lot in the space marked reserved, asst. secy of state-the space nearest the small side door which his own key would unlock. In four or five minutes he would climb out of this car, walk through that door, take the elevator to the third floor, do exactly what the-man-who-hated-Jason-Flowers had told him to do. Why? Was it simply because fifteen years as a newsman had hardened him against leaving a hole in a story? Because the artistry of the craft demanded maximum completeness? Was it because of some sense of righteousness-an urge to punish and destroy? Or was it because it seemed cruelly unfair that H. L. Singer (the pawn, cheerful voice, the teenaged daughter) should stand almost alone as thief in the first break of the story? He found the last explanation most comfortable. But he wasn't sure.
Cotton glanced at his watch again. Now it was time. He stepped out of the car, flinching against the cold air, walking slowly. He thought he knew what the income-tax records would show. It would be a legal fee. Flowers would report it as income from Reevis-Smith. Reevis-Smith would claim it as an expense deduction. The payoff bribe on the record under a polite name. Reported because state tax returns and bank deposits were cross-checked by the Federal Internal Revenue Service inspectors against federal returns. That's what he would find. (But why, then, had the letter writer sent him to look at both returns? He could confirm a legal fee in either one. Was that what bothered him about the letter?) The fee would be large. And if he could confirm it in the file, it would be all the link he needed. He could handle it in one additional paragraph.
"Records of Reevis-Smith show the construction firm paid a..." How much would it be? $50,000, probably more. "... a $50,000 fee last year to Jason Flowers, chairman of the State Highway Commission and author of the Quality Experiment program on which the contractor has been working."
Maybe the tax file would show a series of annual payments. But one year, one fee, would be enough to show the corruption came from the top, to tie in the top man, enough to modify for the reader the role of H. L. Singer. Singer would become a man who might-after all-be nothing worse than a fool and a weakling following orders from above.
The darkness at the side door was almost total and Cotton fumbled a moment at the lock. (Was this who teased him? That his anonymous hater-who knew everything-didn't know that statehouse newsmen carried building access keys and-not knowing this-had arranged to have another door unlocked?) Inside, he stood a moment, still thinking about the letter. The hallway here was lined with glass cases-a display of natural predators mounted by some forgotten Game and Fish Department employee for some bygone state fair and exiled now to gather dust in this basement corridor. Cotton, who had walked past this array of taxidermy for seven years without a glance, glanced now at the snarling bobcat beside him, and past it at an owl, its wings spread, rising from a bush with a woodmouse caught in its talons. The taxidermist had added a touch of macabre realism to the tableau by preserving the mouse's death throes, its teeth bared in an eternal silent squeak of death. Cotton's eyes rested on the mouse, thinking of mousetraps and cheese. But the letter wouldn't be bait. Couldn't be. Its anonymous author wanted his story broken, wanted Jason Flowers destroyed. The letter writer's interests were opposite to the interests of those who had hunted him-those who must be hunting him even more frantically now. But they would never think to hunt in this empty state capitol building at three o'clock in the morning.
Yet he stood motionless, listening. Somewhere far away in the hollowness of the corridors something produced a sound. Something made unidentifiable by the echoing distance. A thumping. Brief, replaced by the ringing silence. Cotton was conscious that while those who hunted couldn't know he was here, neither did the police. Calling Whan's office to report that he planned a 3 A.M. trespass on the state capitol building would have demanded explanations which he couldn't give. Cotton realized h
e was feeling something he hadn't felt since boyhood-not exactly a fear of the dark, but of the hobgoblins which inhabit it. Another dim sound reached him from somewhere in the echoing building. Someone moving. A janitor, perhaps? Or a night guard? Was there a guard in the building at night? If there was, Cotton couldn't afford to be heard. He squatted, removed his shoes, and left them atop a glass case housing a weasel frozen in an eternal crouch behind an unwary quail.
Avoiding the clanking elevator meant trotting up five flights of stairs to third floor main. The architects of this massive old granite pile had given its interior a spurious spaciousness by making its main-floor corridors two stories high-each floor with a mezzanine corridor overlooking it. Cotton reached third floor main out of breath. He leaned against the wall beside the stairhead window, puffing. The letter in his inside coat pocket, the touch of stiff folded paper against his armpit, again tickled his subconscious. And this time his memory abruptly answered the question.
This letter was different because it was the original copy. Those Whan had brought him from McDaniels's files had been Xerox copies. But why should his subconscious be warning him that this mattered? The question almost instantly produced its response. Another question. Where were the originals? Cotton caught his breath. McDaniels obviously had made the copies for his file. Had the originals been in Mac's coat pocket before he made his long fall? They weren't among his belongings at police headquarters. Or had they been on his desk when the man in the blue topcoat came looking for the notebook? In the microsecond it took these questions to form, Cotton became conscious of the cold tile under his socks, of the coldness of the marble against the back of his head, of the coldness of his neck, of a chilling, dreadful fear. It took him a moment to control it. To think rationally. He found himself remembering the strange seven minutes or so which passed between the time Mac left the pressroom and his dying scream. If he was being held and searched this gap in time would be explained. But there could be other explanations of what happened to the original copies of the first three letters. And the letter addressed to him had the same tone, the same arrogance, as the ones written to McDaniels. Apparently the same typewriter-although any of a hundred thousand electrics could have done the job. Cotton felt his panic ebbing. This almost certainly wasn't a trap set by his hunters. But he would take a precaution. He would climb another flight of steps to the third mezzanine. He would work his way quietly along the balcony around the corner to the long wing. From the balcony, out of sight behind its ornate waist-high granite railing, he could see if there was any sign that anyone was waiting near the doorway to the Bureau of Revenue file room. He pushed himself away from the wall.
Tony Hillerman - The Fly on the Wall Page 16