Tyler shook the man’s firm hand.
“Mr. Goheen has been expecting you.”
“Fine.” He looked for a place to put down the champagne. He’d drunk it a little too fast.
“Mr. Goheen appreciates that, like him, you’re a busy man.”
“In other words, you’re with public relations,” Tyler stated.
Campbell recoiled at being so easily pinpointed. He nearly disconnected a woman from her drink. Apologies all around. These people were so damn polite, it was almost sickening. “Well, yes,” Campbell confirmed.
“Lead on,” Tyler instructed, wondering how many other eyes were watching him. He pictured the high-rise’s security room with a half dozen black-and-white monitors and a pair of tuxedo-clad NUS guys sitting in. They had located him quickly in a crowd of hundreds. He kept that in mind: they were good at what they did.
“What do you think?” Campbell asked over his shoulder, taking his time through the gathering.
“The mushroom was a little salty. The champagne not quite cold enough.” They stopped abruptly, to make room for a big woman with a bigger walk. Tyler realized that few of the women he’d seen could be considered even a few pounds overweight. In this crowd, if you couldn’t lose it yourself, you had it tucked or liposucked.
“The event in general,” Campbell corrected, still civil.
“Either these guys in the tuxes are treating their daughters to some holiday cheer,” Tyler said, “or there are more trophy brides per capita in this room than I’ve ever seen.”
He won a genuine smile from Campbell. The guy leaned more toward women-and-sex jokes.
Tyler tried again, “There’s more breast in this room than a turkey shot with hormones.” Another chuckle from Campbell. He was gaining ground, breaking the ice. He raised his voice to make sure he was heard. “Mr. Campbell, do you know why Harry Wells was aboard that train?”
Campbell stopped, and Tyler collided with him. They held each other by forearms, eye to eye. Tyler squeezed. Campbell tensed.
“I don’t know any Harry Wells, Mr. Tyler. So I certainly don’t know what train he might be on, if any.”
“Since when is a fireman unaware of the fire?” Tyler still held him by the forearms. “If you’d said you didn’t know what he was up to, that would have been one thing, but a complete denial? No one has briefed you on the murder of one of your company’s security agents?”
“Security is a separate company,” Campbell said strongly enough to sound almost convincing. “Maybe that explains the confusion.”
“Nothing explains the confusion,” Tyler corrected, “except a cover-up, and that’s a word that someone in your department must certainly recognize. I’m a federal law enforcement officer, Mr. Campbell. Maybe I should have reminded you of that fact up front. Lying to the federal government is not generally considered a good idea.”
“It’s a big job,” Campbell said. “Maybe I did hear something about a Harold Wells.”
“Maybe so,” Tyler replied.
“I’m in the executive offices.”
“A PR department just for the corporate officers?”
“For all employees, including corporate officers, yes. If a guy’s volunteering Little League, or mentoring, or if one of our female employees has qualified for the Olympics—any of those help our company image.”
“As long as others hear about it.”
“Which is why it’s a big job. We have over four thousand employees.”
“And what did you hear about Harold Wells?”
Campbell struggled free of Tyler’s grip.
Campbell said, “Mr. Goheen is over there. I see him now.”
“Your job, Mr. Campbell, is to make your CEO look good. Am I right? Your job in particular?”
Campbell made sure he met eyes with Tyler. “I wish I had that job. Nothing could be easier. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Goheen doesn’t need any hand-holding when it comes to public image. I make sure the office looks good, Mr. Tyler. I make sure the CEO of Northern Union Railroad is seen as a community leader and one of the good guys, and as I’ve said, it’s a no-brainer when you work for somebody like Mr. Goheen.”
“So you’re one of the lucky few going to Washington with him,” Tyler said.
“Providing he goes, I’m hoping to be a part of that team, yes.”
“Congratulations.”
Campbell never broke eye contact and said, “You beat an African American by the name of Chester Washington nearly to death. You’ve lost your badge, your salary, and all benefits.”
“Shield,” Tyler corrected immediately. “Badges are for cowboys and Indians.” He added disdainfully, “And security guards like Harry Wells.”
Campbell wasn’t easily ruffled. “You’ve survived a criminal trial, but a civil suit still remains. That civil suit could cost Washington, D.C., over two million dollars in damages. Mr. Goheen knows all that, and more, about you, Agent Tyler. I offer that as a heads up. You will find him polite, knowledgeable, and generous. Brilliant, even. He feels bad that this boxcar investigation was apparently handled inappropriately by our security company. I believe he intends to correct that tonight. But make no mistake, he will not be badgered. NUR has always cooperated fully with the NTSB. He hoped to speed up that cooperation by inviting you here tonight.”
“And for that I thank everyone involved.” Diplomacy, Tyler reminded himself.
“This is a public event, Mr. Tyler. I ask you to keep that in mind. People will be hovering about—they always do where William Goheen’s involved. If Mr. Goheen seems to be avoiding certain language, you might want to keep that in mind.”
“Point taken.” Tyler was reminded of Loren Rucker’s similar admonishment. Since the Chester Washington assault, and his expulsion from the department, a bitterness had taken root inside him, surfacing at the most unexpected times. He had yet to find a way to contain it, but he knew he had to. It would eat him alive otherwise. The money, the artifice in this room had set him off. Or maybe the champagne. When his anger surfaced, it took over, it owned him. He searched for control as he stepped up to the man of the hour and stuck out his own hand.
William Goheen was a commanding presence—the deep golfer’s tan, the salt-and-pepper gray hair, the piercing blue eyes—and yet Agent Tyler sensed reservation in the man, not quite fear but a caution that Tyler typically associated with a suspect. They shook hands and made introductions. It seemed that even the economically mighty felt a bit of knee tremble when confronted by police. Tyler had heard his civilian friends explain this before: even innocent motorists feel a nervous twitch, an acceleration of the heart, when a cop car pulls up behind them at a light.
“Listen,” Goheen said, as if in the middle of an explanation, “I appreciate this is neither the time nor the place, but I wanted us to make contact as soon as possible. This job keeps me on a pretty tight leash. It’s a busy time for us.”
“I appreciate the opportunity to meet you.”
“I understand there’s been some confusion concerning this investigation, and that our security subsidiary is at least partly to blame. I wanted to assure you, face to face, that I’m personally on it now, and that we’re going to clear this up. Apologies where apologies are due.” He added, “I take it that neither you, nor our people, have shared everything with the FBI. They’re certain to question me in the next day or two.” He was pointing out the similarities of Tyler’s handling of the investigation with that of Northern Union. “As I understand it, you believe our suspect is in New York,” Goheen said. “If I’m asked about it, I’m going to have to share that with the FBI. And I will, as it’s my duty to do. Just so you know where things stand.”
Goheen obviously knew that Tyler had still not informed the FBI. Tyler felt off-balance. “I appreciate that, sir.” He had come here not wanting to like the man, but men like William Goheen could win converts out of anyone, given a tuxedo and ten minutes.
“I need access,” Tyler urged. “A meeting with
Keith O’Malley. I had actually hoped that meeting could have taken place before this one.”
A tic in Goheen’s left eye. Fatigue, or reaction to Tyler’s request? Tyler was aware of people swarming around them trying to get to Goheen. Several of the tuxedoed males at their elbows were security guys acting as bodyguards. Tyler could feel his time was nearly up.
Lowering his voice, Goheen said, “One of our investigators has met with unforeseen circumstances.” Tyler had heard murder called many things, but never unforeseen circumstances. “We’ve never had anything like this. I thought that a man in your position would want direct access to the top. And you have it. Day or night, Mr. Tyler, you call. I’ll take those calls—you have my guarantee of that. And now,” he said, scanning the crowd, “you’ll get your wish.”
“Harry Wells was pursuing a Latino,” Tyler stated bluntly. “He assaulted a homeless man trying to get information on that individual. Are you going to tell the FBI about that as well?”
Goheen maintained his composure. If he knew anything about the Latino, it didn’t show on his face. Guys like this practiced composure, however. They hired composure coaches. Tyler wouldn’t rule out that he’d known.
“The NTSB is not authorized to conduct criminal investigations, are they? So what are they doing hiring you?” Goheen stood close to Tyler now.
“I’m fact-finding,” Tyler replied. “That way, the NTSB knows which department to refer this to.”
There were just the two of them in the enormous room then; the swirl of partygoers surrounding them seemed almost like an artificial backdrop.
“Perhaps the FBI will buy that explanation. Perhaps not.” He added, “When do you plan to involve them?”
“I’d rather just catch this Latino and be done with it,” Tyler pressed. “Wouldn’t hurt to know who he is, of course. Wouldn’t hurt to keep this from becoming a full-scale FBI investigation.” He lowered his voice, “The NTSB doesn’t want that any more than your company does. It’s our job to keep the rail lines safe. This bastard is nothing but trouble for us.”
“Agreed,” Goheen said.
“It was you who mentioned involving the FBI, not me,” Tyler reminded him.
“Maybe that can be avoided for a day or two.”
“Why don’t I talk to O’Malley?” Tyler suggested. “Get things moving.”
Goheen turned and pointed across the crowd. “We have an agent who can help you with that.”
Tyler searched out the person that Goheen was attempting to indicate. It took him a few seconds. The agent was a woman. A familiar woman.
From across the room, Nell Priest met eyes with Tyler and nodded.
For a moment, he wanted to turn and run.
“You get here ahead of me, brief them on what I know and don’t know, and your people prep Goheen,” Tyler said. “How am I doing so far, Nellie?”
“Don’t call me that,” she protested. She wore a black cocktail dress that looked better on her than the haute couture gowns did on the trophy brides. “I requested this assignment. I asked to be here tonight,” she corrected. “I wanted to apologize for not telling you about Wells. I was on orders. For what it’s worth, it tore me up. I didn’t enjoy withholding information from you.” She stood absolutely motionless, only her chest moving behind anxious breathing.
“You used me,” he said.
“Not by choice.”
“It’s called obstruction of justice. Conspiracy.” He added, “Goheen wants to soften me up, make it all seem like it resulted from simple confusion.” He sniped sarcastically, “Sure it did!” He added, “I can direct the FBI to bring charges against you and the corporation, Nell. He knows that! He’s using me again.”
“We’re all on orders around here to cooperate. I think you’re reading this wrong.”
“So tell me about the Latino,” he said. “Right here, right now. Who is he, and why was Harry Wells after him?”
“That homeless camp was the first I’d heard about any Hispanic.”
Tyler didn’t buy it.
“Listen, Harry Wells was one of O’Malley’s personal team. He calls them the Special Response Unit—‘the Unit’ for short. He uses them to vacate the hobo camps when state or locals don’t. In the summer, most of them are rail riders; they sweep trains at random, clearing riders, making arrests for trespassing.”
“Bullies.”
“More like Marines or mercenaries. If these guys were ever busted, they would never, and I mean never, reveal the source of their orders. They’d take full responsibility. They’d say they were rogues, acting solo. You have to see these guys to believe them.”
“Kneecappers.” Tyler had visions of that homeless man’s cleft foot courtesy of a hatchet. “How many of them?” he asked.
“Seven or eight. Ten, at most.” She added, “I can’t confirm any of this, Tyler, except that the Unit exists, and we all know what they’re used for, whether it’s written down anywhere or not.”
“The Latino,” Tyler repeated, still doubting her.
“The guy could have robbed Harry the day before, out on the line somewhere. He could have lied to him. Who knows? Harry Wells could have been pissed about something that had nothing to do with his assignment. Keith O’Malley said nothing about any Hispanic to me. Nothing. I think we read this wrong.”
“And me?” Tyler asked rhetorically. “I think the forensics will reveal black hair in that boxcar. Harry Wells had brown hair.”
“So he caught up to the guy. So it got ugly. It’s an ugly assignment—chasing freeloaders on the freight lines.”
“And that’s all this was?” Tyler questioned. “A confrontation that turned ugly?”
“I don’t have any information or evidence otherwise,” she said. “Do you?”
“I need to talk to O’Malley,” he pressed.
“I can work on that. Where are you staying?” she asked.
“The Empire. But I mean now, tonight. I’ll be down in the hotel bar. Tell your boss that if he sees me tonight, I’ll make a lot less noise. I think our guy came to New York for a reason. We have to consider your company a possible target here—that Harry Wells knew that and was pursuing the man for that reason. Time could be running out: it’s a big city and he’s got the jump on us.”
“You’re making more out of this than it deserves.”
“The guy who killed Harry Wells was no hobo—no rider—and you know it. He stole those clothes. He had an escape route that included a bag left in a storage locker. He took a jet to JFK. Does that fit the profile of a rider? Don’t discredit Harry Wells, and don’t underestimate this other guy. He’s had half of Illinois law enforcement on the run for two days. He’s good.”
“O’Malley will meet you in the bar.” She looked scared.
As hard as he tried, he found it hard not to like her.
A commotion from behind them forced them both to turn. There were few people, aside from celebrities, who could create a buzz by simply entering a room, but Gretchen Goheen proved the exception. The crowd passed news of her coming as if royalty had arrived. Tyler caught only a glimpse of her—translucent skin, like bone china; a self-possessed presence. She commanded the room as she walked directly to her father, where she was welcomed with open arms and a kiss on the lips.
“Have you met her?” Tyler asked in a whisper.
He turned when she failed to answer. Nell Priest was gone.
A short, stocky man with a severe brow and tight stride entered the hotel bar and studied the room’s inhabitants like a general reviewing his troops. Tyler identified Keith O’Malley by the man’s grim expression—so in keeping with a former Marine, a former Boston cop, a father of five, a baseball fan, and a beer drinker. Rucker had provided Tyler a quick profile in a five-minute phone call from the lobby. Tyler had also caught Rucker up on his conversation with Goheen, Rucker satisfied for the time being that Goheen had provided access.
Tyler had been waiting in the hotel bar for over an hour and had just been c
ontemplating leaving as the man arrived. Following on O’Malley’s heels, Nell Priest wore a game face that revealed nothing of her thoughts.
“Tyler?” O’Malley inquired. They shook hands. The man had the muscled hands of a day laborer.
“Keith O’Malley, Northern Union Security,” he introduced himself.
“Loren Rucker sends his regards,” Tyler said.
“Is that right? He tell you he can’t swing a bat for shit?”
He signaled the bartender, who relayed it to a waitress. O’Malley was one of those guys that bartenders, waitresses, and doormen kept their eyes on. He had a demanding demeanor that warned of an explosive nature simmering beneath the surface. The waitress was tired but cordial. O’Malley ordered a Heineken. Tyler did the same. Priest ordered a vodka gimlet, up. O’Malley said, “Loren and I were in the Corps together. He probably left that part out.” He smiled. A few of the teeth were his, though not many. “Rucker was a little too much brain, not enough brawn for the Corps. Know what I mean?” He glanced in the direction of the bartender to make sure his needs were being tended to. “You know Ms. Priest.”
Tyler felt troubled over why Rucker would have left out this personal connection to O’Malley and Northern Union Security. It could not have been an oversight. He shifted in his chair, now uneasy.
Nell Priest glanced at him, smiled, and returned her attention to her boss.
“So,” O’Malley said, “gloves off, Tyler. What’s eating you? I’m told you don’t like the way I run my shop. Maybe that matters to me, maybe it doesn’t. We work within the letter of the law. All my people are licensed law enforcement in forty-nine states. Fucking Louisiana still thinks they’re French.” He smiled again but was growing impatient for that beer. “We cooperate with the feds anytime they ask. You’re asking. However, the way I hear it, at no time did you ask Ms. Priest anything about the murder victim’s relationship to this company. The way I hear it, you were basically telling her the way it was. You were leading her. And I have yet to instruct my people to start volunteering information to the feds. Know what I mean? You used to be police. You know what I’m talking about.”
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