by Blair Howard
“Hah!” I should have been elated, but somehow I wasn’t, not at all.
“The Mystica organization,” she said, “has collapsed; it’s finished. Shady Tree has disappeared. Gone south with his money, probably to the Islands, but the Feds will get him, eventually. We grabbed his two boys, Stimpy and Ren, as you call them, but we had to let them go. They didn’t know anything. So, it’s done. Over. Good work, Harry.”
Yeah, it’s over. It’s all over.
“Thanks. I guess we’ll ....”
“Yes, we’ll talk, sometime. I’ll call you. Bye, Harry.” She disconnected before I could answer. I heaved a sigh, got myself a cup of coffee, and sat down again.
It was late when I finally decided that enough was enough. I was home by nine. It had been one hell of a day. I slept like the dead that night.
Chapter 35
It was almost one o’clock the next afternoon when I picked Linda up at the airport, courtesy of my father and his Lear. We went to my condo on the river.
“Nice place, Harry.”
I nodded. “I need to get something else. Something more private.” I looked out through the kitchen window and nodded at the black Cadillac parked across the street. It was now on permanent lease to the Secret Service. “They’ll give the place a bad name.”
She laughed. It was more a gurgle than a laugh, and I loved it.
We ate a light lunch, drank two cups of coffee, and then sat together on the couch overlooking the river. It was raining again. The surface of the river was flat and the raindrops turned it into an undulating bed of nails.
“So tell me all about it,” she said.
“Tell you about what?” I was teasing her.
“Congressman Harper, silly.”
“The PD arrested them all. Turned them over to the Feds. It’s over.”
“I know, but....”
So I told her. At least I told her what I thought she needed to know.
“Mystica was his honey trap. It was set up to attract the weak, and the rich and famous. It was all about power. Harper was picky about who he invited. He employed a number of people who worked as practitioners at OM, including Tabitha Willard and Terry Hamlin. Hamlin was a plant though. He handled black ops for Harper. One of the regular practitioners handed your name to Harper; enter Terry Hamlin. To Harper, you were a gift from the gods, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or so he thought.”
I took a sip of coffee, stared out over the rippled water, conscious that she was gazing up at me.
“The funny part of it is,” I continued, “he didn’t need Mystica. He was wealthy beyond most men’s dreams. His financial empire was both vast and, for the most part, secret. It was all about power.
“I went to see Doctor Willard yesterday. I let him down as gently as possible. No one, other than my staff and Kate, knows what Tabitha was really doing. There was no sense in destroying the man. Tabitha had already done that when she threw herself off the bridge.
“She was a Mystica practitioner with benefits. Clients could call the number on the card and book a session with her. She had access to one of the suites at the mall. She was, in fact, little more than an expensive hooker. She earned a lot of money, and was allowed to keep it all. All she had to do was deliver the goods, her clients, to Harper.
“Michael Falk was in love with her, he knew what she was doing, and I think that when he stole the files he was trying to help her. He knew a lot about Harper’s business, too much, about the goings on at the Foundation, and especially Harper’s involvement with Mystica, but it was the theft of the Excel files that got him killed. He stole them with the idea he could use them to put pressure on Harper. It didn’t work. As far as Harper was concerned, Tabitha was guilty by association. What Falk knew, she must also know. He also wanted to recover the files. He had to make sure they didn’t fall into the wrong hands, so he had Shady put his two mechanics onto her. Her meeting with Stimpy and Ren frightened her. Then she bumped into me....”
“What’s the matter, Harry? You don’t look well.”
“Oh, I’m okay. It’s just that... well, it’s my fault. She saw me on the bridge that night, the way I was dressed, she must have thought I was waiting for her, and she panicked and jumped.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that, Harry. You were just....”
“I know,” I interrupted her. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I realize that, but it doesn’t help.”
“What about the other girl?”
“Charlie? She was different. She wasn’t involved with Mystica at all. I don’t think she knew that Tabitha was either, just that she was into something different. She was a very smart girl… man. But smart as she was, she wasn’t able to beat Harper.”
“What went wrong?”
“Tabitha got scared and handed the drive to Charlie, then Tabitha threw Charlie under the bus to James and Gold. Harper sent Terry Hamlin to fix the problem, to recover the thumb drive, and that was his mistake. Hamlin did recover the drive, but not before Charlie was able to copy and encrypt the files. They were her insurance. She thought they would save her life, and they might have if she’d been able to communicate her intentions to Harper, but Hamlin killed her before she could.” I paused, thinking about poor Charlie.
“Go on, Harry.”
“Well, as I said, Charlie was smart, but not smart enough. She must have thought she was in control, that she could stop the emails to me any time she wanted, and reschedule them if need be, but Hamlin killed her, and the emails went out on schedule, and that was the beginning of the end for Harper.”
“What about the Hansen woman? Who killed her, and why?”
“That was another of Harper’s mistakes. She was killed simply because of her interest in me. Terry had been following me. She was just another loose end that needed to be tidied up.”
“What about Kate, Harry?”
I turned and smiled at her. “What about her?”
“Well, you two were an item for a very long time.”
“And there’s the problem. It was too long. It was nice, no, it was wonderful, but it wasn’t going anywhere. I’ll remain friends with her, if she’ll let me, but after all that’s happened these last three weeks, that’s all it can be.”
She was quiet for several minutes. I knew she was mulling it over. Then she turned and looked at me.
“Harry, did you mean what you said about looking for another place?”
“I did. You need somewhere to get away, and the suite at the mall is no longer an option. I want to provide it.”
“Harry. I’m fifty-two years old. I’m ten years older than you.”
“Hah, you think that’s a problem? My father’s wife, his second, is almost twenty years younger than he is. Age is just a number. Look, Linda, you are one of the most powerful women in the world. Hell, you may be the most powerful one day.”
She smiled and shook her head.
“Me, I’m just a Southern boy in a small Southern town. I enjoy what I do. As you said, I’m forty-two years old. I don’t intend to change my ways; I am what I am. You have a very busy life, and a very public one. You need a place where you can relax, let your hair down, be yourself now and then. Your public persona is not really who you are; I know that. So, if you’ll let me, I’d like to provide that place. And, Linda, I also want you in my life, if you’ll have me.”
“Sounds good to me. Now, tell me why you want me in your life.”
---
The sun was just beginning to dip below the crest of Lookout Mountain. The sky was ablaze, a riot of red, gold, and purple. I leaned on the rail and looked down at the quiet waters of the Tennessee, thinking about the events of the past several weeks: the ups, the downs, the regrets, mostly the regrets. I must have been there for twenty minutes or more before I finally shook myself out of my reverie. I took Tabitha’s pendant from my pocket, looked at it one last time, and then tossed it over the rail. I watched it fall, spinning, glittering in the fadi
ng sunlight.
“Goodbye, Tabitha. Rest in peace.”
Two for the Money
Book 2
Chapter 1
The call came out of the blue on a Tuesday evening in the middle of August at around nine-thirty.
“Harry, this is Tom, Tom Sattler.” Tom Sattler? I don’t know any... oh, him.
I hadn’t heard from him in almost five years. I hadn’t thought of him in almost as long.
“Hey, Tom. Wow, it’s been a long time. How the hell are you?”
I went to school with Tom. We graduated from McCallie together in ‘92.
“Yeah, Harry. I know it’s been a long time, but... well... I need some help, some of your expertise. I need to see you.”
“Sure. Why don’t you call my office in the morning and tell Jacque I said to set something up.”
“No! Sorry, Harry, but that won’t work. I’m in trouble, and I need to see you, now, tonight.”
“Tom, it’s almost ten, and I’ve had a long day. Can we not do it at my office first thing tomorrow?”
“No. I need to see you tonight. Please, Harry. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“Well... okay, I suppose. Where are you?”
“I’m at home. I have a place on Royal Mountain Drive.”
“That’s off Banks Road, right?”
“Yes.”
“I need to get fixed up a little first... that and the drive over, say ten-thirty. Okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be waiting.” He gave me the address and then disconnected. What the hell could be so urgent?
It took a little longer than I figured. I arrived outside his home just before 10:45. I parked in the driveway in front of the garage and walked around to the front door of a rambling two-story house with a single story wing on either end, one of which housed a three-car garage; a high-end home in an expensive sub-division. It had to have cost something in the range of eight or nine hundred thousand.
I rang the front doorbell and waited. The lights were on inside, but no one seemed to be about. I rang it again. Nothing. I wandered back to my car, looked around, and then walked to the door beside the garage. I rang that bell, and again I waited. I tried the doorknob. When it turned, I pushed the door open.
“Hey, Tom. You there?” No answer. Dammit.
Silence. I walked slowly through the mudroom, then the kitchen, and then the foyer, which opened up into a vast open space with a cathedral ceiling dominated by a two-story high picture window. Tom Sattler lay on his side, his face in a pool of blood. The black, terry-cloth robe and the crimson lake that surrounded his head made a stark contrast against the white carpet.
The living room – I assumed that’s what it was – was accented by an imposing, floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace with tightly-packed bookshelves on either side. The rest of the room was sparsely but tastefully furnished: just a black leather sofa, three matching easy chairs, and a baby grand piano. There was also an expensive walnut partner’s desk set against the wall to the left of the window. Carefully, I stepped across the carpet and knelt at Tom’s side and felt his neck for a pulse; there was none. My old school friend was dead, still warm, but dead. Blood still oozed from a gunshot wound to the right side of his head. A Ruger .22 LCR revolver lay close to his right hand. Suicide? If he was going to do that, why the hell did he call me?
I eased carefully back to the foyer, turned, looked around the room once more, and started to punch 911 into my iPhone. Then I stopped, turned and looked around the room once more. It seemed tidy enough.... What? Am I missing something?
I shook my head, finished punching in the number, gave the dispatch operator my name and the address, and then I called Kate Gazzara. I looked around one more time, and then went outside to wait.
Kate’s a long-time friend and a lieutenant in the major crimes unit of the Chattanooga PD. I’ve known her for more than fifteen years, since she was a rookie cop. Until recently, we were in a fairly serious relationship, until I screwed it up, that is, but that’s another story. We’re still friends, at least I think we are, and we still work together, now and then. I was a cop long before I was a private investigator, and I still enjoy a semi-official standing as a consultant to Kate, unpaid of course. She makes good use of my freedom, and I have access, though limited, to her resources. We have faith in each other, Kate and I. We support each other. Always have, and I hope we always will.
She arrived not more than ten minutes later, with Sergeant Lonnie Guest in tow, only minutes after the first cruiser had arrived.
“Harry, Harry, Harry,” she said, shaking her head. “What is it this time?”
Kate’s a beautiful woman: almost six feet tall, with a slender, muscular figure, tawny blond hair, an oval face with high cheekbones, huge hazel eyes and a high forehead. Her hair was tied in a ponytail that covered her right ear. She wore lightweight black pants, black shoes with flat heels, a white tee under a tan buckskin vest, and a Glock 26 in a holster on her right hip. As always, she looked amazing.
Detective Sergeant Lonnie Guest is an enigma, an eminently stupid individual given to rare bursts of brilliance that can shock and amaze; a big man…no, dammit, he’s fat. He could do with losing fifty, maybe even sixty pounds. Obnoxious, arrogant, always trying to be something he never could be, he shambled along behind Kate like a giant sloth. Oh hell, maybe I’m being too hard on the man. He had managed to clean himself up a little since I last saw him, and I think he may even have lost a little weight, although his gut still hung over his belly like a deflated basketball. As always, he was sporting an intensely annoying, shit-eating grin.
“Hey, Kate. How are you, Lonnie?”
“Not so well as you, you ugly–”
“That’s enough, Lonnie,” Kate said. “Keep it civil or go sit in the car and wait.”
He continued to stand there and grin at me. The fat bastard hates my guts. We were at the police academy together, and he never got over how I was fast-tracked for promotion and he wasn’t. Tough shit, Lonnie.
“It’s a friend of mine, Kate. Well, not really a friend. We were at school together. Long time ago. I haven’t seen him in years. Looks like he shot himself.”
“So what are you doing here, Harry?”
“He called me. Asked me to come over. Said he needed help. I told him to come to the office tomorrow, but he insisted. I got the call around 9:30, give or take five minutes. I arrived at a little after 10:45, which means–”
“He hasn’t been dead long, right?” she interrupted.
I nodded. “No more than an hour at most, I’d say. Is Doc Sheddon on the way?”
“Yup. He should be here in a few minutes. Let’s take a quick look. Lonnie, you stay out here and get the tapes up. Don’t look at me like that; just do it.”
And he did, though with a great deal of mumbling and gesturing.
Not a pretty sight when he’s pissed off, Lonnie Guest.
I followed Kate into the house through the side door. We retraced my short journey through the kitchen, but stopped short of the living room. She looked at Tom and shook her head. “Sure does look like suicide, but why call you and then shoot himself in the head? Is there something you’re not telling me, Harry?”
“No, he sounded fine on the phone. A little agitated, but not upset.”
We could hear sirens; more cruisers were arriving, along with an ambulance and a fire truck, for God’s sake.
Two minutes later, Doc Sheddon, the M.E., joined us in the foyer. He waddled in, puffing, his big black case hanging heavily in his right hand, the bottom of it only a few inches above the floor.
“Good evening, Lieutenant. You wanna tell me why these things always happen late at night? I was just about to go to bed, for God’s sake. How’s it hanging, Harry?” Same tired old greeting.
He set his case down on the polished wood floor and surveyed the living room, humming and huffing to himself like some modern-day Bilbo Baggins.
“Whew. Nasty one,” he said, as h
e dropped to one knee beside his case. He opened it and put on a pair of latex gloves and Tyvek boot covers, before stepping gingerly into the room. He knelt beside the body, felt for a pulse, shook his head, examined the wound, shook his head again, and withdrew a small camera from his jacket pocket. He shot twenty or thirty images, and then backed away from the body.
“I don’t like it,” he said to Kate. “Better get a crime scene unit in here. There are some anomalies. He’s been dead less than an hour, I’d say. The body’s still warm. Probably not cooled by more than a degree or two. I’ll know more when I get him on the table. Make sure they get plenty of photos, especially of the wound, the position of the body, and their relationships to the weapon.” He looked again across the room at the body, dropped his chin to his chest, closed his eyes, breathed deeply, then looked up, first at Kate, then at me.
“They’re already on their way, Doc, “Kate said. “I always bring them in when gunshots are involved.”
He stripped off the gloves and the boot covers, put them into a plastic bag and sealed it, and then threw them into the open case.
“Yeah, well. I’m going home. See ya, guys. Nine in the morning. You’ll be there?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll be there,” Kate said.
Sheddon nodded, picked up the case, and waddled out through the kitchen without a backward look.
“Now there’s something to ponder, Harry,” Kate said. “What did he mean ‘anomalies?’ Did you notice anything when you were checking the body?”
“Nope. Nothing.” I shook my head. “But Doc Sheddon is rarely wrong. If he’s thinking homicide, I wouldn’t bet against it.”
I heard a noise in the mudroom.
“We’d better move outside, Kate. It sounds like they’re here.”
The crime scene unit had arrived, four of them clothed from head to toe in white coveralls, overboots, hairnets, gloves, facemasks, the works; I couldn’t tell if they were male or female.