Book Deal

by Les Standiford

  “Carter Creek’s froze over all the way down to the Missouri,” the one named Dalhousie said, shaking his head. He was a short, intense man with a receding hairline. “There won’t be any dragging that bad boy until springtime.”

  “The weather’s not exactly on our side,” the other one said. He was the taller, more affable half of the pair. “We’re going to put a couple teams out on snowmobiles. They’ll circle the airport vicinity in an outward spiral, just in case your wife might have wandered off on her own.”

  “It’s a waste of time,” Deal said.

  The taller detective nodded. “I understand, but we’d rather err on the side of caution, Mr. Deal. We’re trying to get a helicopter up, but with this visibility…” He opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Same way on the ground, I’m afraid. We’re getting the word out, but the mess the roads are in, our guys are going to be a little distracted, you understand.”

  Deal nodded grudgingly. The taller cop, Keane was his name, bore a certain resemblance to Bobby Knight, the incendiary Indiana basketball coach. Deal realized he was waiting for the soft-spoken man to explode at any instant.

  “What about Kittle?” Deal asked.

  “We’ll run the name,” Keane said, “but I doubt anything’s going to come up. We tried to stop the plane, see if we might find something there, but it’s on its way back to Chicago. We’ll get some people in there once it lands at O’Hare, but there’s already been a cleaning crew go through, a whole new set of passengers…” He gave Deal a doubtful look.

  “We’ll get you down to the office,” Dalhousie chimed in. “You can go through the mug books, maybe you can spot one of them.”

  Deal nodded, feeling a great fatigue overcoming him. The detectives had their game faces on, but it was beginning to sink in. No names, no fingerprints, no real ID. The way the pair had worked, the woman’s lightning-quick moves…the two might have looked like a couple of the Clampetts, but they obviously knew what they were doing.

  So they were pros, unlikely to turn up readily in any cursory records check, or get themselves picked up as chumps. But that led to the next question: pros hired by whom, for what purpose?

  Keane had been idly scratching behind his ear with a pencil while gazing out over the now-crowded staff room. Suddenly, as if he might have a line tapped into Deal’s thoughts, he turned back to him. “Tell me again, Mr. Deal,” Keane said. “What was it that brought the two of you to Omaha in the first place?”

  Deal was ready for the question this time, but still he felt discomfort, an unwillingness to lay bare his own sad logic. And why? Keane was obviously on his side, primed by whatever Nebraska powers to do what he could. Listening to Deal’s tenuous thread of connections was not going to deter him from trying to find Janice. No, Deal thought. It wasn’t that so much as having to admit he was responsible for what had happened, that he had brought them so far, going on so little.

  He forced himself to meet Keane’s gaze. “A close friend of ours, a man named Arch Dolan,” Deal began, “he owned a bookstore in Coral Gables where my wife works. He was killed during a robbery recently. That’s what the police think, anyway.” Deal paused, watching as the snowplow operator was ushered out the door of the lounge. He gave Deal a last surly look before one of the cops slammed the door.

  Deal turned back to Keane. “Arch’s sister lives in Omaha but no one’s been able to reach her…” Deal trailed off, trying to find the way to describe connections that suddenly struck him as having the same consistency as the logic holding dreams together.

  “So you came out to try to track her down, deliver the news in person?”

  Deal nodded. “That’s one thing.”

  Keane lifted his eyebrows, made a note on a three-by-five card he had in his coat pocket. “Long way to come in weather like this,” he said mildly. “What made you think it couldn’t wait?”

  Deal shrugged. “It wasn’t snowing in Miami.”

  Keane nodded, as if it were something that needed to be explained. “Aside from the weather,” the detective said, persisting.

  Maybe the guy was more like Bobby Knight than he liked to let on, Deal thought.

  “Like I said, my wife worked for Arch, he and I go back a long way. His parents are on some butterfly-hunting safari in Asia, his uncle had a stroke during the so-called robbery and is still in a coma, his younger sister’s on bed rest trying to stave off a miscarriage, so her doctors didn’t want to tell her.” Deal paused, taking a breath. “And this sister Sara, who lives in Omaha, took now to go on a vacation without saying where she was going. The long and short of it is, not one member of Arch Dolan’s family knows he’s been killed. I thought this was the least we could do.”

  “Closer than running off to Asia,” Dalhousie nodded, apparently ready to buy it.

  Keane was tapping the pencil on top of his head now. “You think there could be some connection between this murder down in Miami and what happened to you and your wife?”

  Deal stared at Keane, still wondering how much to say.

  “When you said Arch Dolan had been killed during a robbery. You said, ‘That’s what the police think,’” Keane added. “Meaning maybe you don’t agree.”

  No crackpot theories, Deal. Let the man do his job. Still…

  He took a deep breath. “I don’t agree,” he said. “Neither does Janice.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  Deal glanced at Dalhousie, who widened his eyes as if to repeat the question. “It’s a long story.”

  “We have plenty of time,” Keane said.

  And finally, Deal gave in. He told them about Arch, mentioned Janice’s suspicions of Mega-Media, his own initial skepticism and gradual, grudging concurrence, the trail that led him from Custer to Eddie Lightner to Martin Rosenhaus, how finally, grasping at straws, they’d come to Omaha.

  “I was tired of getting the brush-off about Sara, but I figured the only way to accomplish anything was to come out here myself. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of Janice coming along, but she insisted, and I gave in.” He gave Keane a look meant to show how much he regretted it. “The other thing, I wanted to get a line on an outfit called Carver Construction, supposed to be headquartered here.”

  Dalhousie sat up straighter in his chair. “Carver Construction?”

  “You know it?” Deal said.

  “I know it,” Dalhousie said. “What’s Carver have to do with anything?”

  “They had the contract on the Mega-Media site,” Deal said. “If I’m right, they’re the ones holding the bag on the asbestos matter.”

  Dalhousie pursed his lips, fell back in his chair.

  Deal turned to Keane. “What’s going on?”

  Keane glanced at his partner, then back at Deal. “Sara Dolan has a job with the Worldwide Church of Light, right?”

  Deal nodded. “Until recently, anyway.”

  “And you’re sure Carver Construction was involved in that Mega-Media project.”

  Deal studied the man’s expression. “You want to let me in on this or not?”

  “Carver Construction’s a subsidiary of the WCL,” Dalhousie said.

  Deal stared. “The church owns Carver Construction? How does that happen?”

  “They don’t just own it,” Dalhousie said. “They created it. Like the electric company needs somebody to do construction, it’s cheaper to spin off a subsidiary, deal with your own people.”

  Deal nodded. He’d lost jobs bidding against such cozy setups.

  “You’re not just talking about ‘some church,’” Keane added. “The WCL’s one of the largest employers in the state. They’ve got a sound-stage, a TV superstation that goes worldwide, a couple of satellites they rent space on, a big printing plant. And all of it, Carver Construction included, does outside work. The printer did the Super Bowl tickets last year, for instance—it was in the papers when a guy tried to rip them off. And Carver Construction just got a huge
contract to build a private toll road in North Carolina. It’s a big compound, several hundred acres out past Papillion, on the way to Lincoln.”

  Dalhousie worked at a hangnail with his teeth. “James Ray Willis never missed a trick,” he said, spitting away a fleck of skin. “When Tammy and Jim and some of the other evangelicals crashed and burned a few years back, the Reverend James Ray stepped in and picked up the pieces for all your dispossessed congregants. He’s turned the thing into a kind of umbrella for your nontraditional, TV-oriented church person. They service a couple million members worldwide, or so I hear.”

  “How is it you guys hear so much?” Deal asked.

  Dalhousie looked at him. “I go to Miami, everybody knows about Wayne Huizenga, Terry Terrell.”

  “Willis is as big as that?” Deal said.

  Keane gave a humorless laugh. “This is the heartland, Mr. Deal. Maybe he doesn’t play as big in Miami, but out here James Ray Willis is the Ted Turner of the Christian Right.”

  “He doesn’t work the media like Turner,” Dalhousie said. “Not these days. He still does his turn on Sundays, of course, but even most of that’s on video. Fifteen thousand people in that monster church, they have to watch him on a big screen, like it was a heavyweight fight or something. Past couple of years it’s like he’s turning into Howard Hughes.”

  Deal was half-listening by now, his mind busy processing what he’d learned. So Sara Dolan worked for Willis, a New Age Billy Graham, a televangelist who’d diversified. One of the televangelist’s companies had been building the Mega-Media headquarters in Miami, then had run into a snag, had to pay off the right group of officials before work could resume…

  “Maybe that’s it,” he said, an sudden urgency overtaking him.

  “What’s it?” Dalhousie asked.

  “Maybe Sara Dolan found out about the problem Carver ran into at the Mega-Media site in Coral Gables. That’s how Arch found out about it.”

  “And…?” Keane prompted him.

  “And somebody important wanted it all covered up,” Deal said. “The kind of person who wouldn’t think twice about doing whatever it took. Arch Dolan, Eddie Lightner, even Martin Rosenhaus.” Deal threw up his hands. “They must have thought I’d already figured it out, the minute I got on the plane.”

  “That’s a pretty big stretch,” Dalhousie said. “James Ray Willis bumping a bunch of people off over an asbestos cleanup.”

  “I didn’t say it was Willis,” Deal said. “And maybe there’s something more important involved than we know about. Still, it explains all the connections.”

  “In your mind, it does,” Dalhousie said. “It’d be about like me flying to Miami, claiming Wayne Huizenga knocked off Yitzhak Rabin.”

  Deal stopped, staring at him. “This isn’t some theoretical problem. Two people followed my wife and me all the way from Miami. They tried to kill me out there in that parking lot about an hour ago, and one of them kidnapped my wife.”

  Keane leaned forward, interposing himself between Deal and his partner. “Nobody doubts what happened to you, Mr. Deal. I want to make that clear. But you have to understand, whatever you’ve gotten yourself involved in doesn’t necessarily lead to Omaha. The pair who trailed you here could just as easily have been sent by someone in Miami.”

  “With all due respect,” Deal said, “these two people did not come from Miami.”

  “What’s most important,” Dalhousie said, “we want to find your wife.”

  “I’m glad we’re agreed on one thing,” Deal said.

  Dalhousie nodded, going on. “And it’s more likely that we’ll do that by working from the practical end, right now. We find her, catch the guy, then we find out the whys and wherefores.”

  “But if someone at Carver Construction is involved…”

  Dalhousie held up his hand. “First thing in the morning, Mr. Deal. We’ll talk to some people over there, we’ll look into Sara Dolan’s status with the church.”

  Deal started to protest, then cut himself off. He wasn’t going to accomplish anything by protesting. The way matters stood, he was lucky to get that much. “What can I do?” he said finally.

  “Excuse the very thought, Mr. Deal,” Keane said. “But if this guy meant immediate harm to your wife, he’d have probably done it right out there in that parking lot.”

  “You think she’s being held hostage?” Deal asked. He stared at Keane, trying to read his cop’s mind, gauge Janice’s chances by the expression on the man’s face.

  Keane shook his head. “I don’t know what to think right now, Mr. Deal. I’m just trying to do the best we can.”

  “Was there somewhere you were headed?” Dalhousie cut in. “A place where your wife might try to contact you, make her way to, given the opportunity.”

  Deal shrugged. “We had a reservation at some hoop-de-do Holiday Inn, a place the rental car guy told us about.”

  “The Convention Center,” Dalhousie said, glancing at Keane. “Out on Kennedy.”

  Keane nodded. “That’s it,” Deal said. “I think you ought to get out there,” Keane said. “Get checked in, sit by the phone. We’ll have a plainclothesman stationed there as well. We’ll talk to the tech people, get them out there as soon as the weather breaks.”

  Deal stared at him, feeling his indignation rise. “So I just go sit in a hotel room, hope for the best?”

  Keane studied him a moment. “What else did you have in mind, Mr. Deal? Say your wife makes her way to a phone, calls the hotel, there’s nobody there to answer. Say she’s somewhere trying right now.”

  Deal stared back at him. He felt utterly depleted, as if he’d been up for days. Finally he nodded. Keane reached into his coat pocket, tossed him a set of keys.

  “They got you another car,” Keane said. “Right out front this time.”

  “Terrific,” Deal said.

  “We can have a man drive you if you’d rather,” Keane added.

  “That’s okay,” Deal said. “I should probably have a car. In case something happens.” He hoped it sounded as casual as he wanted it to. So long as he had wheels, he could handle things the way he wanted.

  Keane shrugged. “Your choice.”

  “Try and get some rest,” Dalhousie said. “We’ll get you over to look at some pictures first thing.”

  “Sure,” Deal said, rising stiffly from the chair. He wondered if he would ever rest again.

  Chapter 22

  What they had found for him, Deal saw, was a Toyota Land Cruiser. A glowing burgundy model, it sat idling at the curb, exhaust spewing like dragon’s breath into the frigid air, its paint gleaming as if they’d run it down the de-icing line on the runway before bringing it around.

  A uniformed patrolman who’d been pacing at curbside snapped to when he saw Deal coming. “Holiday Inn Convention Center, right?” the patrolman said.

  Deal noticed a radio hooked to the belt of his quilted jacket. An efficient operation, he thought, and nodded.

  The patrolman gestured at a black-and-white that idled just in front of the Land Cruiser. “I’ll lead the way,” he said.

  Deal nodded again, moved gingerly around the back of the Toyota. There was a dull ache in his groin, but he suspected it was nothing compared to what he’d feel later. He glanced in the cargo bay, saw his suitcase stowed there. All the little details.

  He wondered briefly how it would have all gone down if he hadn’t had Terrence Terrell to call. Small consolation, though. A shiny new car to drive, a cop to show him the way. He gave his lone suitcase a forlorn glance, then pulled himself up into the cabin of the Land Cruiser. There was a gaily painted packet on the front seat, courtesy of the Nebraska Beef Council: maps, tourist brochures, discounts on anything you’d want. He tossed it aside, found the parking brake release, motioned to the cop that he was ready. Welcome to Omaha, he thought. Sure. Big steaks for everyone.

  It was dark and still snowing, though nowhere near as badly as it had bee
n. The roads, though cleared of drifts, were packed solid with snow and ice, and Deal was tentative behind the wheel at first. It had been years since he’d driven under conditions like these, the last time being the ski trip he and Janice had taken a decade before.

  But the sedan he’d driven then was nothing like this big Land Cruiser. It had continuous four-wheel drive, and the oversized studded tires seemed to grip the road as firmly as if they were traveling dry pavement. By the time they swung out of the brightly lit airport complex onto a broad, curving boulevard, Deal was already feeling more comfortable, at least able to turn the wheel without the feeling he was going to tip over, or send the vehicle into an endless spin.

  As if he’d sensed Deal’s growing confidence, the patrolman picked up the pace slightly, his taillights leading the way through a tunnel of whirling snow into the vast Midwestern darkness. Though it was not quite nine o’clock, the roads were deserted, leaving Deal with another unfamiliar sensation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d traveled a major highway when there hadn’t been a maddening, horn-blaring crush of traffic.

  The roads, the car, the situation itself…his head was reeling in time to the throb of a headache that grew with every passing moment. More and more, he felt the sensation of being gripped by an awful dream, a set of circumstances so strange and threatening that his life no longer seemed his to control.

  And the thought that he’d carelessly led Janice into this was nearly overwhelming. He’d had her back and now look what he had done. The realization was enough to make him grind his teeth, pound the wheel in frustration. Worst of all was the helplessness. He was on his way to some conventioneer’s hotel where he was going to sit and hope he’d hear from a killer who had taken his wife? But what was the immediate alternative?

  And what if Delbert Cuddy had been right? What if Janice had simply run from their attackers, had curled up under one of the many cars in that frozen lot, was lying there right now, unconscious, slowly freezing in this insane climate…

  …he had worked himself into a near-frenzy, and even though he knew he had lost all sense of reasoned judgment, he was about to wrench the wheel of the Toyota into a U-turn, speed back the way they had come, comb that parking lot himself, dig through the snowplow’s drifts, do something, anything…