“It didn’t hurt that I had the story first,” Emery said. “By the way, I owe you at least $500. You’ve been doing a lot to keep our business going. Your mom, as our business manager, can cut you a check.”
“Remind me to pay you tomorrow, sweetie,” Carol told Sadie. “Joe’s right. You’ve earned every penny of it.”
“You guys don’t have to pay me anything,” Sadie said, but clearly she was pleased.
So Emery said, smiling, “OK, forget it then.”
“Joe,” said Rose and Carol simultaneously.
“He’s kidding,” Sadie said. “Aren’t you?”
He winked at her. “It should be more. As your mom said, you earned it.”
So: Emery repaired to the study after dinner to determine what he could accomplish in his weakened condition. One step he could take right away – today – was to see what more he could learn from Schroeder. If she rebuffed him, he was no worse off. So he picked up his smartphone, turned on the audio recorder and called her mobile phone.
She answered after five rings. “Emery. Why are you calling me on a weekend?” She sounded lethargic.
“When we talked on Friday, you said you were distraught and left the impression I had something to do with it. I’m calling to talk it out if you want to.”
“Oh, puh-leeze,” she snarled. “Like you care what happens to me.”
“Look, Natascha,” he replied gently. “It may be true you’re not my favorite person, and I know you’re not fond of me. We’ve been adversaries, even enemies, for years. But that doesn’t mean I wish harm upon you. I care what happens to you.”
A pause. Then she said, “That’s actually a nice thing you said, Emery. I think I believe you.”
Careful, he warned himself. He said, “You said on Friday you’d lost someone. You want to talk about that, just you and me, off the record?”
Another pause. “Would we really be off the record?”
“That’s a promise I would never break. You know my reputation.”
“Well ... uh ... I was in love ... with a man who, who sometimes did, um, bad things but he was a good person at heart. He died two weeks ago in Wichita … and … I don’t know how I can go on without him. I miss him so much.”
He knew who she meant: Michael Richards, the younger of the two goons who'd tried to shoot it out with the Wichita police – the man who'd waited inside his home to kill him. Lefty Larkin was definitely not her type. Fighting down disgust, he asked, “How did you meet him?”
“We met a year after Mrs. Hodge took office. She hadn’t polled well in western Kansas, so she was on a fence-mending tour out there. I met him at a chamber luncheon in Garden City. Michael was a security guard for one of the businessmen who attended. I went outside for a smoke but didn’t have my coat. He saw me shivering out there. He came out and put his suit coat over my shoulders. I fell for him right away and he fell for me.
“He was strong and brave and he took care of me. I felt safe with him. But after we were together awhile I began to realize … I knew deep down it was hopeless. He was involved in, um …”
“Crimes?” Emery prompted after perhaps 10 seconds.
“How did you know?”
“I could be wrong, Natascha, but I think you’re talking about the shootout at my condo complex in Wichita.”
She moaned. It was the sound of a heart so broken it could never mend. “That’s why I’m so angry at you. You destroyed him with that picture of him shooting at you on your blog. You made him look like a monster. If only you’d given up on … on … trying to report the reasons behind the dam collapse, he’d still be alive.”
And still taking down hapless Kansans with his deer rifle, no doubt. He wanted to castigate her for her self-absorption and lack of decency. Instead, he asked, gently, “Was he the one driving you that night in Los Llanos, when you came to see me at the motel?”
“Yes. Michael was a romantic and a gentleman. When I told him we were going to eastern Colorado, he checked out a car and took two days off to be my personal chauffeur.”
“The white Impala with the secret license tag: 2171 ADU. Garfield County.”
She chuckled bitterly. “I saw you write down the tag number but didn’t tell him. I was afraid he’d break your neck.”
“I appreciate your concern for my safety,” Emery replied, trying to keep the irony out of his voice.
“But I didn’t think it would come back to haunt me. I knew the tags assigned to … to …”
“Alpha-Omega?”
“Yes. I knew they were secret. I thought you’d figure you wrote it down wrong.”
“I had it right. And it was that tag number that led me to the ARC and, eventually, to Alpha-Omega.”
“You’re a good reporter, Emery, very hard to mislead or intimidate.”
He let that go. “Was Michael with Alpha-Omega when you met him?”
“No. That company didn’t exist then. He was with his father Fred’s security company. Fred moved Michael over to Alpha-Omega about a year after I met him.”
“Alpha-Omega was a security company masquerading as a construction company, right?”
“I don’t really know, Emery. He never talked about his work and I didn’t ask. All I knew was that he got a promotion and a pay increase out of it. And I didn’t know … until it was too late … that he got suckered into illegal activities.”
Suckered? Emery thought. That’s rich. He said, “You know, Natascha, you could be in danger. Harmon thinks the Swindles were murdered because someone thought she was a loose end. You don’t want anyone …”
“You mean Ernest Complet, don’t you? Everybody’s favorite whipping boy?”
“I haven’t yet bought into the theory that he’s the master-mind, though he sure seemed like he was the night last month when you called me from his office, you know, to object to my post about how someone in Topeka got me ousted from the newspaper. It seemed like you were working at his direction.”
“Well, I wasn’t. I worked with him on that because Mrs. Hodge asked me to. For some reason, she thinks he’s a master tactician. But he’s not the one who ordered the Swindle murders.”
“How do you know that? Who is responsible?”
“Ernest carries out plans. He doesn’t make them.”
“So he could be in danger, too.”
“Well, he deserves a .22 bullet in the brain more than I do. All I ever tried to do is protect my governor, who’s surrounded by cheats and liars and gets befuddled sometimes. … So, Emery, what are you going to do with the information I’ve given you? I should be mad that you tricked me into saying so much, but I actually feel better. Unlike some people I know, you wouldn’t try to use what I said against me.”
“I wouldn’t. But I would appreciate your help in trying to figuring this mystery out.”
“So I’m your snitch now, is that it?”
“If you want to be cynical about it, yes. But as long as you tell me the truth, you’re safe with me.”
“You asswipe. You’re threatening me.”
He sighed. “You've been working too long in a toxic environment, Natascha. I bear you no ill will.”
“That’s a surprise. You like me that much?”
“No, Natascha. I just wouldn’t want you on my conscience.”
Chapter 39: Boots on the Ground
December 20, 3 p.m.
“Man, I love this truck,” Sadie exclaimed. She and Emery, wearing the newly installed seat belts, were headed south out of Garden City under a pallid sky. Patches of grimy snow dotted the land. She tromped the accelerator, causing the rear tires to squeal; the vehicle jetted from 75 to 100 in maybe four seconds.
“Easy, sweetie,” Emery said. “You’ll burn through all our gas.”
She eased back on the gas pedal. “Sorry, Joe. Got a little carried away. So what did you get J-3 for Christmas?”
“I got him a leather sofa, off white. It’s being delivered on Friday. It’ll add some class to Delaware H
ouse, the former flophouse he and his friends, including Juwan, own and live in. They don’t have a lot of furniture.”
“Great gift. I can’t wait to see their house.”
“I think you’ll like it. They’re a tidier bunch than you might suspect. And the house itself is a nice-size bungalow with good bones.
“Speaking of J-3, I need boots on the ground in Topeka this week and he’s agreed to help me. Do you think you could design a press ID card for him, you know, The Vindicator logo, his picture and text identifying him as a staff reporter, with his full name, Joseph R. Emery III? It would give him journalistic legitimacy. We can e-mail it to him as a jpeg, something he can print out and laminate.”
“Sure, Joe. I can do that today. I’ll bet I can find some templates for press passes online. So the kid is coming into the business, too?”
“Just for this one deal, but if he performs well, which I’m sure he will, he may do more – if he likes the work. The big concern is getting him to dress the part. But he understands that hip-hop pants don’t work for a reporter.”
She peered over at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re trying to trick him into the joining the middle class.”
He grinned. “That’s not true as far as he knows.”
“So what’s he going to do for The Vindicator?”
“Confront Ernest Complet, this shadowy guy who’s a top adviser for the governor. If we can get something good from him, we might be able to move The Story closer to conclusion. I’ve put together a list of questions I want J-3 to ask him. I’m going to publish a profile of Complet regardless of whether he cooperates. He’s a public figure and fair game.”
“Well, I’ll work up an ID card for him as soon as we get home. I’ll design a business card template for him, too, something he can take to Kinko’s.”
“Good. Thanks. The kid’s going to try to talk to Complet tomorrow.”
The following afternoon, Emery and Carol were in the study, going over The Vindicator’s books, when J-3 called. The kid had been out of contact since mid-morning, when he’d called to say he’d arrived at the Capitol.
“Poppy,” he exclaimed, “Check your dashboard. I’ve uploaded some video. It’s raw. Take a look at it and let me know if you want me to edit it before you post it on The Vindicator.”
“OK. Where are you now?”
“Back at Delaware House. Don’t worry, Poppy. I’m in one piece.”
Carol located the video on the dashboard and opened it. It was a little under 16 minutes long – and extraordinary.
The video opened with the image of “The Tragic Prelude,” the glorious John Steuart Curry mural at the Capitol showing the abolitionist madman John Brown raising a rifle and a Bible in the midst of a battle with the Border Ruffians for Bleeding Kansas.
“This is Joseph Emery the third,” J-3’s voice-over began, “and I’m here on the second floor of the Kansas Capitol headed toward the office of Ernest Complet, one of the most powerful men in state government.” The camera moved from the mural to the right, revealing a marbled hallway. As the camera moved down the hallway, J-3 said, “Complet is Gov. Mabel Hodge’s general counsel and his office is here, two doors from the governor’s office. I’m hoping I can persuade him to see me.” The screen went black for a few seconds.
Segment two revealed an oak-paneled receptionist’s office. A secretary, a prim, unsmiling fortyish woman in a blue-and-white hounds-tooth suit with a brunette bouffant hairdo and black-rimmed glasses, sat at a desk flanked by the Stars and Stripes and the Kansas flag draped on vertical poles. She stood up from her desk chair as the camera approached. “Can I help you?” she asked dubiously.
“I’m Joe Emery the third, a reporter for The Vindicator, and I’d like a few minutes of Mr. Complet’s time.” A hand extended her a business card.
She took the card and peered at it. “What is this in regard to?”
“I have a few questions for him. Can you ask him if he’ll talk to me?”
She sneered. “He’s very busy. Now, if you’d like to make an appointment for sometime after Christmas, I can ask …”
“That’s not satisfactory,” J-3 snapped. “I need only a little of his time.”
“Well, as I just told you …”
“Look, just ask him if he’ll talk to me. Tell him it’s about Alpha-Omega Construction.”
“Alpha what?”
“Alpha-Omega Construction.”
“I’ll, uh, see if …” She walked through an ornate oaken door at the back of the reception area. Again the screen went black for several seconds.
The third segment revealed Ernest Complet, broad-shouldered and sleek in a gray suit, white shirt and red tie, sitting behind a huge mahogany desk. He had disproportionately small but wide-set brown eyes, close-cropped black hair and a jowly face pulled into an insincere smile. The time code said the video had been shot at 11:03 a.m., but Complet already needed a shave.
Looking over the business card, he said, “You’re the son of Joe Emery, is that right?”
The camera moved down and up as J-3 said, “That’s right.” Emery realized his son was wearing a camera disguised as glasses.
There followed a few minutes of patronizing questions: Was J-3 still in school? Was he part of the family business now? Had he voted in the last election? Yes? Well, isn’t it great to see young people taking an interest in government? Was his father recuperating from his recent injuries? Could you give him my best? And so on.
When J-3’s minimalist responses finally exhausted Complet’s store of trivial questions, Complet asked, “Now, Sissy says you asked about Alpha-Omega Construction? I don’t believe I’ve heard of that firm? What are you …”
“Perhaps you know it better under the name of its parent company, Richards Security of Sadorus, Oklahoma.” J-3 interjected.
Complet’s eyes narrowed in a menacing way. “You’re playing with fire, young man. Are you sure you want to have this conversation?”
Exhibiting excellent reporting instincts, J-3 ignored this question, saying, “So you’re confirming that the two firms are interlinked.”
“I didn’t say that, and …”
“Well, you implied it. A lot of Kansans, not just those of us at The Vindicator, are wondering how a bunch of head-breaking hyenas got access to public money through the Agricultural Research Center. Care to explain that?”
Complet’s face registered shock.
Pressing his advantage, J-3 said, “They’re also wondering how and why that money, um, more than a million three over the past four years, got diverted to attacks on Kansas innovators in communications technology, as well as the sabotage of the Gunderson dam and the resultant deaths of three people.”
“Look here, young Mr. Emery, you’re way out of line with these insulting questions,” Complet growled.
“These questions stem from facts in the public record, Mr. Complet. Can you answer them, please? If you’re not involved in the attacks or the misappropriation of the money, just say so. If you know nothing about the dam sabotage and murders, just say so. We’ll publish your denials. We just want to get you on record. You’re a public figure and you’re in the middle of all this.”
“Of course I deny knowledge of or involvement in these and any other illegal activities.”
“Well, what about the secret database of license tags at the Department of Revenue for the vehicles that the state apparently gave or sold to Alpha-Omega? Was our informant wrong in identifying you as the person in charge of that project?”
“What informant? Tell me her name.”
“What makes you so sure it was a woman?”
Complet blanched, then rasped, “Get out or I’ll call security.”
“I just have one last question.”
“Fuck your question.” Complet pressed a button on his desk. Sissy’s voice said: “Yes, sir?”
“Call security and tell them to eject this young man from the Capitol.”
“The Capitol is a public b
uilding. You can’t eject me.”
A mean smile played across Complet’s face. “Wanna bet? Also, I’ll be needing your notebook before you leave. Last chance to leave under your own power.”
“Sure,” J-3 said. A wire-wound reporter’s notebook flew into the picture and landed on Complet’s desk. The camera turned toward the door. A hand reached out and turned the brass knob.
As the camera moved across the outer office, turning briefly toward Sissy, sitting open-mouthed at her desk, and moved down and up – a courteous nod, no doubt – Complet shouted, “Hey, this notebook is blank. Wait a …”
But J-3 was already out in the hallway, heading toward a troop of Girl Scouts standing before the Curry mural. A Capitol guide was explaining how the federal government had paid the artist to paint the mural in the 1930s.
“This is Joe Emery the third,” the kid said, “reporting for The Vindicator from the Kansas Capitol.” The screen went dark.
“Wow,” Carol said, turning to Emery. “The kid’s a natural, isn’t he?”
Emery put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “He’s a chip off the old block, though a bit more in-your-face than I was at his age.”
She patted his hand. “It’s the times, sweetheart, it’s the times.”
He called J-3 back and said, “That’s some nice work, son. We can put the video up unedited. Very Michael Moore.”
“That’s what I was going for, Poppy.”
“Who thought up the glasses-camera?”
“Juwan. The rig included a wireless video recorder, which I wore in the small of my back beneath my suit coat. Picture quality’s good, right?”
“Excellent. Now what I need from you is a written summary of the conversation that includes some context – why he’s important and why we needed to interview him. Otherwise it looks like a hatchet job.”
“Aw, Poppy, can’t you write that? I’m not too good with text.”
“Bullshit, J-3. You were a terrific writer in high school. Some users would rather read than watch 20 minutes of video. Write it up the best you can and e-mail it to me. It’s, um, 4:15 now. Get it to me by 6. OK?”
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