by Neal Penn
“I’m here.”
But he wasn’t there. He was thinking about the project, what he knew of it. It was Jaguar that had ultimately led to the replacement of the previous CEO. It was Jaguar that had cost the company nearly forty million dollars, 1986 dollars, to cover up. “Jaguar was Sage’s last operation with us, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Worst case scenario, what happens if the story gets out?”
“Hard to tell. All of the players are dead; at least all who were decision makers. A really aggressive US Attorney might try to claim the company was guilty of conspiracy after the fact. You came on after everything was done, though, so you’re safe.”
“I mean economic consequences.” He was growing impatient.
“Potentially enormous. Two congressmen we incentivized are now Senators, and one of the Senators is chairman of the Armed Services committee. The major, our liaison for the project, is now one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Say goodbye to a billion and a half in contracts.”
“Jesus.”
“More importantly, I said there was little risk for the Jaguar operation, but the investigations into those since then will lead to indictments, no question.”
“Sage must be dealt with.”
“You’ll need to find him first, uh, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Harlan Winslow founded Winslow and Sons in 1884. It was an early developer of parvules—that’s the word for pills people used back when we were intelligent—capitalizing on the rapid advancement of pharmaceutical technology in the mid-1800s. Are you listening?”
Crane looked up at Noelle. He was lying on the couch, and she was sitting on the edge. It was amazing when she started talking about something she had researched. She was thorough and brilliant.
Unfortunately, she also answered a question like, “How many sides does a triangle have?”, with Euclidian plane geometry theory and the work of Pythagoras.
Still, she was cute when she talked about anything, and even cuter when she got ticked because she thought you weren’t listening. “Yeah, okay, so the Winslows make pills.”
“No. The Winslows made pills. Now pay attention. In 1907, Harlan died and his son Harlan Junior took over. By then, Germany had pretty much cornered the market on pharmaceuticals, so Junior branched out into medical supplies; bandages and stuff. When World War I broke out, the company changed its name to Winslow Pharmaceuticals and—what the hell are you doing?”
Crane’s hand had wandered to stroke her thigh as she spoke.
“Sorry, force of habit. History lessons about turn of the century business empires turn me on.”
She pushed his hand away. “Listen. They got a bunch of contracts for medical supplies for the armed forces. If you were wounded in battle and you were American or British, chances are something from Winslow was used in your treatment. After World War I, though, the U.S. Government passed laws that let them take all of German pharmaceutical’s patents and sell them to U.S. companies. Harlan Junior screwed up, and it almost killed the company.”
“But they weren’t German.”
“No, but Eli Lily and the other giants bought up the patents. They ended up taking the bulk of Winslow’s business. By 1940, Harlan Junior was ready to give up, and he handed over the reins to his son, Augustus, who was twenty-two. Augustus changed the name of the company to Winslow Defense Industries and started looking into alternative ways to make money with the military.”
“Like what?”
“Shut up and let me finish.” She seemed irritated, but she was stroking his hair, and he was steadily maneuvering his head toward her lap. “He leveraged the cash in the company to buy small arms research and development companies. He also started leasing logistics personnel to the military. That’s how the military contracting started. Now, they’re one of the largest. What Halliburton is to construction in war zones, Winslow is to military personnel.” She paused for a second. “But they didn’t stop the pharmaceutical side, only focused exclusively on military applications.”
“Hold on. They went from a drug company to soldiers for hire?”
“Essentially. But there’s more. In the 40s, their military division did a great deal of the manufacturing and development of methamphetamines for bomber pilots. They developed inoculations for Agent Orange. They created a number of steroid compounds designed to increase soldier muscle mass. Some people think Stan Lee based the whole Captain America comic on the research Winslow Defense was doing.”
“So what happened?”
“In 1970, Dennis Winslow, Augustus’ son, disappeared. There was one story about it, but Winslow bought the little paper that ran it. Nothing else was in the media. He’s still legally alive, just nobody’s seen him for forty years.” His head was resting on her lap now, and her hand was still smoothing his hair. “After that happened, the company stopped making their projects public. There’s still a ton of money that flows out of the D.O.D. to Winslow, but it’s all top secret.”
“So can we try to meet Augustus?”
“No; he took the company public in 1984 and increased the family’s net worth by billions. He died in 1988. His kids own sixty-three percent of the company. Rather, Olive and Evelyn own twenty-one percent each, and since Dennis has never been declared dead, he owns the other twenty-one.”
“So I’m not searching for a missing kid, I’m searching for a missing millionaire.”
Noelle snorted. “Millionaire? His shares are worth about five and a half billion, honey.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“So what are we doin’ here, again?” Watch Cap hadn’t stopped talking since they left the hotel, and it was starting to get irritating.
“We’re sending a message.” Suit looked down the hallway and pushed open the door. Crane hadn’t fixed the door since the two had broken in, so it opened without a problem.
“What message?”
“We have to scare him. That’s what the boss said.”
He looked around. The place was pretty much the same as it was the night before. He walked to a bookcase and knocked it over. His partner started throwing things around as well.
“Hey, we wanna break his laptop? Maybe we just keep it?” Watch Cap held up the thin computer in one hand.
“Yeah, let’s take it. Maybe the boss wants it.” He looked around the room. “That’s enough. Let’s get going.”
“You don’t want to take anything? Maybe he’s got some money or something.”
“That’s not what we’re here for. Come on, man.” Suit started for the door.
“I’m just saying. We’re already here, so why not pick up something extra while we are. Look, he’s gonna be scared one way or the other.”
“Alright,” Suit sighed, “I’ll check out here. You check his room.”
Suit quickly explored. A bunch of booze in the kitchen but nothing really valuable. There was no way he was taking the TV set or the CD player.
“Hey!” Suit ran to the bedroom, drawing his gun along the way.
“What’s up?” He cautiously peered around the corner through the doorway.
“This guy’s got a little dog.” Suit sighed. “Must’ve been hiding under the bed last night.” The dog was timidly peering out from under the bed.
“Jesus Christ! I thought the guy was here or something. Why’d you yell like that?”
Watch Cap smiled. “I like dogs. Don’t you?” He reached down and started making clicking and kissing noises toward the dog, which slipped further back under the bed.
Suit shook his head and started back toward the door. “C’mon, man. There’s nothing in here worth anything. Don’t forget the laptop.” He stepped into the hallway and waited for Watch Cap.
An old man at the far end of the hallway was banging at another apartment’s door. He watched, fascinated, until an equally old woman opened it and let him in.
“Why the fuck does he have to be so mean to her?”
His partner had arrived. �
�Maybe she’s just deaf. She’s old enough.”
“I guess.”
Suit thought about it for a minute. Spouses usually loved each other.
“I wonder if Crane has a wife.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Crane stood and stretched. The past few days had beaten the hell out of him, but he was still basically sound. Spending most of the day with Noelle had severely restricted his alcohol intake. But that was a fair trade.
When she walked into the room, he said, “Elle, I have a thirty year-old bottle of scotch I’ve been holding on to. I have to go back to the apartment to pick up my laptop. What if I bring it back and we toast to the Winslows?”
Noelle studied him for a moment. Crane couldn’t read her. Finally, she looked toward the window and said, “I think I’d like you to stay here for a few days, you in my old room, and me in the master. I don’t like all these people after you.”
“It’s not ‘all these people’, Elle. I just—”
“Shut up, Roddie.” She turned her gaze back on him. “You know, you interrupt more than anyone I have ever known. Shut up once in a while and listen!”
He sank into a chair, a little stunned. She was acerbic and had a sarcastic wit that could flay a person alive, but rarely had he ever seen her express frustration plainly and angrily.
She stared at him for a moment, nostrils flared and eyes wide – but then she softened, maybe because he looked so hurt. “Look, if you think it’s safe to go back there, okay. I’ll get back on the research and order us some dinner. If you’re going to bring back the scotch, you better bring some club soda because I can’t drink that stuff straight.”
Crane nodded, rose, and walked to her. She pushed him back and walked out of the room, and he shook his head. Who the hell can tell with women? He looked around the house for his keys and found them in the kitchen next to the vodka. He looked behind them to see if Noelle was anywhere near.
What the hell was happening to him? When the hell did he start caring what the hell anyone thought about his goddamn drinking? Jesus Christ. What? Is she my Mommy?
Still, he was a little relieved when he looked back and she was nowhere to be seen. He shook his head and took another sip.
In the car, he cut himself on the window glass and cursed. Why the hell would Nero hassle him like this? Nero knew he made his money on jobs. If he couldn’t do the jobs, he couldn’t make money for Nero to take.
Nero Walker was nothing like his father. His uncle had run the business like a business, vicious but business-like. He died in his sleep. His brother, Nero’s father, took over and ran it the same way, maybe a bit more violently, but he was dealing with gangs creeping in every now and then from the cities and defending his territory. When he was killed last year in a shootout, Junior took over, and he wasn’t making any sense.
His cell phone rang just as he was about to turn the key. He flipped it open.
It was the Winslow Sisters. “Rodney Crane,” he said.
“Mr. Crane, I wonder if you might be able to come by the house in a little while.”
It was Olive, not Evelyn. Thank God for small favors.
“We’ve hired an artist to use some kind of special photography technology to age Dennis’ photo so we might be able to see what he looks like today. I thought a copy of it might help you in your quest.”
Quest. That’s what she said, right?
“It might help at that, Mrs. Winslow, I—”
“‘Miss’, Mr. Crane. We’re both ‘Miss.’ I’m afraid we never found someone to marry, what with all the sharks always looking for Daddy’s money.”
“Miss, then. I’m afraid I have an errand to finish, but perhaps I could come by first thing in the morning, say seven o’clock?”
“Oh, that would be fine, Mr. Crane. Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Crane.”
“Yes?”
“Please bring your gun.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tommy thought the bar was exactly what gay bars were supposed to be. He maneuvered the chair around, and the bartender moved stools out of the way for him until he had himself positioned. “Let’s do a round for the house, Andy. Make mine something exotic.”
The bartender smiled. “Why do you keep calling me Andy? You been coming here for six years, Mr. Norwood, and you know I go by ‘Drew.’ It’s the last half of the name, not the first.”
“I’m sorry, Drew. I used this bar as a model for a bar in one of my books, and I named the bartender Andy just to honor you, and now it just comes out.”
Drew brightened at that. “I’ll get working on the round and make you some special. Is there an occasion?”
The big man puffed himself up – which, considering his bulk, was no small feat. “There sure is. I’ve been interviewed about my latest series by Publisher’s Weekly.”
“That’s great, Mr. Norwood. What books?”
Tommy lowered his voice. “Can you keep a secret?” But he didn’t wait for an answer, immediately continuing, “It’s the Strike Fortley books. Lester Twill is my pen name.”
“You wrote all those? I love those books. You can buy the house a round, but your drink is on me.”
Respect. That’s what it was all about. That’s what Lester Twill was bringing him.
A guy like Tommy was like a sideshow freak. Everybody stares.
Worse, he was insignificant. Everybody stares and then forgets.
Not anymore. Tommy was going places now. He was a celebrity. Drew was already spreading the word to regulars in the bar; he could see the surprise on their faces.
It was time to talk to Sage about branching out, about taking some of the smaller characters and giving them their own adventures, like what Clancy did with John Clark. And it was probably time to start talking to print publishers, too; Lord knew they’d been knocking on the door long enough.
Jesus, this thing was big. The Costa Rica story was the best of the bunch.
Fuck You, Random House! Eighteen goddamn novels and not one of them was good enough for you. Wel,l now what you say, bitch? He chuckled to himself and glanced at his watch. 5:30. An hour here and then home to the sweet blonde girl he’d ordered.
Drew brought back a red drink with a blue umbrella. It had cherries floating in it. “I made you a mai tai, but I put in grenadine and cranberry juice.” Tommy took a sip. It was sweet as hell, and he liked it a lot.
A couple of girls walked up to his table, a tough masculine woman and her lipstick girlfriend. Tommy smiled at them and motioned for them to sit down. Lipstick girl asked, “Are you really Lester Twill?”
“Why yes, I am. And who are the lovely girls I have the joy of meeting?” Tommy always thought referring to people he was speaking with in the third person made him seem intelligent.
“I’m afraid Mr. Twill has a pressing engagement, ladies.”
Sage.
Tommy looked up. He’d shown up out of nowhere. God, even at, what, sixty-two or sixty-three, the guy still looked like Rambo.
“My dears, I am afraid I’ll have to speak with you later.” He took a sip of his drink. God, it was good. “John, can I buy you a drink?”
Sage remained standing. “We have to leave now, Tommy. I already called your van.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
He had a gun.
It was a small snub-nosed 38 he kept in a locked case in his closet under a pile of six-hundred dollar shoes he’d worn back when he used to frequent courtrooms. Crane hadn’t fired the damn thing in five or six years, and even then, he’d only used it on the firing range. Nero Sr. had bribed somebody or other to get Crane a concealed carry license, but he’d never carried it around and didn’t have a holster. He wasn’t even sure if the license was still good. Why the hell does she want me to bring a gun?
He pulled the car into the carport and cautiously made his way to the apartment entryway. All clear. He wasn’t sure if Bausch and Lomb would come at him again here, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
His cell
phone rang and he nearly jumped. He answered with a whisper before looking at the number. “Hello.”
“Stay the hell away from Noelle, you prick.” Ty. Just what he needed today.
“Fuck you, Ty.” Arrogant bastard already had her. I had her first, you bastard.
“Don’t give me that shit, Crane. You know I can bury you.”
“You tried, remember? Asshole. I lose my license and almost go to jail. You get handed the key to the goddamn city. You never could practice law. I’ve been fucking carrying you since law school. Fuck you. I’ll see Noelle any time I want to.”
“I’m warning you, Crane, I’ll bu—”
Crane hung up. He really wanted Noelle back now. Wanted to fuck her until she looked like a two-dollar whore and then parade her in front of Ty and shout, “Hey, Ty, you ever fuck her –”
He stopped. Guilt washed over him. He didn’t want Noelle for that. He wanted Noelle for Noelle. Goddamn Ty.
He’d walked to his apartment and noticed the door where Nick and Nora had broken in. That would set him back a hundred bucks or two.
Then he pushed the door open and felt like he’d been hit in the gut with a baseball bat.
His place was a mess. Furniture had been knocked down, his law books were scattered.
A thought occurred to him and he rushed to the kitchen and flung open the cabinet above the refrigerator. The bottle of scotch was still there. He sighed in relief and took it out, righted one of dining table chairs, and put the bottle on its seat. He dialed Sammi as he walked into his room and into the closet.
She answered as he was pushing aside a pair of loafers from Brooks Brothers and patent leathers from Versace. “Sammi, I need you to stay out of town for a few days more.”
It wasn’t an unusual request; she was used to that. Somewhere about year three of their marriage she figured out his clientele. Nero was a traditional mobster, not the type that went after family, but sometimes his enemies were.
Of course, until now Nero wasn’t the type that trashed apartments to collect a debt, either.