by Lyle Howard
The keyboard sat quietly before him, the monitor having gone back to the sleep screen hours ago. He stared at the columns of numbers on the paper before him, but they were suddenly nonsensical, just meaningless numbers to a person who…
“Am I interrupting?”
Banks was shaken out of his reflection by a familiar but still unexpected voice. “Peter, what are you doing here?” He said, rising to his feet and holding out his hand.
Peter Mason walked into the office, accepted his brother-in-law’s handshake, and stood in front of the desk.
“Please, take a seat,” Banks offered.
Mason sat down and crossed his legs, running his fingers along the seam of his pants to make sure it stayed as it should.
“What brings you to Siberia?”
Mason chuckled to himself. “Is that what you call this place, Siberia?”
Banks leaned back in his chair. “You know what I mean.”
Mason didn’t react either way. “So how’s my sister doing?”
“Pretty good, yes, I’d say pretty darned good.”
Mason examined his fingernails. “Is that a euphemism for staggering blind drunk?”
Banks shook his head. “Not really. I think she’s trying her best to adjust to this new situation here. This isn’t quite the lifestyle she aspires to, but once she gets her head on straight, she’ll start to come around.”
Mason frowned. “It’s been almost two years, how much time does it take to straighten one’s head? She’s always been a bit of a diva, but now I’m afraid her situation could really escalate. Do you think she needs professional help? An intervention, maybe some time in a rehab center?”
Banks squirmed uncomfortably. This was the worst ice-breaking conversation ever. He’s been here less than five minutes, and there’s already talk of committing his sister? Who talks like that? Mason sat there like he was discussing the weather, as ruthless and devoid of feeling as a shark. “Surely you didn’t just fly up here to discuss your sister’s well-being. I know you have more important things on your agenda.”
Mason looked at Banks curiously. “What’s more important than my sister?”
There was a long, awkward silence between the two men until Mason burst out laughing. “My sister’s well-being, are you crazy? That’s hysterical. Sherri can drink herself into oblivion for all I care. She became your problem the day you said ‘I do.’”
Banks could literally feel the frigid lack of sympathy coming across his desk. It was as if a cold front had dropped the temperature in the office by thirty degrees.
“I’m here to discuss this weekend’s events, along with what Arthur Beckworth’s death might mean to the future of my ballpark.”
Banks intertwined his fingers on the desk. “The remaining council members put the project up for a public referendum. But you knew that already.”
“Yes,” Mason lamented. “I’ve been watching the news. Not a setback I had anticipated. But on the bright side, it gives me more time for negotiation with the interested franchises, and the general contractors and vendors.”
Banks leaned forward with interest. “So you’ve secured financing for the entire project?”
Mason shook his head as if he were scolding a small child. “I know you handle that end of the company, Gerry, but let me worry about the funds for the ballpark. I’ve made arrangements.”
“But that’s a huge sum of money. The company is already spread pretty thin with the launch of the hydrofoil line. It’s going to take awhile to recoup that investment. I thought you were going to convince the city to help finance the park?”
Mason wiped a smudge off one of his fine Italian shoes. “Things change, Gerry.”
“But as your Chief Financial Officer….”
Mason held up a finger for Banks to silence himself. “Gerry, I trust you implicitly when it comes to the day to day managing of the company’s assets and capital, but there are just some decisions that are…let’s say, to use a military term, above your pay grade. I am in the midst of securing enough financing to build two stadiums if I was so inclined. When that funding arrives, I will trust that you will use all of your financial skills and inventiveness to make sure the sudden influx of money is allocated so as not to be easily traced.”
Banks leaned forward and rested his chin on his clenched fists. “You mean business as usual.”
Mason shrugged. “But on a much grander scale this time around. This might take some creative bookkeeping on your part, but that’s why you’re the man. I just stopped by to give you a personal heads up. We’re family after all, and that’s something you should never take for granted.”
The threat was unspoken, but it hung in the air like noxious cigar smoke. Banks tapped his hands together. “I’ll come up with something. I always do. No worries, Pete.”
Mason smiled with a toothy grin that probably cost more than a year of Bank’s salary. He pointed across the desk with both index fingers shaped into guns. “I don’t worry about you Gerry; never have and never will.”
Banks picked up a pen and jotted a quick note about what the accounting might entail. He used words that were in a code that only he understood. “So, before you get back to Miami, you said you wanted to discuss Arthur Beckworth and the game this weekend.”
Mason looked puzzled. “I thought we already had talked about poor Arthur. While the man’s death is a sad and horrifying affair, there is nothing more to say about it. Life goes on and all that. His untimely demise has caused a small glitch in my plans, but we’ll work around it. Mason Cruise Lines Ballpark and the hydrofoil line will be an overwhelming success.”
Banks thought carefully about his next question, or whether to even ask it at all. He really wanted to hear Mason’s perspective. “You realize that you’ll probably be questioned in the scope of the investigation into Beckworth’s death. You were one of the last people to see him alive. Just for my own curiosity, what happened at dinner when Beckworth vanished?”
Mason grinned. “That’s why I have an entire team of lawyers on my payroll, Gerry. So I don’t have to answer questions from the police. We have worked out a written statement, and we’ll see if that satisfies them. If push comes to shove, I will gladly answer whatever questions they may have for me.”
Banks put his hand on his chest. “But you can tell me, we’re family.”
Mason suddenly felt put out, and made no attempt to hide his annoyance. “Go ahead, Gerry. You can ask me one question, but just one. And it’s only because we’re family and the fact that I feel true remorse that you have to have sex with my sister.”
Another condescending slap in the face, but after years of Peter Mason’s derision, Gerald Bank’s cheeks had turned to leather. “What really happened to Arthur Beckworth?”
Mason stood up and walked over to the window. To the east, he could see the concrete plants that would soon be demolished to make way for his dream. The water in the Saint John’s River beyond the dilapidated structures flowed north, one only of two rivers in the world, the other being the Nile. This ballpark would be his pyramid, the monument to his legacy. Nothing and nobody would stop him. “I’ll tell you what I wrote in my statement for the authorities,” he said, casually. “Arthur Beckworth excused himself from the middle of a delightful dinner with the rest of the Jacksonville City Commission and their spouses and never returned. I was just as shocked as anyone to hear of his grisly demise. How he ended up where he did is anyone’s guess.”
Bravo, Banks thought. “So not one guest questioned his suddenly vacant seat? No one asked, ‘where’d he go’?”
Mason was still envisioning the crowded stadium sitting majestically on the empty field behind the concrete plants. “Everyone was having too enjoyable an evening, I guess. The steak au poivre was impeccable, and the conversation was, I must admit, quite fascinating all night.”
Bank
s swiveled in his chair to look at Mason at the massive glass wall. “So nobody took a head count when they boarded the jet home? No one asked where the hell Beckworth went? That’s the story you’re sticking to?”
Mason had his right hand pressed upon the glass, trying to block out the unsightly concrete silos that stood in his way. “It’s the truth. I didn’t notice he hadn’t returned, and as far as the other commissioners, they will tell the events of that evening from their own perspectives. I can only state what I know myself.”
Banks had to press the subject further, well aware that any action Mason took unilaterally could have dire effects on the company. “But it’s common knowledge that Beckworth was a leading opponent of the stadium project. So you’re telling me there was no animosity during the dinner, and nothing happened or was said to make Beckworth suddenly leave his excellent steak au poivre behind?”
Mason turned and glared at his brother-in-law. “I don’t think I appreciate your prosecutorial tone, Gerald. Please don’t speak to me about this subject again. We have more important issues to discuss. I’ve come here to finalize plans for this weekend’s exhibition game and the maiden launch of the Hydra next week, and I don’t want this cloud hanging over us. Let my legal eagles deal with any queries the authorities may have. We have too much at stake. This game and the Hydra’s first passenger voyage to Bermuda need to run as smooth as a newborn’s ass. There are going to be a lot of important dignitaries onboard, and the weather is perfect. Not a storm cloud in the forecast for the entire week.”
Gerald Banks apologized if he had offended Mason with his line of questioning and the apology was grudgingly accepted. He turned back to his desk, picked up the phone and called for an immediate staff meeting. He smiled confidently at his brother-in-law. There was no cause for concern; everything would go as planned.
22
Petty Officer Scott Simms sat in the outer office of the City of Jacksonville’s Forensics Lab and stared at the clock. The dial read nine-fifteen. That wasn’t a problem. The problem was that Simms had been sitting and staring at the same clock for nearly two hours.
“Are you sure that I can’t get you something to eat or drink, Mr. Simms?” the not-unattractive secretary asked.
“It’s Petty Officer Simms, ma’am,” Simms replied. “But thank you anyway.’
The secretary smiled cordially. The Petty Officer had arrived half an hour before her shift started and was waiting patiently in the hallway until she unlocked the office. “You’re here to see Toby Bilston, correct?” She asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m accompanying a body that the Coast Guard has turned over to this department for examination. It’s critical that I…”
The office door swung open, and Toby Bilston trudged in. He had just enough time to run home, kiss Harriett and jump in a shower before heading into the office. Working on no sleep was taking its toll on his disposition and patience.
“Good morning, Toby,” the secretary chirped.
Toby set his leather briefcase down on her desk and grunted totally unaware of the Petty Officer’s presence behind him. “Mail?”
The secretary shook her head. “Not yet, but as soon as it arrives, I’ll bring it into you.”
Toby tapped his fingers impatiently on the handle of the briefcase. “Lauren King. Is she in yet?”
“I wouldn’t know, Toby. Do you want me to call the Detective’s Squad room for you?
“Please. I want her here when we do the Beckworth autopsy. The body did arrive, correct?
The secretary hit a few keys on her computer and checked the screen. “Arrived at four o’clock this morning. Drawer twelve twenty-nine.”
Toby nodded tiredly. “Good. I want to throw down a few cups of coffee and then get to work as soon as King arrives. Let me know when you track her down.”
Petty Office Simms stood up and cleared his throat. Toby was surprised by the noise and flinched.
“This is Petty Officer Simms,” the secretary was almost gun shy to announce. “He’s here to see you.”
Toby turned slowly and eyed Simms the way someone with no sleep in almost twenty-four hours would eye any annoyance. “You’re Admiral Baer’s man, correct?”
“Yes, sir. I’m here accompanying Ensign Hale’s body. Admiral Baer speaks very highly of you.”
Toby grabbed his briefcase and let the heft of it drag down his arm. “I might have forgotten that you were coming. It’s been pretty hectic around here. We’re in the middle of the investigation of one of our City Commissioners.”
Simms nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ve been listening to the story on the television. I know you’re a very busy man, but Ensign Hale’s remains might hold the clues to why a United States Coast Guard cutter was destroyed along with the lives of nearly fifty seamen onboard.”
“The Truman. What a terrible tragedy. Your Admiral was very vague when it came to the cause of the ship’s sinking.”
“Yes, sir. May I be perfectly candid with you, sir?”
Toby suddenly felt uncomfortable. “You don’t need to keep calling me ‘sir,’ Petty Officer. Please just call me Toby or Dr. Bilston. Whichever makes you feel more comfortable? I get the whole military etiquette thing, but we’re pretty casual here in my lab.”
“Okay, Dr. Bilston, is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
Toby looked at his secretary and widened his eyes. “Sure, Petty Officer. We can talk in my office. Is ‘Petty Officer’ how you prefer to be addressed?”
“Today it is Doctor. Today I am here representing the deceased men and women of the Truman.”
Toby held open the door to his office for Simms and glanced back at the secretary. “Coffee…now. Better make it a whole pot.”
Simms took a seat in front of Toby’s desk and waited while the doctor settled in. “It’s been a crazy twenty-four hours, Petty Officer. I’m sorry if I seem a bit distracted. I want you to know that I am fully aware of the importance of your visit and that although I wish some days I were twins or even triplets, I will do my best to help answer any questions Ensign Hale’s body proffers.”
Simms couldn’t help but be impressed by the number of diplomas adorning the office walls. Besides the degrees, there were pictures of the doctor posing with various dignitaries and celebrities, from World Champion Boxer Muhammad Ali to the former Prime Minister of England, Margaret Thatcher.
“You run with a pretty impressive crowd,” Simms confessed.
Toby reached into his briefcase and pulled out an egg sandwich on an English muffin his wife had prepared him as he ran out of the house. “Do you mind if I eat in front of you?”
“Of course not,” Simms said, “There’s a lot of sheepskin on these walls.”
Toby swallowed a bite of his sandwich and wondered what was taking his secretary so long with the coffee. “Lesson One, Petty Officer Simms. Never stop learning. You stop learning, and your brain dies a little more each day.”
Simms smile. “I’ll have to remember that.”
Toby wiped a crumb away from the corner of his mouth. “See? Lesson learned.”
The secretary walked into the office carrying a carafe of coffee and two mugs with Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office logos. “Would you like a cup, Petty Officer Simms?”
Simms declined. “Never acquired a taste for it, ma’am.”
Toby looked at his secretary and guffawed. “Ma’am. Wait until I start calling you ‘ma’am.”
She shot her boss a wicked stare and stormed out of the office. Toby poured himself a cup of coffee and savored every sip. “Elixir of the Gods,” he sighed. “So what has you all hot and bothered, Petty Officer Simms? What is so crucial to this investigation that made you escort Ensign Hale personally to my facility?”
Simms straightened up in his chair. “May I be candid, Dr. Bilston?”
Toby balled up the aluminum foil wrapper from h
is sandwich and threw it into the trash basket in the corner. “Swish,” he declared, before turning his attention back to his guest. “I already told you Petty Officer. You are among friends here. If you tell me something in confidence, it will stay that way unless I feel it breaches the law, military or civilian. Then the cat’s out of the bag.”
Simms nodded his understanding. “Of course, Doctor. I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”
“So then talk to me,” Toby said.
The Petty Officer stared across the desk making sure he never lost eye contact or the Doctor’s attention. “I don’t believe Ensign Hale died from drowning.”
Toby leaned back in his seat. “I really haven’t read any of the incident reports yet, but wasn’t the Ensign found floating in the ocean?”
“He was, but he managed to hang on until he was dragged onboard the Intrepid.”
“Your ship?”
Simms nodded. “The Ensign was able to utter one word before he succumbed. I heard him say it as plain as day.”
“And this single word holds some significance?”
Simms nodded. “I believe so.”
Toby reached across his desk for a pen and prepared to write. “And that word?”
“I’d rather not say. It doesn’t matter to the outcome of your autopsy, does it?”
Toby carefully placed the pen back on the desktop. “You put me in a very awkward position, Petty Officer. I thought we held a mutual respect for each other, yet you would withhold information that you feel might be significant to this case. I’m not sure I am comfortable with this arrangement.”
Simms leaned forward and placed both hands on Toby’s desk. “Look, Doctor, I understand that I’m cryptic here, and I apologize for my discretion, but I have only the very best of intentions. I need you to examine Ensign Hale and let me know if there might have been some other cause that led to his drowning.”
Toby looked confused. “You’re implying that someone drowned him?”