by Tim Green
Copyright © 2004 by Tim Green
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group, USA, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.hachettebookgroupusa.com
First eBook Edition: February 2004
ISBN: 978-0-446-50486-7
Contents
Also by Tim Green
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Preface
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
EPILOGUE
Also by Tim Green
Fiction
Ruffians
Titans
Outlaws
The Red Zone
Double Reverse
The Letter of the Law
The Fourth Perimeter
The Fifth Angel
Nonfiction
The Dark Side of the Game
A Man and His Mother: An Adopted Son’s Search
For my Illyssa,
because the day I met you
was the best thing that ever
happened to me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some of the best things in this book, and the book itself, couldn’t have been without the help of others: my agent, Esther Newberg; my editors, Rick Wolff and Sara Ann Freed; and my parents, Richard and Judy Green, for their careful reading and constructive criticism; my friends in the Syracuse Police Department, Inspector Michael Kerwin and Detective Pete Patnode, for their endless patience in answering my questions; Exec Air manager Mark Germia and chief pilot John Leary; Pat Scova of the Valhalla (N.Y.) Town Clerk’s Office, for helping a stranger; and all the people from my Warner Books family, including Larry Kirshbaum, Maureen Egen, Jamie Raab, Chris Barba, Dan Ambrosio, Mari Okuda, Flamur Tonuzi, and Tina Andreadis.
I thank you all.
In addition, once again, a very special thanks to my brother in words and my particular friend Ace Atkins.
A Special Tribute to the Memory of Sara Ann Freed
In June 2003, Sara Ann Freed, my coeditor and friend, left this world much sooner than she should have. For those of us at Warner Books who knew her, a light went out, but we will always remember her easy smile and the warmth she brought with her to share wherever she went.
Sara Ann, you will be sorely missed—but never forgotten.
“I sometimes think that all you tell me of knighthood, kingdoms, empires and islands is all windy blather and lies.”
Sancho Panza
Don Quixote, Book 1, Part 15
PROLOGUE
His name was Nobody. Nobody Jones. Nobody Smith. His passport and cruise ship ticket said Mott, a name he’d found on a bottle of apple juice. You could do such things without much effort when you knew the right people and you had the money. Official documents and tickets were only what you told people you were. He liked being Mr. Nobody. Especially Nobody on a vacation.
On the third day, they’d cruised out of Jamaica and headed over to Grand Cayman. He spent most of his time on deck by the pool, watching the women slather themselves with suntan oil and drink funny little drinks with umbrellas. There was nothing like this in Ukraine. This was like Mars.
But now he had a feel for it all. He knew the ship. He knew the people, their habits, and the way they talked to one another. There was a group of twenty-something men who sat around a glass table under the eaves of the bar playing a drinking game they called quarters. He had practiced in his cabin, bouncing his own quarter off of the small bathroom vanity and into his drinking glass.
There was an empty chair. He bought two pitchers of beer at the bar, and standing there in his flowered shirt and khaki shorts, he asked if he could play.
They looked at him, grinning, red-faced from too much sun and too much drink. Two laughed out loud. One grin turned into a frown.
“Sure,” someone said.
He plopped down the pitchers in the middle of the others. Beer sloshed up over the lip of one and spilled into the swill that already lathered the tabletop. He sat down and adjusted his straw hat. He stroked his thick mustache, and the game began again. Quarters bounced off the glass. Some went awry, finding the deck. Many plunked into the drinking glass full of beer and they shone brightly from the bottom amid the swirl of bubbles and golden liquid.
You had to point with your elbow, or you were the one who had to drink. He learned fast though, and soon his own dark hairy elbow was flashing around the table, making the others drink. There were groans and a few cheerful curses. He flagged a waitress for four more pitchers and then lost his turn on purpose so as not to hog the game.
The laughter grew hot, like the sunbaked wood beneath his feet. They began to call him the Russian Bear. He had to roll back a sneer. He was a Soviet from Ukraine. He’d told them that. Hadn’t he shown them the CCCP lapel pin stuck to the collar of his shirt? Leave it to a handful of American jackasses not to know the difference.
It was his turn again. He reached into his pocket and fingered the little wax bead until it broke. Then he bounced the quarter into glass after glass, sending beer all around the table.
It was half an hour before a tall thin man with bad skin and a shock of short blond hair popped up out of his seat, turned, and vomited in the general direction of the pool, spattering three rows of deck chairs. Screams erupted, and two of the people in deck chairs got sick as well.
The Soviet stroked his wiry mustache and left the table in the midst of the uproarious howls of his new friends. He climbed the stairs to the deck that overlooked the bar and pool. There was a chair by the railing with no one in it. He removed the soggy towel from its back and sat down to watch. Within a half hour, two more young men lurched to their feet, also sick. The game broke up, and he went to the casino.
The next day the ship stopped at Cozumel. The Soviet was in the casino again when the fat lady next to him at the blackjack table turned green, clutched her stomach, and hustled fo
r the bathroom. Later, a farmer from Ohio lost his ham sandwich at the roulette wheel and the casino shut down amid the twittering laughter.
That night less than half the vacationers showed up for dinner. People stared accusingly at one another and if someone coughed, heads turned and hands gripped the table’s edge. Waiters in cheap tuxedos shot nervous glances at one another and spoke in subdued tones about the three-layer chocolate cake. The Soviet drank a good deal of the tart cork-tainted Chardonnay and grinned around at the others, who sat at the half-empty table picking at their food.
On deck at 2 A.M., a helicopter sputtered secretly down out of the dark sky. Medivac. Two gurneys were hurried out across the deck. In the flashing lights of the helicopter, he could see the wincing faces. Tubes in their noses. IV bottles swinging above them. Nobody knew that they probably wouldn’t make it. Word spread fast. By 6 A.M. there was an angry crowd outside the bridge demanding that the ship return immediately to port.
Later that day, as they were pulling into Miami, a line snaked in front of the ship’s hospital, all the way out onto the deck. People covered their faces with T-shirts and makeshift masks. A dozen people were trampled by the crowd pushing to get down the stairs and off the ship. The Soviet waited patiently, then tugged the wrinkles out of his flowered shirt and marched ashore with his leather briefcase, trying not to smile at other people’s misfortune. But who could have blamed him for smiling? After all, it had been a very fine vacation.
CHAPTER 1
Tom Redmon didn’t need to hear more, but he knew the couple needed to talk. Beneath the desk, he clenched and unclenched his hand, squeezing the tennis ball, trying to be patient. Finally they finished. The mother was sniffing and dabbing her eyes with a napkin from McDonald’s. He looked past them and out through the old glass to a bright locust tree, wavy and distorted.
In his office, the paneling of one wall sagged under the weight of diplomas. A 1996 calendar of a German castle high on a mountaintop hung by a pushpin. In a wood frame was a cheap print of van Gogh’s View of Montmartre with Windmills. Tom loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. Size nineteen. If he could have, he’d have taken off his coat.
The couple was young. Their little girl sat between them, her eyes hollow, her head bald and white. When she smiled, her teeth shone gray, with great gaps between them. The father worked at the power plant, stoking coal. The mother stayed at home. There were four other kids too. None of them were sick. Yet.
Tom slapped his hand on the desk and said, “We’ll sue them.”
“Who?” the father asked.
“Everyone,” Tom said, standing. “GE. The State of New York. The City of Ithaca. The Power Authority. The EPA and the DEC.”
“Everyone?”
“I mean it,” Tom said. “I’ve done it before. I just sued the New York State Dormitory Authority and won.
“These big corporations. These colossal government entities. They need to be taken down, and that’s what I do, Mr. Helmer. Don’t you worry, Mrs. Helmer. They’ll pay.”
“I just want her to be okay,” she said through the napkin.
“We all do,” Tom said.
He patted the little girl on the shoulder. She smiled up at him.
“I’ll have the papers ready for you to sign by the beginning of next week,” Tom said. “Say Tuesday. How’s ten?”
He opened the door and Sarah, his secretary, looked up from her romance novel. She was sixty. Yellow hair. Cat glasses and chewing gum.
“Tuesday at ten for the Helmers, Sarah,” he said. “We’ll start on the papers first thing tomorrow morning.”
He showed them out and turned to Sarah. She sat staring blankly at him.
“The property management company called again,” she said.
“That’s the problem,” he said, smiling. “When one man owned this building, a favor here and there wasn’t forgotten. Now it’s a nameless, faceless LLP that you can’t appease and you can’t kill.”
“We are two months late.”
“Let them evict me,” he said. He winked and grinned and took off his blazer and lost the tie. “Take the rest of the day, Sarah. Get some sun.”
“You’ve got Mr. Potter scheduled for three-thirty.”
“Cancel it.”
“Tom, they will evict you.”
“Cancel it. This Helmer case could be the big one.”
“We’ve had a lot of big ones, Tom,” she said. “They never pay. The small stuff is what pays.”
“We got the janitor.”
“That’s one. They settled because their witness died, remember? Mr. Potter will pay a retainer up front. I told him that on the phone and he agreed.”
“Sarah,” he said. “I know you care, and I appreciate that. But I’m sick and tired of DUIs and shoplifters and aggravated assaults. I’m tired of drug dealers, pickpockets, drunks, crack-heads, motorcycle gangs, and dregs. These are the people I used to put in jail.”
“You’re a defense lawyer, Tom. You need money to file that suit. You need an index number. You need an investigator,” she said. She was standing now, with her hands on her thick hips. “You already owe Mike Tubbs six thousand dollars.”
“He sent a bill?”
“Of course not,” she said, pressing her lips tight.
Tom flattened the tennis ball and rubbed his chin.
“Then reschedule Potter for Thursday and go get some sun,” he said. “It’s beautiful out there. And do me a favor, will you? Dial up Mike Tubbs and tell him I’ll meet him at Friendly’s at three-thirty, sharp.”
“Of course,” Sarah said.
CHAPTER 2
At Friendly’s Ice Cream, Tom edged past a sunburned crowd of summer tourists wearing visors, shorts, and golf shirts to where an empty booth waited for him in the back. The waitress set down two sweaty glasses of water just as Mike Tubbs stumbled in, jostling the tourists. Thirty years old. Flirting with the three-hundred-pound mark. A head of thinning hair with small matching ginger mustache and goatee. Extremely capable.
The broad forehead beneath his fine hair was beaded with sweat. A streamer of toilet paper rode in on the bottom of his sneaker.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mike said as he wedged his way into the vinyl booth.
Tom took the younger man’s meaty hand and shook it.
“A good investigator,” Tom said, “respects time.”
Mike smiled, but his cheeks went pink.
“Sorry, I—”
“Two chocolate Fribbles,” Tom said to the waitress.
“Could you make mine light on the chocolate?” Mike said, raising an inquiring finger toward the waitress.
She scrunched up her face.
“You just make it with vanilla ice cream,” Mike said.
The waitress looked confused.
“Forget it,” Mike said. “It’s okay.”
“Okay,” she said.
“And miss,” Tom said.
“Yes, sir?” she said, barely forcing a smile.
“You better take this now,” he said, handing her his American Express card.
“This one’s on me,” he said to Mike with a wink.
“Hey, you don’t have to do that,” Mike said.
Tom raised his hand, signaling an end to any debate.
“Now,” Tom said, “you and I have some things to discuss . . .”
Mike looked down at his hands and pattered his fingers against the tabletop.
Tom smiled and leaned back into the booth, feeling a cold blast of air-conditioning on his face.
Over Mike’s shoulder, he noticed a man who had just entered the restaurant wearing a three-quarter-length army coat. His eyes were small and shifty. His face was dirty with stubble, his dark hair long. Tom squinted and started to slide out of the booth.
“Tom?” Mike said, turning to look over his shoulder.
“Shh,” Tom said. His hand was on the tabletop, his butt on the edge of the booth, his feet tucked up under his knees.
“Who wo
uld wear an army coat in the middle of summer?” Tom said in a low hiss.
“I don’t . . . know,” Mike said.
The man looked around and then marched up to the cash register. His hands were jammed in his coat pockets. He spoke to the cashier. A young girl with a paper hat whose face went suddenly pale. Her mouth, pink with lipstick, formed a perfect O.
“The price of greatness is responsibility,” Tom said under his breath, his eyes on the man.
“Churchill?”
“Yes,” Tom said. He was on the move.
“Tom?” Mike said, from somewhere behind him.
Tom was halfway there. When he hit the cluster of tourists, he shoved them aside.
“Hey,” someone said. Irate.
The girl was nodding to the man now. Frightened. Teary-eyed. She reached into the cash register, saw Tom and hesitated. The man looked over his shoulder and spun around, his hand clenching something inside the jacket pocket. Tom was in his stance. He uttered a cry.
The man’s hands darted from his pockets. In one was a dark heavy object.
A woman screamed.
Tom shot in. He chopped one hand, then the other. The object fell to the floor. The man lunged. Tom had his arm. He pivoted and tossed the man over his hip to the floor.
When the man hit, his breath left him in a great gust. Tom was on him instantly. One hand expertly clamped to his throat. The other pinning the wrist that had held the weapon.
“I’ve got him!” Tom yelled. “Everyone back! I’ve got him!”
Someone was crying.
The robber’s eyes rolled into his head. Tom looked up. The cashier. Her pink face was crinkled. Mascara streamed down her cheeks.
“It’s all right, young lady,” Tom said. “It’s all right. Someone call the police.”
The girl cried harder.
Mike was there, bending over. He had the weapon.
“Tom,” he said, putting a hand on Tom’s shoulder. He held something in front of Tom’s face.
“Come on, Tom,” Mike said in an urgent whisper. “Let him up. It’s a wallet.”
A uniformed policeman burst in through the front door with his gun drawn. More people screamed. The herd of tourists broke past the hostess’s stand for the rear of the restaurant.