by Chad Zunker
“Do we understand each other, David?”
For the first time, Lyons’s eyes drifted down to the file David was holding.
“Yes, sir, we do,” David quickly answered. “I’ll get back to work ASAP.”
David spun, headed straight for the door.
THIRTY-THREE
David spent the next couple of hours camped in his office, pretending to work on his assigned caseload, just in case Lyons was keeping tabs on him. But he used most of that time secretly searching every nuance of the Upella Group and Zeitler litigation file. Again, nothing about the case stood out to him. It read like any standard case, with one company suing another over claims of misrepresentation. David was currently working on three other cases that looked almost exactly the same. The email communication in the file read just like normal everyday lawyer-speak. It wasn’t even overly contentious. Just rich lawyers on both sides getting even richer off their clients while slowly working out the details of a litigation matter. So why had Benny printed out the news article about this case and highlighted the names of Nick and Lyons? Why did Nick tell Lyons in the text exchange that he wanted to go to the police? Where was the blackmail angle that Carla had said Nick mentioned to her before his death?
Frustrated, David finally sneaked out of the building and drove over to Jen’s office. The Advocate operated out of a tiny ten-by-ten-foot office space beside an old pawnshop of crumbling bricks that sat along Twelfth Street—a block away from what Jen called Crack Alley. Jen had told David the paper had been started by a guy named Mickey Roose, a veteran of the newspaper industry who had spent forty-five years as a reporter and then as an editor. Mickey was now eighty-six and had trouble getting around. Although he came to the office once or twice a week, he’d handed the whole operation to Jen two years ago. Donations from the community barely covered Jen’s meager living costs. Most writers and editors donated their time to help with the paper. A local printer offered its machines for free. Jen said it was a far cry from her life at the Washington Post, but she’d never felt more satisfied.
When the shock of what they’d found in Benny’s belongings had worn off last night, Jen had switched into full-on investigative-reporter mode. She got busy digging deeper into everything from Benny’s bag to see if she could start putting some pieces together. She said she still had good sources and contacts from her days in Washington. After leaving the encounter with his boss, David almost hoped Jen had found something that verified that Benny was simply a crazy man who was prone to dreaming up wild conspiracies. In some ways, David wanted to put this whole ordeal behind him and get on with his regularly scheduled life. However, he couldn’t stop thinking about Larue, Doc, Shifty, Curly, and the other boys at the Camp. Doc had said he belonged with them. That had meant a lot to David. Then again, Lyons said he belonged at Hunter & Kellerman.
David felt caught in the sudden tension of two polar-opposite worlds.
Jen was at a small wooden desk with a computer that was crammed into one corner of the tiny room. A folding table next to her was covered with stacks of old newspapers that nearly touched the stained ceiling tiles. A wooden shelf was loaded down with old journalism books. The only window to the outside in the room had protective bars over it. Jen said she’d watched countless drug deals going down on the sidewalk right in front of her.
“You find anything in the file?” Jen asked him.
“Nothing,” David responded. “What about you?”
Jen handed David a printout of what looked like an official navy profile. “Benjamin Edward Dugan. I ran the photo of him and the other sailors by an old military source. Benny served from 1970 to 1978, including a stint in Atsugi, Japan, as the photo suggests.”
David stared at the face of the sailor on the printout—the wrinkle-free young face of Benny. He’d recognize those eyes anywhere. He scanned farther down the profile page on Benny and came across more intriguing info.
“Benny was an intelligence specialist?” David asked.
Jen nodded. “Office of Naval Intelligence. Benny was part of the Naval Reconnaissance and Technical Support Center.”
“So he really did know what he was doing with all of this gear?”
“Yes, that appears to be the case,” Jen agreed. “I also searched for any mention of Benjamin Edward Dugan over the past ten years. There is literally nothing out there about him. Benny completely fell off the online map a decade ago and has never resurfaced.”
“What about his family?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve found Benny’s daughter,” Jen confirmed, handing him another printout. “I cross-referenced Benny’s full name with the name Cassie Ray that we found written on the back of the photo of the woman holding the baby. There was a birth announcement in a local paper outside of Memphis about ten years ago. Benjamin Dugan was listed as the grandfather. Which, of course, would make the woman in the photo his daughter. Her name is Jessica Bowman. I have her contact information. She’s still living near Memphis. Divorced. A fourth-grade teacher, it appears. I haven’t done anything with it yet. I thought you might want to personally make that call to Jessica.”
“I do, thanks.”
Jen kept doling out new information. “I also contacted both Austin Camera and Imaging and the Austin Spy Shop. The guy at the camera place has no recollection of someone matching Benny’s description purchasing a Nikon camera, but he’s only there part-time. He agreed to ask his boss about it. I’m supposed to call back later. However, the guy who runs the Austin Spy Shop clearly remembers Benny coming in and buying the surveillance kit. He was surprised that a guy like Benny—probably meaning someone that old who looked and dressed like Benny—seemed to really know his way around some of the gear. But that’s not even the most interesting thing I found.”
“What is?”
“I contacted the taxi service that Benny used that one day. They were able to tell me the locations of the drop-off and pickup connected to those substantial charges.”
“How’d you get them to do that?”
“Said I was doing an investigative piece on taxi-company scams. They became more than eager to help me and verify they were legitimate.”
“I’ll bet. So where did Benny go?”
“A medical care facility outside San Antonio called Harbor Courts. It’s primarily a center for residents suffering from severe dementia.”
David pondered that reveal. “Wonder who Benny went there to see?”
Jen shrugged. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Let’s go find out.”
THIRTY-FOUR
They immediately jumped into his Range Rover and headed south on I-35. The navigation system said they could be at the medical facility within an hour and a half. David put a heavy foot on the gas pedal. He decided to keep his earlier conversation with Lyons private from Jen for now. Larue’s arraignment with the judge was scheduled for nine the following morning. The way David figured, he still had about nineteen hours to sort through all this before he faced an agonizing decision. He grimaced at the prospect of telling Jen and the boys at the Camp that he could no longer represent Larue.
Speeding down the highway, with Jen continuing to do research on her cell phone, David thought about Benny’s visit to this facility. Someone crucial to the situation had to be living there. The old man wouldn’t have spent $500 on cab rides for no good reason. David could feel the anticipation building. What was behind all this? The old man had orchestrated a dangerous back-alley encounter with David, using a hired muscle-bound actor, and had allowed himself to take a serious physical blow—one that could have put Benny in the hospital for good with permanent brain damage. Why would Benny put himself at such risk? The old man had clearly chosen David in advance in an effort to somehow get access to monitor Marty Lyons. Why?
On the drive, David made the difficult phone call to Jessica Bowman, Benny’s estranged daughter. He had no idea if Benny had been in contact with her, so it felt awkward to call her up out of th
e blue and explain that her father was now dead—killed in cold blood. The call went straight to voice mail. Rather than explaining anything in his message, David simply identified himself, said the call was about a man named Benjamin Dugan, and asked her to please call him back.
Harbor Courts was an exquisite, one-story redbrick building in an affluent neighborhood of parks, trails, and lush greenery. They parked in a visitor spot out front and entered the main lobby. A well-decorated sitting area was to the left. David walked up to the front desk, where they were greeted by a woman with brown hair with a name tag that said Rebecca.
She looked up, smiled appropriately. “Can I help you?”
“I sure hope so,” David replied. He dropped his attorney business card. “My name’s David Adams, and this is my associate, Jen Cantwell. I’m an attorney representing the estate of a man named Benjamin Dugan. Mr. Dugan visited your facility a few weeks back.” David showed her the photo of Benny he had on his phone. “We need to verify whom this man came here to see on that day.”
Rebecca looked uneasy. “Oh, okay. Well, I’m not really sure how to handle that. We have very strict privacy policies here.”
“This is a very important legal matter, Rebecca,” David pressed.
“I understand that . . . it’s just . . . let me get our director to speak with you.”
Rebecca stood, then disappeared down a hallway. David and Jen shared a look. Would this work? Standing there, David noticed a young black woman in her twenties behind the front counter, filing paperwork in cabinets. She’d been watching their conversation closely. Two minutes later, a stern-faced fiftysomething woman wearing a black suit walked in front of the check-in counter and stood face-to-face with them. She did not have the look of a woman who was easily intimidated. She looked like a bulldog in a suit. She offered a hand to them both, introduced herself as Jackie, director of Harbor Courts.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Adams?” she asked.
“As I explained to Rebecca, I need to verify whom my client visited while he was here with you a few weeks ago. I have the exact date, if that’s helpful.”
“I’m afraid we can’t give you that information without a court order. It goes directly against the confidentiality agreements we have in place with our residents and their families. I’m very sorry I can’t help you.”
David stood his ground. They could not leave without finding out whom Benny saw. “Look, Jackie, I appreciate your confidentiality, I do. I certainly understand the need for it legally. But I also need you to understand something.” He again held up the photo of Benny on his phone. “This man, my client, was killed in cold blood two nights ago. Violently gunned down in an alley. Police are investigating. It’s a big mess. We think there could be a connection here. I’m trying to save you the trouble of being pulled into the middle of all of it.”
David peeked over, again spotted the young woman monitoring their heated conversation. When she noticed his glance, she quickly looked away.
The bulldog didn’t budge an inch. “My deepest condolences about your client. That’s horrible to hear. But it unfortunately doesn’t change our stance on confidentiality. We simply can’t make exceptions for anyone outside of a court order.”
Frustrated, David and Jen walked slowly back to the parking lot. After getting into his car, David watched as the young woman who’d been filing paperwork briskly made her way from the front doors of Harbor Courts and ran over to his Range Rover. David rolled down his window as she approached.
“Can I see the photo?” she asked David. Her name tag said Kim.
He pulled up the photo of Benny, showed it to her. She took a good, hard look at it.
“Was he really murdered?” she asked, looking across to Jen, who nodded.
“Two days ago,” Jen confirmed.
Kim covered her mouth, eyes still on the photo. “That’s so tragic.”
“Do you recognize him?” David asked.
“Yes, I remember him well,” Kim replied. “He was so sweet. I was having a really bad day, and he was kind enough to ask me if I was okay. I don’t usually talk about my life with strangers, but this man just had an inviting way about him. I told him that my car had broken down a week prior, and I was exhausting myself while having to take my two children on a city bus every morning and afternoon, all the way across town, to get to their school. Both of my kids go to a special school to help them with learning issues. The travel time had put an incredible strain on us, but I didn’t have the money to get my car fixed—everything I had was going to pay for this school. Right on the spot, this nice old man pulled four hundred dollars out of his pocket and gave it to me. And he didn’t ask for anything in return. I couldn’t believe it.”
David smiled. “That sounds like Benny.”
“He didn’t sign in as Benny,” Kim said, confused. “He used a different name, although I can’t recall it at the moment.”
“Do you know who he was here to see?” Jen asked.
Kim nodded, shifted awkwardly. “He came to see Jerry. He had this little video camera with him, said he was putting something together for a reunion with former navy buddies. He spent several hours in Jerry’s room. I peeked in a few times. Jerry never says much to anyone. He mostly just sits in his room all day, staring blankly out the window, completely disoriented. But I could tell something clicked for Jerry that day when this nice old man was with him. It was like the fog briefly cleared, which sometimes happens when our residents have visitors from their pasts. For a brief moment, you get to see who they were before they came to us.”
David glanced over at Jen. A video camera?
“What is Jerry’s last name?” he asked Kim.
“Landon. Jerry Landon.”
David noticed Jen jotting the name down on a small notepad. He decided to ask for something bolder. “Kim, can you get us in to see Jerry?”
Another uneasy shift of weight. Then she nodded. “Okay. That man, Benny, was an absolute angel to me that day.” She pointed over toward the side of the building. “Take the sidewalk through the gate. Jerry is all the way in the back. Meet me by the outside doors to the reflection gardens in a few minutes.”
Kim rushed back inside. They waited.
“They must have served together,” David said to Jen.
Jen nodded. “Jerry is one of the names on the back of Benny’s photo.”
After a few minutes, they got out and circled around the side of the building, where they found a lush garden area. Several residents were out walking in the gardens. A few were in wheelchairs accompanied by what looked like family members. David and Jen approached the facility door that led to the gardens. Kim was ready for them. She opened the door, quickly ushered them inside. They followed her down a hallway, turned a corner, and stopped in front of a door to a resident’s room. David looked through a small window, where he saw an old man sitting in a chair by a curtained window. A bed set was on one side of the spacious room, a sofa and two chairs on the other. The room was warm and well decorated.
“Please be quick,” Kim begged them. “I don’t want to lose my job.”
“We will, I promise,” Jen reassured her. “Will he talk to us?”
Kim shrugged. “Like I said, he never says a word. But he did with Benny. I’ll wait here until you’re finished.”
David and Jen opened the bedroom door, entered Jerry’s room. The old man never turned to look or even acknowledge their presence. David approached him cautiously, entering the man’s line of sight. Jerry wore brown slacks, black slippers, and a gray cardigan. He looked frail beneath the clothes. Yet he still had a thick head of silver hair.
“Hi, Jerry, my name’s David. This is Jen.”
Jerry never moved. His eyes remained locked on the window.
“We’re friends with Benny,” Jen added.
Again, no response from Jerry. Not even an eye flinch.
Jen knelt in front of the man, using her warmest voice. “Do you remember Benny Dugan? Benny from
the navy?”
Jerry took a slow glance at Jen but again didn’t say anything. While Jen continued to try to gently pull Jerry out of the fog somehow, David wandered over to a set of bookshelves in the room. They were filled with framed photos of what looked like different grandkids of various ages. A more upright and alert Jerry was in the middle of several of them, looking like a much different man than he was right now. On one shelf, David found a framed picture of a young Jerry wearing his navy uniform. Right next to it, he found the exact same group photo that Benny had in his possession. Seven men all standing together on a dock somewhere. Benny was the first guy on the left. From comparing the solo photo of Jerry in uniform, David noted that he was the second guy from the right. They had indeed served together. Opening the frame, David pulled the photo out. There was nothing written on the back.
“Jen?” David said, showing her the photo.
She walked over, took a look. “Maybe we can track down some of the other guys in the photo. See if they can tell us anything.”
“If Benny took a video of Jerry, where is it?” David asked. “We have all of his things.”
Jen shrugged. “And, more important, what’s on it?”
David looked back over at the frail old man. “No luck, huh?”
She shook her head. “It’s really sad.”
“Okay, come on,” David said. “Let’s not get Kim into trouble.”
“Wait,” Jen said, grabbing another framed photo from the bookshelf. In the photo, a healthy version of Jerry stood by a younger man, probably in his late thirties, who shared his likeness. Behind them was a building with Upella Group plastered on the front. “Jerry is connected to the Upella Group?”
“Joe Landon,” David said, suddenly putting two and two together. “He’s the founder and CEO of the Upella Group. Jerry must be his father.”