by Thomas Scott
Sheriff Powell dropped his eyelids a fraction. “He says it’s arson.”
“Sounds like he knows what he’s talking about then.”
“Oh come on, Jonesy. You know those guys don’t do anything except determine cause and half the time they’re wrong about that. They all think they’re Quincy or something but the truth is, they come in, sniff a few wires, cut a deal with the insurance company and call it a day. I need someone who can find these punks and put a stop to it.”
“Quincy? Jesus, Jerry, how old are you?”
“Still young enough to kick your butt.”
“Hmm. You may be right about that. Look, Jerry, maybe you haven’t heard, but—”
Powell’s laugh cut him short. “Maybe I haven’t heard? You’re kidding right? Half the criminals in the state are celebrating as we speak. I said I was going to call you at your office, but I knew you wouldn’t be there. That’s why I came here. The county wants to hire you and Wheeler to catch these guys. Word is, you two have started your own shop. A retired fed and an ex-state investigator? When it comes to getting new clients you guys will be beating them back with a stick. I figured I better get you while the gettin’s good.” He put out his hand to shake. “If you can come over to my office tomorrow you can review the files and we’ll work out the details and budget and so on and so forth. What do you say?”
Virgil shook his hand, but said, “Let me call you in the morning, if that’s okay.”
He nodded, picked up his hat and stood from his seat. “Fair enough. My best to Sandy. Talk to you tomorrow.”
He started to walk away, but before he got too far, Virgil said, “Hey, Jerry?”
He turned back. “Yeah?”
“Which half?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said half the criminals in the state are celebrating. Which half?”
The sheriff set his hat squarely on his head and checked its placement in the bar mirror before he answered. “The smart ones,” he said to his own reflection. “I’ll be expecting your call, Jonesy.”
When Virgil turned around, Murton was staring at him, the grin on his face as wide as ever.
Nichole Pope told them about her brother, Nicky and how the police had, in her opinion, all but given up on catching his killer. “I don’t know if it’s because they don’t have a body, or if it’s because they don’t have any evidence, or if it’s something else entirely. But I do know this, they’ve made exactly no progress and I’m tired of waiting.”
“There’s something you should know, Ms. Pope, before we go any further,” Virgil said. He never got a chance to finish.
“I know who you are, Detective. It was a long time ago. You didn’t kill my father. He got himself killed. The choices he made…I’m speaking of the choices in that moment…they were his own. He got a raw deal out of life and it ended badly, but the responsibility was on him. I don’t see how anyone, especially you, Detective, could possibly see it any differently.”
“Still, I’d like to apologize for what happened. And it’s not ‘detective’ anymore. I’m no longer with the state police.”
Virgil’s revelation didn’t seem to surprise her. “I accept your apology.” Her eyes turned down for a few seconds, her thoughts somewhere else. When she looked back at him she said, “How about we leave it at that?”
Virgil knew full well the reason he was alive today was because of the sacrifice Sandy’s father had made on his behalf. The costs associated with Chief Small’s actions were enormous, not only for him, but for Sandy as well. Because of Virgil, Sandy grew up without a father.
Though Virgil had always done his best to rationalize that the death of James Pope was not his fault, the fact remained that he was the one who pulled the trigger. Could he have responded differently to that call? He just didn’t know. Further, he didn’t know if anyone else would have either. Fate played a major role in the events of that day. Had Virgil been closer when the call came in it stood to reason that he would have gotten there sooner and prevented the escalation of events, thus saving Pope instead of killing him. Virgil did know however that the burden he carried over the death of Sandy’s father was one that would remain with him forever. Was it not then reasonable to assume that the death of James Pope by Virgil’s own hand could have been a portent of things yet to come? Were the consequences he would have to face as a result of his own actions some sort of destiny? He simply didn’t know. “I took your father from you. You grew up…”
“Detective…I’m sorry, Mr. Jones…”
“Please, call me Jonesy.”
“Very well then. Jonesy.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on top of his and Virgil could feel a slight tremble in her touch. “His path was set the minute he got together with my mother. They just weren’t right for each other. She drove him crazy and I’m sure he did the same to her. They were wrong for each other and I’ll tell you what else, they were wrong for us. My struggle for all these years has been to try to balance the fact that I am both of them together. I am half my mom and half my dad. I am in fact, the sum of two parts that never quite fit together. My parents weren’t bad people, they were just bad together. Do you know what that kind of thing does to your emotional state, especially as a young child?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Then I’m happy for you. I really am. But let me tell you something, no matter the struggles my brother and I had to endure, we made it. We somehow managed to survive and do well for ourselves. Our mother passed when we weren’t yet legal adults but we have been taking care of each other ever since. If you hadn’t shot…” She cut herself off, visibly swallowed and then started over. “Had my father not made the choices he made that terrible day, had Nicky and I not been there to see it…had he survived, I think things would be very different for all of us, don’t you?”
“Yes, I’m sure they would. But you have to understand, even as we sit here right now, for me, it’s like time has stopped. You will always be that five-year-old girl who watched me shoot her father to death. I don’t know how I could possibly put that aside to help you now.”
“Maybe the way to do that, Jonesy, is to consider it a form of repayment. Let the death of my father go by helping me catch my brother’s killer. Can you do that?”
“I had a very good man tell me not long ago that no one ever gets to turn the lights back on and replay the last inning. I think he’s right.”
“Would that man’s name be Murton Wheeler?” she said.
Virgil looked over at Murton. Clearly Nichole Pope was not one to be underestimated.
What exactly would you like us to do Nichole?” Murton asked.
“I’d like you to bring my brother’s killer to justice.”
“So even without a body, the police have told you your brother is dead?” Virgil asked.
Her lower lip trembled when she spoke. “Yes. They say there’s no doubt. They’ve taken random samples of the blood from his apartment and matched it against my own. Every single sample they’ve taken is a perfect match. It’s his blood. All of it. He’s gone. I’ll pay you whatever you require, but please, find whoever did this, will you? The police—I’ve been dealing with Detective Miles—are saying that without a body, no matter the amount of blood, there isn’t anything they can really do. Quite honestly, I don’t think they’re trying all that hard. You’ve got to help me. Please.”
Virgil started to say something, but Murton beat him to the punch. “What makes you think they’re not trying very hard?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have put it that way. It’s probably not a question of effort. In fact, I think they’re trying extremely hard. I just don’t think they have any idea what’s going on. I mean, how could they? I was closer to Nicky than anybody in the entire world and I don’t have a clue.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Nichole,” Virgil said, “how did you happen to choose us?”
“It was Detective Miles. I had a very frank and honest disc
ussion with him just this morning during which I let him know that I wasn’t satisfied with his results. He suggested that I contact you.” Nichole seemed to think about what she’d just said for a few seconds, then added, “Actually his suggestion was to contact Murton. He did say he thought the two of you might end up working together.”
Virgil shot Murton a look. Murton pretended not to notice. “What do you do for a living, Nichole?”
“Is that relevant to your investigation?”
“I’ve been in law enforcement my entire adult life. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: Everything is relevant.”
She looked around the room and then adjusted herself in the chair. “I’m a collector, of sorts. I acquire things that people want and I get paid well for what I do. Money is not an object. I can afford your fee, I assure you.”
Virgil looked at Murton and said, “What is our fee, by the way?”
“So, I guess you guys are sort of new to this?” Nichole said.
“Only to the business. Not the work,” Murton said.
Delroy walked over to our table with a tray that held three tall glasses of fresh juice. He set them down without speaking, but there was no mistaking the look on his face. It was time to drink up.
“You guys are juicing?”
“I am,” Virgil said. “And if Delroy is right—Delroy here is our bar manager—I think you referred to him as ‘that nice Jamaican man.’ Anyway, if he’s right, half the city will be in here wanting his juice.”
Nichole looked up at Delroy. “I’ll bet you’re right. I love fresh organic juice.” Then she turned her attention back to Virgil and Murton. “Say, have you guys ever heard of the Gerson Therapy?”
Virgil sidestepped the Gerson question by asking Nichole to tell them everything there was to know about her brother. She spent the next twenty minutes bringing them up to speed with her brother’s life and background. It was his place of employment that caught their attention. “That seems like it must have been an interesting job, being a programmer for the lottery,” Murton said.
“Boy, you wouldn’t want to let Nicky hear you call him a programmer. It was sort of a sore spot with him.”
“Why is that?”
“Hmm, pride I think. Nicky was a code guy. Real coders—I’m talking about the guys that go forty-eight hours or more at a keyboard—that was Nicky. When he got going on something, he wouldn’t let up.”
“Like what?” Virgil asked.
“I don’t know…work stuff. He could go into work at the lottery on a Monday morning and sometimes I wouldn’t see him until Wednesday night. He’d be wired up on Red Bull, smelled like one too—a bull—but he’d be done for the week with ten hours of overtime coming on his next check.”
“So, dedicated,” Virgil said.
“Obsessed, is more like it.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Nicky? God, no.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a picture of her brother. “I mean, look at him. He looks like a younger version of Brad Pitt. He was smart as a whip, kind to everyone he met and when he told one of his jokes people would literally wet themselves with laughter. That’s not an exaggeration. I’ve seen it happen. Everybody loved him. People wanted to be him.”
Murton took the photograph of Nicholas Pope. “But still,” he said, “everybody usually has at least one person in their life who—”
Nichole was insistent. “Not Nicky, and you know what? Not me either. I think what you have to understand, is this…the kind of life Nicky and I had? After what we saw happen to our father, then losing our mother and being on our own? We learned to keep our heads down and our mouths shut. We went along to get along, if you know what I mean. It became a way of life for us. We lived it. We breathed it. Everyone loved him. No one would hurt my Nicky. We had plans. We were going to make it.”
“I’m sure you would have,” Murton said.
Virgil noticed that Nichole was consistently referring to her brother in the past tense. A small step toward acceptance. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, Nichole, but you’re wrong. Somebody wanted your brother dead.” The words landed on her as if he’d just slapped her in the face.
Murton reached across the table and took her hand, but he looked at Virgil when he spoke. “I think losing someone to violence is one of the most difficult things anyone has to endure. Most of the time there are no easy answers. Sometimes there are no answers at all.”
Virgil watched as Nichole squeezed Murton’s hand tight. She sort of bounced it on the table as she spoke. “But you’ll try, won’t you? You’ll help bring justice to my family?” Then she sat back in her chair. “Listen to me…justice to my family. I don’t have any family.”
“You can count on us,” Murton said. “Leave your contact information. Jonesy is close to the lead investigator handling your brother’s murder. We’ll talk with him and see what we can find out.”
Virgil thought about how the last few days had gone so far, in particular his trips to the MCU headquarters and the conversations he’d had with Ron Miles and Bradley Pearson. “Well, maybe close isn’t exactly the right word.”
Murton shot him a look.
“You might not be entirely correct with your last statement, Jonesy,” Nichole said as she dug through her purse. “I don’t have anything to write on…wait never mind, I’ll use this.” She pulled out her rental car contract and wrote her name and cell number on the back, ripped it off and set it on the table. “I want justice,” she said, hissing it through her teeth. Then she got up and walked out of the bar.
A few seconds later Murton stood from the table. “Where are you going?” Virgil asked.
“I have to go find a bigger stick,” he said.
After Nichole left, Virgil thought about what she’d said about her brother and his position at the lottery, wondering if his death was somehow connected to his employment, but there was also something else that he remembered. He went upstairs and sat down at the ancient computer Murton had on his desk and typed PTEK into Google’s search box. After paging through a number of results he eventually found the information he wanted. Not long ago, a company called PTEK had been hired to assume day-to-day administration of the state’s lottery operations. The move by the state was one that in effect privatized the lottery and was highly criticized by left leaning politicians and the media alike, but in the end, the passage of the bill was inevitable, mainly because PTEK promised the state close to two billion dollars in revenue over the first five years of their contract. Proponents of the bill noted that the lottery only took in an average of two hundred million per year and that PTEK would essentially be doubling that amount for a small percentage of sales as their fee.
Detractors voiced concerns that lottery earnings were supposed to go toward state funded programs—chief among them, education—and anything that PTEK took would be coming out of those funds.
The proponents argued right back that any fee due to PTEK would be minuscule and, over and above what the lottery was currently earning. And so it went, on and on for weeks…
But two billion dollars is two billion dollars and the individuals on the committee charged with putting the deal together assured the governor that it was doable, so the bill was passed, the governor signed and the deal was done. But the most interesting aspect was something not widely known. The individual that chaired the committee and pushed the bill through the state’s legislative body was none other than Bradley Pearson.
Virgil also discovered that PTEK was a subsidiary of a holding company called API. A search on API turned up a number of different companies that used those initials; the American Petroleum Institute, American Professional Institute and oddly enough, a now defunct Indiana company by the name of American Pet Insurance that had once sold veterinary medical insurance to pet owners. Virgil was about to abandon his search, but when he clicked on the next page of the results he found a listing near the bottom that identified a company with the API initials. When he cli
cked on the link he wasn’t sure if he wanted to congratulate himself or pound his head on the desk.
He took out his phone and called Becky, the researcher at the Major Crimes Unit. “How would you like to have dinner at the most popular bar in the city tonight on my tab?”
“I don’t think you can call it your tab if you own the bar. How’s it going, Jonesy?”
“It’s going well.”
“How are you, uh, feeling?”
“I’m off the meds, if that’s what you’re asking, and I feel great. Listen, I’m serious about dinner.”
“Uh huh. What do you need?”
“Something that probably only you can give me.”
“Jonesy…I thought you were happily involved with Small.”
“I am. That’s not what I meant. Are you done yanking my chain now?”
“Almost. What about Murton? Will he be there? He’s yummy.”
Murton? “Listen, Becky…”
“Okay, okay. What are you after? I might be able to help. The key word in that last sentence was might.”
“I need everything you can get me on a company called API and its owner, a guy by the name of—”
“I already have it, Jonesy. API stands for Augustus Pate International. Ron had me look that up a couple of days ago.”
“Can you send it to me?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are no longer an employee of the state and that would be a breach of protocol which would go entirely against my personal moral code of ethics and sense of civic responsibility.”
“Huh.”
“Don’t ‘huh’ me. That only works with civilians. I’d like to send it to you, but I can’t. There’d be a record of the transmission. I don’t think you’d want that.”
“No, I guess I wouldn’t.”
“How about a printed copy?”
“Even better.”
“Won’t be until tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine. Bring it by the bar. I might not be here, but Murton will.”