“Shepard was killed in an automobile accident when David was eight. That’s when his mother told me I was David’s real father.”
“It must have been difficult.”
Brochette took a deep breath and exhaled. “I had my suspicions when I first found out about the pregnancy.”
White studied Brochette’s face, searching for some sign of the anxiety he knew Brochette was feeling. Sharing his secret couldn’t be easy, especially under the current circumstances. Brochette seemed to know what White was thinking. “Don’t get the wrong idea about his mother. We weren’t in a serious relationship… or even exclusive one.”
“Still…”
“Yeah,” Brochette agreed with White’s unspoken words. “It was a little difficult to deal with.”
“What made his mother come to you after all that time?”
“It wasn’t money… if that’s what you were thinking. Her husband’s insurance left them with enough to get by.”
“Then why?”
“She just thought I should know. She never asked for anything, but I felt responsible and started sending her money.”
White responded with a subtile nod, just enough of a movement to indicate his understanding. “When did she tell David?”
“That I was his real father?”
“Yeah.”
“David’s mother and I stayed in touch, and we talked about telling him several times.” The quivering of his jaw suggested that Brochette was struggling with painful memories. “I thought we should tell him. But that may have been my paternal ego talking. We agreed that we should tell him sometime, but the timing never seemed right. It wasn’t until David was in high school that she came to me for help.”
“What happened when he was in high school?”
“He got mixed up with the wrong crowd and started using drugs. Marijuana mainly. He may have been using other stuff. I don’t know.”
“Was he ever arrested?” White asked as Harris continued jotting notes.
“Once… for possession… when he was a freshman in high school. That’s when his mother came to me. She knew I was a government attorney and asked for my help. I made some calls, and they let him off with community service. They expunged his record when he turned eighteen.”
“Any problems after that?”
“By his junior year, he was getting out of control. He started ignoring school, cutting classes, and hanging out with his friends until all hours of the night.”
“How do you know that?”
“As I said, his mother and I stayed in touch.”
When White didn’t ask anything else, Brochette continued. “In the spring of his junior year, two of his buddies, a couple of older kids he’d gotten involved with, were arrested. They were over eighteen, so they were sentenced as adults — five years each. I don’t know if it was because of what happened to his friends, but after they went to jail he straightened up. For a while, it seemed as if he wanted to do something with his life
As he told David’s story, Brochette began to relax and he faced White. “When he graduated, he decided to study criminal justice. I don’t know how or why he made that decision, but I admit that I was pleased. Unfortunately, his performance as a high school senior was too spotty to get into a decent college, so he started at Hillsborough Community College. He got an associate’s degree and transferred to Florida State. Then, in the middle of his junior year, he quit.”
“What did he do then?”
Brochette swallowed hard and looked away. Either the memory was too painful, or the truth was something he didn’t want to deal with. Whatever the reason, White knew there was more to the story than Brochette was going to disclose — at least not yet. Was it something Brochette was trying to hide from himself, or something Brochette was trying to hide from White? He couldn’t tell which and stored the thought away for future consideration.
Brochette seemed to finish collecting his thoughts and continued. “He pretty much dropped out of sight. Now I know he spent most of the time bumming around the Florida Keys.”
“Have you spoken to him since his arrest?”
“I’m not sure it would be good for me to be too close to the situation right now.”
It wasn’t an answer to White’s question, but White knew what Brochette was trying to say.
Brochette moved uneasily on the sofa as White and Harris looked at each other in silent communication. With nothing more than an almost imperceptible nod, they made a decision, and White broke the silence. “We’ll require an initial retainer of $50,000.” White had long since ceased being embarrassed about asking for such a large retainer for what seemed like a routine drug case.
Brochette relaxed and extended his hand. “I’m very grateful.”
3.
As the elevator door closed behind Brochette, White walked to the railing of the mezzanine and leaned against it with both arms outstretched. He had never taken a case without first meeting with his client, and he was trying to understand why he had made an exception for Brochette’s son. Brochette was little more than an acquaintance, a professional colleague at best, so friendship wasn’t the reason. And nothing Brochette had told him about the case made it particularly interesting. But he had a feeling, something that he could not explain, that this was going to become much more than a simple drug possession case.
White put his thoughts aside and headed across the mezzanine to his assistant’s desk.
Grace Matthews had worked for White ever since he had come to Fort Myers after graduating from law school. Long before he could afford a full-time secretary, let alone a qualified legal secretary or a paralegal, he had advertised for a part-time helper to do routine filing and typing. Matthews was still in high school when she appeared at his office and, with confidence far beyond her years, claimed the position. What she lacked in skills, she made up for in determination, and she made it clear in her interview that White had no choice but to hire her. She’d been a fixture in White’s firm ever since, quickly establishing herself and taking over all the details of running their little office. Now there were times it was unclear who worked for whom.
Matthews was tall and slender with mocha skin and large black eyes. She was thirty-three years old but looked much older. A bad marriage to an abusive husband, over but not forgotten, had left her bitter and distrustful. White supported her throughout her ordeal, a kindness she repaid with her unwavering loyalty. She was protective as an old hen, and when she was at her desk outside of White’s office, she was the undisputed guardian of the manor.
“Please open a file for David Shepard,” White said.
Matthews looked confused.
“He’s Graham Brochette’s son.”
Matthews nodded.
“And ask Horse to come up here.”
As Matthews reached for the telephone, White returned to his office and sat on the sofa beside where Harris remained parked in his wheelchair.
“All right, Harry,” White said. “What’s going on?”
Harris turned away from White and began thumbing through his notes of the meeting with Graham Brochette. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. The pen,” White said as he searched his friend’s eyes for some clue to whatever had caused him to drop his pen. “That’s the third time you’ve lost control of your pen in as many days.”
“It’s slippery.”
“Bullshit. When’s the last time you saw your doctor?”
“A couple of months ago,” Harris said, still looking at the table and shuffling his papers in an apparent effort to put an end to the conversation.
White knew it wasn’t true, but chose not to say anything. Instead, he waited, letting the silence build.
“All right,” Harris said, looking up from his notes. “It’s been a while… but I’m fine.”
White continued to wait, watching Harris’s eyes.
“I’m fine,” Harris insisted, refusing to return White’s look.
“I want you to see the doctor.”
“When did you become my mother?” Harris said. His attempt to express annoyance was contradicted by the hint of appreciation that was in Harris’s eyes.
“When you became my father.” It was unnecessary to say anything more. Although only ten years older than White, Harris was the major stabilizing influence in White’s life. Harris understood, perhaps better than anyone, the forces that drove, and sometimes consumed, White. Before his accident, Harris had been much like White, motivated to the extent of compulsion. His accident, his fall into the grip of depression and drugs, and his recovery had changed his perspective.
A knock on the door jam and the entry of his investigator saved White from dispensing any further unwanted advice.
#
According to his birth certificate, his name was Buford McGee, but no one called him that. Buford earned the name he claimed as his given name in the maternity ward at Baptist Regional Medical Center. The explanation came from his father, who had been known to drink on occasion and lacked a clear recollection of all facts. As the story went, on the occasion of his birth, his mother, in an unkindly reference to the circumstances of the moment, announced in a voice that could be heard by all of Santa Rosa County, Florida: “My God, I’m giving birth to a horse!” And that was that. Henceforth, Buford McGee was known to one and all as “Horse.”
It was a name that fit. Horse McGee was born large and kept on growing. By the time he was seventeen, Horse McGee was six-feet-two-inches tall and two hundred forty pounds of prime farm raised muscle. According to his teachers, he had the academic interest of his namesake.
It wasn’t that Horse lacked intelligence. He just wasn’t interested in applying himself in the classroom. In fact, the only reason Horse had for going to school at all was football. His high school academic record was singularly unimpressive, but his home state’s flagship university had flexible admission standards for football players. Linebackers who needed help completing the admission form but who could bench-press any fullback — and run down any tailback — in their conference were always welcome. Horse fit right in. Class attendance wasn’t required as long as he made a lot of tackles, and Horse was very good at holding up his end of the arrangement.
Earning a spot as a starting outside linebacker as a freshman is rare enough in big-time college football. Horse did more than merely start. Three games into the season he was already the talk of college football, and the next game was on national television against archrival Tennessee. On the third defensive play of the game, Horse was in pursuit of the Tennessee tailback when his legs were suddenly taken out from behind. The penalty flag, which was in the air before Horse hit the ground, was little consolation for the cracking sound Horse heard as he rolled under the weight of Tennessee’s All-American offensive guard. Horse knew that his season, and maybe his career, was over. This wasn’t the way he planned for it to end. Broken leg and all, Horse stood up, grabbed the offender’s facemask, tore his helmet from his head and, with all the considerable strength he could muster, propelled a massive fist directly into the offender’s nose.
Eighty-six thousand fans cheered wildly as Horse took a formal bow and collapsed to the field. This was the stuff of legends. The majority of the Florida fans who witnessed the event were thrilled. Unfortunately, the minority included his head coach and the president of the university. Horse’s’ college football days were over.
Without football, Horse had no reason to stay in school, so he joined the Army. In spite of his marginal academic record, the Army discovered that Horse had a special aptitude and trained him as a computer operator. Horse found his niche, and a reason to learn. During his first tour of duty he earned an associate of science degree in computer programming.
He also discovered the joys of hacking, the art of accessing other people’s computer systems. It wasn’t the kind of initiative the Army generally encouraged. However, in one of the few instances in recorded history in which the Army used its members where their skills could be put to the best use, Horse was assigned to the National Security Agency. Experts refined his newfound avocation, and he was soon one of his country’s best at breaking into the secret records of his country’s friends and foes alike. During his second tour of duty in the Army, Horse earned a degree in computer science, with a minor in criminology. By the time his second enlistment was over, Horse had endured enough of the military life.
Now he was in business for himself. According to his business brochure, he now operated a computer security consulting firm. In reality, his business was acquiring information — sometimes through means that were frowned on by the government. His only client was Lucius White.
Horse had been White’s investigative right arm since before White met Leslie. In spite of the difference in their ages, they were more like brothers than business associates. Before Leslie, White and Horse had been virtually inseparable. Now, they were a threesome, supplemented at regular intervals by Horse’s companion de jour. Horse never lacked for female companionship.
#
“I saw Graham Brochette downstairs,” Horse said when he exited the elevator on the office mezzanine. His face was a picture of strain and concern.
“His son has a little problem,” White said.
“He told me about it when he was leaving.”
“I want you to pick up a copy of the police report, then go down and see what you can dig up in Matlacha.”
Harris watched the exchange between White and Horse with mild consternation. “And I suppose you expect me to sit on my ass and hold down the fort.” His voice left little doubt about his desire to participate in their new case.
In spite of his importance to White’s firm, Harris rarely left the office except to cover routine motion hearings or sit second-chair at White’s trials. White justified the limitation on his active participation in investigations by emphasizing the importance of Harris’s role in managing the work of White’s associates. But Harris was, with increasing frequency, dropping hints that he wanted to be more active.
White considered Harris’s statement for a minute before asking, “Are you up to paying a visit to Lou Hamilton?”
Lou Hamilton was a retired police officer who stayed in touch with everyone he ever met. He was the ultimate source of reliable inside information, as well as unreliable gossip if that was your thing. The local law enforcement agencies had more leaks than a pack of dogs with bad kidneys, and Hamilton knew where every dog lifted its leg.
Harris grinned at the prospect. “Me? You’re going to let me do some real investigative work?”
White rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and let out a long sigh. “Yes, Harry. I’m going to let you do some real investigative work.”
Harris continued to smirk at the discomfort he knew White felt when confronted with his excessively protective concern for Harris’s circumstances. “I think your poor old invalid partner can handle that little task.”
“Good. See if you can get with him tomorrow.”
“What are you going to do?”
“First thing in the morning, I’ll go over to the jail and have a chat with our new client.”
4.
When the meeting with Horse and Harris ended, White left the conference room and trotted up the stairs to the apartment he shared with Leslie Halloran. It was rare for him to be home before the middle of the night, and he relished having the time to enjoy the home he had so carefully planned.
The apartment occupied the entire third floor of his warehouse. It consisted of two large bedroom suites and a spacious open plan living area. At one end of the room was a fully equipped restaurant grade kitchen. The dining area, with its modern cherry table that could seat twelve, was separated from the kitchen by a marble-topped breakfast bar. The center of the room was tastefully furnished with leather sofas and barrel chairs grouped in three seating areas. Persian carpets covered the dark oak floors. The room had the appearance of an art gallery or museum and could co
mfortably accommodate large groups. White wasn’t active in local civic organizations, but he frequently made his apartment available for fund-raising events sponsored by organizations that served the community’s neediest citizens.
At the end of the room opposite the kitchen, was a smaller, more intimate sitting area in front of a massive brick fireplace. The fireplace wasn’t part of the original warehouse, but it was a necessity for a boy from Idaho. The sixty-foot wall of the main living area was a series of French doors opening onto the wide cypress deck that extended the length of the warehouse. Fourteen-foot high brick walls were covered with an eclectic mixture of Native American carvings, Ansel Adams photographs, modern art — all originals selected by Leslie — and a few stuffed animal heads. Two large brass sculptures stood in the center of the room.
White’s private study occupied one corner of the apartment. More than anywhere else, it was here that White’s other side was revealed. The walls were covered with books, mostly history books, biographies and the classics of literature. His collection of first editions of the classics — he had several dozen — were among his most prized possessions.
#
Sherlock, White’s mixed-breed Labrador retriever, a pound hound rescued from the city animal shelter just before she was scheduled to be euthanized, was waiting at the head of the stairs when White arrived. Her tail pounding against the open door sounded like someone knocking. The stairway led from White’s apartment to his office on the mezzanine level of the warehouse and down to the first floor where a doggy-door gave Sherlock access to the fenced yard between the warehouse and the seawall. Sherlock could easily have come down the stairs to greet White, but she never did. Instead, she preferred to wait in the apartment at the head of the stairs.
The Nominee Page 3
