Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  Boucher knew the meeting was at an end. Epson was beginning to tire. He stood. “If there’s anything you need, just call.”

  “Thanks, Jock. And thanks for coming by.” A tepid handshake was offered, the judge staring into space. Maybe it was just fatigue.

  In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, Jock Boucher slapped himself on the forehead. “I’m an idiot!” he muttered. He knew why Epson had suddenly had such a vacant look on his face. Palmetto’s damned beard. He’d mentioned how he looked clean-shaven. He’d admitted seeing the man after the hearing—apparently not something Judge Epson wanted to hear.

  Alone in his room, Epson made a call from his cell phone. When the party answered, he said, “We might have a problem.” Then he hung up.

  Jock Boucher slipped out of bed late that night. He went to his study and turned on his laptop. He went online and confirmed that Marcia Whitcomb, assistant of the assassinated lawyer Dexter Jessup, was deceased. Oddly enough, she had died within days of her employer. He could find nothing on the other lawyer Palmetto had mentioned, Ruth Kalin. She seemed to have vanished without a trace.

  He turned off his computer and the desk lamp and sat there in the dark. Everything Palmetto had told him so far had checked out. He thought about the FBI report allegedly given to Judge Epson. Could it still be in his records? The question stayed with him as he returned to bed and, finally, to sleep.

  CHAPTER 4

  BOB PALMETTO LAY IN the dark on the lumpy mattress of the cheap motel, hands folded behind his head, skinny bare legs crossed at the ankles, reminiscing. How many dumps like this had there been? Twenty years times three hundred and sixty-five was over seven thousand, and at least a third of that number had been spent in one fleabag or another. Cheap hotels and motels preferred cash and didn’t give a damn about driver’s licenses or credit cards. Their accounting was as ghostlike as their patrons, and that suited him fine. In fact, it had kept him alive.

  He had prepaid for the night and as usual was awake before the dawn. A metabolism like his didn’t require a lot of sleep. There was no checkout in this kind of a joint; you grabbed your stuff and walked out. He would do some walking today, making about four miles per hour, maybe eight hours, maybe more. He would walk to a smaller town and if it took him a day to find one, it didn’t matter. Small-town bus stops, like cheap motels, weren’t too curious about a cash customer either. He wanted to put a good walk, then a good bus ride between him and the town where there were people who wished him harm.

  For the last twenty years, Bob Palmetto had spent his nights in cheap dives, but he lived his days in public libraries and Internet cafés. There was a time when he traveled with a pack of diskettes, then disks, then flash drives. Now he carried nothing. He’d discovered cloud computing and his whole life’s work was—at least at this moment—in the ether, waiting for him no matter where the long and winding road took him. And no documents, at least not in paper form. He was not the only one who lived in a paperless world. Some of the world’s greatest scientists made their work available for their own use and others’ via the Internet. Infinite galaxies of information were now available anywhere in the world. Now a cyber-discovery he had recently made determined his direction and his next destination.

  Palmetto was impatient to get going, but knew it was best to wait till the sun was full in the sky. Not many men hiked the open road as in days past, and those who did might arouse the curiosity of a passing patrol car—especially in the dark. When he judged the time to be about eight o’clock both by the sun and the amount of traffic on the road he would travel today, he left the motel. He carried a backpack and wore hiking boots, aiming for a woodsy look that also helped to avoid unwanted attention from the local constabulary. If you looked like you were passing through, they tended to leave you alone, and a hiker by definition was on his way somewhere else. He crossed the highway in order to walk against the oncoming traffic. It was safer and he had an understandable aversion to things moving up on him from behind. He started getting hungry about ten, but kept pushing until the sun shone straight-up noon.

  Palmetto realized that with the old contempt charge expunged, he wouldn’t have the same worry as before about checking into places, but caution was still his companion. It was still best not to leave a trail for the wolf pack to follow. As he hiked the highway, he talked to himself. It was a habit he’d developed as his walks had gotten longer and longer. It was a comfort to him and made the loneliness a little more bearable. It was a one-way conversation. He’d promised that if he started answering himself, he’d stop.

  Palmetto checked the position of the sun in the sky. He was heading northeast. He had a long way to go, but he’d be closer to his destination by the end of the day, and even the slightest progress gave him peace of mind. It was a paradox. He was excited, he was eager, but he was not hurried. A good day’s walk, a good night’s sleep, maybe tomorrow he’d continue his overland journey by bus, maybe even by rail. Watching the country pass during the next several days, he’d have time to think and to plan his strategy for his next objective. He knew what he needed and he knew where to find it. The challenge was to obtain it for his particular use, and in this he knew he must not fail.

  There was a new spring in his step as he thought about his destination. He was going to a place where like-minded people shared his respect for earth’s final frontier, the ocean. Bob Palmetto was headed to the Marblehead Oceanographic Institute, Marblehead, Massachusetts. He needed a submarine.

  “Can’t find him anywhere,” the caller said. “A photo taken twenty years ago and the description of a skinny old man in dirty clothes is not a lot to go on. We know he did not take any public transportation out of New Orleans. We don’t think he has a credit card or a driver’s license. This guy’s a needle in a haystack.”

  “Keep looking,” John Perry said. He hung up, then called Judge Epson in his hospital room. “You up for a visitor?”

  “You’ve been blacklisted,” Epson said. “Nurse took my blood pressure just after you left last time. Your visiting privileges have been revoked. Can it wait till tomorrow? The doctor said he might release me if there are no more ‘surprises.’ It will be better at home anyway, more private.”

  “Fine. I wanted to tell you that the judge who’s taken over your court was asking about me when he was at the hospital the other night.”

  “He hasn’t taken over my court!” Epson said. “He was appointed to assist with my caseload because he’s the new kid on the block. Just about every case is being continued till I get back.”

  “You know him well?” Perry asked.

  “Nobody does.”

  “Let’s talk about him next time we get together.”

  “We can if you want, but he’s not getting close to my business.”

  “Good. We’ll talk soon.” Perry hung up.

  Jock Boucher couldn’t keep his mind on his work, not good for a federal judge. He’d done a little more research and learned that Marcia Whitcomb died of natural causes in her home. No autopsy. She was twenty-eight. What natural cause took a young woman in her prime? Ruth Kalin had graduated magna cum laude from Loyola University College of Law. She could have had her pick of top law firms in New Orleans, yet went to work for a sole practitioner, then just disappeared. Why’d she pick Dexter Jessup as her first employer—because he was a crusader? A crusader who ended up a martyr? Were those other lives sacrificed as well in whatever was going on then? He turned off his laptop, stood, and paced around his desk.

  The lawsuit against Palmetto had been dismissed almost two decades ago. Back then, paper files were kept in the building for ten years, then sent to federal archives. He didn’t want to go that route if he could avoid it. He was pacing when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he said. It was Julie, his law clerk. She had papers in her hand.

  “Anything wrong, Judge?” she asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “You seem distracted. This motion, you
signed it in the wrong place.” She showed him the misplaced signature.

  He shook his head and sighed. “What was I thinking?”

  “Obviously not about a request for extension of time.”

  He looked at her. She was bright and self-assured, mature enough to know the world was no bed of roses.

  “Julie, did you know what you wanted to do when you finished law school?”

  She looked at him. She’d worked for him a short time. He had not asked much about her. Her academic record spoke for itself.

  “Your Honor, I have the next twenty years of my life mapped out.”

  Boucher was thinking about Ruth Kalin. She too must have planned her future. Working for Dexter Jessup was no fluke, and her disappearance was not an act of caprice.

  While in law school and thinking about his own future, Boucher had briefly considered the FBI as a career path. He’d had two interviews with a young agent named Ted Neely. They’d even gotten together a couple of times to play handball during the courtship before Boucher decided neither was for him: neither the Bureau nor handball. But he’d run into Neely over the years and greetings were always cordial and on a first-name basis. None of which was sufficient reason for Boucher to be calling him late that afternoon with a question of a sensitive nature. Neely replied with a tone of bonhomie that they revive their old friendship, even suggesting they meet that same afternoon, why waste time. He’d not acknowledged his question, Boucher noted as he hung up, which in itself was some sort of answer. Neely had proposed they meet halfway between the district court and the FBI building. His choice of venue was odd, a Baskin-Robbins near 610 and Elysian Fields Avenue.

  The FBI man was already there when Boucher arrived, their two cars the only ones in the parking lot. Not a lot of call for ice cream on a chilly, cloudy late afternoon. He bought a single scoop of Rocky Road and joined the agent at one of the small tables away from the window.

  “What’d you get?” Boucher asked by way of greeting.

  “Pralines and cream. Means I have to add a half hour to my run tomorrow.”

  “You picked the place.”

  The man did not offer a handshake as Boucher sat down—strange for one renewing a friendship—and he barely looked up. His hairline was receding, Boucher noticed as he engaged in the universal and irresistible assessment of one not seen in a while. Other than that, it seemed that here was another FBI agent with whom it was impossible to avoid clichés and stereotypes, from clothes and shoes (which he had seen coming in) to haircut. Neely was older than when he had last seen him of course, but these people didn’t age, they hardened.

  “You have something to ask me,” Neely said. “Ask away before I’m tempted to go back for seconds.”

  “This is about something that happened twenty years ago. You had recently joined the Bureau, I think.”

  Neely dipped a taste from the tiny plastic spoon and studied his frozen confection as if he were reading tea leaves. A frown of concentration turned to a wry smile.

  “I heard you’d taken over for Judge Epson after his heart attack. This is about that lawyer’s murder, right?”

  “Partly. The lawyer had a case before Judge Epson at the time he was killed. I heard there was some sort of inquiry into Judge Epson’s conduct. Did you know anything about that?”

  “I wasn’t involved.” Neely took another spoonful of pralines and cream. Boucher shrugged as if to say, Well, that’s that. “But I heard things,” Neely added. “Even the new kid hears things. The buzz was that Judge Epson had taken bribes. A report was written up, you know, justifying time spent and requesting further direction—asses are covered in these kinds of situations by asking higher-ups to call the shots—and word came back from D.C. to lay off. Let it go. Something like that could only have come from the director, but I’m just guessing. All of it was way above my station.”

  “But there was a report,” Boucher said.

  “To my knowledge, yes. There was a report. But D.C. buried it. I can’t swear to this, but I think they told Epson what they’d found. He was told to clean up his act. Given a reprieve.”

  “Given a reprieve for accepting bribes?”

  Neely bent forward. His voice was lowered. “At the time, Epson was presiding judge over a very important racketeering trial. Years of preparation. We couldn’t afford to have him compromised in the middle of that. It would have done much more harm than good. The scales were weighed, the bribery business was buried. He was given a pass and told to mend his ways. I guess he did. That was the end of it.” He sat back up and added a further reflection.

  “Though he was long dead then, Hoover’s shadow still loomed large over the Bureau. Maybe it always will. Anyway, Epson owed us. I’m pretty sure we used the occasion to remind him of that over the years. It’s a bad position to be in, Jock. Don’t ever let yourself get in hock to the Bureau.”

  Neely stood up and offered a handshake. “My advice to you is to forget about this. Don’t make waves. It was good to see you. Take care.”

  Both hands were cold and clammy from the ice cream. Neely left. Boucher looked down at his cup. His Rocky Road had melted.

  CHAPTER 5

  JUDGE EPSON WAS RELEASED from the hospital with his doctor’s admonitions: “No visitors, and please try to stay off the phone.” John Perry was waiting for him at the house, the judge having called him from his cell saying he was on his way home. So much for the doctor’s advice.

  “You’re looking good,” Perry said.

  “Bullshit. I look like one of those cartoons that’s just seen a ghost. Maybe I did. Maybe it was me.”

  The two men sat in Epson’s study. The room was modeled after a Victorian-era library, with bookshelves floor to ceiling on three walls. Behind the desk were French windows that opened onto a backyard with large shade trees. Designed for tranquillity and contemplation, it hit the mark, though tranquillity was not in the air this afternoon.

  “We didn’t find Palmetto,” Perry said. “God only knows where he’s gone.”

  “I just wonder where he’s been for twenty years,” Epson said.

  “I’d sure like to know what he said to that judge.”

  “I can find out easily enough.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A maid stuck her head in. “Your office is on the line, Judge. Do you want me to take a message?”

  “No, I’ll take it.” He picked up the phone. Perry watched as Epson’s face turned from pale to a ghostly white.

  “What’s wrong?” Perry asked.

  “The son of a bitch has gone to the FBI. He was asking about that inquiry twenty years ago.”

  Perry showed no reaction, not the faintest hint of emotion. This ability was his strength, had won him many a boardroom battle, and helped him to climb and remain at the top of the corporate ladder. He studied his manicured nails and asked, “Can we make Boucher a friend?”

  “I doubt it,” Epson said. “He just got appointed. He’s probably full of himself and overflowing with ideals. Cynicism doesn’t usually set in till after the first five years.”

  “I leave him to you. Take care of it.” In this manner a federal judge received his orders as if he were a foot soldier. Perry got up to leave. “I hope you’ll be back at work soon,” he said. “Unpleasant things seem to happen when you’re away.”

  “I’ll be back within the week,” Judge Epson said. “Count on it.”

  John Perry didn’t need anyone to show him to the door; he’d been in this house before. He walked the flagstone path to the driveway and his car. In contrast to the slow pace of his footsteps, his mind raced. Despite what he’d just said, he would leave nothing to Judge Epson; there was too much at stake. He would take care of what had to be done. He got in his car, called his office, and was reminded he was expected at a charity function that evening and his wife wanted to know which of his tuxedos she should put out for him. He answered, hung up, and smiled at the range of thoughts that had just run through his brain in les
s than a minute. From the sublime to the mundane, it was all in a day’s work for the man who would provide the greatest country on earth with enough energy to last the next two hundred years. Perry made a stop before going home, to arrange a matter that couldn’t be discussed over the phone.

  Matt Quillen hated the sight of blood, and had equal disdain for loud noises; ironic aversions for a professional killer. He’d been offered the assignment because he never failed, and accepted it without hesitation for the same reason he accepted them all. He needed the money. Being one of the best meant that his client list was short, and it could be a long time between jobs. Though he was well paid and his lifestyle was not extravagant, the money went only so far. The timing of this assignment was particularly welcome. He asked the obvious questions, and the not so obvious. One aspect stood out. He was tempted to smile but knew better. Never in front of a client. But when asked when he could do it, he said, “Tonight. There’s no time to waste.”

  After Perry left, Quillen searched the medicine cabinet in his house. He found what he was looking for. There was a certain genius to his manner of operation. If a SWAT team had come busting through his door at that very moment, they would have found no weapons, only generic and nonlethal medications. Among his talents, he was a pretty damn good chemist. Nonlethal chemicals took on a new character under his direction. It was all in the mixing. In his home medicine cabinet he had all he needed to commit a murder. Timing. It was always about timing. If the client had come one day later, he would have had to devise a different strategy. But tonight he knew it would be as sure a thing as anyone in his business could want.

  He began his assignment at four a.m., his favorite time, darkest before the dawn and all that. From experience—he hadn’t always been an assassin; he’d spent his early adulthood in law enforcement—he knew that cops patrolling on the nighttime shift had lost their edge by that hour. The house’s security apparatus he analyzed in no time. He wasn’t even earning his pay tonight; this hit was a gift. He put on surgical gloves, wrapped his shoes in foot covers, and entered through the back door. God, night-lights, in the kitchen and up the staircase! Could this get any easier? He’d brought a penlight but wouldn’t need it; he could walk through the house unaided. He found the stairs and slowly ascended. The art of his craft was the entry, then getting close to the victim without setting off alarms. If there was any challenge it was here, but in this house there was no problem. He found the master bedroom and opened the door slowly. Sounds of sleep. The deepest slumber occurred at this time of the morning. To ensure his safety and his success, he took from a shirt pocket one of the two tools he had brought with him. It was a narcosis-producing aerosol in the shape of a fountain pen. From generic components in his home he’d formulated his own concentration of fentanyl and butorphanol tartrate, synthetic opiates related to morphine, used both by doctors and veterinarians, which would metabolize in the liver and be expelled, impossible to trace. He reached around the door and sprayed, closing the door quickly. He looked at his watch. The knockout spray would send anyone in the room into a stupor—the only deeper sleep would be death itself—then it would dissipate. Quillen had learned early not to trust everything he’d been told about a victim’s lifestyle. Wives, kids, nurses, lovers straight and gay—there could always be surprises behind closed bedroom doors. He waited, counting time in his head, opened the door again, and walked to the side of the bed where his target lay.