by David Lyons
“What do you know about the murder of Ruth Kalin?” he asked.
Palmetto’s mouth hung open. In this bizarre setting, it took seconds for the name to register. “Ruth Kalin?” he said. “The lawyer in Dexter Jessup’s office?”
“Her body was found in her car . . . in my driveway.” Boucher stared, looking for the slightest tell, any indication the man was lying.
Palmetto sat back down on his bunk. “I never even met her. I disappeared, she disappeared. I reappeared, she . . . God, they’re going to kill me for sure.” He began to shake. There was no doubt his terror was real.
Boucher put a hand on his shoulder. “I decided to try and find you before that happened,” he said. “The detective working on Ruth Kalin’s murder pointed out to me that you were the only link we had between the two murders and suggested that perhaps you had lied to me. I had to find out, so I reinstated the contempt charge, hoping you’d be picked up. It worked pretty damn well, I think.” He looked around the cell. “How did they catch you?”
“I parked in a handicap spot.”
“What?”
“Guilty as charged, Your Honor.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Boucher had Palmetto released into his custody with the stroke of a pen. He would rescind his most recent order when he returned to New Orleans. As they walked to his car he said, “Two months ago, I’m not sure I could have fixed a parking ticket. As a federal judge I can have a man thrown in jail across the country and get him out on my word alone. It amazes me.”
“It scares the shit out of the rest of us,” Palmetto said. “I owe some nice folks an apology. You can help. You owe me that.”
It was about a twenty-mile drive north from Boston to Marblehead, and the business day was done when they arrived. Palmetto was able to find the home of his friends, recognizing the supermarket where he’d gotten busted, using it as a reference point. At least they’d picked up their car, he noted. They parked in front and walked up the drive to the house. They were seen through the large bay window. Both Mark and Mae opened the front door, saying, “What happened to you? We were really worried.”
Palmetto looked sideways at Boucher and said, “You tell ’em.”
It was all ad lib. The judge spun a tale about a mix-up in the files, and when he had learned of an innocent man’s wrongful incarceration, he felt he had to set the matter straight. Personally. It was pure bullshit, but they bought it, in fact were given a heightened appreciation for the humanity and compassion of the federal judicial system.
As Palmetto retrieved his backpack, still in the hallway where he had left it the night before, he said, “Mark, I came here for a reason. I had hoped we might have discussed it over dinner”—he glared at Boucher—“but I, uh, got waylaid. Could I pass by the Institute in the morning? It’s important.”
“Of course, Bob. Anytime.”
They shook hands and departed. As they walked to the car, Palmetto said, “Judge, I might need your help tomorrow.”
“Mine? How can I help you?”
“I’m going to make a request to use a piece of their equipment. I need you to support me.”
“I don’t know that I—”
“Damn it, you’re a federal judge. You can help and I’ll tell you how.”
They got in the car, Boucher driving. Palmetto explained what he needed and why.
“This could be important,” Boucher said.
“I told you. Fasten your seat belt, Judge. I’d rather not have another run-in with the law.”
They found a quiet seafood restaurant and talked till closing time, then checked into a motel and continued their discussion late into the night. Boucher told Palmetto everything that had happened since last seeing him: his meeting with Ruth Kalin before her death; his conversations with Detective Fitch. Palmetto was puzzled.
“Dexter Jessup was shot because he was going to go to the Feds and rat on a crooked judge. But why Ruth Kalin, and why was she killed after the crooked judge was dead? If it was her hanging around your house that night, I think she was going to ask you to close the book on the whole Judge Epson matter so she could get her life back. Somebody saw her and drew a different conclusion.”
“Like what?”
“That she was working with me.”
“Working with you on what? Something to do with why you’re here?”
“Nobody knew I was coming here. I didn’t even know myself when I left New Orleans. Maybe someone was afraid I might try to sue them. Maybe they were afraid you’d be sympathetic.”
“No, I don’t think it was about you, not directly. She believed Judge Epson might have killed her fiancé, but—”
“Her fiancé?”
“She and Dexter Jessup were engaged.”
Palmetto was stunned. Boucher gave him a moment’s silence. “He never told me.”
“She also believed the assistant in the office was murdered. That’s why she went into hiding. Ruth Kalin was terrified. But she was also a determined woman. She was out to get John Perry one way or another. The night before she was killed, she gave me a file. There was the report Dexter was going to deliver to the FBI and something else. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but it has something to do with Perry and Rexcon Energy. That might have been what got her killed. I haven’t even told the police about it. Yet.”
Palmetto couldn’t stifle a yawn. He could barely sit up.
“You need to sleep,” the judge said. “I doubt you got much last night.”
“Very little.” He stood and walked to the door. “I think the answer is at the bottom of the ocean,” he said. Boucher attributed this confusing remark to the man’s exhaustion.
Mark was at his computer next morning when they arrived.
“That research vessel is gone,” he said.
“Good,” Palmetto said. He sat down next to Mark and his computer screen. “That will make it easier.”
“Make what easier?” Mark asked.
“Mark, we need to take the Beagle out. I need Lucy,” Palmetto said.
“Lucy? Why?”
“I think that the vessel whose communications you intercepted was conducting an illegal offshore geophysical exploration,” Palmetto said.
Boucher stepped forward and offered his first words in this conversation. “If the vessel you refer to did not have a permit for geological or geophysical exploration granted by the Bureau of Ocean Energy Management, Regulation and Enforcement of the U.S. Department of the Interior, then it was operating in contravention of Volume 30, Code of Federal Regulations, Section 251.5.” Both men looked at him with raised eyebrows. He stepped back and gave Palmetto a just-trying-to-help look.
“He’s a federal judge,” Palmetto said as explanation. “His knowledge of the law is encyclopedic. Seriously, Mark, I think I know who’s out there. If I’m right we’ve got to stop them. They could be about to do something on the seabed that could have cataclysmic consequences.”
“Voilà,” Boucher said.
“He’s Cajun,” Palmetto added for the New Englander’s benefit. “They like to show off their French.” He turned to Boucher. “That’s why Perry is still interested in me after all these years. He’s afraid I could open the can of worms that Judge Epson kept a lid on. They’ve discovered a methane hydrate field and want to keep their discovery a secret.”
“Bob, there are no offshore leases being let off the Atlantic Coast,” Mark said. “After the drilling disaster in the Gulf, everything’s on ice. And that research vessel was two hundred miles offshore. That’s the limit of the EEZ, the exclusive economic zone. Beyond that, whoever is out there is outside U.S. jurisdiction and in international waters. They wouldn’t need to worry about offshore leases—or regulatory oversight, for that matter.”
“Who assigns the missions for the Beagle?” Palmetto asked.
“Well, theoretically I could,” Mark answered. “But we don’t send research vessels out on a whim. These are priceless scientific tools. We have b
udget restraints. I need scientific justification. It costs real money to send a ship out.”
“Mark, these guys are rogues. If they’re going beyond U.S. jurisdiction, we’ve got to expose them. I don’t need to tell you the damage they could do out there. If that doesn’t fall within the Institute’s purview, I don’t know what does.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“You want more?”
“I need the strongest scientific justification you can get.”
“Well,” Palmetto said, “once upon a time, there were just three words that were enough to ensure funding for the entire space program. They should be enough to justify a single mission off our own Atlantic coast.”
“What three words?”
“Beat the Russians,” Palmetto said.
He typed search words on one of the computer’s keyboards and motioned the others to read the screen when his findings appeared. The report told of a Russian mini-sub successfully bringing up a sample of methane hydrate from the bottom of Lake Baikal in Siberia, the largest freshwater lake in the world. It was the world’s first extraction accomplished in this manner.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mark said. “I didn’t know about that.”
Judge Boucher read the screen. “I’d order your vessel to conduct this mission for national security reasons, if this were my jurisdiction.”
“Okay, okay,” Mark said. “The Beagle goes out. Just bring me back something good. Beat the Russians.”
CHAPTER 15
THE CREW OF THE Beagle were notified. They needed a day to make ready, take on fuel and supplies. That left the evening free. Palmetto was keen to accept his friends’ invitation for the dinner he’d been denied the night before. The judge politely declined. He would meet them in Norfolk.
Between Massachusetts and Virginia was New York City and an opportunity to see Malika. He called and asked her to meet him at the Plaza Hotel.
“Why don’t I meet you there for dinner?” she said. “I have a presentation to prepare for a client, and I’m really behind. How about seven?”
He had taken it for granted she would spend the night with him, but something in her voice said this was not a given. He waited for her in the lobby that evening. She seemed pleased to see him, but carried no overnight bag, not even a large purse.
First it was cocktails in the refurbished Oak Bar, where a hundred years’ worth of tobacco smoke had been cleaned off the Everett Shinn paintings of Central Park in winter. Their conversation was light, almost banter, with no questions, no mention of barroom brawls or bodies in driveways. After drinks they moved to dinner in the Oak Room, where the original wood-paneled walls and barrel-vaulted ceiling created the century-old ambience of an elegant retreat for robber barons.
“I don’t know this city very well,” Jock said after dessert, “but I feel that all I really need to know about New York is the Plaza.”
“That’s like saying there’s nothing else in the French Quarter except the Royal Orleans,” Malika said. “I wish you could stay longer than one night. I mean, how often do you come to New York? I’d like to show you my place. I’d like for you to be able to picture me when we’re talking on the phone—since that seems to comprise such a large part of our relationship.”
“Ouch,” Boucher said. “Can you show me your apartment in the morning? I’d love to see it.”
She smiled, nodding her head.
It was a pleasant enough evening. After dinner, Malika took a taxi home.
He checked out of the Plaza next morning and took a cab to Beekman Place. Malika’s building had a doorman and a view of the Hudson from some apartments, but not her own. Hers was an alcove studio: a living room with a smaller area adjoining that served various purposes.
“Do you sleep on that?” He pointed to a Chinese opium bed in the alcove with decorative silk pillows.
“I do sometimes. But the sofa is also a convertible. Have a seat.”
“It’s nice,” he said, looking around the apartment. “And you’re right. Now I can picture you here.”
“Actually,” she said, “I wanted to say something and I thought this might be a better place than a restaurant. Jock, I want us to keep seeing each other and with all the traveling I plan to be doing, that shouldn’t be difficult. I wanted you to see this little apartment so you would know how mobile I really am. I’ve got no strings. I think that’s going to define our relationship for a while. No strings. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You want to see other people?”
“That’s not what I’m saying, and no, I don’t want to see other people. But I’m focusing on my work. If that involves a dinner out with someone, I’m not going to feel guilty about it. I don’t want you to either.”
“I don’t know what kind of relationship that’s going to be.”
“It’s going to be just about what it is now. How we feel about each other is going to be obvious within the first two minutes after we meet.”
“So each reunion will be a surprise. I don’t like surprises.”
“For me, that’s the way it is now.” She took his hand and kissed his fingers. “I have career plans. I have hopes for us. But . . .”
“What do they call this, ‘friendship with benefits’?”
She dropped his hand. “Don’t be callous, and don’t assume. If someone new comes along in either of our lives, c’est la vie. I hope, and honestly I believe, that the next time I see you, Jock, my heart will skip a beat as it always has. Till then, it’s not good-bye, but au revoir. Till the next time our eyes meet. Then perhaps we’ll know.”
“When this matter is finished,” he said, “I could come back here for a visit and you could show me your New York, you could come to the Quarter, or we can go wherever you like for as long as you like. Then we can—”
She put her finger to his lips. “We will talk then. Now you’ve got a flight to catch. Thanks for coming here. It was important to me.”
They embraced and he departed. The doorman hailed him a cab and he rushed to the airport. Her plan worked. All through the flight to Norfolk he couldn’t get the image of Malika sitting in her apartment by the telephone out of his mind.
Boucher arrived by taxi at the main gate of the Norfolk Navy Yard, showed his ID, and asked directions to where the R/V Beagle was docked. He looked around him as his clearance was checked. There were few people in sight at this scene of massive power in shades of gray. The light gray of the concrete wharfs and docks led to berths where the slate-gray vessels were moored, sitting in relief against the dark gray clouds that promised rain. The silhouettes of the naval ships above their decks were like skylines of futuristic cities. The only departures from the dominant gray color were the blue-black submarines, which were like ominous balloons floating on the surface: design simple, purpose lethal.
He was given a pass to get him through the rest of the checkpoints and directions to the dock of the Beagle. The vessel was easy to spot. Much smaller than the Navy’s ships, it had a marine-blue hull and all above deck was white. On the stern was a large crane shaped like an A for lowering and retrieving the deep submergence manned vehicle Lucy. Boucher reached the gangplank and looked around for a familiar face. The one he saw was not one he expected. The woman he’d lied to trying to explain why Palmetto had been hauled off to jail waved to him from the ship. Mae, Mark’s wife, was on this voyage.
“Come aboard,” she yelled.
Boucher crossed the gangplank.
“Welcome,” Mae said. “We’re about to get under way. Bob is in the lab and asked that you meet him there.”
A young crew member took the travel bag containing jeans and sweaters that he had purchased on his way from the airport, and led him belowdecks. Palmetto stood as Boucher entered the ship’s oceanography laboratory.
“Welcome aboard,” he said, pumping the judge’s hand. “Do you have any idea how much time it takes to schedule a mission like this? Months. We did it in twenty-four hours, thanks
to the Russians. They are still the greatest spur to our competitive spirit on the planet. We’re going to take our sub down on an exploration mission. We bring samples back, we’ll make news, give the Russkies a run for their money, and we’ll ruin John Perry’s day big-time. We’ll also have an unimpeachable witness to our discovery, a United States district court judge. I’m going to let you figure out how we stop Perry if he’s planning on operating in international waters.”
“I’m not going down in any submarine.”
“Think of it, Judge,” Palmetto said, ignoring him, “it’s the chance of a lifetime. You will see things few have ever seen. You might even see something no one has ever seen. It happens all the time.”
As Boucher stood there trying to visualize the ocean depths, the ship began to move.
“We’re under way,” Palmetto said. “Let me show you your quarters and give you a tour of the ship.”
“I want to see that damned sub,” Boucher said.
They went back up to the main deck. Leaving port, they were passing the largest armada in the history of mankind, the U.S. Navy’s Atlantic Fleet. It was midmorning, late for such a departure. The wind was brisk and from the east, the clouds low and dark gray. They would see rain within the next hour or two, was Palmetto’s observation, but there were no storms forecast for the area. They were soon in open sea, still in sight of the coast. The change in heading from due east to south-southeast was obvious. Boucher stopped at the railing amidships and gazed at the Virginia shore receding from sight. He breathed deeply of the bracing Atlantic air, comparing it to the muskiness of the Gulf Coast, preferring the latter. The deep submergence vehicle was moored in its hangar in the middle of the deck toward the stern. They went inside.
Lucy looked somewhat like a snub-nosed guppy that had swallowed a marble. In fact, the sub was little more than a bathysphere—the optimal physical design for withstanding the enormous pressures at the ocean floor—encased in an outer shell. It had mechanical arms for picking up samples from the sea bottom that folded up like arms of a praying mantis under the “face” through which the pilot and two other scientists observed. The sub was secured to a carrier on tracks that permitted movement to the stern, and the A crane, which lowered and raised the sub to and from the ocean. Stairs and a platform permitted access and a peek into the spherical passenger compartment. They climbed up and Palmetto lifted the hatch.
