A Good Kill

by John McMahon

Some REITs. Some trusts. Some LLCs.

  It wasn’t until I saw the last investment that the hairs on my arm stood up.

  And when they did, I grabbed my keys and that single piece of paper at the bottom of the stack. And I walked out the front door.

  I had to talk to someone, and I knew exactly where they were for the next few hours: the Mason Falls jail.

  60

  When Lauten Hartley saw it was me in the visitation room, he turned to the guard, as if to refuse the visit. But I’d given the patrolman a heads-up that he would probably do that. And this particular blue-suiter was a friend.

  Patrolman Cole pushed Hartley forward, attaching one of his bracelets to the ring on the table, and forcing his body down into the chair.

  I remembered seeing Hartley just ten days ago at the precinct. He looked so calm and self-assured. Now his wavy copper hair looked wild, reflecting off the orange of his jumpsuit.

  “What do you want?” he said once the officer left.

  “A favor.”

  He blew out his nose and shook his head, his curls dangling over his forehead. “From me?”

  I held his eyes and took the paper from my back pocket. The one I’d just found in Jed Harrington’s treasure trove of research.

  Hartley looked down at what I’d brought. Saw the name of his partnership. The name of his partner.

  “You’re like a damn junkyard dog, aren’t you, Marsh? You just can’t help yourself when you get that smell.”

  I didn’t say anything. After all, Hartley was right. My obsessiveness was at the core of this tragedy in my life. I had thought about that more times than I wanted to admit.

  I stared at him. “Did Monroe know?”

  “The partnership held a liquor store in the numbered streets,” Hartley said. “And two apartment complexes. And it made an eight hundred and twenty percent margin. You think he didn’t know what we were doing?”

  Hartley tried to get up, but the chain pulled on him. “Guard,” he yelled.

  I grabbed at Hartley’s arm. “Did Monroe order the death of my wife and son?”

  “He didn’t have to,” Hartley said. “We knew what was at stake when we took Monroe on as a partner. The choices we’d have to make.”

  A different uniformed officer unlocked the gate behind us, and I let go of Hartley’s arm.

  The patrolman got him to his feet, but Hartley kept muttering under his breath. How he’d been beaten by a friggin’ junkyard dog.

  I sat alone in the interview room for some time. Folded the paper and put it away.

  My blood was pounding in my temples, so loud that I could hear it over the electric din of the cheap fluorescent panel above me.

  And then I heard another noise. The buzzing of my phone.

  I pulled it from my back pocket and stared at the text that Hope had sent me.

  It was a picture. The composite that Kelly Borland had described to our sketch artist of the man she’d bumped into outside of Harrington’s place.

  And as much as I didn’t want to believe a word Kelly said at that coffeehouse, the picture was clearly of a man I’d seen before.

  Had met in fact.

  A man who’d handed me a packet of papers that helped me locate Kian Tarticoft months ago.

  Kelly had said she was scared when she stumbled upon the guy, but until now it hadn’t crossed my mind that she could be telling the truth.

  I thought of the empty boxes in the backhouse. The ones Kelly said she cleaned out. And I wondered if she had supplied this man with the photo of them. The one that eventually hit the news.

  And as I thought of this . . . of everything I’d discovered today . . . it left me just one option.

  Just one thing I had to do.

  61

  It was almost nine a.m. when I left the jail and walked outside.

  The sky was an iridescent gray that looked like the shine off a pearl.

  Getting in my truck, I headed south and let the music play. Turned off my phone and rolled down both windows, not wanting to pay attention to where I was going.

  It was Sunday, and I shifted the stations from country to rock to indie. In one minute, Blake Shelton was belting out “God’s Country.” In the next, the Cordovas were singing “I’m the One Who Needs You Tonight.”

  When I got to Atlanta, I switched onto 278 for a mile and then got off the highway.

  As I approached the 900th block of Piedmont, traffic was backing up. I parked on a side street, threw a police placard on my dash, and huffed it on foot.

  After a few minutes, I’d reached the address I was looking for: a converted mansion from the 1890s that served as the campaign headquarters of Governor Toby Monroe.

  The porch of the house was set up as a stage, festooned with red, white, and blue balloons. Below it, on the curving lawn, someone had built a platform out of plywood and painted it white, a big square area for reporters and cameramen.

  “Can I help you?” a deep voice asked. I had arrived at an ornate gate that let in from the street.

  The voice belonged to one of the governor’s security men. A muscular Black guy with a bald head and a body like a keg of beer. His name tag read Sampson. A shorter white man beside him held a clipboard.

  “Can we get your name and see your credentials, sir?” Sampson asked.

  I sized the two men up. They weren’t state police. Or GBI. They were private security.

  “This is my press pass,” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m here to see Toby Monroe.”

  “The governor isn’t taking any appointments today,” Sampson said. “If you’d like to set a time to talk tomorrow, we can certainly get his secretary to check his calendar.”

  The guy was big enough to go bear hunting with a switchblade and no friends. But I was in a crazed state, and I didn’t care. “Tell Monroe it’s P. T. Marsh,” I said. “When he chooses not to see me . . . bad things happen to him.”

  Sampson walked away, his phone to his ear. His shorter colleague moved into his place, blocking the gate. The smaller man puffed out his chest. And behind me, two men waited, one of them holding an enormous tripod.

  Sampson came back a minute later and waved me in. I walked with him, up the steps and onto the porch. A foyer inside the door held four white couches. Beside them were tables topped with antique glass, hand-painted with silver fleurs-de-lis.

  “Through that door.” Sampson pointed across the room.

  I walked across the foyer and into a small room where Monroe sat in a director’s chair. He wore a dark blue suit with a red tie, and his salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed short and had more pepper than usual.

  A blonde in a black smock was brushing powder onto his face.

  “Detective Marsh,” Monroe said. “I knew you liked politics, but I didn’t count on your attendance at the announcement of my platform. Welcome.”

  The makeup artist smiled at me, and I leaned close to the governor.

  “Jed Harrington,” I said.

  “That was a good kill, Detective. I’m sorry I was unable to get to the banquet in your honor.”

  “He was working on an exposé of you.”

  Monroe offered a sharklike smile. “Jeanine,” he said to the woman. “Do you mind if I speak with Detective Marsh alone for a moment?”

  “Of course,” the woman said.

  She left, and Monroe’s smile faded. “Harrington was a journalist, so if he was writing an exposé, I reckon that’s his right.”

  “I have all of it,” I said. “Every word.”

  The door Jeanine left through opened, and Monroe’s assistant stuck her head in. “Sir, we’re gonna be live in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”

  A smile was plastered on Monroe’s face. “Thank you, Tammy,” he said, his voice ringing with confidence. “Just give us a few minutes.”


  The door shut then, and I turned to him. “Harrington had a digital backup.”

  “A backup of what exactly?” he asked.

  I shook my head at him. “You sent that ghost of yours to get Harrington’s files, but you didn’t get the only copy.”

  “I’m not sure if you know how you sound, Detective.” Monroe smiled. “That ghost?”

  I pulled up my shirt and turned in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle. “Just in case you think I’m wired,” I said. “This is just you and me. Like on that rooftop at the school. When you asked me to kill a man who was your enemy.”

  Monroe got up from the director’s chair and took off his jacket.

  “Well, you did pull the trigger, Detective.”

  “And you gave the order, Governor. But the crazy thing is—what I found is bigger than Harrington.”

  “Whatever you think you know, Marsh—”

  “Voter fraud,” I said.

  “Oh, please.”

  “Unfair state bidding practices.”

  “There is no proof that—”

  “Highway contracts,” I continued. “Bribery. Corruption. And not just you. Your nephews. Your father, Cliff,” I said. “Your guy has the papers on all these. He got them from Kelly Borland, the art teacher. So I don’t know what game you’re playing denying this. I have them all.”

  The governor’s blink rate had tripled in the last minute, and his mouth was open. I could see his eyes, doing the math on this and not liking what the calculations said.

  “Harrington wasn’t writing an article, Governor,” I said. “He was writing a book. About you.”

  Monroe was gripping the back of the director’s chair, and his knuckles were white. “I can make this right,” he said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You and I have always come to an agreement. After that mess last December, we made great progress on race relations. I had corporations reaching out to Mason Falls. Donating time. Staff.”

  “You know what?” I made a hissing noise with my nose. “Three hours ago, I wouldn’t have even given a shit. You think any of what you’ve done surprises me?”

  The governor squinted. Trying to comprehend what had changed.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I got to the end of Harrington’s pile of shit on you . . . and found your holdings,” I said. “Your investments. He broke down every partnership.” I held up the piece of paper. “Fifty percent ownership in FJF Investments.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Let me refresh your memory,” I said. “You own part of a liquor store.”

  A knock at the door.

  “Tammy, just wait,” the governor hollered.

  “The Golden Oaks,” I said. “From what I understand, it posted quite a profit in 2016. And in 2017. Not so much after the drug sales stopped.”

  “Detective, if you think I know every investment in my—”

  “Jesus, you cannot stop yourself. Trying to lie your way out of everything.”

  I pulled out my Glock. Laid it on the counter near the makeup. I wanted him to see my weapon. To understand what I was capable of.

  Now Monroe glanced at the door, perhaps worried that he had shooed everyone away.

  “It’s always about pressure with you,” I said. “And you had Lauten Hartley under your thumb, just like you had me.”

  “Who?”

  I looked at my Glock, and Monroe held up his hands, palms out. “I didn’t know about it when it happened, okay? I promise.”

  So the murder of my wife and son was an afterthought to him? A detail he’d discovered and was holding on to. A piece of data to be leveraged at the right time.

  “When did you know?” I asked.

  “After,” he said. “Much, much after.”

  “A week after they died? A month?”

  “Six months. But it was just a guess. The investment wasn’t performing like it had been—back when . . . you know . . .”

  “Back when the store was selling drugs?”

  “They said it was better if I didn’t ask. Okay? So I didn’t. But my guy, the one you call a ghost—”

  “He told you?”

  “After we gave you the location on that assassin, Tarticoft, my guy did some work. Put it together.”

  I sat down on a bench near the door where Tammy had come in, my head in my hands.

  Monroe had known about Lena and Jonas. I didn’t owe him any favor on that roof. He owed me, out of basic decency.

  “You have two options right now, Monroe,” I said, my head still down. “Number one is to walk out there and resign. Make up whatever excuse you want. But it’s effective immediately. You’re out, for good. No more politics.”

  “Or?”

  “Raymond Kirios.” I said the journalist’s name. “Do you know him? Because he’s gonna torch you.”

  “I’m thinking of a third option,” Monroe said. And as I looked up, I saw that he was holding my Glock.

  “You’re gonna shoot a cop?” I asked. “I’m sure your platform involves supporting law enforcement.”

  “You came in here.” He came closer to me. “Unhinged. Causing trouble. There was a scuffle.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m gonna open that door.” I pointed. “And the world’s gonna see you holding that gun.”

  Click.

  No ammunition. I’d made sure that one bullet wasn’t even in the chamber.

  When I made that decision out in the car, it was to make sure I didn’t lose control and kill Monroe.

  I shoved him back into the chair and grabbed my Glock. “A year and a half ago, this is how I would’ve handled you. See, I had this idea in my head back then.”

  “Do not walk out of here,” Monroe said, grabbing at my arm.

  “An idea,” I said, “that I could play judge, jury, and executioner.”

  “I can make you rich, Marsh,” he said. “You can retire. Rest of your life. Go fishing. Maybe get a place up on Schaeffer Lake.”

  I stared, incredulous. How the hell did this guy know I go to Schaeffer Lake?

  “Or wherever you like,” he corrected himself.

  I decided to take a shot at something. Something that had been itching at my brain for the last day.

  “You mean rich like Kelly Borland?” I asked.

  The governor hesitated. Blew air out of his nose. “Well, obviously that wasn’t money well spent,” he said. “If you’re here.”

  My heart sank.

  Shit, I thought. Kelly got paid.

  Maybe she started off scared of Ghost, but in the end, money was offered, and she took it.

  Something about the word “stay” was what tipped me. She kept talking about staying versus going. She was really speaking about leaving town with a pile of cash.

  I held up my Glock. “I realized before I walked in here, Monroe,” I said. “If I use this, you win again. If I trade you anything, you win again.”

  Monroe blocked the door then. His makeup was caking. “Well, what the fuck do you want?” He pushed at me, finally losing his cool. “Name it.”

  “There’s a letter I’ve already written,” I said. “It goes out in two hours if I’m not back. Along with four hundred pages of damning evidence on your father. Your cousins. You. Those nephews of yours who got the contract for the on-ramps along 285.”

  I opened the door. “And if anything happens to me . . . well, you better hope I drive safe every day.”

  “Don’t leave,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “You told me something once,” I said to Monroe. “You said that influence is like gasoline. The more you use, the less you got left.”

  Monroe squinted. “Did I say that?” Nodding, as if he agreed with the sentiment. Wondering where I was
going.

  “Your tanks are all empty, Governor,” I said. “You hear me, you son of a bitch? You’re slap out of fuel.”

  62

  I turned and left. Walked off the property and back up Piedmont to where my truck was. I grabbed a coffee at the Flying Biscuit and turned on the news as I drove north out of the city.

  I thought of everything that had gone down over the last twelve days.

  As I pictured it now at the school, Monroe’s guy Ghost had gotten the papers from Kelly early the morning of the eleventh and probably circled back around to sit on Jed’s house. See if Harrington even noticed she had stolen from him.

  Then, when Jed realized the papers were gone and drove to Falls Magnet Middle School, I imagine that Ghost probably followed him. Called Monroe when he got there. The governor must’ve thought he’d hit the lottery.

  Jed, a school shooter.

  And me, a cop in Monroe’s pocket who owed him one and could take Jed out.

  The press conference was delayed, but when it came on, it was a short one. Monroe announced that he’d recently met with his doctor, who told him he was not well.

  “The stress of the job has worn on my health,” he said. “So after a long discussion with my family, I’ve made the decision to step down immediately as governor. And not to run for reelection.”

  A cacophony of noises from the assembled press. Questions about what specific condition he had. Is it life-threatening? And when had he made this decision?

  I flicked off the radio and drove the rest of the way in silence, thinking of Lena and Jonas. Of a moment when I came home early to surprise them years ago and found the pair on the front porch. Jonas was asleep atop his mother in the hammock, and two discarded pints of rocky road lay on the concrete below them.

  Drunks, like gamblers, rarely keep winning.

  Yet every day with Lena and Jonas had been a miracle.

  I’d been lucky to have over ten years of miracles with her—and eight with him. And somehow since then, I had been even more fortunate to stay alive amid the pain of recovery.

  When I got to Mason Falls, I exited 906 and headed to Marvin’s place.