by Dan Stout
“Seriously, man. Eat a sandwich or something.” I took a seat and Jax twisted to follow me. The paper beneath him crinkled, matching the static that faded in and out of the easy-listening music piped out over the hospital’s PA system. My entire visit had been underscored by a muted saxophone-and-oboe duet.
“The aunt,” he said. “She talked to you?”
“She did.” I filled him in on my working theory. Jermaine had killed his parents and siblings in the grip of some drug. And why I thought he was tied to the Haberdine case.
“The kid’s the killer?” he said. “You think he tore someone apart in a hotel room and smuggled himself out?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “I’m saying there’s a chance he was there.”
“It’s something.”
“It’s a strong something,” I said. “But it could still dissolve.”
“There’s a witness,” he said.
“The dead one?” I snorted. “We’ve got a secondhand story about mad scientists and huffing chemicals. No specific names or locations. Just a ‘maybe’ that some of the equipment came from a drilling company.
“Though”—I stretched my arms over my head in an exaggerated yawn—“I did find time to make a few calls before I started in on the paperwork.”
“Yeah?”
“I left messages for the owners or CEOs of the largest twenty drilling companies. Said I wanted to ask about information I’d received from a witness we’re holding. A former employee of theirs named Jermaine Bell. Thought I’d see if anyone jumped at the mention of that name.”
“And?”
I smiled.
“And I’ve got an appointment to meet the owner of Rediron Drilling in a couple hours.”
“Harlan Cedrow?” he asked.
I nodded.
“The guy delaying the wind farms?”
“That’s him,” I said.
“The one you assured me had done so much for the community? The one with so much to lose if the wind farm deal goes sour?”
He almost chuckled, then laid a careful hand between his wounded arm and his rib cage.
I bit my tongue, glad he hadn’t gotten to a full gloat.
“All that still stands,” I said. “He helped people at one time, no matter what else happened since.” I ignored the flash of memory, Jenny’s face, the feel of her hand gripping mine as the Cedrow Care Center doctors laid out a plan of action to ease her pain. A surgery, infusing her cancer-ridden bones with material from a donor. From me.
“I’m going to go have a talk with the man,” I said, “and see what he says.”
The curtain was pulled aside and a doctor entered. I saw her eyes fall to the badge I’d clipped to my jacket. “Which one of you is . . .”
I pointed at Jax. “Right there, doc.”
She peered into my eyes, which I was sure were bloodshot and baggy.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Sit there and catch your breath, and we’ll look at you after your friend.”
That wasn’t going to happen. I already had my pills, and no exam would find anything physically wrong with me. The small scrape on my leg bones, the result of the donor surgery, was insignificant; it shouldn’t bother me at all. I didn’t need to hear one more doctor explain the idea of “psychosomatic pain.” I waited as the doctor placed two X-ray images on a wall-mounted light box, then let myself out as she was explaining to Ajax that his ribs were bruised but not broken.
The nurses’ station in the hall was vacant, and I saw a built-in radio tuner next to the announcement mic for the PA system. The source of all the easy-listening tunes that filled the floor.
I asked myself, what kind of partner would I be to leave a disco-loving kid like Ajax trapped with an endless oboe solo?
With a quick glance to either side, I stretched over the countertop and twisted the dial on the radio. A moment later I entered the elevator with a smile as thunderous guitar riffs echoed down the halls.
21
I HAD JUST ENOUGH TIME to pick up cat food, feed Rumple, and shower before heading to my appointment in clean clothes. I even poured an extra bowl of food, so that Rumple could graze if I was late getting home. Every now and then I can pass for a competent adult.
On my arrival I was led through the offices of Rediron Drilling by a series of lackeys before being deposited outside the big man’s office, with instructions to wait until I was called for.
Most of my career had consisted of rousting thugs and roughnecks, or piecing together when marriages went from argumentative to homicidal. In twenty years I’d never sat in more waiting rooms than the last few days. I was done waiting. I walked to the nicely built five-panel door and announced my presence with a fierce knocking.
I heard quick steps, the door opened, and I found myself eye-to-lapel with the single biggest Mollenkampi I’d ever seen. I glanced up and stared into massive biting jaws. He wore a collared shirt open at the neck, and I got a good look at the rippling gleam of his eating-mouth teeth as he spoke.
“Mr. Cedrow will see you now.” He took one step back, giving me just enough space to squeeze by.
If Jermaine Bell-Asandro was truly terrified of a massive Mollenkampi, this character certainly fit the bill. But there was more than one big guy in the world, and when would Jermaine have seen an assistant to one of Titanshade’s most powerful people?
Once past the bruiser I found a room the size of the Bunker’s Bullpen. Unlike the artificial intimacy of Paulus’s office, this place looked like a museum. Display cases ringed the walls, and two large glass-top jeweler’s tables displayed an array of documents and objects, lit and labeled for presentation.
At the far end of the room a man sat behind a metal desk, one leg propped up on its corner, steel-toed work boot emerging from the frayed cuff of canvas work pants. Seeing me he threw his hands in the air and shook them like a true believer at a tent revival.
“Mister Detective! Come on in!”
Harlan was lanky, with big hands and jug ears that were sized to match. He had a head plucked free of hair and a toothy grin. He dressed in Therreau fashion, simple fabrics and modest styling, though the accessories were those of a rig-working roughneck. The disparity between his dress and his surroundings was striking.
Harlan was perhaps the last of the old-school oil barons. His family was Therreau, but had left the faith to make their fortune. Harlan had gotten a lot of favorable press for steering the company back to Therreau ideals, though he never took it so far as to switch from trucks to tibron beetles or from electricity to oil lamps and pellet fires. He was famous for his down-home ways and a philanthropic streak that had helped countless families in need, including my own. I’d never forget the way Jenny’s pain eased after her surgery, an experimental trial that never would have happened if not for the Cedrow Care Center. The surgery ultimately didn’t save her and it had consigned me to a lifetime of aching pain, but it made her last months pass easier. And for that I was grateful. But if he was behind the treatment of Jermaine Bell, then I’d drag him kicking and screaming into the light.
I walked toward him with my hand out.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Cedrow,” I said.
“Harlan. Just Harlan.” He shook my hand without bothering to stand. I was surprised to feel rough calluses on his fingers and palms. Those work boots weren’t just for show.
I sat in a comfortable leather chair that I inched closer to his desk. I wanted to be able to read his face while we talked.
“Detective, you are as welcome as rainfall on thirsty soil.” His voice rose and fell in the archaic cadence common among Therreau folk. “What can I do for a fellow servant of this city?”
“I know that when I called I said that I wanted to talk to you about an employee . . .”
“Jermaine Bell, yes indeed.” Hushed now, like a whispered prayer.
“But that wasn’t entirely true.”
Harlan raised a hairless brow but stayed quiet.
“I do want to talk to you about Jermaine, but I have to wait for the docs to clear him for being interviewed.”
The oil magnate’s jaw tightened, but otherwise he was the picture of patience. I’d have to keep on pushing buttons to get a rise out of him.
“In all honesty, the kid’s just a reason to get in here to speak with you.” I leaned forward, as if sharing a ripe piece of gossip. “I’m here because I spoke with Ambassador Paulus earlier today.”
“Ah . . .” He adopted the same hushed tone of confidences shared. “And how is the ambassador?”
“She sends her regards,” I said. “But when I spoke with her, she made it quite plain who would have reason to derail the wind farm negotiations.”
“And who might that be?”
“Well, there’s a reason you were my next call, Mister Harlan.”
That made him laugh. “She is little, but she is fierce,” he said in a louder voice. “Though in this matter, she is mistaken.”
“Well,” I said, “for someone who wants to sell his land, you’re spending an awful lot of money advertising against the deal. All those billboards and commercials. ‘Oil made us great.’” I punctuated the phrase with air quotes.
“First let me be clear. Oil did indeed make this city great.” He ran a thumb over his jaw. “But I have a duty to our stakeholders to make the most out of the opportunity the wind farm proposal presents. Perception is a powerful thing, Detective.”
“So you’re supporting the deal by attacking it?”
He gave the arms of his chair a lazy slap, a tutor losing patience with his student.
“I’m spending thousands,” he said, “to make millions. Isn’t there some kind of math requirement at the police academy?”
“If there was, they wouldn’t be able to screw us on our overtime pay.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to say a word to Chief Janus the next time I see him.”
He wasn’t too subtle with the casual displays of power, that Harlan.
“I don’t mean to imply that you’d be suspected of any wrongdoing.” I backpedaled, as if afraid to give offense. “Everyone knows that you have a tremendous amount to lose if the talks break down. But she seemed to think you might have some”—I spun my hands as if at a loss for words—“I don’t know, some insight into the mindset of whoever would oppose the deal.” I pulled out my notepad. “So if you wouldn’t mind a few questions?”
With a deep breath and wide-armed gesture, the owner of Rediron Drilling sat back in his chair. “Ask away, friend. As for who’d have the most to lose if the wind farm project evaporated . . . well, I’m sure you and I will get there in time.”
“I suppose we will,” I said, then tried an abrupt pivot. “In fact, I was wondering about the key players in the negotiations. Did you notice any of the other parties bringing in attorneys who might not be focused on contract law?”
“An unusual attorney?” He rolled the phrase in his mouth. “Did you have anyone in mind?”
I waved my hand in a broad gesture. “I don’t know. A divorce attorney would be out of place. A criminal attorney. Someone who didn’t belong.”
Harlan eyed me, then grinned and wagged a finger like I was a disrespectful child.
“Deceit is a wicked thing, Mister Detective. A wicked thing that rots the heart from inside, sure as a worm burrows through an apple.” He tapped his breast for emphasis. “And I think you’re flirting with deceit, yes I do. I think you’re trying to ask me a question without coming out and asking.” He pushed back, his chair gliding easily across the floor. “But I can teach thee, cuz, to spur temptation.” He slapped a hand against his knee and swung it into the air. “Tell the truth and spur temptation!” His eyes followed his hand as it rose to the heavens. He paused at the apex, arm extended. Then he looked at me and lowered his arm, extending his finger as he did, a slow-motion accusation. “And you, Detective, could use a bit of schooling on telling the truth, don’t you think?”
Alright.
“When did you hire Jankowski?”
“There it is!” He clucked his tongue. “Doesn’t it feel better to simply come out with it?” Harlan drew close to me again, and glanced around as if we were back to swapping secrets. “I hired her years ago, and I use her to consult on all kinds of matters. Lawyers are expensive, but more expensive still is a lack of them when they’re actually needed. And it was clear that Mr. Flanagan was in need.”
“He was in need of an alibi. And Jankowski found a guide who could provide one. A guide who didn’t remember seeing Flanagan at her service when we interviewed her. What are the odds she found a few extra contributions slipped into the donation box that night?”
“Not from me or mine,” he said. “The real mystery is why she forgot the facts when she spoke to your men. Now, why do you think that was?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Contributions can cause people to remember things, but they can also cause an amnesia of convenience. And I am not a man who would disparage a guide’s integrity lightly, Detective.”
“And the source of these contributions? The ones that made her forget that a member of her flock was innocent?”
“Perhaps you should ask your fierce friend Ambassador Paulus.”
My stomach clenched.
“You’re saying Paulus paid the guide to lie about Flanagan for . . . what?” But even as I said it, I remembered Gellica’s doubts about Flanagan’s guilt, and the pressure she was under to see the case resolved.
“I’m saying that Attorney Jankowski uncovered the guide’s true knowledge. As for the ‘who’s and ‘how’s of why it was concealed to begin with . . .” He paused to give me a smile. “That’s more in your line of work than mine.”
I remembered the cool calculations with which Paulus viewed the negotiations. The thought of a politician covering up inconvenient facts shouldn’t have shocked me, but it meant I’d misread Gellica.
“As for my opinion of Mister Flanagan,” Harlan continued, “I believe that man is a reformed soul. A true walker on the Path.”
“And a tenant of yours.”
“Yessir. And proud to have him.” He placed a hand over his heart for the second time in our conversation. “I was saddened to hear that the police felt the need to disturb his foster family in such a way. And it did not surprise me that his bonds were burst in so fast and dramatic a manner.”
“Did you ever see Mr. Flanagan in the company of Garson Haberdine? Maybe doing something that didn’t—”
“That man is the book and the copy.”
I straightened my tie. Or at least I moved it around to kill time. “I admit I’m not familiar with that phrase.”
“He’s bona fide, Detective.”
I pretended to write that down in my notepad, repeating it as I did. “Bone . . . a . . . fide. . . .”
Harlan showed me his toothy grin. “Where were you born, Detective?”
“Why would you care about something like that?”
He folded his hands neatly in his lap, looking chastised.
“I care about the Path, the people in my employ, and the populace of this city. In that order.” He steepled his fingers. “I am a shepherd. And I’m curious to know the origin of anyone who objects to the way I protect my flock. So I ask you again, Detective . . . where were you born?”
“I was born here.”
“A Titanshader born and bred. That’s good. We have to take care of our own in this town.”
“All five million of us?”
“Eventually.” Harlan nodded so deeply his chin nearly clipped his chest. “The One Path is straight and true, but all of us must find our way to it through a rocky and winding road. The huddled masses who dwell in these c
rooked streets need a chosen few to serve and guide them.”
“Like shepherds?”
“Indeed.”
“That’s a privileged position for someone like you,” I said.
“One of privilege, perhaps, but also responsibility. My family has served this town and its people for more generations than you could imagine. I’m meeting with you,” he said, “because it’s my civic duty to assist law enforcement to the best of my ability. But I cleared my calendar so that you could come in tonight because I care about this town and its people. And I will do anything in my power to protect them.”
Harlan grinned and stared at me. Waiting.
“One of those people is an employee of yours. Jermaine Bell.”
“Was.”
“Was?” I asked. As far as the public knew, we were holding Jermaine for questioning. If Harlan was aware that Jermaine was dead, then he had an agent working inside the Bunker.
“After you called I asked my assistant to check the HR records. Mr. Bell-Asandro was hired in an entry-level position, but we were forced to let him go after repeated no-shows. He hasn’t worked for Rediron for over six months. I’d be glad to give you a copy of the paperwork for your files.”
I had no doubt that it would all be in order. But my immediate concern receded. The Bunker wasn’t compromised. That was at least one ray of good news.
“I think you’ll be happy to know that we’ve got Jermaine Bell-Asandro safely in custody,” I said. “He’s a little shaken up, but we’re getting more and more information out of him.”
The grin faltered, and a split second later it was back in place. It happened so fast that I almost couldn’t be sure I’d even seen it. But it was my way in. Now I had to play him just right, leave him wondering how much I knew, whose side I was on. I dropped my notepad lower, and held my pencil away from it. A meaningless gesture that many people interpret as a sign the conversation is somehow off the record.
“I’ll be honest,” I said. “Jermaine is telling us that he worked for you much more recently than that. He says that he performed some rather questionable activities for you.”
