The Answer Man

by Roy Johansen

  As satisfied as Gant felt with having pulled the truth from her, it didn’t help him piece together Parker’s involvement in the case. Just that morning he had sworn out a warrant for Parker’s arrest, but it was entirely possible the suspect had already skipped town. Unless, of course, Parker was responsible for the P.I.’s murder at the Carter Library. Just minutes before, Gant received word that the investigator had been working on the Vikkers Industries embezzling case.

  It came back to that case again.

  “Follow the money” was standard procedure in cases such as this. Find the money, and the rest of the pieces fall into place. Or so the reasoning goes. Gant suspected it was sound advice in this particular instance, but none of the agencies had been able to come up with anything. Not the Atlanta P.D., not the FBI, not the D.A.’s office.

  He had to find Ken Parker.

  Gant’s thoughts were interrupted as Alicia started sobbing again. “I’ll have to give the money back to Jesus,” she said.

  “What money?”

  “He gave me five thousand dollars the day I talked to you.”

  “Five thousand? Where did he get that kind of money?”

  “I don’t know. But he said there might be more if I did what he wanted.”

  Gant turned to the other officer for a reaction. This time the woman looked interested.

  “Five thousand dollars?” she said.

  —

  Gant glared at Jesus through the eggshell-white bars of the jail a few floors above his office. Jesus was copping major attitude.

  “Got nothin’ to say to you, man.”

  “Where’d the money come from? The sick and the elderly don’t ordinarily have that much cash on hand, and they’re the only ones you’d have the guts to rob. I’ve seen your record.”

  “Maybe I’ve moved up in the world.”

  “Why was it worth five thousand dollars to you for Mrs. Valez to incriminate Ken Parker?”

  Jesus yanked down his pants and sat on the steel toilet in the corner of his cell. He smiled at Gant. “Enjoying the show?”

  “Charming. Where did the money come from?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I care if someone else had reason to kill or otherwise harm Ken Parker.”

  “You got your man. Leave it at that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, then, you’d better be prepared to deal.”

  “I am.”

  “Will the D.A. back that up?”

  “If I ask him, but I have to know you’re not bullshitting me. Why do you want to deal now? You could have talked the night we arrested you.”

  “I thought I might be getting some high-priced legal help, or maybe some money to make it worth my while. Neither has been coming, so I figure I’m on my own.”

  “Spill it.”

  Jesus leaned back against the toilet. “Talk to the D.A. I’ll need something in writing.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “This is good. Don’t worry, it’ll be worth it.”

  —

  Hound Dog motioned for Ken to enter her trailer. “Where have you been?”

  “Dead,” he said, closing the door and locking it. “Sorry I’ve been out of touch.”

  “I haven’t really noticed. I’ve been busy with Mark. Someone tried to kill him the other night.”

  Ken felt sick. “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, but if I had come in a minute later, he wouldn’t be. I can’t tell you how scared I was.”

  Ken listened as she filled him in on the events of the other night. “Was it a big guy, heavyset, with a ruddy face?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said in surprise. “Who is it?”

  “He’s dead. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

  Rather than taking comfort in his words, she seemed suspicious. “How do you know?”

  Ken took a deep breath. He had to tell her. Where should he start?

  He told Hound Dog about Michaelson’s plans to kill him and the frame-up for Sabini’s murder.

  Hound Dog looked down. “I’m glad he’s dead,” she said. “It’s horrible to say, isn’t it? But that’s how I feel.”

  “I can’t say I blame you. If I had known he’d come after your boyfriend, I would’ve warned you. I’m sorry.”

  She nodded. “What now?”

  “I need to find out how Sabini knew me. Why he chose me for his test.”

  “Luck?”

  “Maybe. But if he really had a partner in this scheme, it’s possible his partner suggested me. Maybe someone I’ve worked with before, someone who hired me. If I can find that link—”

  “You might find the murderer,” she finished for him.

  “Right.”

  “How are you going to find that link?”

  Ken walked across the small living room and turned toward her. “I have a pretty good idea.”

  —

  “He’s lying! I’ve never even heard of this man before.” Herbert Decker filled the small interrogation room with his booming voice.

  “Jesus Millicent gave us a complete statement,” Gant said. “You hired him to kill Ken Parker. When his first attempts failed, you had him convince Carlos Valez’s widow to incriminate Parker in her husband’s death.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I don’t know any of these names.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want your attorney present?”

  Decker sputtered, “I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything! Why would I want to kill this guy?”

  “That was my question. And Jesus couldn’t help me answer that one, because you never told him. You never even told him who you were, which was a smart move, but he saw you on television the other night. You were hamming it up at a fund-raiser.”

  “That’s a crime?”

  “No. But let me introduce you to someone who has an idea why you would want Ken Parker dead.” Gant turned to the wiry, dark-suited man at his left. “This is Special Agent Lars from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Lars stepped forward, taking command of the room. Gant noticed how these FBI types liked to do that. “Mr. Decker, we know that in addition to other Securities violations, your company disseminated false information about Lyceum Metals in order to facilitate your merger with that company.”

  “Lies.”

  “We arrested the computer specialist who sold the information to your competitors. He was in Tennessee headed to who knows where. He told us all about your pocket program, and also that Ken Parker was on your trail. We suspect you found out too. We found some photos and surveillance records in the office of your late investigator, Ted Michaelson, that prove he was watching Parker. Maybe Parker was getting too close to the truth, so you wanted him out of the way. He happened to be a murder suspect, and you chose Jesus Millicent because, as a friend of Carlos Valez’s, he would have a built-in motive for wanting Ken Parker dead.”

  “Just as you wanted Don Browne dead,” Gant added. “We think he knew about the pocket program too.”

  Decker burst out laughing. “Utterly fantastic. You can’t prove a bit of it!”

  “You went after Parker with a two-pronged attack,” Gant said, leaning into Decker. “After Jesus failed in his attempts to murder him, Carlos Valez’s widow made up those lies. You hoped he would be arrested, which would have effectively put the brakes on his investigation.”

  “You still can’t prove any of this.”

  Lars ticked the points off on his fingers. “We have Jesus Millicent, we have your pocket program, and we know your only in-house programmer who could have designed it. He’ll talk to us. And as we speak, we’re zeroing in on Matt Lansing, even though you sent him on an around-the-world tour to keep him away from us.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “Is it?” Lars said. “We have a secretary at Lyceum Metals who says that her boss called you to say that Don Browne may have obtained a sample of their RC-7 metal formulation. This was just a day before he was kill
ed.”

  Decker chuckled, but Gant could see a hard swallow in his throat. “I think I’d better talk to my lawyer.”

  Gant smiled and opened the door, motioning for Lars to join him in the hallway. They left the room and locked the door behind them.

  “I want to work on him awhile longer,” Lars said. “But it looks good. I think we got him.”

  Gant nodded. “This solves your problem, but not mine. I have three murders and twelve million dollars still unaccounted for.”

  —

  “Kenbo, I hit pay dirt on this Sabini guy. You’re sure getting your money’s worth.”

  Ken and Hound Dog sat on stools in Stan Warner’s cluttered living room, thumbing through the contents of a bulging file folder. There was a veritable biography of Burton Sabini, complete with press releases, photos, and report copies. It was far more than he had ever expected.

  “Where did you get all this stuff?” Hound Dog asked.

  “Well, I shouldn’t say…”

  “Okay.”

  “What the hell. I’m kind of proud of it. I think I’ve outdone myself this time. I got a lot from the morgue at The Atlanta Constitution. They keep clip files on people there, and I got a contact who helps maintain it. She pulled the whole file and gave it to me.”

  Ken shook his head, squinting as the early afternoon sun beamed through a dirty window. “This is incredible.”

  “Thanks. I do what I can.”

  Ken stood and pulled out his wallet. “Two hundred bucks, right?”

  “Yeah. Cash only.”

  Ken counted out ten twenty-dollar bills and handed them over.

  Warner turned to Hound Dog. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let me know. Maybe a background check? There are some creepy guys out there, and a pretty girl like you might like to know who she’s getting involved with.”

  “Thanks,” Hound Dog said, “but I already have a guy.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Well enough.”

  “If you say so.” Warner turned back to Ken. “Listen, it’s only a matter of time before you’re arrested for this Sabini guy’s murder.”

  Hound Dog gave Ken a surprised look. He hadn’t told her about the arrest warrant.

  “I know,” Ken said. “That’s why I want this stuff. I don’t have long to try to figure out what’s going on.”

  “Be careful with this file. Don’t tell anybody where you got it. I gave you a bargain. Don’t repay me by bringing the cops down on my operation.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  —

  It had been a good ten years since Ken had visited Jerry’s Billiards, a hole-in-the-wall pool hall downtown. There was a laughable “restaurant” section where customers could enjoy their drinks and microwaved sandwiches in tall booths in the back. Ken noticed that the place was even more run-down than he remembered, with beer stains coloring the pool tables’ worn felt tops. But the booths were still there. Good. That’s all he needed. A little privacy.

  He and Hound Dog slid into a booth. “Nice place,” she said sarcastically. “But where else would I expect a fugitive from justice to take me?”

  “I’m sorry. If you’d rather not risk being with me, I understand.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” She ran her fingers over the razor-marked tabletop. “Is this from cutting lines of coke?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

  He spilled the file’s contents on the table. “Here goes nothing.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be much help. Only you will know if there’s a link between you and Sabini here.” She began sorting the file’s contents. “But I’ll try to get this stuff into some kind of order.”

  Ken sifted through the packet one piece at a time. It reminded him of the file Myth had given him, but this was much more comprehensive, including several photos and press releases sent out over the years by Sabini’s various employers.

  Twenty minutes passed, and they had barely made a dent in the file. Maybe he was wasting his time, Ken thought. There wasn’t anything here.

  Faded pictures of people he didn’t know.

  Companies he’d never heard of.

  A lifetime of dreams and accomplishments reduced to a single file folder.

  Poor Sabini, Ken thought as he looked at a photo of the man’s smiling face. The guy really got in over his head.

  Ken leaned back and picked up a black-and-white photo of a groundbreaking ceremony, obviously part of a company press kit. There was a row of business-attired employees, one of whom was Sabini, standing in the middle of an open field.

  Ken was about to toss it aside, when something caught his eye.

  Or, rather, someone.

  He moved the picture closer to his face and squinted at it. There, next to Sabini, was a face he knew. A smiling face, seven or eight years younger than the one he still saw several times each week, but quite recognizable nonetheless.

  “What is it?” Hound Dog asked.

  “God,” Ken whispered. He gripped the photo and stared at the face, wishing it would miraculously change into another.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  It was the one person he didn’t believe—couldn’t believe—he’d see in these photos.

  “Who is it?” Hound Dog asked.

  Still holding the picture, Ken stood up. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “You’re leaving me?”

  He could barely think straight. “Take MARTA, okay?” He fished around in his pockets and came up with a twenty. “No, take a cab. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t cut me out of the loop!”

  He ran from the pool hall.

  CHAPTER 21

  Ken drove down Piedmont Road, dropping a few cassettes on the seat beside him to keep the photo from blowing away. It was just past six P.M., and the happy-hour nightspots were in full swing. Cars lined up for spaces in the jammed parking lots. Decks overflowed with buzzed customers.

  Ken ran his hands through his hair a few times, breathing automobile exhaust fumes noxiously combined with a citrus odor from one of the restaurants. He glanced back down at the photo. The face was still there, only inches from Burton Sabini’s.

  Margot.

  His ex-wife, best friend, and closest confidante.

  He felt like hell.

  Had the indicators been there the whole time and he just didn’t pick up on them? Margot’s sudden restlessness, her detachment from Bill…

  Ken drove for the better part of an hour, finally finding himself in Margot and Bill’s neighborhood.

  He had to talk to her.

  He slowed to a stop in front of his friends’ house. Bill, hunched over the engine of his old Vette in the open garage, glanced up. He ambled down the driveway.

  “Ken Parker lives!” he yelled out. “Where’d you get the wheels?”

  Ken remained sitting, staring at the photograph as Bill stepped alongside the Mercedes. “Where’s Margot?”

  “Where she always is at this time.”

  Ken checked his watch. “The jogging trail.”

  It had been a couple of weeks since he had run with her. The evenings they spent running and talking were some of his favorite times. Even when everything else was turning to shit, he always had the jogging trail with Margot.

  “What’s wrong, buddy?”

  No more secrets. Ken cut the engine. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong.”

  He told Bill the whole story, from his very first encounter with Myth at Elwood’s.

  “I figured that Sabini’s partner killed him because he didn’t want to risk being exposed at Sabini’s trial. Michaelson, the private detective, told Myth he knew who the partner was. He planned to approach him and blow the whistle unless he got a chunk of the money. So Michaelson was killed too.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I suspected that Myth killed Michaelson,” Ken said. “She was working with him,
and he might have told her who Sabini’s partner was, even though she said he didn’t.”

  “You don’t trust her?”

  “I wasn’t sure. But listen to this. Sabini wanted me specifically to help him get ready for the polygraph test. But he had no way of knowing me unless maybe his partner did. So it occurred to me this person might be someone he and I both knew.”

  Bill looked at him questioningly.

  Ken took a deep breath, grabbed the photo from the seat next to him, and climbed out of the car. He handed the picture to Bill.

  Bill looked at it incredulously. “Margot?”

  Ken nodded.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I have a source.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “I don’t like it either. But it’s the only way it makes sense. Margot and Sabini worked at Allied Industries at the same time.”

  “So what? That was over five years ago. I never heard her talk about this guy.”

  “You think it’s just a coincidence?”

  “It can’t be anything else.” Bill glared at him. “Christ, you’re pathetic. You never could forgive her, could you?”

  “Bill, that isn’t—”

  “Don’t take it out on her. You wanna get mad at somebody, get mad at me!”

  “Do you think I want her to be involved in this?”

  “I can’t believe this! Whenever you needed help, I always did whatever I could to—”

  “Bullshit. I never asked for your help!”

  “You needed it!”

  “No! You needed to think I needed your help. And you needed for the whole world to think I did too. It’s always been that way. You needed that to feel good about yourself. Never mind how you made me feel.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Ken grabbed the photo and jumped into the Mercedes.

  “Where are you going?” Bill shouted. “Wait!”

  Ken roared away without casting another glance in his direction.

  —

  He should be running with her, Ken thought. Laughing, joking, forgetting his troubles. He shifted on the hood of the Mercedes. The car was parked on the street, facing the jogging trail. Margot would be coming any minute now.

  Ken lit a cigarette. Why did it have to be her?

  The last tinges of sunlight were disappearing when he caught sight of Margot coming over the hill. She drew closer, obviously surprised to see him. She stopped and pulled off her Walkman headset. “The police are looking for you.”