Four

by Dustin Stevens

  “Who else can we talk to about this guy besides his wife?” Meeks asked without looking up.

  Beckett shifted his gaze to Meeks, a flash of recognition behind his eyes. He glanced down at his notes again before standing and heading towards the door. “You coming?”

  “Where the hell we going?”

  “We’re going to go see August Wilbanks.”

  Meeks eyes grew a bit larger as he stood, moving to catch up. “The old man? I’m guessing the FBI has been all over him today, you think that’s smart?”

  “Probably not,” Beckett muttered, passing through the door and out into the parking lot.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “So do we know where this guy lives?” Meeks asked as he settled in behind the wheel.

  “We don’t give a shit where he lives. We’re going to talk to him now and that means the Wilbanks Building.”

  Meeks snorted and said, “The man just lost his son and you think he’s at work? After hours?”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” Beckett asked.

  “Because most people would want to be home with their loved ones, some place they felt safe.”

  “This is where August Wilbanks feels safe,” Beckett said. “A man like Wilbanks doesn’t feel at home in his own house because he didn’t build that house. He might have made the money to pay for every brick of it, but he didn’t put the ideas together and create it from the ground up.

  “He’s at work right now because that’s where he feels most powerful. The death of his son has shown everyone just how vulnerable a Wilbanks can be and he’s out to prove that wrong.”

  Meeks shook his head and said, “See, now you’re going all Dr. Phil on me with this psycho-babble stuff. Bottom line, man just lost his son. I’ll bet you dinner we get there and he’s at home. We can even stop and pick it up on our way to his house.”

  A thin smile crossed Beckett’s lips, but he said nothing. The rookies always needed to have a contest, something they could use to justify their worth.

  The traffic surrounding the station was typical Boston rush hour, slow and dense, growing thinner as they approached the business district. With the clock nudging six, most of the buildings were fast becoming deserted.

  Meeks pulled up to the curb outside the Wilbanks Building and set the caution lights on, the two of them climbing out together. The skyscrapers above blocked out almost all of the late afternoon sun and in the shade the air was several degrees cooler.

  Pausing for a second Meeks looked straight up at the endless wall of glass and steel. “You’re still sure he’s in there?”

  “Where else would he be?” Beckett asked and went straight for the door.

  The two entered through a large rotating door with a gap large enough for several people to enter at a time. They both went into the same opening together and shuffled for a few steps before stepping into an atrium that extended several stories upward.

  The floor was cut from white marble, four large columns seeming to box the room in. A large fountain with a single blast of water rose from the middle of the space.

  A Starbucks stood on the left of the fountain, a McDonalds on the right. A few people were in line at each of them, most looking like they were taking a break instead of calling it a day.

  On the far side of the square stood a large security desk with metal detectors on either side. Beckett motioned towards it and they both moved past the fountain.

  “Looks like Logan Airport over there,” Meeks whispered, nodding towards the long conveyors for scanning bags and purses and security personnel with wands nearby. “I ain’t taking my damn shoes off.”

  Beckett smirked, walked to the desk and flashed his badge. A large black man with thick neck and arms and a shaved head said, “What can I do for you detective?”

  “I’m here to see August Wilbanks please.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed just a bit and he said, “Is he expecting you?”

  “That I can’t answer, though I’m sure we’re not the first people to come by today.”

  The man passed his eyes from Beckett to Meeks and back again. “Actually, you are. I called in some extra crew today and gave them all overtime because I figured there would be press and investigators all over the place.

  “You’re the first ones to show.”

  The information caught Beckett by surprise. “Really? No FBI or anything?”

  “Nothing,” the man said and slid a clipboard over in front of them. “Please sign in, I’ll call upstairs. I can’t promise you’ll get past his secretary, but I’ll send you up just the same.”

  Beckett signed the log and said, “Thank you, we appreciate it.”

  The man handed Beckett a business card and said, “Bobby Brentwood. I know you probably don’t have anything to do with the hiring over there, but if you ever hear of something open up give me a call. I spent three years as an MP in Germany; I know what I’m doing.”

  Taking the card, Beckett told him he’d do what he could and passed through the security monitor. The detector squawked as each of them walked by, but Brentwood waved them on.

  “We already know you’re packing, just keep going. Mr. Wilbanks is on the 52nd floor.”

  They thanked him and nodded at the attending security personnel, then made their way to the elevators.

  Once past the atrium the building changed styles, the floors shifting from marble to heavy carpet of reds and yellows. Dark oak lined the floors and ceilings and the walls were painted in the same rich color with artwork hanging every few feet.

  They climbed into an express elevator that skipped the first thirty floors before having the option of stopping at every one thereafter. Beckett pressed the button for the fifty-second and the door snapped shut.

  The ride to the top took a full three minutes, punctuated by an older woman entering on the 37th and exiting on the 41st. On each of those floors they could see lines of desks accented by the occasional cubicle and several people still working.

  On the 52nd, a secluded hallway greeted them. Heavy benches of the same oak lined either wall and large potted plants stood on either side of them.

  At the far end of the hallway gold block lettering spelled out WILBANKS TRUST INTERNATIONAL. Underneath it in slightly smaller letters was August J. Wilbanks, President & CEO.

  Beneath the lettering was a large oak desk with green ferns on either end of it hiding a computer and fax machine. An elderly woman in a business suit sat, her hands folded in front of her as she stared at them.

  As they grew closer a thin smile grew across her face. “Good evening gentlemen. Mr. Wilbanks wasn’t expecting any visitors but has asked me to tell you he is tying up some loose ends and will be with you shortly. You can have a seat on either of the benches if you’d like.”

  Meeks’ jaw dropped and a slight sound slid from his throat, but Beckett cut him off. “Thank you ma’am. We appreciate you folks seeing us on such short notice.”

  “Can I get you gentlemen anything while you wait? Coffee, tea, water?”

  “Actually, coffee would be fantastic,” Beckett said and Meeks raised two fingers in agreement.

  The woman disappeared and Beckett turned to Meeks. “What the hell was that?”

  “She just surprised me is all,” Meeks said. “I was expecting us to ride in here, all guns blazing and stuff. Instead, a little old lady let us know right off the bat who had the upper hand.”

  Beckett waved a hand around the office. “You don’t amass all this without always having the upper hand. That’s a fact of life.”

  Meeks shook his head and looked around as Beckett took a seat on the bench and waited.

  Five minutes later a large man emerged from behind the lettering and walked straight towards them, his hand extended in front of him. “Good evening gentlemen, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. August Wilbanks,” he said, shaking each of their hands.

  Wilbanks was well over six feet tall with broad shoulders that narrowed at the hip. His hair was thick
and snow white, parted neatly on the side. He wore a tailored blue suit with a blue dress shirt with white collar beneath it. His tie diagonally alternated shades of blue and his cuff links and ring were of shiny gold.

  “Mr. Wilbanks, thank you for seeing us on such short notice like this,” Beckett said. “We’re very sorry for your loss and we’re sorry to be here under these terms, but we were hoping we might be able to speak with you a moment about your son.”

  “Yes of course,” Wilbanks replied. “Do come into my office and have a seat. And please, call me Augy.”

  Beckett nodded and followed Wilbanks into his office, ignoring Meeks as he mouthed, “Augy?”

  Wilbanks led them into a palatial corner office that overlooked Boston Harbor to one side and most of downtown to the other. Along the other two walls were heavy bookshelves lined with plants, awards, and photographs. At the corner of the two outer walls sat Wilbanks’ desk, in front of it two chairs. In the center of the room stood another chair, on either side of it a sofa facing a large table.

  An arrangement that reminded Beckett of the Oval Office.

  On the table sat a pewter silver coffee set with three cups. The receptionist poured coffee into each of them and dropped two sugar cubes into the nearest one with a splash of milk.

  “How do you gentleman like your coffee?”

  Beckett and Meeks said, “Black” simultaneously.

  The receptionist replaced the sugar tongs and retreated from the room.

  “Thank you Janice,” Wilbanks called after her and motioned for the men to be seated. He picked up his cup and saucer from the tray and said, “I understand Chief Royal assigned you to look into this case. What can I do to help?”

  Beckett sipped the fine coffee and said, “I guess we can start by asking, can you think of anybody that would take exception to your son in this manner? Anybody that would have an old score to settle or any reason for wanting to...?”

  Wilbanks placed his cup on its saucer and sat it down on the table. “As I am sure you gentlemen well know, Keller was my only son. A fine boy that I had hoped would take over for me here one day when he had his fill of politics.

  “I stayed awake all last night asking myself that very same thing and I honestly cannot think of a single answer to that question besides, no.”

  “Nothing from his past? No disgruntled opponents he defeated in an election or somebody that might have felt betrayed by a piece of legislation he backed?”

  Wilbanks shook his head. “Nothing like that. Keller was very paranoid of angering his constituency, to the point that he kept a team on staff that did nothing but monitor public opinion on everything he did. I know for a fact there have been certain bills he voted against because of fear of voter backlash.”

  Beckett drew his brow in and jotted down a note. “You wouldn’t happen to know what those measures were would you?”

  “Not well enough to speak definitively on the matter. I’m sure you could speak to Helen though, she would be able to give you all that information.”

  “Helen?”

  “Helen Graham, Keller’s Chief of Staff. She works out of his office here most of the time, traveling to DC with the family when they are there. I can put you in touch if you’d like.”

  Beckett raised his eyebrows a bit. “That would be great, thank you.” He glanced down at his pad and said, “I apologize in advance if I don’t word this correctly, but might I ask if you have any enemies out there sir? That is to say, anybody that might try to get to you through your son?”

  The slightest hint of resentment flashed in Wilbanks’ eyes, disappearing just as fast when a look of concern replaced it. “You don’t think? You don’t think something happened to my son to hurt me do you?”

  Beckett shook his head and said, “Honestly, no I don’t. I feel that if somebody we’re trying to make a statement against you or your son they would have done just that. Made a statement.

  “As is, every effort was exhausted in making this look accidental.”

  Wilbanks leaned back and nodded his head. “Truthfully, I feel the same way. My son was an excellent nautical technician and even better swimmer. He’s handled sailboats on rough seas before and the idea of him falling off his boat and drowning on a calm day in his own pond just didn’t sit well with me.”

  He paused for a moment and said, “When you build a business as large as mine, you can’t help but encounter a few people with less than good intentions along the way. Especially in the banking industry, where people always seem to think they’re in the right as far as money is concerned.

  “Sitting here now though, I can’t think of a single person that would have the gumption or the basis for doing this. I really can’t.”

  Beckett studied the man before him, getting a sense if what he was saying was true. The man’s voice remained steady as did his hands, but his eyes gave away the anguish that only a father having lost his only son could feel.

  He was telling the truth.

  Beckett looked at his notepad a moment more and decided this man had been through enough. Everything else he needed he could get from Helen Graham.

  Standing up, Beckett extended a business card and said, “I am very sorry again to be here like this, even sorrier for your loss. If I could just get that contact information for Ms. Graham, I will respectfully rid you of our presence this evening.”

  Wilbanks accepted it and shook each of their hands. “Thank you, I appreciate it. Believe me there is nothing more I wish to do than see whoever did this to my son brought to justice. At the moment though, I’m too filled with sadness to even consider retribution.”

  Beckett nodded and showed himself to the door. Janice was standing there with the complete contact information for Helen Graham on a sheet of paper with Wilbanks Trust letterhead.

  Beckett accepted it and thanked her as they walked by.

  How she knew to have it ready, Beckett didn’t want to know.

  He and Meeks rode the elevator back down in silence, exiting through security and across the atrium. Most of the men were gone from the security checkpoint and they nodded at the night staff as they walked by.

  As they reached the Crown Vic still parked by the curb, Beckett’s cell phone sprang to life and he snapped it open. “Beckett.”

  He paused before saying, “We’re just leaving August Wilbanks office now.”

  Meeks looked a question at him and Beckett covered the phone and said, “Ames.”

  He listened a few moments before saying, “Alright, we’ll be there,” and flipping the phone shut.

  He swung down into the passenger seat across from Meeks and said, “I hope you’re an early riser.”

  “Why? What the heck just happened?” Meeks asked.

  “That was Ames, said he talked to Marcia Wilbanks this afternoon.”

  “And?”

  “And I guess Winston pissed her off again later today so she told them to get the hell off her property. As of tomorrow morning, it’s all ours.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  There are few things in the world as wonderful as fall in New England. Every year the thick hillsides of maple, ash and oak turn their leaves from deep shades of green into a majestic tapestry of gold, orange and red. Thousands upon thousands of tourists flock here each autumn with their cameras and their campers, aching to take in nature’s enduring beauty.

  Dern Beckett didn’t give a damn about the color of the trees as he stood leaning against the hood of his Ford F-150. He was the first to arrive and stood in the silence of the morning taking in long pulls of coffee and staring out over the water. The morning sun was no more than an inch above the horizon, mist rising off the water.

  Beckett wasn’t paying attention to any of that either. His eyes were open and aimed at the water, clouded over by a myriad of details that told him something wasn’t right, but remained just beyond his grasp.

  The low rumble of a diesel engine carved its way through the morning air, causing Beckett to shift
his view to the approaching road. A few seconds later Ames’ Ranger pulled into sight, swinging itself off the concrete driveway and into the grass beside Beckett.

  “You live in Boston and drive an F-150?” Ames asked as means of a hello.

  Nodding, Beckett said, “Which is why I let the rook do all the driving. Folks see a pickup truck and assume you belong on a ranch somewhere instead of being a detective.”

  Ames swung a boot at the mud caked around the wheel wells. “Looks like this one’s done a fair share of field time just the same.”

  Beckett smiled. “Oh, she has. Pulled more than one hay wagon in her day. For now though, we’re both living the city life.”

  “You ever want a chance to get outside the city...” Ames said, letting his voice trail off.

  “With all due respect Sheriff, how often do you guys have a call for a detective out here?”

  Unable to do anything but agree, Ames nodded. “Right you are.”

  The sound of a third engine approaching turned them both to see Meeks pull into the driveway. He parked the Crown Vic beside Ames and climbed out.

  “Sorry boss, train was late this morning,” he said, glancing to Ames. “Take the train to the station, then grab the car and go from there.”

  Ames nodded in understanding.

  “Nothing to apologize for, you still had two minutes to spare. Shall we?” Beckett asked, and swung an arm towards the lake. He waited for Ames to lead the way and followed close behind him, Meeks right on their heels.

  “So have we got anything from the crime scene investigation the Feds ran?” Beckett asked.

  Ames glanced over his shoulder and said, “Friend of mine over at the Coast Guard said they drug the lake and it came back negative. Said it was the cleanest damn body of water he’d ever seen.

  “Handful of tin cans, an old Christmas tree or two, some old concrete rings used for fish cover. Nothing that could even remotely be construed as a weapon.”

  “What about the boat? Anything turn up there?”

  “I called Riley last night and gave me the quick once over on everything he knew. Said Washington got in later in the day and took over, left him and Winston on the outside looking in.