“So here's my offer. You investigate his story. I know I hat won't be easy, because who knows who's involved, you know how corrupt things can be in these banana republics. But at the end of the day, if what he tells you leads to the real killer of that woman and the reasons behind it, you cut him loose.”
Levy listened patiently. He had been down this path in my times before. “If that woman was really murdered,” I he replied, “rather than it having been a random killing, and if we can identify her actual killers and bring them to trial based on evidence he presents us, then we'll cut him loose. But it has to be rock-solid, because we have to go after extradition, which is very difficult. So tell him not to try to get cute, because if he does, we'll bury his sorry ass so deep he'll never see the light of day again.”
They quickly came to an agreement—Rodríguez was desperate to do anything to avoid going to jail in America. He would give the Americans whatever information he had. If his information could be substantiated in his country, and if warrants for the arrest of Jocelyn's killers were issued, either there or in the U.S., he would be deported from the United States. He could never return, but he wouldn't go to federal prison in this country, a prospect that terrified him. He'd still have to face the music back home, but if he had to go to jail, better he do it at home, where he could easily bribe his way out of prison, than in the U.S., where he was absolutely dead meat.
LOS ANGELES
Special Customs Agent Tucker and U.S. Attorney Levy drove from San Diego to Los Angeles to meet with Walt Gaines. The government men brought Walt's recovered watch with them, along with eighty pages of testimony from their witness, Rodríguez.
They had contacted Walt over the phone, telling him they wanted to discuss some new information they had uncovered about the events surrounding the death of his wife in Central America. They deliberately hadn't given him any specifics. Although they had Rodríguez's confession, they knew they had nothing to tie Walt to Jocelyn's killing. His name had never come up in their conversations with their prisoner, and even if it had, anything Rodríguez told them was hearsay, almost impossible to corroborate. And they knew Rodríguez would say anything to try to get out of doing time in an American jail, including bringing down an innocent man.
The best result they figured they could get from this meeting was to elicit a feeling, one way or the other, as to whether Professor Gaines actually was involved in his wife's killing, or if it really had been a tragic accident, as everyone had supposed until recently. They had both been in this business a long time—their noses were pretty reliable when it came to sniffing out bullshit.
Walt had agreed to meet with them, but his attitude, they could tell from his tone of voice over the phone, was going to be one of caution and suspicion, an understandable combination, under the circumstances. Whether his reaction had been from having an old, painful wound reopened or something more sinister, they didn't know. They were hoping to find that out.
“Come in,” Walt greeted them, as he opened his front door. “I was afraid you might get lost. The streets meander all over in this neighborhood.”
He led them into the living room. “Have a seat,” he told his guests, indicating a couch that was perpendicular to the fireplace. He flopped down on the one facing it. The wooden coffee table separated him from his visitors, both physically and psychologically.
“This is a nice house, Professor,” Tucker said conversationally, looking around. “Lived here long?”
“Not long, no,” Walt replied.
“Do you live alone?”
Walt gave him a bemused expression. “Why do you ask?”
“It's a big house for one person,” Tucker answered.
“I have three sons.”
Tucker smiled. “That would explain it. I have kids of my own. They sure fill up the space, don't they?”
“Mine don't live here though, they're grown men,” Walt said with a smile. “They have their own lives, this isn't like Bonanza. But to answer your question: I have a woman friend who stays here occasionally, but she's out of town at the moment. Do you need to talk to her?”
Tucker shook his head. “That won't be necessary.” They didn't want to get sidetracked with peripheral players.
Walt leaned forward. “When you called, you said you have fresh information about my wife's killing. What is it?”
“It's complicated,” Levy answered. “First, there's something we want to show you.” He reached into his briefcase and took out a specimen Baggie that contained Walt's wristwatch. Removing the watch from the bag, he laid it on the coffee table.
Walt regarded the watch as if it was radioactive. He picked it up and slowly turned it over in his hands. “Where did you get this?” he asked in a whispery voice.
“From a man who told us he bought it off a guy who was one of the people who killed your wife,” Tucker told him.
The look on Walt's face was one of shock and disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, sir,” Tucker answered.
Walt put the watch on his wrist, examining it with a sense of awe and wonderment. Looking up at the two government men again, he asked, “Where did you find him? The man who had my watch?”
Levy jumped in. “We'll get to that in a moment,” he said. Dipping into his briefcase, he pulled out the transcript of Rodríguez's testimony. Several Post-its were interspersed throughout the document, protruding from the edges. Flipping to the first marked page, he turned his look to Walt.
“Did you ever know about, or hear about, or have any awareness of thievery at the archaeological sites you worked on. Dr. Gaines?” he asked. “La Chimenea, to be specific.”
Walt nodded affirmatively. “That's always a problem,” he said, “A site like La Chimenea, which is spread out over thousands of acres, is impossible to control completely. I'm sure there was looting, particularly when the site was first discovered. In fact, one of my first orders of business was to take steps to prevent theft, including armed guards patrolling the site. I won't say there wasn't any theft after that, particularly during the months I wasn't there. But regarding looting in any systematic, widespread form, I would say no.”
Levy and Tucker exchanged a glance. Levy flipped through a few more pages of transcript. He looked up. “Our witness contradicts you, Professor Gaines,” he said. “He's told us there was widespread looting during the time you were there.”
Walt stared at him. “Who is this so-called witness of yours?” he demanded.
“We're not at liberty to tell you that,” Levy answered calmly. “We're in the middle of an investigation, and we can't talk about it.”
Under his calm facade, Levy was nervous. If Rodríguez was lying, if this man sitting across from them had nothing to do with the theft of banned artifacts, this could blow up in the government's face. Walt Gaines was no schmo off the street.
“Look, Professor Gaines,” he said deferentially, “we don't know if the witness we have is telling the truth about anything. That's what we're trying to find out, what happened. If there was looting, and by who. And if your wife's killing was connected to it. That's why we came up here to talk to you. You would like to know who killed your wife, wouldn't you?” he asked. “If it was more complicated than a random accident?”
Walt looked up. “Will that bring her back to life?” he asked forlornly.
The question brought his interrogators up short.
“Of course it won't. And you know what? Who killed her doesn't matter to me anymore. Are you going to put a gun in my hand and let me kill the bastard back? Of course not, and I wouldn't do it if you did.”
Walt shook his head in sorrow. “I've spent the past year and a half with this grief. It's taken me a long time to get over it. I never will, completely, but I'm slowly getting my life back together. And what I don't need, more than anything, is to go back over the past and try to change it. Because I can't.”
He got up. “I don't think you drove a hundred miles up here to tell me this. You could have done that
over the phone, or with an e-mail. Somebody's accused me of a crime, and you're trying to figure out if it's true or not.”
He towered over them. “This isn't the first time this damn calumny has surfaced. It goes back to shortly after Jocelyn was murdered. It was a factor in my having to leave my position at Wisconsin, and it's a big deal as to why I'm not down at La Chimenea anymore.” He pointed an angry finger in their faces. “You listen to me, because what I'm going to tell you is the truth: I don't give a rat's ass about this so-called witness you have. I had nothing to do with my wife's being murdered, and I never stole any tiling from any site I ever worked on. And anyone who says I did is an absolute liar!”
He walked to the front door and flung it open. “I don't know who my accuser is that you're hiding from me, I don't know what he's accusing me of, and I don't give a damn about either one,” he told them. “Now get out of my house, and don't come back unless you're coming to arrest me.”
Levy and Tucker stood up. Levy packed the documents back in his briefcase.
“Sorry to have bothered you, Professor Games,” Levy said. “We have a job to do. It isn't always pleasant.”
They walked to the door. Levy put out his hand, palm up. “The watch, please.”
Walt stared at him. “What?”
“Your watch. It's evidence. Sorry,” he said blandly. He reached over, took ahold of Walt's wrist, and slid the watch off. He handed it to Tucker, who dropped it into its evidence Baggie.
“We'll mail you a receipt,” Levy promised Walt.
Tucker drove around the corner and parked the car. He was annoyed, but he'd been around long enough not to take it personally. Taking it personally was for civilians. “I haven't gotten a bum's rush like that in years,” he commented.
“His wife was brutally killed,” Levy reminded his rougher-edged partner.
“He's hiding something,” Tucker said steadfastly. “Should we put him under surveillance?”
Levy shook his head. “It would be a waste of time, and I couldn't get an order to do it anyway.” He sat up. “Let's get going. The 405’s going to be a bitch all the way down, and I'd like to be home by dinnertime.” He glanced back toward Walt's house. “We have to look at the possibility that it could be nothing more than an accidental murder, like everyone's always assumed. Rodríguez is a weenie, he'll grasp at any straw he can grab hold of.”
“If I'm a betting man,” Tucker said, “I'm betting on the fink.”
Levy turned on the radio, fiddling with the reception. All-news-radio KNX 1070 came on. The traffic on the southbound 405 was stop-and-go, mostly stop. Levy-turned the radio off as Tucker pulled away from the curb.
“It's been over a year,” Levy said. He was a realist—he knew that tomorrow was always another day. “This isn't going away.”
CHICAGO
It was a slow night in the bar. Tom was on his own. He'd sent Pete home earlier, and half an hour ago he'd let the barmaid take off, too. The few stragglers who were still hanging around could bus their own orders. Physically, he was half-asleep on his feet, but his mind was racing.
Since he had come back from New York he and his brothers had been going around and around on how to deal with the information he had uncovered. Tom had wanted to storm the barricades—go see the old man immediately and have it out, once and for all. Clancy and Will were still dubious about a frontal approach being the best way. Their father had been stonewalling them for well over a year. If they went at him head-to-head he might withdraw even more, cut them off from any further contact, and refuse to talk to them about anything.
“His name was never mentioned directly,” Will pointed out. “We know it must have been him who was doing the smuggling with Diane, but there's no absolute, direct proof.”
“What more do you need?” Tom protested vociferously. “This isn't a trial. This is about our family, our mother. I don't care what you guys think, I've got all the proof I need.”
“And if we confront him, and he says he didn't do it, or that he didn't know Diane was doing it, then what?” Clancy countered.
“So what're we going to do?” Tom argued. “We can't do nothing.”
“We'll figure out something,” Clancy said. “Let's not go off half-cocked.”
After each of these arguments Tom felt like jumping on a plane to L.A. and getting it on with Walt himself. But the three of them had agreed that whatever they did, they would do it in unison. So he held his fire. But he was gelling more and more impatient by the day.
The telephone rang. He walked down to the other end of the bar and picked it up. “Finnegan's,” he said lethargically.
“Mr. Gaines?”
The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it immediately. “Yes?”
“This is Alvin Whiting. From New York.”
Whiting. Right. “Hello, Mr. Whiting,” he said. “How are you?” He glanced at the wall clock. It was almost eleven—midnight in New York. “You're up late.”
“Old men don't sleep much,” Whiting told him. “The reason I'm calling is that I got a phone call from a man named Wendell Tucker. He's a customs agent, based in San Diego.”
Tom's energy level shot up. “What about?” he asked.
“Tucker and I are old friends,” Whiting explained. “After you and I had our meeting I cast my nets out, checking in with former colleagues who might be able to help out with what you're looking into.”
Tom listened intently as Whiting told him about the bust in San Diego, the witness who had given incriminating, albeit hearsay, evidence against his father, and the interview between Tucker, Levy, and Walt Gaines.
“What did my father say when they talked to him?” Tom asked. “Did he cop to anything?”
“They wouldn't tell me,” Whiting answered. “Federal investigations are confidential. But the fact that they interviewed him struck me as something you would want to know about.”
“I certainly do,” Tom said. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Whiting. I appreciate your help.”
“Well, I hope it does some good.”
Tom thought about the other player in this game, the woman who had been tormenting him in his dreams for months. “What about Diane Montrose?” he asked.
“Her name wasn't mentioned,” Whiting replied.
“It wasn't?” Tom asked. That was a surprise. Given her background, he would have thought she would be front and center in any investigation of stolen art objects.
“From the way agent Tucker recounted the details to me,” Whiting said, as if reading Tom's thoughts, “I got the impression they don't know about her.”
“Shit,” Tom said involuntarily. “Excuse me.”
“I understand,” Whiting told him. “That would be my reaction, too. But that's typical of someone like Diane—they never leave their fingerprints at the scene of a crime.”
No, Tom thought. She doesn't leave anything. It's what she takes that's so brutal, so devastating.
“Thanks for passing this along,” Tom said.
“I hope it helps.”
He had no choice now. He wasn't going to wait on his brothers anymore—he had to confront his father. They all had reasons to do it, but his were deeper, more personal.
Will and Clancy were upset and angry that Tom was going to Los Angeles without them, but they didn't try to stop him. They knew that once Tom got fixated on something he couldn't be budged.
Tom had told Will and Clancy about his phone call from Whiting after he closed up the bar and went back to Will's apartment. They had been freaked out by the news, but not surprised. What they were opposed to was Tom's going out there on barely a moment's notice.
“You can't barge in on him and expect him to suddenly start telling the truth,” Clancy argued. “This will drive him even deeper into his bunker.”
“Wait a couple of days, at least,” Will begged him. “I'll go out there with you, if you still feel it's the right way to go about it. But I can't go tomorrow, I have obligations at work I can't get out of.
I would if I could.”
“I do, too,” Clancy seconded.
“No.” Tom wasn't waiting anymore. Not for the moon to be in the right house, for his brothers’ schedules to sync up, for anything. They had already waited too damn long. It was time to stop talking about what they might do. Now was the time to take direct action. They had already waited way too long.
“I hope you don't screw this up,” Clancy warned him darkly, once he understood he and Will couldn't prevail.
“It's already screwed up,” Tom answered. “What else is there?” There was no room for compromise or delay anymore, not, for him.
“Be careful,” Clancy cautioned, as he drove Tom to O'Hare the following afternoon. “Try to keep your emotions in check. Don't blow up because he provokes you. He'll try to. You can't let him.”
Tom knew that keeping his cool was the smart approach, but whether he could when he and his father got into each other's face, that was dicey. He and his brothers had pussyfooted around for too long.
If there had to be blood on the floor, so be it.
LOS ANGELES
Tom's plane got into L.A. after ten o'clock in the evening. He jumped into his rental car and drove to Ins father's house. The closer he got the more he could led his heart climbing into his throat.
He pulled up across the street, cut the engine, doused the lights. The house was still. There weren't any cars in the driveway, nor did any lights show from inside. He sat in the dark car, trying to compose himself.
It took him a few minutes to calm down enough to feel he could handle this encounter, however it went. But it didn't matter whether he could or couldn't—he was here, he couldn't wait on this, ready or not. He got out of the car, walked up the fieldstone pathway to the front door, and knocked.
There was no reply. He waited a moment, than knocked again, louder.
Lights went on inside. He could hear someone fumbling around. The door swung open.
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