Hades

by Russell Andrews

  “Belinda . . .”

  “But, anyway, Ellis got me a BlackBerry. Like, out of his own pocket, you know. He decided it would be more efficient so, I mean, he paid for an R and W techie to, you know, make all of his stuff work on it and he pays for the monthly bill and everything . . .” She stopped suddenly and lowered her voice again, this time to a hissing whisper. “Do you think Ellis killed Mr. Harmon?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t know. I told you I think he was kind of in love with Mr. Harmon. Why would you kill someone you love?”

  Because that someone was married, Justin wanted to tell her. Because that someone didn’t love you back. Because that someone was capable of using love to get what he wanted, no matter the cost.

  Because it’s what people did.

  Every minute of every day.

  But he said none of that. Instead, he just told her, “Good question.”

  She nodded, as if acknowledging that her boss was now officially off the hook. Justin realized he wasn’t going to get much more out of her, at least for now, so he started to make his move out of the small room but she reached out and put her hand on his arm. He looked down and saw a piece of paper in her hand.

  “It’s my card,” Belinda Lambert said. “It’s one of the cool things about this place: even the assistants get business cards.” She produced a pen from nowhere and scribbled something on the card. “It’s my home number,” she told him, “in case you get, you know, some kind of inspiration at night and think of something, you know, you might want to ask me. Even late at night, that’s okay with me. I won’t mind.”

  “That’s good to know,” Justin said.

  “Anything I can do to help,” she said. “Anything.”

  When Justin left the Rockworth and Williams building he felt as if he needed a shower. It was a place that was built on secrets and desperation. Not his favorite combo.

  But a combo that definitely was capable of leading to a murder, he thought. So as he headed down the street, he called Mike Haversham at the East End station, told him to see if Ellis St. John had picked up a rental car for the weekend. If he had, he told Mike to get the make and plate number and to see if anyone around town had seen it yesterday.

  He hung up, thought about Belinda’s question to him.

  Why would you kill someone you love?

  Justin shook his head. He wondered if he’d ever been naïve enough to ask such a question.

  He didn’t think so. But if he had been, it was so long ago that he couldn’t remember.

  10

  Larry Silverbush dreamed about being governor of the state of New York.

  He had all sorts of reasons for wanting the job: he had very strong beliefs about certain things and he knew he could be effective in moving those things—as he liked to put it in his speeches—from the theoretical column over to the reality column. He believed in the death penalty and knew it should be applied in many more instances than it was being applied now. He thought the federal government wasn’t doing shit for post-9/11 New York City, and as governor he was determined to get what he knew was not only due but crucial. He had programs to bring business back to the state, and he had well-thought-out plans to reduce taxes and reprioritize social programs and feed money to state schools. Oh yes, Silverbush knew he would make an excellent governor and knew, from deep within himself, that he deserved to hold that office. But mostly when he daydreamed about presiding over the New York state legislature, spending much of his time in Albany, and coming home on weekends to bask in his glory, he always wound up fixating on one thing: a car and driver.

  Silverbush hated to drive. His mind wandered; he didn’t concentrate, which he knew was dangerous. And he had a terrible sense of direction. He got lost when he was on his own, even when going to familiar places. He had trouble remembering landmarks and street names and, if truth be told, left from fucking right. When he became governor he’d never have to get behind the wheel of a car again. It was a thrilling thought. He’d have someone in a nice black uniform driving him wherever he went. And when he finally stepped down from office, he’d make a fortune in motivational speeches and he would be able to afford a chauffeur all on his own.

  That was what he wanted and, all in all, he thought it was a pretty reasonable goal—better schools and someone to drive him to the goddamn grocery store—and that’s what he was thinking about as he was stuck in traffic, behind the wheel of his own three-year-old Lexus, on his way to Southampton Hospital to meet H. R. Harmon and get a firsthand view of Evan Harmon’s mangled body.

  The drive should have taken fifteen minutes, but it took nearly forty as the Montauk Highway was bumper to bumper the whole way, and he had just decided that he wanted his driver’s name to be Matthew—not Matt, definitely Matthew—or possibly Roberto; it might be smart to go ethnic—when the district attorney finally pulled into the hospital parking lot. Harmon was already in the lobby, standing by the admissions desk. Not the ideal situation, keeping H. R. Harmon waiting to see his son in the morgue, but the aging politician was relatively gracious about the inconvenience. Silverbush began mumbling something about the traffic, but Harmon waved the apologies away, just saying, “I’d like to see my son as quickly as possible.”

  The hospital staff was on high alert, and the two men were ushered into an elevator and taken down one floor to the basement. Silverbush could feel the tension and the hesitation in the older man. As they stepped into the morgue room, he instinctively took hold of Harmon’s elbow. Harmon didn’t acknowledge the support, but he didn’t pull away. He stepped forward as if part of a military parade: stiff and erect, his face an expressionless mask.

  The morgue attendant was already standing by a body that was covered by a white cloth. The attendant had clearly been through this routine many times. He looked neither interested nor bored by the proceedings and he did absolutely nothing until Silverbush nodded that they were ready for the viewing. The attendant then pulled the cloth back in a firm, steady movement, revealing the upper half of a man’s body.

  The district attorney had seen more than a few dead bodies over the years. But as this corpse was revealed he couldn’t help himself, he had to turn away. He recovered quickly, forced himself to turn back. He glanced over at old man Harmon, who still remained ramrod straight and unemotional. After several seconds—seconds that seemed like several hours to Silverbush—Harmon stepped over to his son’s body. He stood, hovering over him as a parent might over a sleeping child. The father didn’t touch the son, just stared down at him as if trying to convince himself that what he was seeing was real—or perhaps unreal—then turned slowly on his heels and walked out of the room. His gait going out was not as commanding as it had been coming in. He looked weaker, as if the sadness he was feeling and the loss he was experiencing had sapped most of his remaining strength.

  Silverbush nodded to the attendant, who quickly drew the cloth back over Evan Harmon’s body. The Long Island district attorney turned and headed after H. R. Harmon. The sound of his hard shoes echoed through the room. It was the only sound. Everything else in the room was still and silent.

  In the hallway, Silverbush waited as Harmon caught his breath and composed himself. The DA once again held his hand out to grab the older man’s elbow, but this time Harmon shook off the aid.

  “You have children?” the man known as the senator asked.

  “Yes, I do,” the DA answered. “Two. The boy’s twelve and the girl’s nine.”

  “I’ve lost two now. Two children dead.”

  “I—I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know you had—”

  “A daughter? Jeannie. We called her J.J. ’cause she was such a hot little number it seemed like there were two of her. One J wasn’t enough.”

  “How long ago . . . ?”

  “Long time ago. Long, long time ago. She was five. Evan was two, somewhere around that. She had leukemia. Suffered like a sonuvabitch. They told us we should just let her die, that we shouldn’t m
ake her go through the treatment, that it would be too painful for her. But we didn’t listen. Billi—that was my wife—she said doctors don’t know everything. They don’t know how much that little girl wants to live. So we took her wherever we had to, did whatever we could. Kept her alive maybe a year longer than otherwise. Maybe. You know what I did the day she died?”

  “Got drunk as hell I’d imagine.”

  “Went to work, played nine holes of golf in the afternoon. She was dead, her suffering was over. Nothin’ I could do to help her, no amount of mourning was going to make a damn bit of difference to either one of us. So I did what I always did—went to work and played some golf. It’s how you gotta deal with death. You do what you usually do, ’cause nothin’ you do’s gonna change a goddamn thing.”

  Silverbush knew it was cold in the hallway, the air-conditioning was on high, but he still found himself sweating. He rubbed his right hand along the back of his neck, felt the dankness. When Harmon spoke again, Silverbush still had moisture on his fingers. It felt undignified and he did his best to wipe his hand, unnoticed, on the back of his sport jacket.

  “He looked like he suffered a lot,” Harmon said. “Evan.”

  “It’s hard to say exactly, sir,” Silverbush answered.

  “I don’t like bullshit, son. I much prefer truth.”

  Silverbush nodded. “Then I’m sorry to say that your son probably suffered a great deal. It was a very sadistic murder.” Harmon didn’t seem to have anything to say in response. The DA did not want him to fall back into silence, so he went on. “Do you have any thoughts . . . Do you know anyone who might have wanted to do this to your son?”

  “Abby—my son’s wife—she saw him? She saw him like this?”

  “She saw his body at the scene of the crime.”

  “That must have been even worse,” Harmon said. “Those marks all over him . . . they looked like burn marks . . . What are those?”

  “I’m waiting for the final coroner’s report, sir. But I spoke to him earlier today and his initial inclination is that they’re the result”—he hesitated, but the senator had said he wanted the truth—“they’re the result of contact with a stun gun. That’s what the coroner thinks.”

  Silverbush saw something change in H. R. Harmon’s eyes. Just a minor shift, a brief hint of recognition.

  “Sir?” Silverbush said.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s just that . . . it looked as if that meant something to you—the fact that a stun gun might have been involved.”

  “It’s not a phrase that one hears very often.”

  “Does that mean you’ve heard it used recently?”

  “What the hell’s your name again? Silverberg?”

  “Silverbush. Lawrence.”

  “Larry, you said. People call you Larry.”

  “Either one is more than fine.”

  “Well, Larry, I have heard something about a stun gun recently. But I don’t want to be throwing around wild accusations.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Harmon, I don’t think accusations can be too wild at this particular time. Someone has brutally murdered your son, and we need to investigate any possible lead. I can assure you that no one will be treated unfairly.”

  Harmon nodded a few times, as if digesting that information. Then he said, “I never answered your question, did I? The one about knowing if anyone might want to harm my son.”

  “No, sir, you didn’t.”

  “Will you give me a little bit of time? Not much, just an hour or two. I want to figure out exactly how to answer that question. Both questions, really, because they’re connected to each other.”

  “All right. I suppose that’s fair.”

  “And if I decide I do have an answer for you, either I or someone else will call you and give you the information you need.”

  “Someone else?”

  “It’s a delicate issue. It might be necessary for me to step back a bit. There are entanglements. Family entanglements.”

  “Do they have to do with your daughter-in-law?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because when I spoke to her, she said you’d accused her of murdering your son.”

  “As always, she got it wrong. I told her she was responsible.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand the difference,” the DA said.

  “I was speaking philosophically, referring to a much grander sense of guilt. Do I believe that Abigail literally did what I just saw was done to my son? I doubt it very much.”

  “But you won’t say for certain?”

  “I won’t say anything until I look into the matter we just discussed.”

  Silverbush nodded, although he wasn’t satisfied. But he knew that H. R. Harmon didn’t give a damn about his satisfaction. “Then I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  The two men stepped into the elevator, took it one flight up, walked together back outside to the parking lot. They shook hands at the door, and Silverbush watched as a chauffeur in a dark suit opened the back door of a black Mercedes sedan and H. R. Harmon stepped inside.

  Silverbush wondered what the chauffeur’s salary was, if it was possibly higher than his own.

  Sadly, he decided it probably was.

  They were not more than a few feet out of the hospital parking lot when H. R. Harmon leaned forward and spoke to his driver. Harmon spoke quietly, as if there were someone else in the car whom he didn’t want to disturb.

  “I’d like to use your cell phone, please, Martin.”

  Keeping his left hand on the wheel, the driver handed his phone back to the senator with his right hand. He was not surprised when the old man in the back told him to close the glass partition that separated the front seat from the back. Harmon often made calls and had conversations he did not want the help to overhear. What wasn’t usual was that the old man was not using his own phone. There was a permanent phone built into the armrest in the backseat. Martin thought about reminding the senator about the phone, then decided he’d be better off keeping his mouth shut. H. R. Harmon did not much like being reminded of anything. And particularly today, Martin thought. He was probably just a tad disoriented. After all, who wouldn’t be on the day you found out your own son had been murdered. No, Martin thought, he should just keep quiet.

  As a result of his deference to his employer’s whim, Martin did not hear the brief conversation that took place on his own cell phone. He did not hear H. R. Harmon say to the voice on the other end that he’d just left the Long Island district attorney behind. He did not hear Harmon say that the DA had identified the wounds on the body as having come from a stun gun. Nor did he hear Harmon say the words “The source is solid?” And then, “You’re absolutely sure?” Glancing in the rearview mirror, the chauffeur did catch a glimpse of old man Harmon nodding his head. He did see the senator close his eyes for a moment before tapping on the glass and indicating that Martin could now open it back up. As he took his phone back, he saw the senator’s eyes in the mirror. He thought he saw a deep sadness in those eyes, a sadness that was startling in its scope and strength.

  Only natural, Martin thought. Only appropriate.

  What could be sadder than outliving your own child?

  The DA watched H. R. Harmon’s limo disappear down the street, then he walked slowly over to his Lexus and got behind the wheel.

  To absolutely nobody, he said, “Home, please, Roberto,” and then he turned the key, listened as the ignition came on, and began to wend his way in and out of traffic on his way back to Riverhead. After twenty minutes of moving probably less than four hundred feet, Silverbush couldn’t stand it anymore. He pulled his car onto the highway’s shoulder and sat for a moment, staring straight ahead and sweeping his head clear of any thoughts whatsoever. The peace and quiet didn’t last long—Silverbush was incapable of letting it last for very long—and when he came out of his brief reverie he reached for his briefcase and pulled out the report that the cop Justin Westwood had given him.
>
  Larry Silverbush’s reading experience lasted just slightly longer than his quick moment of nonthinking silence. Before he finished the second page of the police report, he was honking his horn furiously, maneuvering his car into the middle of the highway, driving across the grass divider so he could head in the opposite direction from which he started, and began speeding back toward East End Harbor.

  Now there were no thoughts of Roberto or Matthew or any other fantasies about drivers and wealth and power. The only thought he had as he sped back was: I hope some damn fool cop decides to pull me over for speeding. Oh god, I hope someone tries because I really want to rip somebody a new one.

  But no one pulled the district attorney over. No one interfered with his drive back to East End Town Hall. He didn’t slow down until he reached the town limits, at which moment his cell phone rang. He eased his foot off the gas pedal, and he listened to the man on the other end of the phone. He said nothing until the man had finished, and then all he said was “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much, I can’t tell you how important this is” before hanging up. And by the time he’d stormed into Leona Krill’s office, he wasn’t even thinking about ripping anyone a new one. He was way beyond that.

  Way beyond.

  Justin was on his way to midtown and the Ascension office when his cell phone rang. It was Leona Krill.

  “Where are you?” she said. Her tone was brusque and formal. It was as if she was talking through clenched teeth. She wasn’t really asking a question—it was more of a demand.

  “I just left Rockworth and Williams. I’m on my way to Ascension.”

  “In the city?”

  “Yes, in the city.”

  “Get back here immediately.”

  “Leona, let me just go to this meeting at Ascension, then—”

  “That meeting’s canceled. Get back here immediately, Jay. Be in my office in exactly three hours.”

  Justin hesitated. Leona rode roughshod over the brief silence.

  “Did you hear me? And do you understand what I’m telling you?”