He spent the afternoon at the Corporations Commission. His luck started good. In the Insurance Department office, Tom McGaffin remembered McDaniels's visit and even remembered the files Mac had asked to see. They involved Midcentral Surety, and after almost two hours of tedious cross-checking, Cotton found that some of McDaniels's notes had been taken from records covering bonds the firm had provided to guarantee performance on public construction projects. Such bonds were required by law to protect the state in the event a contractor failed to complete a job properly. Cotton found nothing peculiar except the volume of the company's business. Midcentral seemed to be writing the performance bonds for six of the state's larger highway builders (including-he noticed-Reevis-Smith) and for a good many of the public-school building jobs around the state. That had seemed promising until he discussed it with McGaffin.
"I don't know anything special about it," Tom had said. "But I'd guess you're going to find they found themselves a good, cheap source of back-up money. That would mean they could beat the competition for a while." McGaffin explained that the bonding surety companies generally lack the capital to guarantee a dozen or so multi-million-dollar jobs simultaneously and thus they reinsure their risks with a major national insurance company.
"I'd guess Midcentral found an insurance company hungry for business and got a special deal on reinsurance."
"How do I check it out?"
"You could get it from the contract file of any state agency they're dealing with. If they're bonding a public school, the school-board contract file would show who's bonding the project and whether the bond is reinsured. Same with those highway projects. You'll find a record on the way the bond is handled."
On his way back to the newsroom, Cotton decided none of what he had found looked very promising. McDaniels's park contract notes seemed to dead-end unless some new information could be found in some source outside the official records. And the insurance files were simply confusing. Mac must have had a reason to check them. He must have seen some significance in the odds and ends of figures, dates and names he had jotted into his notebook. Again, there must be some outside key to which McDaniels had had access. Either that or the notes were nothing more than relics of a reporter's wasted time-notes taken for stories that simply had not checked out. But that seemed to mean that McDaniels's big story lay in the peculiarities of Reevis-Smith contract overruns and underruns. And the Reevis-Smith story wasn't really very exciting.
Cotton walked into the newsroom intending to go directly home. But the message aroused his curiosity. It bore Junior Garcia's initials.
"Wingerd wants to see you. Says he'll be working late in his office and will wait for you."
Wingerd was obviously doing nothing but waiting when Cotton walked into his office. He was sitting behind his oversized desk-a desk which made him look even smaller than he was.
He peered at Cotton through thick-lensed glasses, his narrow head bent slightly on its skinny neck.
"John," he said, "sit down. I've got two things to ask you about and the first one is hardest so let's take it first." He moved around the desk and stood by the window, looking out into the early darkness. "Harder for me, anyway," he said.
"What is it?"
"You're working on something," Wingerd said. "McDaniels was working on something and now you are. Maybe different things. I don't know what it is." He turned and faced Cotton again. I hadn't noticed, Cotton thought, how frail he is.
"That's the point, I guess. I don't know what it is. Roark's just about at the Rubicon. He's getting everything done that he can to make the race and it's at the point pretty soon where he won't be able to turn back without hurting himself." Wingerd shrugged. "I don't have to tell you how it is. It's close. Maybe he shouldn't run. He needs to know everything he can know."
Cotton found Wingerd's discomfort painful. He wanted to hurry it. "Like what, for example?" he said.
"Like what you're working on." Wingerd paused, peering at Cotton.
Cotton thought about it, surprised.
"Or, if you can't be too specific, maybe you could let us know if it will hurt the Governor. You know, embarrass the administration. Have a political impact."
"To tell the truth, Alan, I don't know myself."
He stopped, liking Wingerd but wondering how much he should tell him.
"You don't know?" Wingerd said. He obviously didn't believe it.
Cotton made his decision.
"I'll tell you as much as I can, and you tell me as much as you can."
Wingerd looked at him a moment. "Good enough."
"I can't tell you much. I've been doing some checking in three areas. The Highway Department, and the Insurance Department of the Corporations Commission, and the State Park Commission. I've got a story out of the Highway Department worth maybe off-play on page one on a dullish day. When I get it wrapped up and ready to go, that is. It won't help Roark a bit, because it makes his Highway Department look bad. But on the other hand it doesn't seem to involve him, or even any of his highway commissioners, in any direct way. He won't enjoy it, but it won't hurt him much."
Cotton paused for comment and received none. "It's too early to tell about the others. I honestly don't know what I have. It looks like nothing. And as far as I know they won't gut Roark if they do work out. Frankly, I doubt if I get anything I can write."
"Somebody cheating a little?"
"That would be about it," Cotton said. "If it's anything at all."
"Thanks," Wingerd said.
"Now. My questions. How did you know I was working on something? And what do you know about what McDaniels was working on?"
"This has to be between us, only." He looked at Cotton, acknowledged Cotton's nod.
"You boys already know this. At least we knew it happened when I was writing for UPI. We sort of keep track of what you're doing when it's outside the routine."
"Oh?"
"Like today I get a call this afternoon from somebody in the Insurance Department, and I learn you've pulled the files on Midcentral Surety. And like I already knew you were working the highway construction records." Wingerd looked embarrassed. "I used to work for United Press International," he said, "but now I work for the Governor's office. It's the job."
"Why not?" Cotton said. "It's part of the business. Now, how about McDaniels?"
"That's how I made the connection. Mac had been looking into the same records. The Midcentral outfit and into highway construction files and over at the Highway Maintenance Office."
"And the Park Commission?"
"Yeah. That too."
"What was he after?"
"Same as you, I guess."
"I'm not so sure," Cotton said. "Do you have any hints?"
Wingerd took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Let me think about this a little," he said. "I have a habit of thinking like a reporter and forgetting I'm a Governor's flac. I'm not going to say anything to help you embarrass him. Not while I'm taking his money."
"I don't want something for nothing," Cotton said. "Maybe you can't help. But if you do help me, I'll remember I got help from the Governor's office. You know what I mean. I won't forget it. Maybe a sentence in the third paragraph says, `Governor Roark's office cooperated in the investigation.' Or maybe I can't do anything but give you time to get braced for it."
"The next couple of weeks are the most important," Wingerd said. "After that we're past the point of no return."
"I understand that."
"And I can't tell you much, partly because I don't know much. But I know Mac was checking into who was behind Midcentral." He peered at Cotton, guessing Cotton had been doing the same.
"You mean like who was handling reinsurance of performance bonds?"
Wingerd said, "Yes," but he looked surprised. That wasn't what he meant, Cotton thought. What did he mean? Did he mean McDaniels was checking on who owned the company?
"What else?"
"Well." Wingerd peered at Cotton again. "He was trying
to get hold of the freight-company hauling slips on some highway jobs."
"Hauling slips on what?"
"Materials. You know. Gravel. Steel. Stuff like that."
"What was he doing at the Maintenance Division?"
"I don't know. All I know is that he had about three-four visits with the District Engineer."
"How about the Park Commission?"
"He was nosing around the development contracts on those new lake resorts."
"What else do you know?"
"That's it. That's all I know. I wonder how you two happen to be working on the same stuff."
"Maybe I can tell you later," Cotton said. "But what was the second thing you wanted to see me about?"
"I don't think there's any way to do this without giving you the wrong idea," Wingerd said. "I want to offer you a job."
"A job?"
"Roark needs somebody to handle his campaign. And then he'll need an executive secretary for his Senate office. And it won't be me. At the end of his term as Governor, I'm quitting."
Cotton said nothing. This was totally unexpected.
"What are you making? Maybe twelve, fifteen thousand? You'd have to negotiate some for the campaign job. Maybe twenty thousand. Maybe he can go more. The job on the Senate staff would be about twenty-five thousand or so."
"If he wins," Cotton said.
"I think there'd be a contract. If he loses and can't provide the staff job, there'd be a settlement in it."
"I don't know," Cotton said. "I don't think I'm interested."
"Think about it. Roark wants to talk to you tomorrow after you've thought."
"No. Really," Cotton said. "I'm not interested. It's not my line of work. Why don't you get Junior Garcia... or maybe Volney Bowles. Junior would be good at it."
"You'd be better," Wingerd said. "And Roark wants you for it."
"I appreciate it," Cotton said. "Really. It's an honor. But no. I don't like the idea."
"Well," Wingerd said, "I wish you'd think about it." He looked exhausted.
12
Cotton switched on the light with his elbow, deposited his two sacks of groceries on the kitchen table and walked back into the living room. A box sat almost exactly in the center of his coffee table. It was a cigar box with the word surprise printed large on its top. Cotton stood, frowning at it. The box hadn't been there when he left for the capitol. After his coffee he had started a game of Spider. The box now sat atop the array of cards in the unfinished game. He glanced at the front door. The lock had clicked behind him when he left, he was sure of that. And it had been locked when he returned. He picked up the box and opened it.
There were a sudden sharp pop and a puff of blue smoke. Cotton jumped, dropping the cigar box.
"Son-of-a-bitch," he said. The box was on the carpet, its lid open. In it-fastened with adhesive tape-was a small green plastic container, its lid partly open, the remnants of blue smoke drifting out. He stared at it, shaken at first, and then angry. He squatted, examining the container. Molded into the plastic on its top lid were the words: secret bomb. cigarette case.
"Very funny," Cotton said. A toy. He pushed the lid fully open. Inside was a spring, which-when the lid was released-slammed a tiny clapper down on a cap. The exploded cap, the sort used in toy pistols, was still in place. Also in the box, Cotton noticed then, was a small photograph taped face up.
Cotton unfastened the tape and looked at it. It was a Polaroid photograph of the back of a man walking across the statehouse lot. His own back, Cotton realized.
He sat on the sofa and examined the print. Nothing was written on it. He picked up the box and turned it over. Nothing written there. And then the telephone rang.
"John Cotton."
"Cotton, listen." The voice sounded muffled, barely audible. "You opened the box. You'd be dead now if we wanted you dead. Maybe you..."
"What?" Cotton said. "What about the box? Who is this?"
"Listen." The voice was low but insistent. "Don't talk. Listen." It was a muffled whisper. "You saw the photograph. That could have been a bullet in the back of your head. But we took your picture. We want to show you how easy it would be. Maybe you don't have to die. It's up to you."
"What?" Cotton said again. He couldn't comprehend it.
"It's up to you, Cotton. If you stay in the capital, you can't stay alive. If you want to stay alive, you have to leave. You have to leave tomorrow. And you can't come back. If you come back, we will kill you."
"Look," Cotton said. "What the hell is this? Is this some sort of joke?" He was shouting.
"Where's your car?" the voice asked. "Is that a joke? Now listen. Here's how it was. Just a moment." Cotton heard a rustling of paper. "'Subject left the residence of Mr. Leroy Hall at about five minutes before ten P.M. He walked down the sidewalk and approached the white Plymouth. Then he turned back and reentered the Hall residence. He came out again within a minute, got into the car and drove up Spruce to A Avenue. He turned left on A to the intersection of Eleventh and right on Eleventh toward the Eleventh Street bridge. Action was taken as planned on the bridge. There may have been a witness in a green Rambler station wagon. Truck abandoned without witnesses.'" The voice had been reading. Now the pace became conversational. "Exactly as planned except someone named William Robbins borrowed your car and he happened to look something like you."
"But what is it?" Cotton asked. "What's going on?"
"We think you may interfere with us," the voice said. "Here's what you must do. Listen carefully." The whisper slowed now, spacing the words. "Do not go to the capitol tomorrow. Stay in your apartment tonight. Do not use your telephone tonight. If you do, we will know it immediately. Tomorrow morning call a taxi to pick you up at eight. Go to the airport. Buy a ticket. Get out of town. If you come back, there won't be another warning. You will simply be killed."
"But how about..."
"Your job? You will be watched, here and at the airport. When your plane leaves, a telegram will be sent to the editor of the Tribune. It'll tell him you are resigning, that you are sick and that you are leaving the state."
"Boy," Cotton said. "Danilov will love that."
"One more thing. After you hang up, your first thought will be to call the police, report this call, and ask for protection. Maybe you'll get an officer assigned to watch you a day or two. Maybe not. But, even if you do, think how easy it will be to kill you. Think of the ways we can do it." The voice paused. "You'll think of eight or ten, but there are dozens you won't think of. And we will be ingenious, because there is a lot at stake."
The voice paused again. "Goodbye."
"Wait a minute," Cotton said. "Don't you want to know... what I decide?"
"It doesn't really matter much what you decide."
Cotton listened to the dial tone. And then he slowly replaced the phone. The John Cotton reflected by the night on the inside of his glass patio door looked back at him, a slouchy nondescript man with a lined, long-jawed face. Its expression stunned at first, then grimacing, and then glancing away from the door to the telephone as if for assurance that the telephone was really there. It was a joke, of course. Was it a joke? Something planned by Junior, perhaps, and Vol Bowles?
It doesn't really matter much what you decide.
It wasn't a joke. Or was it?
Cotton got up and walked toward the kitchen; then turned abruptly, moved to the glass doors, checked the lock and pulled the drapes closed. He picked up the cigar box, turned it in his hands, placed it carefully on the coffee table and sat again, thinking.
He walked down the sidewalk and approached the white Plymouth. Then he turned back and reentered the Hall residence. He came out again within a minute, got into the car...
Cotton remembered now, clearly. Hall's front door opening and Whitey Robbins in the entry hall. "Forgot my hat," Whitey had said. "It's still raining."
No one could have known that. Not unless they had been waiting outside, watching.
Cotton went into the kitchen an
d mixed himself a bourbon and water. Then he started packing.
13
The cloud cover began breaking over what must have been western Kansas and ended over eastern New Mexico. Cotton could look down now, under the wing of the 707, and see the late-morning shadows cast by the mesas across the grassland of Guadalupe County thirty thousand feet below. To the north, the Sangre de Cristo range showed the white of early snow on its eastern slopes. He made out the shape of Grass Mountain, and Pecos Baldy, and the ragged line of the Truchas Peaks-jutting to thirteen thousand feet above the Espanola Valley.
Tony Hillerman - The Fly on the Wall Page 9
