If he proved successful, that banner would never see the light of day. And not only the train—the high-tech marvel—but Northern Union itself would be in ruins.
He lived for that moment.
CHAPTER 13
The pieces came together for Tyler just as the lights of Long Island appeared beneath the right wing of United Airlines, flight 670.
Priest’s demeanor had changed the moment they had seen the dead body. Tyler had taken this as a sign of a weak stomach—the guy’s face had been lacerated, badly burned, and then frozen. Now he understood that it hadn’t been a queasy stomach so much as her recognition of the dead man as a Northern Union Security agent. Tyler had also seen her at the hobo camp showing something to the men there. He had even asked her about it, and she had told him it had been her ID credentials. He suspected now that she had been showing them a photo of the dead agent. She had been withholding information all along. Northern Union had apparently rushed her to St. Louis because they had lost contact with one of their agents. Word of a bloody boxcar matched with their agent’s route. Her cover story of a copycat Railroad Killer had proved a clever invention because it dovetailed so well with Tyler’s own mission. Leaving her behind in the Chicago bus station, her words of apology trapped inside quivering lips, had done little to satisfy his outrage. He’d jumped a cab and left her on her own.
The surveillance video work with O’Hare’s airport police had indeed proved time-consuming—he’d spent nearly four hours in a chair staring at replays—but ultimately had been successful. The suspect had indeed been spotted departing the shuttle bus wearing that same leather jacket and work boots, a baseball cap snugged down obscuring his features. Camera by camera, sorted by time stamp and location, airport security, watched by Tyler, had pieced together the suspect’s journey through the enormous airport. When one camera lost him, another picked him up. Camera by camera, they tracked him. Making the work more difficult, three hours of weather delays had crowded the already jammed concourses and gate waiting areas. Tape by tape, Tyler and airport security followed their mark. When the suspect was seen boarding a flight for JFK, Tyler booked the next plane, an 8:45 P.M. departure. To the annoyance of his fellow passengers, he worked the airphone for most of the flight. JFK airport police obtained a passenger manifest for the suspect’s flight, and all 273 names were run through the databases of both the Illinois Bureau of Investigation and the FBI. One name kicked out, but it was a woman who had been arrested five years earlier for check fraud. Nothing for a male suspect.
His jet touched down at 11:41 P.M., Tyler’s head thick, his tongue dry, his clothes soiled, his energy sapped, his infatuation with expense-account living worn thin. The travel bureau that worked for NTSB booked him a room at the Empire, a midtown hotel where he was kept awake for two hours by traffic on Broadway. Falling sucker to a conspiracy perpetrated by Northern Union Security—he couldn’t think what else to call it—left him in a distrustful, foul mood. Nell Priest had stung him. Loren Rucker, his new boss at NTSB, would certainly have already been told about the dead man’s identification. Tyler would look like an idiot. He seethed.
At 7:30 the next morning, Tyler caught Rucker at his home, and the two discussed the investigation.
Rucker said, “We’re playing catch-up now. Northern Union knows more than we do.”
“Don’t think I’m proud of this.”
“On the contrary, Peter, you’ve done better than any of them, following this guy the way you have. You’re getting the job done, in spite of them. Our biggest problem now is that it’s not our job to track murder suspects; we’re supposed to identify the cause of transportation accidents.”
They had discussed this at his hiring. His presence could be justified by the NTSB, but loosely.
“The Bureau isn’t thrilled you’re on the case. They want you off.”
“And what do you want?” Tyler asked.
“Credit for a job well done. A suspect in custody. Some trophy to justify your working this,” Rucker answered. “Asking too much?”
“Harold Wells worked for Northern Union. He evidently mentioned a Latino at the hobo camp. He died a few hours later. Anybody could have killed him, but I’ve got to think that Wells not only was looking for someone in particular but died at that person’s hands. We have to ask who, and we have to ask why.”
“Yes. Agreed,” Rucker said.
“Maybe this Latino is a threat to public transportation,” Tyler suggested, attempting to give his boss the ammunition he’d need to keep Tyler on the investigation.
“I could make that argument,” Rucker agreed. “But it would be better if you asked Goheen first why you were kept out of the loop.”
“Goheen? As in Goheen, Going, Gone?” Tyler asked. Time magazine had done a cover story on Northern Union’s CEO and chairman, the illustration depicting Goheen riding a bullet train with money spilling out of every pocket, the provocative title referring to rumors that he might enter national politics.
“You’ve been invited to meet Goheen at a reception in the Rainbow Room.”
“Not exactly the kind of meeting I had in mind,” Tyler responded.
“It’s the only one you’re going to get. He made the invitation personally, Peter. And that says something, right there. Not a secretary, not a personal assistant, but Bill Goheen himself. His dance card is full. This is a gift he’s giving us. We take it, or we wait a month to see him.” Rucker paused and said, “It’s black tie, Peter, so rent something and we’ll cover it.”
“He’s worried,” Tyler said. “Obstruction of justice comes to mind.”
“Tread lightly. He hits a long ball.”
“He has to be worried, or he’d pass this off to a minion.”
“Bill Goheen takes responsibility, even for other people’s screwups. This was Keith O’Malley’s mistake, not letting us in on the identity of Harold Wells. Count on it. But O’Malley works for Bill, and so Bill takes the heat. It’s just the way he is.”
“You know him,” Tyler suggested.
“Know him well. Yes.”
“If I sit down with William Goheen, it’s going to be a shouting match. Choosing a party like this—this is his way of diffusing that, nipping it in the bud.”
“You represent the U.S. government, Tyler. No shouting matches.”
“They used us, me, your department. They lied, they kept secrets, obstructed justice, and they still haven’t explained themselves. Or have they?” he inquired. “Did you happen to ask your friend Goheen what one of his undercover security agents was doing on that train out of Terre Haute?”
“His job, I would hope.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I did not,” Rucker answered. “It hardly seemed appropriate.”
“Appropriate? The blood in that boxcar belonged to one of Goheen’s own agents! What was his job, exactly? Who was he looking for and why? And why did they fly Nell Priest to St. Louis in the first place? I’ll tell you why: because they’d lost track of Harold Wells and it scared the hell out of them. And that means they had something, someone, to fear. They knew Harold Wells was close. Close to what? To whom? I’ll tell you: a Latino. The same guy he was asking questions about at the hobo camp. And if that’s the case, they’re still holding out on us, because I don’t hear them volunteering any names.”
“Diplomacy is part of this job, Peter. Keep that in mind. A big part of this job. We’re the federal government, not some homicide squad attempting to round up suspects. You step on toes—especially William Goheen’s—and I’ll end up in the filing department.”
“Harry Wells put an axe through a hobo’s foot. Is that standard investigation procedure at Northern Union? I’ll tell you what it is: it’s frustration. I’ve been there. That’s a whole string of dead ends. That’s some perp doing the dance a little quicker, a little more sure-footed, than you’re capable of. And you start doing stupid things. Harold Wells is dead because he’d become impatient.” He wondered if Rucker h
ad hung up on him. “If William Goheen tries to tell me Harold Wells was the victim of a random inspection, I’m going to lose it! Diplomacy—I don’t exactly hit long balls in that department, to use your own metaphor.”
“We don’t know what Bill will say,” Rucker complained. “How ‘bout we give him a chance?”
“I’m telling you—”
Rucker interrupted him. “Don’t tell me unless you know! Don’t go tossing out accusations like that to Bill Goheen. Lose the street cop thing, would you, Peter? It won’t play in these circles. I’m telling you: this is a different league.”
“Then you should have sent one of your own guys.”
“I did send one of my guys,” Rucker reminded him. “Help me out here, Peter, and you help yourself.”
His pulse drummed at his temples. It was everything he could do to sound calm. “Listen, Loren, I appreciate this work. You know I do. We play Saturday ball together, we’re not exactly what you’d call close friends, and you took a chance that was risky and probably unpopular. But you hired me for this one for my homicide experience, and if we’re going to capitalize on that then I’ve got to follow the leads where I see them. Goheen and company played some bad cards, and I’ve got to call them on it. It’s why you hired me.”
“Rent a tux. Talk to Bill Goheen. Be polite. Remember everything that’s said. Get a meeting with Keith O’Malley. Report back to me—I don’t care what time it is.”
“What about the FiBIes?” Tyler asked. “Have we told them we believe our suspect flew to New York?”
“I haven’t. I’d hate to waste their time until we have more substantial evidence.”
Tyler hesitated a moment. Rucker was supporting him. Fully. “Thank you, Loren. Okay. I can live with that.”
“Diplomacy,” Rucker reminded him.
“Message received.”
At the Empire Hotel’s registration desk, an Armenian woman with dark, brooding eyes handed Tyler a fat manila envelope marked with his name. It had been messengered from CBS TV and contained a videotape marked “60 Minutes—William Goheen.” Rucker obviously took his job seriously.
The tiny hotel room smelled of cigarettes and room deodorant despite its nonsmoking classification. The bathroom’s pipes whined when the plumbing was in use. Management’s lack of trust in its clientele meant the TV’s remote was chained to the bedside table, where the clock radio was glued down as well. The room’s only window offered a view of a concrete block wall. If he strained to look beyond the wall he could make out a row of Dumpsters some twenty stories below. He inquired after a possible tuxedo rental with a concierge for whom English was probably a third language.
Tyler arranged for a VCR to be brought up, and while a maintenance man struggled with the wires, Tyler reflected on his talk with Rucker. Granted, Northern Union Security was a subsidiary of Northern Union Railroad, and so it seemed possible, even probable, that William Goheen might not have been kept informed of daily events, might not have known that Nell Priest had been sent to St. Louis to gather information without sharing any. But Tyler kept coming back to Harold Wells entering that hobo camp looking for a particular individual—a Latino, the only description Tyler had. If true—and he couldn’t be sure it was, given his source—it implied an active manhunt. For whom, and why? These were the questions Tyler wanted answered.
The 60 Minutes reporter, in coat and tie, sat in a captain’s chair, an enlarged image of William Goheen’s face serving as a backdrop. The title, “Goheen Goes for It,” and the producers’ names filled the left half of the screen. The reporter’s voice, steady and conversational, reminded Tyler of someone speaking across the table at a dinner party.
Seven years ago, William Goheen, heir to a trucking fortune and CEO of the largest fresh produce shipping company in the world, was tapped for the head job at the nation’s fifth largest railroad. Five years later, after three successful mergers and five hundred million dollars in research and development, Mr. Goheen chairs the most profitable freight lines in the industry. The newly named Northern Union Railroad has seen passenger miles increase by thirty-seven percent in an industry that is otherwise shrinking. Freight tonnage has also increased by a whopping one hundred and seventy percent. Northern Union’s stock price has nearly tripled during Goheen’s tenure, making the CEO’s golden parachute worth an estimated three hundred million dollars and propelling some to believe this man with the Midas touch might just seek public office—quite possibly a cabinet post or even the vice presidency. 60 Minutes caught up with William Goheen in his Manhattan penthouse on the eve of his announcement of a new bullet train, dubbed “F-A-S-T Track,” to run the lucrative northeast corridor. This French-built, Japanese-designed one-hundred-and-eighty-mile-an-hour technological marvel will run on existing track and shorten the New York to Washington, D.C., trip to just two and a half hours—a trip Goheen himself may be taking soon, if the pundits are reading their tea leaves correctly.
The report lasted fourteen minutes. Tyler studied Goheen’s on-camera personality: strong and confident but just short of arrogant, the kind of man who could convince voters to punch the card or pull the lever. He looked rich—his strong features, graying hair, dark eyebrows and captivating blue eyes complemented his crisp white shirt, red, white, and blue tie, and tailored double-breasted suit. One could imagine him sailing a yacht or skiing Aspen, chairing a fund-raising event or pacing the Oval Office. He clearly had it all, including a gorgeous daughter—a Princeton graduate and fellow New Yorker—who, the report went on to say, had taken on the role of first lady of the Goheen empire when her mother had died of breast cancer, six years earlier. Gretchen Goheen was given only a minute or two, but in Tyler’s opinion she stole the show away from Papa. Poised, slightly irreverent, almost flirting with the camera, she delivered glowing remarks about her father. She was clearly at home in the limelight. And why not? he wondered. Her supermodel looks had no doubt held her in that spotlight. At twenty-two, she had a rich father and a face that could stop traffic.
The hotel concierge interrupted Tyler’s viewing of the tape with a call saying he’d arranged a tuxedo fitting. Tyler walked the few blocks to the tailor, his mind still on 60 Minutes. William Goheen didn’t seem like someone who would be cajoled or bullied into volunteering information. Tyler needed explanations about the murder of Harry Wells but knew he faced an uphill battle. He would have preferred Priest’s boss, Keith O’Malley, to Goheen. O’Malley had certainly known that Harry Wells had been riding Midwestern trains in search of a Latino. Was Goheen’s intention to soften him up, downplay the events of the past few days? Tyler accepted that NUS would place undercover agents in the field. Hobos were insurance risks, vandals, and unpaid passengers. He accepted that NUS would pull surprise inspections in yards, stopping trains and rousting the hobos. But none of that explained the actions of Harry Wells in that hobo camp.
The tux fit fine. Now it was time to try it out.
Tyler rode the elevator to the Rainbow Room amid a half dozen different perfumes and colognes, the provocative whisper of women’s satin slips, and the silence of strangers confined in a small space.
His imagination ran wild: the salaries…the expendable income. He had stepped into a world of the rich, a world he’d only viewed in film and television, a world so far from his own that he felt slightly intimidated.
Again, he considered Goheen’s motives in extending this invitation—the man wanted Tyler off-balance. And William Goheen got what he wanted.
Bright-eyed, blue-suited hostesses greeted each guest just outside the elevators. One of these women, twentysomething and handsomely dutiful, hooked Tyler’s arm, requesting his name as she guided him over to the registration table. She announced him to her colleagues behind the table. There would be no crashers. When a rehearsed warmhearted expression met Tyler, he beat her to the punch by explaining his name would have been added late this afternoon. That drew her to another list and, this time, a throaty invitation for him to enjoy himself.
>
The volume of the people in the room, the social energies given to shouting and gesticulating, laughing and cheek-kissing, conveyed an air of overindulgence. The crab hors d’oeuvres and bubbling flutes of champagne added to this first impression of his.
A college-aged fellow with broad shoulders grabbed Tyler’s coat from behind, helped him to slip out of it, and handed him a check stub. Orchestrated and well rehearsed—nothing here was left to chance. He felt determined not to allow the environment to run him but to remain businesslike and professional. This, despite the opulence of the Rainbow Room, an NUR publicity event, and William Goheen’s scripted world.
Tyler accepted a glass of champagne, a stuffed mushroom, and a party napkin as he threaded his way through the melee of white-toothed smiles and stretched skin. Black velvet, diamonds, and pearls appeared the favorites for the ladies. The gentlemen leaned toward Christmas red and green for their bow ties and cummerbunds. Tyler overheard discussion of politics, the stock market, and world travel. Chins were held high here, shoulders square, backs straight—everyone postured, posed, ready for the society pages. He raised to his toes and searched for Goheen. Like searching for a specific penguin.
The room roared with conversation. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on glittering towers of glass and red streams of taillights, strung together like a Chinese kite. Two dozen Christmas trees had been overdecorated, their boughs sagging under the weight of gold balls and strings of twinkling lights. Lavishly wrapped decorative boxes, empty of presents, were piled in stacks beneath the trees. Sprigs of mistletoe had been hung in doorways, though few seemed to notice.
“Agent Tyler?”
The voice came from a man in his late thirties. He reeked Ivy League and old money.
“Mike Campbell,” he introduced himself with a vigorous handshake. “Northern Union.”
Parallel Lies Page 11
