by Tim Tigner
Arlen might only be here because he was familiar with Jeff Landis’s research, but he was here, and that meant he had serious needs. One way or the other, Luther had to deal with him.
Luther also thought of Orca, and what a relief it would be to have the killer whale off his back at last. That image was the clincher. He nodded. “Tell me.”
Arlen’s eyes flashed with the satisfaction of a chess master whose opponent made a long anticipated move. He got straight to the point, to the line extension. “You have focused exclusively on the witness stand. I want you to turn your attention to the bench.”
Luther’s jaw dropped and he gave up all pretense of control. “You want what?”
Arlen remained silent, allowing him to process.
Luther thought out loud. “If the judge loses all memory of evidence and testimony presented, all you get is a mistrial.”
“Keep going,” Arlen urged.
“A mistrial buys you time, perhaps months … months at a billion per.”
“You’re getting there.”
“The exact outcome seems unpredictable. Is there any precedent for this?” Luther asked, certain that Arlen had checked.
“There is some. Judges have died, had strokes, or otherwise become disabled in the middle of trials. In a few cases a replacement judge has simply stepped in. But in the vast majority, a mistrial had to be declared and the whole proceedings restarted.”
“How much time are you expecting to buy?” Luther asked, trying to gauge his fee for this new line of work.
Arlen shook his head. “You need to back up, Luther. You still haven’t asked the critical question.”
“Critical question?”
“By switching from the witness stand to the bench, you’re only halfway there. You need to make one more leap.”
Luther squirmed uneasily in his chair. He did not like having his intellect put on the spot like this. After a minute of drawing blanks, he got up and stared into his waterfall, determined not to give in. Arlen sat quietly while Luther tried to let his mind run free before the cascading wall of water. It took two minutes, a full hundred-and-twenty seconds, but the right question came. He turned around slowly. “Is your case already on appeal?” He asked, not bothering to hide the trepidation in his voice.
“Bravo, Luther. Bravo. Savas versus Braxton is about to go before the United States Supreme Court.”
Chapter 44
Peering out from adjacent portholes in search of signs of pursuit, Troy and Emmy watched the West Bay marina fade behind them. All appeared peaceful and quiet, as indeed it was supposed to be in paradise, but whoever had shot out the window of Fritz’s car minutes before was still out there. Had they lost him? Or was he watching them right now through binoculars, making plans to capture them at sea?
“Care for a drink?” Fritz asked. “I’ve got the autopilot set to take us to Jamaica. It’s a hundred and eighty miles. We won’t be there until morning.”
Troy had been so intent on the view that he had not heard Fritz descend from the bridge. Judging by her jolt, Emmy had not either. He turned to see Fritz holding up a chilled bottle of Pino Grigio in one hand and an Appleton Dark Jamaican Rum in the other. Troy was not much of a drinker, but given the circumstances … “A cool glass of wine sounds great.”
“Make that two,” Emmy said.
“You guys have more control than I do,” Fritz replied with a shake of his head before turning back towards the kitchen.
The forty-foot Lady Jane had a simple floor plan. Up top there was just the bridge with some extra seating and a large sundeck. Below there were two bedroom suites separated by a central lounge area and a kitchenette. You did not get a lot of room for half-a-million bucks, but then Troy supposed that the guys who bought these floating motels were not counting their pennies. “How does a reporter afford a ride like this?” Troy asked.
“Believe me, he doesn’t,” Fritz called back from the sunken kitchenette. “It’s the publisher’s, but he doesn’t pay for it either. He writes it off as business expense. My trip is just part of the justification. I’m doing a feature series on financial crime in the Caribbean. Nice work if you can get it.”
“Is that how we overlapped?” Emmy asked. “You said earlier that we had run into each other a few times while working on the same story.”
“That’s right,” Fritz said, unloading two wine glasses, two bottles, and two tumblers full of ice from a platter. After filling Emmy’s wine glass he turned to Troy and said, “You sure you want to go with the soft stuff?”
“I’m sure. Rum gives me a headache.”
“Fair enough,” Fritz said, and poured accordingly. “Cheers.”
“Why are you taking us to Jamaica?” Emmy asked.
“Because your pictures are on wanted posters all over Grand Cayman. Because someone is shooting at you. Because according to the news you’ve killed two members of the Royal Cayman Islands Police in the last forty-eight hours. Because—”
“We didn’t kill anyone.” Troy interrupted.
“I know, I know. That’s why I’m putting my own neck on the line to help you. That said, I do need to know what’s going on. Why were you at the Tropical Towers?”
“Did we tell you what we were investigating?” Emmy asked, throwing the question back at him.
Fritz cocked his head to the side such that his coppery irises reflected the glow of a candle, and Troy realized that he was wearing contacts. That observation struck a cord—why would anyone wear lenses that made his eyes look so reptilian?—but it was forgotten with his new friend’s next words. “Not specifically. You implied that you were here because of a private grievance.”
Troy felt his throat go dry as his heart skipped a beat. He brought the glass to his lips and took a long sip of the crisp white wine. Fritz was about to read them the latest chapter of their lives, the chapter that would link their past, their present, and their missing seven years. They were about to learn why someone wanted them dead, and what it was they had lost.
“Are we married, Emmy and I?” Troy asked, surprising no one more than himself as the words leapt from his mouth unfiltered by his conscious mind.
Adding to Troy’s surprise, Emmy reached over beneath the ovular table and took supportive hold of his thigh while Fritz shifted his gaze back and forth between the two as though he were watching a tennis game. “Ah, no. No you’re not.”
The proclamation hit Troy like a bucket of frosty water. As the chill reverberated, he wanted to look over at Emmy, to see if her features registered a pain akin to his own, but fear stilled his head. He was not willing to risk another crushing emotional blow at that moment.
As her hand slid limply off his thigh, Fritz added, “But then, you are both single.”
Troy and Emmy turned to look at each other, and he saw hope nudging the pain from her eyes. He turned back to Fritz and held up his left hand. “What about this?” He asked, pointing to his wedding ring.
Fritz grimaced. “That’s why you’re here.”
Chapter 45
“The Supreme Court!” Luther shouted as Arlen confirmed his suspicion. “Are you crazy? The justices are guarded like the president.”
Arlen remained on the couch, silent and apparently content to let his host vent his frustration by shouting and pacing before the waterfall. Luther took advantage of the opportunity to pull his thoughts together. After a full minute of pacing brought his blood pressure under control, he realized that despite Arlen’s supernatural insightfulness in other areas, the otherwise clairvoyant CEO assumed the use of a traditional delivery system. He did not understand that erasing minds was not as simple as slipping someone a pill. “My work … it requires physical contact.”
“I appreciate that,” Arlen said, breaking his silence in a calm, even monotone. “But you’re wrong.”
Luther stopped pacing and stared at his prospective client. “With all due respect for your deductive powers, I think I know my methods better than you do.”
“Calm down, Luther. Listen to your waterfall. I’m not referring to your methods. I’ll take your word for those. I’m talking about the supreme court justices. They’re not guarded like the president.”
“They’re not?”
“No. In fact, they’re not guarded at all—although I too had assumed they were. It’s a common misconception. The truth is, if they’re not looking at abortion, the supreme court justices receive fewer threats than your average federal employee. Makes sense if you think about it. Only a complete idiot would provoke a judge.”
That did make sense, Luther thought as he sat back down across from Arlen. Why was he so tense anyway? He knew the answer, of course. Orca had him all riled up. The bastard kept him under both tremendous financial pressure and the threat of physical danger. Arlen would potentially be offering him a means of getting out from under the whale—but the risk would no doubt be commensurate with the reward. Luther hated risk. He took a deep breath, and said, “Tell me more.”
A thin smile cracked Arlen’s face. “Despite the extraordinary power they wield, the lives of supreme court justices are not that different from yours or mine. Believe it or not, Justice Goldstein actually had her purse snatched while walking near the Kennedy Center. And Justice Stoffer was mugged while jogging the city streets. Both perpetrators got away. Getting to the justices is not going to be that big a problem.”
“Then why not just shoot them?”
Arlen shook his head. Perish the thought. “You’d have to hit all nine at once, and that would be virtually impossible to orchestrate since the only time they’re together is at the court or an occasional state function, and they are well guarded at those. Plus bullets and bombs are unambiguous, whereas mass amnesia opens up all kinds of doors to speculation and debate. Was it something in the water? Speculation and debate buy me time—months, at a billion per.”
Luther began to relax as various scenarios danced through his head. Given Arlen’s wealth and the profile of the target, Luther could probably ask for five million dollars, maybe even ten. Hell, with billions at stake, why not ask for twenty-five. Twenty-five million and he would be free of Orca.
That was it, he decided, drawing a mental line in the sand. Twenty-five million was his price. But wait a minute, he thought, recrossing his legs. Arlen had used the plural. He had said getting to the justices. Did he need two neutralized to sway the opinion his way? Three? No way. No way was Luther going to risk attracting that kind of heat. If more than one justice drew a blank, the cause was going to get some serious scrutiny. Just one on the other hand, and the court would probably try to cover it up. Hell, the justice might not even confess to having lost his or her memory—so long as it wasn’t the chief. “Which justice do you have in mind?”
“Have you got any Scotch?” Arlen asked.
It was the chief, Luther thought. Otherwise Arlen would have come right out with it. That would make it easier to request twenty-five million with a straight face, but still ... “I’ve got a twenty year old Macallan. How will you take it?”
“Straight up.”
Luther forswore drinking during business after his slipup with Orca, although at the moment he was mildly tempted. If ever a situation needed a bit of lubrication, this was it. But he would not yield. Not until he was out of the woods.
He poured two fingers of Macallan into a Baccarat crystal tumbler for Mister Arlen Blythe, and then gave himself an equal serving of similarly colored apple juice, adding a couple rocks. He often did this with drinking clients. He would confess if the topic came up, but found that this minor deception made his guests more comfortable.
After handing Arlen his Scotch, Luther resumed his seat and sat in silence thinking, Please, not the chief.
“So, where were we?” Arlen teased, holding his tumbler appreciatively to the light after enjoying the first sip.
“You were going to tell me which justice, which member of the United States Supreme Court, you need neutralized.”
“Oh yes, right. Actually, Luther, I need you to erase the memories of all nine.”
Despite all his training, despite Julliard, despite gliding gracefully through countless courtroom surprises, Luther choked. He literally choked on his drink and began to cough uncontrollably. “All nine!” he screamed through a juicy mist. “You are crazy, Arlen. I’d like to help you, but really, there’s no way.” He stood and walked back to the bar for a towel.
“Of course there’s a way, Luther. All we need is a will.”
Luther stopped in his tracks. He knew code when he heard it. “It would take one hell of a will.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
I bet you are, Luther thought. But if you were fully aware, you wouldn’t be here. Luther had calculated his fees for three, four and even five wipes during one particularly boring afternoon in court. By doubling his fee for each additional wipe, three wipes got him seven million. Four wipes netted fifteen. And five wipes earned him a cool thirty-one million dollars. For nine … it would take him a while to do numbers like that in his head. And it was pure fantasy, so why bother. He set his tumbler down on the coffee table, knocking the daydream from his mind. It was time to stop flirting with disaster, time to be done with Arlen Blythe. He would find another way to rid himself of the killer whale. “Did Bogart explain my fees?”
That chess-master gleam flashed across Arlen’s eyes again. “Indeed he did. He explained that your fee doubles with each additional case. I believe he paid you three million for his double.”
“That’s right. It’s to keep the reward commensurate with the risk. I’m sure you understand.”
“Indeed I do. In fact I did the math.”
“You did?” Luther asked, certain that Arlen had gotten the equation wrong.
“For nine erasures, you get five hundred and eleven million dollars. I’ve brought you a check.”
Chapter 46
Troy did a double take, trying to fully comprehend Fritz’s last words. “What do you mean, the ring is why I’m here?”
Fritz did not answer immediately, taking an eternity to refill their glasses first. Finally he said, “As I understand it from bits of your conversation, you both woke up on the island with no idea where you were or what you were doing here?”
“That’s right,” Troy said. “I was in the trunk of a car with one of the dead cops you heard about. Emmy was in the front.”
“And how did you get from the trunk of a cop car to the Tropical Towers?”
“It’s a long story.”
Fritz motioned toward the kitchenette with his head. “There’s a couple more bottles in the fridge, and we’ve got all night …”
“We were—” Troy felt Emmy kick him below the table. “—tracking down the man whose business card was in my shoe.”
“Why would you do that?” Fritz asked, his tone skeptical. “The card could have belonged to the man who attacked you. You could have been walking into the lion’s den.”
“Where else were we to turn?” Troy retorted. “We had no idea what was going on, why the cop was dead, or why we were on Grand Cayman. We didn’t even know what year it was.”
“Tropical Towers is a residential complex,” Fritz said. “Did this man have his home address on his business card?”
“No,” Emmy said. “But he gave it to us after we called his cell phone.”
“The kind of discussion we required was hardly suited for the telephone.” Troy added.
Fritz shook his head and pushed away his rum. “Look, I’m a reporter. I interview people for a living. I can tell when people are lying.”
“I’m not lying,” Emmy said.
“So why did you go to Solomon Bank and Trust?”
“How did you know we went there?” She asked.
“That’s where they say you killed the second cop.”
“That was the other card in my shoe,” Troy offered.
“Show them to me,” Fritz said, his skepticism on his sleeve. “Show me th
e cards.”
“We don’t have to show you anything.” Troy said, wondering why Emmy had chosen to deceive their only friend, but willing to follow her instincts.
“And I don’t have to take you to Jamaica. I can drop you right back on Grand Cayman. Look, I don’t mean to be pushy, but I’m taking a big risk by helping you guys. I’m becoming an accomplice. In return, I think it’s only fair to ask for all the details. Furthermore, I have to think about the story that’s going to justify this to my boss.” He motioned around the yacht. “Now be honest with me, or get off my boat.”
Troy looked over at Emmy. She shrugged and said, “I’m sorry. I guess everything we’ve been through has us wound a bit too tight. Go ahead, Troy, tell him everything. I’m going to the bathroom—feeling a bit queasy.” She stood and disappeared into the aft cabin.
Troy turned back to Fritz. “This is where it all started,” he said, taking off his left shoe and sock.
By the time Emmy returned, Troy had laid it all out: the sniper at the Seagull’s Nest, the discovery of the tattoo, Emmy’s trick at Solomon Bank and Trust, the man on the motor scooter, and the meeting with Kostas. The only thing he left out was mention of Kostas’s attorney, Alexander Tate.
Emmy returned as he was finishing up. Troy noted that the sparkle was back in her eyes.
“So what’s your plan now?” Fritz asked.
“I don’t know. I guess that depends on what you tell us.”
“I’ll be happy to tell you everything I know. Ironically, all that amounts to is what you told me before your amnesia. I’ve no new information for you, so I’m not sure how much it’s going to help.” Fritz took a long pull on his drink. “To be honest, I think it’s going to hurt. If I were you, I think I’d rather live in ignorance.”
Fritz set his tumbler down and it immediately slid across the table as the Lady Jane rolled over a large wave. He stood. “Tell you what. You think about my advice for a minute. I’m going to take my motion sickness medication. When I get back, tell me what you’ve decided.” Fritz began walking to the aft cabin, but stopped after two steps. “Say, I’ve got extra medication, if either of you would like a shot. Could make the difference between twelve hours in the bathroom and a good night’s sleep”
