Midas

by Russell Andrews

  “No one has claimed responsibility yet for this heinous act. But, as the president said in his speech last night, we know the evildoers who are responsible. They are the same evildoers we have been battling and battling successfully. We have, ever since 9/11, been winning the war on terrorism. We defeated the Taliban and we defeated Saddam Hussein. We have been beating back and defeating those who place no value on human life and who, misguidedly, use their God to promote hate, destruction, and the deaths of innocent, good, and truly God-loving people.”

  “Mr. Attorney General,” the host said. “If you know who is responsible for this latest act, what will the government’s next step be?”

  “I have already met early this morning with the president, the vice president, the heads of the FBI and CIA, and my own deputy attorney general, Ted Ackland. Many details of that conversation must remain confidential for national security reasons. But I can assure every single person in our strong and resilient country that those responsible will be caught and punished very quickly.”

  “Mr. Stuller,” the host said, but the attorney general cut her off.

  “I’d like to make one other point, if I may,” he said. “Then I’ll be happy to take one or two questions. And I can’t stress this point strongly enough. We are at war. We have been at war for several years now, whether certain people in this country want to acknowledge that or not. And in times of war, security must become a priority and strong measures must be taken. Measures that some members of Congress and the Senate, as well as some members of the media, have questioned. I’ve said this before and I’m going to say it again: Such questioning can only do this country harm at this point in time. Quite possibly irreparable harm. Terrorism must not be politicized for personal or political gain. I can assure everyone listening that no innocent people, no law-abiding American citizens, have anything to fear from their government. No rights will be abridged for those who deserve and value those rights. But I want to make this absolutely clear: Those responsible for this act . . . those who support this act . . . those who support any groups whose desire is to harm or destroy the United States of America . . . those people have much to fear. Those people will find that we will stop at nothing to make this world safe from the evils of terrorism and the ruin that would result from such lawlessness and godlessness. I know the American people support us in such a proclamation and in such a goal. And we will not let those people down.”

  “Mr. Attorney General, may I turn to something a bit more personal?” When Jeffrey Stuller nodded, the host continued. “The names of the victims of the recent bombing are being released as their identities are confirmed. I know that you and the vice president lost a very dear friend in the tragedy. Bradford Collins . . .”

  Stuller didn’t wait for the question to be asked. “Brad Collins was one of my closest friends. And Vice President Dandridge would, I know, say the same. Our personal loss will not, of course, influence any decisions when it comes to our actions or retaliations. But, at the same time, being human, there is no question that when justice is served in this instance, it will be all the more satisfying. Brad Collins was a great businessman, a great family man, a great man. Speaking for the vice president, I’d like to use this opportunity to send my condolences to his wife and children and all his friends and colleagues. It’s an extraordinary loss for them, for all of us, and for this country as a whole.”

  “You and the vice president were more than friends with Mr. Collins, sir. You were both on the board of his company, EGenco. Would you care to comment on the burgeoning scandals that have recently enveloped that company? And do you think your involvement might cause a problem with your campaign against terrorism? With the vice president the almost certain presidential candidate next year—”

  “No, Katie, I would not care to comment. And I find that question reprehensibly tasteless and inappropriate at this moment. A human being was murdered. Many human beings were murdered. Don’t desecrate their memories by trying to ask ridiculous, ratings-motivated questions about insignificant matters.”

  “Mr. Stuller—”

  “That’s the end of this interview. Thank you and God bless everyone.”

  As the attorney general stood and walked off camera, Justin pressed the power button on his remote control and clicked the TV off. Strange. He suddenly realized that he hadn’t allowed himself to focus on the wider-ranging implications of the bombing. Since it had happened he’d been concentrating solely on the immediate impact, on his personal involvement—Jimmy’s death and its ramifications—and then he’d been distracted by the plane crash and the beginning of that investigation. He suspected that much of the country had had the same lack of focus. Understandable. What he’d just seen on tape was not something one wanted to think about and focus on. If this were indeed a suicide bombing, then daily life was, unquestionably, about to change. And change drastically. People had said that post-9/11 the country was going to be altered forever. But Justin found that the alteration had lasted only about three months. For that period of time, there was a cautiousness in the air. And, oddly enough, a certain gentility and politeness. People were more aware of their own mortality. Then, human resiliency—or denial; it could be called either way—took hold and things returned to normal. No one talked about Afghanistan’s future. Bin Laden was the subject of comedians’ jokes. Other enemies, like Saddam Hussein, leaped to the forefront and were either dispatched with ease and trumpets of patriotic fervor or ignored. Airport security lines moved much faster as impatience won out over fear. Anthrax disappeared. Irony didn’t disappear. The urge to live for the moment subsided. And even as our troops kept dying over in the Middle East, corporate greed, devastating bankruptcies, and the plummeting economy once again dominated conversations. And people started hating New York again, just like in the good old days.

  Normal.

  Justin knew from his work as a cop that people spent much of their lives being frightened. Fear, too, was normal. But this: Suicide bombers. Destruction on a small, intimate scale. This was a different kind of fear. Fear that would come when anyone suspicious sat at a counter in a coffee shop. When starting a car. Or going to a club. Fear that would grip people in their homes, watching television, having dinner.

  That wasn’t normal.

  But it just might be the way of the world.

  Making the world a lot crazier and a more dangerous place.

  He opened the morning paper now. Glanced quickly at the front page of the Times. Five men with suspected links to terrorist cells had been arrested in New Jersey. They were being shipped to Guantanamo Bay—where Al Qaeda prisoners and other suspected terrorists were still being held—for questioning. Since the World Trade Center attack and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, over a hundred prisoners had been released from Guantanamo, almost all of them returned or deported to the Middle East. But there were still over five hundred men being detained. Some of them had been there for three years. Despite a Supreme Court ruling that proclaimed the practice unconstitutional, many of the detainees in the Guantanamo camp were still being denied any right to counsel. This was true of the five new suspects who’d just been arrested. The wife of one of the men said that her husband had been spirited away in the middle of the night, along with his brother. The woman was frantic. She said that no one in the family and none of their friends had any ties to any terrorists, they were completely innocent victims, just like the poor people killed in the restaurant bombing. The woman had hired a lawyer who’d already held a press conference. The lawyer, Shirley Greene, had announced that she was suing the government for the right to see the suspects. She said the case could take years before it made its way through the stacked court system, years before she might be able to speak to her clients. The president’s press secretary claimed that many of the detainees did not qualify for legal rights under the Supreme Court’s ruling. Those who did could retain the right to counsel. Those who didn’t would not. He said they had enough proof to label many of th
e prisoners “enemy combatants.” The press secretary also said that the president would soon be proposing a new law to Congress that would deal with the issue in a way that would satisfy the courts.

  The text of President Anderson’s speech was also reprinted in its entirety. It was basically an extended version of what Justin had just heard Stuller say on TV. We were winning the war. The evildoers would be punished. Goodness would rule. The American people must trust and support their leaders.

  Justin wondered if he was capable of trusting and supporting anyone he didn’t know. Lawyers, presidents, or innocent victims. He decided he wasn’t.

  Marjorie Leggett had probably watched Attorney General Stuller’s appearance or seen the president’s speech, which was why she’d be calling him again soon. Justin thought about his promise to Jimmy’s widow. He had no illusions that he could out-investigate the FBI. But he knew a few people, had a few contacts. Perhaps he could learn enough to tell Marjorie what she wanted to know: some semblance of the truth.

  He thought about how this would look on his “to-do” list: buy groceries, order new Loudon Wainwright CD, solve crime of the century.

  Justin looked at his watch, decided he’d better get going. He skimmed the rest of the paper, saw that the stock market had dropped 140 points, the main accounting firm connected to EGenco was being investigated for accounting irregularities, President Anderson’s approval ratings had gone up twelve percent since the bombing, and the Knicks had lost again. Then he drained his fourth cup of coffee and went to work.

  At the East End police station, Justin stood at his desk, fumbled with some papers for a few moments, cleared his throat and asked Gary, Mike, and Dennis, the three young officers on duty that morning, if they would mind listening to him for a minute. When they looked up, he hemmed and hawed and finally told them about his conversation with Mayor Krill. Told them that he was the new acting chief of police. His announcement got nods of approval and quiet murmurs of congratulations. It was all he expected. This was not a time to celebrate a promotion. Jimmy Leggett’s loss was still an open wound. It would be a while before it began to heal. But, in the meantime, his authority was now established, and that was all he wanted to accomplish.

  A few minutes later, Mike and Dennis went off on their appointed rounds—Mike to pound the Main Street pavement and ward off parking violators; Dennis to cruise the side streets and look for speeders and kids playing their boom boxes too loud. But Gary lingered in the doorway after they had left. When Justin raised his eyes in a questioning look, Gary said, “I’m glad for you. It’s a good thing. If you need any help, anything at all . . .”

  “Thanks,” Justin said. “I was already counting on that.”

  Gary now looked toward Jimmy’s office. The door was half open.

  “You gonna move in there?”

  “I don’t think so,” Justin said. “Not yet.”

  “Wouldn’t feel right, would it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’ll feel right sometime.”

  “I know it will.”

  Gary smiled, touched his forehead with two fingers, meant to be a salute, and headed outside. As soon as he was gone, Justin went to work on his computer.

  The first thing Justin did was go onto Google and type in “FAA.” A list of possible sites came up and the first one he clicked on was “Aviation Standards National Field Office.” At the top of the screen it gave a post office box in Oklahoma City, and a phone number. Underneath that was, “Where can I learn about an aircraft accident or obtain results of an accident investigation?” That’s what he clicked on, but it wasn’t much help. The instructions said to provide the exact date, location of accident, and either the name of the airline or the aircraft identification number to Public Inquiry Section AD 46. Justin typed in the precise information, waited for a response.

  There was no record of any private plane crash involving the tail number NOV 6909 Juliet.

  After playing around with a few more sites, and going down a few more false paths, he returned to the initial listing of different sites and realized he’d been signing on to peripheral organizations rather than the main FAA Web page. In typical government fashion, they couldn’t even lead someone to the right agency with any ease. He finally hit on what he needed: the FAA link to “Aircraft Registration.” He clicked on that, checked the tail number again as he prepared to type it in, but then the following information came up on his screen:

  GENERAL INFORMATION REGISTRATION INFORMATION

  NOTICE: Due to increased security requirements, access to the public documents room by the general public has been suspended.

  Aircraft registration information may be found at the interactive inquiry site. Copies of aircraft records may be ordered by letter, fax, telephone, or online at http://diy.dot.gov.

  He clicked on “Telephone” and got the number for the Public Document Room in Oklahoma City. He decided that a little human contact couldn’t hurt.

  The phone rang five times before an answering machine clicked on. Listening to the message, Justin swore under his breath—he’d forgotten about the time difference. The office wasn’t open yet. He almost hung up, but at the last second decided to leave word. He gave his name—gave it as Chief of Police Justin Westwood; every little bit helps, he decided—and asked if someone could give him a call, that he was in the middle of an investigation and needed some assistance.

  Within seconds of his hanging up, the phone rang. He was impressed: they got in early in Oklahoma City. Except the call wasn’t from Oklahoma. It was from the Southampton police station, perhaps seven miles away. The call was about the Dr Pepper can he’d sent over. They had not been able to access any records that matched fingerprints to the ones on the can.

  “How wide was the database?” Justin asked.

  “We went pretty extensive. Started statewide, went national, and used the Feebies.”

  Justin sighed. “Thanks for trying,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  “You’re taking it better than I thought you would,” the Southampton cop said. “A guy with your rep. It pissed me off, I gotta tell you.”

  “What can you do? If there are no records, there are no records.”

  “I didn’t say the records don’t exist. I just said we were blocked from getting them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The officer on the other end of the phone sighed as if talking to an idiot. “When we ran the prints through our friends in the FBI we were told we couldn’t access that information.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe it means whoever you’re looking for is out of our league.”

  The cop hung up before Justin could ask any more questions. And Justin had plenty more questions, although he doubted the Southampton Police Department could help with any of them.

  Information not available.

  Public access suspended.

  Access denied.

  Here was question number one: Who was this guy?

  And question number two: What the hell was going on?

  Now that he thought about it, maybe there was a third question. Fear was in the air. Fear made people do strange things. When you boiled it right down, fear was the cause of almost all murders: fear of betrayal, fear of being left alone, fear of poverty. So if this mysterious pilot had indeed been murdered, the answer to the third question might be the most important of them all:

  The people who’d murdered him—what exactly were they afraid of?

  6

  Wanda Chinkle was the assistant director of the FBI responsible for the New England bureau. She’d been in charge for a little over two years now. She’d gone up there to work when Justin Westwood was still on the Providence police force, and they’d joined together on a case. She still felt a little guilty that she’d been unable to protect his family in the mob attack that ultimately took their lives, which is why, when their paths had crossed a year ago, when he’d gotten caught up i
n the middle of the hunt to stop Douglas Kransten and his Aphrodite experiment, she’d helped Justin out. That helping hand had greatly jeopardized her standing with her bosses. But Justin had managed to repay the favor and dig her out of the jam. She liked Justin. He could be charming as hell. He could also be cold as steel and just as hard. She hadn’t known him all that well before his daughter was killed and she sometimes wondered if he’d been any softer before that. Something told her that wasn’t the case. Wanda’s experience was that people didn’t really change. The older they got—the more life they experienced—they just tapped into what was already there. What was just waiting for an excuse to come out.

  As soon as she heard Justin’s voice on the phone, Wanda knew he wanted something. That was okay. Very few people talked to Wanda unless they wanted something. It didn’t bother her. She was tough enough and smart enough to handle most things. Even Justin Westwood.

  “It’s good to hear from you, Jay. How are things there? You’re not far from the bombing, are you? At the restaurant.”

  “Maybe five or six miles away.”

  “Jesus. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. I was nowhere near it. But my boss wasn’t so lucky. He was there.”

  “Was he . . . ?”

  “Yeah. He was.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. But that doesn’t have anything to do with why I’m calling. I need a favor.”

  “Well, we’re a little busy right now, considering what’s going on. Full antiterrorist mode. Did you see Stuller’s speech?”

  “I saw it. And I appreciate what you’re going through. But this won’t take much time.”

  “What kind of trouble are you in now?”

  “No trouble. I swear. I just have a question.”

  “I know your questions. They usually lead to trouble.”

  “Wanda, I’m just trying to get to the bottom of something. Something that shouldn’t be that complicated. But I keep hitting a wall.”