We are going to end their misery. To this I swear.
Chuckie pushes his chair back but does not get up. Instead, he sets his dirty shoes on the table, laces his fingers together, and puts them behind his head. With a sickly smile, he says to Evan, “Go on. Eat.”
The boy closes his eyes for a second or two, like he’s praying, then takes a deep breath and shoves his fork into the food.
Jar and I have dug up several leads today. But that’s all stuff I can tell you about tomorrow.
I’m sure there’s only one matter on your mind.
Does Evan finish off the food?
He does. Every last bite.
Chuckie is there for it all. When his son swallows the last bit, Chuckie simply removes his feet from the table and walks out of the room.
Kate makes Evan drink some Pepto-Bismol, no doubt hoping it will ease any stomach pains. It does not.
Less than an hour after Evan goes up to his room, he’s sitting on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet, spilling his dinner and the Pepto into the bowl.
Honestly, that’s probably the best thing that could have happened. At least this way he’ll be able to sleep.
When I finally try to go to sleep myself, one thought keeps playing through my mind.
In how many other homes, where no one is spying on the people who live there, are situations like the Prices’ playing out? In other words, how many others need help?
I don’t know the answers.
I’m not sure I want to know the answers. The thought alone is nearly debilitating.
I really need to pay my parents a visit when I go back.
Chapter Sixteen
Our plan to this point, inasmuch as we’ve had anything specific in mind, has been to catch Chuckie in a moment of abuse and turn that footage over to the authorities. To be clear, we wouldn’t just leave then. We’d make sure the information is followed up on first. If it’s not, we would publicly release the footage and force the police’s hand.
The incident with the butter chicken was definitely abusive, but I doubt it would be enough to get Chuckie even a slap on the wrist. We would need something worse.
The thing is, after witnessing it, I don’t want something worse to happen. Allowing that in order to satisfy the need to report Chuckie would make us complicit. I cannot live with that.
So, we are shifting our focus.
We need to bring Chuckie down as soon as possible.
Thankfully, we already know he’s up to something.
The note. The secret phone. The twice-locked door to his home office.
If what he’s doing is illegal (and it sure seems to be), finding proof to back it up would give us a way to deal with him without even touching on the domestic abuse.
Here’s what we learned yesterday.
Robert Lyman, the guy who gave me tips at the driving range, is a lawyer who handles everything from divorces to setting up trusts to criminal law. Being a generalist like this is probably the kind of thing you need to do in a smaller town. His practice has three other lawyers and he’s the managing partner. He’s also a Mercy native and was a year ahead of Chuckie at school, though he attended St. Catherine’s High School while Chuckie went to MHS. Still, I’m sure they knew each other, or at least knew of each other growing up. We haven’t found any business connections between them yet. Chuckie and Price Motors use the other “big” lawyer firm in town. Jar is still hunting around.
The golf ball guy’s full name is Paul Bergen. He’s another Mercy native, who, it turns out, was a classmate of Chuckie’s. They were both on the football team, though Bergen—now and in his high school pictures—seems kind of scrawny to have received much playing time. So far, we’ve unearthed no other connections between them.
Travis Murphy is the guy who was working in the golf shop. He moved here for the job, from Pueblo, Colorado, three years ago. The driving range is owned by his uncle, who made his nephew the manager. Murphy is ten years younger than Chuckie, and we’ve found nothing that indicates they socialize outside of seeing each other at the range.
Jar has also identified the two men Chuckie met with inside his RV at the barbecue at Grayson Lake. Old Guy is Nicholas Huston, and In Shape is Kyle Decker. They both work for a company called RCHB Consulting. Huston is the managing partner. The kind of consulting they do and who they consult are things we’re still working on. But it’s not a stretch to think one of their clients is Gage-Trent Farming, since that’s who sponsored the barbecue.
This thought led us back to the email exchange Chuckie had with Hayden Valley Agriculture. You remember—the one about him being turned down for…something?
Maybe his communications with them are unrelated to what’s going on now. Or maybe that tickle at the back of my mind is correct and there is a connection.
There’s only one way to find out, which is the reason that by eleven a.m. I’m on the road northwest to Denver.
Jar has remained in Mercy, where it’ll be easier for her to work than from the passenger seat of the truck. We’ve agreed she won’t try anything risky until I’m back, though I’m aware our definitions of what that might preclude are probably different. Hopefully, I won’t find myself in the position of having to break her out of jail.
Most of my three-hour trip is made through endlessly repetitive farm country. It’s still early in the growing season, so even the different types of crops look the same to my eye. I realize this is a flaw in my education. I’ve trained in so many different subjects, but the ins and outs of everyday farming is not one of them.
I see no signs of the Rocky Mountains until I’m almost to Denver. But even then the towering range is a mere hazy silhouette, low on the western horizon, its sight a welcome change to the flat world I’ve been surrounded by for the last week or so.
The regional office for Hayden Valley Agriculture is located in the Cherry Creek section of Denver, the area a mix of homes and businesses southeast of downtown. A quaint area of clothing stores and stationery shops and bookstores and bars and townhouses and apartments. The hotels seem to all be boutiques, like the Jacquard, where I have a room reserved. I’m not planning on staying the night, but it’s always good to have a base.
I know that Vince Neuman, the VP Chuckie met with, is in town. I called before I left Mercy, pretending to be from a mortgage broker who had some documents Neuman personally needed to sign before the end of the day. The friendly receptionist told me he had meetings on and off throughout the afternoon and should be around.
Though I have not made an appointment, I have brought along something that makes me confident he’ll see me.
I park at the Jacquard and check in, then head down Second Avenue to Men’s Wearhouse, a place that specializes in men’s suits. The one thing I didn’t bring with me on vacation was any kind of business clothes. I know exactly what I’m looking for, but even then it takes me several minutes to find the style I want in my size.
Black, well fitting, nothing too fancy, but not cheap, either. And a white shirt with a dark blue tie.
A helpful clerk shows me to a fitting room, where I confirm I have indeed chosen well.
“I’ll take it,” I tell the man when I come back out.
“Excellent,” he says. “I can take it to the counter for you if you’d like to continue looking around. Or will this be all?”
The weather outside is pleasant, but the forecast calls for a temperature drop of a good fifteen degrees over the next few hours. It’s the harbinger of that storm Nicholas Huston mentioned to Chuckie at the barbecue. Tomorrow is supposed to be even cooler, with the rain hitting the plains sometime in the early hours of Wednesday and dropping a late May snow in the mountains.
“Do you have any overcoats?”
The clerk smiles. “Right this way.”
Back at the Jacquard, I dress in my new clothes, and transfer my phone and false ID into the inside pocket of the suit jacket.
It’s a nine-minute walk from my room to the
offices of Hayden Valley Agriculture. The business is located on the top floor of a five-story building, across the street from a Wells Fargo Bank and a Whole Foods Market.
The elevator lets me off directly in Hayden Valley’s lobby, which is decorated in soothing tones of off-white and brown. Eight leather chairs are scattered around in pairs, separated by white end tables. At the other end of the room is a circular desk, behind which sits a woman of perhaps twenty-five. Though she’s wearing a mask, from the crinkles around her eyes I can tell she’s smiling at me.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” she says when I reach the desk.
“I’d like to speak with Vincent Neuman, please,” I say.
Before she can ask me if I have an appointment, I pull out the leather case containing my faux FBI ID and show it to her.
“Oh, um,” she says, “one moment.”
“Thank you.”
She calls someone and tells them in a low voice who I am and what I want. After listening for several seconds, she says, “Sure,” hangs up, and looks back at me. “Someone will be here shortly. Would you like to have a seat?”
“No, I’m fine.”
I seldom sit in situations like this. Remaining on my feet makes people nervous, and nervous people talk. Not that I’m expecting to learn anything from her, but she will be motivated to get me out of the lobby. If Neuman drags his feet about meeting with me, I can count on her not waiting too long to remind him I’m here.
This turns out not to be a problem. The door behind the desk opens a minute later, and a man in his mid-thirties steps out.
I’ve been looking at my phone like I’m checking email, when in reality I have an entirely different app open and have been waiting for this moment. I press the button that starts a voice recorder and slip the device into my suit pocket, microphone up.
The man exchanges a word with the receptionist, then walks over to me. “Good afternoon. I’m Isaac Davis. I understand you wish to speak with Mr. Neuman?”
“I do,” I say, and show him my ID.
“Perhaps I can help you, Agent Springett.”
“You can if you take me to Mr. Neuman.”
“He’s in a meeting at the moment.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“It may be a while.”
“Like I said, I’ll wait.” I walk over to one of the chairs and, in a break from my previous policy, sit down.
This is not the response he was hoping for. He considers his options for a moment. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in our conference room?”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all. Please, follow me.”
Davis leads me into the main part of the office. On the walls are framed pictures of crops and farm equipment and smiling workers, creating an almost utopic image of the company. We pass several offices before we reach the conference room.
“May I get you something to drink?”
“Coffee would be nice.” I sit in one of the chairs around the oval table.
Davis is not the one who brings me the coffee. The kid who does looks young enough to be in high school. An intern, maybe. Whatever the case, he says nothing as he nervously places the cup and a small tray of sugar and creamers on the table in front of me before hastily making his exit.
I’m only halfway through my coffee when Davis returns, this time in the company of Vince Neuman. Even with the mask he’s wearing, I recognize the man’s eyes from his picture on the Hayden Valley website. He’s older than in the picture, but not by much. I’d place his age around fifty-five.
He strides confidently over to the table and says, “Vince Neuman.” To his credit, he does not extend a hand toward me.
“Special Agent John Springett,” I say.
“I understand you have some questions for me?”
“If you have a moment.”
“Is this about the company or something personal?”
“Company.”
“Then do you mind if Isaac joins us? He’s our VP of operations.”
“Not at all.”
Neuman sits in the chair across from me, and Davis takes the seat next to him.
“So how can we help you, Agent?” Neuman asks.
“It’s our understanding that about a year and a half ago, you had contact with a man named Charles Price.”
Neuman’s brow furrows. “Who?”
Davis is also confused, though more, I think, because he recognizes the name but can’t place it.
“Charles Price. You met with him on August eighteenth two summers ago.”
“Two summers ago?” Neuman shakes his head. “I meet with dozens of people every week. I would have to consult my calendar.”
“A larger man, right?” Davis says, the puzzled look on his face fading. “From…um…”
“Mercy,” I say.
“Right,” Davis says. “Mercy. I remember him.” He looks at Neuman. “He interviewed for the southern rep job.” When Neuman still seems confused, Davis adds, “He’s the one we got the call about.” As he says this, he raises an eyebrow, emphasizing the call’s importance.
It takes only a second for Neuman to make the connection. “I remember now.” He looks at me. “Sorry. I haven’t thought much about him since then. Technically I never met him.”
“But, Mr. Davis, didn’t you just say he came for an interview?”
“I did,” Davis answers. “For one of our area rep positions.”
“What exactly is that?”
Davis glances at Neuman, who nods for him to go on. “Hayden Valley Agriculture is in over thirty states now. Our office’s region covers Colorado, Wyoming, Kansas, New Mexico, and parts of Texas. It’s one of the company’s largest and busiest territories. It’s further broken down into smaller areas, each covered by one of our reps, who travel between our farms, making sure everything is running smoothly. They’re also often the first to check out potential land purchases.”
“Sounds like an important job,” I say.
“We like to think all our positions are important,” Neuman says. “But, yes, some are more so than others. I think it’s fair to say our reps fall into that category.”
“So, Price showed up for this interview, and…”
“And I met with him,” Davis said.
“We were under the impression the meeting was with you,” I say to Neuman.
“Are we under investigation?” Davis asks.
I cock my head as if surprised, though I’ve been waiting for this question since the beginning. “Not that I know of. My interest is in Charles Price. We only became aware a few days ago of his meeting here. Before that, I’d never heard of Hayden Valley Agriculture.”
“He’s done something?” Neuman asks.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” I say, clearly conveying yes, he has indeed done something. “What I’m hoping for is your cooperation. What I’d like to avoid is having to return here with a subpoena and a squad of agents to go through your records, for what I’m sure will turn out to be only a small point of information in our case.”
“Would you excuse us for a moment?” Neuman says.
“Of course.”
The two men get up and exit the room.
Worst-case scenario, they’re getting their lawyer to sit in on the rest of our meeting. Actually, worst would be them calling the local FBI office. I don’t think I’d get into much trouble, thanks to several well-placed contacts I have in the government, but it could get a little messy. I’m confident Neuman and Davis won’t do that, though. Almost no one ever does that.
When the men return, they’re alone, the only thing different is the file in Davis’s hand. They stop behind the chairs they were sitting in but remain on their feet.
“I’d like to apologize for my hesitation earlier,” Neuman says. “We would be more than happy to tell you what we can.” He glances at Davis. “Since Isaac was the one who met with him, as well as conducted th
e preliminary interview, I see no reason for me to be here. If you have anything you’d like to ask me after, I can always come back.”
“That works for me,” I say.
“Pleasure meeting you, Agent Springett.”
“And you, sir. I appreciate your time.”
Neuman leaves, and Davis settles back in his chair.
“The interview on the eighteenth was not the first you had with Price?”
“Candidates had to go through a series of steps. Application, background check, and initial interview conducted by our HR department. The people who didn’t get filtered out then had a video interview with me, and whoever made the final cut received an invitation for a face-to-face interview with Mr. Neuman and me.”
“Price made it to the final cut, then.”
“He did,” Davis says, regret in his voice. “He had a decent application, no blips on his records, and he interviewed very well.”
“I would think someone up for that position would need a background in farming.”
“According to his resume, he did.” Davis opens the file he brought in and scans the top page. “It lists growing up on a farm in Mercy County, and a degree in agricultural business and management from Fort Hayes State in Kansas. He also provided recommendations from many in the Mercy area, including the mayor and his local member of congress.”
“We may need to get a copy of what’s in that folder,” I say. “If that turns out to be the case, I’ll get a warrant so that both you and the bureau are covered.”
“If you do, contact me directly and I’ll facilitate it for you.”
I was hoping my assurance would get him to let me take a peek at it, but no luck. That’s fine. I’m sure there are digital records of what’s in that file. Jar and I can pull what we need from the company’s server, if we have to.
“I get the impression that Mr. Neuman ducked out of Price’s final interview at the last minute,” I say. “Why was that?”
“Actually, there was no interview.”
The perplexed look on my face is not an act. “You said you met with him on the eighteenth.”
Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) Page 20
