Midas Page 16

  Bradford Collins, Hutchinson Cooke, Chuck Billings, Martin Heffernan, and now Ray Lockhardt. Not to mention Jimmy Leggett and nearly seventy other innocent victims.

  He picked up the phone, called Wanda Chinkle, once again insisted she call him back on a secure line. When she returned the call, he told her that Lockhardt was dead.

  “You still want to think about what you’re going to do?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Wanda,” he said. “What do you think it is that makes a good cop? I don’t mean just cop, I mean investigator, FBI, whatever.”

  “Lots of things,” she said.

  “Like what?”

  “Doggedness. Determination. The ability not to panic under pressure.”

  “Yeah. All that’s true.”

  “But that’s not what you’re looking for.”

  “No. You know what makes a good investigator?”

  “What?”

  “The ability to see things.”

  “What kind of things, Jay?”

  “Patterns. Why people do things. How they do things. But mostly a good cop sees something that happens over here, then connects it to something that happens over there. You agree?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll go along with that.”

  “Well, there’s a connection, I mean a real connection, between what happened at Harper’s and what happened at La Cucina. Not just a connection, a lead. A way to find out who’s behind all this. Only your guys are ignoring it. Because they don’t want to find out who’s behind it.”

  “I can’t believe that, Jay.”

  “How about if I make you believe me?”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “I’ll catch the guy who did it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll catch the guy who blew up the two restaurants. The guy the lying scumbags you work with don’t want caught.”

  “You’re a good cop, Jay. And you can make all the connections you want. But you’re a crazy son of a bitch if you even think about getting in the middle of this.”

  “I am a crazy son of a bitch, Wanda. That’s why you’ve gotta find something out for me. Just one thing. If you can do it without getting yourself killed.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Jacks,” he told her.”

  “What?”

  “Jacks. The little kid’s game. The little pointy things.”

  “Whatever you might think, I’m still a girl. I know what jacks are. What about them?”

  “I want to know if your boys found any in La Cucina. After the bombing. But be careful. I’m not screwing around here. Don’t go anywhere without other people. Other people you know and trust. Don’t get caught alone. And especially watch out for anyone official who’s involved in this investigation.”

  She paused again. Then: “While I’m being careful . . . and while, as usual, I’m spending my life trying to give you something you need to know . . . what exactly are you going to do?”

  “I’m the new chief of police,” Justin Westwood said. “I’m gonna do my fucking job.”

  PART TWO

  16

  Special Agent Hubbell Schrader had never thought of himself as a violent man.

  He had never struck his wife, or any other woman, no matter the provocation, nor had he so much as spanked any of his three children when they were still of spanking age.

  He rarely raised his voice, he did not grind his teeth, he had never experienced even the remotest form of road rage, he did not have a residue of anger that he carried around with him, as so many law enforcement officers he knew carried with them, and as best as he could remember, going all the way back to childhood, he had never even been in a fistfight.

  Which is why he was so surprised when he woke up several mornings ago to realize that he had, in his life, killed six people.

  He had no regrets about any of the first five deaths. They had all come in the line of duty and all of them had been fully investigated and validated. Three of the killings were, in fact, viewed so positively he could trace his latest promotion—Special Agent in Charge of the New York office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—directly back to them. They had occurred at the end of a kidnapping case; the six-year-old daughter of the U.S. senator from Oregon had been taken, part of a protest against the senator’s stand in favor of gay marriage. At least that’s what the kidnappers had said. Schrader knew that was bullshit. Kidnappings were never political. Kidnappings were only and always about one of two things. They were either personal—someone couldn’t have a child but wanted one; someone hated the parent and wanted to deprive him or her of a most beloved possession—or they were about money. Nothing in between. The senator’s daughter was about money. But the people who snatched the kid weren’t bright enough to pull it off. They left a trail so traceable they might as well have scattered breadcrumbs leading to their doorway. Schrader had broken the case easily but the endgame got messy. Three of the kidnappers—two men, one woman—used the little girl as a hostage. There was a shootout. One agent serving under Schrader took a bullet in the leg, had his kneecap shattered, and was now on permanent disability. Schrader took out all three perps. The little girl was saved, Schrader was proclaimed a hero—got his fifteen minutes of fame on the front page of the New York Post and even had some movie producer give him thirty-five thousand dollars as option for his “life rights,” although nothing ever came of it other than his wife got a long weekend in Bermuda and his kids’ college funds got padded. Within a few weeks of the rescue, he was put in charge of the New York office.

  Schrader had been surprised at the fuss. He did not think what he’d done had been anything special. It was part of the job. It was what he was paid to do. Find a problem. Solve the problem. That’s how he always described himself: a problem solver. Whatever it takes. He always figured that if he had a card with a motto on it, that’s what would be printed in neat little letters underneath his name.

  Whatever it takes.

  The other two killings had not been nearly so productive or celebrated. The first one had come at a raid of a militia camp in Montana. Some idiot came running straight at him, gun pointed, as if it were some kind of cowboys and Indians movie. Schrader calmly fired twice, both bullets found their target, and the idiot went down. The next killing came while preventing a terrorist attack on Dulles Airport. Or a supposed terrorist attack. One man was detained by airport employees when he refused to have his carry-on bag searched. The man shot and wounded a security guard, then escaped and, luggage in hand, ran to the boarding area. The FBI was summoned and the guy was quickly surrounded. He was given an order to drop the bag and step away. Instead, he frantically went to open the overnight luggage and the agents, including Schrader, opened fire. The lunatic died instantly and Schrader received credit for the kill. When the bag was later searched, nothing was found. No bombs, no weapons, nothing that could remotely be considered dangerous. No drugs, even. Schrader never found out the cause of the man’s panic and he never had a burning desire to discover it. He’d done what he had to do. That was the way Hubbell Schrader saw not just his job but life: You do what you have to do.

  Whatever it takes.

  After Schrader killed the guy at the militia camp, the Bureau sent him to a shrink. He had four sessions and they talked about his sleep habits and his relationship with his wife and kids and any anxieties he might have. He told the shrink he was sleeping fine, his relationships were good, and he didn’t have any anxieties. After the fourth session, she said she believed him and he was returned to active duty. He went through the same thing after the event at the airport, only this time it took only two sessions. They didn’t bother to head-shrink him after the shooting of the kidnappers. They just promoted him. He had no guilt, no remorse whatsoever, felt no questioning about his motives or his actions over any of those five deaths.

  The sixth victim was different.

  Schrader didn’t exac
tly feel bad . . . but he felt something.

  It wasn’t the same as the others. Yes, it was in the line of duty. But still, things weren’t as clear-cut. It wasn’t a life-or-death situation. There was no immediate danger to another person. This one was a lot more complicated. He’d killed someone because he’d been told to kill someone. Because the target was a potential threat.

  The question was: to whom? Schrader had been told that he was a threat to the security of the United States. But he wasn’t totally convinced of that. He had doubts.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe that’s why he was feeling edgy. Hubbell Schrader had never had doubts before. But this was definitely different. He hadn’t killed a rabid militiaman or a kidnapper or someone he thought was going to blow up an airport waiting room.

  He’d killed a cop. A bomb squad cop.

  Chuck Billings. Not a bad guy. Smart.

  Too smart.

  Still . . .

  And then there was the airport manager. Lockhardt.

  He couldn’t claim credit for that one. He hadn’t actually pulled the trigger. But he’d sanctioned it. And Lockhardt wasn’t part of the game. Lockhardt was a civilian. He’d just gotten caught up in the shit. He’d been a threat to talk. And this was a new world. A brand-new world where threats had to be taken as seriously as deeds.

  Preemptive action. That’s what the new world was about.

  Even so . . .

  Doubts.

  Son of a bitch.

  There was one other thing Hubbell had never experienced. Both shrinks, when he’d been ordered to visit them, had noted this, too, and passed the information on to his superior: Schrader didn’t seem to have any fear.

  He had to admit, that was pretty much true. He was not afraid of getting hurt or, for that matter, of dying. If either thing occurred, so be it. It was part of the job description. When you do what you have to do you also have to suffer the consequences.

  Because Schrader had never specifically experienced fear, he wasn’t really familiar with its symptoms or its warning signals. That’s why he felt so uncomfortable now. The man whose office he was standing in made him feel strange in a way he’d never felt around anyone or anything else. The man made the hair on the back of Schrader’s neck stand on end, and he caused a slight shiver to creep its way down along Schrader’s spine.

  Schrader wasn’t sure if this was fear—whether he was, in fact, afraid of this man.

  But he thought it was a possibility.

  And that in itself was quite something. More than enough for Schrader to pay very close attention to everything the man was saying.

  “What about the woman in Rhode Island?”

  “She’s being watched,” Schrader said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’re making sure she doesn’t do anything she shouldn’t be doing.”

  “Phones tapped?”

  “Yes.”

  “Surveillance?”

  “Yes,” Schrader said. He rolled his eyes just slightly.

  “You like your job? Running the New York bureau?” the man across the desk asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let’s can the attitude. ’Cause you’re a phone call away from losing it. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Schrader said.

  “How about our . . .” The man waved his arms, searching for a description.

  “Our guest from overseas?” Schrader made sure his facial expression didn’t change one bit.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s well taken care of.”

  “What do people call you? Is Hubbell short to anything?” The man smiled now, doing his best to be warm and friendly. “Do people call you Hub?”

  “My wife calls me Hubie. Like the basketball coach. Most people just call me by my name, sir.”

  “Hubie . . . I like that. It’s an uncommon name. It’s fitting. You’re an uncommon person.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Hubie . . . I know that certain elements of this job are distasteful to you. As they are to me. But these are distasteful times. People don’t always know what’s best for them. In the long run. People don’t look at the big picture, they don’t always understand it.”

  Schrader just nodded. Stone-faced.

  “I realize it’s difficult for you . . . keeping an eye on our guest, as you so accurately dubbed him. But he’s serving a valuable function. More valuable than even you can realize. In the long run . . . in the big picture . . . he may be saving this nation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when he stops serving his purpose . . . and that will happen fairly soon, Hubie . . . then we’ll be able to dispose of him the way we all would probably like to dispose of him.”

  “I think I understand, sir.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes, sir. But to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t really matter whether I understand or not, does it? As long as I do my job.”

  “So you’re fine with everything that’s going on?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Good.” The man leaned back in his chair, gave a relaxed smile, as if everything was now okay, as if all the cares of the world had just been lifted. “Now, what about the cop?”

  Hubbell Schrader took a long breath before answering.

  “Justin Westwood, you mean?”

  “Is that his name?”

  “Yes, sir. The cop from Long Island.”

  “So what about him?”

  “He’s kind of a wild card, sir.”

  “You care to explain that?”

  “The Bureau has crossed paths with him before. He’s good at his job.”

  “Meaning you’re not sure you can control him.”

  “I can control him, sir.”

  The man across the desk leaned forward now. The cares of the world seemed to have descended a bit.

  “Agent Schrader,” he said. “I don’t give a damn if you can control him. I just want to know that he is controlled.”

  “He is, sir.”

  “You understand the resources that are at your disposal.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Our people are in place?”

  “They’re in place.”

  “If there are any doubts, if we need to know anything from him, anything at all, you understand what’s available to you.”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I’ve been in contact with the appropriate people. Just in case.”

  “Good. And I want to make sure you understand one more thing. Because it’s very important, Hubie.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “We’re talking about the future of this country. The future of the United States of America, Hubie. Think about that for a moment. Are you thinking?”

  “Yes, sir. The future.”

  “Good. So if, even for a moment, one single solitary moment, you think you might be losing control? Or if our other alternative is not effective?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Then you’re to take more extreme measures. The most extreme measure.”

  The man leaned back again, and the smile returned to his face.

  “Is there anything else we need to discuss, Hubie?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Hubbell Schrader understood that the conversation was over, so he nodded, left the office, and went back to do whatever it was going to take to keep things under control.

  17

  Justin was a big fan of lists.

  Police work was about details and thoroughness and all sorts of other things. But mostly, he thought, it was about lists. Things to do. Things already done. Things that couldn’t get done. Things to tell other people to do. Things to follow up on. Things to learn. Things to forget.

  He had spent four years at Princeton studying business and almost two years in Harvard Medical School. If things had turned out differently—if he’d become a banker or a doctor as he’d originally planned, as had been expected of him his entire l
ife—he wondered if he’d be doing the same things he was doing now. Entering columns of numbers or potential stock buys into his computer. Or putting together strings of ailments and symptoms. He thought that would probably have been the case. No matter how complicated or high-powered the job, it was all about information, knowledge; it was all about who made the right connections between otherwise unconnected things. Which meant it all came down to lists. So by the early afternoon he was sitting in what had recently been Jimmy Leggett’s office—so much for sentiment; space requirements took precedence—working away.

  There were five people who might have a connection to each other, each of whom was now dead. Justin made one column of names. One of dates. And one of facts: anything he could think of that might be relevant to the investigation. The fourth column was for questions, for things he didn’t know but needed to find out.

  The names in the left-hand column were Bradford Collins, Hutchinson Cooke, Chuck Billings, Martin Heffernan, and Ray Lockhardt. He began—because it was the only way to begin—with the premise that each of the men had been specifically and personally targeted. Lockhardt and Cooke had definitely been murdered; Justin was satisfied with the evidence he had in hand. Was it possible that Collins was an accidental death—just another innocent person caught in the Harper’s bombing? Yes. Absolutely. The same with Heffernan; it could be coincidence that he was eating at La Cucina when that bomb went off. Even Billings. There was no concrete proof that he’d been murdered. It was conceivable that the bomb squad cop had changed his mind about flying with Justin, that he had, as the official report declared, driven home and fallen asleep at the wheel. But Justin hadn’t become a banker or a doctor, he was a cop. A dogged and oddly fanatical cop. So he didn’t much believe in accidents or coincidences. He didn’t have that luxury. He had to go with the premise that they were all murder victims. And if there was a link between them, between any or all of them, he was sure as hell going to find it. By learning whatever he could and seeing where all that information led to and where the different elements crisscrossed. It would all be done logically and dispassionately.