Call Me Joe (19 page)

In that moment, I couldn’t have said if that pall of desolation was empathy for Weber, Protestant gilt, or my own rather substantial store of remorse, frustration, and regret rearing up to give me a spiritual wedgie. All I knew was that the downward spiral was a danger zone I had few weapons against and it was either swim, in that second, or drown.

I picked up Weber’s coat without really knowing exactly what I had in mind. I tossed it to him, shoved the gun in my pocket, and looked at Jack.

“Put him back on the payroll?” I asked.

“For the time being,” Jack nodded.

“Hey,” Weber barked. “I don’t want your charity, man.”

“This isn’t charity,” Jack said simply. “You’re gonna earn what you make.”

“Right,” Weber grunted. “I’m suddenly workin’ for the guy who gave me a pubic whuppin’. You want everybody around here to think I’m your bitch, too.”

“That’s your version,” I snapped, “and your problem. You in or not?”

“Doin’ what?” Weber asked warily.

“Doing what he tells you,” Jack growled. “That’s the way it works in business, kid. You follow orders, do the teamwork, and get it done. Besides, it’s another paycheck, at least. Maybe more, depending on you. Correct me if I’m wrong but it’s more than you’ve got going right now, isn’t it?”

Weber stood with his jacket in his hand, breathing hard through his mouth; a big, ungainly kid with a huge empty place inside, and enough smarts to realize that his life wasn’t going to work that way.

“We’re investigating some voting problems with the Colville Reservation,” I said quietly, “and why the lid is so tight on Jack’s development.”

“You mean that memo?” Weber asked, pulling on his coat.

I froze and glanced at Jack.

“What memo?” Jack asked.

“That thing from London,” Weber said, gathering up his keys. “The one about…uh…maybe I ought not talk about this.”

“Son,” Jack said with an edge in his voice, “you worked for me when you were there and you work for me, now. This is where you start using your head. Now, what memo?”

“There was a memo from P.P.V., addressed to Mr. Steptoe. It said that all pre-marketing campaigns were suspended, no one talks to anybody about the place, and any visitors are to be prohibited from the site. It mentioned you by name.”

Jack went red around the ears and whipped out his cell. I reached over and took it out of his hand.

“Tru,” Jack said heatedly.

“Sorry,” I smiled. “You get into illegal shenanigans, that’s my turf. You fight sneaky with sneakier. Let’s travel.”

I closed the phone’s cover and tossed it back to him. Jack looked at me for a long moment, sighed once, and shoved the cell angrily into his coat pocket.

We left the trailer, Aaron pausing to lock up, feed the dogs, and give each of them a quick scratch behind the ears.

I have fairly irrational criteria for evaluating people, I admit. But one of the most dependable says that anyone who is cruel or indifferent to animals will be someone I don’t like. On the flip side, people who are kind to animals and whose animals love them will have redeeming qualities, no matter how hard it may be to find them.

Weber’s dog clearly adored him, jumping to reach his outstretched hand, jockeying for position, and hoping frantically to go with him as he walked away.

“We takin’ separate cars? he asked.

“People around here will know your truck,” I replied. “We need to be able to sneak up on folks. Besides, you don’t need to be drivin’ around with that pillow on your face.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “probably right. I just took a pain-killer, too. One thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“They know your car, too,” he said, managing a small smile. “Anybody who doesn’t has been out of town.”

Jack dropped back next to me and leaned in close.

“He is going to earn what he makes, right?” he murmured. “You got a plan, I assume.”

“Well, yes and no, in that order,” I smiled.

“Can’t imagine why that doesn’t surprise me,” he sighed.

Twenty-Three

"Art D’Onofrio.”

“Art, this is Rod Hooks, of Pembroke Property Ventures, calling from London. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“No. Not actually a bad time Mr. Hooks, but I’m a little confused. Shouldn’t this call be coming through Bailey Kanter Krauss in New York?”

“Well, Art, it actually doesn’t concern the Colville project…Let me put this another way. It doesn’t concern any of the business or contractual particulars of it. In fact, most of the reason for this call is to determine if it had anything to do with Colville at all.”

"Mr. Hooks …"

"Rod, please."

"Rod, you lost me."

"Okay… I find myself in the awkward position of having to rely on your complete discretion in hearing what I'm about to say."

"Rod, I only promise total discretion to clients. I'm sure you understand."

"Would your firm be willing to take my father's Will through probate? I'm the executor."

"Well, sure, I guess. When did he die?"

"With any luck, not for another 10-20 years."

"Oh, I get it. Sure, can you send me a dollar?"

"Of course. Hold on. Mary, please wire a cash transfer to the address phone of Arthur D'Onofrio, Spokane, Washington, USA, immediately.  Got that? Amount, one dollar… Yes, Mary, one dollar.  Thanks… Okay. It's coming. Extend me credit until it arrives?"

"Certainly."

"So you now represent me?"

"That's correct."

"Good, One of our senior board members was shot and killed today. Just before we found out, parties unknown sent us an e-mail which said that he was killed to stop the Colville project. Obviously we need to know if this is true."

"My God, of course! But…the man was… He was here?"

"No, it happened in a London suburb."

"And the e-mail mentioned Colville?"

"Exactly. Well…not Colville, specifically, but Washington."

"So…What do you need from me, seeing that your father's will is on the back burner?"

"Anthony Pembroke, our president, tells me that you employ a Seattle investigator you think pretty highly of. We'd like to retain him to look into any possible connections there. Your next question, of course, is why we don't simply turn this over to the police or the F.B.I.  Answer is, Scotland Yard undoubtedly will use local police there and the F.B.I. will probably get involved. They'll just be looking for person or persons, though. We need to know if this was the act of an organized group and, mostly, if we can expect anything similar, down the road."

"Rod, you're aware that I represent Jack Bartinelli, so I think I can safely say, on his behalf, that he would also like to insure that nothing like this happens again. But…you don't seem convinced that the e-mail was genuine."

"I'm not. Neither is Anthony. There's one very basic fact that argues against it. This happened in London, so far as anyone has been able to determine. There is no record of any sort of American eco-terrorism being exported anywhere other than Canada. As close to the vest as Scotland Yard keeps things, even they've admitted that they don't see this as coming from the U.S. Their working theory is European group or groups using the Colville project to mask some other agenda. The one thing we're all sure of is that the project has been so under-promoted that none of the groups who usually go ballistic really seems to know anything about it. So, the Sierra Club has an alibi. Who did it?"

"Well, one obvious answer is that it's not a group…Rod. I don't know a great deal about terrorism of any kind. Here around Spokane, we get the survivalists and militia groups and, for the most part, they might rob a bank now and then but shootings and bombings? Can't think of any, offhand, that smelled like something political. Truman North is the name of the investigator and he will know about terrorism, since that's what his military service was mainly concerned with. He happens to be up this way, on another job, so…"

"We've heard. Our site manager seems to have peed down both legs during that little courtesy call paid him by Mr. North and Jack Bartinelli. I'm just going to assume their visit has to do with the tribal voting snafu but I know you can't comment on that, so…"

"Thanks for understanding."

"Yeah, I've got to tell you, though, they've thrown us into a ticklish situation."

"Rod, how? What is the big freakin' deal? Why hook up with a big-gun developer like Jack Bartinelli and then keep him from doing what he does best? I mean, let's take off the lawyer and client hats for a second. One businessman to another. What's the flippin' point?"

"Honestly?"

"No, Rod, lie to me."

"The truth is, I don't know. The decision comes from somewhere above me and no one's talking. It's driving me batshit, frankly. I left a pretty good gig in Seattle for this and I sit here watching our main chance slip away, for no good reason I can imagine. Honestly, all hats off—if I knew, I'd tell you."

"I'll get Tru to call you."

"Much obliged."



Calvert flipped off the desk lamp and plunged them both into darkness. Immediately, the pall of fatigue transmuted to a pleasant lassitude. The evening lights across the cityscape, outside his window, called out to him in that soft, insistent way that he knew was mostly illusion.

"Sir?" Jennings asked, "will that be all?"

"You ever wonder why we do this, Jennings?" Calvert asked idly, as though inquiring after the weather or someone's house pets.

"Daily," Jennings chuckled dryly.  "Sometimes hourly."

"We clasp to our bosom a fervent common illusion," Calvert continued.  "The illusion that what we do is important; that society would simply collapse without our fine hand on the tiller.  The plain truth is, there are six million people in and around London and a bit more than 2,000 of 'us,' as we say, most of whom are typists, clerks, supply officers, purchasing agents, liaison staff, public relations and the like.  That leaves about 800 people who actually venture forth to directly deal with crime.  In fact, a reasonably careful sort can, and usually does, get away with almost any crime as long as he keeps it simple, acts quickly, and remains silent. The only people we ever bring to ground are those who are stupid or boastful or sold out by their friends."

"A bleak outlook, inspector," Jennings replied.

"The truth," Calvert noted. "This lad is not stupid, I fear. Picked up his brass, so to speak, in and out quickly, a nearly bloodless shot square to the neck. And no one saw or heard anything. The more I think on it, the more I think the e-mail was a red herring. I suspect something personal or business-related, and I suspect our boy-o is a professional."

He turned to face Jennings in the room. Jennings was seized with the momentary illusion that Calvert's eyes glowed redly in the scant illumination.

"Go through Interpool and the F.B.I. The Israelis, too, for good measure. Do it quietly. Our esteemed spokesperson has been dutifully mouthing the director's imbecilic conclusions, all morning. That this is not imported American terrorism.  The Bush people, to no one's surprise, have climbed on board, to a man. It's quite preferable to calling an American a terrorist, isn't it? Problem is, there's precedent. Tim McVeigh and John Walker Lindh, to name only a couple. Sometimes, as Freud said, 'A cigar is just a cigar.' Let's take our boy-o at his word and find out about the Washington connection. Need-to-know only, clear?"