Call Me Joe (23 page)

"I know the paper," Figgins said icily. "If this isn't advance warning of impending Armageddon, Mr. Althorpe, you have an employment dilemma that, even your esteemed father isn't …"

"We got an e-mail, sir," Derek said breathlessly.

"We get hundreds of e-mails, Mr. Alt …"

"From the sniper … the guy who shot Percy Kensington," Derek practically shouted.

"Okay, son … okay, okay," Figgins said soothingly.  "Is it on your screen now?"

"Yes, sir," Derek gasped, "and I saved it to Wan… uh, a file."

"Very good," Figgins replied. "I'm making notes. Did you tell anyone else?"

"No, sir," Derek managed.

"I'm going to come in but I want you to read it to me slowly so I can transcribe it. You ready?"

"The header and all?" Derek asked.

"Just the body copy."

"Okay." Derek began, "Uh … 'My message regarding Percy Kensington was apparently not heeded. This should make it clear. The Colville, Washington, USA, project of Pembroke Property Ventures and Synsys Properties will stop immediately and all personnel withdraw or these lessons will continue. I do not enjoy this but I can do it forever without being caught. As Pembroke deforests Northeast Washington, I will deforest Pembroke. This is my final communiqué. Cease and live; persist and die'.

"Umm … that's it, sir."

"No signature?"

"No, sir," Derek said, regaining his equilibrium a bit, "and nothing on the sender line."

Figgins was quiet for a moment.

"All right, Mr. Althorpe," Figgins said urgently. "I'll call Watley, Starks, and Milbourne. They'll be there soon. Laura Fenton will write it. You contact her and bring her in, on my authority. You stay put and talk to no one. No one, Mr. Althorpe. Are we clear on this?"

"Yessir," Derek smiled. "I'll lock the door."

"You did well, Derek," Figgins said warmly. "Your father will be very proud."

Derek cradled the phone and ran down the hall to the John, unzipping as he went. For the first time in memory, he felt like a contributing part of his surroundings, a sensation he had never experienced at Eton.



"Cedric and Percy murdered," Anthony Pembroke II thundered, “E-mails to the news, sniper loose in London… My God, Tony! Is this what we have to look forward to every time you develop a project? The rest of the board is going into hiding. Jankelov is at Heathrow, headed to Jamaica. I'm to 'call him back when it's over'."

"I've already been on the phone with Hooks," Tony groaned. It was 1:00 and he was rapidly approaching exhaustion. "He's convinced, as am I, that this is all an elaborate red herring. It can't actually have anything to do with Colville."

"Tony, my son, my heart, with all due respect to your business acumen and with apologies, what fucking difference does that make? This…lunatic is demanding a halt to this… Christ, does the damned thing even have a name yet?"

"Bailey Kanter Krauss finally called today with the focus group results," Tony sighed. "It's Coyote Creek."

"Coyote Creek?" Anthony II muttered. "Sounds like it should be in Arizona."

"There's an actual creek by that name that runs through the site," Tony shrugged. "It's the one that tested highest."

"Whatever," Anthony snapped. "His private lunacy aside, a major newspaper now has this and it will be on everyone's breakfast table tomorrow morning. We should shut it down, now."

"Absolutely not," Tony growled, smacking the desktop and rattling the tea service. "Sorry for the outburst, but you shut this down, you shut down P.P.V. permanently. We cower at this maniac, we become an easy target for every enviro-Nazi on the face of the earth. We become the sacrificial lamb for land developers everywhere. And not just P.P.V.  P & H will survive if it becomes known that terrorism will cause it to fold? Don't bet on it. We've had constant battles with the German greens, Greenpeace, and local citizens' groups over tree harvests, even though we reforest religiously. Their ultimate goal, let's face it, is not a working compromise, it's our absence and, finally, our demise. We quit here, we hand them the key to finishing off both companies."

"Good Christ," Anthony groaned, sinking into a chair as though someone had removed his spine. "At very least, the board will have to be sequestered. This monster might as well be shooting pigeons in Hyde Park. He's obviously watched us long enough to determine our routines…"

"Dad," Tony sighed, "there is no way to sequester the whole board without anyone knowing. You're all too visible. If the press gets wind of it, we'll look just as vulnerable as if we caved in on Colv… Coyote Creek."

"Tony," Anthony sputtered, "I could be next! Do you see? He's shot the oldest board member and the youngest. If he goes to next youngest, that's me. For that matter, you could be next. Hooks could. You two are the public face of P.P.V. If you have a suggestion, I'm all ears!"

"Well," Tony replied, "a simple law of physics:  You can't be in two places at once. Tell everyone to go on holiday. Go to the ends of the earth. You've been talking about Fiji for years. Do it now."

“And who'll run P & H? Did you think of that?" Anthony rasped.

"Dad," Tony said gently, "with no disrespect to any of the board or you as president, P & H sometimes runs much better without you lot mucking about, making everyone nervous. You have great management. Let it work."

"Well," Anthony huffed, "that's a hell of a note."

"You know it's true, Dad," Tony smiled. "Between Dennison, Poole, and Withers, every one of your functions is covered and you can stay in touch via e-mail. It's time you learned that, anyway."

"Fiji, eh?" Anthony mused. Tony knew instantly that it was a done deal.

"You've earned it, don't you think?" Tony smiled, picking up the phone. "Martine? Could you please ring up travel and tell Hammet to book my dad and mum on a round trip to Fiji, departing tomorrow morning, hotels, ground, security, the works. Put it on my plastic, please? Thanks."

"You're not paying for this," Anthony said sternly.

"Dad," Tony smiled, putting his arm around his father's shoulder and kissing him on the cheek, "shut up, ya bloody old fart."



Not many people have my cell number. I like it that way. I think one of the true perversities of modern life is this manic desire to be available 24/7. I like being unavailable. There just ought to be times when nobody can bother you, like in church, or while sleeping, or in the john.

My service knows that they can give out my cell, or, preferably, 3-way it in if the call is urgent but that's rare enough that I never even think of it.

When it rang, as Aaron, Jack, and I sat in the window seat in a small bar in Colville, I assumed it was Rod Hooks calling to hire me to look into the Kensington shooting. I had already decided that getting all chummy with P.P.V. worked against my good habit of total candor with Jack. I decided to turn Hooks down, out of hand, and then to investigate it, anyway, so my phone manner, as I recall, might have been a tad abrupt, in that way that some hypersensitive people have occasionally called hostile.

"Tru North," I said briskly.

"No mistaking that name," a melodious, feminine voice chuckled.

"I'm … uh … you have me at a disadvantage, ma'am," I replied, trying to remember my manners.

"I'm sorry," she chuckled, "this is Paula Farrier, from Lee Bjornsens's office?"

"Right," I replied. "I know, I haven't called him in a couple of days and I apologize but I'm working over in Colville and haven't had a chance. I'll make time by the end of business today, I promise."

"Well….she said slowly, "actually, I … umm… Have I called at a bad time?"

"No, not at all," I said brightly. "We just ordered lunch and it hasn't shown up yet."

"This is kinda…um…awkward," Paula stammered. "Are you somewhere you can talk?"

"Sure, just a second," I responded. I stood and mimed taking the call outside.  Jack nodded in recognition.  I levered the restaurant's balky door open and walked just past their front window, into a phone booth. "Okay, now I can hear you better. What can I do for you, Ms. Farrier?"

"Jeez, y'know, now that I think of it, maybe this wasn't such a good idea," she murmured.

"You'd be surprised how often I hear that, actually," I said lightly. "Look, coming to a private investigator is usually everybody's last resort, but the word 'private' doesn't mean only 'non-governmental.' It has a literal meaning, too. It means I don't tell people about this call or your problem or what we do to solve it. You can trust me and I think Lee will vouch for that. If there's something I can do for you, I'd be glad to do it."

"Well, Lee put me up to this, in fact," she chuckled nervously. "My exact problem is that…uh…I'd like to go out to dinner with you. If you want to, of course."

Like a lightening bolt in my mind, a face, figure, laugh, eyes, and an odd, appealing, gap-toothed grin popped into my head. Paula Farrier, of course. Office next to Lee's, high-powered litigator, deposed me in the Sea Queen Seafood trial, cum laude graduate of Stanford, tall, cool, snowy blonde. Paula, of course.

“I…umm...Paula. I'm…," I started, aware that I had no idea what I was trying to say. "Okay, let me start over. First, I'm totally flattered that you'd ask…"

"Oh, god," she stammered. "I've put you in a really awkward position, haven't I? I told Lee you didn't want to go out with me but you know Lee."

"Wait, wait, wait…just a second,” I laughed. "Yeah, I do know Lee and I bet I can report what he told you just about word for word. So
you're
the one in the awkward position. He mentioned you without naming you and, to be brutally honest, I told him you were too young for me which, sadly, is probably true."

"Too young?" she laughed incredulously. "Well, that's a new one. Lee said you're 50 which I find hard to believe. Just out of curiosity, how old did he say this mystery woman is?"

"Thirty-one," I replied.

The laughter that followed was the kind that usually, at the wrong moment, results in milk, coffee, or Samuel Smith Taddy Porter shooting out your nose. It was a completely un-lawyerly sound:  musical, unforced, and genuine. I just stood there enjoying it, the trees, and the sunshine.

"Thirty-one!" she finally managed. "So, Mr. 'Paragon of Truth'
is
capable of the odd white lie. He only missed by 11 years!"

"Like I said," I smiled, "too young. I can't go out with a 20-year old."

More laughter. I had forgotten, I realized, how much I miss evoking that sort of sound from a woman; how their faces look when it happens, that an unselfconscious toss of the hair, how their whole bodies become involved.

"Sadly, you're figuring in the wrong direction," Paula chuckled. "On second thought, maybe I should have just left that alone."

"It should tell you something that I was perfectly willing to buy 31," I suggested.

"Well, thanks for that," she sighed. "But…it's 42. Still too young?"

"Umm…amazingly, no," I admitted. "But…I gotta know 'cause it couldn't have been easy to call up and ask. Why?"

"Oh, I don't really know," Paula mused. "You just always seemed like…an interesting guy."

"There's an old Chinese curse that goes 'may you live in interesting times'," I smiled. "Anything like that?"

"You're fishin', pal," she laughed. "Nice try, though. So…we have a deal?"

"Can't think of any reason not to," I chuckled, "and I really am flattered, but I'm in Colville, as we speak, and I don't know when I'll be in Seattle. I'm not really sure what I've got hold of up here, yet."