Call Me Joe (26 page)

"Who is this Joe character, owns it now?" Jack mused. "Maybe Janie has some connection to him?"

"Beats me," Art shrugged. "It was within the tribe's purview to negotiate the leases and rights-of-way, so we just dealt with them. I know we wrote the guy a check but…oh, wait—that was the individual lease that paid directly to a law firm in Portland. Yeah, uh…Blackwood, Portale, and Meeks. Chuck Portale was in my dorm at Stanford but I didn't know him. Still, as I recall, it was one phone call, maybe five minutes we cut a check and that was that."

"See if you can find a last name on that, willya?" I suggested. "There has to be some reason Janie Wright was prowling this guy's land. Maybe there's some history there."

"I don't think so," Aaron replied. "I can usually tell when someone is flat-out lying to me and I doubt she was. She was pumping me for information about him. Asked me to run him on our security databases. She was as curious as you are."

"Did you run him?" I prompted.

"Well, I don't…didn't do the computer work. Simmons was the big techie. But he said he couldn't find any records on the guy at all. Of course, we didn't have his last name…"

"Did he check D.M.V., registrar of deeds, military?" I asked.

"Uh, all that. But the deed is in the name of a trust down in Oregon and, for the rest, like I said, no last name. Can't run just 'Joe,'" Aaron replied.

"Didn't that make you curious?" Jack sighed, exasperated.

"Yeah, it made me curious," Aaron shot back, an edge creeping into his voice, "but what was I supposed to do, brace the guy on his own land? He's not quite a hermit but he ain't exactly throwin' dinner parties. I've met him and talked to him. Lot of people have. Around here, people believe, if you ain't hurting anybody, your business is your own business."

"How 'bout just maybe, asking him his name?" Jack snapped.

"Some people done that," Aaron replied, "and he answered them—supposedly. Just that I never asked."

"Why not?" Jack growled.

"Because I didn't have any fuckin' reason to, that's why," Aaron said levelly.

"So, let's see," Jack chuckled. "Here's my big, risky, expensive resort project and, right smack in the middle of it, here's some asshole nobody knows anything about, not even his last name. Guy could be a Nazi war criminal, Osama Bin Laden's right-hand man, an eco-terrorist, an unregistered sex offender, or Jimmy Hoffa, and that's just okay with you and Steptoe? The tribe? Everybody here? That about right?"

"Look," Aaron barked, "you're the one preachin' about your principles—never stepping on local customs and values. That just a flowery speech you give the Rotary Club? 'Cause, if it's not, then it's gotta be for real, and not just when you happen to agree with the customs and values. Around here, if a man don't want to tell you his last name, we respect that. If he happens to be hiding something, fine - long as he behaves himself
here
. People who don't find themselves trussed up like a Christmas goose and dropped off in Spokane, over by the Trailways Station. Plenty of examples of that. Our biggest local custom
and
value is privacy. Now, you gonna respect that, or what?"

"Aaron," Jack said levelly, "I respect your opinion but I suspect that's all this is—one man's opinion. I don't have to agree with it…and I do think I have a right to check out my neighbors."

"The very fact that you'd say that just proves that you
didn't
check out your neighbors. If you'd gotten out and just listened to the people who'll be affected by your development, you would
know
. It's not just 'one man's opinion'," Aaron replied coolly, "and I'd think about using that word 'neighbor' so lightly. A 'neighbor', traditionally, is a person who
lives
near you, shares the challenges, the risks and rewards, the common good. I don't think some billionaire from Maryland can call himself our 'neighbor' just by throwing money on the ground. 'Neighbor' is something positive, something you earn, not just buy…but, then that's just one man's opinion."

"That's obviously something you've wanted to say for a long time, Aaron," Jack said quietly, "and I respect your right to say it. I'll even admit that I, personally, didn't do enough to put the tribe and the community at ease. I'm sure there's some resentment about that, and it's justified. My only explanation is that this arrangement between me and my partners hasn't worked from the get-go and it's getting worse as we speak.
But
, like it or not, I
am
the guy who'll be running the sales and marketing phase of this. I
am
the guy who'll be here, 24/7, eating in local restaurants, staying in my motel, creating business partnerships, so I
am
your neighbor. And knowing your neighbor is
not
a one-way street, you get to know me and
I get to know you, too
. I even get to have an opinion about those customs and values and maybe influence them a bit, along the way. My treaty with the tribe, I think, buys me that. And I absolutely believe that I should know if one of my neighbors is doing things which may, eventually, wreck everything we're building. So, if anyone is going to dislike me for simply checking out ol' Joe up there, well, they'll just have to dislike me. Maybe, eventually, I'll do enough good here that they'll change their opinion.

"Look,
you
want to check the guy out, check him out," Aaron sighed. "Just quit bustin' my balls because I didn't do it. First, I'm not a detective, and, secondly, I'm a local. I was raised here. Don't expect me to think like you."

"Point taken," I said quietly. Jack flashed an annoyed glance my way, so I looked him in the eye and said, "Point taken."

He subsided into a seething silence. I turned to Art and started to speak when my cell rang.

"Tru North," I answered.

"Mr. North? This is Rod Hooks of Pembroke Property Ventures. Have I called at a bad time?"

"Ah, Mr. Hooks, I…"

"Rod, please."

"Rod," I nodded, “I know why you're calling and, after some thought, I don't think I can work for you up here. I'm with Jack Bartinelli and Art D'Onofrio right now and, formally, I'm on Art's payroll, so…"

"Tru…may I call you Tru?" Hooks began.

"Please."

"Tru…you've probably heard by now that two of our board members have been murdered in the past four days…"

"Two?" I blurted. "I hadn't heard about the second."

"Last night," Hooks replied. "Same methodology as Percy Kensington. Large rifle, long range, followed by yet another e-mail warning us off our Colville project. Scotland Yard is presently clueless and the F.B.I.'s position is that this is European radicals, despite the Washington connection. Knowing them, I'm sure they're washing their hands of it publicly, while flooding Northeast Washington with agents. Problem is, this is the Bush-led, post-9/11, screwed-up F.B.I., and there's no guarantee they'll share anything they might find with the Yard, even, much less us. So we need facts. Jack needs facts. We don't have a lot of time to shop around for detectives and you and I have a mutual friend who says you're the best…so…"

"Just a minute, Rod," I interjected. I stared at Jack. "You knew another P.P.V. board member had been shot when we were in the car?"

"Yeah," Jack nodded. "Art told me."

"You two couldn't work that into the conversation, somewhere?" I sputtered.

"We were busy with Janie," Jack shrugged.

"Jesus," I sighed, then to Art, "you want me on this?"

"Let me ask my client," Art replied. He swiveled to face Jack. "You want your P.I. on these shootings?"

"You're asking me?" Jack blinked.

"It's your dime," Art shrugged.

"He's here. I'm here. We got as much at stake as P.P.V. I'm sure Tru won't kick about double-billing," Jack chuckled.

"Could you put me on the speaker phone, Tru?" Rod said in my ear.

"Uh…you called my cell, Rod," I answered. "No speaker phone available."

"Give it here," Art interrupted, snapping his fingers. I passed him the cell and he plugged it into a small, black cradle behind his desk phone. There was a sharp crackling sound and then Rod said, "Hello? Anyone?"

"We're all here, Rod," Art said clearly. "Go ahead."

"Jack," Rod said slowly, "the part I didn't tell Art, because the Yard asked that I wait a few hours, is that the e-mail accompanying this was sent to the London Times. They wrote stories and went to press before they even called Scotland Yard. The current issue carries the entire e-mail, verbatim. It's very florid stuff. 'As Pembroke deforests N.W. Washington, I will deforest Pembroke.' Like that. Most importantly, the author names P.P.V. and Synsys Properties. The paper evidently didn't think their readers would know Synsys, so they ran a sidebar with your picture in it. If this maniac didn't know you before, he does now."

"Fuck," Jack sighed. "Well, I'm not in London and I'm on the move, so I'm not going to sweat it, but we need to do something… Does Scotland Yard say anything about suspects?"

"They're doing that 'carefully exploring all options' dance, which means they're buffaloed. According to our corporate council, the Yard has put Chief Inspector John Calvert on it. Calvert is the limey version of Wyatt Earp - tough, no-baloney son of a bitch who was, years ago, Percy Kensington's son-in-law. Apparently, Calvert thinks all that stuff about European eco-terrorists is so much cow-flop. Our council is Calvert's poker buddy and they've been talking. Calvert's convinced it's local."

"Local…here?" Art chimed in.

"Yeah. He's about the only one thinking that, right now, and he's not talking," Hooks said wearily.

"He's not the only one," I said quietly. "I think it. Let me ask you something. In either case, did they find a nest?"

"A nest?" Jack asked.

"A nest?" Hooks echoed.

"Place the shooter fired from," I shot back.

"Oh, yeah. Percy Kensington was shot from about 12 feet up an old maple, about 400 yards from his house. Cedric Danvers was shot from a rooftop across the Thames from his flat, according to Inspector Calvert. It was almost 400 yards," Hooks yawned. "Can that possibly be right?"

"Yeah," I nodded, my mind racing, "it can. How solid is that?"

"Calvert's own lips," Hooks rasped. "Apparently, the guy used a tripod and it left scratches in the bricks. Hang on for a moment, willya?"

We could hear Hooks muffling his mouthpiece and a couple of excited voices raised in the background.

"Jesus Christ," Jack puffed, stretching and rubbing his neck. "What the hell is going on?"

"Tru? Jack?" Hooks said breathlessly. "I'll have to call you back. Another one of our board members, Nolan Rawlings, was shot about 30 minutes ago."

"Shit," Jack barked. "Rod, call me back when you know something."

"There's more, Jack," Hooks said quickly. "Rawlings was shot in Valreas, in the south of France. This guy travels, apparently. Don't just assume he won't come after you."

"Rod," I shouted, "I've got an idea, but I need more facts. Ask about the ballistics, willya? And about the scenario of the French one. Can you do that?"

"Are you on board, Tru?" Hooks panted. "I need to know."

"I'm on it," I nodded. "We'll work out details later."

"I owe you," he said simply. "You have my number?"

"No."

"Art has it," he shot back. "Call me if you find anything or need anything."

"The caliber of those bullets, Rod," I said emphatically, "and the distance of the latest one. Soonest, okay?"