Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (31 page)

"I have some questions to ask."

"I'm not interested." Isaacs walked briskly past Machry, who turned on the spot and took huge strides to catch up to her. Dave had exited the car and was leaning against the hood, watching the whole scene.

"You're a history professor, aren't you?"

"I'm busy," Isaacs snapped, increasing her pace.

Every time he spoke with somebody he didn't like, Machry put up several facades, which hid his disdain well but could be crumbled rather easily. At this moment they all fell away, and his temper was bared from behind his eyes. "Look," he said, standing directly in front of Isaacs so that she was forced to come to a halt. "You don't have to answer. You can just keep walking, do your academia crap, and deny information in an institution of learning. But if you give a damn about your subject matter, you'll talk."

Isaacs rubbed her eyes. "Do you need to come to my office?"

"No need. We'll do it here."

"Great," Machry said, all his veneers safely back in place. "You wrote a book once called
The Families of Upstate New York
, correct?"

Isaacs closed her eyes. "I think I remember that, yes."

"Do you know anything about the Johnsons of Ithaca?"

Isaacs's eyes were still closed, as if she was searching through her brain: perhaps a Rolodex, perhaps a library, but with a professor, most likely an immense pile of paper. At last she came up, opening her eyes.

"The Johnsons…yes. Yes, I know about them. What do you need to know?"

"Everything."

"Why?"

Machry had not anticipated this. It was his turn to rack his brains for an answer. He was still working on concocting a preposterous story when Dave stepped up behind Isaacs. "He's researching a paper. I don't see how it's your business."

Machry wished Dave hadn't antagonized her, but he was grateful for the quick thinking. "He's right."

"Johnsons of Ithaca," Isaacs said, with the air of beginning a lecture. "That's old money.
Old
money. They're descended from English nobility under…I'd have to say Henry III, but don't quote me on that. The name first showed up around some year with four syllables…1255, I think. They didn't come over on the Mayflower, but pretty soon after that, about 1650. Then they got richer in Virginia and even richer after the Revolution. By the time the 20th century rolled around, every new scion was inheriting millions."

Machry and Dave were both hanging on every word.

"At the end of the 1800s, they moved to New York and settled around here. As a matter of fact, they were some of the only investors at the beginning of this college. The newest Johnson had a business running ships up and down the St. Lawrence. He lived here, but he ran it out of New York City. Around this time they were comparable to folks like the Vanderbilts."

"Can you skip ahead to, say, a few generations ago?" Machry was getting impatient, and the wind chill was annoying him. He pulled his jacket across his torso.

"I'm getting there! Don't interrupt me!" Isaacs snapped. "In the forties the fortune was inherited by Charles Johnson, who upped the shipping business by selling some boats to the navy during World War II. He's the second-to-last Johnson in the limelight. After that…"

"What?" Dave asked quickly. Both of them sensed that they were about to learn what they needed to know.

"After that his son got the money."

"What was his son's name?"

Isaacs had closed her eyes again. "Not sure…all I know about him is he managed to blow several million dollars over a few years. He had a gambling habit that went beyond compulsive. Roulette, poker, horse racing, even several hundred lottery tickets a day. A high-living streak, too. Houses, fancy cars, fine liquor…next thing you know, he's wrecked an 800-year fortune, declared bankruptcy, and been run out of town by his rival."

"Where did he go after that?"

"Some tiny little burg. After this, the whole thing gets pretty apocryphal. The rumor is, he tried erasing himself from existence. He hid his past, changed his last name, and basically went into total seclusion."

"Do you have any idea what he did there?"

"I think…"

Neither Machry nor Dave dared to breathe.

"I think he started a tech company."

They drove in silence for half an hour before Dave dared to speak to the elephant in the room.

"Can we be sure it's him?"

"Do we have any reason to believe it's not?"

"Well…we don't know what he changed his name to."

"Presumably Orson, for whatever reason."

"Actually," Dave said thoughtfully, "there are a couple of things that confused me about that history. First of all, why did he change his name to Orson?"

"I don't like hunches, but my hunch is that he had something to gain from pretending to be Alex's father."

"Another thing. If he was flat broke, how did he get the money to start a company?"

"Actually, Dave, I'm going to need you to do a bit of digging for me."

"Name it and I'll dig it."

"You'll have to look at two records: the court's list of legal name changes, and the bank's loan archives. See if you can find anything in Roland's name."

"Can do. But shouldn't you look at one of them? We could get it done faster."

"I can't. I have another lead to check out. I'm going to New York."

"What for?"

"Professor Isaacs made a little slip of the tongue. She said something about Roland's 'rival', back when he was still a Johnson. It might be nothing, but then again it might be important. She said he ran a shipping business out of the city, so I thought I'd check it out."

"Good luck. Oh, and Henry?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to do anything drastic, okay? I know how you get."

Machry grimaced. "Thanks, Dave," he said.

The container ports in New York Harbor were not at all one of Machry's favorite places to be; in fact, he tried to keep away from New York as much as possible. It was a sensory overload that he was unable to manage—he had always been the type of man who preferred to take things in one at a time, instead of all at once like New Yorkers seemed to enjoy.

He'd purchased a map of the coastline area and jotted down the location of a shipping office off the main docks, where he was told that a distant cousin of Charles ran the last few Johnson family shipping boats. He walked rigidly through, trying not to look to out of place among the crate movers, shutting his ears as best he could against the onslaught of noise.

At last he came to the building, a stone-gray structure squatting in the middle of the port like an uninvited animal. He approached it, unsure how to make his entrance, and stood for a while by the door, as if hoping it would open itself. Instead, he reached his hand out and knocked three times.

"Come in," barked a voice.

Machry opened the door slowly and found himself standing in a single office room, overflowing with papers and decorated with small nautical ornaments.

"Is this the Johnson office?"

"It is," said a small, bald man behind the desk. His face was beginning to wrinkle beyond repair—he appeared to be pushing seventy.

"I have maybe one question to ask you, then I'll be on my way," Machry said uneasily.

"Get on with it, then," said the manager. "I'm busy."

"What do you know about a man named William Orson?"

It was as though he had flipped a switch—the mood in the office room changed instantly from a bored office to a seething chamber of hatred. Machry could have sworn that the wallpaper turned several shades darker. "That
bastard!
" shouted the old manager, standing up viciously and slamming his hand into the piles of neglected registrations on his desk.

Machry took an involuntary step back, surprised that he seemed to have found such a sensitive subject. "William Orson—I assume you know him, then?"

"Do I
know him
!?" roared the manager, walking around the desk to stare Machry in the face. "He's only the guy that ruined my company and all but forced us out of the shipping business! I'm working as a goddamn
dock clerk
because of that leech!"

Machry's curiosity overcame his fear and he pushed further. "William Orson…he did something to ruin you?"

"Well, not
me
in particular, but the guy was a vicious businessman. I got six figures from the Johnsons making sure nothing fell off their boats. Orson, he hated us. The moment he saw that Charlie's deadbeat kid was gambling the family jewels away, he struck like a cobra!"

"What did he do?"

"He
bought
us! The bastard just up and bought us like you'd buy a pack of gum. And do you know how he got rich so fast?"

"No."

"Well, if you don't know I'm not going to tell you. Basically, after what's-his-name filed for chapter 11, Orson offered to save us if he could acquire the company. So the kid vanishes to god knows where, Orson downsizes half of us and sells almost all the ships and I'm stuck pushing papers for the rest of my career."

Yet another piece of the vast puzzle slid into place is Machry's brain. "The rival…"

"I'm telling you, it was the best news I'd ever heard when he died. I went to his funeral. I was the only guy not crying."

An idea flashed in front of Machry's mind's eye. He thought mostly in words, and was desperate to retrieve it again. He decided to retrace his steps.

"Say that again."

"What?"
"That last thing. Say it again."

The manager looked flustered. "I…I was the only guy not crying at Orson's funeral."

The idea threw off its cloak of secrecy and stood waiting for Machry to act on it. "Do you remember where he was buried!?"

"I think so…the man was a pretty big Catholic. He wanted to be buried behind the same church he always took confession at."

"What was it called!? Try and remember!"

"Our Lady…Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. Outside of Ithaca. Beautiful spot; shame the asshole has to lie there and ruin it for eternity."

The moment he was safely out of New York, Machry pulled over by the side of the road. It was difficult—light flurries were beginning again; it would be snowing very soon.

He dialed a number on his cell phone in an automatic way, and waited for it to ring. Eventually the ringing was cut off and replaced by Dave's voice.

"Henry. What's going on?"

"What did you find?"

"Well…it seems we were right. A guy named Roland Johnson changed his name to Orson…about eleven years ago."

There was a long silence, punctuated by faint static. At last Machry said, "What about the loans?"

"Nothing. Not a single loan from the Woodsbrook bank in those eleven years."

"Under Johnson or Orson?"

"Both. But really, with his record, no bank would give him a loan anyway."

"Then I can only see one alternative. He probably got some money from an illegitimate source."

"You mean like a loan shark?"

"Sort of. But I don't think they had the kind of money he needed. I think he got it directly from the boss."

"You don't mean our friends the Moose Killers, do you?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

"You think they just gave him money? Out of the goodness of their hearts?"

"Dave, don't be an idiot. I think he must have cut some kind of a deal."

"Any idea what that might have been?"

"Not a clue. Listen, Dave. I have one idea left. That guy at the docks told me it was William Orson who ruined Roland. He also let on where he was buried. I'm going to a Catholic church in Ithaca, and I'm going to hear William Orson's confession. I'm going to find out every sin that guy ever committed."

It didn't take Machry more than ten minutes to find the Church of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. By then the flurries, which had promised so much after first dropping out of the clouds, had melted to a cold mist in the rising temperature. Machry was wearing a coat over his usual work shirt, and was grateful for it; he sensed that the chill in the air was barely forty degrees. He shivered his way across the small parking lot, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

The dock manager had been right—it was definitely a beautiful spot, with the characteristic white hills and snowy trees of Woodsbrook in the winter.
It's a place you could set a Christmas movie in
, he thought, then chuckled to himself as he realized this was a thought Alex would have.

On the outside and inside, the church was mostly unpretentious. From the outside, a plain large brick building. On the inside, there were simple stained-glass windows depicting little-known scenes from the Bible, the traditional crucifixes and stations of the cross, rows of wooden pews, and an altar which took up most of the back wall. There was a robed priest kneeling there now; it being Sunday, the services had most likely ended recently. Machry sat down awkwardly in the second pew. Churches, no matter how ordinary, had a strange kind of grandeur about them that almost made his regret his lapsed religion.