Legwork (16 page)

“What?”

“There’s a guy wants to talk to you.
He’s waiting in your office.”

“Why the hell did you put him in there?” I whispered.

“He didn’t want to stay out here and I thought it might be important.”

I knew why the guy didn’t want to stick around and watch Bobby eat.
I didn’t know why Bobby thought it might be important.

“Bobby, that’s my goddamn office,” I hissed. “I have confidential information in there.”

“Like what?
Box of Playtex Supers in the bottom drawer?”

“How about an Astra Constable in the top right-hand drawer?”

“You keep that one locked,” he retorted. “It’s a pussy gun anyway.”

“How about I go unlock it and let you get a real close look?” I said.
“We’ll see how pussy you think a .380 semiautomatic pistol looks up close.”

“Take it easy,” he said, swallowing a wad of mozzarella.
“I recognized the guy.
He ain’t going to hurt you.”

“Who is it?” I demanded.

“I can’t remember his name.
I’ve seen him on television.”

Oh great.
Probably on “America’s Most Wanted.” I left Bobby to his gluttony and carefully inched down the hall.
I wasn’t in the mood for surprises.
I got one anyway.
My visitor was sprawled backwards in my plastic client chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he snored.
I decided against waking him until I could figure out who the hell he was.
I tiptoed up and scrutinized his face.
He was thin and his brown hair was even thinner.
He had a sad-looking face, like a disappointed hound, and a pair of wire rim glasses that were slipping off his nose.
His eyebrows were bushy and pulled into each other, like two caterpillars crawling toward true love.
His eyelids twitched as he dreamed and one leg kicked out; he was in the middle of some heavy-duty rem sleep.
He did look familiar, but I couldn’t think of the name.
He was a television reporter, I thought, for a local station.

“Hey!” I kicked the bottom of one of his shoes and he jumped like he’d just been bitten by a copperhead.

“What?!” he cried and it was my turn to jump.
He had one of those baritone media voices and it filled the room.
Then he began to wheeze violently.

“Take it easy,” I said, afraid he’d choke to death in front of my eyes.
“You came to see me.
Remember?”

He looked completely baffled.
“Who are you?” he demanded as his wheezing subsided to a strangled whistle.

“Who am I?” I snapped my fingers in front of his face.
“Wake up, buddy, you’re the one who came to me.”

He stared at me for a moment then swiped a weary hand through what was left of his hair.
His eyes cleared and he focused on the office around him.
His breath returned to normal. “Oh, yeah,” he mumbled.
“Sorry.
It’s been a hell of a week.”

“I guess so.” The guy looked pretty harmless.
Confused but harmless.
I pulled out my chair and sat in it gratefully, parking my feet on the desk.
I don’t wear high heels, I’m not that dumb, but you do need a little height to pull off Anne Klein and my doggies were barking from a hot day pounding the pavement in two-inch dress shoes.

The guy was gulping in air and slowly waking, going through all the little motions people invent to reclaim their dignity.
He straightened his tie, evened out the cuffs of his pants, ruffled his thinning hair back in place and rebalanced his glasses on his nose.
“Listen, you don’t know me but I know you,” he said when he had pulled himself together.

“Yeah?” I asked helpfully.

“Well, you helped a friend of mine get out of a lousy marriage without losing his shirt.
And I’ve seen you a lot during the campaign.
Working for Masters.”

“I don’t remember seeing you,” I said, not caring who his friend was.
I knew I’d never remember the name—all my clients want to get out of lousy marriages.

“I’m usually off to the side filming my commentary.
Don’t you ever watch the public television station?”

“I don’t watch television at all,” I told him.

He looked at me like I was downright un-American.
“Not watch television?” he repeated.

“Why don’t you just tell me who you are and why you’re here?” I suggested.
“You do look familiar,” I added, hoping to loosen him up.

“My name’s Frank Waters,” he said.
“I do statewide political commentary for WUNC.
Didn’t you see my series on environmental law last month?”

“No,” I confessed.

“Oh.” He recovered quickly from this blow to his ego.
“Let me just cut to the chase.”

“Please do.”

“I was in the middle of preparing an expos£ on Thornton Mitchell when he was killed.”

Now he had my attention.

“He’s been popping up around the edges of a lot of local stories for a couple of years now,” Waters explained. “But he was really smart about it.
Forget about all the young girls and the public image.
He acted stupid about some things but, take it from me, he was sharp when it came to business.”

“What do you want from me?” I interrupted. “In exchange for this information?” I like to know what I’m going to owe before I buy.

His breath started coming faster, like another asthma attack was on the way.
“I need your help.
I thought you knew that.”

“Help in what?”

“There are some missing pieces in his story and I can’t get anywhere without them.
I’m convinced it crosses over into your investigation.
I need your help filling in the holes.
I think we can help each other.”

“Maybe,” I said doubtfully.

“Not maybe.
Definitely.
Just hear me out before you decide.
If you don’t feel you can help, fine.”

A television reporter giving away information for nothing?
Something wasn’t right.
“What’s going on?” I persisted.
“Tell me the truth.”

He hesitated.
“I am telling you the truth, but there is something else bothering me.
Maybe you can help me with it.” He took a deep breath and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny neck.
His breath grew more rapid until he sounded like a little locomotive chugging away.
His hands shook as he spoke and I couldn’t decide if he was the nervous type or had the DT’s.
“I think maybe I’m in danger here.
Someone might be watching or following me.
I was getting these phone calls right before Mitchell died.
Someone was calling me and hanging up.
It’s happened before when I was working on a story, but no one ever got murdered in the middle of an assignment.
What if I’ve uncovered something I shouldn’t have?” His face grew even paler and I was afraid he might pass out right at my feet.

“Take a deep breath,” I told him.
“And hold your head between your knees.” I helped him assume the position and waited patiently.
Why me, Lord?
Why me?

After a moment of deep breathing, he continued.
“Every time I think about Thornton Mitchell with a big shotgun blast in the middle of his chest, I wonder if I’m next.
I need help finding out what’s going on.
The cops aren’t an option. We’re on different sides.
You already know Mitchell’s story, maybe even more that I do.
You’ve got to help me.
I’m after the truth but I don’t want to be killed for it.
I’m so nervous already that I’ve started having panic attacks.
That hasn’t happened since I was a kid.
They could wreck my career.
I can’t go on the air with asthma. And I’m not sure this story is worth my life.”

“Someone might think so,” I pointed out.

He gulped again.
“I know.
That’s why I need you.”

“Okay.” I nodded.
“I’m listening.
Relax and tell me what you know.”

“I’ve been following state politics for over ten years,” he explained.
“It’s my beat and I’m good at it.
I know everyone involved, including the guys you never hear about who operate behind the scenes.
I spend most of my time watching the legislature work.
I’m there physically and I see who’s waiting out in the halls, who hides behind closed doors and who picks up the check for dinner.
I grew up around here.
I know how to blend in.
No one ever notices me.
It’s amazing the things I see.”

Looking at him, I could believe it.
He was that putty color you see on office desks and computers.
The guy was so bland he would blend in with the hallway paint.

“There’s been a lot of controversy about development in the Triangle over the past few years,” he continued, referring to the area of North Carolina formed by the three cities of Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill.
“Ever since that stupid magazine article came out naming this area as the number-one place to live in America, we’ve been invaded.”

“I know,” I agreed.
“Time marches on.
What can you do?”

“Well, some of us do different things,” he explained.
“And some of us forget about anything but making as much money as fast as we can off the situation.”

“I thought reporters were neutral,” I said.

“Our coverage is supposed to be.
Our souls don’t have to be.
I’ve been following environmental issues in particular, especially the relationship between overdevelopment and local legislation.
All this, of course, has a lot to do with my political beat.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that one side favors real estate development over the other.
And that the men who are making money off the development are tunneling a big chunk of it back to the politicians making it possible.”

“That’s the way it’s been done for two hundred years,” I said.

He nodded.
“Yeah, but the stakes are getting higher every day.
There’s more competition for the development, the opportunities are shrinking as people decide they’ve had enough but because of demand the potential to make big, big money is getting bigger.
You see the paradox?”

I nodded.
I know big words.
I wondered what he was getting at.

“I began to follow the links between real estate development in this area with contributions to local political campaigns,” he explained.
“In the past, people weren’t too sophisticated about it.
It was a pretty straight path from your local construction company owner to the mayor’s campaign or whatever.
But the more you move up the political ladder now, the less straightforward the path becomes.
In part, because state and federal laws kick in, limiting the amount you can give.
I started looking into state legislature and gubernatorial campaigns, tracking down the contributor and PAC lists, charting instances where the money came back to real estate developers or companies with business before the state.”

“And Thornton Mitchell’s name started popping up?” I guessed.

He nodded.
“He was quiet about it.
He hardly ever gave money directly and sometimes I had to go back two or three holding companies to finally put my finger on him.
He was making a whole hell of a lot of money, especially in Eastern North Carolina.
He made a fortune off vacation home communities along the Carolina coast a few years ago.”

“So he’s the one who ruined the Outer Banks?” I said.

Waters nodded.
“Him and his cronies.”

“His cronies being?” I asked.

“That’s what I can’t figure out.” His voice dropped to a whisper.
“I couldn’t see a pattern when it came to Mitchell.
His representatives would go up against this zoning committee or that state commission and just when you thought he was going to be refused, he’d propose some sort of minimal compromise that allowed him to squeak through.
He seemed to have a friend in every pocket of the state.
I couldn’t pinpoint anyone specific.”

“The whole state?” I asked.
“How hard is that to figure out?”

Waters nodded.
“I know.
It had to be someone big.
And the biggest guy is Senator Boyd Jackson.”

“Stoney Maloney told me that no one in his family knew Thornton Mitchell personally,” I said.
“And I got the distinct impression he meant his uncle as well.”