The Knowland Retribution (17 page)

Two days later, Walter identified
Leonard Martin
.

When he did, he found it odd that he had been hired to find this guy, or that this guy went where he did. Walter knew the Caribbean as only a resident could. Isobel had a Jamaican address for Leonard Martin, and something about it rang a bell with Walter. Leonard moved from Atlanta, retired from his law firm, and set up housekeeping in the Bahamas. He ran from his loss like so many others. He just had more money than they did. Checking out Leonard Martin's address was easy
and
confusing. Walter knew the Jamaica slum where Leonard bought his house. People with money didn't live there. No white tourists or exiles, certainly. They avoided places like that for very good reason. And there was no marina for miles around. A boat in that neighborhood had oars. Red flags started waving.

Unless he'd gone Rasta, nuts on weed, or both, Leonard Martin was nowhere near Jamaica. Walter called bars, restaurants, even local stores. No one knew a white man named Leonard Martin. The only fat, troubled American Walter heard mentioned was a priest named Ryan who drank heavily for a year or so until he met a local woman named Claudia. Now they fished together on their boat and apparently lived a happy life.

The deeper and wider his search for Leonard Martin, the more he discovered about him, the less he knew where to find him. Walter called people in Atlanta. He put together a detailed version of Leonard's life and downward spiral. He learned about his family, his law firm, his habits and tastes, even the Community Players and Barbara Coffino. He quickly got past the Bahamas dodge, but stymied in Jamaica. Did Leonard ever get there? If not, where did he go? Where was he now? What had he done? As a matter of very intense professional interest, what would he do next? Finding people was an art, a practiced and disciplined activity Walter Sherman had developed to its highest degree. It seemed simple, but no element of the process was more important than knowing when your goal was reached. A journey of a thousand miles always began with the first step—everyone knew that—but how many could spot the finish line with equal precision? The authorities couldn't. Walter was sure of that. Leonard Martin was a big target. No one's loss had been greater. But as soon as the cops began investigating him, they'd have learned he moved to the Bahamas and took twelve million dollars with him. His former law partners would have vouched for him, as would anyone else the cops might have talked to. If they even bothered to check, they would have found the house and property he bought in Jamaica, and the boat too. Soon enough, Leonard Martin's file would have been tossed into the pile marked “Checked Out.” Walter knew that's the way it probably played out because he'd seen it happen many times before.

But Walter also knew Leonard Martin was his man—no doubt about it. He'd cleaned out and packed up every aspect of his life, what was left of it, and disappeared. Most telling, he disappeared on purpose. Walter thought Leonard had good instincts. A man who intended to do what Leonard was doing needed to cover his trail, cut himself off from anyone capable of endangering him, isolate himself for the task ahead. Leonard Martin's trail was not cold. It was frozen.

Walter called Tom Maloney in New York. He told him he had identified Leonard Martin and gave him a brief explanation. He then offered Tom a choice. Walter could continue his efforts to find the man, as agreed, or Tom could release the name in powerful circles and rely on law enforcement to do the job. If he opted for the second choice, Walter said that would entail a substantial cash refund. “A million dollars is a lot to pay for what I've done.”

Tom said, “Walter, I can't adequately express my gratitude. It's really wonderful news. You've more than justified your fee. I've got to go with your first option and let me tell you why. Between you and me, law enforcement is useless. Its incompetence will be a central theme in the social history of this country in the twenty-first century. We're
not kidding ourselves, are we? I know some of these guys and I guess you know some yourself. Would you trust them to finish the job? I wouldn't. What's more, I don't want a bunch of civil servants out there scaring the fish away. You know what I mean? I want you to do your job and find the man. Once we know where he is, when you have him, I know we'll be able to handle it. Is that satisfactory to you?”

Walter said, “Just wanted to give you the option.”

It took Tom half an hour to track Nathan down. A servant brought him the phone in the little man's penthouse gym. He took it on his treadmill. Maloney reported his conversation with Walter. Nathan stopped the machine.

“Is he fucking crazy? He can't call the cops. Under the covers. This stays under the covers. We don't need any goddamn cops.”

“That's what I told him,” Tom said, repeating himself slowly word for word. “I told him to complete the assignment.”

“And keep it confidential.”

“He doesn't need to be told that. You already know that, Nathan.”

Isobel wasn't in her office. She and Walter agreed not to message by voice. Walter knew where he had to go next, but before leaving he left her an e-mail with no subject and only the number
8
as text.

Atlanta

He liked old hotels,
elegant buildings with high ceilings, ornate chandeliers, quiet bars, and round-the-clock room service. The smaller the establishment the better. The closest he'd find to that in Atlanta was in Savannah. Walter's work had taken him around the country and around the world—a lot of hotel rooms in thirty years; the best and the worst, sometimes the only. He learned a long time ago that “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” was sensible advice. When in Atlanta he stayed at the Ritz-Carlton, Buckhead. If you can't find old elegance, new will have to do. Last night, after realizing he needed to go to Atlanta, Walter called the offices of Stevenson, Daniels, Martin and left a message on Nick Stevenson's voice mail. It was short and concise, not aggressive or hurried, not too friendly; he left his name and said he wanted to talk about “a matter of shared concern.” He'd be arriving in Atlanta tomorrow, he said, and asked Stevenson to leave a message for him at the Ritz-Carlton with a time and place to meet. Then he hung up. In the morning he ferried to the rock and flew nonstop to Georgia.

From the air the city of Atlanta appears to have multiple downtowns. In that sense it bears some resemblance to Los Angeles. Walter's view from seat 4A showed the original downtown, a collection of modern office towers, two stadiums, a massive dome, and a group of skyscraper hotels taller and more attractive to his eye than LA. Farther north another downtown of sorts sprung up. He could make out the rash of construction cranes, toiling in their never-ending endeavor, building the offices and high-rise condos of Atlanta's ritzy Buckhead neighborhood. He remembered reading that Elton John and Coretta Scott King lived in one of them, in the same building. “How could she afford that,” he wondered? Somewhere nearby, where new money commingled with old privilege, Carter Lawrence lived. Beyond that, two more substantial groupings of tall buildings stood separated by ten miles of the perimeter highway that encircled the city. Looking south, through the window across the aisle, Walter could plainly make out all of Atlanta's growth to the north.

When he checked in, the desk clerk at the Ritz-Carlton handed him an envelope from Stevenson, Daniels, Martin, P.C. Attorneys at Law. Inside, handwritten on the firm's letterhead, was a short note signed by Nicholas Stevenson. It ended with,
“Call me tomorrow.” Walter was pleased. He showered, had dinner delivered to his room, watched a little television, and went to bed early. In the morning he called the number indicated on the note as Stevenson's direct line. Nick Stevenson answered with a cordial, “Good morning, Mr. Sherman.” Caller ID had long ago taken all the surprise out of the telephone. Walter knew if the tiny screen didn't say Ritz-Carlton, Stevenson had familiarized himself with the hotel's number and recognized it when it rang. Either way, the thoroughness impressed Walter, who ranked preparation high on his list of admirable characteristics.

“Thanks for leaving the number,” he said. “I often find it difficult to reach somebody when we're both strangers.”

“Not at all. I'm not the President. I'm easy to get ahold of.” Walter liked the accent and the casual manner that accompanied it. It registered right away that Stevenson's tone showed he knew this call had nothing to do with real estate.

Walter said, “Is it convenient to meet sometime today?”

“Why, exactly?”

“You want to know now? Right here, on the phone?” That sort of directness was unexpected. It irritated him a little.

“It's my private line, Mr. Sherman. Why not?”

Walter did not like being taken by surprise, especially on such a simple matter as arranging an appointment. It unnerved him, and he struggled slightly to regain the measure of composure he felt the situation required. A sip of coffee, a short cough, and then, “I'd like to talk to you about Leonard Martin. The people I work for . . .”

“And who might they be?”

Walter was unruffled. He felt completely in control of himself now. Did Stevenson know what Leonard Martin was up to? Could he be helping him? Questions that needed answers, but this was not the time. Walter could make assumptions on the phone, but then he remembered Sherlock Holmes. He needed to see Nick Stevenson, to sit face-to-face with the man before coming to any conclusions—any worthwhile ones. He said, “I'll be happy to give you all the details I have—everything—when I see you.” Stevenson's office was only a ten-minute cab ride from the hotel. They agreed to meet there in a half hour.

The ride, short as it was, was straight north on GA 400, a highway designed to quickly connect Atlanta's richest suburbs with both Buckhead and downtown; a road built directly through one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city itself. It was a remarkable political achievement occupying a unique spot in the annals of American urban renewal and suburban sprawl; it displaced rich people to benefit others even richer. Its course ran like a vein graft in a bypass operation, pumping new blood to meet the increasingly demanding needs of the heart of Atlanta, the growth of business. And like a bypass, it was not a cure, just a temporary fix. It was not long before a new downtown budded, like the Bradford Pears that dominated the area along what was already being called the 400 Corridor. Stevenson, Daniels, Martin was on the fifteenth floor of the Queen—one of two apparently identical buildings of black reflective glass, each topped with a huge, but different, ivory-white architectural sculpture. They had the look of enormous chess pieces, especially at night, when their white crowns, bathed in light and held aloft by their black base, shone brightly against the night sky. Their identity as the King and Queen had been immediate. They stood adjacent to GA 400, just north of the I-285 interchange, surrounded by luxuriously landscaped grounds. As his cab approached, Walter examined the building tops and wondered if the King and Queen were what the architect had in mind.

Nick greeted him politely. Had they been anywhere other than the South, where such cordiality was the rule, not the exception, Walter might have called it warm and friendly. He took in the room at a glance. Simple, and, surprisingly, not comfortable. A large couch against the wall; one easy chair with ottoman; a low coffee table and three serviceable chairs for visitors. There appeared to be nothing special about Stevenson's desk, and there were very few personal items in the room. Walter figured Nick Stevenson for a man who liked to work at work and saw no need to bring his private life into the office.

Nick said, “And who are the folks you work for, Mr. Sherman?”

“Walter. Please call me Walter.”

“Do you go by ‘Walt'?”

Walter smiled. “No. No, I don't. Not since grade school.”

“Never liked it, huh?”

“Never did.”

“Well, Walter—and please do call me Nick—who are the folks you work for, and what kind of work is it you do?”

“I work for some people in New York. You wouldn't know their names . . .”

“Try me. I've been to New York.”

“My client is a prominent person. Let's leave it at that,” Walter said. “I don't divulge names. I'm sure you understand.”

“I do. And I respect that. But I don't talk to people when I don't know who they are. I'm sure you understand.”

Walter had no response. He just sat there. In a moment, Nick rose, extended his hand, and said, “Nice meeting you, Walter.” In the next moment Walter made a decision completely foreign to his experience, one he'd never even considered. Nick Stevenson had information that could very well be critical to finding Leonard Martin. Walter's best guess was Nick wouldn't talk to him, not about Leonard or anything else, without knowing who he was really speaking to. He judged Nick as a man who could be trusted, and said, “I work for a New York businessman named Nathan Stein.”

“He wouldn't be the Stein of Stein, Gelb, Hector & Wills, would he?”

Walter smiled again. “More than once, I see.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You've been to New York more than once.”

“I have. Yes, indeed. Bought some stock too. Made a few deals, you know. Met a few fellas down on Wall Street.”

Walter saw the mischievous streak in Nick, and he liked it. It reinforced the judgment he'd just made on which he'd risked so much. He liked Nick Stevenson too. He was more than just a closing attorney. “You handled the case against Knowland, didn't you?” Walter said. “I'll bet you did it all by yourself.”

Now it was Nick's turn to be surprised.

“I don't know what you're referring to,” he said, but obviously he did. His demeanor gave him away, and he knew it too. After an awkward pause he finally said, “What else do you know?”

“You can assume that everything that can be openly discovered, I've got—and perhaps some things that can't.”

“Like Knowland?”

“Like Knowland.”

“What are we trying to talk about here?” Nick said.

Walter asked if he could have something cold to drink. “Diet anything,” he said. Nick buzzed his secretary, and almost immediately she produced a cold can and a glass with ice. “Thanks,” said Walter. “My clients—and Nathan Stein is one of a group—believe your partner, Leonard Martin, is going to kill them.”

“You never said what it is you do, Walter.”

“I find people. I find people who can't be found or don't want to be found.”

“A private investigator? Bounty hunter? You're surely not law enforcement.”

“None of those. I'm no PI, no license, not for hire for that. I'm no bounty hunter either. I never work on commission. And I don't go around hurting people. I'm not a hired goon. I just find people.”

“I didn't know Leonard Martin was missing.”

“Nick, we can go round in circles for as much time as you've got. I've got nothing else to do today. But I'd rather get serious. I'm not an adversary, not to you or Leonard Martin, not to anyone. That's not what I do. Nathan Stein wants to find Leonard. He can't do it himself so, he hired me.”

“Why?”

“Why did he hire me or why does he want to find him?”

“The latter.”

“Stein and his crew,” Walter began, leaning forward in his chair to be closer to Nick, who reclined as far as he could behind his desk, “they believe that the same person who's already killed other people, including Christopher Hopman and Billy MacNeal, will try to kill them. They don't know yet who this person is. They came to me. Long story short, that person is Leonard Martin.” Walter looked closely for any reaction at all from Nick Stevenson, anything that might tell him if he knew about this already, might even be part of it. He saw it: a quick halt in Nick's respiration, then a return to normal. Not enough by itself to draw a meaningful conclusion, but enough to raise certain questions. Perhaps he knew what Leonard was doing. Perhaps he was part of it. Perhaps he was worried he might be found out. Perhaps, also, he knew nothing and was shocked to hear the allegation, but careful enough not to give himself away. Perhaps only Walter's experienced eye caught the momentary change in Nick's breathing pattern. He probed further.

“He's not in the Bahamas—you know that?”

“I know about Hopman and MacNeal down in Texas. I read the papers too. Now you're telling me Leonard Martin is a killer, a cold-blooded murderer? That he shot these men? That's not possible.”

“Nick, I've been doing this kind of work for more than thirty years. Take my word for it—anything's possible. When Leonard Martin left here, more than two years ago, you say he went to the Bahamas.”

“No, I didn't say that, but you seem to know anyway. Leonard said that.”

“Yes, he told you he'd bought a place there—a boat too, I believe—and left. Is that right?”

“Yes. That's what he said.”

“And you probably got a letter from him some time later, perhaps even an address, and my guess is you haven't heard from him since.”

“What is it you want, Mr. Sherman?” Nick Stevenson was getting a bit testy.

“Hey,” Walter said, holding up both his hands in mock surrender. He most certainly did not want this meeting to spiral into distrust and anger. “Please, it's Walter. I'm only trying to let you know there are things I already know. We don't have to do this this way. I'll tell you straight out that I do not know what you know, if you know anything, about Leonard Martin's whereabouts and activities the last few months or the past two years. All I'm looking for is to communicate with him. I have to find him before I can do that. If you can help me contact him, or do it for me, that would more than satisfy my needs. That's all I want. Will you help me?”

Nick buzzed his secretary. When she picked up he asked her to bring him some tea. They waited in silence while his tea arrived, and Walter said nothing until Nick had taken a sip.