The Knowland Retribution (18 page)

“I mean no harm to him, Nick. You have to believe that. That's not what I do. I need to talk to him or with him. It's in his best interest. Will you help me?”

Nick Stevenson shook his head, grimaced, and took another sip of his hot tea. “No,” he said. “I can't.”

“You haven't—”

“No, I haven't. I haven't seen him since the day he said goodbye, haven't talked to him since the day he left, and haven't communicated with him since then—except for the note I received, as you said, with Leonard's address in the Bahamas. Are you sure he's not there anymore?”

“Never was. It was a decoy. You're a real estate lawyer. You must have seen these kinds of purchases before. With his expertise my guess is that he flew in, closed on the property and the boat—if you can call it that—and flew out. Might not have spent even one night there.”

“You're sure?” asked Nick.

“I live in the Caribbean, Nick. I know the area he bought in. I've checked thoroughly. He was never there.”

“It's all Knowland, isn't it?” Nick said. “Knowland and your clients too.”

“Yeah, it certainly is,” Walter said. “At some point, probably shortly before he left Atlanta, Leonard came across information about the people who were involved in that sorry episode. He fashioned some sort of list of those he felt knew about the scope of that disaster, understood the danger in advance, and now he's killing them, one by one.”

“Because they didn't stop it?”

“Because they didn't stop it.”

“Leonard Martin is my friend. My partner. Thirty years and you think you know a man. Then his entire family gets wiped out and he doesn't recover. How could he? It's all quite amazing,” Nick said. “‘Revenge is the wet nurse to madness.'
You know who said that?”

“No, I sure don't,” said Walter.

“Me neither. Forgot. But I liked it since the first time I read it in college. It's true, you know. Tell me, how do you know this killer isn't one of any number of others who suffered a similar loss?”

“I can account for all the others. I won't bore you with the details, but—”

“Yes, of course you found the others. You find people, don't you?”

“But I can't find Leonard Martin. And it's because he doesn't want to be found. He's left behind all the earmarks of someone who's hiding.”

Nick was as sad as he was puzzled. He told Walter he knew Leonard Martin to be a peaceful man, a man who despised hunting and never, to his knowledge, even touched a handgun or a rifle. Also, at the end, two years ago, Leonard was a pitiful figure of a man, fat and sloppy, out of shape. He just couldn't imagine him being able to do this sort of thing.

Walter said, “I'm sure you're right. Leonard is a man with a deep sense of character. That's why he's come forward to protect Harlan Jennings. I'm convinced he's a decent man with a strong commitment to justice. Isn't that what he's doing? His own form of justice? As for being out of shape, two years is plenty of time to get oneself fit,” said Walter. Nick did not seem to be buying that line, and, frankly, Walter wasn't a hundred percent convinced himself. He knew Leonard Martin had gained weight steadily over a couple of decades and ballooned in the months following the death of his family. A man in his fifties, with that sort of history, doesn't often turn it around, no matter how much time he has. As for the guns, that too worried Walter. Leonard would have to start from scratch, and he would have to acquire the skills of a marksman without assistance. Not an easy thing to do, even in two years.

“I know people,” Nick said, “who are fervent hunters. They damn near love it, but they're no marksmen. Some of them can't hit the side of a barn. I don't see how a man like Leonard Martin can begin at square one and be a proficient shot—hell, a goddamn sniper!—two years later. You can imagine the sort of weapons you're talking about. It doesn't seem possible they could belong to the Leonard Martin I know. It must be someone else. There must be someone you haven't found yet.”

Nick Stevenson had been too young for Korea and too old to be drafted in the '60s. He had no military experience and was not himself a hunter. In fact, he had not fired a weapon of any kind, ever. Walter told Nick he'd been in Vietnam, where he'd known men like Leonard who turned out to be natural shooters. They had an ability to shoot at, and hit, targets that others who worked much harder could not. They came from all walks of life, all circumstances. They were few and far between, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it. Perhaps Leonard Martin was one of them. Perhaps two years with nothing to do except hone those talents was plenty of time.

“Where could he do that?” Nick asked.

“I don't know,” Walter said. “Not yet.”

They talked a few minutes more. Walter again assured Nick he meant no harm to Leonard. He explained to him, as he had to Isobel, that he believed Nathan Stein would try to buy his way out of this mess. He said, “You've no idea what kind of money we're talking about.” Nick said he didn't think money would count for much.

“Leonard has so much,” he said, “and, if you're right, apparently nothing to spend it on except revenge.”

Walter's conviction about Stein's ultimate solution remained steadfast. “These people are all about money. They believe in the power of money like some believe in the baby Jesus. ‘Enough' and ‘money' don't go together. If they don't have enough, nobody does.”

“He must be paying you a handsome sum,” said Nick. Walter nodded. It was clear to him now that Nick Stevenson knew nothing.

“If you hear from him, please give him my message.” Walter handed Nick a small notepad page with the Ritz-Carlton logo at the top. On it he'd written a telephone number. “My cell phone,” he said. “Call me at this number. Anytime. Day or night.”

“You've not made my day any brighter,” Nick said.

“I'm sorry,” said Walter.

They shook hands and Walter left.

Atlanta

Carter Lawrence lived in
an apartment building on Lenox Road in the midst of what might reasonably be interpreted as luxury run amok. Walter was surprised at the modesty of his building, surrounded as it was by far grander and more gaudy residential achievements. It was an older, off-white stucco structure set back from the street, only five stories high. It appeared to lack most of the exorbitant amenities: pools, fitness centers, uniformed staff, and even valet parking, conspicuously available everywhere else nearby. Carter Lawrence had not been wealthy until the Knowland settlement. Walter knew that. He measured wealth as being able to maintain one's lifestyle simply on the earnings from one's assets. No aspect of work was required. “Rich” just meant you made a lot of money. In Walter's experience, he found many who were rich and few who were wealthy. Whatever amount Carter got from Knowland, he hadn't spent it on a new place to live. Walter thought that was a bad sign, particularly if he was part of Leonard Martin's operation. It would be difficult to tempt a man with money if he wasn't spending what he already had. Leonard, on the other hand, had obviously been spending his. The question was: Was he spending it all on this project? Were either of these men the type to be bought off? Then again, who could refuse the kind of money Nathan Stein had to offer? He pushed the thought from his mind. Contemplating that kind of money brought unnecessary complications. His job was only to find the man. That was always just his job, and he was content with it.

Walter had favors to call in from many places: former clients eager to be so obligated; past contacts who liked him and would gladly help him again; even law enforcement with whom he was cordial. And he cultivated that rich garden, harvesting its fruit as the need arose. A phone call was all he needed to get a picture of Carter Lawrence. Taken by a photographer from the Atlanta Journal Constitution, it dated back to the funeral of his sons. A staff member attending to one of Georgia's most well-known citizens had delivered it to him at the Ritz-Carlton. Fifteen years earlier Walter had been hired to find that man's wife. After an indiscretion on her part, and a bad reaction on her husband's, she bolted. Two weeks after she disappeared from her Tuxedo Drive mansion, he found her ensconced in a lesbian bar in Miami. The husband sent two other men to Florida to bring her home. The press was told she had been visiting friends in Boca Raton, and she was back in Georgia before anyone (except her frightened and angry spouse) missed her. Like all of Walter's cases, he did what he was hired to do—find somebody—and the details never became public. Clients like the one in Georgia felt they owed a life-long debt to Walter, and they frequently exhibited a need to show their gratitude. Anything they could do to help him, they would. No questions asked.

Around noon, Carter walked out of his residence. Walter saw him from across the street, where he had been sitting on a bench. He crossed Lenox Road and followed Carter into the parking lot.

“Excuse me,” Walter yelled. Carter turned and stopped. Walter approached him, keeping a respectful distance. It was broad daylight, an open parking lot in plain sight. Nevertheless, he was careful not to appear as a threat of any kind. For all Carter Lawrence knew, this stranger wanted nothing more than directions to the mall. “I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Lawrence.”

“What?”

“My name is Walter Sherman, and I'm looking for Leonard Martin.”

Carter's obvious, growing agitation was a concern to Walter, and he knew, at times like this, that some people under stress could forget everything said to them. So, he repeated himself. “My name is Walter Sherman. I only want to talk with your father-in-law. Do you know where he is?”

“Who are you?” the skinny lad said, eyes darting, mouth and jaw noticeably tightening.

“Carter, I'm Walter Sherman. If you don't know where Leonard is today, when you hear from him can you give him a message? I really need to talk with him. Do you know where he is?”

“No,” Carter said, still visibly uncomfortable, although he no longer looked like he was about to start running. “I don't know.”

“When was the last time you heard from him? In the Bahamas?”

“No. Two years ago, that's when. After he left I never heard from him. Not in the Bahamas. Not anywhere. Who are you again?”

“If you hear from him, give him this,” Walter said, handing the young man a page from the same Ritz-Carlton notepad he'd given Nick Stevenson. On it he'd jotted down his name and a telephone number. “Day or night. Anytime. Will you do that?” Carter reached out and took the note, folded it without looking at it, and held it tightly in the palm of his closed left hand. Walter thought the youngster was about to cry. He asked him, “When was the last time you saw Leonard?”

“I won't be able to help you, Mr. Sherman. It's more than two years since I heard from him.” He said “him” in a way that made Walter believe Carter couldn't bring himself to say the name Leonard. He saw in Carter's face and the way he moved his hands a sadness verging on outright misery, a feeling of loss too heavy for his bony shoulders and pencil neck to carry. He knew, then and there, that Carter Lawrence had no contact with Leonard Martin. Walter looked curiously into Carter's eyes. He couldn't help wondering what it must be like to lose your wife—wife, ex-wife, there's no difference—and both your children at the same time, the same way. It was clear he'd lost his father-in-law too.

“Thank you,” said Walter. He smiled and reached out to touch Carter Lawrence's arm. “I wish you the best. I really do.” With that, he turned and walked away.

New York

When the second letter
arrived, Isobel took it immediately to Gold, as prearranged. Ed Macmillan joined them, followed closely by two men and a woman—all stone-faced, pasty, suited; they might have been related. They greeted Gold, ignored Macmillan, and shook hands grimly with Isobel. These were
New York Times
lawyers
.
She turned to glare at Gold. “This is a real newspaper, not a supermarket checkout sheet. I am a real reporter, not an intern. I won't work in the presence of lawyers or people I don't know. Melvin? Is this your idea of a joke?”

“I beg your pardon, Ms. Gitlin,” the oldest of the lawyers said. “You work for the
New York Times,
as do we. This case involves a potential for liability that is of great concern for the publisher and the parent entity. Mr. Gold was made aware of our need to be present. We're all part of a publicly held corporation, as you know. Accordingly, we have obligations to—”

“B-b-bullshit,” Isobel said, slipping the unopened letter back into the folder she held very firmly. “This letter is mine. It is not the property of the
New York Times
. The story I write, after I write it, may be, but not the letter. I have no intention of sh-sharing its c-c-contents with you or anyone other than my editors.”

Maybe it was her alliance with Walter Sherman. It could have been the adrenaline. More likely, it was her certainty that whatever the letter said would be her sword and her shield. Isobel Gitlin knew for a fact that she had nothing to fear from anyone East or West of Fiji.

The attorney's stream of patience flowed shallow, not deep. It was bone dry now. “You don't seem to understand, young lady—”

“You don't seem to understand,
old
man
!” Turning toward the Moose, she demanded, “They go or I go. Mel?”

When all three had departed, she turned to Ed, whose bleary expression pleased her immensely. “L-l-lawyers?” She applied her village-girl sing-song with its version of a Mexican accent. “We don't need no stinking lawyers.”

She cared not a bit that the joke fell flat. Macmillan had probably never seen the movie, and Mel wasn't in the mood.

“Read the fucking letter,” said the Moose.

Dear Ms. Gitlin,

Harlan Jennings didn't kill Floyd Ochs. I can't allow an innocent man to be charged and perhaps even convicted. I killed Floyd Ochs. I killed Christopher Hopman and Billy MacNeal too. I did it and I'm not sorry. As proof, I offer you these details:

• Floyd Ochs was shot with a Beretta S06, 12 gauge, Diamond Pigeon made in Italy, using an English cartridge by Gamebore aptly named Pigeon Extreme. Ochs was less than twenty feet from me when I fired.

• Billy MacNeal was shot with a 7.62mm shell fired from a Galil Sniper Rifle, sometimes called a Galatz, made by IMI in Israel. It's possible to mistake or misidentify this weapon as a German G3-SG1 or a Russian SVD. You can make sure the FBI doesn't make that mistake. The Galil comes with its own 6x telescopic sight, which was suitable since he was only 150 yards from me at the time. I also used a TPR-S suppressor to minimize the sound. At that distance I doubt he heard anything.

• I shot Christopher Hopman with a J. D. Jones–designed, Ed Brown–made, 50-caliber gun called the Peacemaker. I made my peace with him. This gun is a big one, but it doesn't have the full power of most 50-caliber weapons. For my purpose, it's strong enough, plus I used a 650-grain cartridge for extra speed because I was concerned that the can-type suppresser might not completely muffle the sound. I was exactly 453 yards from Hopman as calibrated by a Nightforce 3.5–15x50 Extreme Tactical Scope. Aiming downhill, that put him 1,318.2 feet from the position of the shell in my barrel. So, there you have it—the details.

• The authorities probably haven't identified all of these weapons, if they have identified any. If they had I think you would have known and printed it already. Now you can tell them. Without you, they may never find out.

• You can also tell them that for the next one I will use a Holland & Holland double rifle called Nitro Express. It has a beaded cheekpiece, double Purdey underbolts, and a Greener crossbolt with gold-line cocking indicators. You'll know it when you see it. Later I'll tell you where to find that one too.

All the physical evidence mentioned in this confession, all the guns and associated equipment I've described, not including, of course, the Holland & Holland, will be found in a large suitcase I've left in your name with your excellent doorman, Mr. Falikas. Your reporting on this has touched me, Ms. Gitlin. I ask only that you keep in mind that I seek justice, and nothing more.

The letter was not signed.

“Holy shit,” said Macmillan.

Mel Gold's face had whitened by several shades. He'd become an albino moose or a man on the edge of shock. He spoke from behind the chewed pencil that quivered in his teeth. “Call your doorman. Tell him you'll be there within the hour. We will send two security people with you. Get a description of whoever left the suitcase. Security will bring it here. We will open it. Until then, technically, we do not know what's in it. We certainly cannot consider it evidence based on an unsigned letter. We are simply checking out what may very well be a hoax. That's our official position. I will get two very big security people.”

“Could be another hoax,” Macmillan croaked, nodding, out of nowhere.

Mel Gold gave him a quick, dismissive look, then hurriedly told Isobel: “Make the call from my desk. I'll have security pick us up here.”

She could have floated out of her chair and bumped her head on the ceiling. She had
his
letter in her hand. And she had Walter's e-mail. Number
8.
Number
8
was Leonard Martin. But damned if she would tell anyone else.