Very Bad Men (25 page)

I was back at my desk half an hour later. I hunkered down and made it through eight more pages. By then the detective had found the heiress at a hotel in Los Angeles and let her know that he was professionally obliged to take her back to her father in Chicago—but also that he wasn't a stickler about his professional obligations and maybe they could work something out. They were in the middle of some rather steamy negotiations when my desk phone rang again.

“Mr. Loogan, this is Alan Beckett.”

I almost didn't believe him. His voice seemed light, cheery. I'd only ever heard him sound sarcastic or annoyed.

“What can I do for you?” I said.

“There's something I'd like to discuss.”

“What's on your mind?”

“Better if we talk in person. I can be at your office in five minutes.”

“All right. Sure.”

I hung up the phone and retrieved my pencil. Scratched out a couple of unnecessary adjectives. Then I reached for my cell and dialed Lucy Navarro.

She answered on the second ring. “Hey, Loogan.”

“Are you still on Bedford Road?” I said.

“Still here.”

“Has the turtle come round again?”

“I haven't seen him. What's up?”

“I'm not sure. Have you heard of Alan Beckett? He's Callie Spencer's adviser.”

Her laugh had an odd, sharp quality. “I'm familiar with him,” she said.

“He's on his way to see me. He sounds pleasant. Personable. Makes me think I'm going to wind up in a ditch somewhere.”

I listened as she let out a long breath. “I thought this might happen,” she said. “I talked to him earlier, after you left here. I think I disappointed him. Now he'll go to work on you.”

“What does he want?”

“You'll see. Try to resist if you can. And keep a tight grip on your soul.”

I
met Alan Beckett at the hallway door, and he bounced in with an exaggerated vigor. He had forgone his usual decade-old suit in favor of blue jeans, a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, and a shapeless white sports coat. He wore tennis shoes. As he went past the receptionist's desk in the outer office he turned in a surprisingly graceful circle, taking in the space.

“Memories,” he said. “I had an office like this once, years ago, Mr. Loogan. I wonder if you can guess what my business was back then.”

“I'm not going to guess.”

“No? Just as well. I was a political candidate. Does that surprise you?”

“Nothing surprises me today.” I gestured toward the inner office. “Why don't you have a seat.”

I stood by the door and let him pass through. He was carrying a book under his arm, and he laid it carelessly on the edge of the desk as he sat down in the guest chair. The book was a hardcover with the dust jacket gone. I couldn't see the title.

“I was a candidate for city council,” he said. “Never mind where. I ran my entire campaign out of an office much like this one.”

“Did you win?”

He smiled indulgently. “That's what people always want to know. Not what goals I hoped to achieve, or what issues I wanted to address.” He shrugged. “No, I didn't win, Mr. Loogan.”

I took my seat. “What issues did you want to address?”

“I had one issue. I wanted to fix the zoning laws.” He tilted his head. “That doesn't sound very idealistic, does it? But I'll tell you, they make a difference. Get the zoning right and you get businesses coming in. That brings in smart, skilled people. Broadens your tax base. That pays for police, firefighters, schools, parks—things the smart people need to raise their families. Get the zoning wrong and it runs the other way. All those smart people go somewhere else.”

“Why do you think you lost?”

“My opponent was a family man. He had a fine thick head of hair. He appeared in television commercials with his sleeves rolled up, out among the common people, talking to them very earnestly. Of course you never heard what he said, you only heard the music and the announcer's voice.”

Beckett let out a huff of air and added, “He's still a city councilman. I've advised a U.S. senator, and I hope to advise another.” He nodded toward the bottle of Macallan on my desk. “I see you got my gift.”

“I got it,” I said warily. “I don't know what the occasion is.”

“Call it a peace offering. You and I have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

He rubbed his thumb over his chin. “It's my fault,” he said. “I feel a certain responsibility for the senator. I have to be careful about who gets close to him, and what their intentions are.”

“I've chatted with him twice,” I said. “I like him. I don't have any intentions.”

“He likes you too. That may be why I've been unfriendly toward you. I don't mind admitting it. I had to spend years gaining his trust, but he took a liking to you right away. I felt a little envious.”

He sounded subdued, almost humble. The effect was disarming.

“How's the senator doing?” I asked him.

“He's fine. What you saw the other night—well, he has his bad days.” Beckett dismissed the subject with a raised hand. “The senator's not the reason I came here.”

“What's the reason, then?”

“I thought you might be willing to do me a favor.”

I felt myself smile. “Is that right?”

“I'd like you to talk to Lucy Navarro,” he said. “Get her to drop all this nonsense about Terry Dawtrey and Henry Kormoran—this ridiculous claim that Callie helped Floyd Lambeau case the Great Lakes Bank.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Do you believe the claim is true, Mr. Loogan?”

“No.”

“Do you think any purpose is served when politicians are subjected to baseless charges in the press?”

“If the charge is baseless, the problem solves itself, doesn't it? As you said, the claim is ridiculous. Even if the
National Current
prints it, no sensible person is going to believe it.”

“If there's one thing I've found,” Beckett said, “it's that the world is full of people without any sense. If the
Current
prints that claim, it's bound to find traction with a certain segment of the population.”

“That's a problem for you. But I don't think pushing Lucy to drop her story is the solution.” I picked up a pencil from the desk. Pointed it at him. “You realize that's just what she expects, don't you? She already thinks the Spencers may have had a hand in killing Dawtrey and Kormoran. If you try to buy her silence now, it'll only make you look guilty in her eyes.”

Beckett's lips came together in a pained expression. “I think it goes without saying that Callie Spencer had nothing to do with the deaths of Terry Dawtrey and Henry Kormoran. And I don't know where you got the idea that I wish to buy Lucy Navarro's silence.”

“You're not offering her anything in exchange for dropping her story?”

“Of course not. That would be completely improper.”

“And you're not offering me anything for convincing her to drop it?”

“I'm asking it as a favor.”

I sat back from the desk and studied him. His cheeks were pink as a baby's. The garish colors of his shirt made him look like a buffoon. But his eyes held a keen intelligence.

“You're good,” I said. “I don't see how anybody ever beat you, no matter how fine a head of hair he had.”

“I'm sure I don't understand you,” he said.

“I got a call from Amelia Copeland today. Am I supposed to believe you didn't put her up to that?”

He smiled. “Amelia is a lovely woman. A dear friend of the Spencers and the Casterbridges and, I'm pleased to say, of mine. But no one ‘puts her up' to things.”

“So it's a coincidence that she called to tell me how enchanted she is with
Gray Streets,
and that she wants to lend the magazine her support?”

“I'm not surprised you heard from her. She's always been a fan of mysteries. Her library at home has shelves full of Agatha Christie and Patricia Highsmith. She could do you a good turn, if she wanted to. That foundation of hers has more money than God.”

“She wants to get together next week. Why do I get the feeling that the meeting could go well or badly, depending on whether or not I help you convince Lucy Navarro to drop her story?”

“I think you're being overly suspicious. I don't have any control over who Amelia gives her money to.”

“You have no interest in the matter, then? You won't care if I decline her offer?”

Beckett plucked at a thread on his sports coat. “It's nothing to me, one way or the other. But I should think a man in your position would welcome Amelia's generosity.”

I steepled my fingers under my chin. “And what's my position?”

“You're in the business of publishing short stories, in a world where hardly anyone reads them anymore. How are your circulation numbers, compared to a year ago?”

“I think they may be up a little.”

“I believe they're down, and more than a little. You're being kept afloat by Bridget Shellcross. She's an author, I gather. Writes books about an art dealer who solves crimes with her cat.”

“You've been misinformed.”

“Have I?”

“It's her dog.”

“I don't see how it would matter. Are you on good terms with Ms. Shellcross?”

“We get along.”

“How long do you think she's going to keep putting money into the magazine?”

“We haven't discussed it.”

He dropped his voice a bit. “How old are you, Mr. Loogan?”

“That's getting a little personal, isn't it, Al?”

“You're thirty-nine. Your annual salary is unconscionably low.” He named a figure, like a carnival worker guessing my weight. It was close enough that the difference didn't matter. “And for that,” he said, “you're expected to carry this operation on your shoulders.”

“When you put it that way,” I said, “it does sound unconscionable.” I aimed my steepled fingers at him. “Let me ask you something. Lucy Navarro doesn't have a magazine that needs funding. So what did you offer her?”

“I've offered her nothing,” he said. “Just as I've offered you nothing.”

“Naturally. It's all Amelia Copeland's doing. She waves her wand and my pumpkin turns into a carriage, my mice into horses.” I stared at him. “How long do you think you're going to be able to keep a lid on this scandal surrounding Callie Spencer?”

“There is no scandal surrounding Callie Spencer,” Beckett said.

“She decides to run for the Senate, and suddenly the Great Lakes Bank robbers—including the man who shot her father—start dying. If that's not a scandal, it's getting awfully close.”

“None of that has anything to do with Callie.”

“No, how could it?” I said. “Callie's golden. People like her. The press likes her. They're willing not to ask too many questions. But there's still a killer on the loose. He's after Sutton Bell. He tried once and failed. What if he succeeds the next time? Is everyone still going to say, ‘Well, this can't have anything to do with Callie Spencer'?” I watched for some reaction, but Beckett seemed entirely at ease. “And then there's the fifth robber, the driver. He's a wild card, isn't he? I'm wondering when he'll turn up. Aren't you?”

That earned me a puzzled look. “The driver has managed to stay hidden for seventeen years,” Beckett said. “Why would he show himself now? I don't think that's anything to worry about.”

“I think you are worried about him. Otherwise you wouldn't have broken into my office.”

The puzzlement faded from Beckett's features, but only for a second. Then it came back strong and deliberate. His pink brow furrowed. “You invited me into your office,” he said.

“I'm talking about the last time you were here.”

“I've never been here before today.”

“You were here over the weekend,” I said. “Someone cut a square of glass out of the door.” I waited a beat. “The senator told me two things about you the other night. He said you came from Battle Creek and your father was a tradesman. I'm an overly suspicious man, so I ran a Google search on ‘Battle Creek' and your last name. One of the results was Beckett Glass. Your father was a glazier.”

“That's true,” he said with a shrug, “and I can understand why it would arouse your suspicions. But why would I break into your office?”

“Because all men by nature desire to know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It's a quote from Aristotle. You broke in because there was something you wanted to know. It all goes back to last Wednesday.”

“I don't understand,” he said.

“Last Wednesday someone tried to kill Sutton Bell,” I said. “But before he did, he left a manuscript outside my door. It was a description of his crimes—how he beat Charlie Dawtrey to death and tried to shoot Terry Dawtrey, how he strangled Henry Kormoran.”

“Would this be the manuscript Detective Waishkey brought with her on Sunday night?”

“That's right.”

“But Sunday night was the first time I heard about it.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “Elizabeth faxed a copy to Walter Delacorte in Sault Sainte Marie last Thursday. Delacorte sent it on to Harlan Spencer, his old boss from seventeen years ago. Spencer told Callie about it, and Callie told you.”