Both Ends of the Night Read online

  “Even after what Dunc did?”

  “The old man’s into denial; I think that auto accident messed up his head as well as his body. He never did believe any of it went down, at least not the way Ash Walker said, and as far as he’s concerned, Dunc could do no wrong. Managed to convince his political buddies of it too—why else would Dunc’ve gotten out on bail? Here’s the prime example of how deluded the old man is: even though Stirling’s a publicly held company, he’s the majority stockholder, and he’s put his shares in trust for Dunc, in case he surfaces and is exonerated.”

  “Interesting. These political buddies—who are they?”

  “Behind-the-scenes heavies, people with money.”

  “Names?”

  “Charlie Vernon—he’s big in the poultry industry. Ken Rule—electronics. Calder Franklin—former president of the state bar and Stirling’s personal attorney.”

  Calder Franklin—the man who had been piloting the Silver Ranger registered to Stirling Aviation when it landed in Los Alegres.

  “What’re my chances of getting to talk with them?”

  Fowler considered. “Not good. An outsider mentions the Stirlings, and the protective wall goes up.”

  “I’m particularly interested in Calder Franklin. You say he’s David Stirling’s personal attorney. Did he also represent Duncan?”

  “Hell, no—no love lost between the two of them.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? Even when they were kids they didn’t get on.”

  “What’s Franklin like?”

  “I can’t really say. Was a time when we all thought he was going to be state attorney general, but after the Stirling mess, that went away. He wasn’t involved, but no politician worth his salt was going to have anything to do with anybody connected with the Stirlings. Since then Franklin’s stayed far behind the scenes, but he controls things, no doubt about that. Has a hand in everything, and nothing—if you know what I mean.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Nothing specific comes to mind.”

  Pressing her further wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I’d have to figure out a way to talk with Franklin himself. “Okay,” I said, “what would you say my chances of talking with David Stirling are?”

  “Now, that’s another story entirely. You might be able to get to him if you can come up with the right story.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, if you could convince him you might know where Dunc is, for example. I hear he’s seriously ill—cancer—and wants to see his son before he dies.”

  The idea of giving a dying man false hope didn’t sit well with me—until I reminded myself that in all likelihood his blindness to his son’s crimes had led to Matty losing her life. “Let’s get back to Duncan for a minute,” I said. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “You mean, what kind of man is he? Complex and contradictory. There was a time, before he got into the heavy stuff, when he and I ran in the same circles. Back then he was… well, the word ‘secretive’ comes to mind. Always disappearing without any warning and reappearing without any explanation of where he’d been. You’d ask, and he’d just smile cryptically.”

  “For how long and how often?”

  “A week or two, maybe every other month. I gather it happened more frequently later on, although for shorter periods. The pressures of running a drug-and-arms smuggling ring can take a lot out of a person, you know. Anyway, when he came back, he was always more relaxed—relaxed for Dunc, that is.”

  “He always went alone?”

  “Uh-huh. He’d jump into his Silver Whisper, one of Stirling’s small jets, and be gone.”

  “Okay, you said he seemed relaxed for Dunc. I take it he was high-strung?”

  “Very.”

  “A cocaine user?”

  “Well, you’d see him snort a few lines at parties, but I seriously doubt he was the cokehead that some of the press portrayed him as. Dunc’s thing was self-control—rigid—but it didn’t take much to shatter it. Little things would set him off, and then he’d turn into a screamer.”

  “Paranoid?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pictured the photographs of Stirling that I had in my file: high-browed, with patrician features and the kind of dark eyes that might have been soulless or might have contained shards of light from fragmented and violent emotions; the poor quality of the photos made it impossible to tell.

  I asked, “What else do you remember about him?”

  Fowler thought, running the tip of her tongue over her lips. “He liked guns a whole lot, always carried one. Once I saw him shoot a hole in the ceiling at a party. He used women for sexual purposes but didn’t like them much, might’ve even been afraid of them; I had the feeling he’d be just as happy to do without but felt a responsibility to keep up a studly appearance. He liked to take shortcuts, do everything the easy way—which is why, I suppose, he turned to crime rather than working to build the company. He romanticized himself: He was an adventurer, a risk taker, a renegade hero.”

  “You seem to have quite a handle on him.”

  Fowler’s mouth twisted painfully. “I ought to: the woman he had murdered because she knew too much—Cindy Kershner—was my best friend. And don’t believe what some of the papers said about her blackmailing him; Cindy hadn’t a clue about what was going on at Stirling. She loved Dunc, poor fool, and wanted a commitment—that was her crime.”

  “I’m sorry.” I sipped cooling coffee and checked my tape, giving her time to regain control. “What about Winthrop Reade? He was a test pilot for Stirling; now he’s CEO.”

  Something flickered in Fowler’s eyes—a spark of emotion that quickly died. “Yeah, he’s turned the company around, made it a top contender again. And now Stirling and his political buddies have picked him to be groomed for the U.S. Senate. Reade’s got charisma, is shrewd and savvy; if he’s elected, he’ll get things done. I don’t always agree with his politics, but I admit that Win’ll go a long way in Washington—maybe all the way to the top.”

  Now Fowler frowned, as if concerned about the type of legislation Reade might push through. Well, the man’s politics weren’t my concern; I was after the nature of his relationship to the Stirlings.

  “What prepared him to become CEO? I mean, a pilot’s license isn’t the same thing as an M.B.A.”

  “He learned from a master: during the years when Dunc was running the company into the ground, Win was the old man’s personal assistant and liaison to the so-called management at the plant.”

  “Reade was playing both sides, then?”

  “… He testified that he didn’t know what was going on. The way it went was like this: Dunc had known Win all his life; they’d practically been raised as brothers. So Dunc knew how sharp Win was and how strong his loyalties to the old man were. Dunc set it up so that Win dealt only with him and was allowed limited access to the plant. And Dunc had the production reports and financials falsified for him. By the time Win realized what Dunc was doing, it was late in the game, and the feds were already building their case. He went to the old man, tried to tell him, but Stirling didn’t want to hear about it. So Win just rode it out and let Dunc hang himself. And then he picked up the pieces.”

  “He could’ve gone to the FBI; Ash Walker did.”

  “Walker had been gathering evidence; he had something to trade for immunity and protection. Win didn’t have tangible goods to give them.”

  “But he did cooperate eventually.”

  “Of course. Win was out to save his own fanny, and he did.”

  “You speak as though you know Reade well.”

  “Hell, everybody knows everybody down in Alda. Win and I grew up together. I do believe he gave me my first kiss, during a game of spin the bottle.”

  “What’s Reade’s relationship with Calder Franklin?”

  Fowler looked startled. “What is it about Cal that interests you so much?”

  “I’m trying to put together a pi
cture of the people who’re involved with David Stirling, that’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t know as there is any relationship. Cal’s done some work for the company, so naturally he’s had dealings with Win. Win may use him as his attorney; he and the old man are like family, so it stands to reason.”

  “The two of them get along?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And Reade—what’s he like personally?”

  “Well, even after all the years I’ve known him—and that includes going steady for about two weeks in high school—it’s hard to say. He’s a chameleon. Can be charming, of course. Ruthless when it comes to business. A loner, like Dunc—he’s never married—but doesn’t lack for social graces. You can set him down anyplace, and he fits right in. Highly intelligent and, as I said before, shrewd. You can’t put much over on him. Loyal—that goes without saying. He’s stuck by David Stirling through thick and thin. He once told me that he looks upon the old man as a substitute father. And now, I suspect, the old man considers him a son.”

  “I’d like to talk with Reade too.”

  Fowler smiled. “You get to the old man with your story about knowing where Dunc is and you’ll meet Win. No way he’d be excluded from that kind of conversation. Act convincing enough and you’ll be having tea at the Stirling mansion with both of them this very afternoon.”

  Sixteen

  Tea it was. Poured from a silver pot into fine bone china. Cream, sugar cubes, little rounds of lemon, and thin vanilla wafers were offered around before the uniformed maid departed David Stirling’s rosewood-paneled library.

  Since he’d fallen ill with cancer, the wheelchair-bound old man told me, maintaining his daily rituals was vital to him. “If you let go of them,” he explained, “you make it too easy for death to have its way.”

  The determined jut of his jaw told me he fully intended to give death a run for its money, but the cancer had made visible inroads: Stirling’s eyes were sunken and his skin papery, the fine bones seeming about to tear through it. But even huddled beneath a Hudson Bay blanket, moccasined feet propped on the footrests of his chair, Stirling had a commanding presence. While he might be into denial on the subject of his son’s crimes, otherwise he was alert and in full possession of a keen intelligence. The old man would go down fighting, and until he did, no one would hold an edge on him.

  I was glad I’d taken the trouble to refine the story I was about to tell him, fleshing out details and making it close enough to the truth that I could lie confidently. It would stand up to a vigorous cross-examination as well as to any checking he might have done.

  Stirling had said that his chief executive officer would be joining us, and he was reluctant to discuss the subject of my visit until Winthrop Reade appeared. We made small talk: First visit to Arkansas? Yes. What do you think of our state? Charming. I looked around the library of the big limestone house on Alda’s main street; where the walls weren’t covered with built-in bookcases containing volumes on aviation, they were hung with framed photographs—the shrine to Duncan Stirling that Iona Fowler had mentioned.

  “May I have a look?” I asked, motioning at the pictures.

  “Please do.”

  I stood and moved to the far wall. An eight-by-ten showed both Stirlings posing together in hunters’ garb, rifles to hand. “What were you after here?” I asked.

  “Deer. That was our last hunting trip together before my accident. You know about my accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damned useless legs! It’s a hell of a note, being crippled by an idiot redneck drunk at nine in the morning. A plane crash—now, that would’ve made sense. I flew fighters in Korea, personally tested every type of aircraft we manufactured; if I’d known I’d end up this way, I’d’ve flown a Silver Star over the Gulf of Mexico and gone out in a blaze of glory.”

  Silver Star—Matty’s plane. The way she’d gone out was no blaze of glory. Still, I understood Stirling’s railing at the half-life he’d been condemned to. I’d often wondered what kind of person I would become if I couldn’t do my work, fly, or enjoy my other pursuits. Not gracious, accepting, or compensating, I feared, and definitely a pain in the ass for those who cared about me.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Mr. Stirling. Where was this picture taken?”

  “Northern Michigan, at one of our favorite hunting camps. We went every year for the opening of deer season.”

  “Did you and your son share many activities?”

  The question seemed to disconcert him; he pushed out his lips, frowning. “Well, hunting. And I taught him to fly as soon as he could reach the rudders. Otherwise…” He shrugged, not meeting my eyes. “Duncan had his life, I had mine. That’s healthy and normal.”

  Depends on what those lives contain. “His mother—”

  “Died when he was a baby. I raised him myself, with the help of several nannies. It wasn’t easy; I became a father for the first time at the age of forty.”

  “He’s an only child?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he never married?”

  “Eventually he would have. The women were always flocking around.”

  “Before you turned control of the company over to him, he worked in the marketing department?”

  “Yes. It was his area of specialization at the university.”

  “The university at Fayetteville?”

  “Yes, my alma mater. He—”

  The door opened, and a stocky man in a blue suit strode in. Winthrop Reade looked exactly as Gray Selby had described him: broken-nosed and scarred on the chin, with a thick mane of silver-gray hair. Under the well-tailored suit his muscles bulked powerfully, as though he worked out with weights. His eyes, which Selby hadn’t been able to see through his sunglasses, were a strange light gray that matched his hair; when they moved, they seemed to shimmer.

  David Stirling’s face became animated as he greeted his CEO. “Win, thank you for coming. This lady is the California private investigator I told you about, Sharon McCone.”

  Reade turned to me, taking in my appearance in one quicksilver glance. He extended his hand, clasping mine in a grip so firm it hurt. “Ms. McCone, I’m glad to meet you.” Releasing me, he dropped heavily into a brown leather chair. The maid appeared, poured tea; Reade took a lemon slice and waved away her other offerings.

  To Stirling he said, “Sorry I’m late, David. Got caught in a meeting with Production, a problem with the new 380. But that’s resolved, no need to go into it.” After sipping tea he turned his attention to me. “David says you may have a line on Dunc. Tell me about it.”

  “In a minute, Mr. Reade. First we should discuss terms.”

  Reade and Stirling exchanged quick glances. Reade said, “You want a finder’s fee.”

  “You could call it that.” I sipped my tea, which the maid had refreshed, set the cup in its saucer. “I make it my business to keep up with the wanted circulars, in case I run across a fugitive in the course of my work. However, I’ve read up on Duncan’s case, and I believe he was unjustly indicted; I was reluctant to notify the authorities as to his whereabouts, even though there is a substantial reward for information leading to his apprehension, posted by the family and friends of a young woman he was accused of having murdered.”

  Stirling exclaimed, “My son never had anyone murdered! Filthy lies—”

  “Take it easy, David. Ms. McCone is on our side.”

  “Woman’s got good sense.”

  Reade’s smile was fleeting. “The reward, I believe, is twenty-five thousand dollars. We’ll double it.”

  “For information leading to Duncan? Or for his safe delivery?”

  “You can deliver him?”

  “I think so. But it will involve considerable effort and expense on my part.”

  “We’ll triple the reward,” Stirling said, “and cover your expenses.”

  Reade’s eyes flashed like moonlight ripples on a lake, but he held his own counsel.

  I pretend
ed to think over Stirling’s offer, then nodded. “All right, the situation is this: A few weeks ago I was hired to find another missing man. His live-in woman friend wanted him back; he didn’t want to go. He bartered useful information for my silence—that he’d run across Duncan in his travels.”

  Stirling leaned forward eagerly. “Where?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Mr. Stirling, I have to protect my interests.”

  He frowned but said, “I understand. Did you verify what this man told you?”

  “I did. It’s quite likely that the man he met is your son. But Duncan keeps on the move; by the time I got to the place where he’d been living, he’d disappeared again.”

  A disappointed sigh escaped Stirling’s dry lips.

  “However,” I added, “I gathered enough information there to begin to sense a pattern to his movements. With your help, I’m sure I can pick up on his trail.”

  “Just tell me what I can do.”

  I glanced at Reade; his mouth was twisted ironically now, but still he kept silent. “I need to know about Duncan—anything you can tell me. Even the smallest piece of information may lead me to him. In addition, I’ll need to be put in touch with his former friends, both male and female, if you can persuade them to talk with me. And I also would like to speak with your personal attorney, Mr. Stirling.”

  Both men frowned. “Why?” Stirling asked.

  “I work under retainer for a prominent San Francisco attorney; he hired me to investigate for one of his clients—the case that led me to learn of your son’s most recent whereabouts.” It was only half a lie. “Professional courtesy dictates that I touch base with your counsel.”

  Stirling nodded and looked at Reade. “You’ll handle that?”

  “I’ll call Cal immediately and see if he can meet with Ms. McCone when we’re finished here.”

  Stirling asked me, “Shall I give you a retainer?”

  Now Reade began to frown, obviously opposed to money changing hands. I didn’t want to push my luck, so I said, “No, that won’t be necessary; I can see you’re a man of your word. All I need from you at this point is your complete cooperation.”