Both Ends of the Night Page 26

  “You promise this is off the record, Iona?”

  “I guarantee it. Anything you tell me will be strictly on background. If I use it, I’ll dig up my own facts to support it. Now, when you were controller at Stirling, did Dunc ask you to do some creative accounting?”

  “Well, sure. He couldn’t’ve covered that operation without my help. But if you repeat that—”

  “Relax, Quent. We’ve been friends for a long time. I wouldn’t do that to you. You took your orders directly from Dunc?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nobody else higher up was involved?”

  “… Nobody.”

  “Quent, I’ve heard rumors that somebody else had a hand in that operation. Somebody with good political connections.”

  “… Look, what I know has already put me in a dangerous position.”

  “You know you want to tell me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have agreed to this interview.”

  “Yeah, I want to tell you. Those indictments are coming down any day now, and I know one of them’s got my name on it. But the bastard’s untouchable. He’s got connections clear to Washington, D.C.”

  “Who, Quent?”

  “… Win Reade.”

  “Win? Come on!”

  “I mean it. He was the man behind that operation. Oh, sure, Dunc handled the actual running of it, but Win was behind the scenes pulling strings the whole time. Dunc doesn’t have the brainpower to finesse deals on that scale; he just thinks he does. And Win was clever and manipulative enough that Dunc half believed he was running the show.”

  “You know all this for a fact?”

  “I do. One time when Dunc was telling me how to cook the books he slipped and said, ‘Win wants—’ He covered quick, but it made me wonder, and I started nosing around. Got corroboration from a very reliable source as to who was involved.”

  “You willing to name names?”

  “I don’t know.… Hell, yes I am! If I’m going down, I want to see the guys responsible go down, too. My source was Bobby Ames—you know him, the company’s chief counsel. Bobby told me about Dick Norwood, head of sales and Win’s best buddy—he was in on it from the beginning. Charlie Vernon, of the poultry Vernons, was getting a cut of everything. So was Ken Rule, the electronics magnate.”

  “What about David Stirling?”

  “No, ma’am. Win, Charlie, and Ken kept him and his attorney, Calder Franklin, in the dark. By the time David had recovered from his accident enough to think straight, they had everything well oiled and running smooth.”

  “What about the murder-for-hire sideline? I can’t see the Win I grew up with involved in something like that.”

  “Iona, the Win you grew up with is a figment of your imagination. That man’s corrupt, through and through. He’s as guilty of at least three of those murders as if he’d personally pulled the trigger.”

  “Jesus. Are you sure?”

  “Ask Bobby Ames, if he’ll talk with you. Chances are he won’t. None of those guys I’ve named are going down.”

  “They would if you’d go to the FBI with what you know.”

  “You think I’m crazy? I want to live. And Win’s promised to pay my attorneys’ bills.”

  “What about Dunc? Won’t he turn on them when he’s indicted?”

  “No way. Win and Dunc cut a deal. Dunc takes full responsibility, is indicted, but never stands trial.”

  “How’s that going to happen?”

  “A corrupt judge, bail, and Dunc’s Silver Whisper fueled and ready—with five million dollars in cash and bearer’s bonds inside.”

  “Lord, this goes even higher than I suspected! I could be breaking one hell of a story.”

  “Well, you just see if you can prove any of this, honey. In the meantime, you never talked to me. And you take care, you hear? You’re up against some mighty tough players.”

  There was a break in the tape. Then Fowler’s voice came on again.

  “Sharon, after you listen to what I have to say, take the first portion of this tape and do whatever you can with it. Erase this part. I admit I lied when I said all my tapes were destroyed in the fire; this one survived because I always kept it with me in my purse. You see, I couldn’t prove a thing Quent told me, but Dunc’s bail-and-vanishing act did happen, so I kept hoping I’d come up with somebody who would corroborate his story.

  “I kept probing in all the wrong places, and then the good ol’ boys started coming after me. When they burned me out and took a shot at me, I called my old friend Win and played this tape. Made my own deal: they’d leave me alone if I’d back off and get out of town, forget all about the book project. And I’ve kept my part of the bargain all these years because I wanted to preserve the peaceful little world I’ve created for myself here on the farm.

  “After talking with you, though, I’ve realized I can’t keep on withholding this kind of evidence. The federal statute of limitations has probably run out on the drugs-and-arms charges, but there’s no limit on capital murder, and Quent was definite about Win being involved in that. Plus there’s the possibility of new charges being brought against Reade; it’s obvious to me that he, not Dunc, had your friend killed—and God knows what else he’s involved in.

  “Feels good, getting this off my conscience. Win Reade’s always been a dangerous man, and now that he’s the political machine’s fair-haired pick for the U.S. Senate, he’s dangerous to the country as a whole. So use this tape, please. Don’t tell anybody where you got it, though, because I’ll just deny it. But if and when the time comes, I’ll confirm the conversation with Quent to the authorities, testify, do whatever it takes. And good luck to you.”

  So there it was: the prospect of closure ringing in my ears.

  Win Reade had had a motive to have Andie Walker, Matty, Cutter, and Matthews killed after all. He’d tracked both Dunc Stirling and Ash Walker through Hy and me. And if he hadn’t crashed his ski-plane, he’d have given the order for all of us to be killed.

  But now, thanks to Iona Fowler’s conscience, I had the evidence I needed to ensure that the man who had ordered Matty’s death would not go unpunished. And I knew exactly how to go about it.

  Craig Morland sprawled in one of my clients’ chairs, more relaxed in jeans and a ratty sweater than I’d ever seen him. A suede jacket, as disreputable as the one Hy had recently—and reluctantly—consigned to the trash bin, lay on the other chair.

  “So,” I said, “when I left my message indicating I was willing to help you compromise your integrity and betray the Bureau’s trust, you’d already drafted your letter of resignation and run off with Adah to that Mexican paradise she’s always talking about.”

  He nodded, grinning and chewing on a toothpick; he and Joslyn had eaten a late breakfast at Miranda’s before coming to the pier. “On Thanksgiving morning, when I volunteered all that information to you about Walker and the Witness Protection Program, I knew I was over the top. It was time to get out.”

  “What does the future hold?”

  “Other than a move to San Francisco? I’m not sure. Nothing professional for a while. I’ve got enough money put aside that I can afford to take some time off, think about my options.”

  “While you’re at it, you might consider McCone Investigations. I can use someone with your skills and connections. Of course, I can’t offer you the salary or benefits you’re accustomed to.”

  He looked around my office, eyes narrowed speculatively, then focused on the Bay vista beyond the big arched window behind me. “Life’s full of trade-offs. But I take it a job offer wasn’t what you had in mind when you asked me to stop by.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” I’d been trying to locate him for nearly a week, ever since I’d discovered Iona Fowler’s tape. This morning Joslyn had finally answered the phone at her apartment and informed me of the startling developments in Craig’s—and her—life.

  I asked, “Do you recall anything about the Stirling Aviation business?”

  “I refreshed my memory
when I did that little job of research for you.”

  “Then I want you to listen to this.” I pressed the play button on my office recorder.

  “Where’d you get hold of that?” he asked as I hit the rewind.

  I shook my head.

  “Okay, then, what do you plan to do with it?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “Whether you’ll help me. Even though you’re no longer with the Bureau, I assume you know people there who will do you a favor.”

  He waited, his expression noncommittal.

  “I need this tape and an anonymous report on more current events to fall into the right hands at the FBI—by a trail so long and convoluted that their origin will never be traced.”

  “That can be done.”

  “Will you facilitate it?”

  He considered, gazing once more at the Bay. “You know, when we met in D.C. that night, I told you I didn’t give a shit anymore. I still don’t, but only as it applies to the system. In the smaller areas where the individual still can make a difference—such as what you propose—I still believe. So, yes, I’ll do it—and in a way that neither the tape nor the report can be buried by somebody who can be bought.”

  “Craig, thanks.” I took the tape from the machine and the report from my desk drawer and handed them over to him. “You’ll keep my offer in mind?”

  “Most certainly.”

  I walked him to the next office, where Joslyn was chatting with Rae, then watched the unlikely couple—she, half black and half Jewish, with parents who still hoped for the triumphant return of the Communist Party; he, WASP to the core, with a father whom the Bureau had once charged with tracking down those self-same Commies—leave the pier hand in hand. Then I went back to my office and collected my things. I had a lunch date in Los Alegres.

  Gray Selby and I sat in a window booth at the Seven Niner Diner. It was Friday, normally a busy day at small airports, and the cloudless sky had brought fliers out in even greater measure. I watched a Cessna 152 make a clumsy arrival on the runway, thought with satisfaction of the near perfect landing I’d earlier made in the Citabria. Then I turned my attention back to the flight instructor.

  “So that’s what happened,” I said. “Matty was murdered, and the man who ordered it will soon be under investigation by the FBI. I’d appreciate it if you would tell everybody else here; you’ll probably all be contacted by them or the local authorities, and hopefully they’ll be able to build a case against him.”

  “I’ll be more than glad to. You’re one hell of a detective, McCone.”

  I examined his face for traces of sarcasm, but saw none. “Thanks, Selby.”

  Silence fell between us. We’d said all that needed to be said, but neither of us wanted to get on with the business of the day. After a moment he glanced at my plate, spotted an uneaten dill spear, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Take it.” I glanced out the window. The 152 that had earlier landed had taxied into one of the flight school’s tie-downs; Mark Casazza got out of the right seat, and a few seconds later Bob Cuda stepped down from the left.

  “Do I see what I think I’m seeing?” I asked.

  Selby grinned. “Yep. Cuda’s taking lessons.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Uh-uh. Mark tells me he’s doing okay, even though he keeps threatening to make Cuda hold an egg between the yoke and his death grip.”

  “You know what? I bet Bob’ll do fine, once he gets over being nervous.”

  “Probably. And guess who else has been flying a lot? Your old buddy Ash Walker. He’s up there right now in the Super Cub he just bought.”

  “He’s not my buddy.” Since Walker’s return from Minnesota I’d spoken with him only once, to tell him about Iona Fowler’s tape. He’d promised to take precautions till Win Reade was behind bars, but said he had no intention of uprooting Zach from their life in Los Alegres. He and Zach—who had opted to retain the first name he’d used for most of his life—needed to remain in the farmhouse and work things out between them, Walker had added. I hadn’t asked what he meant by that, because Habiba had filled me in: Zach was justifiably angry with his father for his deceptions and still grieving badly for Matty.

  Selby said, “Don’t be too hard on the guy, McCone.”

  “Since when did you turn into a fan of his?”

  “Since I realized he thinks his life is over, just like I did when I came back from my war.”

  “Is it?”

  “His or mine?”

  “Both.”

  “No, not by a long shot.”

  After I left Selby, I detoured to the terminal to pay my parking fee and found Zach sitting on the steps to its deck, huddled close to Max, Art Field’s old Lab.

  “Sharon,” he said, “why’re you here?”

  “Having lunch with a friend.” I sat down on the other side of Max; he leaned against me and licked my cheek sloppily. “Doggy breath, Max,” I said. “Get away from me.”

  As if he understood, he got up and wandered over to the patch of lawn.

  “So how’re you doing?” I asked Zach.

  “Oh… okay.”

  “Your dad flying today?”

  “Yeah. I still haven’t gone back to school, so he made me come along. Said I had to get over being upset around airplanes.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not the planes that upset me. I just don’t want to be around him.”

  I waited.

  “Look, Sharon, Dad lied to me about everything. A month ago I thought I was twelve years old; now all of a sudden I’m fourteen. I thought I was Zach Seabrook, but I was really Roger Walker, and now I’m Zach Walker because Roger reminds me of fuckin’ Roger Rabbit. My dad told me over and over again that I didn’t see my mom get shot. But now it turns out I did. He said he loved Matty and me, but he ran off and left us and she got killed, and even then he didn’t come back for me. And yeah, I know why he didn’t come back, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to… I don’t know what. Maybe run off on him.”

  And he had, in an emotional sense. “Have you told your dad how you feel?”

  “Would he listen?”

  “You never know till you try.”

  The Super Cub was on final; Zach turned his head and watched it, his face a study in mixed emotions. After it touched down, he let out his breath in a long sigh. “Then maybe I will try,” he said. “Can’t hurt, can it?”

  “How’s it going?” I asked as I passed Ash Walker in the tie-downs.

  “Better. The flying helps ward off the more painful memories.” He moved around to chain the tail section, clearly uninterested in further conversation. I went on toward where I’d parked the Citabria.

  Memories…

  When I reached the plane I stopped, my hand resting on its high wing, and looked across the tarmac at the fuel pumps. For a moment I could see Matty leaning against the counter, hands thrust into the pockets of her jacket, long hair blowing in the crosswind. Then for the last time I laid the image to rest and took out the key to the Citabria. It was going to be a beautiful ride back to Oakland.

  When I stopped by Pier 24½ to check in, I found Ted leaning on the railing outside his office and staring morosely at the array of Christmas decorations.

  I went over and leaned next to him. “Brooding again?”

  He glanced at me, lines between his eyebrows bunching into a scowl. “I do not brood.”

  “You brood.”

  “I never brood.”

  “Do so.”

  “Well, look at all that stuff! I opt for the traditional, and they choose to express themselves.”

  As far as I was concerned, Ted’s scheme of garlands and little winking lights, red velvet ribbons and silver-and-gold ornaments was masterful. Was it so creative of the documentary filmmaker downstairs to spray-paint whatever had ended up on the cutting room floor in iridescent Christmas hues and then fashion a wreath from it? Were the architects’ blowups of photographs
of recent projects really enhanced by the tiny magazine cutouts of decorations and holiday revelers that they’d glued to them? Was the Santa’s village in front of the financial planner’s office anything more than a costly fix for a potentially time-consuming problem?

  Was this ridiculous decorating contest such a big deal, anyway?

  I glanced at Ted’s woebegone face. Yes, to him it was, so I’d keep my fingers crossed.

  I asked, “Who’s doing the judging, anyway?”

  “Three hunky hetero guys from the fireboat station.”

  “I’m sure they’ll find ours the most aesthetic.”

  “Firemen? They wouldn’t know aesthetic if it bit them on the ass!”

  “Well, cheer up. The suspense’ll be over on Friday.” I started for the stairway.

  “Hey, where’re you off to so early?”

  “Macy’s, F.A.O. Schwarz, and the Gap—among others. I’ve got to prepare for the Christmas Eve from hell.”

  Twenty-five

  Hy and I were drinking champagne with Rae and Ricky amid the glorious post-celebratory wreckage in their living room. Empty boxes were strewn everywhere; crumpled wrapping paper drifted against the furniture; bows were stuck to lampshades. A huge tree—a gift from Seabrook’s Christmas Tree Farm—stood in the window overlooking the Golden Gate, and prominently displayed on it was a white porcelain dove that my sister and her new husband had presented to Ricky when he collected the kids at the airport. Except for one aspect, the visit was going better than expected.

  Rae said, “You know, Mick and Chris set the tone for the others.”

  I nodded. They’d apparently made the decision to act like pleasant adults, and had even hugged Rae when they left for Mick’s condo, where Chris had opted to spend the night.

  “They set the tone for everybody but Jamie,” Ricky muttered, staring glumly into his champagne flute.

  Quickly Rae said, “Molly and Lisa really liked their presents. And Brian even unbent and smiled a lot. He’s coming around.”

  “Jamie isn’t.”

  I tried to steer the conversation away from the behavior of Ricky’s middle—and favorite—daughter. “Seems like we all got what we wanted for Christmas. Even Ted took first place in the pier decorating contest.”