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 amp; 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 amp; 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.