The Last Day Page 6

  Ward couldn't think of anything at all to say that wouldn't have been insulting.

  “Well, are we close to a deal yet?” Trey asked.

  “We were just discussing it,” Gene said.

  “Actually,” Ward said, “I've decided that although your father's offer is generous, I'm not interested in selling RGI at the present.”

  Trey's smile remained, but something in his eyes was now decidedly reptilian. “That so? We'll leave the door open awhile yet. I'm sure you'll come to see that selling to us is in everybody's best interest.”

  Ward felt his smile evaporate. “The truth is, I don't imagine I can come around to see anything of the sort.” He was sure Trey was unaccustomed to having people turn down offers, and the fact that what Trey had just said sounded like a threat made his blood boil. He wasn't afraid of this malevolent slob on any level, and he would never defile his father's company by turning it or its employees over to this worthless sack of shit. He wanted him to know it.

  “Well, I'll let you two get back to your lunch meeting,” Trey said. “I expect this lawyer's charging you an hour to watch him eat. I need to work the room.”

  “You have to try the crab legs,” Tami said, rubbing her stomach and rolling her eyes. “I ate about twenty of them. I'll have to work out for a week to get rid of the calories.”

  “She eats like a pig,” Trey said. “How she keeps her dancer's figure is a mystery to everybody.”

  Trey and Tami moved on to another table to speak to the manager of the track. He was sitting at a table with Dale Earnhardt, Jr., and three men in suits Ward didn't know. Earnhardt, often called the best- loved driver in the sport, had recently signed with a new team and would have a new number. Ward couldn't hear the conversation that Trey and Tami had hijacked, but Earnhardt's frozen smile was freakish in its insincerity, and Ward wondered if the young man might suddenly bolt for the door.

  “I didn't know Trey would be here,” Gene said, sincerely.

  “The idea of that prick ordering our de signers to work on Tami's product lines makes me want to throw a chair through this win dow.”

  Gene shrugged. “ Twenty- two million dollars. Plus a percentage.” He winked. “It's very appealing.”

  “Not if it was twenty- two billion. I'd live under a bridge first.”

  When Ward went to the buffet to fill his plate, he didn't so much as look at the crab legs, going straight for the beef tips.

  FOURTEEN

  When Ward returned to the office an hour later, Leslie was in her office talking with a man Ward recognized from the picture she had on her desk. Todd Hartman had short red hair. He sat bolt upright, with an athletic build featuring wide shoulders, narrow hips, and eyes that were the same pale blue- gray as a Siberian husky's. He was a couple of inches taller than Ward, and looked to be in his early thirties. He was seated beside Leslie's desk with an aluminum briefcase at his feet.

  “Mr. McCarty this is my friend, Todd Hartman.”

  Todd stood and shook Ward's hand with a firm assuredness.

  “Mr. Hartman, it's a pleasure to meet you. I didn't expect you to come right over.”

  “Call me Todd. We had lunch earlier and Leslie said you needed some help recovering something, and I've got f orty- five minutes before I'm due back in the office, so I figured if you came back in time and had a few minutes we could see how I might help you.”

  “Please come to my office and we can talk,” Ward said.

  He led Todd into his office and they sat opposite each other at the conference table. Todd placed his aluminum briefcase on the floor beside him.

  “Leslie says you want to recover a model car that was stolen.”

  “That's pretty much it.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “No. I don't think law enforcement would be interested.”

  “What's the value?”

  “I've never thought about it. I suppose to a serious collector, it's worth a thousand or more, but its sentimental value is immeasurable.”

  “Tell me about the theft first,” Hartman said. “As much as you know about the circumstances surrounding the loss.”

  Ward showed Todd a picture of the car in its showcase his father had taken years before. He told Todd about the strange girl, his trip to the plane's lavatory, which left her alone with his briefcase, and opening the briefcase that morning to discover that the car was missing.

  “Is this something you want to spend your time on?” Ward asked.

  “Of course I want to help, and I think I can. Are you sure you want to invest in the recovery?”

  “I am. So I guess we should discuss your fee.”

  “My base rate is seven a day plus expenses. I bill a buck a mile, and any additional per sonnel will be billed at forty dollars an hour. I usually ask for a two- day nonrefundable retainer to cover my start-up costs, payable upon signing.”

  Ward nodded and thought about the expense for a few seconds.

  “For friends, family and Leslie's boss, the rate is three seventy- five a day plus straight expenses, and I'll forgo the retainer. This appears to be a simple recovery job and I doubt it'll take more than a day or two at the most. If I don't have it back by then I'll be surprised.”

  “I appreciate your generous offer, but I'll pay you your regular fee,” Ward said. “And I insist on paying the standard retainer. If you were doing me a favor, I'd feel like I was imposing if I made suggestions, or wanted to be critical. Let's forget that you and Leslie are friends.”

  “That's fine,” Todd said. “I don't want my personal relationship with Leslie to be awkward on a business level. I want to assure you that I don't discuss clients or my cases with anyone. Leslie knows that.”

  The fact was that Ward's father had often told him that if you hired someone to do a job at less than their normal rate, it was just human nature that you usually received a discounted effort. And Ward could certainly afford to pay the investigator his full fee.

  “Then here's my standard contract.” When Hartman opened his briefcase to remove a duplicating form and ballpoint pen, Ward saw the handgun in a holster nesting in the briefcase. It was a semiautomatic Colt 1911. Ward's father had had a similar weapon, although that one had been a standard government issue. Ward didn't know much about handguns, but Todd's gun was blue with stag grips and stainless accents. Because Natasha had hated the idea of having a firearm in the house with their child, Ward had given Wardo's gun to his uncle Mark, and she'd agreed to the enhanced alarm system as adequate protection from outside threats to the family.

  “Your identity will be privileged information. The contract states that you can't be held legally liable for anything I do while working on your behalf. It also addresses other conditions and concerns to our mutual benefit,” Todd told him.

  “Like what might you do that I won't be held liable for?” Ward's mind flashed running gun-fights, broken bones, breaking and entering, high- speed car crashes. This guy looked like someone who could do a lot of damage if he were so inclined.

  “I always suggest clients read this, and even have a lawyer go over it before they commit. I also offer a list of satisfied clients so they can check me out, and it's sometimes helpful to talk to other investigators so they can compare rates before making an informed decision.”

  “Leslie is a good enough recommendation for me.”

  “Hopefully she's biased.” Todd smiled dis-armingly “I can't guarantee a successful outcome, but I will do everything in my power to get the job done expeditiously and I won't waste my time or your money.”

  “Then I won't waste your time reading it. We have to trust each other.” Ward signed the contract using Todd's pen. “I'd like to get this moving.”

  “Then, if you could do me a favor, I'd like to give this my undivided attention. I'll turn over my caseload to my other investigators. They are as competent as any. I'm going to have Leslie on my back until this is resolved.”

  Ward smiled back and nodded. “Thank
you,” he said to Todd.

  Without looking at Ward's signature, Hartman peeled off a copy for Ward to keep. Ward picked up his checkbook from his desk and wrote Hartman a check for fifteen hundred dollars.

  “Tell me everything you can remember about the young woman.”

  “I don't really know any more about her than I've told you. I don't know her name, but I think I saw her in a dark- green or maybe black Porsche Cabriolet with a woman driving.”

  “That could be a helpful detail.” Hartman placed the check into his briefcase and closed it. “I need your contact numbers. Home, cell.”

  “Where do you start?” Ward asked, handing Todd a card with his numbers on it.

  “Talking to some people I know and tickling the keys on my computer,” Todd said, putting Ward's card in his pocket. “Often as not this all hinges on contacts and following tracks left on servers as they go through life. You'd be amazed what you can discover about anybody in a few minutes with very little information.” Hartman placed his own business card on the conference table and closed his briefcase, and Ward showed him to the door.

  FIFTEEN

  Since the legal system had failed to punish drunk driver and murderer Howard Lindley Watcher had decided to handle the matter personally. Killing the man, or making him disappear, presented a problem since Watcher would be the sole suspect with motive and he was not a man who had any desire to live out his life in a cage. So Watcher had to make sure the death looked like an accident. With time on his side, Watcher monitored Lindley and waited until the timing was perfect before making a move. The Army had trained Watcher to be not only a killer but a thinking professional.

  On a cool Friday night, after a football game, Watcher trailed Lindley and three of his buddies to a liquor store. After they bought two quarts of vodka the boys went to a cabin on Lake Norman that belonged to Lindley's father. Watcher knew everything he could find out about the Lindleys, but far more about their son, who was a killer and Watcher's target.

  At nine o'clock the boys arrived at the large cabin and immediately started in on the vodka. At ten- thirty five college- age girls arrived and joined the festivities. As the evening progressed, and the vodka bottles lost volume, Watcher studied the kids from the dark wooded lawn outside the house. As Watcher stood there he saw the girl Howard was trying to put the make on rebuff his advances. Howard, being the spoiled brat he was, slapped her, and one of his friends took her side, whereupon Howard and the boy wrestled around in the living room and threw a few drunken punches. Losing the bout, Lindley gave in and his friend released him. After standing, Lindley picked up a baseball bat from the corner of the room and brandished it to intimidate his friends, saying he'd bash their brains in. At that point the girls decided to call it a night, and despite pleas from the other boys, they left in a Honda sedan filled with cigarette smoke and loud music. Watcher smiled grimly as an idea cemented.

  Howard and his friends rapidly adjusted to the loss of female companionship and sang along with their too- loud rap music until after three in the morning, when a man in a robe came rushing out of the next house and across the lawn to pound heavily on the front door.

  Howard answered the door with the baseball bat in his hand. The man demanded that the boys cut off their music and get to sleep before he called the cops and lawyer Lindley Howard kept the weapon at his side but told the neighbor there was no sense waking his father. After the man left, the boys, deprived of their music and out of vodka, decided to go to bed.

  By four, the boys were all passed out in their beds. The only light was from a television set in the living room. Watcher waited half an hour before going to his vehicle and getting a bottle he kept in his work satchel. After putting on latex gloves, he entered the house, took a washcloth from the bathroom, and doused it with chloroform. Moving to Lindley's bed, Watcher placed the cloth over the drunk kid's face and held it tight until he stopped resisting, which took minimal effort. That done, Watcher put the cloth in his coat pocket, took a look at the unconscious young killer, and stripped off his own clothes. He took Howard's clothes—piled on the floor—and put them on. Howard wore ridiculous, loose-fitting clothing, so they fit the much larger man reasonably well. Sitting on the side of the bed, he slipped on Howard's flip- flops to cover the footprint angle. Taking up the aluminum baseball bat, he went from bedroom to bedroom making an unbelievable mess of the other young men's heads. The boys were so drunk they didn't awaken at the hollow wet smacking sounds Watcher made.

  When Watcher returned to Howard's room, he flipped on the lights and, looking in the mirror, admired the amount of gore covering Howard's clothes. The wet shoe patterns stood out on the hardwood. He wiped blood on Howard's hands and he put the bat in them so the kid's bloody fingerprints were clearly printed on the handle like words on the pages of a Bible.

  In the bathroom, Watcher stripped off and dropped the saturated clothes onto the floor, covering the bat. Watcher ran a bath, got in, and let the water grow pink with the blood of dead boys. He dried off, and laid out the towel before stepping onto it. After dressing he placed the towel in a plastic Wal- Mart bag he'd brought along in the back pocket of his jeans.

  The last thing he did was carry the naked Howard Lindley into the bathroom and place him in the tub, washing him and using a plastic glass to rinse his hair. Lindley remained unconscious the entire time.

  His work done, Watcher slipped from the cabin, and, after removing his surveillance equipment from young Lindley's Tahoe, he returned to the lake house, raised the windows in the den overlooking the neighbor's house, and turned on the stereo full blast. He slipped out the back door and crossed yards stealthily until he came to his truck.

  Even now, fifteen months later, Watcher found himself smiling at the totally impromptu plan, spurred by the sight of the bat Lindley had been using to threaten his friends.

  He gave little thought to the dead boys in the cabin.

  They should have chosen their friends better.

  SIXTEEN

  When Ward got home at five- thirty there was a message on the answering machine from Natasha. “I won't be home before eight, so I guess you better fend for yourself for dinner.” He replayed the message twice, listening closely. Each time her clinical delivery left him cold. These days she left messages, even though she knew he always carried his cell phone.

  Ward took a long cool shower, changed into a T-shirt and shorts, and turned on the television to the local news.

  Ward's cell phone rang at a few minutes past seven. The caller ID showed a number he wasn't familiar with.

  “Ward McCarty,” he said.

  “Mr. McCarty, it's Todd Hartman. I hope this isn't a bad time.”

  “No, it's a good time.”

  “Just wanted to let you know I've tracked the young girl down.”

  “That was fast,” Ward said.

  “Alice Palmer. That's her name. She's eigh teen. Five five, ninety pounds, blond hair, green eyes. Her license picture fits your description. At tends UNCC, math major, with a petty rap sheet that points to a troubled, not a criminal, young woman. She lives with her mother in a three-quarter- million- dollar home in Dillworth. Her mother, Delores Palmer, sells high- dollar residential real estate and she makes mid- six figures. Drives the Porsche you saw to impress prospective clients, and has a large BMW to ferry clients around in. Alice travels to Vegas to see her father a few times a year. She probably doesn't know the monetary value of the car. This was probably for attention from someone. Maybe the parents.”

  “What do you do next?”

  “I'll catch her in the A.M. on her way to classes on campus. Lots of people around so it's a safe atmosphere for her. I'll talk to her and I'll know where we are.”

  “Great work,” Ward said.

  “Nothing to it. Just a short conversation with a friendly aviation employee I have on my Christmas list, followed by a computer search. I'll call after the meeting to let you know what happens.”

  Ward hung up and
his eyes came to rest on the calendar on the counter. He saw that Natasha had marked the anniversary of Barney's death with a red circle. He wondered why she'd have to mark the date to remember that day. While she hadn't mentioned anything to Ward, he couldn't help wondering what she had planned to do on the anniversary.

  SEVENTEEN

  When headlights illuminated the backyard it was eight- twenty Ward was in his kitchen and had poured a Scotch to help obscure the memory of his afternoon visit with his mother, who hadn't spoken to him for the hour he'd been there. The disease had about run its course, reducing her to a slow- breathing mannequin lying in a bed staring at the ceiling.

  Standing at the sink, he noticed the glasses still there from the night before, and Natasha's orange juice glass from her morning jolt. Thinking he should put them in the dishwasher, he was struck by the fact that he'd put his expensive Riedel glass, designed specifically to allow for the appreciation of fine Scotches, rim down in the sink. He never did such a thing. No, he didn't recall putting that glass in the sink the night before, but he always set glasses base down, especially those, to prevent chipping the delicate rims. He wondered if Natasha had done it without thinking, but that was not like her. If she touched it, she would have only done so to put it into the dishwasher.

  He heard Natasha's car door slam shut out in the garage, followed by the sound of the garage door's motor engaging. When Natasha came in, Ward was drying the clean glasses with a towel. He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Pinot Grigio, pulled out the cork, and poured some into her glass.

  “How was your day?” he asked her.

  “Not real good,” she answered, fingering her way through a stack of unopened mail he'd left on the counter.

  “Generally or specifically?” he asked.

  “I had a session with Dr. Richardson this afternoon.”

  He handed her the glass of chilled wine. “And did the shrink make you feel better?”