Читать интересную книгу The Devils Punchbowl - Greg Iles

I look back noncommittally. “So…?”

“So either we stumbled on a psycho hunter having a really bad day, or somebody was trying to send one of us a message. I don'’t have any enemies here yet, so far as I know. What about you?”

I stare back at the CEO but do not speak. Necker didn't get where he is by being dumb.

He changes tack. “A lot of people are about to ask us what happened back there. What are we going to say?”

I'm not sure what to say, to Necker or the public. I can’t quite believe that Sands or Quinn would pull a stunt like that. Especially after I reaffirmed that I intended to do what they’ve asked of me. But who else could it have been?

“Are we off-the-record?”

Necker points at a headset on the floor to indicate that Major McDavitt cannot hear us. “Unless I'm dictating a press release, I'm always off-the-record.”

I take a deep breath and look out at the spire of St. Mary’s,

growing larger in the chopper’s windshield. “I don'’t think you’re going to find out who fired those shots, Hans. But I may know already. Who ordered it, anyway.”

“I'm listening.”

“That was a message telling me to keep my nose out of something. Or my mouth shut. I'm not sure which yet. It had nothing to do with you or the race. I can’t give you details. I wish I could, but I can’t. It’s just not an option.”

“You don'’t think any other pilots are in danger?”

“No. Not unless we get some nutty copycat or something.”

Necker’s appraisal of me is cold and swift. “This isn’t something personal, is it? Like diddling somebody else’s wife?”

“Hell, no. It’s criminal activity. That'’s all I can say. If you could help me, I’d tell you more, but you can’t. Not with this.”

“I know a lot of people, Penn.”

“So do I. This isn’t that kind of problem. Money and connections won'’t help. In fact, money is the problem.”

“This is why you were late this morning, isn’t it?”

I nod.

“Your family’s okay?”

“They are now. They weren’t this morning.”

Necker winces again, then nods slowly. “I see. Okay. Tell me what I can do to help you. There has to be something.”

I think for a moment. “Honestly?”

“Yessir.”

“I need this helicopter for the rest of the weekend, and I need Major McDavitt flying it. From now till Sunday night.”

Necker shifts his leg, grimaces in pain. “You’ve got it.”

“I'’ll pay for his time, of course. I—”

“It’s already paid for. What else?”

“I think that’s all you can do for now. Other than that, I’d just ask that you not let this thing affect your view of the town, if that’s possible.”

Necker smiles. “Hell, I’'ve run into strong-arm stuff in Minneapolis. You get that everywhere. I only wish you’d let me help you. I take it personally when somebody shoots at me. I’d like a few words with the son of a bitch myself.”

“If I have my way, you’ll get your chance.”

Necker glances out the window at the hospital as we descend. “I won'’t keep you, then. I'm going to be on crutches for a while anyway. Go do what you have to do. Anybody asks, I'’ll say I think that shooting was some kids that got out of hand.”

“I appreciate it, Hans.”

“Would it help you to know where those shots came from?”

“It might.”

“I'’ll get somebody to truck that balloon over here, and I'’ll have a look at it. I know our altitude when we were shot. If the shots were through and through, I can figure the angle and probably where the shooter was standing. Approximately, anyway.”

The chopper touches down on the roof like a butterfly alighting on a leaf. Necker smiles. “A lot better than our last one, eh?”

Paramedics yank open the side door and motion for me to exit the cabin. As I leave, Necker grabs my arm and says, “I'’ll tell Danny to be on call for you.”

“Thanks.”

Paul Labry is waiting for me on the helipad. I’'ve never seen him this upset before. “What the hell happened up there, Penn?”

“I told you on the phone. Somebody took a couple of shots at us. Necker had to set down hard.”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. How many people know what happened?”

“Are you kidding? With cell phones? I'’ll bet most of the pilots know by now, and the town won'’t be far behind.”

“Caitlin?”

“I don'’t know. How do you want to handle this? Some people are already saying we should cancel the rest of the flights. Today’s

and

tomorrow’s.”

“Pilots?”

“No. Couple of county supervisors.”

“I'm not surprised, but I'm not sure we should cancel. I think this was probably an isolated event. Necker agrees. The pilots are going to want input on the decision. We need to call a meeting—a closed meeting—pilots and the committee only. Let’s give them long enough to get down and packed up.” I look at my watch and give Paul a time.

He nods. “Where? The Ramada convention room?”

“That'’s fine. I need you to handle the press on this, Paul. I'’ll be at the meeting, but you’re the point man for now.”

“What? I don'’t know anything!”

“Necker can give you the details.”

Labry looks more upset than when I first got out of the chopper. “Where are you going to be?”

“You can reach me on my cell.”

Labry groans as he follows me to the hospital’s roof door.

“Go on ahead,” I tell him. “I have to make a call.”

“Don’t you need a ride back to your car?”

“My dad’s giving me a ride. He’s working downstairs. You go ahead.”

Labry starts through the door, then stops and looks back at me. “Hey, I almost forgot. I got those names you wanted.”

I pause, momentarily confused. “Names?”

“The Golden Parachute partners. That'’s where I was when you called. My garage. I didn't want to say anything on the cell, you were so cloak-and-dagger about it. I had to write the names down so I wouldn'’t forget. There are six partners sharing the five percent stake.”

“Are two of them Chinese?”

Labry nods, then produces a scrap of paper that looks like part of a grocery bag. I shove it deep in the same pocket that holds Danny McDavitt’s number. “Go on, Paul. You’re going to have a lot to deal with. Talk to Necker first.”

As Labry shakes his head and walks into the hospital, I speed-dial 1. Seamus Quinn answers the phone with a note of amusement in his voice.

“Seems like we spoke only this morning,” he says, chuckling.

“What the fuck are you trying to do?”

I shout.

“What would you be talking about?”

“You just tried to kill me!”

“How could I do that? I'm having a pint on the

Queen

as we speak.” Quinn obviously assumes I'm taping the call.

“Look, I don'’t get it. I told you, I'm going to do what you want. I'm going to find your disc. But I can’t do it if I'm dead.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Quinn says airily. “Unless it’s that balloon crash I just heard about.”

“What else?”

“Well, you must be exaggerating. If somebody really wanted to kill you, they’d have blown your fuel tank.”

“If you were trying to send me a message, I don'’t understand it.”

“No message. But now that I have you on the phone, I do recall someone saying you had other things to do this morning than go riding in a balloon.”

So that was the message.

Quinn continues, “I also recall telling you to leave your cell phone switched on.”

“A reporter’s been bugging me. I had to shut it off.”

“Not my problem. I like to know where my mates are, remember. Gives me a sense of security.”

I can’t even think of a response.

“Got to run now, mate. Business is picking up, now the balloons have landed. You call back soon. I like to hear good news.”

When the connection goes dead, something lets go in me, and I wobble on my feet. Delayed shock, probably. I grab the doorknob to steady myself, then back up and sit down on an air-conditioning unit. Hugging myself to stop the shakes, I wonder how I'm going to get downstairs to meet my father.

My cell phone is ringing in my pocket. I'm already wishing I hadn'’t switched it back on. This time it’s not Caitlin or Labry.

“Penn, it’s Chief Logan. I heard you had some trouble.”

“A little bit.”

“Nobody hurt too bad, I understand. Lucky break.”

“Yeah.”

“I was wondering if you could swing by headquarters for a minute.”

“What for? Is it about the shooting?”

“No. I’'ve had your girlfriend here threatening me with lawsuits till Judgment Day if I don'’t let her kid out of jail.”

“Chief, I can’t deal with Libby Jensen’s problems right now.”

Logan voice changes suddenly; all the official tone goes out of it. “We need to talk, Penn. And not on a cell phone. I'm at headquarters for another half hour. Find a way.”

I sigh in resignation. “Okay. I'm on my way.”

I'm only six feet from the roof door, but I feel it’s a mile away. The

thought of making my way to the ground floor of the hospital seems beyond me. I don'’t know if it’s sleep deprivation or the crash. I am gathering my last reserves of energy to stand when I look to my left.

Facing me like a giant blue dragonfly is the Athens Point helicopter, its rotors turning as though they could go on for eternity. Danny McDavitt sits at the controls like a waiting chauffeur, his eyes on me.

There is my ride.

CHAPTER

20

Police headquarters is on the north side of town, far from the most recent residential and commercial development, closer to the predominantly black part of town. The low-slung, one-story structure looks like a cross between a 1970s office suite and a federal prison minus the barbed wire. Wedged between a Pizza Hut and the Entergy building, it’s surrounded by car dealerships, auto parts shops, cheap motels, and a cash-for-your-car-title place. Across the street, amid this haphazard sprawl, stands Devereaux, one of the most beautiful Greek Revival mansions in the South, now dwarfed by the massive Baptist church that has become its neighbor, the only new construction on this side of town.

Inside the glass-walled entry area of the station, I announce myself to the officer behind her bulletproof glass window. After a show of finishing some paperwork, she buzzes me through the door and points to the chief’s door.

Don Logan and I have been through more than one scrape together. A year and a half ago, we were both shot at by gang members in the lobby of the city’s finest hotel. As I told Tim the night before he died, I find it almost impossible to believe that Logan could be on the pad, no matter what the temptation. On the other hand, the chief might have guilty knowledge about one or more cops under his command. Situations like that have put honorable men in

difficult positions before, so I must tread carefully with Logan, honest though he may be.

The chief is waiting behind a desk that’s the picture of order, a compulsive engineer’s desk. He wears a starched blue uniform and a silver badge, but in his wire-rimmed glasses he still looks like a high school science teacher.

“What’s going on, Don?” I ask, hoping to get past titles immediately. “You sounded pretty upset on the phone.”

“I'm not sure where to start.”

“What’s the status on Soren Jensen?” This question gives me time to read the chief’s mood. What I'm picking up is serious tension.

“Jensen’s being charged with possession with intent to distribute.”

Seeing the shock on my face, Logan hurries on, “It’s not my call, Penn. The DA’s filing those charges. Shad even came down here this morning to make sure I understood his position. I don'’t know what you did to step on his toes, but he’s out for this kid’s blood.”

“I hear you. What about the MVA?”

“The kid’s being charged with DWI as well. He was drunk on the Breathalyzer, but I think he was full of meth too. His mother told him not to take a blood test, but Shad’s going to get a court order.”

I absorb this in silence. Libby is probably close to a nervous breakdown by now.

“I know he’s basically a good kid,” Logan says. “But he hit a cop. You know he wouldn'’t have done that unless he was high.”

“Probably not. He needs help, though, not time in the pen.”

“So do all the poor black kids who come through here, and a lot of them don'’t get it. So it’s easy for Shad to throw the book at Jensen and look like he’s being impartial. But let’s move on. We’'ve got more serious problems to deal with.”

“Like?”

“Tim Jessup.”

Here we go.

“Are you treating his death as a homicide?”

Logan lifts a stainless steel pen from a holder and glances away, temporizing. “The autopsy results aren'’t back. Let’s move to some specifics before we start drawing conclusions.”

“I saw the story in this morning’s paper. Who found the dope in Jessup’s house?”

“The two patrolmen who saw you leaving there called in a K9 unit. Dog found it behind some Sheetrock in the closet. Typical hidey-hole.”

“Don, somebody tore the place apart before I got there. They would have found the drugs and taken them.”

Logan shrugs as if he can do nothing about the facts.

“How did Caitlin Masters find out about the meth so fast?”

“Come on,” he says. “You know that woman better than anybody. She’s got sources all over town, from the courthouse to Lawyers’ Row to this department.”

I concede this with a nod. “What concerns me is that to the best of my knowledge, Tim Jessup has been clean for a year.”

“There’s no way to know that.”

“Julia Stanton turned that boy around. I tend to be cynical where drugs are concerned, but I don'’t think Julia would have stayed with him if he was using again.”

Logan taps the pen on his desk, looks toward his partially open window blinds. Then he reaches into his drawer and pulls out a manila envelope. From it he takes four photographs and lays them out for me to examine. They’re printed on ink-jet photo paper, and all four show a nude or partly nude woman with a stunning body posed in various erotic positions. Unlike the teenage girl in the cell phone shots Tim showed me, this woman is in her midthirties and looks confident of her sexuality.

“What am I supposed to get from these?”

“We found these in Jessup’s house. Something tells me Julia didn't know about this either.”

I am at a loss for words.

“Nobody leaked these to Ms. Masters, by the way,” he adds.

Thank God for small favors.

“Were these stashed with the dope?”

“No.” Logan can’t suppress a small smirk. “Folded inside