Then he closes the door.
Tommy Russo should record a master class on how to threaten people. Three minutes after he leaves my office, I still feel like I might throw up.
When the door opens again, I jump. But it’s only Ben Tate. “What the hell did those guys want?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Did they threaten you?”
“Be glad you didn’t hear it.”
“That short guy looked like he wanted to strangle you with his bare hands.”
“He was the comic relief. Look, I want you to find out everything there is to know about Tommy Russo. His crime family links. Actual crimes he’s been tied to or suspected of.”
“I’ll get on it. Has your secret admirer delivered any more goodies today? More trail camera pics?”
I think about the PDF sent to me by “Mark Felt.” Then I remember Russo’s expression as he talked about the fork in the road. “I haven’t been out to my car yet. I’ll know when I get coffee.”
Ben has the gleam of ambition in his eyes. “We need to keep this story going, man. People are sharing it all over the place. It could go national.”
“I don’t think there’ll be any shortage of developments today. We’ll talk later.”
He takes the hint and closes my door.
Things are happening so fast that I can hardly wrap my head around the implications. Two days ago, Buck was murdered by power brokers I would have sworn were untouchable. Now somebody’s feeding me information that could send them to prison. But the price of using it could be death at the hands of a New Jersey–born casino owner. Of course, for Tommy Russo to kill me, I’d have to live long enough to print the story that would make him mad enough to do it; and with Max threatening to show his son the video of me making love to his wife, even that lifespan isn’t guaranteed.
As I lock my hard copy of the PDF into my filing cabinet, I think of Sally Matheson. She’s lying on a cold slab somewhere, or in a refrigerated drawer. But the cache that she created holds the power to dictate the future of every man in this complex equation. I may already possess part of the data she gathered, but surely there’s more. If so, I need to find it. If I don’t, I may have to consider letting Jet put her plan against Max into motion. Because despite Tommy Russo’s pragmatic threat, it’s Max who has the power to turn Paul against me. And unlike Russo, Paul would not react rationally. That said, I have a paradoxical feeling that Paul Matheson could end up my only reliable ally in what is fast shaping up to be a war. Yes, I have betrayed him. But at some level I feel bound to Paul in a way that excludes even Jet. He knows me as well as anyone ever has, and at bottom he knows I mean him no harm. Logically that makes no sense, I know.
But since when has human behavior ever followed logic?
Chapter 30
At ten forty a.m., I walk out to the Flex to head for my morning coffee at Nadine’s store. Crossing the open space between the building and my vehicle, I turn in all directions, looking for threats. I spent the previous ten minutes briefing reporters on what they’ll be doing today. This was tricky, since I don’t want to reveal the existence of the mystery PDF file yet. To cover, I told them that I have suspicions about the “land grabs” near the mill site and along the I-14 corridor and gave them a list of former property owners to interview. I also asked Ben Tate to have somebody assemble everything there is on the selection of Avery Sumner to fill the Senate seat he assumed only five months ago.
Even before I open the Flex’s door, I see another USB flash drive taped to my steering wheel. This one is bright orange. Once inside, I find it’s another Lexar—32 GB this time. Slipping it into my pants pocket, I back out of my space and pull onto High Street. Nadine’s is only five blocks away. Driving the lightly traveled streets, I curse myself for not installing a wireless video camera to cover the back lot of our building yesterday. If I had, I might already possess the identity of my secret benefactor.
After easing into one of the tight spaces behind Nadine’s building, I slip through the back door and go straight to the laptop in her inventory room. Fifteen seconds later, I’m staring at another photo taken by a trail camera, this one—according to the time stamp—shot thirty seconds later on the same night as the photo we published this morning. But Dave Cowart is only a bit player in this one. In this image, Beau Holland stands very close to Buck Ferris, shaking a finger in his face. Dave Cowart stands behind Holland, arms akimbo. My pulse pounds as I stare at Holland’s angry expression, but what fixes my attention is the background of the photograph. Behind the men, about knee level, a line of concrete stretches into the distance—a line that looks familiar from my excursion after the Aurora Hotel party. It’s the edge of the old factory foundation at the mill site. And in the far distance, exactly where it should be, a bright pinpoint of light shines against the dark sky. That light is the beacon atop the electrical tower I failed to climb when I was fourteen.
I don’t think I’ve breathed for the last twenty seconds. This is why Holland got so angry back in my office. He was at the mill site with Cowart on the night Buck was killed, and he knows there might be photos that prove it.
After saving the file on Nadine’s MacBook, I pull out the flash drive, slip it back into my pocket, and head up front. I’m excited to tell her about the new image, but to my surprise, she’s nowhere in the shop. Behind the counter stands a young recent college grad named Darryl. Seeing me coming from the back, he starts making my coffee without asking for my order.
“You want your muffin, too?” he asks.
“Ah, sure. Where’s Nadine this morning?”
“She had to run an errand. I’m not sure where. Said it wouldn’t take more than an hour. She left thirty minutes ago.”
Maybe it’s not so odd that Nadine isn’t here during my usual visiting time. When she dropped Jet’s earrings into my hand last night, it was pretty clear that she assumed I’ve been sleeping with Jet. Given the unexpected intimacy of our kiss the previous night, discovering Jet’s earrings in my bathroom might have soured Nadine on our daily kaffeeklatsch. The maddening thing is that I know Jet left those earrings there solely so that Nadine would find them if she used the bathroom that adjoined my bedroom. They were left there as a test of fidelity.
“Thanks, Darryl.”
I take my muffin and walk into the café seating section with the hot mug in my hand. I’m glad to find the tables almost empty. Against the wall to my left sits another couple who look like tourists, though not the same ones I saw two days ago. At the back of the room sits a tanned blond college student wearing tennis shorts. He’s facing away from me, so I’m spared the ordeal of trying to figure out whether I should know him or his parents. I choose one of the two-chair tables and eat the muffin while waiting for my coffee to cool. As I chew, I feel anger building at Jet’s little earring trap. She’s not normally into games, at least in my experience.
I take a sip of coffee, and the caffeine hits me immediately. I welcome the relief. I’m feeling jumpy, and paradoxically, caffeine sometimes settles me down. Relief from withdrawal, probably.
Before I take my second sip, my iPhone rings. As I take it out, I find myself wishing it had been my burner phone. But Jet hasn’t called. No surprise, really. The family’s bound to be consumed with preparing for Sally’s funeral. And yet—the name on my iPhone screen reads Max Matheson.