David Morrell - Desperate Measures

Pittman’s telephone log eventually recorded one hundred attempts to call Millgate’s business and government associates. Each executive had declined to be interviewed. Pittman had also contacted Millgate’s law office in an attempt to make an appointment to interview him. Pittman was put on hold. He was switched from secretary to secretary. He was told to call numbers that were no longer in service. Pittman had phoned the Justice Department, hoping that the team investigating Millgate would give Pittman an idea of how they stayed in contact with him. He was told that the Justice Department had no need to remain in contact with Millgate, that the rumors about his receiving kickbacks because of his alleged involvement in a munitions scandal had been proven to lack substance, and that the investigation had been concluded in its early stages.

“Can you tell me which attorney represented him in your initial discussions?”

After a long pause, the man had answered, “No. I can not.”

“I didn’t get your name when you picked up the phone. Who am I speaking to, please?”

The connection had been broken.

Pittman had gone to a computer hacker, about whom Pittman had written what the hacker considered to be a fair story about the hacker’s motives for accessing top secret Defense Department computer files. “I wanted to show how easy it was, how unprotected those files were,” the hacker had insisted. But despite his pleas that he’d been motivated by loyalty to his government, the hacker had gone to prison for three years. Recently released, bitter about how the government had treated him, delighted to see his defender again, the hacker had agreed to Pittman’s request and, with greater delight, had used a modem to access telephone company computer files in Massachusetts.

“Unlisted number? No problem. As a matter of fact, check this-your dude’s got four of them.”

Pittman had looked at the glowing computer screen and begun to write down the numbers.

“Forget the pen-and-paper routine. I’ll print out the dude’s whole file.”

That was how Pittman had learned not only Millgate’s private numbers but the addresses for his Boston mansion and his Martha’s Vineyard estate, as well. Determined, he had phoned each of Millgate’s private numbers. Each person on the other end had treated Pittman with deference until with shock they realized what he wanted.

“I demand to know how you learned this number.”

“If you’d just let me speak to Mr. Millgate.”

“What newspaper did you say you worked for?”

Fifteen minutes after Pittman’s final attempt, he’d been summoned to Burt Forsyth’s office.

“You’re off the Millgate story.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“I wish it was. I just got a call from the Chronicle ’s publisher, who just got a call from somebody who must have a hell of a lot of influence. I’m under strict orders to give you strict orders to work on something else.”

“And you’re actually going to give me those orders?”

Burt had squinted at the smoke he blew from his cigarette-in those days, smoking in the building had not been forbidden. “You’ve got to know when to be rigid and when to bend, and this is a time to bend. It’s not as if you had anything solid. Admit it, you were on a fishing expedition, hoping you’d find a story. To tell the truth, you were taking more time than I’d expected. And there’s something else to be considered. It’s been suggested that you broke the law in the way you obtained Millgate’s telephone numbers. Did you?”

Pittman hadn’t answered.

“Work on this story instead.”

Pittman had been angry at Burt for several days, but the object of his anger had shifted when there turned out to be a certain synchronicity between the police-brutality assignment Pittman was given and what happened next. On his free time over the weekend, Pittman had gone to Boston, intending to stake out Millgate’s mansion in the hope that he would see Millgate leave. Pittman’s plan was to follow Millgate’s limousine until he could find a place that allowed him to approach Millgate with questions. One minute after Pittman parked on the mansion’s tree-lined street, a police car stopped behind him. One hour later, he was being questioned as a burglary suspect at police headquarters. Two hours later, he was in a holding cell, where two prisoners picked a fight with him and beat him so badly that he needed a thousand dollars’ worth of dental work.

Visiting Pittman in the hospital, Burt had shaken his head. “Stubborn.”

The wires that secured Pittman’s broken jaw had prevented him from answering.

Pittman finished his second Jack Daniel’s and glanced across the almost-deserted tavern toward the bartender, who still seemed startled that he’d actually had a legitimate customer. A man carrying a bulging paper bag came in, looked around the shadowy interior, raised his eyebrows at the sight of Pittman, got a shrug and a nod from the bartender, and proceeded toward a room in the back.

Pittman considered ordering another bourbon, then glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost 1:30 in the afternoon. He’d been sitting there brooding for longer than he’d realized. He hadn’t thought about Millgate in quite a while-years-since well before Jeremy had become ill. Pittman’s jaw had healed. He’d pursued other assignments. Millgate had managed to make himself invisible again. Out of sight, out of mind. The only reminder had been periodic twinges in Pittman’s jaw during especially cold weather. Sometimes when he fingered the line where his jaw had been broken, he would recall how he had tried to investigate the two prisoners who had beaten him. They’d been admitted to his cell a half hour after he’d been placed there. The charges against them had been public drunkenness, but Pittman hadn’t smelled any alcohol on their breath when they had beaten him. Subsequent to the beating, they had been mistakenly released from jail, a mix-up in paperwork. Their names had been common, their addresses temporary, and Pittman had never been able to contact them or investigate their backgrounds to find out if Millgate had been responsible for the beating.

As he left the murky bar, his head aching from the harsh assault of afternoon sunlight, Pittman felt searing anger intrude on his cold despair. He had always resented aristocrats and their supposition that money and social stature made them the equivalent of royalty. He resented the disdain with which they felt themselves unaccountable for their actions. During his peak as a national affairs reporter, his best stories had been exposes of criminal activity by those in high places, and Jonathan Millgate would have been the highest target Pittman had ever brought down.

I should have been more persistent.

Pittman’s flare of anger abruptly died. Ahead, at a noisy intersection where pedestrians were stopped for a red light, he noticed a tall, lanky boy with long hair, slight shoulders, and narrow hips moving his feet slightly to the beat of imagined music. The boy looked to be about fifteen. He wore a rumpled denim jacket that had an emblem of a rock star. His jeans were faded. His running shoes, high-topped, were dyed green and had names written on them. From the back, the boy reminded Pittman so much of Jeremy that he felt as if a hand had squeezed his heart. Then the boy turned his head to speak to a companion, and of course, the boy looked nothing at all like Jeremy, whose jaw had not been as strong as this boy’s and whose complexion hadn’t been as clear and whose teeth had needed braces. Imperfect physically, but perfect as a son. It wasn’t just that Jeremy had never gotten into trouble, or that his grades had been excellent, or that he had been respectful. As important as these things were, what Pittman missed most about Jeremy was his captivating personality. The boy had been blessed with a wonderful sense of humor. He had always been so much fun to be around, never failing to make Pittman feel that life was better because of his son.