Russell Andrews - Midas

“Little Victorian job, yellow paint job, lots of charm?”

“You know it?”

“Yup,” Justin said. “And I hope you’re the friendly type, Regina. ’Cause if you get the job, we’re gonna be neighbors.”

“Everybody calls me Reggie,” she said. And this time the smile was not quite so lopsided.

At ten minutes before six o’clock that evening, Justin called Chuck Billings’s cell phone and got voice mail. After the tone, he left a message that he’d wait as long as he could before taking off and told Chuck to call him if he was lost and couldn’t find the small airport. He left his own cell phone number and then hung up. Justin waited a few moments, then dialed the number for the Fisherman Motel. The desk clerk told him that Mr. Billings had checked out earlier that afternoon, around one-thirty or two. Justin left his cell phone number with the clerk just in case Chuck returned there. Then he went to Ray Lockhardt’s office. The airport manager flinched when he saw Justin but relaxed when he realized all he wanted him to do this time was keep an eye out for Billings, in case he arrived after Justin’s chartered plane took off.

At six-fifteen, Justin boarded the plane. He convinced the pilot to wait on the ground another fifteen minutes. At six-thirty, when Billings was a full half hour late and still had not called, Justin gave the okay and the small plane left for Providence.

The flight was a quick one, about forty-five minutes. Justin didn’t give too much thought to Chuck Billings. He figured the bomb expert had gotten caught up in some sort of FBI bullshit. He also figured he’d hear about it tomorrow or maybe even tonight from Wanda Chinkle. He hadn’t pegged Chuck as the single most reliable guy he’d ever met. So instead, he thought about Reggie Bokkenheuser. Other than the name, he had to admit she was pretty close to perfect. He’d checked with both of her references and, if anything, “glowing” was an understatement when describing their responses. They said she was smart, friendly, a terrific cop, had great growth potential, showed the potential for strong management skills, had an excellent investigative instinct, could get people to warm up to her, and, bottom line, he’d be crazy not to hire her.

He knew it would make Leona Krill very happy if Reggie was brought aboard. He suspected the rest of the guys at the station would not be thrilled, especially if she were brought in at the sergeant level and as their superior. He decided they’d get over it, though. If she were as good as he believed she might be.

Justin decided to sneak in a fifteen-minute nap on the plane. As his eyes closed, he realized there was something bothering him about Reggie. He couldn’t decide what it was, though. Maybe it was that he found her attractive. Maybe it was that she’d be living two houses away from him. Maybe it was simply that he’d never hired anyone before and she was the first and only person he’d talked to, and it all seemed too easy and perfect. Maybe he was being lazy, he should look around, talk to a few more candidates. But as he fell asleep, he knew that Reggie Bokkenheuser was going to become the newest sergeant on the East End police force.

He dozed for twelve minutes. When he woke up, he wasn’t particularly refreshed. But he was back in his hometown of Providence, Rhode Island.

Returning to Providence always provoked mixed emotions in Justin Westwood. He genuinely loved the city. Found it beautiful and alive. He knew it well-and all sides of it. The comforting pomposity of its academia. The snobbish magnificence of its upper class. The small-town quality of its corruption. The New England backbone of its middle class. The violence and despair of its back alleys.

He was also afraid of the city. He had lost his wife and child there. Had endured excruciating pain there. Had gone through years of an unfriendly and hurtful separation from his parents.

Providence was not simple for him.

He had reconciled with Jonathan and Lizbeth Westwood about a year before, and that was a big step forward. It made him feel welcome again, not just in his childhood home but in his city. They had embraced him back into the family and he welcomed that embrace warmly. But both sides were still wary. Family ties were always capable of unraveling, he knew. For now, however, the bonds were strong. His mother and father were anxious to make amends and to try to heal old wounds. Justin suspected that some wounds could never completely heal but he was willing to play the comforted patient to help ease his parents’ guilt. And he had to admit that Jonathan and Lizbeth were capable of making things very comfortable.

He got a warm hug from his mother when he stepped inside the front door of the house. As always, he marveled at the splendor of the place in which he’d spent his youth. The cathedral-like ceilings, the enormous spiraling staircase, the exquisite detailing in the maple and cherry woodwork throughout the expansive mansion. Lizbeth followed him into the den, where his father gave him a warm pat on the back, the closest to a hug he could manage. They shared a glass of superb burgundy as they asked appropriate questions and revealed appropriate details about the past several months of their lives. His mother was saddened by the end of his relationship with Deena, but did no more than give a quick shake of her head when told it had ended for good. His father was mixed about the news of Justin’s promotion: proud of the reward yet still bothered that he’d chosen police work as his profession instead of something more substantial-which, in his father’s eyes, meant more profitable. Justin told them a little bit about why he was there, enough to pique their interest and get some valuable insight from his banker father. Jonathan Westwood said, when Justin had finished summarizing the stories of both the plane crash and Chuck Billings’s observations of the bombing, “Always look for the money.”

When Justin asked him what he meant, Jonathan cleared his throat and said, “I’ve spent my whole life as a businessman. My whole life around wealthy, powerful people. And if that experience has taught me anything, it’s that there are two reasons for all human behavior: passion and money. I don’t know anything about your line of business, Jay, but I wouldn’t imagine that criminal behavior is all that different from what I deal with in the business world. Somewhere, somehow, someone is making money. Find out who that is and you’ll find out what’s going on.”

“I don’t know if everything in life can be made that simple,” Justin said.

“Life is simple,” his father told him, finishing his last sip of wine. “It’s what happens while you’re living it that some people make so damn hard.” And then he said it again: “Find the money.”

Wanda Chinkle arrived at eight o’clock and Justin was amused to see that she’d dressed for the occasion. It was usually hard to get Wanda into anything but a pair of pants and an open-neck shirt, but tonight she was wearing a dress and a short-sleeved cashmere sweater. With pearls. And stockings. Justin had never seen her in a pair of stockings before-in fact, he thought, he might never have actually seen her legs before-and she scowled when she saw him staring and grinning.

Wanda passed on the superb red wine, had a Diet Coke instead, much to Jonathan Westwood’s horror, and then they sat down to a delicious dinner of rare roast beef, broiled new potatoes, and string beans, prepared by the Westwoods’ longtime chef, Sidney. The dinner table talk veered between professional and personal, but nothing substantive was broached between Justin and Wanda until, after coffee and a dessert of key lime pie, they settled into the den, alone, and closed the door behind them.