Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fallen

“I heard about all the businesses he built. But I hadn’t heard about the steel component.”

Baron nodded. “The coke used in making steel is derived from coal after it undergoes a distillation process. And back then coal was abundant and relatively cheap. Steel magnates flourished, and so did those who supplied their enterprises. In that regard John Baron Sr. was following a tried-and-true formula. He was a ruthless man, so I understand. He crushed unions, paid off corrupt politicians, polluted rivers and the air and the ground. He paid his workers as little as he possibly could and treated people in general as badly as he could. He made an immense fortune and his descendants sponged off that accomplishment.”

“But then it all came tumbling down?”

“It almost always comes tumbling down. America, in general, doesn’t like economic dynasties. Families like the Rockefellers are the exception rather than the rule. We each pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps. Or at least that’s how the theory is supposed to work. I guess there are enough people on the Forbes List who inherited their money to lay waste to that supposition.”

“But your family still had money?”

“Some. At least for a time.”

“Did you know any of the people murdered?”

Baron looked over at him with a curious expression. “That’s quite an abrupt segue. Why do you ask?”

“I’m a cop. I ask questions in the hope of solving crimes.”

“Who were the victims again?”

Decker told him. “The last two have not been identified yet.”

“I can’t say that I know any of them.”

However, Decker noticed the man’s hesitation.

“You sure about that?”

Baron held up his drink. “I’m hardly ever sure of anything. Especially in the Mercury Bar.”

Decker glanced at the bartender, who was listening intently to their conversation while pretending to wipe down the bar. She was quite beautiful, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a tall, lean figure outfitted in black jeans and a sleeveless blouse revealing wiry tanned arms.

Decker looked back at Baron. “You really come here once a week?”

“There’s hardly any other place to go.” He glanced at the bartender. “And I prefer the company here.”

The woman smiled at this, caught Decker staring at her, and quickly turned her attention to putting dirty glasses into a dishwasher behind the bar.

“Can I get your address?”

“Why?” asked Baron.

“I may want to talk to you again.”

“Why?”

“I already told you. I’m a cop trying to solve a crime.”

“Well, then look to the highest spot in town and you will see the biggest, ugliest home. FYI, the doorbell does not work and I don’t get up early.”

Baron drained his glass and inclined his head at the bartender and slid some cash across to pay for the drinks. “Thank you, Cindi. See you next time.” He patted Decker on the shoulder. “And thank you, Mr. Decker, for saving my ass.”

He walked unsteadily away.

“Hey, are you okay to drive?” Decker called after him.

Baron turned, gave a low bow, and held up a hand. “I am absolutely not okay to drive, but I will make a valiant attempt regardless, considering the odds are very good that whatever I might hit will have my family’s name engraved upon it, which will lessen my legal liability.”

Decker watched him go for a few moments and then turned back to the bartender.

Only she was gone too.

Files. And more files.

Paper bones with very little meat.

Decker dropped the last of them on a pile in the middle of the desk, sat back, and breathed in the stale air that seemed to permeate Baronville’s police headquarters on Baron Boulevard. Right next door was Baronville City Hall.

Jamison sat across from him taking notes. Decker, with his perfect memory, never needed to do that. He idly watched her pen gliding over the paper. The door opened a moment later and Detective Green came in.

“Any luck?” he asked as he popped a stick of gum into his mouth.

Jamison finished the sentence she was writing and looked up.

Decker closed his eyes. “Joyce Tanner and Toby Babbot were unemployed. Michael Swanson was a drug dealer. Bradley Costa was an SVP at a bank. And they all lived alone. No family. Tanner had been married but subsequently got divorced.”

Green closed the door behind him. “Yeah, well, that we already knew.”

Decker opened his eyes. “What was Babbot’s disability?” He glanced at Green, who was taking a seat across from him.

“The file just said he was disabled,” pointed out Jamison. “It didn’t say how or why.”

“Is that relevant?” asked Green.

“Everything is relevant until you can show it’s not,” said Decker.

“I’ll check.” Green leaned back in his chair. “So, nothing really jumped out at you?” he asked.

Before either Decker or Jamison could answer, the door opened again and Lassiter came in. She was dressed in a beige jacket and knee-length skirt with chunky heels. Her hair was loose around her shoulders.

“So, have I missed anything at the powwow?” she asked, taking a seat next to Green.

“Not much,” said her partner. “Just a follow-up question that may or may not be ‘relevant.’”

Decker stared at the opposite wall. “I met John Baron last night.”

Jamison looked surprised by this but kept silent.

Decker continued, “Some young punks were roughing him up. I intervened. But he declined to press charges. Any idea why?”

“Guilt, maybe,” replied Green.

“About what?” asked Jamison.

“It’s complicated,” said Lassiter.

“I’ve got lots of time,” replied Decker. “I’m technically on vacation.” He clasped his hands in front of him and studied her with an expectant expression.

Lassiter looked uncomfortably at Green and said, “Okay, the Baron family basically exploited this place and then sold out to companies that eventually shuttered everything. They lived in great luxury high up on the hill, while the rest of the town suffered and slowly died. And we’re still dying.”

“Did the present John Baron have anything to do with that?” asked Decker.

Lassiter shook her head. “No. He was in college when his parents died. But he’s lived up there ever since.”

“So why blame him?” asked Jamison.

“He’s a Baron ,” interjected Green.

“So guilt by association?” said Jamison.

“I’m not saying it’s right or fair, I’m just saying that’s how it is,” replied Green. “I’ve personally got nothing against the guy. He never hurt me or anyone I cared about.”

“Lucky you,” said Lassiter.

Jamison looked at her. “Did he hurt someone you cared about?”

Lassiter put up a hand. “It has nothing to do with anything.”

Green added with a glance at Decker, “And to paraphrase you, I don’t see how this little trip into the sordid history of Baronville is helping us solve six murders.”

Decker said, “I asked Baron if he knew any of the vics and he said he didn’t.”

“Well, other than maybe the banker, I wouldn’t imagine he would,” observed Lassiter. “A street-level drug dealer doesn’t exactly run in the same circles as a Baron.”

Decker said, “Even though you claim he moves in different ‘circles,’ maybe he does know Swanson or one of the others.”

“So you didn’t believe his answer?” asked Green sharply.

“I don’t believe anyone, initially ,” replied Decker.

“Okay, but do you have any helpful thoughts?” Green indicated the pile of files.

“We need to run through all the vics again, because I believe they have to be connected,” said Decker.