Russell Andrews - Hades

H. R. Harmon's driver, Martin, was surprised to see his boss coming up to the car with two men. He was even more surprised when he realized his boss was walking with one shoe off, and that his foot was bleeding like a motherfucker. What surprised Martin the most, however, was when one of the men, the smaller one, put a gun into his side and told him to get behind the wheel of the limo and start driving.

Martin had no desire to get shot, so he said, "Sure," and, without demanding any more information, headed back toward the city, which is where the smaller guy told him to go. The bigger guy, the scarier one, didn't go with them. That was more than okay with Martin. And more than okay with Mr. Harmon-he could see that as soon as the big guy left. At one point during the drive, Martin glanced in the rearview mirror, saw his boss leaning back with his eyes closed, and he asked him if he was okay; but Mr. Harmon didn't say anything in response, so Martin decided to dispense with all further questions.

The traffic heading into Manhattan cost them about twenty minutes, so the drive took a little over an hour. As Martin drove, Justin reapplied the makeshift tourniquet to Harmon's foot. Martin found a few Advil in the glove compartment of the limo and Justin forced the old man to swallow four of them. Almost nothing was said the whole way in. The only words spoken were when Justin's cell phone rang. It was Reggie-Reggie who spoke to him as coolly as if they'd never met before. He closed his eyes while she talked, envisioning her naked on his bed, remembering making love to her. He realized he wasn't paying much attention to what she was saying, so he interrupted her to say quietly, "Look, we have to talk."

"Let's just finish our business," she said, her voice even. "Let's just get through this and finish, and then we'll see if there's anything to talk about."

He said okay, his heart pounding, and she told him what she'd found out since he and Bruno had left East End Harbor. She'd run prints on the Chinese man that Justin had killed. They knew his identity. When she told him, he looked over at the wounded man sitting next to him. He said nothing to H. R. Harmon, just spoke into the phone: "Okay, I've got it." Then he said, "These are sick goddamn people."

She also said she'd gotten the records for all Larry Silverbush's phone calls. Justin had been right, she said-Silverbush had made the calls that Justin thought he'd made. He had a moment of self-satisfaction, then he told Reggie to hold on a second, and he said to Martin, "What's the number of this car phone in the backseat?" Martin didn't hesitate; he reeled off the number. Justin gave it to Reggie, asked if she could get a list of all calls made and received on it starting a week before Harmon's murder, and then he went, "Hold on one more sec." He said to Martin, "You have a cell phone of your own?" Martin said, "Yeah," and Justin said, "Give it to me." It didn't take the driver long to hand that over, and Justin flipped it open, got the number, and gave that to Reggie, too, again asking her to check all outgoing and incoming calls. He saw the look in H. R.'s eyes, knew he'd struck a little too close to home. Then he put his phone to his ear again. He and Reggie both stayed on the phone without saying anything. He could hear her breathing, and he knew she didn't want to sever the connection the same way he didn't. There was nothing they could communicate to each other, not right now, but he was glad she didn't want to be separated from him. Even if it was only temporary. He listened to her breathe, and then he finally heard her hang up.

They went over the Triborough Bridge into Manhattan, but they didn't drive to the Rockworth and Williams building, as Justin had assumed. When they reached the city, Harmon-whose rich man's tan had faded into a sickly-looking pale green color-gave an address on East 69th Street. They pulled up in front of a brownstone.

"What is this?" Justin asked.

Harmon's voice was weak. It had no resonance. Justin knew the old man had to be in serious pain. He didn't really care. "Lincoln's home."

"No," Justin said. "He lives on Park Avenue."

Harmon shook his head. "That's his family home. He keeps this as a separate residence. To use for private functions."

Justin turned to Harmon's chauffeur and said, "Pop the trunk." When that was done, Justin said, "Now get out of the car and get into the trunk."

"What?" Martin said.

"Get into the trunk," Justin told him. "You have five seconds."

Martin was there in four seconds. Justin closed the trunk, said to Harmon, "Try to remember to let him out when we're done."

Harmon nodded but didn't look as if that particular command was going to be a top priority.

Justin wondered if he'd made the right move by not bringing Bruno. They had decided that it would be better if Bruno took Justin's car back to East End Harbor. Justin did not expect this session to take long. And he'd been afraid that Bruno's involvement wouldn't be good or productive for anyone concerned. For all he knew, the FBI would be waiting inside the house, and that would not be a meeting Bruno would relish. But now he wished he had some company. Some large and intimidating company.

"All right, let's go," he told Harmon.

"I want to put my shoe on," H. R. Harmon said.

"It'll hurt a hell of a lot worse if you do that," Justin said.

"I'm not going into Lincoln's house looking like this. I have to put my shoe on."

Justin shrugged and watched as the old man grimaced and groaned but got his shoe on. He even tied it. But not too tight. And Justin was impressed: H. R. barely limped on the short walk from the car to the town house. Justin decided the old guy wasn't much on honesty or decency but he was hell when it came to dignity.

They were met at the front door by Lincoln Berdon.

He was wearing a black, three-piece pin-striped suit, and the expression on his face was as somber as his funereal-looking attire. He ushered the two men into his living room. The house was decorated all in black, white, and silver. The tables were stainless steel. The floors were painted black and white. Couches and chairs were either white with black pillows or black with white pillows. Justin wondered if they had black and white wine. But he didn't get a chance to find out since Berdon didn't offer him a drink.

"What is this about?" Lincoln Berdon asked.

"Do you want to know who I am?" Justin asked.

"No," Berdon said. "I know who you are. What I want to know is what you're doing here."

So Justin told him. He went through the events of the recent past step by step, beginning with the discovery of Evan Harmon's body. He left nothing out. He told them both what he knew about Ronald LaSalle's murder-and LaSalle's recent business history. He told them everything he knew about Evan Harmon's corrupt financial dealings, all the way through the overturned truck in Texas. At one point, Justin said, "I know that Evan arranged to buy platinum as low as he could and sell it at a huge profit to the Chinese government. That couldn't have made you happy-him cheating your most important client." Berdon didn't respond; he was well trained. Neither of the two Wall Street legends looked shocked at anything Justin had revealed up to that point. Harmon was following Berdon's lead, which surprised Justin a little. He'd expected their relationship to be on a more equal footing. This was Berdon's show. Berdon's world. H. R. Harmon was a supporting player.

Justin then talked about Wanda: what she'd told him when they'd met in her car, what he knew about her death. When he told them about the words she'd managed to scrawl before she died, Lincoln Berdon didn't so much as blink. But this time Harmon looked startled. He glanced quickly at Berdon, who didn't return the look. Berdon's eyes never moved; they stared straight ahead at Justin.