Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

Lewis rocked. Back and forth, back and forth. “Ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What happened to the prick killed your brother?”

“He enjoyed life for three more days.”

Lewis debated a long time. Then he gave a what-the-fuck laugh. “Call me crazy, Hart. But I’m with you.”

“Yeah?”

“You bet I am.”

“Thanks, man. Means a lot to me.” They shook hands. Then Hart turned back to his BlackBerry, moved the bull’s-eye to the closest part of the Joliet Trail and hit the START GUIDANCE command. The instructions came up almost immediately.

“Let’s go hunting.”

A SLIGHT MAN in his thirties, James Jasons sat in his Lexus, the gray car slightly nicked, a few years old. He was parked in the lot of Great Lakes Intermodal Container Services, Inc., on the Milwaukee lakefront. Jasons was watching the cranes offload the containers from ships. Incredible. The operators lifted the big metal boxes as if they were toys, swung them from the ships and set them down perfectly, every time, on the flatbed of a truck. The containers must’ve weighed twenty tons, maybe more.

Jasons was always impressed by anybody with skill, whatever their profession.

A rumble filled the night. A horn blared and a Canadian Pacific freight train ambled past.

The door of the old brick building opened. A brawny man in wrinkled gray slacks, a sports coat, blue shirt, no tie, climbed down the stairs and crossed the parking lot. Jasons had learned that the head of the legal department of the company-Paul Morgan-regularly worked late.

Morgan continued through the lot to his Mercedes. Jasons got out of his car, which was parked two slots down. He approached the man, arms at his side.

“Mr. Morgan?”

The man turned and looked over Jasons, who was nearly a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than the lawyer.

“Yeah?”

“We’ve never met, sir. I work with Stanley Mankewitz. My name’s James Jasons.” He offered a card, which Morgan glanced at and put into a pocket where it could be easily retrieved when Morgan found himself near a trash can. “I know it’s late. I’d just like a minute of your time.”

Morgan’s eyes swept around the parking lot. Meaning, Here, now? Friday night? He hit the key fob and with a click the Mercedes unlocked.

“Stanley Mankewitz didn’t have the balls to come himself? Doesn’t surprise me.” Morgan sat down in the front seat, the car sagging, but he left the door open. He looked Jasons up and down, from the delicate shoes to the size-36 suit to the rock-hard knot in the striped tie. “You’re a lawyer?”

“I’m in the legal department.”

“Ah. There’s a distinction for you,” Morgan said. “You go to law school?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Yale.”

Morgan grimaced. He wore a pinky ring that probably had a DePaul crest on it. Well, Jasons hadn’t brought up the alma mater issue. “Tell me what your noble leader wants and then scoot off.”

“Sure,” Jasons said agreeably. “We’re aware that your company hasn’t been particularly supportive of Mr. Mankewitz and the union during this difficult time.”

“It’s a federal investigation, for Christ’s sake. Why the fuck would I want to support him?”

“Your employees are members of his union.”

“That’s their choice.”

“About the investigation-you know that no charges have been filed.” A good-natured smile on Jasons’s face. “There are a few officials looking into some allegations.”

“Officials? It’s the fucking FBI. Look, I don’t know what you’re after here. But we’re a legitimate business. Look out there.” He waved toward the brilliantly lit cranes. “Our customers know we’re a union shop and that the head of that union, Stanley Mankewitz, is under investigation. They’re worried that we’re involved in something illegal.”

“You can tell them the truth. That Mr. Mankewitz hasn’t been indicted for anything. Every union in the history of the country has been investigated at one point or another.”

“Which tells you something about unions,” Morgan muttered.

“Or about people who don’t like the common folk standing up for their right to fair pay for hard work,” Jasons replied evenly, remaining close to the man despite the odor of garlic rising on Morgan’s breath. “Besides, even if Mr. Mankewitz was found guilty of something, which is highly unlikely, I’m sure your customers would be able to draw the distinction between a man and his organization. Enron, after all, was ninety-nine percent hardworking people and a few bad apples.”

“Again, ‘hardworking.’ Mr. Jason…Jasons? With an s? Mr. Jasons, you don’t understand. You ever hear of Homeland Security?…We’re in the business of moving shipping containers. Any hint of something wrong with the people we’re connected to and everybody goes right to anthrax in our warehouses or a nuclear bomb or something. Customers’re going to go elsewhere. And your hardworking common folk’ll lose their fucking jobs. I repeat my question. What the hell do you want?”

“Just some information. Nothing illegal, nothing classified, nothing sensitive. A few technical things. I’ve written them down.” A slip of paper appeared in Jasons’s gloved hand and he gave it to Morgan.

“If it’s nothing classified or sensitive, look it up yourself.” Morgan let the slip float to the damp asphalt.

“Ah.”

Morgan studied the thin, smiling face closely. He laughed hard and ran his hand through his thinning black hair. “So, what’s this, like, The Sopranos ? Only, instead of sending Paulie or Chris to extort me, Mankewitz picks a scrawny little asshole like you. That the plan? You whine at me until I cave?” He leaned forward and laughed. “I could fuck you up with one hand. I’ve got half a mind to do it. Send you back to your boss with a broken nose.”

Again, a good-natured grimace. “You look like you could, Mr. Morgan. I haven’t been in a fight in probably twenty years. School yard. And I got whipped pretty bad.”

“You’re not worth the sweat,” the man snapped. “So what’s next? The big boys come back with lead pipes? You think that scares me?”

“No, no, there’s nobody else coming. It’s only me here and now, this one time. Asking if you’ll help us out. Just this once. Nobody’ll bother you again.”

“Well, I’m not helping you out. Now get the fuck off our property.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Morgan.” Jasons started to walk away. Then he frowned, as if he’d remembered something, and lifted an index finger just as the lawyer was about to close the car door. “Oh, one thing. Just to be helpful. You hear about tomorrow morning?”

Paul Morgan gave an exaggerated grimace and said, “What about tomorrow morning?”

“Public Works is starting some construction on Hanover Street. On Saturday, can you believe it? And at eight-thirty. You might want to check out a different route if you want to get to the school by ten.”

“What?” Hand on the half-open door, Morgan was frozen, staring at Jasons. The word was a whisper.

“For the concert.” The slim man nodded pleasantly. “I think it’s great when parents take an interest in their children’s activities. A lot of them don’t. And I’m sure Paul Junior and Alicia appreciate it too. I know they’ve been practicing hard. Alicia especially. Every day after school in that rehearsal room, three to four-thirty…Impressive. Just thought you might want to know about the roadwork. Okay, you have a good evening, Mr. Morgan.”

Jasons turned and walked to his Lexus, thinking that the odds of getting rushed were about 10 percent. But he got inside safely and started the car.