Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

The U.S. Attorney leaned in a bit lower and said, “Now, Mr. Patterson, I’m going to ask you some questions, all of which have been approved by your lawyer. Please take your time. We are in no hurry.”

No hurry, Bob thought to himself. Two leaky brain hemorrhages and a broken neck and the man is dying by the minute.

“Were you involved in the planning and murders of Linda Higginbotham and Jason Jordan?”

He wrote the word yes , and the U.S. Attorney repeated it for the record.

“Did you in fact kill both of them?”

Yes.

“And you were paid for these killings?”

Yes.

“How much?”

Two.

“Two million dollars?”

Yes.

“Who paid for the killings?”

A long pause as Patterson slowly scrawled the words: Don’t know. His lawyer said, “He says he doesn’t know.”

“All right, more about that later. And did you act alone?”

No.

“How many accomplices did you have?”

One.

“And his name?”

Without hesitating, Patterson wrote the name: Karen Sharbonnet.

“And where was this person during the killings?”

No response.

Van Cleve said, “Guy goes still for about five minutes here and they thought he had croaked. He rallied later and admitted that his partner was close by and found him on the ground. Instead of trying to help, she tried to finish him off. Two pops to the head. Anyway, enough of that. Here’s the next video, the one that might interest you. This is inside a high-end gym in Laguna Beach. Obviously, we have it under surveillance.”

Eight women in two rows of four were gyrating and sweating to the beat of loud music and the screeching commands of their leader. All were young, toned, California tanned, and attractive. The camera zoomed in on one with short red hair.

Bob smiled and said, “Oh boy. I’d recognize that body anywhere.”

Van Cleve said, “I think you knew her as Ingrid. Real name is Karen Sharbonnet, former Army Ranger, former contract killer, former partner of Rick Patterson.”

“Former?”

“Yes, we grabbed her. After Patterson ratted on her we tracked her down and followed her for three days. She got suspicious and tried to make a run for it. Picked her up at LAX as she was boarding a flight to Tokyo. On a German passport, one of at least six she used.”

Van Cleve clicked again and there was the mug shot.

Bob said, “The short red hair is a nice touch, and effective, but the eyes never lie. That’s her all right. Has she said anything?”

“Not a word. And we have yet to tell her about Rick. She thinks she left him dead in the woods, doesn’t know we found him, and damned sure doesn’t know he’s communicating.”

“How much do you know about her?” Bob asked.

“Well, as I said, it’s slow going because Patterson is hanging on by his fingernails. He says that they have been working as a team for about five years, high-end contract killings. They got two million for the Higginbotham job. We tracked her bank accounts, she has about a dozen in at least four countries, and, sure enough, the money arrived on St. Kitts two days ago. Two million bucks.”

“Anything about Nelson Kerr?”

“Not yet. As of yesterday, Patterson was still talking.”

“Make him talk faster.”

“Sorry, but I think he’s fading.”

7.

Leaving Jacksonville, Bob impulsively turned off Interstate 95 and drove to the international airport where he bought a ticket. He flew to Newark and connected to Boston where he boarded a small commuter for Martha’s Vineyard. Seven hours after taking off, he was on the ground and called Bruce’s cell phone. Bruce was surprised to hear from him and asked, “What brings you to the Vineyard?”

“You invited me, remember? What time is dinner?”

Bruce most certainly did not remember inviting Bob but immediately realized something was up. He said, “Meet me in the bar at the Sydney Hotel in Edgartown in an hour.”

Bruce was waiting, alone, an hour later when Bob strolled in grinning from ear to ear. They huddled in a corner and ordered drinks. Bob began with “You will not believe who the FBI has in custody.”

“Tell me.”

“Ingrid. Real name is Karen Sharbonnet, lives in Laguna Beach, California.”

Bruce was almost too stunned to respond. He gazed away and began shaking his head. Their drinks arrived, and after a long pull on his wine Bruce said, “Okay, let’s hear it.”

“It’s beautiful. You won’t believe it.”

8.

They watched him closely as he parked his massive SUV in one of the parking lots around the perimeter of the park. He popped the lid and withdrew a large duffel filled with all manner of youth baseball gear. His son, Ford, an eleven-year-old all-star, was with him, dressed for the game, with his own personalized batting bag holding more equipment than any professional owned forty years earlier.

Slowly, they trudged along the walkway between two fields, one of a thousand father-and-son teams ready for action on this perfect Saturday for baseball.

Sid was not the coach, but rather the equipment manager, for the Raiders. They found their dugout, greeted other teammates and coaches, and relaxed as a grounds crew raked the infield and laid down chalk. The game was an hour away, and the boys tossed balls in the outfield as their coaches and fathers argued over last night’s Astros loss to the Cardinals.

Four FBI agents, all dressed casually as baseball dads, moved in closer.

Eventually, Sid left the dugout and headed toward the concession stand for a soft drink. He bought one and took it to another field where a game was underway, and as he stood at the chain-link fence and scouted a future opponent, a man holding a business card stepped close and said softly enough for no one else to hear, “Sid, Ross Mayfield, FBI.”

Sid took the card, seemed to examine it carefully, and looking at the field asked, “A pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“We need to talk, and the sooner the better.”

“About what?”

“About Grattin, Flaxacill, Medicare fraud, maybe even Nelson Kerr. Lot of territory to cover, Sid. There’s a huge net out there, Sid, and it’s closing rapidly. We have the goods. You could be facing forty or more in the slammer.”

He actually closed his eyes as if punched in the gut but tried not to show it. His shoulders sagged slightly, but, as the agents debriefed later, he handled that awful moment remarkably well.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“Oh yes, maybe two or three. Get ’em on the phone and let’s arrange a meeting within forty-eight hours.”

“And if I choose not to?”

“Don’t be stupid, Sid. We’ll get a warrant and come kick down your doors at three in the morning. Might be a bit traumatic for your wife and five kids, and the neighbors would see it all. And, Sid, we’re listening to everything. One word to Ken Reed or any of the others and a golden opportunity vanishes immediately. Understand? It’s time to look after your own neck. Reed’s history, and I doubt the company will survive.”

Sid clenched his jaw and nodded slightly.

“Twenty-four hours,” Mayfield said. “I want to hear from you or your lawyers within twenty-four hours, okay? And we’ll meet in forty-eight.”

Sid kept nodding.

—

Early Sunday morning, after a sleepless night, Sid Shennault drove to his lawyer’s office in Bellaire, an affluent community in Houston’s sprawl. The lawyer, F. Max Darden, was a well-known specialist in white-collar crime and had never heard of either Ken Reed or his company. For two hours, Sid Shennault spilled his guts and told him everything he knew about Grattin, Reed, the management, and the use of vitamin E3, or Flaxacill. He claimed to know nothing about Nelson Kerr.