Robert Parker - Family Honor

I had known that Brock Patton was a banker, but the fact that he might make a run for governor gave new urgency to the knowledge that his wife posed for dirty pictures, and his daughter had been, if briefly, a hooker. I could see why he would want to keep a lid on things. I could see why his wife would. But why did Cathal Kragan care? What I knew was, there was a scheme under way. Maybe about being governor, maybe about something else. But there were people willing to kill somebody in the interests of that scheme, and Betty Patton was in on it.

I could ask her, but she wouldn’t tell me and then they’d know I knew, which would make everything harder, including not getting killed. I called my answering machine on my cell phone. Even if someone were able to trace the call they wouldn’t know where I was. There was a call from Brian. There was also a call from an attorney who said he represented Brock Patton. I broke the connection and dialed Brian’s number.

“Somebody aced Bucko Meehan,” he said when I got him. “This morning, early.”

“Suspects?”

“None.”

“How?”

“In his bed. Shot in the middle of the forehead. 357 Mag. Bullet came out the back and through the mattress and buried in the floorboards under the bed.”

“Who found him?”

“Cleaning woman, had her own key. Let herself in about 9:30 this morning and there he was.”

“How nice for her,” I said.

“You know anything I don’t know?” Brian said.

“No. Somebody must have seen him talking to us,” I said.

“My guess,” Brian said. “Unless it was somebody your ex sent over.”

“No. Richie’s not a criminal,” I said.

“He comes from a criminal family,” Brian said.

“I know. But it doesn’t mean he’s one.”

“The way you tell it, he used that criminal family to squeeze Bucko for you.”

“Yes. But he wouldn’t have anyone killed. Besides, what good would that do any of us. He was our only link to Cathal Kragan.”

“And now he’s not,” Brian said.

“So maybe Richie’s an unlikely suspect.”

“Yeah, maybe he is.”

“You sound like you wish he were a suspect,” I said.

“Just trying to get something to grab hold of,” Brian said. “I’m not picking on Richie.”

“Good,” I said.

“I thought you were divorced,” Brian said.

“I am. But that doesn’t make me silly.”

“For sure,” Brian said. “You want to have dinner?”

“Let me get my book,” I said.

I got it.

“I’m open every night until 2003,” I said. “What’s good for you?”

I thought there might be more to Brock Patton than one saw in the presence of his wife, so I went down to the MassBay building on State Street during business hours and took the elevator to his offices on the top floor. His secretary had on a little black Donna Karan suit and some pearls. She was very attractive, and felt good about it. She took my card with just enough contempt to remind me who was who, and read my name into the phone. She listened for a moment, allowed her surprise to show in a tasteful fashion and stood to usher me in.

Patton greeted me at the door.

“Sunny Randall,” he said. “A pleasure.”

He gestured me in and spoke to his secretary.

“I don’t want to be disturbed,” he said and closed the door.

The office was about the size of a major cathedral in a poor country. There was a wet bar on the right-hand wall. Beyond it a door opened into what appeared to be a full bath. A sofa big enough to sleep two was against the left-hand wall, and opposite the wet bar was a desk on which pygmies could easily play soccer. The rug was dark green. The walls were burgundy. The sofa and several armchairs were in some sort of butterscotch leather. The wall opposite the door was glass and through it I could see Boston Harbor and the Atlantic beyond and the shoreline as far south as Patagonia. On the walls were pictures of Brock with bird dogs and dead pheasants, Brock with important people, Brock firing shotguns. Where there were no pictures there were plaques, which honored Brock’s skeet-shooting skills. On some shelves there were shooting trophies. There were no pictures of Betty Patton, and none of Millicent.

“I must say I’m surprised to see you, Sunny,” Brock said.

“We have a common interest,” I said.

“You haven’t been acting as if we did,” he said.

He had his coat off, hanging somewhere in a closet, but otherwise he was in full uniform: striped shirt with a tab collar, pink silk tie, pink-flowered suspenders, blue pinstripe suit pants, black wing tips.

“I suppose it’s argumentative, but neither have you,” I said.

“Goddamn,” he said. “You’re a scrappy little bitch.”

“Thanks for thinking so, you have any idea why armed men would be trying to find your daughter?”

“Armed men?” he raised his eyebrows.

“I killed one of them,” I said.

Brock stared at me for a while.

“Killed, how?” he finally said.

“With a ten-gauge shotgun,” I said.

He stared at me some more.

“You care to tell me about it?”

“No. I want you to tell me who these men might be.”

“How... the hell... would I know that?”

“His name was Terry Nee. Worked for a man named Bucko Meehan.”

“Never heard of either of them.”

“Someone killed Bucko yesterday.”

“Jesus, Sunny, what the hell have you got me into?”

“I think it’s the other way around. Ever hear of a man named Cathal Kragan?”

“Who?”

“Cathal Kragan. It’s an Irish name.”

“No, Sunny, I’ve never heard of him. Have you discussed all this with the police?”

“How is your marriage?” I said.

“My marriage?”

I nodded.

“Why are you interested?”

“Mr. Patton...”

“Brock,” he said.

“Brock. I don’t know what’s going on here and I’m trying to find out. So I ask questions... like, are you and your wife happily married?”

He let his chair lean back, behind his vast desk, and folded his hands across his flat stomach. His hands were strong-looking, and tanned, the hands of an outdoorsman, but manicured. He was freshly shaved. I could smell his cologne. His color was good. His clothes fit him beautifully. His teeth were even and very white when he smiled at me.

“Let me say, Sunny, that I’m not so married that I wouldn’t respond to you.”

“Who could be that married?” I said. “You can’t think of any reason Millicent took off?”

“Don’t know, Sunny, and, you might as well know the truth, don’t much goddamned care.”

“I sort of guessed that,” I said.

“Since she was born she’s never been right. Schools and shrinks and trouble and more shrinks and different schools and more trouble and money, Christ, has she cost us money.”

“So why’d you hire me to find her?”

“Well, hell, you can’t just abandon her. I mean, how the hell does that look, your daughter runs off and you don’t even look for her.”

“How’s it look to whom?” I said.

“To anybody.”

“To the voters?”

“Sure, to the voters; it’s no secret I want to be governor. I can’t have my daughter out hooking on the damned streets while I’m running for public office, for crissake.”

“So now you know she’s not hooking, but you don’t know where she is. Is that driving you crazy?”

“I got half a mind to pull your pants off and fuck you right here on the couch,” he said.

“That is about half a mind,” I said.

We stared at each other for a time.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Anything that will help me figure out how to help your daughter.”