David Rosenfelt - Dog Tags

His relief when Andy answered was palpable. “Andy, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Andy said. “Where are you?” In the excitement he had momentarily forgotten that Willie had gone off in search of M.

“Everett. Up in Massachusetts.”

“Right. I think it’s safe to come back now.”

They talked for a brief time, since Andy had to get off to answer more police questions. Willie promised to get a flight back the next morning.

But there was plenty of time until morning, so Willie went back to the bar to have a few more beers and watch the TV coverage. He wasn’t going to be chasing M that night, or ever, so he could drink without worrying about staying alert.

Jason Greer came into the hotel a few minutes later. He had been repeatedly admonished by M to stay out of public view as much as possible, since his picture had been one of those that Carpenter had shown on Larry King.

But M hadn’t called in the two days since he left, and Greer had been going nuts in the room. So he went out to a fast-food restaurant, using the drive-thru so that customers wouldn’t see him.

Then, when he returned to the hotel, he did what he had been doing all along, which was self-park the van rather than use the valet. This was far less to avoid being recognized than to prevent anyone from seeing what was in the locked rear section of the van.

Greer walked down the lobby toward the elevators, casually looking into the bar and the televisions that were on in there. He stopped in his tracks when the first thing he saw was the picture of M, and a graphic saying that he had been killed.

Trying to control his rising feeling of panic, Greer went into the bar to watch the television and find out whatever he could. He didn’t notice Willie Miller drinking a beer at the end of the bar, nor would it have meant anything if he had. He didn’t know who Willie was, or what he looked like.

But Willie noticed him.

He couldn’t be sure, but he had a good eye for faces, and he thought he recognized Greer from the picture Andy had shown on television. And the way Greer was staring at the screen, trying unsuccessfully to hide the look of confusion and fear on his face, made it far more likely that he was right.

Willie went out and called Andy again, doing so from a vantage point where he could see the bar. No one answered, so Willie left a message in which he said that he thought he was looking at Greer, but he wasn’t sure.

As he was getting off the phone, Greer was leaving the bar. Willie followed him and got on the same elevator. Greer pressed 9, and Willie briefly debated whether he should press a different floor so as not to look suspicious. He decided to go to 9 as well, since Greer would have no reason to think that Willie was tailing him. If a potential tail, probably a cop, knew Greer’s whereabouts well enough to be in the hotel, there would be little reason to follow him to his room. They would have other ways of learning the room number, if they didn’t know it already.

Willie caught a break when Greer got off the elevator and went to room 942, which was almost directly across from the elevator. Willie was thus able to walk past him as if heading for a different room.

Willie then went to his own room, which was on the third floor, to watch more of the coverage and figure out his next move. He couldn’t be sure it was Greer; his mind and memory could have been playing tricks on him and causing him to be overly suspicious.

But it would be worth a day or two to find out, even though the idea of more time alone in Everett was not all that appealing. Regardless, he would stay and keep an eye on Greer.

The question he needed to answer was how.

CHAPTER 87

ALMOST GETTING KILLED CAN BE EXHAUSTING, AND I WOULD LOVE TO GET SOME SLEEP. Unfortunately, detectives usually have a lot of questions to ask when they find someone with their head blown open on a kitchen floor. The media have set up camp on the street outside, but they’re easier to avoid.

Even though Pete Stanton is in charge, and therefore we are obviously not under suspicion, the process is very time consuming. This is especially true since two people, Laurie and me, are very much involved. Milo, arguably the key player in the entire incident, escapes unscathed, and he and Tara are in the corner, sleeping together.

When we’ve finally answered everything there is to be answered, and when forensics and the coroner have concluded their respective business, my need for sleep is put on another hold. That’s because Benson and two other FBI agents show up at around two AM to make a long night much longer.

Benson talks to Pete for a while, probably getting an update, and when they’re finished Pete comes over and asks me if I want him to hang around as a buffer. I thank him but say it’s not necessary; I’ve had plenty of experience going one-on-one with Benson.

“You’ve been a busy boy,” Benson says when he comes over to me.

“As have you. Any chance that with Landon and M out of the way, we’re out of bad guys?”

“We’re never out of bad guys,” he says. “You called my office before.”

I nod. “Speaking of bad guys… Jonathan Chaplin is somebody for you to check out. He runs a hedge fund called C and F Investments. Landon was making the investments through that fund, and they were doing it through a bunch of different brokerage houses.”

“Chaplin know what was going on?” he asks.

I nod. “Definitely. But I’ve got something else for you that’s more important.”

“What is it?”

“First we need to make a deal,” I say.

“What a surprise” is his dry response, which I ignore.

“I want your word that an announcement will be made tomorrow stating in no uncertain terms that Billy Zimmerman is innocent. I don’t want people thinking he’s a murderer who was released on a technicality. The truth is he’s been a goddamn hero all his life, and when Erskine got shot he ran at the killer and disarmed him, even though he couldn’t stand Erskine.”

Benson nods. “Fair enough. Done.”

“And I want him taken care of financially.”

“Kiss my ass, Carpenter.”

“That’s what Erskine’s note said… did you write it for him?”

He ignores the question. “You want me to give Zimmerman my pension?”

“I don’t care how it happens. Zimmerman has been sitting in jail for a crime you knew he didn’t commit. Beyond that, the FBI committed jury tampering. I don’t think that was your call; I’ll bet it goes high up to people who will be seriously pissed and embarrassed to have it made public. Well, I’ll go on 60 Minutes to get the story out, if I have to, and you’ll have every reporter in America digging for more.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he says.

“You’ll do better than that.” I’m trying to extract a promise from Benson, though he wouldn’t be above breaking it if it suited him. My threat to go public is my insurance.

“Okay,” he says. “Are you finished now? Or do you want my firstborn?”

“I’m finished.”

“Okay, now here are my terms,” he says. “As long as I deliver on my end, you tell no one about FBI involvement in this case. And you tell me everything you know, right now.”

“Deal. I have reason to believe that the next commodity that Landon was hoping to profit from is natural gas.”

“Why do you say that?” he asks.

“The same companies that profited from the oil and rhodium through C and F are poised to make an even bigger profit on gas.”

“Do you know what they’re planning?”

I shake my head. “No. But with Landon and M gone, I would hope there’s no one else to plan anything.”

“You keep hoping,” Benson says, the implication being that he plans on doing a lot more than that.