Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“I’'ve got it, Quinn.”

“You’re lying,” says the Irishman, and for a moment my confidence wavers. But something in his voice tells me to push on, and with the dizzying rush that a cliff diver must feel, I say, “I’'ve got your boss by the short hairs, you bastard, and there’s only one way he’s getting it back. A trade.”

“Even if you have it, you can’t use it,” Quinn says with more certainty. “Your own government would bury you. You still don'’t know what you’re dealing with.”

Hope and excitement have filled my chest. “I'’ll tell you what I know. Your government buddy Hull’s like a vampire—he can’t stand the light. If I go public, he’ll vanish into a puff of smoke. Keep your focus, Quinn. The thumb drive is the thing. And if you put one scratch on Caitlin, you and Sands will spend the rest of your lives on Parchman Farm. You think Irish prisons are tough? You’d be better off dead,

mate.

You’ll be hearing from me soon.”

“Wait—”

When the connection goes dead, I pump my fist. “They don'’t have it.”

“That'’s great,” says Kelly, cradling Carl’s head. “The problem is, you don'’t either.”

“No. But I know who does.”

The wail of a siren echoes up Washington Street at last.

“Just in the nick of time,” mutters Kelly. “Christ.”

“Stay with him until they get here,” I say, backing through the door.

“Where are you going?”

“The DA’s office. You can find me there or City Hall.”

CHAPTER

51

It’s only three blocks from Caitlin’s house to the DA’s office. I use the brief drive to call Chief Logan at police headquarters.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while, Mr. Mayor,” Logan says with subtle sarcasm.

“I could say the same. I’'ve been pretty busy. What about you?”

“You could say that.”

“I'm calling to give you a head’s up on something. There was a kid named Ben Li who worked on the

Magnolia Queen

. Computer specialist. I think he’s in trouble—maybe even dead.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Just trust me, Chief. You ought to look into it. I’d pay special attention to things like safe deposit boxes or storage rooms the kid might have rented. You could search his house too, but I don'’t think you’re going to find anything there.”

Logan doesn’'t speak for a few seconds. Then he says, “I sure wish you’d decided to tell me this a little earlier. Like yesterday.”

“Why’s that?’

“Did this Li kid live on Park Place?”

“I don'’t know. Why?”

“Because a house owned by someone of that name burned to the ground before dawn this morning.”

A cold blade of premonition slices through me, but Logan pushes on too quickly for me to read its significance.

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, Penn. Face to face, if possible.”

I’'ve reached City Hall, and just in time. “I’d like that too, Don, but I'’ll have to get back to you. I'm about to go into a meeting with the district attorney.”

“That right? Be sure and give him my warmest regards.” The sarcasm drips from Logan’s voice. “Not that he gives a shit. He thinks the only thing we’re here for is to fix speeding tickets for his buddies—who are few and far between.”

“I hear you. I'’ll get back to you when I can.”

“I'’ll see what I can find out about this Li kid.”

I tell Logan I appreciate it, then park in my private spot and start toward the building that houses the DA’s office. The lunch crowd is returning to the city offices, but I hardly respond to their greetings, my mind on a fire that was surely no accident, and that must have meaning for those with the wits to read it.

It’s a measure of what Sands has done to this town that as I pass long-familiar faces, I wonder whether I can trust any of them.

Rose, my secretary, is walking up the sidewalk from the parking lot.

“Paul Labry’s waiting for you in your office,” she calls. “Apparently he showed up halfway through lunch, and he’s been there ever since. Dora says he’s very upset.”

“Why didn't you call me?”

“I just found out myself. He didn't want you disturbed. Said you had to talk face-to-face and nobody should mention him to you on the phone.”

Veering right, I trot across the grass to the door of City Hall.

Two women in the foyer dart out of my path with a cry as I take the steps two at a time. All I can think of is that it was Labry who first gave me the name of Edward Po, from his Golden Parachute files. Asking him had been a selfish thing to do; it put both him and his family at risk. But now I sense that this act is going to come back to haunt me—or has already cost Labry dearly. If he looked deeper into the Golden Parachute investors on his own

“Where is he, Dora?” asks a loud and insistent male voice. “Damn it, he never gets back this late from lunch!”

“Paul?” I call, opening the door. “I'm here, man. What’s going on?”

The man who stumbles toward me looks like a caricature of the dignified civil servant who accepted the citizenship award from me at the Ramada two days ago. He looked tired at Tim’s burial yesterday, but now his eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks flushed, and his clothes in disarray, the front left tail of his poly-cotton-blend button-down hanging askew.

Dora gives me a look bordering on desperation.

“Let’s go in my office, Paul. Come on back.”

Labry stares at me like he’s about to burst into tears, then throws his hand twice in the direction of my office, walks into it, and collapses in the chair opposite my desk.

I give Dora a placating gesture just as Rose comes in behind me. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

“We’re fine,” I tell her. “Will you check and see whether Shad Johnson’s in his office?”

“You want me to buzz you or wait till you’re done?”

“Buzz me when you know.”

Shutting the door softly behind me, I lay my hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeeze it. “What’s happened, Paul? I’'ve never seen you look like this.”

“I’'ve never felt like this,” he says, staring over my desk as if I'm sitting on the other side of it, and not looking down at the top of his head.

When he remains silent, I go around my desk and take my seat.

“I wanted to come talk to you this morning,” he says, “but…I couldn'’t get up the nerve.”

“What is it, Paul? Is it what I talked to you about yesterday? Running for mayor?”

Labry laughs so hard at this that mucus drips from his nose. He wipes it with his sleeve, but when he lowers his arm, the smile is gone. “I can’t ever be mayor now. Never.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn'’t get fifty votes. I don'’t deserve fifty votes.”

“Why not? What’s the matter?”

“I'’ll be bankrupt in a month. My father too, only he doesn’'t

know it. We’re going to lose everything. The business…our houses. All of it.”

“What?”

“I told you yesterday that retail’s gone down the toilet. Well, I did some things to try to compete with the big guys. Expand, you know? But I just made things worse. The debts just grew and grew. Then I did some gambling, hoping to make up the shortfall.”

This takes me completely off guard. “I didn't know you gambled.”

“I don'’t, really. Just enough to get to know some of the people who run the casinos. Which is crazy, when you think about it, because I didn't even want the damned casinos here. But it was Sands who bailed me out, man. He got me out of—”

“Sands?” I ask sharply. “Jonathan Sands?”

“Right. One night I got a little drunk and started bitching about the banks hounding me, and Sands offered to help out. He did too. But now…” Paul looks helplessly at me, then grabs his own shirtfront and jerks it upward. “They own me, man. They