binder. The pieces of this case, maybe two or three cases, held together by the thinnest of wires: circumstance and an educated guess. The rest floated and turned in the darkness, offering themselves up as a piece of the puzzle, with no real clue as to how or why. I sighed and opened my eyes. This was fucked. I got out of my car, walked down Broadway and up a flight of stairs. There was a stack of mail shoved up against the door to my office. On top
was a thick manila envelope. The return address was handwritten in black felt pen: SOL BERNSTEIN JR. 110 SUTTER STREET SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Son of a bitch. I found my way to my desk, opened up the blinds, and sliced the seal on the envelope. By the turning light of late afternoon, I read Mr. Bernstein’s letter.
MR. KELLY,
I HOPE THIS MISSIVE FINDS YOU WELL. AS YOU PROBABLY KNOW, YOUR ASSOCIATE HUBERT RUSSELL CONTACTED ME IN REFERENCE TO A COMPANY NAMED TRANSCO AND ITS PARENT COMPANY, CMT HOLDING. MY LATE FATHER WAS INVOLVED WITH CMT MANY YEARS AGO, ACTING AS ITS ATTORNEY IN SOME MATTERS, AS WELL AS ITS REGISTERED AGENT. FORGIVE ME FOR NOT CONTACTING MR. RUSSELL DIRECTLY, BUT, AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING PRESUMPTUOUS, HE SOUNDED A BIT YOUNG, ALBEIT QUITE CAPABLE, OVER THE PHONE. I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND AND EXTEND MY APOLOGIES AND BEST WISHES TO YOUR COLLEAGUE. AS TO TRANSCO AND CMT, I HAVE THOUGHT A GREAT DEAL ABOUT THE MATTER AND DECIDED YOUR INQUIRY MIGHT BE AN OPPORTUNITY TO PUT SOME THINGS TO REST. I AM INCLUDING A RAFT OF DOCUMENTS I FOUND AMONG MY FATHER’S PAPERS. I THINK THE MATERIAL IS FAIRLY SELF-EXPLANATORY. I WILL INCLUDE A NUMBER BELOW, SHOULD YOU NEED TO REACH ME, BUT I SINCERELY ASK THAT YOU DO NOT. DISCRETION IS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE TO ME AS I, LIKE MY FATHER, AM AN ATTORNEY WITH A SENSITIVE AND VERY PRIVATE PRACTICE. I CONSIDERED GOING DIRECTLY TO THE AUTHORITIES WITH THIS INFORMATION, BUT COLLEAGUES IN CHICAGO ASSURE ME YOU ARE EXPERIENCED IN AFFAIRS SUCH AS THESE AND CAN BE COUNTED ON TO ACT IN A CONFIDENTIAL AND EXPEDITIOUS MANNER. I HOPE I HAVE MADE A WISE DECISION.
SINCERELY, SOL BERNSTEIN JR.
I weighed the bundle in my hand and then cracked it open. On top were several Transco engineering reports from 1974 to 1979, detailing internal concerns about the company’s products, including a suggested recal of its engine overrides. I scanned the old reports and laid them aside. Underneath were a number of old contracts stapled together, share certificates, and personal correspondence. I took my time with the materials, pul ing out a pad and pen to take notes as I read. When I was finished, I sat back and stared at the ceiling. On a single piece of paper I had sketched out the web of companies owned by CMT Holding, including Transco, Wabash Railway, and a number of related businesses and properties stretching back ninety years. At the bottom of the page, I wrote down the name of the entity that control ed al of them-the entity responsible for the L crash on February 4, 1980.
I pul ed out the black-and-yel ow logo Hubert had ID’d as belonging to CMT, as wel as the Old English script from Wabash Railway. I hadn’t noticed before, but the CMT train carried an odd t shape on the very front of its engine. I took a closer look at the Wabash script. The l in “Railway” had a smal bar across it, making it into a lowercase t as wel. Or, in both cases, maybe a couple of crosses. Fucking hel. Forty minutes later, I was stil piecing through the old papers when my phone rang. Marge Connel y had worked her magic with the autopsy photo. I downloaded the shots and talked to the medical examiner for another hour. Then I thanked her and hung up. I closed my eyes and visualized al those pieces of the puzzle, stil floating in the darkness. Slowly, one, then another, then a third stopped turning. They hung before my mind’s eye, slipped neatly together and locked into place. The picture sharpened, and a face came into focus. I printed out the photos the ME had sent me, packed up Sol Bernstein’s paperwork, and locked up the office on my way out.
CHAPTER 54
I should have known when I didn’t hear the pup at the front door. But my mind was somewhere else, sunk into the tangled depths of CMT Holding and a single autopsy photo. I was halfway across my living room when I looked up and saw her, wagging her tail and sitting comfortably in the lap of the mayor of our good city, the honorable John J. Wilson.
“Nice dog, Kel y. I should have kept this one.” The mayor gave Maggie a scratch behind the ears and set her on the floor. Then he gestured to the two men sitting on either side of him.
“These are federal agents. They want to ask you some questions.”
I took the only chair left in the room and considered the pair of suits, one black, one blue. If they weighed two hundred pounds between them, they were lucky. Behind them was the muscle, a linebacker type, wearing a gray cashmere overcoat, finished with black leather gloves and Maui Jim wraparounds.
“What about the Terminator back there?” I said.
Wilson waited for someone else to speak. When no one did, he shrugged. “I told them you could be reasoned with, but they were wary. Of the gun and al that.”
“And you just came along for the ride?”
Wilson stretched his thick lips into a thin line. “I came along to protect the city’s interests, Kel y. And maybe yours, as wel.”
“I’m listening,” I said.
Blue suit thumped a briefcase onto my coffee table and snapped it open. I caught a glimpse of red inside and got an idea where this might be headed. Then the suit opened his mouth and I got an even better idea.
“Mr. Kel y, my name is Leo Nolan. This is Dr. Matthew Danielson. We work with Homeland Security.”
Nolan didn’t flash an ID and I didn’t ask for one.
“We know you were involved in the capture and death of James Doherty,” Nolan continued. “We also know he talked to you about a red binder he had in his possession at the time he was shot.”
“I never got a look inside the binder,” I said. “Agent Lawson took it with her from the scene.”
Nolan nodded. “And yet, we have reason to believe you continue to make inquiries about the binder and the nature of its contents.”
“And how would you know that, Mr. Nolan?”
Nolan shuffled through his briefcase for some paperwork. “We operate under a federal directive cal ed the Cyber Initiative. Al ows us, among other things, to monitor computers and Internet activity that might pose a threat to national security.”
I looked at the mayor, who shrugged. “That’s as much as they told me, Kel y. Maybe you can explain the rest.”
I turned to Nolan. “The red binder you’re talking about is a Pentagon report issued in 1998, cal ed ‘Terror 2000.’ Yes, I saw the title when we were in Doherty’s house. And yes, I did some searching about it on the Internet.”
“Why?” Nolan said.
“Why not? A guy like Doherty carries something like that around with him, it gets my attention. How about you?”
Nolan flicked a piece of lint off his pants. “Did Mr. Doherty make any specific threats?”
“That’s what Mr. Doherty did best.”
“Specific threats against the city?”
I glanced toward the black suit named Danielson. “Does he ever talk?”
Nolan blinked behind his tortoiseshel frames. “Answer the question, Mr. Kel y.”
“No, he didn’t give me any indication as to what he had planned. I think he was about to when things got out of control.”
Nolan leaned in. “And you shot him?”
I nodded. “Whatever Doherty was planning, the details died with him. For what it’s worth, however, I might have some ideas.”
Danielson shifted in his seat and final y spoke. “We’re not interested in your fucking ideas, Mr. Kel y. We’re
