“Who is it?” she asked.
“His name is Brett Fowler. He’s an ex-marine who has a consultant business in Washington.”
“Did he say what they want?”
“They want me to sell the wind-turbine business,” he said. “I don’t know why; it might have to do with the land that it’s on. I would do that, to keep them off my back. But I don’t think that will be the end of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because Ricci is calling the shots. Fowler even admitted it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. But once I do what he wants, Ricci is going to get rid of me. I’ll know too much.”
“You need to talk to the FBI, Alex,” Laurie said. “We can help you do that.”
“You only care about your client.”
“Ending this will help both you and Galloway. It’s the only move for you to make, and I think you know that without my telling you.”
“I’ve got to think about this,” he said, desperation in his voice. “If what they know about me ever comes out, I’ll be destroyed.”
“You’ll be alive.”
“I’ve got to think.”
Click.
Laurie got off the phone, called Andy, and relayed the conversation to him. “What do you think he’ll do?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He’s scared, so it will be hard for him to think rationally.”
“Fowler was on the call list. Tell Sam to dig deep on him.”
“I will,” she said.
She and Andy were of course unaware that the person they just decided to dig deep into was at that moment at the door of Alex Bauer’s house.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Fowler asked.
“Come in.”
He offered Fowler a drink, which he declined. “The judge has ruled. The ruling was perfect,” Fowler said.
“I know. I issued a press release praising it.”
“I saw it. Nicely done. Have you taken the other actions?”
Bauer nodded. “I have.”
“Then do you know what time it is?” Fowler asked. He smiled, not waiting for an answer. “Time for you to die.”
I’m surprised to see where Judge Holland lives.
It’s strictly middle-class all the way, and has a real neighborhood feel. The houses are modest, and each is set on a piece of land that has to be less than a quarter of an acre. If someone here raises their voice in their living room, neighbors on both sides know what they’re saying.
For some reason, even though judges do not make that much money, I always picture them as living in stately mansions with big white columns and long circular driveways. So far I’ve been wrong one hundred percent of the time.
I get there at around eight P.M., well past dark. My plan, such as it is, is to ring the bell and confront him. It’s not that well thought-out, since for all I know he could be away on vacation. But I was never going to get through by calling, and I want to see his face when he hears what I have to say.
I pull up and am about to get out of the car when I see his front door open. Judge Holland is standing there, with his wife, Alice, and son, Benji. I’ve reread all of the background information on Holland that Sam had dug up, so I’m very familiar with his family situation. In fact, it’s the reason I’m here.
Holland kisses Alice on the cheek, then picks Benji up and gives him a hug and kiss. Then he closes the door and leaves.
He heads for his car, in front of the house. I get out of my car across the street, and call to him just as he’s opening his door. “Judge Holland,” I say.
He looks up in surprise; I have no idea whether he recognizes me or not, but he doesn’t say anything, just stares at me.
“I’m Andy Carpenter.”
“Leave me alone,” he says.
“I can’t do that. I’m here to talk about Benji.”
It was an educated guess, and it’s only when I see him stiffen that I have confidence that I’m right.
He quickly recovers, gets in the car and drives away. I get back in my car and follow him, and we drive about twelve blocks. He’s not going quickly, making no apparent effort to lose me, though it wouldn’t be tough to do so. Car-following is not my specialty.
He turns into a small park, not at all well lit, and I follow him in. There are tennis courts near the rear of the park, and he pulls up and parks his car in a small parking lot adjacent to them.
I’m not at all comfortable with this. I’m not panic-stricken; following a judge to suburban tennis courts is not exactly like meeting Double J in his drug hideout. On the other hand, I don’t have Marcus with me.
I don’t see how he can be leading me into a trap; it’s not like he knew that I would show up. On the other hand, he could have called from his car and told them where we were going. I think they have cell phones in Delaware.
My hope is that he is willing to talk with me, but wanted to lead me somewhere private. That seems the most logical explanation, so I get out of the car when he does, and I walk toward him.
“So, Mr. Carpenter, what do you know?”
Judges have been seeing through my bullshit for years, so I decide to be straight with this one. “I don’t know much for sure, but I have very strong hunches, and they are hunches that can be verified. What I do know is that you adopted Benji before you were married, not unheard of, but an unusual thing for a single man to do.
“I also know that the mother of Roger Briggs, the boy who was supposed to have died in that fire six years ago, moved to Paterson from here in Dover. What I believe is that Roger Briggs is Benji, and that you are his real father. I believe that after his mother left and gave birth, she wouldn’t give you access to him. Maybe she was trying to extract money from you… I don’t know. So you hired people to bring him to you, and they set the fire.”
He nods slowly in a final confirmation that I’m right. “They were supposed to give her money, or scare her, or both. She was an addict, Mr. Carpenter. She couldn’t take care of him; she couldn’t give him any kind of life.”
“Why did they burn the house down?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe to hide the fact that he was missing, but I’ve always thought there was much more to it. He would never tell me. But no one was supposed to get hurt; he had promised me that.”
“Loney?”
“Yes.”
“So they had you on tape, and they could connect you to the fire. That’s how they blackmailed you.”
“Yes.”
“They told you how to rule in the Milgram trial.”
“Yes.”
“Did they demand anything else?”
“No.”
“You need to tell the truth now. You can’t let Noah Galloway be convicted of this crime.”
“They would take Benji; Alice is his mother, as surely as if she gave birth to him. He needs her, and she needs him.”
“You don’t understand,” I say. “I know the truth. I’ll reveal it with or without you.”
“No one will believe you. I’m a respected judge.” He laughs a short laugh, recognizing the irony.
“You’re wrong about that,” I say, even though I know he’s probably right.
“No,” he says, and in the dim light I can see him reach into his pocket and take out a gun. There is a glint of light off the barrel.
“Don’t do it, Judge. People know where I am, and they know why.” Even in my panic, the irony that a judge might shoot me is too obvious to miss. They’d probably never find another judge to convict him.
