they’d have learned he moved to the Bahamas and took twelve million dollars with him. His former law partners would have vouched for him, as would anyone else the cops might have talked to. If they even bothered to check, they would have found the house and property he bought in Jamaica, and the boat too. Soon enough, Leonard Martin’s file would have been tossed into the pile marked “Checked Out.” Walter knew that’s the way it probably played out because he’d seen it happen many times before.
But Walter also knew Leonard Martin was his man-no doubt about it. He’d cleaned out and packed up every aspect of his life, what was left of it, and disappeared. Most telling, he disappeared on purpose. Walter thought Leonard had good instincts. A man who intended to do what Leonard was doing needed to cover his trail, cut himself off from anyone capable of endangering him, isolate himself for the task ahead. Leonard Martin’s trail was not cold. It was frozen.
Walter called Tom Maloney in New York. He told him he had identified Leonard Martin and gave him a brief explanation. He then offered Tom a choice. Walter could continue his efforts to find the man, as agreed, or Tom could release the name in powerful circles and rely on law enforcement to do the job. If he opted for the second choice, Walter said that would entail a substantial cash refund. “A million dollars is a lot to pay for what I’ve done.”
Tom said, “Walter, I can’t adequately express my gratitude. It’s really wonderful news. You’ve more than justified your fee. I’ve got to go with your first option and let me tell you why. Between you and me, law enforcement is useless. Its incompetence will be a central theme in the social history of this country in the twenty- first century. We’re not kidding ourselves, are we? I know some of these guys and I guess you know some yourself. Would you trust them to finish the job? I wouldn’t. What’s more, I don’t want a bunch of civil servants out there scaring the fish away. You know what I mean? I want you to do your job and find the man. Once we know where he is, when you have him, I know we’ll be able to handle it. Is that satisfactory to you?”
Walter said, “Just wanted to give you the option.”
It took Tom half an hour to track Nathan down. A servant brought him the phone in the little man’s penthouse gym. He took it on his treadmill. Maloney reported his conversation with Walter. Nathan stopped the machine.
“Is he fucking crazy? He can’t call the cops. Under the covers. This stays under the covers. We don’t need any goddamn cops.”
“That’s what I told him,” Tom said, repeating himself slowly word for word. “I told him to complete the assignment.”
“And keep it confidential.”
“He doesn’t need to be told that. You already know that, Nathan.”
Isobel wasn’t in her office. She and Walter agreed not to message by voice. Walter knew where he had to go next, but before leaving he left her an e-mail with no subject and only the number 8 as text.
Atlanta
He liked old hotels, elegant buildings with high ceilings, ornate chandeliers, quiet bars, and round-the-clock room service. The smaller the establishment the better. The closest he’d find to that in Atlanta was in Savannah. Walter’s work had taken him around the country and around the world-a lot of hotel rooms in thirty years; the best and the worst, sometimes the only. He learned a long time ago that “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” was sensible advice. When in Atlanta he stayed at the Ritz-Carlton, Buckhead. If you can’t find old elegance, new will have to do. Last night, after realizing he needed to go to Atlanta, Walter called the offices of Stevenson, Daniels, Martin and left a message on Nick Stevenson’s voice mail. It was short and concise, not aggressive or hurried, not too friendly; he left his name and said he wanted to talk about “a matter of shared concern.” He’d be arriving in Atlanta tomorrow, he said, and asked Stevenson to leave a message for him at the Ritz-Carlton with a time and place to meet. Then he hung up. In the morning he ferried to the rock and flew nonstop to Georgia.
From the air the city of Atlanta appears to have multiple downtowns. In that sense it bears some resemblance to Los Angeles. Walter’s view from seat 4A showed the original downtown, a collection of modern office towers, two stadiums, a massive dome, and a group of skyscraper hotels taller and more attractive to his eye than LA. Farther north another downtown of sorts sprung up. He could make out the rash of construction cranes, toiling in their never-ending endeavor, building the offices and high-rise condos of Atlanta’s ritzy Buckhead neighborhood. He remembered reading that Elton John and Coretta Scott King lived in one of them, in the same building. “How could she afford that,” he wondered? Somewhere nearby, where new money commingled with old privilege, Carter Lawrence lived. Beyond that, two more substantial groupings of tall buildings stood separated by ten miles of the perimeter highway that encircled the city. Looking south, through the window across the aisle, Walter could plainly make out all of Atlanta’s growth to the north.
When he checked in, the desk clerk at the Ritz-Carlton handed him an envelope from Stevenson, Daniels, Martin, P.C. Attorneys at Law. Inside, handwritten on the firm’s letterhead, was a short note signed by Nicholas Stevenson. It ended with, “Call me tomorrow.” Walter was pleased. He showered, had dinner delivered to his room, watched a little television, and went to bed early. In the morning he called the number indicated on the note as Stevenson’s direct line. Nick Stevenson answered with a cordial, “Good morning, Mr. Sherman.” Caller ID had long ago taken all the surprise out of the telephone. Walter knew if the tiny screen didn’t say Ritz-Carlton, Stevenson had familiarized himself with the hotel’s number and recognized it when it rang. Either way, the thoroughness impressed Walter, who ranked preparation high on his list of admirable characteristics.
“Thanks for leaving the number,” he said. “I often find it difficult to reach somebody when we’re both strangers.”
“Not at all. I’m not the President. I’m easy to get ahold of.” Walter liked the accent and the casual manner that accompanied it. It registered right away that Stevenson’s tone showed he knew this call had nothing to do with real estate.
Walter said, “Is it convenient to meet sometime today?”
“Why, exactly?”
“You want to know now? Right here, on the phone?” That sort of directness was unexpected. It irritated him a little.
“It’s my private line, Mr. Sherman. Why not?”
Walter did not like being taken by surprise, especially on such a simple matter as arranging an appointment. It unnerved him, and he struggled slightly to regain the measure of composure he felt the situation required. A sip of coffee, a short cough, and then, “I’d like to talk to you about Leonard Martin. The people I work for…”
“And who might they be?”
Walter was unruffled. He felt completely in control of himself now. Did Stevenson know what Leonard Martin was up to? Could he be helping him? Questions that needed answers, but this was not the time. Walter could make assumptions on the phone, but then he remembered Sherlock Holmes. He needed to see Nick Stevenson, to sit face-to-face with the man before coming to any conclusions-any worthwhile ones. He said, “I’ll be happy to give you all the details I have-everything-when I see you.” Stevenson’s office was only a ten-minute cab ride from the hotel. They agreed to meet there in a half hour.
The ride, short as it was, was straight north on GA 400, a highway designed to quickly connect Atlanta’s richest suburbs with both Buckhead and downtown; a road built directly through one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city itself. It was a remarkable political achievement occupying a unique spot in the annals of American urban renewal and suburban sprawl; it displaced rich people to benefit others even richer. Its course ran like a vein graft in a bypass operation, pumping new blood to meet the increasingly demanding needs of the heart of Atlanta, the growth of business. And like a bypass, it was not a cure, just a temporary fix. It was not long before a new downtown budded, like the Bradford Pears that dominated the area along what was already being called the 400 Corridor. Stevenson, Daniels, Martin was on the fifteenth floor of the Queen-one of two apparently identical buildings of black reflective glass, each topped with a huge, but different, ivory-white architectural sculpture. They had the look of enormous chess pieces, especially at night, when their white crowns, bathed in light and held aloft by their black base, shone brightly against the night sky. Their identity as the King and Queen had been immediate. They stood adjacent to GA 400, just north of the I-285 interchange, surrounded by luxuriously landscaped grounds.
