can’t touch, or you’ll kill them. But they can stay alive. That you’ll allow. For men like that, they’d be better off dead.” Walter leaned forward across the table separating the two men. Leonard was perfectly still, stoic.
“For Stein and Maloney,” said Walter, “money is like drugs. They’re addicts, and you know that. A lifetime of fabulous wealth, and now they’re reduced to poverty. They can’t make it. They’ll cheat. Somewhere, somehow, they will. Maybe Nathan Stein gets some money-a hundred grand, two hundred grand-from one of his kids. You know, kids can have a hard time seeing their fathers suffer. Perhaps Maloney begs his wife to put some money in a Swiss bank account for him.
It could happen, right? They take the money and you kill them. You call this justice? For whom? For Nina? For Ellen? For her sons? I don’t think so. Vengeance, that’s what it is. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ And who the hell are you, God? Whose guilt are you killing for?” Leonard didn’t say a word, the expression on his face remained unchanged. “Where were you?” Walter asked. “Where were you when it mattered?”
Now Leonard seemed about to say something, but instead, he breathed deeply through clenched teeth, sat back, and a small, almost imperceptible, nervous and hostile smile crossed his lips. He would not be baited.
“I know about Barbara Coffino,” said Walter. The smile on Leonard’s face disappeared. Walter could see him catch his breath before it choked him.
Leonard broke the awkward silence by asking, “Have you ever killed anyone, Walter? You look like the kind of man who’s killed. Perhaps you’ve considered killing me. I suppose I’ll never know. You also look like the kind of man who knows- who knows -killing is sometimes the only way. If I’m wrong, tell me. But I know I’m right and you know it too.” They looked at one another, each man keenly aware, whether they liked it or not, they shared a common value, a common judgment, a common past.
Isobel returned to the patio, this time leaving open the sliding doors behind her. Walter could not interpret her look. The expression on her face, the tightness in her cheeks, the lines across her forehead, this was all new to him.
Leonard said, “I hope you’ll take it, Isobel. For Nina, Ellie, and for the boys.” He turned to Walter and said softly, “If you’ll call a car I’d be grateful. It’s time for me to go.”
“Go where?” Isobel asked.
“Home.”
“When is the next ferry, Walter?” Isobel said.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure,” he said, trying to recover himself.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Leonard. He knew there was a boat waiting for him in the harbor at Cruz Bay, and a chartered Gulfstream, fueled and ready to fly, on the tarmac at St. Thomas. Walter used his cell phone to make the call and told Leonard the car would be ready in ten minutes.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wait at the gate. And I’ll see myself out. Please don’t get up.” He shook hands with Walter, who was still seated at the table, his back to the water, looking in at his own house through the glass. Then Leonard turned to Isobel, where she stood. He smiled and extended his hand to her. When she took it, he covered hers with his other hand and held on to her tightly. “I hope you’ll take it,” he said before walking out. He did not look back.
Walter reached over for the file folder Leonard left behind. He opened it and began to read the first page of the first document, the one Leonard referred to as the cover letter. “Holy shit!” he said.
“Holy shit is right,” Isobel said, her attention far away on one of the small, empty islands offshore, unaware of anything Walter was reading. “You don’t know the half of it. That was Nicholas Stevenson who called me. When I called him back he offered me a job. He wants me to be the Executive Director for a new organization of which he and his partner Harvey Daniels are trustees. You won’t believe this. It’s a nonprofit foundation called The Center for Consumer Concerns. He wants me to come to Atlanta to discuss the details. Isn’t that a bit strange, don’t you think? Leonard Martin’s law p-partners offering me a job, especially this sort of job?”
“Well,” Walter said. “It’s a foundation that’ll have a lot of money.”
“What are you talking about? Is this something you and Leonard discussed while I was away?” He told her everything Leonard Martin had said to him, repeating his exact words as best he could remember them. “And it says how much in there? How much money?” she said, pointing to the folder. Walter nodded. “How much?” she asked.
Walter leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms out as wide as they would go, breathed deeply, smiled broadly, and said, “A little short of six billion dollars.”
“Oh, m-my,” said Isobel.
New York
Tom Maloney and Nathan Stein were still squirreled away atop the Waldorf Astoria, each keenly aware they were the only ones left. It preyed on their minds. It was the evil, ugly monster hiding in the closet, and they were ten-year-olds all over again, afraid to turn the lights out. Nathan couldn’t sleep or eat or sit in one place or calm down long enough to simply move his bowels. Maloney could do little more than lay on the couch. They bickered.
“Safe as… what the fuck did you say it was? ‘Cows in Calcutta’ or some other Godfuckingforsaken place. You’re full of shit, Tom. You’re fucking full of shit! And it’s going to get me killed.” Maloney still just sat there, saying nothing. Stein paced. “Goddamn, MacNeal and Hopman and you-yes, you Tom-you’re all getting me fucking killed!” Maloney was past the point of trying to soothe Nathan’s spirits. He no longer possessed the energy to play that stupid, fucking game. Pretense had flown out the window and off the penthouse patio, carried by the winds to the four quarters of New York City.
“Fuck you,” Tom mumbled.
All he could think about was Leonard Martin. Where was he? What was his next step? When would the executioner appear? Could Walter Sherman catch him in time? He considered sending more money to Walter, but what good would that accomplish? It would be of no use to him unless he found a way to get out of this mess. Besides, some things cannot be bought, not because they lack a price, but because they just can’t be. No amount of money can change the past. How outrageous, he protested silently. Maloney had been a good Catholic boy and now he found himself thinking he was a rich man afraid Leonard Martin was pushing a camel through the eye of a needle. He would go to heaven, wouldn’t he? In spite of everything? Jesus Christ had always been his Lord and Savior. Honest, he was. Did Jesus know he was here, in the Waldorf Astoria, in need of help? “Christ, I’m in trouble!” He trembled. He would have given the nun another million if he’d had to. A million? What’s another million? His wife was in Switzerland. His colleagues dead. His friend, mentor, boss was half mad. Tom Maloney felt helpless, absolutely fucking helpless. Christ, he’d give anything to be rid of Leonard Martin. He poured himself another bourbon and made for the toilet. Diarrhea plagued him.
Isobel arrived in Atlanta the day after she and Walter met Leonard Martin. Nick Stevenson and Harvey Daniels expected her. She took a suite at the Hotel Nikko and asked that they meet her there. The three talked for more than two hours. The Center for Consumer Concerns was hers for the taking.
“Chase anyone,” Nick said. “Anyone at all. Investigate at your pleasure. You’ll be in charge. No limits, no interference.”
“We’re the trustees,” said Harvey. “That’s for legal purposes. We’ll never tell you what to do or how to do it.”
Nick added, “Just be true to Leonard Martin, Carter Lawrence, and all the others like them. Do your best to see there are no more of them.”
Isobel took the job, and it was agreed she would give the Times notice through the end of the month. The Center for Consumer Concerns would lease a condo for her, giving her six months to find a place of her own. No problem, they assured her, especially with their real estate contacts. She could hit the ground running. The two trustees, both former partners of Leonard Martin, assured her they had no personal knowledge of the source of the funds with which the foundation would be endowed. All they could say was that they were confident large contributors would appear, and soon. Since she had not been present when Leonard explained the details to Walter, Isobel too had no actual personal knowledge. From a legal point of view the only three people associated with the formation of the foundation came to it with clean hands. Isobel remembered a sociology professor at St. John’s who
