Midas

17

Justin was a big fan of lists.

Police work was about details and thoroughness and all sorts of other things. But mostly, he thought, it was about lists. Things to do. Things already done. Things that couldn’t get done. Things to tell other people to do. Things to follow up on. Things to learn. Things to forget.

He had spent four years at Princeton studying business and almost two years in Harvard Medical School. If things had turned out differently-if he’d become a banker or a doctor as he’d originally planned, as had been expected of him his entire life-he wondered if he’d be doing the same things he was doing now. Entering columns of numbers or potential stock buys into his computer. Or putting together strings of ailments and symptoms. He thought that would probably have been the case. No matter how complicated or high-powered the job, it was all about information, knowledge; it was all about who made the right connections between otherwise unconnected things. Which meant it all came down to lists. So by the early afternoon he was sitting in what had recently been Jimmy Leggett’s office-so much for sentiment; space requirements took precedence-working away.

There were five people who might have a connection to each other, each of whom was now dead. Justin made one column of names. One of dates. And one of facts: anything he could think of that might be relevant to the investigation. The fourth column was for questions, for things he didn’t know but needed to find out.

The names in the left-hand column were Bradford Collins, Hutchinson Cooke, Chuck Billings, Martin Heffernan, and Ray Lockhardt. He began-because it was the only way to begin-with the premise that each of the men had been specifically and personally targeted. Lockhardt and Cooke had definitely been murdered; Justin was satisfied with the evidence he had in hand. Was it possible that Collins was an accidental death-just another innocent person caught in the Harper’s bombing? Yes. Absolutely. The same with Heffernan; it could be coincidence that he was eating at La Cucina when that bomb went off. Even Billings. There was no concrete proof that he’d been murdered. It was conceivable that the bomb squad cop had changed his mind about flying with Justin, that he had, as the official report declared, driven home and fallen asleep at the wheel. But Justin hadn’t become a banker or a doctor, he was a cop. A dogged and oddly fanatical cop. So he didn’t much believe in accidents or coincidences. He didn’t have that luxury. He had to go with the premise that they were all murder victims. And if there was a link between them, between any or all of them, he was sure as hell going to find it. By learning whatever he could and seeing where all that information led to and where the different elements crisscrossed. It would all be done logically and dispassionately.

With lists.

He began with the first man killed-Bradford Collins. To the right of his name, Justin put the date of his death, the date of the Harper’s bombing. Next to that, Justin began to list all the scraps of information he had about Collins. He was the CEO of the Texas energy company EGenco. Justin realized he had only a vague idea of what EGenco did-it was in the oil and energy business-and that what he mostly knew was that the company was immersed in a burgeoning scandal rivaling that of Enron. So he skipped over to the right and wrote in, “Understand EGenco.” Beneath that he added, “Details of corporate scandal.” And underneath that, he added, “Follow the money.” He underlined that last phrase for emphasis. Going back to the third column, Justin quickly scribbled everything else he knew: that Collins was a friend of the vice president of the United States, Phil Dandridge, and of the attorney general, Jeffrey Stuller; that Collins was sitting at or very near to the detonation point of the Harper’s explosion; that it was possible that the briefcase that contained the explosives had been given to Collins or someone else having lunch at his table. That reminded him of something else he needed to check, and he added this question: “Who was Collins having lunch with at Harper’s?” He stared at his own handwriting for a moment, not the worst he’d ever seen but not the most legible either, and finally he added two more questions: “Who the hell is Bradford Collins?” and “Why would anyone want him dead?”

He decided to stick with chronological order, so next on his list was Hutchinson Cooke. Justin put down the date the small plane crashed, November 7-the day of Jimmy Leggett’s funeral-and added the following information: the make of the plane, a Piper Saratoga, and its tail number: NOV 6909 Juliet. He scribbled in a few comments about his conversation with the ditzy Cherry Flynn-the name she’d given him, Martha Peck, the head of the FAA, and the fact that Cooke’s files had been removed prior to the crash, indicating that someone knew the crash was going to happen. He added the info that Wanda Chinkle had given him, about Cooke’s Air Force background, that he flew government officials, that for the previous eighteen months he seemed to have disappeared from the Air Force and had been collecting a salary from a company called Midas Ltd. Justin’s pen hovered over his yellow legal pad as he hesitated about making a first but very tenuous link: victim number one was a friend of Vice President Dandridge; victim number two had piloted government officials. To get a private pilot, one had to be fairly high up in the government-but as high up as the vice president? Justin added a new page to his list, with the heading “Connections.” And he added that one-followed by quite a few question marks. Even if the link was a legitimate one, he didn’t know what it could mean. But he left it on the page.

Chuck Billings was next and Justin had to put his emotions aside. He needed to be objective here, and the fact that Chuck had been his friend was irrelevant to the investigation. So he narrowed his known information about Chuck to this: the head of the Providence bomb squad had a meeting with someone from the FBI the day he was killed. He had anticipated danger because he’d sent Justin all his notes on the Harper’s bombing for safekeeping. Chuck suspected that the first bombing wasn’t a suicide bombing-and the key information was the sound of the cell phone ringing. Chuck believed the FBI was covering up the truth. He had a meeting scheduled with Wanda Chinkle for the day after he died. Justin closed his eyes, reached into his brain to see if he could come up with anything else of importance, but he didn’t think there were any more key facts. So, in the far right column, for the things he needed to know, he wrote:

“Who did Chuck meet with the day he died?”

and

“Read his notebook again.”

and

“If not suicide bombing, who made the cell phone call to detonate the bomb?”

and

“Sound of cell phone at La Cucina?”

and

“Jacks-were they found at the La Cucina bombing? How can signature be used to identify suspect?”

There were two names left. First was Martin Heffernan. Known info: “Works for FAA. Probably responsible for murdering Hutch Cooke.” Under “Need to Know,” Justin wrote, “Who was his direct boss? Who gave him the order to kill Cooke? Why was he killed-to stop him from talking?”

The final name was Ray Lockhardt. Justin kept his notes brief for Ray. What he knew was: “Shot at point- blank range. Threatened by Heffernan in name of FAA. Knew that Cooke was murdered by rigging plane.” In the far right column, he wrote, “Who killed him?” then “Why was he killed?” After that, he hesitated, held his pen in the air, frozen, and finally wrote, “Because I fucked up.”

Justin put the pen down on the desk, went to the computer, and began tapping at the keyboard to enter his list. He didn’t do this just because he liked things neat and clean-although he did; his life might be chaotic and raw but he preferred his investigations to have all their edges rounded off and smooth-but rather because he found that when he transferred his notes, when he typed, he usually found something new to add to the equation. Just one more step in the thinking process. He’d been doing it long enough, and successfully enough, that he knew the process wasn’t always rational. Subliminal thoughts crept in, and, while he didn’t always know what they meant or why he was asking the questions he asked, he trusted those instincts. And he trusted his questions. It was a lot like doing a crossword puzzle, Justin always thought. You could stare and stare at a clue and draw a total blank on the answer. Then you could put the puzzle aside, take a nap, do anything to keep from thinking about the specifics, and you’d pick it back up again later, look at the same clue, and the answer would be right there. It was hard to stop the brain from working once it latched onto something. He knew that well. It was why he drank so much and kept a nice little cache of grass at all times. Sometimes he needed his brain to stop working. Sometimes he had to stop it from working.

Sure enough, his ritualized process was successful again. Sitting at Jimmy’s old desk, Justin wound up typing in several new entries. By Ray Lockhardt’s name, he added that he’d been shot with a.38. He also added a notation: