“I’ll do that myself, thanks.”
“Did I give you what you need?”
“You gave me exactly what I need. I’ll make it up to you.”
And when he hung up, he knew he had it. Not every detail. Not every piece of the puzzle. But the overall scheme. It was crystal clear. He had it cold.
And then he began to write. He no longer cared about his missing computer and the lost information. He remembered the last two lists he’d scrawled into the floor of his prison cell and quickly jotted them down on his pad. The first list was Dandridge and the various ways he was connected to the pieces of the puzzle.
DANDRIDGE
Midas
EGenco
Cooke
Anderson
Stuller
Ingles
Mishari
The next list was one where he’d split all the names into two categories-people and companies.
Cooke Midas Anderson EGenco Stuller Ingles Mishari
Cooke was a victim. The others were survivors. The others formed the core group. So he rewrote the list, eliminating Cooke’s name. He stared at what he’d written, realized that Dandridge was missing. He was the link to everything and everyone else and he belonged in this grouping. So he quickly scrawled the name at the bottom.
Anderson Midas StullerEGencoIngles Mishari Dandridge
He didn’t have to stare at it for long before it came to him. Before it hit him like a sledgehammer on the back of the head. He turned to a new page. He wanted this clean and clear. And he rewrote the names in the left-hand column so it read:
Mishari
Ingles
Dandridge
Anderson
Stuller
Shaking his head, he underlined the first letters of each name on the list, first just one line, then two, then three. Each time he drew a line, he slashed down harder and more furiously with his pen.
Mishari
Ingles
Dandridge
Anderson
Stuller
There it was. In angrily underlined black and white.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.
A hundred thousand barrels of oil per day. Over sixty dollars per barrel.
Over six million dollars a day.
Follow the goddamn money, Justin thought. Everything else is a mirage.
But the money gets you there every time.
32
He was just missing a couple of pieces of the puzzle. And by the time Bruno Pecozzi showed up in the late afternoon, he was certain he would have one of them.
Gary Jenkins arrived back at Justin’s house around 3 P.M. with a sullen-looking blonde girl in tow. She was lugging a large leather case. When she took off her coat, Justin saw she was wearing the usual uniform of fifteen- year-old girls everywhere: jeans that were cut way too low on her hips, a tight shirt that didn’t cover her midriff, platform shoes that looked like refugees from the ’80s, and a lit cigarette hanging out of the corner of her lips.
“You’re my artist?” Justin asked.
“So what is this, some kind of deal where I draw you naked?”
“I’m the chief of police of East End Harbor,” Justin said. “I’m asking you to help me solve a serious crime.”
She sounded almost disappointed. “Yeah, that’s what Gary said.”
“Officer Jenkins,” Gary said sternly.
“Yeah, whatever,” the girl said.
“Will you help me?” Justin said. “It’s important.”
“I liked it better when I thought you were gonna be naked,” the girl said.
“I don’t blame you,” Justin said. “What’s your name?”
“Darla,” the girl told him.
“So you gonna help me, Darla?”
She turned to Gary. “Did you tell him what I want?”
“How could I tell him? I’ve been with you, haven’t I? Don’t worry about it.”
Darla turned back to Justin. “A year’s membership at the Museum of Modern Art. In New York.”
“That’s what you want?” Justin asked, surprised.
“For a whole year.”
“I’ll make it two years,” Justin said. “If you can draw what I need.”
“Whatever it is, I can draw it,” the girl said. “So let’s get goin’. I don’t, like, have all day.”
While Justin stayed with Darla, he sent Gary off on one more errand, handing him a credit card and giving him instructions. Gary was back in an hour with a brand-new laptop computer.
By that time Darla had gotten it right.
No, Justin thought, more than right. Perfect.
“Remember me when you’re hanging in MOMA,” he said. “I’m your first patron.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Can I go now?”
A few minutes after she’d gone, the doorbell rang. It was Bruno.
It was a strange moment for Justin. He didn’t particularly like Bruno Pecozzi. He was not immune to his charm or his easygoing, entertaining manner, but he understood that the man was a killer. Your basic sociopath. Justin had always expected that, one day, he’d have to arrest the man, and he had to admit that up until now, he would have said that would be a day he looked forward to. But there was a good chance this man had saved his life. Certainly, he’d saved his sanity. And there was one other thing: he needed Bruno now. He needed something done and he didn’t have the strength to do it himself. Arresting Bruno was the last thing on Justin’s mind now. He had something quite different he wanted to discuss with the strong-arm hood turned movie consultant. Something much more in keeping with Bruno’s particular talents. Justin was about to cross a line and he didn’t really care. He had
