“I know people,” Nick said, “who are fervent hunters. They damn near love it, but they’re no marksmen. Some of them can’t hit the side of a barn. I don’t see how a man like Leonard Martin can begin at square one and be a proficient shot-hell, a goddamn sniper!-two years later. You can imagine the sort of weapons you’re talking about. It doesn’t seem possible they could belong to the Leonard Martin I know. It must be someone else. There must be someone you haven’t found yet.”
Nick Stevenson had been too young for Korea and too old to be drafted in the ’60s. He had no military experience and was not himself a hunter. In fact, he had not fired a weapon of any kind, ever. Walter told Nick he’d been in Vietnam, where he’d known men like Leonard who turned out to be natural shooters. They had an ability to shoot at, and hit, targets that others who worked much harder could not. They came from all walks of life, all circumstances. They were few and far between, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it. Perhaps Leonard Martin was one of them. Perhaps two years with nothing to do except hone those talents was plenty of time.
“Where could he do that?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know,” Walter said. “Not yet.”
They talked a few minutes more. Walter again assured Nick he meant no harm to Leonard. He explained to him, as he had to Isobel, that he believed Nathan Stein would try to buy his way out of this mess. He said, “You’ve no idea what kind of money we’re talking about.” Nick said he didn’t think money would count for much.
“Leonard has so much,” he said, “and, if you’re right, apparently nothing to spend it on except revenge.”
Walter’s conviction about Stein’s ultimate solution remained steadfast. “These people are all about money. They believe in the power of money like some believe in the baby Jesus. ‘Enough’ and ‘money’ don’t go together. If they don’t have enough, nobody does.”
“He must be paying you a handsome sum,” said Nick. Walter nodded. It was clear to him now that Nick Stevenson knew nothing.
“If you hear from him, please give him my message.” Walter handed Nick a small notepad page with the Ritz-Carlton logo at the top. On it he’d written a telephone number. “My cell phone,” he said. “Call me at this number. Anytime. Day or night.”
“You’ve not made my day any brighter,” Nick said.
“I’m sorry,” said Walter.
They shook hands and Walter left.
Atlanta
Carter Lawrence lived in an apartment building on Lenox Road in the midst of what might reasonably be interpreted as luxury run amok. Walter was surprised at the modesty of his building, surrounded as it was by far grander and more gaudy residential achievements. It was an older, off-white stucco structure set back from the street, only five stories high. It appeared to lack most of the exorbitant amenities: pools, fitness centers, uniformed staff, and even valet parking, conspicuously available everywhere else nearby. Carter Lawrence had not been wealthy until the Knowland settlement. Walter knew that. He measured wealth as being able to maintain one’s lifestyle simply on the earnings from one’s assets. No aspect of work was required. “Rich” just meant you made a lot of money. In Walter’s experience, he found many who were rich and few who were wealthy. Whatever amount Carter got from Knowland, he hadn’t spent it on a new place to live. Walter thought that was a bad sign, particularly if he was part of Leonard Martin’s operation. It would be difficult to tempt a man with money if he wasn’t spending what he already had. Leonard, on the other hand, had obviously been spending his. The question was: Was he spending it all on this project? Were either of these men the type to be bought off? Then again, who could refuse the kind of money Nathan Stein had to offer? He pushed the thought from his mind. Contemplating that kind of money brought unnecessary complications. His job was only to find the man. That was always just his job, and he was content with it.
Walter had favors to call in from many places: former clients eager to be so obligated; past contacts who liked him and would gladly help him again; even law enforcement with whom he was cordial. And he cultivated that rich garden, harvesting its fruit as the need arose. A phone call was all he needed to get a picture of Carter Lawrence. Taken by a photographer from the Atlanta Journal Constitution, it dated back to the funeral of his sons. A staff member attending to one of Georgia’s most well-known citizens had delivered it to him at the Ritz-Carlton. Fifteen years earlier Walter had been hired to find that man’s wife. After an indiscretion on her part, and a bad reaction on her husband’s, she bolted. Two weeks after she disappeared from her Tuxedo Drive mansion, he found her ensconced in a lesbian bar in Miami. The husband sent two other men to Florida to bring her home. The press was told she had been visiting friends in Boca Raton, and she was back in Georgia before anyone (except her frightened and angry spouse) missed her. Like all of Walter’s cases, he did what he was hired to do-find somebody-and the details never became public. Clients like the one in Georgia felt they owed a life-long debt to Walter, and they frequently exhibited a need to show their gratitude. Anything they could do to help him, they would. No questions asked.
Around noon, Carter walked out of his residence. Walter saw him from across the street, where he had been sitting on a bench. He crossed Lenox Road and followed Carter into the parking lot.
“Excuse me,” Walter yelled. Carter turned and stopped. Walter approached him, keeping a respectful distance. It was broad daylight, an open parking lot in plain sight. Nevertheless, he was careful not to appear as a threat of any kind. For all Carter Lawrence knew, this stranger wanted nothing more than directions to the mall. “I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Lawrence.”
“What?”
“My name is Walter Sherman, and I’m looking for Leonard Martin.”
Carter’s obvious, growing agitation was a concern to Walter, and he knew, at times like this, that some people under stress could forget everything said to them. So, he repeated himself. “My name is Walter Sherman. I only want to talk with your father-in-law. Do you know where he is?”
“Who are you?” the skinny lad said, eyes darting, mouth and jaw noticeably tightening.
“Carter, I’m Walter Sherman. If you don’t know where Leonard is today, when you hear from him can you give him a message? I really need to talk with him. Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Carter said, still visibly uncomfortable, although he no longer looked like he was about to start running. “I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you heard from him? In the Bahamas?”
“No. Two years ago, that’s when. After he left I never heard from him. Not in the Bahamas. Not anywhere. Who are you again?”
“If you hear from him, give him this,” Walter said, handing the young man a page from the same Ritz-Carlton notepad he’d given Nick Stevenson. On it he’d jotted down his name and a telephone number. “Day or night. Anytime. Will you do that?” Carter reached out and took the note, folded it without looking at it, and held it tightly in the palm of his closed left hand. Walter thought the youngster was about to cry. He asked him, “When was the last time you saw Leonard?”
“I won’t be able to help you, Mr. Sherman. It’s more than two years since I heard from him.” He said “him” in a way that made Walter believe Carter couldn’t bring himself to say the name Leonard. He saw in Carter’s face and the way he moved his hands a sadness verging on outright misery, a feeling of loss too heavy for his bony shoulders and pencil neck to carry. He knew, then and there, that Carter Lawrence had no contact with Leonard Martin. Walter looked curiously into Carter’s eyes. He couldn’t help wondering what it must be like to lose your wife-wife, ex-wife, there’s no difference-and both your children at the same time, the same way. It was clear he’d lost his father-in-law too.