“Thank you,” said Walter. He smiled and reached out to touch Carter Lawrence’s arm. “I wish you the best. I really do.” With that, he turned and walked away.
New York
When the second letter arrived, Isobel took it immediately to Gold, as prearranged. Ed Macmillan joined them, followed closely by two men and a woman-all stone-faced, pasty, suited; they might have been related. They greeted Gold, ignored Macmillan, and shook hands grimly with Isobel. These were New York Times lawyers. She turned to glare at Gold. “This is a real newspaper, not a supermarket checkout sheet. I am a real reporter, not an intern. I won’t work in the presence of lawyers or people I don’t know. Melvin? Is this your idea of a joke?”
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Gitlin,” the oldest of the lawyers said. “You work for the New York Times, as do we. This case involves a potential for liability that is of great concern for the publisher and the parent entity. Mr. Gold was made aware of our need to be present. We’re all part of a publicly held corporation, as you know. Accordingly, we have obligations to-”
“B-b-bullshit,” Isobel said, slipping the unopened letter back into the folder she held very firmly. “This letter is mine. It is not the property of the New York Times. The story I write, after I write it, may be, but not the letter. I have no intention of sh-sharing its c-c-contents with you or anyone other than my editors.”
Maybe it was her alliance with Walter Sherman. It could have been the adrenaline. More likely, it was her certainty that whatever the letter said would be her sword and her shield. Isobel Gitlin knew for a fact that she had nothing to fear from anyone East or West of Fiji.
The attorney’s stream of patience flowed shallow, not deep. It was bone dry now. “You don’t seem to understand, young lady-”
“You don’t seem to understand, old man!” Turning toward the Moose, she demanded, “They go or I go. Mel?”
When all three had departed, she turned to Ed, whose bleary expression pleased her immensely. “L-l-lawyers?” She applied her village-girl sing-song with its version of a Mexican accent. “We don’t need no stinking lawyers.”
She cared not a bit that the joke fell flat. Macmillan had probably never seen the movie, and Mel wasn’t in the mood.
“Read the fucking letter,” said the Moose. DEAR MS. GITLIN, Harlan Jennings didn’t kill Floyd Ochs. I can’t allow an innocent man to be charged and perhaps even convicted. I killed Floyd Ochs. I killed Christopher Hopman and Billy MacNeal too. I did it and I’m not sorry. As proof, I offer you these details: • Floyd Ochs was shot with a Beretta S06, 12 gauge, Diamond Pigeon made in Italy, using an English cartridge by Gamebore aptly named Pigeon Extreme. Ochs was less than twenty feet from me when I fired. • Billy MacNeal was shot with a 7.62mm shell fired from a Galil Sniper Rifle, sometimes called a Galatz, made by IMI in Israel. It’s possible to mistake or misidentify this weapon as a German G3-SG1 or a Russian SVD. You can make sure the FBI doesn’t make that mistake. The Galil comes with its own 6x telescopic sight, which was suitable since he was only 150 yards from me at the time. I also used a TPR-S suppressor to minimize the sound. At that distance I doubt he heard anything. • I shot Christopher Hopman with a J. D. Jones-designed, Ed Brown-made, 50-caliber gun called the Peacemaker. I made my peace with him. This gun is a big one, but it doesn’t have the full power of most 50-caliber weapons. For my purpose, it’s strong enough, plus I used a 650-grain cartridge for extra speed because I was concerned that the can-type suppresser might not completely muffle the sound. I was exactly 453 yards from Hopman as calibrated by a Nightforce 3.5-15x50 Extreme Tactical Scope. Aiming downhill, that put him 1,318.2 feet from the position of the shell in my barrel. So, there you have it-the details. • The authorities probably haven’t identified all of these weapons, if they have identified any. If they had I think you would have known and printed it already. Now you can tell them. Without you, they may never find out. • You can also tell them that for the next one I will use a Holland amp; Holland double rifle called Nitro Express. It has a beaded cheekpiece, double Purdey underbolts, and a Greener crossbolt with gold-line cocking indicators. You’ll know it when you see it. Later I’ll tell you where to find that one too. All the physical evidence mentioned in this confession, all the guns and associated equipment I’ve described, not including, of course, the Holland amp; Holland, will be found in a large suitcase I’ve left in your name with your excellent doorman, Mr. Falikas. Your reporting on this has touched me, Ms. Gitlin. I ask only that you keep in mind that I seek justice, and nothing more.
The letter was not signed.
“Holy shit,” said Macmillan.
Mel Gold’s face had whitened by several shades. He’d become an albino moose or a man on the edge of shock. He spoke from behind the chewed pencil that quivered in his teeth. “Call your doorman. Tell him you’ll be there within the hour. We will send two security people with you. Get a description of whoever left the suitcase. Security will bring it here. We will open it. Until then, technically, we do not know what’s in it. We certainly cannot consider it evidence based on an unsigned letter. We are simply checking out what may very well be a hoax. That’s our official position. I will get two very big security people.”
“Could be another hoax,” Macmillan croaked, nodding, out of nowhere.
Mel Gold gave him a quick, dismissive look, then hurriedly told Isobeclass="underline" “Make the call from my desk. I’ll have security pick us up here.”
She could have floated out of her chair and bumped her head on the ceiling. She had his letter in her hand. And she had Walter’s e-mail. Number 8. Number 8 was Leonard Martin. But damned if she would tell anyone else.
Las Vegas
Pat Grath was not in Amarillo hiding behind a tumbleweed.
But he wasn’t much better off than that. He was laying low on the shore of Lake Mead just outside Las Vegas. He’d been there since the day he learned about Floyd Ochs. His estate house was back from the road a quarter mile and surrounded by thirteen acres, including four hundred feet of shoreline, which fronted a rolling lawn stretching from the back of the main house down to the lake. His family stayed in Texas. He brought nine bodyguards with him. He flew in a top security man to elaborate his house electronics, electrify the fences practically overnight, and add any other foolproof systems available ASAP. Still, Pat Grath was edgy.
He was a short, pear-shaped man just past forty with sandy hair and goatee, a snub nose, and a toothy smile. He’d always liked to have fun. He loved great food and beautiful women. But now he had no appetite. There were no girls in the party. He worried because the place was so secure. He thought his army of nine might grow complacent, and often instructed them not to. It was hard to make the point to his satisfaction. They all knew a twenty-four-hour camera covered the only road in, and one guy was always awake watching the screen. Two more, loaded down with weapons, manned the gate. Another two were always on patrol-the pool, the playhouse, the newly installed high-voltage fences, the lakefront lawn where Pat spent most of his time. The off-duty ones, if they weren’t asleep, played cards with him or watched TV.
Pat thought constantly about what could go wrong. He couldn’t come up with anything, and that made it worse. He was playing a round of croquet on the lawn, searching his mind for overlooked details. A bullet hit the end of his nose. The back of his skull and some of its contents were found as far as thirty feet back. The rest of him toppled like a log. The man on patrol who saw it happen called to the others and crouched his way to the body, handgun drawn, shaking every step of the way. He and the others threw frightened eyes rapidly from side to side. Had they known exactly where to look, they might have seen the tiny boat far out on the water turning quickly, heading toward the distant shoreline.