Justin said, "Bastard, is right. But he was a smart one." He remembered what he'd been told at the Ascension office. "Harmon bought the company that makes the filter device the cars need. And then he turned around and made an even bigger profit all for himself, by selling the devices to the company in Mexico that makes the final parts."
"The company he also owned," Reggie said.
"He had every base covered."
"You guys are pretty good at your job, I'll give you that," Bruno said.
"One thing throws me, though," Reggie said. "If he'd stiffed you and stolen from you, why were you still smuggling for him? Why agree to keep shipping the platinum to Mexico?"
"We weren't. And we didn't."
"But the truck that crashed… that had to be Evan's platinum."
"It was."
"But…" Reggie squinted. Her lips turned up in that crooked smile. "He'd started doing it on his own."
Bruno nodded. "He mighta done it legally at some point," he said, "but he starts moving it into Mexico on a regular basis, we're gonna know about it. So he had to keep smugglin' it in. He couldn't let us know what he was doin', takin' our goods and makin' a fortune."
"So when word got around about the truck-" Justin started to say.
"He knew Bruno and Lenny Rube would realize what was going on," Reggie finished. "He could have paid them back and even kept up paying them a profit on their investment. But they never would have realized what he was doing. Double dipping-giving them the small profit and taking the big one for himself and his other partners."
"Once the platinum was found in the truck," Justin said to Bruno, "Evan realized that you and Lenny would figure out exactly what he'd done: played you for suckers and taken you for a lot of money." He gave a half laugh. "And it would have worked, at least for a little while longer, if whoever was driving that truck in Texas hadn't gotten drunk and turned the thing over."
"Like I said," Bruno added, "I woulda killed the little prick. But somebody beat me to it."
"So we're back where we started," Reggie said. "Who killed Evan Harmon? And why?"
"Reggie," Justin said abruptly, "we have to see H. R. Harmon. And Lincoln Berdon."
"Jay, it's impossible. Their lawyers have blocked us every step of the way. Berdon's in and out of the country and Harmon's lawyers just keep talking about how he's so grief stricken. We haven't been able to get near them. We've been trying. They'll go right up to the attorney general, if need be-they've got a lot of clout and they're using it to keep us away from them."
He turned to her, his head cocked. "Say that again."
"What?"
"What you just said."
"I said they've got a lot of clout and they're using it to get off our backs."
"And they'll go up to the attorney general if need be."
"I'm sure they can even go higher than that."
Justin smiled bitterly, said, "Or lower." And when they both turned to stare at him, he said, "We have to see Harmon and Berdon. And we have to see them soon."
"I can't help with this," Reggie said. "You can't get in officially."
"Then we'll get in unofficially." Justin turned to Bruno. "You in the mood to do a little research?"
The three of them went through everything that Justin had printed up on H. R. Harmon and Lincoln Berdon.
Reggie said, "I don't see a way to do it, not in any way you're going to get them to talk. You're not going to be able to barge into their office and bully them into a confession."
And then Bruno said, "Wait a second. Go back to that golf thing. The club he plays at, it's in Westchester?"
Justin flipped through the papers on his desk. "Yup. In Westchester. Every afternoon at four."
"What's the name of the club?"
"Tilden," Justin said, glancing down to make sure he had it right.
"Tilden," Bruno repeated. And then he said, "I think we got our in."
"You want to explain this?" Justin said.
"The caddy master at Tilden. Good guy, nice guy. Name is Eddy Braniff. Never met a football spread he didn't like. Same for college hoops."
"Okay, so you know the caddy master, good for you."
"Hey, it's not like I go around socializin' with the guy. We don't go out for fuckin' high tea. The guy owes. And he owes big."
"How big?" Justin asked.
"Thirty-five grand."
Justin smiled and nodded. "I think we've got our in," he agreed.
34
H. R. Harmon was always surprised that golf was considered a morning game. What could be better than heading out on the links on a summer afternoon? The weather had usually cooled off; deer would flit across some of the expansive fairways; the timing was perfect, at the end of the round, to have an ice cold beer or, better yet, a tall gin and tonic. As usual, he thought, people had it all wrong. They did things backward. They went out when it was the hottest and most crowded because they were sheep. They were afraid to go against the norm. Frightened people making bad decisions. Even about something as simple and pleasurable as a game of golf.
H. R. smiled at the thought. And he realized his caddy thought he was smiling at him. Which wasn't the case. The caddy was kind of a screwup: couldn't find a ball on the second hole, told him to play a seven iron when he needed a six, was way off on the yardage on the fourth hole.
"You're new here," H. R. said.
"Yes, sir," the caddy said.
"Caddied around the area before?"
"Not so much," the caddy said. "It's kind of a new profession for me."
H. R. looked the caddy up and down. "A little old to be starting life as a caddy, don't you think?"
"Well, sir, it takes some people longer than others to find their lot in life."
Some lot, H. R. thought. Spend your whole life trying to figure out what to do and this is what you come up with-carrying around someone else's golf bag.
Frightened sheep, he thought.
H. R. teed off from the blue tees on the fifth hole. His Pro VI went about 220 yards down the right side of the fairway. H. R. still had good eyes, and he thought he saw the ball trickle into the right short rough. If he had a decent lie, he'd be in good shape. A solid rescue club knocked up toward the front of the green, a chip, and a one or two putt for a par or bogey. Easy. Except the caddy wasn't heading for his ball. The idiot was steering the cart off to the left, over toward the woods on that side.
"You gotta get yourself some glasses, son," H. R. said. "You're heading to the wrong side."
The caddy didn't respond, other than to step harder on the golf cart's accelerator. H. R. spoke louder, saying, "I'm on the other side of the fairway. You're going the wrong way!"
The caddy turned his head to look at his passenger.
"I don't think so," he said.
The woods were thick and shielded them from the open expanse of the rest of the golf course. Justin knew they couldn't stay there forever; at some point someone would come by. They had to move quickly.
As he slowed the golf cart to a stop, he saw H. R. Harmon's eyes widen as he saw the size of the man who was waiting for them in the woods.
"Thirty-five grand this cost me," Bruno said to Justin. "I can't fuckin' believe I let that little weasel skip out on the whole thirty-five grand."
"It's for a good cause," Justin said. "It'll help keep you from going to prison."
"Let's get this over with," Bruno said, "before I lose my temper."
"Whatever it is you boys are doing," H. R. said, "you're making a very big mistake. You're not going to get any money out of me. And people will be here very soon to see what's going on over here."
"We've got plenty of time, Senator," Justin said. "More than enough time, in fact. And we're not looking for money."
He saw H. R. flinch a bit at the word "senator." He realizes we know who he is, Justin thought. Always a little unnerving.
"Here's a cell phone," Justin said to H. R. "Call Lincoln Berdon and tell him you need to get together right away."
"What is this all about?" H. R. said gruffly. "I'm not going to do any such thing. What the hell do you think you're doing?"