“Yes?”
“He did it. He didn’t pursue me. He didn’t wait around for me to return. He just took the merchandise and left.”
Mike tried to make sense of it—the man who had taken so much pleasure in tormenting his former friends had let one escape. It didn’t seem to fit the pattern. And yet …
“Maybe he doesn’t want to kill me,” Fred said. It was more a question than a statement. “Maybe now that he has the bonds, he’ll leave me alone.”
“Maybe,” Mike murmured. “But I think this guy is a serious maniac, of the homicidal type, and you’re a loose end who could put him behind bars.”
“Then why—”
“You said the bonds come due tomorrow, right? He’s probably got something set up, some means of converting them into cash quickly. He may be too busy to chase you around a forest right now. But that doesn’t mean he won’t get back to you later. You’re a risk he doesn’t need and can’t afford.”
“Oh.” Fred’s expression was so crestfallen Mike almost wished he hadn’t been so honest. “I see.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be put under protective custody.”
“Oh, whoop-de-doo.”
“But the best thing that could happen to you is that we catch the killer. So starting right now, you’re going to tell me every goddamn thing you know about this man.” He led Fred back into the cabin and sat him down in the only chair that remained reasonably stable. “Start talking.”
Fred shrugged. “What’s to say? Jack worked at Blaylock like the rest of us. He liked to fish.”
“How did you meet him?”
“As I recall, Harvey was the one who first got us together. We were all in queue to use one of the company fishing cabins—not this one, they didn’t have it yet. A nicer place in Colorado. Harvey suggested that if we all joined together and went at the same time, we wouldn’t have to wait so long.”
“Made sense. How long ago was this?”
Fred cast his mind back. “A good, long while. Twenty years or more.”
“And you all got along well?”
“Back then, yeah. We were compatible. James was a little on edge; his life was always a wreck that would only get worse with time. But he was handling it, back then. Harvey and Maggie usually shacked up together, thus mutually cheating on their spouses. But who were we to judge?”
“And this Jack-—the killer-—he was a normal guy?”
“Sure. I mean, more or less. Nothing too strange. He did have a cruel streak; at least I thought so. Liked to torture small animals. Got off on setting small fires. One time he almost burned the cabin down.”
Animal cruelty and arson, Mike thought silently. Two FBI profile hallmarks of the incipient serial killer. “When did the fishing jaunts stop?”
“After we discovered Tony Montague. And the bonds. We all still fished—but not together. I can’t exactly explain it—but we really didn’t want to see one another much after that. Maybe we were afraid we’d inadvertently spill the goods if we were together. Or maybe you just don’t like looking at the guy who knows your guilty secret.”
All very interesting, Mike thought, but it wouldn’t help him track the killer down.
“Was he an accountant?”
“No, no. Worked in the legal department.”
“I notice you say worked. He’s no longer there?”
“No. He left a few years ago. There was some kind of trouble—I heard he wrote a report the upper management didn’t like.”
“And so they fired him?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“And you don’t know where he went after that?”
“Sure I do. He went to Tulsa. To the law school.”
All at once, Mike felt his blood run cold. “The law school?”
“Yeah. He became a professor. Like Canino. In fact, I think Canino helped him get in.”
Mike grabbed the man by his shoulders. “What is this Jack’s last name?”
“Matthews.”
“Jack Matthews?”
“Yeah. Some kind of tort expert, I think. But I don’t know where he is.”
“I do.” Mike jumped to his feet. His face was hard and set. “He’s somewhere here in Corpus, on his goddamn yacht. With my best friend.”
Matthews and Christina linked their champagne glasses together.
“A toast,” Matthews said, “to a beautiful lady.”
Christina giggled. “I haven’t had champagne in ages. Certainly not since this case began.”
Matthews rearranged the candles so he could lean across the middle of the table. “A lovely lady like you should have champagne every night. Champagne and bonbons.”
Christina took another sip. “You’re sweet.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Isn’t Ben overdue?”
Matthews took the hint. “So what is it with you two, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t be coy. You’re obviously very close.”
“I should hope so. We’ve been working together for years. We’ve been through some pretty tight scrapes.”
“C’mon. There must be more to it than that.”
“If there is, he hasn’t told me about it.”
Matthews laughed. “Fine. I’ll back off. Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll go find your colleague.” He started through the steel door that led to the outside deck, then stopped. “But if you ever change your mind, and decide you’d like to try a new colleague—keep me in mind, okay?”
Christina smiled. “Promise.”
Ben suspected that his twenty minutes was up, but he couldn’t tear himself away from his self-guided tour of the yacht. He didn’t know magnificence of this magnitude existed, except maybe in movies and comic books. You could live in a boat this size. In fact, if it were his boat, he would. Imagine living on the water, rocking gently back and forth with the tide. Maybe if he took more plaintiff’s cases, maybe if he cut down on his expenses …
Who was he kidding? Every time he took a plaintiff case he ended up losing money—even when he won. And he didn’t do much better with criminal work. He’d been practicing for years now, and at best he’d managed to survive. Whatever the secret of making money practicing law was, he didn’t know it.
The boiler room was the only part of the ship Ben hadn’t already explored. Normally, mechanical things didn’t interest him, but in this case, he was fascinated. He liked just listening to it—the swish-swish, pump-pump of the pistons, or whatever they were. The hum of the engine. Inhaling the faint but distinct odor of gasoline and oil.
He noticed the closed hatch at the far end of the room. Probably nothing there, but he couldn’t resist looking. He was in his Curious George mode; a closed door was just an invitation.
He opened the hatch and found a small closet almost completely filled by a metal tank. Some kind of boiler, he guessed. But something else caught his attention.
There was a paper bag on the ground, large, and apparently filled. Odd, but he probably would’ve ignored it—if he hadn’t noticed one word written on the side of the bag.
Blaylock.
Blaylock? Had Matthews brought some of his work along with him? That diehard. He couldn’t quit working even when the case was won.
Ben picked up the bag and peeked inside. It was not legal work. Ben was no financial genius, but these appeared to be negotiable bonds, issued by some foreign government. Each one bore a face value of one hundred thousand dollars. And there were lots of them. Lots and lots.
Ben’s eyes expanded. There must be millions of dollars in bonds here. How on earth did Matthews come by that kind of money? And why would it be tossed haphazardly in the boiler closet?