Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 32

IT HAD TAKEN MIKE WEEKS to get an appointment to see Myron Blaylock. He had been desperate to get in, desperate to see the man before there was a fourth victim. And now that he was finally in, Mike was certain there was going to be a fourth victim—Blaylock himself. Because Mike was going to kill him with his bare hands.

“I can give you ten minutes,” Blaylock said, snapping his pocket watch closed. “So let’s not shilly-shally about.”

A pocket watch? Mike wondered. What kind of affectation was that? Although, as old as Blaylock was, he might own the original model. “Mr. Blaylock, I’ve been waiting for weeks to talk to you—”

“My apologies.” The elderly man’s spindly legs quivered a bit when he stood in one place too long. Mike was relieved when he lowered himself into a chair. “I’ve been quite busy of late.”

“The lawsuit?” Mike asked.

Blaylock tilted his head. “I see you stay abreast of current events, Lieutenant.”

“I do my best.”

“You’ve heard about this frivolous suit?”

“A little bit.” Mike decided not to mention that his best friend was the plaintiffs" attorney. Somehow, he didn’t think that would endear him to the old codger. “Are you sure it’s frivolous?”

“Of course it’s frivolous. No one knows what causes cancer. To blame it on chemicals used half a mile away … it’s just preposterous.” It could be his imagination, but Mike thought Blaylock’s face did not quite bear the conviction of his words. Was it possible the geezer was having doubts? “Your time is running, Lieutenant. I assume this is not what you wanted to talk about.”

“No. It isn’t. I’m trying to figure out who’s been bumping off your employees.”

“Well, I wish you’d get on with it.” Blaylock’s voice caught fire. “I don’t like this kind of turmoil in the workplace. Absences have risen to an all-time high. Apparently some people are afraid to come to work, afraid they might be the next to go.”

Mike noted that Blaylock’s consternation was all related to business; he hadn’t said a word about the minor inconvenience to the people being murdered. “I’ve talked to most of your top executives,” Mike said. “And a lot of your employees. Everyone who worked with the deceased. I’ve been trying to learn why anyone might want to kill these people.”

“And what have you learned?”

“I haven’t learned scratch. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

“Me?” Blaylock pressed a gnarled hand against his chest. “You think I could help you? I didn’t even know those people.”

“You must’ve known something about them.”

“Lieutenant, I have thousands of employees—”

“And three of them—who are now dead—had been with the company more than fifteen years. Two of them for more than twenty.”

“Nonetheless, I am not the personnel manager. I’m afraid I can’t help you.

Blaylock pressed his hands against the desk, as if signaling that the interview was over.

Mike quickly jumped in; he hadn’t nearly gotten his ten minutes" worth yet. “Was there anything these three victims had in common? Other than working here?”

“Not that I’m aware. I believe I was told they worked in different departments.”

“That’s true.”

“Perhaps there is no connection. Perhaps there are multiple murderers.”

“Perhaps.”

“The murders themselves were each quite different, were they not?”

“They were different,” Mike agreed. “But I think that was an intentional ploy to mislead me. Different as they were, they were all hallmarked by extreme violence. Cruelty in the first degree. How many people can have the capacity to inflict that magnitude of pain?”

“In my experience,” Blaylock said, “quite a few.”

“I just can’t believe it. I think there’s one killer—the man who slipped away from me at George Philby’s house. And I think there’s a rational—or at least explicable—reason for these murders. These three people must’ve had something in common. Do you have any idea—”

“I told you, I didn’t know them.”

“Perhaps they all worked together at some time—”

“They didn’t.”

“Or were members of the same club. Ate lunch together. Worked on a joint project.”

“No, no, no,” Blaylock said. “If anything like that were true, I’m sure one of my executives would’ve reported it to me. And to you.”

“There must be some connection,” Mike repeated.

“Must be? Or you want there to be? That would make your job easier, of course. If the man is simply a crazed lunatic, picking off victims at random, you’ll probably never catch him.”

“There is a connection,” Mike said. “I just have to figure out what it is.

“Well, I’m afraid I can be of no use to you,” Blaylock said. He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time. “And I see that your ten minutes have expired.”

“I’m not done,” Mike protested.

“But I am.” Blaylock pushed the button on his intercom. “Janice, would you please escort Lieutenant—”

“Where did the money go?” Mike asked abruptly.

Blaylock blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The money,” Mike said calmly. Now it was his time to relax and let the old gasbag squirm. “The sixty million. That disappeared. Six years ago.”

“Cancel that, Janice.” Blaylock took his finger off the intercom. “It seems we’re not done talking.”

Ben had spent an hour the night before preparing Scout to take the witness stand. By normal standards, an hour would be a very short prep period, especially for such a vulnerable witness, but Ben was concerned about overwhelming the boy. Hard as he tried not to show it, Scout was obviously nervous about sitting in that chair next to the judge and talking to a lot of strangers. Who wouldn’t be? So Ben simply reviewed what he would say, tried to give him some glimmer of what to expect on cross-examination, and let his father take him away for an ice cream.

The next morning, after Judge Perry called the case back into session, Ben called the boy to the stand. He bravely soldiered his way to the front of the courtroom, brushing a ridiculously long shock of blond hair out of his eyes. He was dressed in a suit with a clip-on tie—and looked miserably uncomfortable in it. The suit must’ve been his father’s idea. Ben had the impression Scout wouldn’t have chosen it in a million years, not even if he was on the way to a funeral.

After he was sworn, Judge Perry asked the boy the usual series of questions to determine whether he was competent to testify despite his tender age. Scout asserted proudly that his daddy had taught him the difference between the truth and a lie, and apparently the judge was satisfied.

After Scout settled in, Ben began the questioning. “Would you state your name please?”

“Scout,” he said. “Er—I mean, that’s what they call me. I guess my actual name is Harold Marvin Michaelson.”

“Thanks. We’ll just call you Scout, if that’s all right with the court.” Judge Perry nodded graciously. “How old are you, Scout?”

“Nine,” he said quietly.

“Speak into the microphone,” Judge Perry instructed him. “Doesn’t do anyone any good if the jury can’t hear you.”

“Yes, sir.” Scout cleared his throat and leaned closer to the mike. “I’m nine. "Bout to be ten, though.”

Calmly, with frequent stops to deflect Scout’s inadvertent diversions, Ben led Scout through a recitation of what he saw that day, now months past, when he was playing in the forest and ravine near the Blaylock plant. Scout described how he and Jim hid in the ravine, how he saw the Brush Hog unearth the waste drums, some of them cracked or broken, and how he saw the Brush Hog drop one, which split apart on impact. Following the court’s prior instruction, Scout did not mention the dead body found in the drum. Judge Perry didn’t want the jury distracted by details that weren’t pertinent to the present case.

“Scout,” Ben said, winding up, “do you have any idea how many drums you saw hauled out of the Blaylock property that day?”

“Well … I didn’t have a chance to count. But there musta been at least forty. Probably more like fifty.”

“Forty or fifty waste drums buried in the ground. And how many of those were leaking?”

“Gosh. I couldn’t say for sure. Prob"ly—”

“Objection,” Colby said calmly. “If he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know.”

“Sustained,” the judge said quickly. “Son, we don’t want to hear any guessing up there. We just want to know what you know.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t know exactly how many drums were broke.” His voice dropped a notch. “But it was a lot.”

Ben smiled. “I have no more questions for this witness, your honor.”

Unfortunately, Colby did. Ben watched as the master trial lawyer approached the podium, his eyes fixed on Scout like a predator eyeing its prey. He wondered what approach Colby would take. He would, of course, try to poke holes in Scout’s testimony; it was the first evidence that tangibly linked Blaylock to the contaminated water. But he couldn’t come on too strong. Scout was only a boy, after all, and the jury wouldn’t like it if he started in with bully tactics.

“First of all,” Colby said, “let’s cover everything you don’t know. You don’t have any idea what was in those drums, do you?”

Scout glanced at Ben, then back at Colby. “N-no.…”

“Could’ve been water, for all you know.”

Scout swallowed. “I don’t know what was in the drums.”

“And you don’t know when those drums were placed on the property. Could’ve been the day before.”

Scout tilted his head to one side. “They looked pretty dirty. And they were buried deep.”

Colby looked at him sternly. “You don’t know when they arrived, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“And if they were placed recently, it would be impossible for those waste drums to have caused the well contamination. If there was any. Right?”

“Right.”

“Good. I’m glad we got that settled. Now let’s talk about something else.” Colby leaned forward, resting against the podium, tilting it slightly. “You were … playing a game that day, weren’t you, Scout?”

Scout hesitated. He undoubtedly remembered what Colby had done during his deposition. “Y-yes.”

“You were … pretending. Right? About the Outsider and all the monstrous things he did. Make-believe.”

“Yes.…”

“Pretending. Making it up.”

“Yes.…”

Colby fingered his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder how much of the rest of your story is … made up.”

Scout straightened. He wasn’t going to let Colby do this to him twice. “I’m telling the truth. About the drums and all.”

“So you say. So you say.” Colby opened a manila folder he’d brought to the podium with him. “But you have been known to tell lies on occasion, haven’t you? When it was convenient. When it got you a lot of attention.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“Are you sure about that, Scout? Didn’t you tell some of the other boys at school the other day that your father was the president of a big company?”

“Well …”

“But he isn’t, is he? He’s a janitor. Scrubs floors nights at the Blaylock plant.”

“Your honor,” Ben said, rising to protect his witness. “This is not relevant. He’s just trying to embarrass the boy.”

“That’s not so,” Colby said quickly. “It goes toward the witness’s propensity for truthfulness. That’s permissible cross.”

Judge Perry shrugged. “That’s what the rules say, counsel. I’ll have to allow it.”

Ben scanned the gallery and saw Scout’s father sitting two rows back, looking uncomfortable and angry. It had taken some doing to persuade the man to allow his son to testify in the first place, especially given that he worked at Blaylock. It’s a civic duty, Ben had argued. No harm will come of it. Now the man was no doubt wishing he’d never laid eyes on Ben, much less believed anything he’d said.

Colby continued questioning the boy. “Answer the question, son. You told that lie, didn’t you?”

Scout twisted uncomfortably. “I guess I might’ve exaggerated a little.”

“And on another occasion, you led your friends to believe that your mother lived at home with you and your father, that she packed your lunches and bought you cool presents. Didn’t you say that?”

“Well …”

“Don’t bother lying. I can call your teacher to the stand if necessary. She heard every word you said on the playground that day.”

Scout sighed, resigned. “I guess I might’ve said that.”

“But it isn’t true, is it? In fact, your mother hasn’t lived with you for some time, has she?”

Scout’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “No.”

“I don’t think the jury got that,” Colby said. “Would you repeat it?”

“No!” he shouted into the mike, so loud it reverberated through the courtroom.

“The truth is,” Colby said, being almost as quiet as Scout had been loud, “that your mother left you and your father a long time ago, didn’t she?”

“Your honor!” Ben said, jumping up. “This is uncalled-for harassment. It obviously doesn’t relate to the substance of this witness’s testimony.”

“That is simply not true,” Colby said calmly. “I am permitted to challenge the witness’s veracity … and to explore any motives he might have for … telling falsehoods. Which is exactly what I’m doing.”

“Very well,” Judge Perry said. “You may proceed.”

Damn this judge, anyway! Ben pounded the table on his way back to his chair, making sure the jury understood he was not happy about this ruling. Judge Perry’s deference to his old pal, the great trial god Colby, had gone too far. If he wasn’t willing to challenge Perry on this obvious impropriety, Colby could get away with anything.

Colby resumed. “How long has your mother been living … elsewhere, Scout?”

“Since January.”

“She’s living with some other person. Some man other than your father.”

Scout’s head burrowed down. “I don’t know where she is.”

“But you do get to spend some time with her, right? Every other weekend.”

“I guess.”

“And I guess in the midst of all this turmoil, you must feel rather left out. Neglected. Right? That’s what your teacher told me.” He paused, even though he didn’t really expect an answer. “I suspect at this point in your life, you’d do about anything to get your parents" attention, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” the boy said petulantly.

“And this little story you’ve cooked up—it’s gotten you all kinds of attention, hasn’t it?”

“No.”

“Attention not only from your parents, but other adults. Like Mr. Kincaid.”

“No.”

“Probably scored some big points with your father, since you’re causing problems for the employer he no doubt resents.”

“No! It isn’t like that!”

Colby drew in his breath. “Tell us the truth now, Scout. Wouldn’t you do just about anything to get your mother’s attention? To get her back home again?

“No!” Tears began to well up in his eyes.

“You’d say just about anything, wouldn’t you? You’d do anything to make them proud of you. To make them want to be with you.”

Scout remained silent. Which spoke volumes.

“I was told you subpoenaed our corporate financial records,” Blaylock said slowly, gazing across his desk at Mike. “But I was also told the trail was covered. I had no idea you would be quite so …”

“Smart?” Mike suggested.

“Perceptive,” Blaylock replied.

“Hard to miss a sixty-million-dollar disappearance.”

“Not as hard as you might think. We are a half-a-billion-a-year corporation, after all. The loss was written off to various causes and events. We’ve been audited every year, and thus far no one’s so much as raised an eyebrow.”

“Well, down at the station, we’re professional eyebrow-raisers. And we’re very … perceptive.” When Mike returned to said station, much as it pained him, he would have to thank Pfieffer. Maybe even forgive him. It seemed he’d given Mike the silver bullet. “So what happened to all the moolah, Blaylock? D"you decide to build a summer home in France or something?”

Blaylock frowned, his first sign of visible irritation. “I had nothing to do with the loss of funds. The money was stolen.”

“So Pfeiffer had been right. Someone stole sixty million bucks?”

“It’s true.”

“Is it? You see, sir, I’ve already checked the police records. No loss remotely approaching that amount was reported that year. And no lawsuit was filed for recovery.”

“We didn’t report it to the police. Or file suit.”

Mike’s credulity was strained to the limit. “You took a sixty-million-dollar hit—and kept quiet about it?”

“We did.” Blaylock leaned back, steepling his fingers. “We had no choice.”

“I don’t get it. Am I wrong, or is this a business for profit?”

“I’m very fond of profits,” Blaylock said. “But when the money disappeared, we had no idea who took it. It simply vanished—from a numbered Swiss bank account—without a trace.”

“That would be a reason for calling the police.”

“We couldn’t. That was the year we took the company public. We were on the verge of our first IPO—initial public offering of stock. The stock had been registered with the SEC. The prospectus had been written. The day for the offering was set. We couldn’t turn back. Any hint of scandal, or misfeasance, or … incompetence would have destroyed us.”

“Quite a coincidence that the theft occurred at such an inopportune time.”

“It had nothing to do with coincidence. The thief intentionally took the money at a time when we couldn’t afford a full-scale investigation. We had to stay quiet.”

“But sixty million dollars—!”

“I stood to make a great deal more than that from the stock offering—and did.”

Mike’s lips parted. “So you just … did nothing?”

Blaylock’s eyelids fluttered. “Hardly. We initiated our own investigation. Quietly. I used only those executives I felt certain I could trust. And at that point, there were damn few of them, believe me.”

“So the corporate VPs became Junior G-men?”

“Something like that.”

“Was Ronald Harris one of them?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“And you never reported the theft?”

“No. Never.”

Mike wiped his brow. “Jesus Christ. No wonder you clowns never found your money.”

Blaylock straightened a bit. “But we did, Lieutenant. It took months, but we eventually determined that only one man could possibly have committed the theft. Only one man—other than myself—had access to all the information—knowledge of the account, the account number, the password needed to withdraw funds—and was not in Oklahoma at the time the funds were withdrawn. We had the man nailed.”

“Oh, yeah? So you hauled the guy’s butt up and shook him?”

Blaylock paused. “There was one problem with taking any action against our suspect.”

“What was that?”

Blaylock settled back in his chair. His eyes rose toward the ceiling. “He was dead.”

Ben had spent most of the previous night preparing Archie Turnbull to take the stand. After all, he didn’t want a repeat of what had happened to Mr. EPA. Thorndyke had been an ideal witness—aggressive, committed, well-spoken. And Colby had still managed to shut him down. Of course Ben had redirected, trying to bolster his witness as best he could, but the damage was done. Colby had effectively pointed out all the gaps, all the unanswered questions that riddled Ben’s case. And he did it with Ben’s own witness.

By contrast, Turnbull was not aggressive, well-spoken, or confident. But he had resisted all the pressure Colby and Blaylock could bring to bear and given an honest deposition. Ben could only hope that courage continued to serve him on the witness stand.

By some miracle, Turnbull was still employed at the Blaylock plant. Actually, it wasn’t a miracle—it was probably a direct command from Colby. A retaliatory firing might appear to give Turnbull’s testimony too much credence—like they were trying to hush up a whistle-blower. Better to appear to be gently tolerating him, perhaps even humoring him, sort of as one might do with a wacky uncle who was slightly tetched—but not dangerous.

On the stand, Ben did his best to draw out Turnbull’s story—how he had dutifully worked in the machinery department, how he had supervised the waste disposal, how the company had established disposal procedures—but had periodically not followed them, in order to save money. He tried to reemphasize the most important parts—that Blaylock had systematically buried waste, creating a health hazard, either with full knowledge that they endangered lives, or with reckless disregard for others" lives.

At almost every turn, Colby was on his feet objecting. Some of the objections were so frivolous even Judge Perry had to overrule them.

“What’s with Colby?” Ben whispered to Christina, during a break. “Has he lost his marbles?”

Christina shook her head. “Far from it. Don’t you see? He’s just trying to interrupt your flow. Turnbull is probably your best fact witness and he knows it.”

“But his objections are stupid!”

“Stupid or not, they interrupt the testimony. Break it up. Keep you from gaining any momentum. Make the story less coherent. Make it harder for the jury to follow what’s going on.” She tossed her red hair behind her shoulders. “The jury should be shocked and appalled when they hear Turnbull explain what the company has been doing. Colby is trying to prevent that from happening. He doesn’t care about his objections. He just wants as little of what Turnbull is saying to sink in as possible.”

Ben resumed his direct—and Colby resumed the frivolous objections. Ben approached the bench and asked the judge to intervene. Judge Perry refused. “Opposing counsel has a right to object when he thinks it proper. As do you.”

As a result, the direct examination that should have taken one hour ended up taking four, interrupted by lunch, two bathroom breaks, and a record seventy-nine objections. Ben had no idea whether the jury understood Turn-bull’s story. After that, he wasn’t sure whether he understood it himself.

And then it was Colby’s turn.

“First of all, let’s talk about what you didn’t say. You don’t know specifically what was stored in the drums that were allegedly buried, do you?”

Turnbull licked his lips, mustering his strength. “I know we used TCE on a regular basis. And perc.”

“Mr. Turnbull, I know you’re determined to get back at your employer in any way possible, but I must ask you to simply answer the question. You don’t know what was in those drums, do you?”

“I can’t specifically tell you what was in each one, no.”

“And you don’t know if the buried waste leaked, if it traveled half a mile downstream to the aquifer, or if it polluted the water supply. And you certainly don’t know if these chemicals—which may not have even been present—could cause cancer!”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Compound, confusing, and”—his voice dropped a notch—“stupid.”

“That’s all right, your honor,” Colby said hastily. “I’ll withdraw the question. I think we’re all aware of the gigantic gaps in the plaintiffs" case.”

“Your honor!”

“I’ll move on,” Colby said, raising his hands. “Mr. Turnbull, are you aware that your testimony directly conflicts the testimony of every other Blaylock employee—including many who worked with you on a regular basis?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you’re asking this jury to believe that you’re telling the truth—and that dozens of other people are lying?”

“What I said was true. I wouldn’t lie.”

“Well, now, that isn’t exactly so, is it?” Colby leaned toward counsel table and retrieved two thick bound deposition transcripts. “You gave two depositions prior to trial, didn’t you, sir?”

Turnbull squirmed. “Y-yes.” Even a blind man could see Turnbull was becoming uncomfortable.

“And your testimony in the first is … well, rather different from your testimony in the second. Isn’t it?”

“I … made some mistakes the first time. I wanted to correct them. I volunteered—”

“You did a great deal more than simply correct your previous testimony, didn’t you? You directly contradicted it.”

Turnbull pursed his lips. “I suppose. In some instances.”

“Or to put it another way—you lied.”

Turnbull’s face stiffened. “I gave the company line. Like everyone else is still doing.”

Colby leapt on that. “So now you admit you consciously lied.”

“I said what you wanted to hear.”

“And then you changed it.”

“My conscience bothered me. I felt that someone ought to tell the truth.”

“How noble. So you took it onto yourself to contradict … virtually everyone else.”

“I told the truth.”

“Eventually. But you admit you lied.” Colby drew himself up to his full height. “The question is … which time?”

Turnbull’s brow creased. “I don’t follow you.”

“It’s obvious that you were lying at one of these depositions, but which one?

“I told you—”

“You admitted to this jury that you lied. The only thing we don’t know is when—and why. Or how much. Or how often.” He snapped his folder shut. “That’s all, your honor. I have no more use for this witness.”

“Dead?” Mike said leaning practically out of his chair. “You’re telling me the man who stole the sixty million bucks was dead?”

“So it appeared.” Blaylock’s calm demeanor belied the bizarre nature of the story he was telling. “I assure you, we had researched it quite carefully. An employee named Tony Montague, a senior supervisor in the accounting department, was the only man who could have committed the crime.”

“But for the minor inconvenience that he was dead.”

“Or so we believed, anyway.” Blaylock stood on his spindly legs and opened the shutters on the bay window behind his desk. “There had been an accident. A tragedy. Several of our employees were on a company outing. A trip to an amusement park in Oklahoma City. There was an accident on the drive home. The bus they were traveling in caught fire and … well, everyone was killed. Incinerated. It’s been years now. But you may recall reading about it in the papers. I’m told there was something defective about the bus. I don’t know all the details, but I know our lawyers were tied up with it for years, suing Ford on behalf of our employees" families. Seems Ford—then led by a young man named Iacocca—had decided to place the fuel tanks on this model of school bus’s chassis on the outside of the frame, rather than the inside. They saved money—but the bus was much less safe, caught fire more easily. And there were inadequate emergency exits. No breakaway windows.”

“I remember reading about it,” Mike said. “What a nightmare.”

“You may also remember that school bus in Kentucky that killed numerous children about the same time. Same model. Iacocca should be ashamed, reviled; instead, the masses act like he’s a hero. Some people have no sense of corporate responsibility.”

Mike bit his lip, trying not to laugh at the irony of hearing these sentiments from Myron Blaylock. “You said everyone was killed.…”

“So we believed. The officials counted bodies—what was left of them. The remains were far too charred to identify, even by dental records. But they did determine that the number of bodies was exactly the same as the number of passengers who went on the trip, plus the driver. So everyone had died.” He paused. “Or so we assumed.”

“But if everyone died—”

“Do you want the short version, Lieutenant? Or all the details?”

Mike thought for a moment. “I guess I’ll start with the short. You can fill in the details later.”

“Montague wasn’t dead. He managed to escape by breaking open a window at the last possible moment. He was the only passenger who survived. What we didn’t know was that he had picked up a young woman at the amusement park, and that she was riding home with him.”

Mike was beginning to follow. “So there was an extra body.”

Blaylock nodded. “And after he escaped, the number of bodies was exactly what we expected it to be.”

“But surely when he turned up—”

“He didn’t turn up. He disappeared. I don’t know how long he’d been planning this theft, but he took this as his golden opportunity to implement his plan. From his standpoint, it was perfect. The imminent IPO would restrict our ability to investigate. And even in the best of circumstances, how could we catch a ghost?”

Mike marveled. It was just about perfect. “So Montague kept out of sight, and when the time was right, swiped the loot. And no one the wiser.”

“Exactly.”

“How did you finally find all this out?”

Blaylock’s brow knitted. “Don’t you know?” He smiled slightly. “It seems you’re not as … perceptive as you thought, Lieutenant. Once I became certain Montague was the only man who could’ve committed the theft, I spared no expense having him tracked down. By that time, he’d burrowed himself in but good. He was practically a hermit. But we still found him. Eventually.”

Mike was almost disappointed. It was such a perfect crime, even a law enforcement officer hated to see it go sour. “But not the money?”

“To the contrary. We recovered the money. Almost every penny. He’d stashed it in a noninterest-bearing savings account. He was afraid we’d catch him if he started spending big money. He’d only spent what was absolutely necessary to survive—less than a hundred thousand dollars. Can you imagine? The man had sixty million—and he was living like a pauper.”

“But if you recovered the money—”

“It was reintroduced into the corporate books just as subtly as it had been removed. Even more so, I suppose—since you didn’t catch that one.”

Mike frowned. On second thought, forgiving Pfieffer was premature. “But you didn’t file charges against Montague?”

“No. Under the circumstances, we couldn’t.”

“How did you get Montague to turn over the cash?”

“We made a deal. If he returned the money, we’d leave him alone.”

“You couldn’t prosecute him anyway—not without admitting you’d committed a fraud on your shareholders by not reporting the loss.”

“I don’t like the word "fraud,"” Blaylock replied, “but your understanding of the situation is essentially correct. We couldn’t go after him. So we made a deal. And recovered our money.”

“Wow,” Mike said, rubbing his brow. “That’s some story. Where’s Montague now?”

“He’s dead. For real this time.”

“What happened?”

“He had a stroke, not three months after we found him. Seems life on the run had been too hard on him. His heart eventually gave out. His body was found in a fishing cabin in south Texas. He was alone.” Blaylock gazed out the window. “The man had possessed the riches of Midas. And it hadn’t done him the slightest bit of good. Probably killed him.”

“There must be a moral in there somewhere,” Mike murmured.

“There is. The moral is: Don’t steal from Myron Blaylock.” He walked around his desk. “So, Lieutenant, now you know all our darkest secrets. But I’m afraid it has nothing to do with the murders. Montague is dead and gone. And our money has been returned.”

They exchanged brief pleasantries, and Mike left the office.

He supposed Blaylock was correct; the theft seemed to be over and done with. Still, it was so extraordinary. He couldn’t help but think there was some connection. Some link to all the killing.

Or perhaps, as Blaylock had suggested before, that was just because he wanted there to be a connection. Because he didn’t have anything else.