The Rule of Nine

THIRTY-TWO

It was one thing to wait until we had confirmation of Thorn at the hotel in Puerto Rico, but the minute Joselyn came over and told me that Snyder was dead, we all knew this was no suicide.

There is no sense in waiting any longer. I call Thorpe in Washington and wait until his secretary answers.

“Hello, this is Paul Madriani calling for Mr. Thorpe. Is he there by any chance?”

“I’ll have to check. Just a moment.” The line goes dead for a second as she puts me on hold.

“You might give him the name Peter Montoya,” says Joselyn. She hands me a notepad where she has written this down.

“Hello, Mr. Madriani.” It is Thorpe on the other end. “I’m afraid you caught me at a bad time. I’m on my way to another meeting.”

“I understand. Did you hear that Bart Snyder is dead?” I ask him.

“Yes. I received a phone call from the Chicago field office this morning. I have to say it doesn’t come as a great surprise,” says Thorpe.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Of course, I am sorry for him, but he was around the bend, off the rails. You saw what he did up here in the news conference?”

“No. I’m sorry, I’ve been on the road,” I tell him.

“Well, you didn’t miss anything,” says Thorpe. “He went off on a rant against the police, us, the media, anybody and everybody within reach, claiming there was a cover-up involving his son’s death. And if that wasn’t enough, he shot off his mouth about this guy, Thorn, saying he was involved in some vague plot to blow up the Capitol. Snyder was bonkers,” says Thorpe. “It happens. I’m sorry for him, but there’s nothing we can do.”

“You don’t really think he killed himself?” I say.

“What do you think? They found him hanging by a rope in his garage with a ladder knocked over underneath him. Given the evidence and his bizarre behavior over the last several days, I’d say suicide is a pretty good theory.”

“Overdoses and suicides, those are Liquida’s specialties,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Right behind knifing young girls in their sleep,” says Thorpe.

“Listen to me,” I tell him. “We’ve tracked Thorn to Puerto Rico and he has a plane.”

“What are you talking about?”

I tell him about the boneyard in Arizona, the 727 and the phone number in Puerto Rico.

“And how did you come by all of this? Who put you on to the boneyard?”

“Snyder,” I tell him.

“Oh, that’s good. And how did he find out?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“That should tell you something,” says Thorpe. “How do you know it’s him?” He means Thorn. “Did you see him?” he says.

“No. But the guy at the boneyard ID’d him,” I tell him.

“Based on what?”

“Based on the photographs your agent gave to Snyder,” I tell him.

“I thought your lady friend, Ms. Cole, told you those photographs were not a good likeness of Mr. Thorn.”

“She did, but the guy at the boneyard still recognized him,” I say.

“Bully for him. We’ve looked at those pictures and compared them to our old file photos on Thorn. I hate to tell you this, but we don’t see the resemblance,” says Thorpe. “We’re having experts look at them to see if maybe there’s been some facial reconstruction, but it takes a while. We told Snyder this, but he was impatient. He didn’t want to wait. According to our agent who interviewed him in Chicago, Snyder’s law career was over. He was a man at an end. People at his office said he was chronically depressed. I hate to tell you this, but it’s a classic case of depression and suicide.”

“I hope you’re more inquisitive when Liquida hangs me,” I tell him. “By the way, I assume it wasn’t your people who put the GPS tracking devices on our cars?”

All I hear is silence from the other end.

“No, then who else but Liquida?” I ask.

“These tracking devices, do you still have them?” he asks.

“Why?”

“Because if you do, we might be able to trace them, find out who bought them, or contracted for satellite service.”

“We assumed it wasn’t healthy to hang on to them.”

“What did you do, throw them away?”

“Something like that,” I say.

“That’s too bad. And the photographs, the ones you say are of Thorn, I assume Snyder gave them to you?” he says.

“That’s right.”

“I should have killed the agent,” says Thorpe. “He had no business giving those photographs to anyone, let alone to a loose cannon like Snyder. Where are they now, the photographs?” he says.

“I don’t know where Snyder kept his, but we have ours,” I tell him.

“They’re not yours,” says Thorpe. “They belong to the federal government. They’re part of an ongoing investigation, and I want them back. Now!” he says. “Where are you?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you seem to be in a foul mood.”

“Sorry, but I have a full calendar today. I don’t have time for this. But I want those photographs back. Do you understand?”

“Stop dithering over the photographs and listen to me,” I tell him. “Do you have a pencil and paper?”

“Why?”

“Write this down. From what we know, Thorn is in Puerto Rico in a town called Ponce.” I spell it for him. “Unless I’m wrong, he’s staying in a place called the Hotel Belgica.” I spell it again. “Did you write it down?”

“What am I, your secretary?” says Thorpe.

“Did you write it down?”

“Listen, I’m late for a meeting. And I want those photographs. Do you hear me?”

“I’m telling you he has a plane, a 727, and he’s up to something.”

“Right,” says Thorpe. He thinks for a moment. “All right. I’ll have somebody check it out. What’s the name of this boneyard?”

I give him the information.

“We’re going to have to continue this some other time. I gotta run. Take some advice and go home,” he says.

“I can’t. I’m flying south.”

“You’re going to get in over your head,” he says.

“I already am.”

“Try not to get in any more trouble, and call me when you get back.” Thorpe hangs up.