Too Far Gone

33

Kenneth Decell hung up and slipped his cell phone into the pocket of his sports jacket. He looked at his employer, who had been staring at him anxiously while he talked to Veronica Malouf. LePointe raised a bushy white eyebrow, waiting.

“Manseur and Keen left satisfied after Malouf told them Danielson was still in the hospital.”

“Took her word?” LePointe asked.

“They didn’t ask to see for themselves. How the media got on this bothers me. Somebody set them up to it; I just can’t imagine who, or why.”

“Pressure,” LePointe said. “It’s obvious that whoever is behind all of this wants to keep pressure on me until I pay them off.”

“I’m not sure that’s the smartest way to deal with them.”

“It’s your job to deal with this, Ken,” LePointe snapped.

“Keen makes it a lot more complicated. She’s not local. I can’t close her down like I could if it was just Manseur.”

“Casey went behind my back to ask for Keen to be on this because she didn’t trust the police here to be competent.”

“Casey-”

“I don’t blame her, Ken,” LePointe interrupted.

Decell was glad he hadn’t finished his thought because, true or not, it wasn’t a good idea to criticize Casey West in front of her uncle. “He is her husband,” Decell said.

“She loves that little hippie. This Keen person is adept at what she does?”

“Extremely. An almost perfect record of successful case closures. When they’re solvable, her rate rises higher. She doesn’t miss much.”

“Which means what here?”

“For starters, what Veronica thinks Agent Keen believes and what she does believe may be vastly different.”

“If Casey had just left this alone, we wouldn’t have your second front to deal with, but there it is,” Dr. LePointe said. “If she had just left this alone. No second front.” Dr. LePointe had the annoying habit of repeating himself, perhaps just to hear the sound of his own voice, but maybe because he doubted an ex-cop could keep his mind wrapped around the facts LePointe thought worth remembering. “You’re a miracle worker and I need a miracle right about now.”

“I won’t let you down, Dr. LePointe,” Decell promised. “You can count on that.”

“I believe it’s time to let the authorities know about this letter.” LePointe lifted an envelope and then tossed it onto the desk in front of Decell, who removed the letter and read it slowly.

Refolding it, Decell said, “It’s probably better to let Manseur and Keen chase their tails for a few hours, until I can put things in order.”

“Inarguably you are expert at what you do, Decell. Cop-think works well enough situation-by-situation as in working with individual criminal cases. But this game is far bigger than the simple elements you’re concerned with. Dealing with complex situations and looking far into the future is something I have to do with accuracy every day. I intend to hold on to what my ancestors built brick-by-brick over three hundred years of hard work, learning from mistakes, and strategic planning. Naturally they suffered the occasional setback, but without receiving a lethal blow. That’s not going to change on my watch. During my tenure, the worth of the family’s assets has increased dramatically, and not merely due, as some might claim, to the economy’s performance.

“What I do,” LePointe said, opening his hands expansively, “is like playing several chess games at once. It’s a blessing that you don’t have to think on the level I do, Ken.” LePointe spoke in the manner of a patient parent explaining something to his child. “Failure is not an option, whatever the cost. Do we understand each other here?”

Decell stared across the desk at LePointe, knowing the man was just starting his Mr. Superior song and dance. Decell was accustomed to having to sit and be lectured to while trying to seem impressed, interested, and in agreement.

“Naturally, you are the only person I trust to handle this, Ken. And for doing so in a satisfactory manner, you will be rewarded most handsomely.”

“You’ve always been more than generous, Dr. LePointe.”

LePointe took a slip of paper from his desk, for a long ten seconds seemed to be considering what he was going to write down, then scribbled a figure on the paper before pushing it across the desktop.

Decell made a show of leaning forward to read the figure and prepared himself to act astounded by LePointe’s beneficence. LePointe had always paid him well, which considering the mundane nature and low effort level that most of LePointe’s requests required was indeed generous. But the figure Decell saw written there stunned him, because it represented the kind of money you’d expect to pay to have a senator killed.

“Is the amount adequate to ensure that this problem is going to be solved to my satisfaction?”

“I guarantee it.”

“That figure will be paid to you upon completion. Wherever and however you choose.”

Decell nodded, and realized he was holding his breath.

LePointe snatched the paper and put it into his desk drawer, stood up, and walked Decell all the way to the front door, which was unusual and-although Decell seriously doubted it was more than a ploy to make him feel appreciated-seemed to signify a change in Decell’s status from servant to trusted associate. It wasn’t the first time, but it was rare. LePointe didn’t want to know details, and Decell wouldn’t spell out the particulars of his mission.

If violent means were required, such measures would be forthcoming, with animal swiftness and absolute certainty. When it came to conducting the symphony of ending threats to his clients, Decell was willing, if not eager, to get his hands dirty.

For what LePointe was paying, ex-detective Kenneth Decell would have dressed up in the vestments of a cardinal, pulled a hammer from underneath his robe, and beat the Pope to death as he addressed the faithful gathered below the papal balcony.