The first week of June brought the first serious heat to the island, and with the longer days summer finally arrived. Ten months after Leo, the cleanup was over and the days were filled with the comforting sounds of electric saws, automatic hammers, diesel engines, and the yells and shouts of busy workers. Crews worked long hours, even double shifts, to repair and renovate cottages, restaurants, shopping centers, churches, and many inland homes. Most of the small beachside hotels and motels were open for business, but the larger ones with hundreds of rooms and far more damage were still months from reopening. The beaches had been picked clean and the eroded inlets had been rebuilt by tons of relocated sand. Most of the private boardwalks had been rebuilt and two new city-owned piers jutted deep into the water and attracted the usual assortment of lonely fishermen.
June also brought back Nick Sutton, fresh from his studies at Wake Forest and with a shiny new degree in English lit but no prospects of permanent employment. Not that he was trying. His plan, if it could be called that, was to spend the summer the same way he’d spent the prior three, housesitting for his grandparents while selling a few books, reading even more, and all the while hanging out at the beach and working on his tan. When pressed, especially by Bruce, who liked the kid but was worried about his initiative, Nick had vague ideas about an MFA degree where he could get a grant and write for two years while continuing to enjoy the college life. He had even more vague ideas about writing his first novel.
And he was quick to remind Bruce that he, of all people, had no business giving career advice. Bruce had been twenty-three years old and still classified as a junior at Auburn when he finally walked away.
Nick spent hours each day consumed with the details of the ever-evolving plots and dramas that began with the death of his old friend Nelson Kerr. He read everything online and kept all the stories in neat and indexed research files. He kept every video of every news report. He scoured the Internet for any snippet of news, recorded everything, and had become in the past six months a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge about the case.
Each morning at Bay Books, around ten, when he was supposed to punch the clock and get busy at the front counter, he barged into Bruce’s office with the latest news. After a full report, he usually said something like “And you made it all happen, Bruce. This is all you, man.”
Bruce demurred and argued that he had nothing to do with Danielle Noddin, the informant, coming forward. He had nothing to do with the capture of Karen Sharbonnet, the details of which had yet to be made public.
Nick would argue: “Okay, what about tracking down the miracle drug and busting Grattin? If you hadn’t had the balls to hire that firm at Dulles, we would’ve never known. Grattin would still be pumping the old folks with E3 and ripping off the taxpayers.”
They bantered and argued every morning, and Bruce didn’t mind at all. Getting the daily update from Nick saved him the time and trouble. And, before long, Nick let it slip that he was probably going to write a book about the entire episode. However, as of now the story had no ending.
By mid-June, eleven senior executives of Grattin had been indicted, arrested, and dragged to court for their initial appearances. Four were still in jail under exorbitant bonds. Several dozen executives and managers of related companies were under investigation. The case so far had proved to be a bonanza for the Houston legal profession.
Ken Reed was locked away in protective custody, deemed an extreme flight risk, and denied bond. Three of his airplanes had been grounded. His handsome yacht was docked at a Coast Guard lot. His fleet of fancy cars had been hauled in. Dane was living in their Houston home, which had been left alone, for the moment, but three other houses were chained and padlocked. At least six offshore bank accounts had been frozen.
In what appeared to be overkill, the FBI arrested some five dozen Grattin nurses, pharmacists, managers, and even orderlies for dispensing vitamin E3. Most were expected to point fingers at their bosses and escape with fines. Cable news legal experts speculated that the government was grandstanding a bit, flexing its muscle to draw attention to the enormity of the fraud.
Grattin itself was forced into involuntary bankruptcy, and an emergency receiver was appointed to protect its forty thousand patients. The company was far from bankrupt, as the receiver, a Houston law firm now on the clock at $100,000 a month, soon learned. Grattin was flush with cash and had almost no debt. To stay in the game, the receiver convinced the bankruptcy court that it was needed to run the company, which appeared to be a fair argument, according to cable news legal experts. All the bosses were either in jail or out on bond.
Vitamin E3 was immediately removed from circulation. Regulators in fifteen states, suddenly awakened, watched intently, along with a gaggle of journalists, the FBI, the FDA, and who knew how many other government agencies, as the number of deaths among the severely demented spiked in Grattin facilities. Clear proof, agreed the cable news legal experts, that the drug worked. If not for its horrible side effects, what was the problem?
Undaunted by the bankruptcy, and in a frenzy at the smell of fresh blood, the tort lawyers attacked with a vengeance and were soon bellowing from billboards and early morning TV. Class actions sprang up overnight in a dozen states. Cable news legal experts, throwing darts, estimated as many as two hundred thousand potential plaintiffs.
David Higginbotham, Karen Sharbonnet, and Matthew Dunn were indicted in federal court in Ohio for the capital murders of Linda Higginbotham and Jason Jordan. David was in custody there, while Sharbonnet and Dunn fought extradition. The family of Jason Jordan filed a $25 million wrongful death case against all three defendants. According to the Dayton Daily News, Higgs’s hard-earned net worth was about $15 million. His lawyer, who was expected to get most of the money in fees over the next ten years, vowed to fight all charges until the end of time.
On his deathbed, Rick Patterson had confessed to the murder of Dr. Rami Hayaz, a prominent plastic surgeon in Milwaukee who was at war with some ex-partners over the patent for a medical device. Dr. Hayaz had been murdered outside a shopping center in an apparent carjacking. He’d been robbed, shot in the head, and left for dead. His Maserati was found two days later in a chop shop in a bad part of town. For four years, the police had found no viable clues and the substantial reward money had proved useless. Rick admitted to the killing, the first with his new partner, Karen. The Milwaukee prosecutor called a press conference and announced a full investigation, vowing justice for Dr. Hayaz.
As Karen Sharbonnet’s rather substantial legal troubles mounted, she remained in isolation at an unidentified jail in the L.A. area. She spoke to no one, not even the guards. She hired a tough defense lawyer, an aberration in his field in that he ignored the media and hated press conferences. But the flood of attention could not be stanched. Her story was simply too sensational to ignore, and her attractive mug shot, indeed the only known photo of her, was plastered on every tabloid magazine.
Nick collected them all. He missed nothing.
One morning he reported that Danielle Noddin had filed for divorce in Houston. She had hired a fancy New York litigator known for her ability to unravel lopsided prenuptial agreements. There had been several reports of the money Ken Reed had hidden offshore, before and during their fourteen-year marriage, and it now appeared to be fair game. Dane’s lawyer had plans to get a chunk of it.
On the literary front, the sensational story of Nelson’s murder and its alleged connection to Pulse spun the book’s presale orders into another orbit. Simon & Schuster announced an earlier release date of October 15, just in time for the holiday season. It also announced an increase in the first printing from 100,000 to 500,000, with plans to perhaps go even higher.
The decision was made in Washington, at the Department of Justice. The question was: Of the three murders on the table, which was their strongest case? For obvious reasons, each of the three U.S. Attorneys wanted the first crack at Karen Sharbonnet. The Attorney General gave each half an hour to plead his case.
Western Ohio went first, followed by Southern Wisconsin.
The U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Florida made the most persuasive argument. Not only did he have proof that she was in the deceased’s condo—a single fingerprint—but he also had an eyewitness who saw her stagger away into the night, into the storm in the direction of the condo. Then the phone call to the witness from the deceased verifying her presence at about the time of his death.
All three cases had the deathbed confessions of Rick Patterson, which would pose enormous evidentiary problems at trial, but at least in Florida Sharbonnet had committed the actual murder. In Ohio and Wisconsin she had been the accomplice.
Another factor was Florida’s history with the death penalty. Its U.S. Attorney proudly rattled off the statistics that proved without a doubt that jurors in his state were far more likely to impose death than Ohio. And Wisconsin had abolished the death penalty in 1853.
At the end of the two-hour meeting, the Attorney General, with far more important matters at hand, ordered that Florida would go first.
The following day, Karen Sharbonnet was flown on a commercial flight nonstop from L.A. to Jacksonville. The details of her clandestine trip were somehow leaked and reporters were crawling all around the Jacksonville airport. The U.S. Marshals went to plan B and ducked through a side door, but one camera caught her. For about five seconds she was seen, under a baseball cap and behind thick sunglasses and with hands bound, getting hustled by heavy men in suits as they pushed her into a van.
Bruce watched it in his office, with Nick of course. The cable news legal experts were of the opinion that her trial would be at least a year away. Her codefendants, Ken Reed, a man she’d never met, and Matthew Dunn, one she knew well, would be dealt with later. Of all the charges Reed faced, federal capital was by far the most serious. One expert predicted that Dunn, the middleman, would cut a deal to save his neck and squeal on both Reed and Sharbonnet.
“It’s a storm, Bruce, and you’re in the eye,” Nick said.
“Get back to work.”
Two whole days passed with nothing new. Nick seemed lost without any breaking news, then sprang to life one afternoon when he found a story out of rural Kentucky. The police in the small town of Flora had closed their investigation into the death of Brittany Bolton and declared the cause to be just another opioid overdose. They had found no viable witnesses to her disappearance, no sign of foul play. Her family was too distraught to comment.
About once a month, Bruce chatted by phone with Polly McCann in California. She had been following the unpredictable events of the past few months, and while encouraged by the news that her brother’s killers might actually be found and brought to justice, she was not looking forward to drawn-out criminal proceedings on the East Coast.
She had recently been approached by a well-established Florida trial lawyer who had proposed the filing of a huge wrongful death claim against Ken Reed and the others. This lawyer had done impressive homework, and even flew to California to meet with her, her husband, and their personal attorney. He was of the opinion that Reed certainly had pockets deep enough to pay a sizable award, and that the wrongful death claim would take priority over all other civil matters. He suggested the sum of $50 million as an opener, with 20 percent for him if the case settled and 30 percent if it went to trial. The lawsuit would not be initiated until after the criminal trial, and, assuming Reed was found guilty, their case would not be difficult to prove.
He knew his turf. His résumé was impressive if a bit too self-congratulatory, but Polly and her husband had been mildly impressed. She asked Bruce’s advice on what to do.
He demurred and said that, in spite of the current chaos in his life, he knew very little about the law and really didn’t want to learn much. However, if his brother had been the target of a contract killing funded by a billionaire crook, then, hell yes, he’d want as much blood as he could squeeze. He agreed to quietly check out the Florida lawyer and gauge his reputation.
Polly left him with the news that she and her husband were planning to spend a week on the island to celebrate July Fourth. She needed to meet with the probate lawyer and so on. Bruce was delighted to offer them a guest room upstairs.
On a calm Friday morning in late June, Agent Van Cleve from Jacksonville called Bruce and asked for a meeting. He was willing to drive up late in the afternoon and perhaps have a beer after hours. He wanted Bob Cobb present, if possible. Bruce was surprised to be included in any discussion, since he had heard little in the previous months. He suggested they meet at Curly’s Oyster Bar for happy hour.
Bob was rarely not in the mood for a late afternoon drink, or even an earlier one. Nick got wind of the meeting and would not take no for an answer. The three got a table on Curly’s deck near the edge of a marsh and began with a pitcher of beer. It was Friday, the island was tired of another long week of rebuilding, the air was warm but not sticky, and the crowd was in the mood to blow off some steam.
Bruce had met Van Cleve briefly, but Bob had spent more time with him. The agent arrived in shorts and deck shoes and almost blended in with the crowd. It was 5:30 and he had punched the clock for the week.
Bob introduced Nick as a local friend but laid off any insults about unemployment. They poured Van Cleve a beer as he surveyed the crowd. Bruce noticed he did not have a wedding band. A waiter ventured by and they ordered a bucket of boiled shrimp and another pitcher.
Van Cleve got serious and said, “Okay, here’s the update. As you know, Karen had a partner, guy named Patterson, and she thought she’d killed him. But he hung on a few and even managed to talk. He gave us the goods on three contract killings, including Nelson Kerr’s. A fourth we’re still investigating. Over a ten-day period we managed to pull some facts out of him as he was literally dying. Broken neck, gunshot wounds, a mess. Anyway, they were paid four million by Ken Reed, facilitated by the broker Matthew Dunn, to rub out Kerr. They came here together, rented a condo near the Hilton, monitored Nelson, and made plans to strike. The hurricane was just their good luck. Suddenly they had a chance to pull the trigger while absolutely no one was looking. Karen got inside Nelson’s condo, whacked him, carried him outside in the storm, and you know the rest.”
Nick interrupted with “Excuse me, but what was the murder weapon?”
“One of his golf clubs, probably an iron.”
Nick grinned and raised his arms as if to accept their thunderous applause.
“What’s this all about?” asked Van Cleve.
Bob was shaking his head. Bruce said, “The day after the murder, while we were babysitting the dead body, the three of us were discussing the meaning of life. Nick here, who reads far too many crime novels, said that the woman was not a guest at the Hilton, was probably staying in a rental close by with a team, that she had met Nelson, thus knew him and talked her way into his condo. She did not take a blunt instrument with her but rather used something of Nelson’s.”
“The seven iron to be exact,” Nick said. “Read it in a Scott Turow novel.”
Van Cleve was impressed. “Well, well, are you looking for a job?”
“He damned sure is,” Bob said.
“Please hire him,” Bruce said. “He’s fresh out of college.”
Nick said, “And I work cheap. Just ask Bruce.”
They enjoyed a good laugh and refilled their mugs. The shrimp arrived and the waiter dumped half the bucket on the checkered tablecloth, sort of a lesser tradition.
Bruce asked, “So, how did they get off the island?”
Van Cleve said, “We’ll probably never know. The poor guy shut down after a while.”
“And he’s good and dead?” Bob asked.
“Yes, may he rest in peace. No more contract killings for him.”
“Or for Ingrid!” Bob said, raising his mug. “Cheers.”
They laughed some more, drank some more, listened as a country band got tuned up on a stage across the way, and watched the girls come and go.
Nick looked at Van Cleve and said, “So, when do you think they’ll put her on trial?”
He shook his head in frustration. “Who knows? Lawyers and judges. Could be a couple of years. She might even cut a deal and avoid a trial.”
Nick said, “Oh, I so want a trial. I want to see Big Bob here on the witness stand telling the jury about his wonderful weekend with a cuddly contract killer right before she rubbed out his close friend. Talk about rich.”
Bob smiled and said, “I’ll have the jury eating out of my hands. And her lawyers won’t touch me.”
Bruce said, “You can’t testify, Bob, you’re a convicted felon.”
“Says who?”
Bruce looked at Van Cleve, the only one with a law degree. He said, “Well, generally speaking, they prefer not to put on felons because of credibility issues. But that’s not always the case.”
Bob protested, “I got more credibility than that crazy woman. I want to face her in court.”
Nick said, “And they flew you all the way to L.A. to see her in jail? You gotta tell us that story, Bob.”
“All right, but order another pitcher.” Bruce waved at the waiter as Bob launched into his windy tale. His language deteriorated as his humor gained traction, and soon they were all laughing again. It was almost dark when the shrimp was gone but the party was far from over. They found menus and were discussing the catch of the day when a young blonde in tight shorts and T-shirt approached the table. Heads turned and the music seemed to pause as she stopped by Van Cleve, took his hand, and pecked him on the cheek.
He said, “Hello dear,” as he quickly stood. “Sorry, boys, but I gotta go. This is my friend Felicia.” She flashed a perfect glowing smile at Bruce, Bob, and Nick, all of whom were too startled to say anything. They returned the smile, and Bruce was about to ask her to join them when Van Cleve said, “It’s been real. Thanks for the drinks. I’ll catch the next tab.” They sauntered away, with every eye on the tight denim shorts.
When Bob finally exhaled he said, “Since when do Fibbies get the girls?”
“Well, Bob, he is about twenty years younger than you.”
Nick, still gazing, said, “Wow, that’s impressive. Maybe I will hire on at the Bureau.”
Bruce said, “Down, boys. Who’s hungry? I’m paying, obviously Van Cleve is not. Who wants fish tacos?”
The music cranked up again and the crowd grew thicker. When the waiter brought a platter of fish tacos they ordered another pitcher of beer. As they ate they recalled, with more humor than they had any right to expect, the awful hours after the storm and the scene on Nelson’s deck. They laughed at the vision of old Hoppy Durden, Santa Rosa’s only homicide detective who doubled as its bank robbery specialist, as he stared at Nelson and scratched his head. And then he strung up enough yellow crime scene tape to stop a riot. They laughed at themselves as the three looters making off with Nelson’s thawing meats and pizzas and the best of his booze, in his fine BMW roadster. They laughed at Captain Butler of the state police, strutting around the crime scene in his pointed-toe boots as if on the verge of making an arrest while not discovering anything useful. They wondered if the FBI had informed him that the killer was in Jacksonville, in jail. They laughed and ordered more beer.
Bob and Nick did not answer to women. Noelle was out of town, so the three amigos could let it rip. They needed a blowout, an all-nighter, because it had been a long time and they were tired of carrying burdens.
Because he was twenty-two, Nick had the standard habit of checking his phone every ten minutes. At 11:15, it vibrated and he yanked it out of a pocket. He began shaking his head and laughing. “Oh boy.”
“What is it?” Bob asked.
“It’s hurricane season, Bob. Started two weeks ago. And they’ve already named one: Buford.”
“Buford?” Bob said. “What a terrible name for a hurricane.”
“Didn’t you say the same thing about Leo?” Bruce asked.
Nick held up his cell phone to show them a red mass somewhere in the far eastern Atlantic.
“No projected path?” Bruce asked.
“It’s too early,” Nick replied.
“Where is he?” asked Bob.
“Two hundred miles west of Cape Verde.”
Bruce froze for a second and cocked his head. “Isn’t that where Leo came from?”
“Yep.”
They ordered another pitcher of beer.