Whistler's Angel Page 4

  “Give me a few minutes. Let me read.”

  Each sheet was a spread of two ledger pages. Each page listed names, sometimes only initials, in some sixty cities and towns nationwide. Under each name were what appeared to be disbursements. Some were cash, but most of them were property. There were buildings and vehicles of every description. There was furniture, computers, works of art, coin collections. There were several boats and airplanes, antique swords and chandeliers. They read like a list of auction items.

  His father asked, “This is all seized property?”

  “Apparently, yes.”

  “Seized, but not accounted for. Is that what you think? Otherwise, why keep a private record?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I recognize the names of five or six congressmen. Political contributions?”

  “All illegal.”

  “And a number of entries marked ‘Recon-JC.’ What is Recon-JC? Do you know?”

  “No idea.”

  “Reconnaissance, perhaps? Scouting out seizure prospects?”

  “I don’t think so. They don’t look like estimates to me. They’re all in round numbers. Must be actual disbursements.”

  His father took a moment to leaf through several pages. “Then whatever it is, it has profited nicely. All cash in this case. Over three million dollars. But our friend, Mr. Aubrey, seems not to approve. He scrawled the word ‘idiotic’ next to one of these entries and he wrote ‘total waste’ by another.”

  His father muttered ‘Recon-JC’ to himself as if rolling the notation over his tongue would help him to parse out its meaning.

  He shrugged and gave up. “How’d you get this, by the way?”

  “I found it in Aubrey’s house. I broke in.”

  “So, you already knew what was in it?”

  “Not really. I’d seen him take it out of his briefcase once or twice. I just

  thought it might be worth a look.”

  “You’re telling me that’s it? That’s all you had to go on?”

  “No, I’m telling you that I was paying attention when you warned me that Aubrey was a snake. He seems to live on what the government pays him, but he has any number of relatives and friends who’ve improved their lifestyles considerably.”

  “So he’s stashing and he’s spreading it around.”

  “And within the Center, he has his own payroll. They’re people whose names don’t appear on the roster. They only answer to Aubrey.”

  “The Center?”

  “New name. It’s called the Center for Policy Analysis. The idea is to make it sound like a Think Tank so that nobody pays much attention.”

  “Do you answer to Aubrey?”

  “I did. Now I don’t. I told him I’d only take orders in writing. That pretty much left me with nothing to do.”

  “Except snoop around. And make Aubrey not like you.”

  “It’s fair to say that we’re not friendly.”

  “So, when Aubrey saw that his ledger was gone, I would think you’d make the short list of suspects.”

  “My apartment’s been searched at least twice that I know of. My phone is tapped, but it’s always been tapped. And of course he’s had me under surveillance.”

  “Which you’ve shaken, I trust.”

  “Two plane changes back.”

  “If you didn’t, the twins will have spotted them by now. Drive around a while. Let me get through the rest.”

  He read for ten more minutes, squinting to see. He grunted a few times, took a few weary breaths. At last he tamped the sheets back together and slid them into the envelope.

  “This says they’ve been skimming. Big time, but so what?”

  “So what? They’re all thieves, is so what.”

  “Where there’s money, there’s greed. Does this come as a surprise?

  You didn’t join a Boy Scout troop, Adam.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “And name me a single federal program that hasn’t been scammed one way or another. The more money there is, the more fraud it engenders. Look at Medicaid, billions for treatments never given. Look at school lunch programs. They hemorrhage money. But, you’re right. Don’t get me started. I might offer my services.”

  “Could we stick to this one situation for the moment?”

  “Yeah, let’s. Aubrey’s boss…what’s his name again?”

  “Stanton Poole. He’s the Director.”

  “But a figurehead, correct? He’s no expert on drugs.”

  “Expert? Far from it. He’s totally clueless. His only qualification is a moral certainty that all drugs, including alcohol, are evil. I watched him testify before a Senate committee on the subject of decriminalizing marijuana possession. He said that marijuana – citing this as a fact – causes teenage boys to be three times more likely to yield to homosexual advances.”

  “You’re saying he panders to the Christian Right.”

  “It goes beyond pandering. More like total immersion.”

  “He’s sincere in his beliefs?”

  “Hard to tell with those people.”

  His father tapped the envelope lying on his lap. “I did not see his name or initials in the ledger. Could that mean he’s honest?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or might it mean that Aubrey’s not cutting him in?”

  Whistler shrugged. “I’m not sure that Poole cares about money. All Poole seems to care about is stamping out evil and punishing the morally deficient. That includes, by the way, anyone who’s pro-choice and certainly the gay population. Poole sees himself as the instrument of God. He sees everyone as morally deficient.”

  “Including Aubrey?”

  “And me.”

  “Well, trust me on one thing. Poole cares about money. The only question is how he would put it to use. As for you and Aubrey, you both being so unsaved, why does he tolerate having you around? I can guess, but let’s hear what you think.”

  “To fight fire with fire. That’s the premise of the unit. I’m sure that Stanton Poole thinks we’re going to hell anyway. In the meantime, we might as well be useful.”

  “Could he possibly not know what Aubrey is doing?”

  Whistler wasn’t sure whether Poole knew or not. He did, however, remember one meeting. Aubrey had pulled the ledger from his briefcase and had started to make a notation. Poole had cleared his thoat until Aubrey looked up at him. Poole then looked away, but as he did, he made a little flicking motion with his finger. Aubrey smacked his lips to show that Poole had annoyed him, but he did stick it back in his briefcase.

  “He…picks and chooses what he wants to know. Aside from that, and this is just a feeling, I think Aubrey might have something on Poole.”

  “Of course he does, Adam. That’s what Aubrey’s all about. He did not advance in life through his charm.” Harry Whistler took a breath, shook his head in dismay. “You sure know how to pick winners.”

  “I didn’t pick them. They picked me. They requested me.”

  “And I urged you to tell them to stuff it.”

  Whistler drew an irritated breath of his own. “Are you going to make me say it again? Okay. I know. I should have stayed where I was.”

  “No, Adam,” said his father, “you should not have done that either. If you’d listened to me…”

  “Dad…”

  “Okay, past is past. Are you listening to me now?”

  “I could do with some advice.”

  “Here it is. Walk away.”

  “Just forget it?”

  “The alternative is what? Blo“J w the whistle? Come forward? You, of all

  people, are going to stand up and say, “Gee, this is wrong. We should stop it?”

  “Me of all people? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re the shooter for this unit, are you not?”

  Whistler darkened. He said, “I am not just a shooter. I have not ever been just a shooter.”

  His father raised his hands. “Let’s not get into that now.
But we both know why they requested you.”

  “By the way, that’s something else. I haven’t done any shooting. But a couple of people have turned up dead and I keep hearing that it’s me who took them out.”

  A grunt from his father. “No surprise there either.”

  “I’m not being set up, if that’s what you’re thinking. There’s no way to tie me in with those killings.”

  “Not set up, maybe, but you’re clearly being used. You came to these people with a reputation, Adam. In my work, I hire reputations all the time. Most times, all they do is sit in on a meeting. They stare across the table at the opposition’s people as if they can’t wait to be let loose on them. Reputations, by their nature, intimidate, Adam. I suspect that’s been your primary function.”

  “The twins don’t just stare.”

  “No, they do what is needed. But like you, they’ve done less than they’re thought to have done. The difference is that I’ll never let them take a fall. Walk away from this, Adam, while you can.”

  “And do nothing?”

  “What they do is almost legal. What you do’s not even close. You can’t win this one, Adam. Give it up.”

  “Dad…I can’t. I can’t just walk away.”

  “You can and you will, as you should have at the start. That ledger will be your insurance. I’ll take it back with me, then I’ll let them know I have it. You’re out of this as of right now.”

  The argument didn’t end there, of course. It continued through dinner and resumed in the morning. Whistler knew very well that his father was right. In the short term he might cause a few resignations, perhaps even a congressional inquiry. Longer term, however, very little would change. New names, new faces, same game. In the meanwhile, his own face would be in the papers. That was bad because there were plenty of others who might want to settle old scores. He knew that his father was right about that. Some would want vengeance for things that he’d done, and others for things that he hadn’t done, but ended up being credited for. And now they would know what he looked like.

  His father said, “We had fresh snow last night. Let’s forget this for now and go skiing.”

  Later that morning they were up on the mountain. They’d skied Little Nell and had paused at Last Dollar. His father’s back was still giving him trouble. He would need to stop every few hundred yards, but quitting was out of the question.

  He couldn’t recall how the subject arose, but they found themselves talking about trust. He trusted his father. That trust was absolute. He remarked that he couldn’t think of anyone else that he was able to talk to this way.

  “No, Adam,” said his father, “There’s more to it than that. The truth is that you have no one else.”

  And he was right.

  Here he was, a month shy of his thirty-fourth birthday and his personal life was non-existent. He’d known a few women. Here and there. Now and then. But nothing that could have been called an involvement. And those that he’d met in his line of work all carried as much baggage as he did.

  He and his father had been having this discussion as they watched other skiers coming up on the chair lift. Most were couples; they were chatting and grinning. Seeing how much they were enjoying each other made Whistler feel lonelier than ever.

  His father asked, “Have you tried to meet someone?”

  “You mean someone like these? Someone normal?”

  “Why not?”

  “I get tired of lying when they ask what I do. I’ve been lying to people since I was ten, except then it was when someone asked me about you.”

  His father pretended that his feelings were hurt. “Well, I wish you could have grown up on Sesame Street, Adam. I’m sorry I was such an embarrassment.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. Cut it out.”

  “Then you’re saying what? That you’re doomed to be a loner?”

  “I…meet lots of people who I’d like to know better. But it’s over before it begins.”

  “We’re talking dating, Adam. We’re not talking confessionals. The lady, I assure you, won’t bare her soul either. And, by the way, no one is normal.”

  “Yeah, well...”

  “I do know how you feel. I might have felt the same way, but I had the good luck to meet your mother.”

  “Yeah, but Mom knew who you were from the start.”

  “I still kept things from her. Only things that would worry her. In all else, however, we were open with each other. We were partners in every sense of the word. My God, she was wonderful, wasn’t she?”

  Whistler’s mother had died of ovarian cancer. Too young. She was only forty-six at the time. She could out-ski either one of them, out-sail almost anyone, but she carried herself with such grace and good humor that they both enjoyed being outdone by her in these and a hundred other ways.

  “I still talk to her, Adam. Did you know that?”

  “I’ve heard you. I’ve done that myself from time to time.”

  “That’s okay, but get your own. Find another woman like her.”

  “There aren’t any women like her.”

  “I’ll ask you again. Have you looked?”

  “I guess not really.”

  “You’ll find someone, Adam, but you’ve got to let it happen. If you think it can’t happen, it won’t.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Now’s a good time to start. Want to meet one? Are you ready?”

  “Um...who?”

  “That pretty young lady right there.”

  He was pointing at Claudia. It was totally at random. She was coming up on the lift at that moment and she had the chair to herself. She saw them looking at her and returned a little smile. She got off, did her boots, and was about to go on when his father called out to her. He asked her to wait. To Whistler’s dismay, his father pulled him forward. He proceeded to make an introduction.

  “My name,” he announced, “is Harry Whistler, and this is my bashful son, Adam. He’s an adequate skier and not so bad looking except when he’s rolling his eyes. Is he doing that?”

  Her smile became a grin. “He’s trying not to.”

  “Have you ever skied Europe? Ever skied the French Alps?”

  “Only in my dreams. Maybe someday.”

  “Not to push it, but I’d love to have you both come to visit. I have a chalet there. You’d have your own room.”

  She looked at Adam. “Not to push it?”

  “Please ignore him.”

  “Is there really a chalet?”

  “In Chamonix, yes. But don’t listen to this.”

  He didn’t remember regarding her then as being exceptionally beautiful. What struck him the most was her warmth. She had a glow about her that was purely her own long before she ever met that white light.

  Her ski suit, come to think of it, was a solid white as well. That heightened the effect of the glow. Her body seemed lean, long muscled, athletic. Bronze skin, nose lightly freckled, her hair reddish-brown. She wore it shoulder length, curling under her chin, held in place by a white woolen headband. Her eyes were brown as well and had little gold flecks. Her mouth seemed almost too wide for her face, but the grin it produced was just dazzling.

  She took off her glove and held out her hand. She said, “My name’s Claudia. Hi.”

  Whistler took it, still trying to stammer an apology. His father, he said, was...well, his father.

  A knowing nod said that she understood. “My mother does this to me all the time. No harm done. Nice meeting you, Adam.”

  With that, she waved and started down the hill. He watched her go. She

  was a marvelous skier. His father smacked his arm. “Why are you still here?” But he’d waited too long and he’d lost sight of her.

  SIX

  He saw her in the village early that evening. He’d gone out hoping that he would. His father, happily, had remained at their hotel, opting for a soak in that Jacuzzi. Whistler spotted her standing outside a ski shop, looking over a rack of jackets and s
weaters on sale at fifty percent off. She had unzipped her ski suit down to her breastbone. She wore a white turtleneck underneath. He could see that her body was considerably more shapely than the ski suit had previously revealed.

  And she also looked younger than she had on the hill. Too young. This was crazy. He had started to turn, deciding not to approach her, but she glanced up and saw him. He was caught.

  She said, “Hi, Adam.” She’d remembered his name. He could feel the color rising on his cheeks.

  “Claudia, look, that business on the mountain...”

  “It was sweet if that was really your father.”

  “Oh, it was.”

  “You seemed more like good friends than a father and son. I like that. Is your Mom here as well?”

  “She’s...no. We lost her. Some years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. Me, too. My Dad, I mean.”

  He said, “Claudia, if I asked you...to have dinner with me...”

  “You mean here or in France?”

  “Well, I thought here for starters.”

  “Rats, I was ready to be swept off my feet. Are you terribly rich and successful?”

  “Not terribly.”

  “Well, at least are you nice? You seem pretty nice.”

  “I could go and get a note from my father. Would that help?”

  She laughed. “Maybe I’ll take your word.”

  “Does...that mean you’ll have dinner?”

  “How about a cup of tea? Would you settle for that?”

  “If I have to. Sure. Name the place.”

  “Help me pick out a sweater, then we’ll walk to the Jerome. I’m meeting my mother there in ten minutes. Call your father, see if he’d care to join us.”

  “He’s...taking a bath. I don’t think he’d...”

  “It’s your chance to get even. Fix him up with my mom. Anyway, he’s fun. Why don’t you call him?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Actually, he knew, there was almost no need. His father, very soon, would know where he’d be because, out of nowhere, looking over those sale racks, was one of the Beasley twins, Donald.

  It might have been Dennis, but he thought it was Donald. Donald had always been the paunchier of the two. He had on a blue parka and a dumb-looking ski hat, the kind with the little red pompom on top. But Dennis, of course, would be dressed the same way and Dennis had a gut of his own. It could just as easily have been Dennis.