The Blackbird Papers (26 page)

39

T
he avuncular Windsor McGovern lived in a one-bedroom apartment overlooking Gramercy Park. When Sterling had first called and inquired about the Blackbird Project, he hung up the phone, saying he was tired of meddlesome reporters and their nasty habit of distorting his words to fit their stories. When Sterling called back and said Xao Zhang had referred him, McGovern invited him over and asked him his favorite tea flavor. Sterling said plain water would be fine.

Sterling rode the creaky elevator to the eleventh floor and walked to the end of the hall. The door to apartment D had already been propped open in anticipation of his arrival. Sterling knocked a couple times, then pushed the door open.

“I'm out here on the balcony,” McGovern called.

Sterling closed the door behind him and walked through the small apartment. A tiny kitchenette had been squeezed between the front door and a coat closet. A bedroom sat off to the left, but the biggest room was straight ahead, facing a wall of windows and the balcony. Sterling took a few minutes to look around the cluttered front room. Every inch of wall space had been covered by framed animal photographs, stuffed birds, and rows of bookcases full of wildlife picture books. Sterling stopped to read several plaques and citations honoring McGovern's commitment to the “protection and preservation of our treasured wildlife.” The masculine apartment had been carelessly decorated in muted colors and cozy furniture.

“Glad you could make it, Mr. Bledsoe,” McGovern said as Sterling walked through the tall French doors. He wore a button-down blue pinstriped shirt and white cotton trousers held up by bright green suspenders decorated with ducks. His portly abdomen stretched over his waistband, and his short arms hung out from his sides as if they had been stuck on at the last minute and never grew. A charcoal-gray puff of a cat was balled up in a chair next to McGovern's. It lazily swiveled its furry head toward Sterling, its green eyes glowing. After assessing the situation, it buried its head and went back to sleep.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Sterling said. “I'm doing some research and Zhang told me that you're the most knowledgeable person in the country on what I'm after.”

McGovern let out a rolling chuckle that made his drooping jowls quiver. “Xao has a tendency to oversell me. But if that's how a genius describes me, then who the hell am I to disagree? We sponsored Xao many years ago when he was trying to get his start here. ‘We' meaning my wife, Madeline, and me. The kids and I lost her a couple of years ago to ovarian cancer. Took her away in less than a year.” McGovern's bright blue eyes lost their luster as he looked out over the balcony. Sterling let him have his moment. “Anyway, that's the breaks, I guess,” McGovern sighed, still looking off the balcony. “We had fifty-three wonderful years together and nobody can take them away from me.”

“Death is hard,” Sterling said. “I've recently lost my only brother.”

“Were you close?”

The words stung. This was not the direction he wanted to take the conversation. “It's been tough,” Sterling said. “In more ways than I ever imagined.” He looked across the park, focusing on a tall, redbrick apartment building. All the windows had been dressed with black shutters and each one had a flower box full of bright pink, red, and purple blooms.

“It helps when you have others to lean on,” McGovern said. His eyes were much more youthful-looking than the disheveled mane of gray hair snaking down his shoulders. “The children have been wonderful through all of this.”

Sterling wondered if Wilson's death would've been more difficult if they had been closer. “Mr. McGovern, I was hoping you could tell me about the Blackbird Project,” he said.

“Call me Mack. Everyone else does. And how much time do you have on your hands?”

“As much as you need to tell me everything you know.”

McGovern motioned for Sterling to have a seat at the small table. A pitcher of ice water and two glasses sparkled under the sun. McGovern filled Sterling's glass first, then his own, then sat back in his chair. The clanking of the ice cubes awakened the cat and it stood up, looked around slowly, then jumped to the ground. It brushed against Sterling's leg several times, then curled up at his feet.

“That's Jessica,” McGovern said. “My wife's cat. She hasn't done too well with strangers since Madeline died, but by the looks of things, I think she likes you. Now what do you know about the Audubon Society?”

“Not much,” Sterling said. “I know it's a not-for-profit organization that focuses most of its work on protecting birds and other wildlife. But that's about all I know.”

“You're on the right course,” Mack said. “Indulge me for a minute. I'm an ex–national president of the Audubon Society, and despite how most people have labeled us, we are not animal rights fanatics. We leave that to the PETA people. We don't commit crimes and violate other people's rights. We simply work to protect birds and other wildlife and the habitats that support them. The society was incorporated back in 1905 and named after the great ornithologist, explorer, and wildlife artist, John James Audubon. Our mission has always been simple and after almost a hundred years, we haven't strayed. Instead, we've only gotten stronger with six hundred thousand members and more than five hundred chapters. If the industrialists and commercial organizations had their way, half of the species we see today would've been extinct a long time ago.”

Sterling drank his entire glass of water in one long gulp. The cold liquid felt good going down his parched throat. He didn't mind McGovern taking his time. His reverberating baritone voice was like a sedative, and while the nuts and bolts of animal activism had never interested Sterling in the past, he listened to McGovern attentively.

“Now you ask about the Blackbird Project?” McGovern said. “This is the mother of all programs directly aimed at harming blackbirds and other forms of wildlife in the upper Midwest.”

“Zhang told me about the sunflower farmers and their association. But what I want to know is how nasty has this fight gotten?”

“As nasty as a battle like this can get. You have to understand, this isn't the first time they've proposed killing red-wingeds. They've been largely supported by the U.S. Department of Agriculture through one of their divisions, the Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service—APHIS. They're proposing using the avicide DRC-1339 to kill two million birds a year for three years, eliminating 25 percent of the region's blackbird population.”

“Hold on for a minute,” Sterling said. “I want to make sure I get this right. APHIS is proposing the poisoning of six million birds?”

“Precisely.”

“And where's the proof that killing these blackbirds will spare their crops?”

“You're a fast learner, Bledsoe. That's exactly the question we've been asking the last couple of years.”

“Then why in the hell are these scientists willing to promote a policy that takes such drastic steps without confirmation the program will work?”

McGovern's laugh startled Jessica, who looked up at her master, then fell back asleep at Sterling's feet. “Because politics are dirty, even when it comes to wildlife. Take a big guess who funds a great deal of APHIS research?”

“You gotta be kidding!”

“That's right. The National Sunflower Association. So if your sugar daddy tells you to jump, what are you going to say?”

“How high?”

“Damn right. So fast you'll jump clean out of your shoes. That's how the game is played.”

“This sounds like a stolen script from
60 Minutes
.”

“Don't turn the channel yet. It gets even better. Basically you have a bunch of frustrated farmers who've tried everything to save their crops and nothing has worked. Killing what they perceive as the enemy sounds good and emotions begin to overtake reason. We have never denied that blackbirds damage sunflower crops. But what they are completely ignoring is that more harm to the crops could actually be caused by killing off the blackbirds. Nature is a peculiar thing. Predator and prey are always in a delicate balance. It's the simple math of ecology. Alter one thing in the food chain and there's the potential of destroying everything. Any farmer worth a bale of hay knows that blackbirds primarily feed on insects, and many of these insects are just as lethal or even more lethal to the crops than the birds. So removing the blackbirds would mean an overgrowth of these insects, which can then lead to greater crop ruination.

“The USDA and the farmers have no answer for our second concern, which is what will be done to protect the other wildlife that remain susceptible to the poison. Our last count found sixty-eight species of nontarget birds living in or near sunflower fields in the spring. Thirty-two of these bird species eat grain, which means they too are likely to be killed by the poisonous bait.”

“So has the Blackbird Project taken off yet?”

McGovern shook his head. “I guess you could say they're still taxiing on the runway hoping to get final clearance.”

“What's holding them up? You've already said the National Sunflower Association and farmers have powerful friends in Washington. Can't they just get the project rubber-stamped and rolled out?”

“Not exactly. See, we have our friends too.” A mischievous grin spread across McGovern's face. “In order for the project to be carried out, permits must be approved by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Thank God they had enough brains and balls to stop APHIS dead in their tracks. Fish and Wildlife made their position very clear. No reliable proof exists that killing large numbers of blackbirds will save crops. They were also concerned about potential damage to other wildlife inhabiting the area.”

Sterling processed the information. “If APHIS is the department mostly charged with handling these issues, then why can't they trump Fish and Wildlife Services?”

“Now you're catching on,” McGovern said. “This is where the real politics start digging in. APHIS is part of the Department of Agriculture, whereas Fish and Wildlife is part of the Department of the Interior. The two men who run the separate agencies hate each other beyond words. Our ally is Jonathan Cardi, secretary of DOI. An elitist asshole by the name of Allistor Guyton runs the USDA.”

Sterling wrote the names in his book, not that he expected them to be of much help, but he had learned in more than one investigation that the smallest details could be the snag that unraveled the entire story.

McGovern poured himself and Sterling another glass of water and wiped his wet forehead with a perfectly folded handkerchief before sitting back in his chair and looking out at the elaborate flower beds spread throughout the gated park.

“I have one more question,” Sterling said. He searched for the right way to ask without revealing his motive. “Do you think this Blackbird Project would have anything to do with the poisoning of blackbirds in other parts of the country?”

McGovern tightened his forehead and drew in a deep breath, holding it as if he were swimming under water. “Tough call,” he finally said, letting the words and his breath escape at once. “Blackbirds can be found in other parts of the country, but the major problem has been reported in Minnesota and South and North Dakota. Small farmers in other parts of the country may have their own reason and methods of killing birds damaging their property, but connecting it back to the APHIS project could prove tough.”

Sterling mulled over McGovern's words. Not exactly what he was hoping to hear, but at least the door hadn't been completely shut. He had taken enough notes to keep him busy the next twenty-four hours. He stood to leave.

“You never told me what type of research you're working on,” McGovern said, rocking himself in his chair until he had enough momentum to stand.

“Right now I'm looking into blackbird populations and how people might be experimenting with means of keeping them under control. From what you've just told me, it seems to be as much a political issue as it is a scientific one.”

Jessica stood up with Sterling and stretched her front legs until her stomach fell flush against the floor. After a long yawn that showed the depths of her throat, she brushed against Sterling's leg a couple of more times, then jumped into her chair, curled up, and went back to sleep.

McGovern rested his hands on Sterling's shoulder. Tiny networks of bright red capillaries weaved their way across his bulbous cheeks. “I'm retired now, but I was in the advocacy business for a good forty years,” he said. “I've seen and heard a lot, some things I'll never repeat. But let me give you a little advice from my experiences. Despite the good intentions the government says it has for maintaining and restoring agricultural standards, there are a lot of fat, grubby hands digging into this country's rich agricultural stew. What most people don't know is that sunflower seeds and oil could be the gold mine of the future.”

“How's that?” Sterling asked uncertainly.

“Because they're experimenting with alternative uses. Farmers are now using the oil as an engine lubricant. Sales could soar into the billions if the growers can develop this type of industrial market. I was talking to one of my old friends out there who's been keeping an eye on the developments. Some of these farmers have already completed a three-year trial with the U.S. Postal Service vehicles using sunflower oil to lubricate their old truck engines. Promising results. Not only did it decrease tailpipe emissions enough to make the Greenies happy, but the engines had less wear than if they had been fed traditional motor oil. I'm telling you, Bledsoe, there's big money in those sunflower crops, and the first one to get everything lined up takes home the biggest slice of the pie. In this business, suspect the least suspicious and, above all, don't trust anyone. Sounds cynical as hell, but when money like this is at stake, very little is what it seems.”

40

S
terling waited at the northeast corner of Avenue B and Tenth Street, hiding between two parked vans as he scanned the buildings and sidewalks. He carefully watched the light but constant flow of traffic heading into the pale blue door of the Hotel DeWitt. With any luck, Veronica wouldn't ask how he had come to learn of this less-than-glamorous enterprise.

The Hotel DeWitt and its fluorescent gold wallpapered rooms had been part of a dark chapter in Sterling's life. Years ago, when he was spinning in a turbulent cyclone of depression, he had spent the better part of his nights running a stream of women up the narrow staircases and into the squalid rooms. The only way he could look back now and not hate himself was to remember that he had never purchased the sex. These were women he had met in dark bars full of desperate men and lonely women. It wasn't that he had enjoyed the sex so much as it was that each conquest represented a success, something he badly needed at a point in his life when everything seemed to be going wrong.

The last woman Sterling brought to the DeWitt almost cost him his life. After two bottles of cheap wine turned his mind fuzzy, she let in an accomplice who beat him with a crowbar until he was practically unconscious. All for the mere $78 he had in cash. Thankfully, the receptionist on duty that night had the presence of mind to load him into a cab and direct it to the emergency room of a private hospital on the Upper East Side. That was the last time he had seen the DeWitt.

Sterling scouted the area for forty-five minutes before making his way into the hotel. He pushed through the smoky revolving glass doors and entered the small hallway that had been converted into a lobby with a high, black Formica counter and a lopsided brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling on a knot of copper wire. He walked past the clerk, whose attention was directed at a big box in the corner of the makeshift office, and up the back stairs that led to the two floors of rooms. He tapped three times on door 517, waited a moment, then tapped once. He stood back from the door so that Veronica could clearly make him out through the peephole. The door flew open.

“Thank God you're all right,” Veronica said, pulling him in and planting small kisses around his face before landing a wet one on his lips. Her eyes were red and swollen. “I've been sitting here scared to death that something happened to you.”

Sterling slammed the door shut with the back of his foot and squeezed her in his arms. He pulled off his hat and threw it onto the made bed. Veronica hadn't even attempted to go to sleep. “It's been a long twenty-four hours,” he said. He hugged her tightly, then kissed her again, this time long and hard. They fell back onto the bed, clawing at each other's clothes. Sterling wanted all of her at once. He kissed behind her ears, then worked his tongue down her long neck, forming small, wet circles that made her body twitch underneath him. It felt good to taste her again, to feel the weight of her body pressed against his chest. He opened up her shirt, then tossed it aside, slowly running his hands along the contours of her chest before sliding them down to her narrow waist.

“I missed you,” Sterling said between heavy breaths.

“And that's exactly what a girl likes to hear,” she said, unclasping his belt buckle and pulling off his pants.

Veronica traced the knots of muscles in his shoulders and washboard abs. Just looking at his naked body was enough to make her quiver.

Sterling lifted her supple body, then pulled back the covers and spread her across the small bed. He paused for a minute to admire her honey-colored skin and the way the curves had formed in all the right places on her slim frame. She smiled as if she knew what he was thinking. Then, unable to resist the temptation any longer, he enjoyed her for the next hour as if he were intent on making up for all of the time they had spent apart.

W
hen they both were dressed again, Sterling walked her to two chairs near the window and took a seat. “A lot has happened and I know you have tons of questions. But I don't know if I have all the answers.”

Veronica ran her hand over his slick head. “How about start by telling me why you've shaved your hair off.”

Sterling gave one pass over his dome and enjoyed the prickly feeling of the short stubble that scraped the palm of his hand. “They think I killed Wilson, Ronnie. Right now they're spreading all across the city looking for me.”

Veronica covered her mouth with her hand. She was trembling. “So this is part of a disguise?”

“It's the best I could come up with on short notice,” Sterling said, reaching out to comfort her. “But I'm still open to suggestions.”

“I don't understand. Why would they think you'd kill your own brother, and then go up there and be part of the investigation? It just doesn't make any sense.”

“It's a long story. The bottom line is someone is trying to set me up for this. Three people are dead right now and whoever killed them must feel like I'm getting too close. What better way to get me off the trail than make it look like I did it? And it's working. Agents from the New York office are fanning out across the city right now searching for me. For us. It's going to get real dicey if I don't come up with some answers soon.”

Veronica's head slumped forward. She closed her eyes hard, but that didn't stop the tears from forming in them. “So everyone's looking for you right now? The murderer and the FBI?”

Sterling nodded. “At least until I can put everything together and nail the real killers. I know there's more than just one person behind all of this. I'm making progress, but I need to be out and moving if I'm going to solve these cases. If they pick me up, who knows how everything will play out?”

“Why can't you just sit down and tell them everything you know? It's not like you're a stranger. And you have an alibi. I was with you. Can't you just tell them that?”

Sterling smiled at her innocence and stroked her hair. Looking into her eyes, even as they filled with tears, reminded him how much he had missed falling asleep and waking up with her curled beside him. At that moment he felt the urge to tell her how badly he wanted to love her forever. But there'd be enough time to get into all of that once they had put this behind them. He leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks, then passionately on the lips.

“It's complicated, Ronnie,” he said. “When people in my profession smell blood, their only instinct is to hunt until they can actually taste it. Even if it's the blood of their own.”

As she held her arms around his neck, he moved the shade and peeked out the window. He didn't like what he saw.

“What is it?” she asked.

He quickly pulled her to the floor and took another glance out the window. Two men in identical dark suits were walking down Tenth Street toward the hotel. He recognized the big one right away—Skip Dumars. Both men already had their weapons drawn. They would be fast on the trigger the minute they spotted him.

“Where's the gun and the money?” he asked.

“In the closet. Why? What's wrong?”

“They tracked me here. I don't know how in the hell they did it. I was sure no one followed me. Did you use your cell phone?”

“No, you told me not to. I just made one call from the room phone.”

“Ronnie, I told you—”

“I tried calling your cell, but you didn't answer. I was going crazy not hearing from you. What was I supposed to do?”

Sterling ran to the closet and grabbed the Glock 36, preferring this to the Beretta Tomcat he typically carried because it had a longer barrel and was more accurate at greater distances. He motioned for Veronica to go near the door as he took a position at the window. They were still half a block away and Skip Dumars was leading the charge. He had to stall them.

“Go throw your clothes into a bag,” he said. When Veronica had moved across the room, he lifted the window several inches and fired two shots across the street at a rusted car whose windshield had been papered with orange parking tickets. The car was far enough away from the advancing men that they were in no danger of getting hit, but the loud implosion of the windshield scared them enough for them to hit the ground and roll over behind a row of parked cars. He closed the window and grabbed Veronica. They ran the hallway, then down the two flights of steps. Sterling opened the door to the main floor of the hotel and put a finger up to his mouth for her to be quiet. He walked about five feet, then turned down another short hallway. At the end of the hall, he opened a narrow steel door that had been painted to look like it was part of the wall. He pulled a rope handle and a second door split in half, the top part lifting and the bottom half sliding down.

“What is this?” Veronica asked.

“A dumbwaiter. Get in.” Sterling pushed her forward, but she resisted. “Dammit, Ronnie, get in. We don't have time to debate.” Sterling gave her a big shove into the darkness, then followed her, closing the door and pushing a red button on the side of the elevator shaft. The elevator was slow to start, groaning and screeching as the pulleys and gears clicked into place. He remembered this dumbwaiter from a night when the police raided the hotel. He noticed one of the regulars fleeing from her room, but instead of running for the exit like everyone else, she slipped down the back hall. He gambled and followed her even as she climbed into the dumbwaiter. She showed him the tunnel that led out the back of the building, explaining that in the late thirties the hotel had belonged to a wealthy artist whose staff had used the elevator to serve the weekly parties he held in the mansion. Most of the DeWitt employees didn't even know the dumbwaiter existed, but those like herself who often needed to leave in a hurry and undetected had come to rely on the hidden contraption and the tunnel leading to the back alley.

When they reached the basement, Sterling grabbed Veronica's hand and pulled her through the darkness. Two quick lefts, then he kicked hard and daylight poured in. Police sirens rang off in the distance, and Sterling knew it would be only a matter of minutes before cops had encircled the entire block. He and Veronica were traveling east on Ninth Street, but a platoon of cruisers was heading in their direction. They turned south on Avenue C but were stopped by another cruiser barreling toward them, going up the narrow street in the wrong direction. Then Sterling saw the large blue van marked
DREW
'
S UNIFORMS AND CLEANING
. A short man with thick, hairy arms was coming out of the East Village Bed and Coffee Shop carrying a large box of dirty uniforms. “Jump in,” Sterling shouted, hoisting Veronica into the van first, then jumping in himself. He landed somewhere near her and was immediately assaulted by the smell of grease, stale food, and dried sweat as he buried himself under the mound of filthy uniforms. The driver's hollow whistle grew louder. The siren from the cruiser also seemed to grow louder. A new batch of soiled uniforms landed atop the heap, then the back door slammed shut. The truck's engine started, the scratchy radio blared, and they were moving.

Hidden underneath the uniforms, Sterling couldn't see out the side window, but he kept track of the truck's movements in his head. It stopped after about seventy feet, which meant it had pulled up to the corner of Eighth Street. The loud wail of sirens was coming from the west, which meant they were driving away from the hotel and the massive manhunt that was under way. Sterling held his breath, wondering if the truck would turn left toward the mayhem or right to their future escape. He cradled his gun just in case he needed to persuade the driver of the turn he needed to make.

The engine revved and the truck leaned to the right. It rolled ahead without stopping for the next several minutes. The sirens had been replaced with honking cars, and Sterling slowly cleared a hole in the uniform heap so that he could see where they were. He saw the back of the driver and almost laughed when he noticed the two phone books the man used to lift himself in the seat. Sterling craned his neck to see out the front window. The truck was traveling north now on Avenue D. They passed a school on the corner of 12th Street, then stopped on 13th Street. Sterling watched as the driver hit the hazard lights, jumped out of the cabin, then opened the side door and grabbed a metal crate for his next pickup. Once the driver had cleared the truck, Sterling quickly tossed aside the uniforms and stood.

“Let's go,” he said, burrowing through the uniforms to find Veronica. “He stopped to make another pickup.”

Sterling couldn't stop himself from smiling when Veronica's face emerged. She wore the expression of someone who had opened a refrigerator full of spoiled milk and rotten meat.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I smell like shit.”

“But shit never looked this pretty.”

“Not bad, Romeo. You really know how to lift a girl's spirits.”

Sterling checked the door first to make sure the driver wasn't near the truck, then jumped out and caught Veronica as she followed. Two men sharing a smoke at the corner pointed toward them and laughed. Sterling ignored them, grabbed Veronica's bag with one hand and her with the other, then broke out into a jog heading north to 14th Street. Veronica pointed toward the corner where a police van sat double parked outside a Baskin-Robbins ice-cream shop. Sterling waited for the traffic to stop, then moved her into the dense pack of bodies crossing the street. They followed the swarm west along 14th Street until they reached the subway station on First Avenue. They raced down the steps and in seconds disappeared on the crowded L train screeching its way through the dark New York underground.