The Outsider (James Bishop 4) (51 page)

The thin package had taken a lot of time and effort to compile, and Bishop hadn’t been able to do it all on his own. Scott Muro had played a large part in the gathering of information, for example, as had Rafael Guzman, who’d surprised Bishop no end by sticking to his end of the deal. Quite simply, the man had contacts and informants
every
where.

Contained within the package on Whitaker’s lap were half a dozen screenshots of Whitaker and Veronica Knapp involved in various intimate bedroom activities. The full footage was on the DVD, and the audio-visual quality was excellent. Bishop himself had installed the tiny camera in Miss Knapp’s bedroom ceiling light one morning when she was out at work.

In addition, there were copies of Miss Knapp’s rental agreement, including Lawrence Whitaker’s signature as guarantor. There were also copies of overseas registration documents proving that Whitaker was the company director and sole employee of Hyacinth Inc., and there were also copies of electronic bank statements showing Hyacinth’s deposits into Miss Knapp’s account on the first of every month.

But that was all pretty tame compared to the rest of the contents. To begin with there were photos of Whitaker meeting with Hartnell and accepting a briefcase from the man, courtesy of Mr Guzman. There were also a number of financial documents taken from Hartnell’s offices, again courtesy of Guzman, that showed large deposits made by one of Hartnell’s shell companies into the same Caymans account as the one that paid Miss Knapp’s rent.

Then there were the official documents relating to Whitaker’s history within the US Marshals Service. They were the real cream topping.

Bishop had begun to seriously suspect Whitaker as being the source of the leak when Hartnell passed the four of them in the courthouse hallway on that first day of the trial. It was only a very small thing, but he’d acknowledged Bishop and the two deputies, yet for some reason completely ignored Whitaker even though he had to know who the guy was. It had seemed pretty odd at the time, and Bishop suspected the simple reason was that he already knew Whitaker very well and overcompensated by pretending the guy didn’t exist at all. It was an amateurish mistake, but a mistake nevertheless.

Bishop also recalled something interesting Callaway had said at the exchange, about his finally getting to Mechner ‘
thanks to a little inside help
.’

Once the trial was over Bishop visited Scott Muro’s Brooklyn office to settle his debts, then hired him to find out everything he could about Whitaker, including his history with the Marshals Service, as well as details of his increasingly unsatisfying, not to mention childless, marriage. One week later Muro came back with the goodies. It turned out that Whitaker’s rise to the deputy-directorship had been a slow but steady one through the ranks. He’d actually spent over fifteen years in the field, with seven of those as a supervisory deputy marshal.

And one of his final assignments in that role had been to head the team that looked after Paul Mechner and his wife, ten years ago.

Small world, all right.

In addition, one of those bank statements showed that his company had received a fat two-hundred-thousand dollar payment from one of Hartnell’s shell companies the day after Mechner’s murder. More recently, his company had received a million-dollar payment from the same shell company the day after Strickland blew himself up.

There was more, and Bishop watched as Whitaker slowly turned the pages and took it all in. It was too dark to really tell, but Bishop imagined his face had lost a lot of its colour in the last few minutes.

Finally, he looked up, his eyes hard, his face grim. ‘Where did you get all this?’

‘I have my sources.’

‘It’s all circumstantial. None of it would stand up in a court of law.’

‘I’m not interested in the law,’ Bishop said. ‘But I am interested in settling accounts. You’ve been in Hartnell’s pocket all along, and I know you were the one responsible for the leak of the safe house location that started all this. That leak resulted in the murder of Marshal Angela Delaney. You have to answer for her.’

‘Delaney? So you
did
have something going with her then.’ When Bishop didn’t reply, he said, ‘What are you planning to do now? Kill me? In cold blood?’

Bishop shook his head. ‘I considered it, but then I realized that for some people there are fates worse than death. Like loss of position and career, for instance. Or public humiliation. Or the break-up of a long marriage. That one can often lead to financial ruin, too, especially if the wife has definite proof that the husband was cheating on her.’

Whitaker looked at him. ‘You’d actually send these photos to my wife? So is that what this is about? Blackmail?’

‘You’re not listening, are you?’ Bishop said. ‘I’m not interested in anything you can offer me, Whitaker. All I want is to make you pay. And I have.’

‘What are you talking about? What have you done?’

‘A couple of hours ago an associate of mine went to your nice house and handed your wife another manila envelope containing those same photos of you and Miss Knapp, and that same DVD, which contains explicit footage from which those shots were taken, along with copies of that rental agreement of hers. My sources tell me you and your wife haven’t been getting along for a while, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’s beginning divorce proceedings as we speak. At the very least I expect she’ll get that nice house of yours, along with everything in it.’

Whitaker looked at him.

‘And by now Director Christiansen has probably already taken possession of an identical package to the one on your lap, minus the stuff concerning Miss Knapp, so I think it’s safe to say your career’s history too. Similar envelopes have also been delivered to the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
, the
Huffington Post,
and a few other outlets. Also, the Internal Revenue. I couldn’t really leave them out. They love hearing about secret overseas accounts full of undeclared income.’

Whitaker was glaring at him now, his eyes filled with hate. ‘You bastard.’

‘Takes one to know one,’ Bishop said. ‘And like you said, it’s all circumstantial. Not nearly enough for a conviction, but there’s more than enough in there to ruin you. I’ve got a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a very interesting day for you, in all kinds of ways.’

Whitaker was silent as he looked down at the documents and photos that constituted the end of his life as he now knew it.

Bishop was done here. Now he’d said his piece he just wanted to drive back to New York. Pocketing the plastic gun replica he’d been threatening Whitaker with, he opened the door and got out. Leaning down, he said, ‘Just so you know, I tossed your Glock in the back with a round still left in the chamber. Personally, I think the easiest thing for everybody would be to simply stick the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger, but it’s up to you.’

Then Bishop shut the car door with a clunk and kept an eye on the man as he crossed the street towards his car. But Whitaker barely paid any attention to him at all. He was still staring down at the contents of the envelope.

Once inside the rental, Bishop turned the key in the ignition and released the handbrake and stuck the gearstick into Drive. He took a long, deep breath and let it out.
That was for you, Angela Delaney
.
Rest in peace
.

As he pulled away, he glanced over at the Audi and saw Whitaker was half turned in his seat. He looked as though he was searching for something on the floor in the back.

Bishop just smiled to himself and drove on.

The gas station was an old, one-storey, stucco structure with two ancient self-service pumps out front under a rusted steel roof. There were no customers. To the right of the store was a wide brick building containing two raised overhead garage doors, and above these was a long sign with faded black lettering that said
CARTRIGHT VEHICLE SERVICES
.

After walking three miles, this was practically the first sign of civilization I’d come across. So far I’d seen acres of peanut crops or thick woods on either side of me, and not much else. But now up ahead I noticed a couple of ranches hidden among the trees on the left side of the road, and I presumed the town of Sagamore, Georgia – population of 1,100, if the road sign I’d passed a half-mile back was to be believed – was a little further over the rise.

I went over to the first garage door, peered in and saw a pick-up with the hood open. Leaning over the engine, using a spanner on the distributor, was a stocky, bearded black guy in faded blue coveralls. He looked about ten years older than me, so late forties, maybe. An old Stones tune was blaring out of a stereo somewhere inside. There was just him.

‘You Cartright?’ I asked.

The guy paused in his work and turned to me. ‘Maybe. Something you want?’

‘My vehicle up and running again. It’s currently by the side of the road about three miles back, with a busted front axle.’

Placing the spanner on the engine block, Cartright pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands. ‘And you want me to just drop what I’m doing and go take a look for you.’

‘I’d sure appreciate it.’

He scowled at me for a few seconds, as though weighing the pros and cons. Then he gave a deep sigh and said, ‘Better follow me, then, I guess. My truck’s out back.’

I followed Cartright to an open area of scrubland at the rear, where I saw a two-storey clapboard house further back. An old tow truck also stood there. We both got in and Cartright drove us onto the main road. After I gave basic directions, the rest of the three-mile journey passed in silence. Cartright wasn’t the most loquacious guy I’d ever met, but then I wasn’t exactly known for running my mouth either.

We passed the same farmland I’d already seen coming the other way, and soon we came to my old BMW, still parked on the grassy verge by the side of the road where I’d left it. The front wheel on the driver’s side was at a noticeable fifteen-degree angle to its partner. Cartright parked in front of the car, and we both walked back. There were no other vehicles in sight, either coming or going.

Pulling a pencil light from his pocket, the mechanic crouched down and shone the light at what was left of the front axle. Then he slid the top half of his body under the vehicle and looked it over from a different angle. Thirty seconds later he came out from under and stood up. ‘Okay, I got good news, bad news, and worse news. Which one you want first?’

‘Surprise me,’ I said.

‘Well, the bad news is you got a cracked front axle shaft as you can plainly see, which means you’re going precisely nowhere until you get a replacement put in. But I can probably find you a used shaft and install it and get you back on the road again by, say, tomorrow lunchtime. That’s the good news.’

‘And the worse news?’ I asked.

‘It’s gonna cost you.’

‘Walked right into that one, didn’t I? How much?’

He paused, and did his scowl thing again. Finally he said, ‘Let’s say three hundred for the front axle, and then another two hundred on top for labour and miscellaneous, which’ll make it an even five hundred. And I don’t haggle, so don’t waste your time trying. And that’ll be in cash, up front. Take it or leave it.’

‘That’ll be half up front,’ I said, ‘and the rest when it’s done. Otherwise I’ll leave it.’

He looked at me silently without blinking. I eyeballed him back.

‘I don’t haggle either,’ I said. ‘In case you were wondering.’

After a few more beats, he gave a casual shrug and said, ‘In cash.’

‘In cash,’ I agreed.

Without another word, he turned to his truck and began lowering the hook on the rear mounted crane. Less than five minutes later he had my BMW’s front wheels secured onto the raised lifting grid. Cartright then took us back to the gas station where he expertly reversed my vehicle into the empty garage. After we had got out of the truck, he went to the rear and began manually lowering my car to the concrete floor.