Tag Man (11 page)

The same horror and anger as had virtually blacked him out when the gun’s owner had mentioned Sally, and made him react like a demented robot.

He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking back. The woman on the picnic table had been young, slim, a brunette, if he recalled correctly.

But he couldn’t bring back her face.

Had there been a bloody murder that had taken place in such an area? A picnic table near some woods? He didn’t know. The world was awful enough for Dan Kravitz without his recreationally collecting details of lurid killings.

He kept his eyes shut, trying to put the pictures in context, replaying in his mind how he’d noticed the slight imperfection in the flooring, and thus had discovered the cache. How he’d opened the suitcase, and how the albums had rested under a collection of ghoulish souvenirs.

His eyes opened suddenly and he straightened in his chair.

He hadn’t completely closed the suitcase. He’d left one of its catches unhooked.

He’d left a trace of his visit to Gloria Wrinn’s house after all.

And—he now knew for certain—that error was the connection between the contents of that suitcase and the gun lying before him.

He’d have to go back.

*   *   *

Abijah Reed raised his hand in the back of the somber restaurant so that Joe could pick him out.

“There he is,” Joe told the maître d’, who was hovering by his side, suspicious of his intentions.

Joe wove through the other diners toward the distant booth. He was in Massachusetts, in the Concord of Emerson and Thoreau—now an upscale combination of tourist attraction and snooty Boston suburb—to meet a man deeply versed in the world of Bostonian finance, both aboveboard and less so.

Abijah Reed had come to Joe’s attention twenty years earlier, through a contact whom Joe had befriended at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, in a prime example of one of the academy’s bragging points, which was that it was a great place to network.

Reed had served the FBI as both advisor and informant on occasion and had been introduced to Joe when the latter had needed financial information on a case with ties linking Brattleboro and Boston.

That was all mundane enough, although the two had in fact kept in touch as much out of friendship as from professional need. What had been less clear at the start was the nature of the man himself, whose birth name, for example, turned out not to be Abijah Reed.

He rose as Joe reached the table and extended a hand in greeting.

“What a treat,” he said, waving Joe into a chair and sitting back down. “We haven’t talked in years, and now, here we are, face-to-face. Absolutely wonderful. Much better than a phone call. I hope you didn’t mind the long drive. I tried to accommodate you by suggesting this place. It is a little closer to Vermont than downtown Boston. But I know it’s still quite a trek. I’m sorry that I just have too much going on right now to leave my desk for more than a few hours.”

Joe was already shaking his head dismissively. “It was nice to get out of town, to be honest, and the drive was beautiful. Please don’t apologize. Besides, it’s worth it to see you again.”

They continued this way for a few minutes more, catching up and exchanging memories of mutual acquaintances and past adventures. Reed had entered the world as Charles Clutterbuck, which Joe considered reason enough for a name change. In fact, it had played little role in the man’s story. Charles had experienced an early life as Dickensian as his moniker, being the child of two alcoholic con artists, and while his recounting of those early years was entertaining and lighthearted, Joe knew enough to realize what a toll it must have taken.

Eventually, and probably inevitably, it had all ended poorly, with both parents fading from sight in a haze of legalities, alcoholic stupor, and, finally, death. Charles, at last on his own, had at various times embraced spiritualism, communism, aestheticism, and several other distractions before finally settling on old-fashioned capitalism. The name Abijah came both from the Bible and in honor of some long-dead black freeman who had settled in New England; Reed came from Jack Reed, the complicated, rabble-rousing pro-Communist journalist who wrote
Ten Days That Shook the World.
Looking at the erstwhile Charles Clutterbuck now—dressed like a gentleman of means, complete with a fondness for cigars and expensive restaurants—it was impossible to guess at such a past. Only the name gave a hint of it.

“So,” he said at last, after the waiter had drifted off with their orders. “You told me that the man of the hour is Lloyd Jordan. Why him?”

“Research, mostly,” Joe admitted. “If anything, he’s the latest victim in a rash of B and Es. But there was something about his attitude that got the lead investigator’s brain ticking.”

Abijah’s eyes widened slightly as he finished a sip of his wine. “You’re not the lead, after all these years?”

Joe allowed for a half smile. “I’ve been taking some time off. I’m just lending a hand.”

Reed slowly placed his wineglass on the tablecloth, his thoughtfulness reflecting his reputation for scrutiny and care.

“I heard you suffered a loss recently, Joe. I wanted to express my sorrow about that.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah. She was a good friend.”

“The shooting made headlines, even down here, maybe because we wish people would take more potshots at our own politicians. At the time, I didn’t know of your ties to both women involved.”

Joe didn’t respond. He’d never given it much consideration, but in fact, the attempted assassination of a gubernatorial candidate, and the death of someone in her stead, had of course made national news. He’d been so numb at the time, he’d missed the attending frenzy that had escorted Gail Zigman into the governor’s office—although by now, the event had been relegated to history. Only Joe, Lyn’s mourning family, including her daughter, Coryn, and the then-incumbent Republican governor, James Reynolds—whose take was that the bullet had killed his career—were left behind with their memories.

Abijah Reed reached out and barely touched the back of Joe’s hand. “How are you holding up?”

Joe considered belittling that with the usual polite dismissal and thanks. A person of his high profile in Vermont got such sympathies with painful frequency. But whether it was because Reed’s kindly demeanor reminded him slightly of Eberhard Dziobek or simply because they saw each other so rarely, he ventured a little further down a path he generally avoided.

“I was going to quit,” he told him. “I’ve put in the years, and for a backwater cop, I attract a lot of trouble.”

Reed was chuckling. “So I understand.”

Joe nodded. “Exactly. I thought it might be time to hang it up. I mean, despite the time I give this job, I do have a life.”

Abijah sat back and crossed his legs. He glanced out at the quiet groupings across the restaurant, each cluster lost in its own conversation.

“And yet,” he finally commented, “here we are.”

Joe frowned. The same thought had crossed his mind. Once again, something he’d been thinking of broaching with Dziobek.

“Joe,” Abijah said softly. “Perhaps you might consider that you do have a life, and that this is it. There are worse things than helping people out of their misery.”

Joe rested his chin on his fist and sighed.

“We all have our regrets,” Reed told him. “The people we let go, the places we didn’t visit, the jobs we turned down. The richest man in the world wakes up now and then and wonders why he bothers. I know. I’m surrounded by some of the most privileged people this country has to offer, and all they do is piss and moan about their needs and disappointments.”

Joe was smiling in turn by now. “Thanks, I think.”

Reed held up his hand. “I know, I know. It sucks to realize that your problems are no worse than a headache and the common cold. What I’m suggesting is that your solution is better than most. My associates think that money is how you keep score. You know better.”

Joe laughed at last. “Good thing, given what I get paid.”

Reed joined him in taking another sip of wine before getting back to business. “And speaking of such people, what would you like to know about the unsavory Mr. Jordan?”

“Just that,” Joe responded, grateful to leave the previous topic of conversation. “I want to know what makes him unsavory.”

“In a word?” Abijah suggested. “The mob. Or better yet, the Irish mafia. Jordan was a bad boy from a bad neighborhood. But smarter than most by a long shot. As a kid, he was the one who organized things and never got caught. Usually, such people eventually piss off a nervous competitor or one of the little people they stepped on, but Jordan had that latter category figured out, probably because he remembered what life at the bottom was like.”

“So he was an up-and-comer?”

“Early on,” Abijah amended. “Although I’m talking about from his teens to his early twenties. He was a punk with a gun and brass knuckles, even if he was bright. The major players used him and his small gang when they wanted something done—a specific job. A store owner needing educating; a rival’s family member to be hurt as a warning; maybe a robbery or a break-in or a highjacking to do. Gutter-level stuff that the big boys didn’t like but that couldn’t be avoided.”

“I thought he handled finances,” Joe pondered.

The first course arrived, and they chatted of other things as the waiter set everything up, asking if they wanted something already placed on the table, like pepper.

“He
ended up
in finance,” Abijah supplied when they were alone again. “But that’s only because he turned the tables on his handlers. He made them an offer they were too savvy to turn down, and never looked back. His secret was that he knew how to evolve.”

Reed tasted his appetizer and rolled his eyes in appreciation. Joe had ordered soup, largely to be polite. He usually couldn’t stand it when people made a big production over food, he being as happy with Spam as with filet mignon.

“You see,” Abijah resumed, still chewing, “little Lloyd had learned early on what to do with the money he made, and to use it as leverage. He was probably the only street punk in the ’hood who owned stock, or knew what the Dow Jones was. And he fed his need through the jobs I described, plus a little blackmail, fraud, or loan-sharking. He was a broad-minded financier.”

“Almost sounds as if you like him,” Joe said.

Abijah shook his head. “I like some of these jokers. The ones with style. Jordan has brains, but he’s also a brute. I actually knew him back when. Not well, but I was aware of what he was doing, and who he was doing it with. Not that I’m truly drawing a comparison, mind you, but think of Mike Tyson—an undeniable champion, but such a sociopath that he drains away any respect he might have due.”

“So what happened to him?” Joe asked.

“Lloyd began giving advice to the people who counted. They’d noticed that he was dressing better than they were, and driving a better car. In the end, he got them to approach
him,
which is unusual in that circle, and soon after, he was on the inside, managing their portfolios and feathering his own nest. In that way, you could say that he started like I did and ended up straddling both worlds. Except that where I went legit and now use my knowledge to help law enforcement, Lloyd Jordan stayed friendly with the bad boys and only acted legit as a front.”

“Why did he give it up?” Joe asked. “He sounds like the type to stay in the game.”

“Things got hairy,” Abijah explained simply. “The market took a hit he didn’t see coming. His clients proved less forgiving than the average Beacon Hill resident. And his wife turned up dead under iffy circumstances. He had the proverbial ironclad alibi through a girl named Susan Rainier, but the pressure on him became pretty intense. He claimed the wife was killed as revenge against him, but not many of us bought that. Insider knowledge had it that they hadn’t been getting along, and that he’d been stepping out for a long time with Susan, chafing at the bit because the wife refused to give him a divorce. I heard he actually got remarried, although not to Susan. Did you meet the new one?”

Joe shook his head. “My colleague did. Said he liked her, despite her being treated like a trophy.”

“Well,” Abijah commiserated. “If she’s lucky, she’ll get out of it. This is not a nice man we’re discussing.”

“Okay,” Joe said, bringing them to what had prompted this meeting in the first place. “What we know in Vermont is that somebody broke into the Jordan home, ate some of their food, and left a note that he’d been there.”

“You’re kidding,” Reed interjected. “That’s bizarre, and given that it was Jordan, I love it.”

“The press has dubbed him the Tag Man because the note always says, ‘Tag!’ The problem is, we can’t tell if he’s stealing anything other than a few bites of food, and Jordan’s the only victim acting cagey. The others are simply clueless. One of them thinks Tag Man lifted her investment strategy for his own use—or copied it, I mean—but that just tells me he knows how to play the market. Still, it’s a coincidence I can’t ignore: Jordan’s a financier, too. So, what might Tag Man have stolen of a financial nature that Jordan can’t or won’t reveal?”

“Did I mention blackmail as one of his many tools?” Reed asked suggestively.

“Go back to what drove Jordan out of town,” Joe requested. “You talked about the wife’s murder. Presumably, the Boston PD put that under a microscope. What about those clients you said were less than thrilled to be wiped out by the stock market?”

Reed smiled. “Assuming it
was
the market, you mean? A man like Jordan could just as easily claim a loss while he’s actually pocketing the profits. Risky but doable for him. To answer your question, though, I heard that a friendly parting was worked out. Now, I should be clear about something here.” He placed his elbows on the table and leaned in, dropping his voice for emphasis. “This is not the movies. The people I’m talking about are dangerous, irrational, often hyped up on drugs or stoned on booze. They may have nice cars and expensive clothes and sometimes live in good neighborhoods, but they don’t sound like Armand Assante or the head drug runner in
The French Connection
—all polish and tailored suits. These are often psychopaths, which is what gives them their competitive edge. You piss off someone like that, they kill you without sweating the details.”