The Partner (25 page)

“Cremation was a nice touch.”

“Thanks. I highly recommend it.”

“Makes it impossible to determine cause of death and identity, a few important things like that.”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“Sorry.”

“Then I got wind of Mr. Benny Aricia, and his little war with the Pentagon and Platt & Rockland Industries. Bogan kept him under wraps. I dug deeper and found out that Vitrano and Rapley and Havarac were all in on the deal. All the partners but me. They changed, Karl, all of them. They became secretive and devious. Sure I was the new guy, but I was a partner after all. They had voted unanimously to make me a full partner, and two months later they were dodging me while they conspired with Aricia. Suddenly, I was the guy doing all the traveling, which worked out just beautifully for everyone. Trudy could arrange her little trysts. The partners could meet with Aricia without hiding. They sent me everywhere, which was fine with
me too because I was making plans. Once I went to Fort Lauderdale for three days of depositions, and while I was there I found a guy in Miami who could do perfect papers. Two thousand bucks and I had a new driver’s license, passport, Social Security card, and voter registration papers from right here in Harrison County. Carl Hildebrand was my name, in honor of you.”

“I’m touched.”

“In Boston, I tracked down a guy who can get you lost. For a thousand bucks I had my own one-day seminar on how to vanish. In Dayton, I hired a surveillance expert who taught me about bugs and mikes and dirty little devices like that. I was patient, Karl. Very patient. I stayed at the office at odd hours, and gathered as much of the Aricia story as I could get. I listened hard, quizzed secretaries, rummaged through the garbage. Then I began wiring offices, just a couple at first to learn how it’s done. I wired Vitrano’s, and I couldn’t believe what I heard. They were going to kick me out of the firm, Karl. Can you believe it? They knew their cut from the Aricia settlement would be around thirty million, and they were planning to split it four ways. But the pieces would not be equal. Bogan, of course, would get more, something close to ten million. He had to take care of some people in Washington. The other three would get five million, and the rest would be spent on the firm. I, as it was planned, would be on the streets.”

“When was this?”

“Throughout most of ’91. Aricia’s claim got tentative Justice approval to settle on December 14, 1991, and at that time it was taking about ninety days to get
the money. Not even the Senator could speed things along.”

“Tell me about the car wreck.”

Patrick shifted his weight, then kicked his legs from under the sheet and got out of bed. “A cramp,” he mumbled as he stretched his back and legs. He stood by the bathroom door, rocking gently from one foot to the other, looking down at Karl. “It was a Sunday.”

“February ninth.”

“Right. February ninth. I spent the weekend at my cabin, and as I was driving home I had a wreck, got killed, and went to heaven.”

Karl watched him closely and never smiled. “Try it again,” he said.

“Why, Karl?”

“Morbid fascination.”

“Is that all?”

“I promise. It was such a masterful job of deceit, Patrick. How’d you do it?”

“I may have to skip a few of the details.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Let’s take a walk. I’m tired of this place.”

They entered the hall, and Patrick explained to his guards that he and the Judge needed a stroll. The deputies followed at a distance. A nurse smiled and asked if she could bring anything. Two Diet Cokes, Patrick said politely. Patrick walked very deliberately, saying nothing until they came to the end of the hallway, where plate-glass windows overlooked the parking lot. They sat on a vinyl bench, looking back down the hall, where the deputies waited fifty feet away with their backs turned to them.

Patrick wore scrub pants, no socks, leather sandals.
“Have you seen pictures of the crash site?” he asked, very quietly.

“Yes.”

“I found it the day before. The ravine is fairly steep, and I thought it was the perfect place to have the accident. I waited until about ten, Sunday night, and left the cabin. I stopped at a little store at the county line.”

“Verhall’s.”

“Right, Verhall’s. I filled the tank.”

“Twelve gallons, fourteen dollars and twenty-one cents, paid with a credit card.”

“That sounds right. I chatted with Mrs. Verhall, then left. There wasn’t much traffic. Two miles away, I turned onto a gravel road and went a mile to a spot I had picked out. I stopped, opened the trunk, and proceeded to get dressed. I had a set of gear used by dirt bikers—a helmet, shoulder pads, knee and hand pads, the works. I quickly put it on over my clothing, everything but the helmet, then returned to the highway, where I drove south. The first time, there was a car behind me. The second time, there was a car coming toward me in the distance. I braked hard anyway, leaving skid marks. There was no traffic the third time. I put the helmet on, took a deep breath, and left the road. It was scary as hell, Karl.”

Karl figured that at this point there was another body somewhere in the car, either dead or alive, but he wouldn’t ask. At least not now.

“I was only doing about thirty when I left the road, but thirty feels like ninety when you’re airborne and trees are flying by. I was bouncing, snapping small
trees. The windshield cracked. I was steering right and left, dodging as best I could, but a big pine tree caught the left front. The airbag exploded, and for a second I was knocked out. There was a tumbling sensation, then all was still. I opened my eyes, and felt a sharp pain in my left shoulder. No blood. I was dangling somehow, and I realized that the Blazer had come to rest on its right side. I began crawling out. By the time I got out of the damned thing, I knew I was lucky. My shoulder wasn’t broken, just jammed. I walked around the Blazer and was amazed at how well I had wrecked it. The roof had caved in just above my head. Another six inches and I’m not sure I could’ve gotten out.”

“That seems incredibly risky. You could’ve been killed or badly injured. Why not simply push the car down the ravine?”

“Wouldn’t work. It had to look real, Karl. The ravine was not steep enough. This is flat country, remember.”

“Why not put a brick on the accelerator and jump out of the way?”

“Bricks don’t burn. If they’d found a brick in the car, maybe they would’ve been suspicious. I thought of everything, and I decided I could drive it into the trees and walk away. I had a seat belt, an airbag, a helmet.”

“Evel Knievel himself.”

The nurse brought the Diet Cokes, and wanted to chat for a moment. She finally left. “Where was I?” Patrick asked.

“I think you were about to torch it.”

“Right. I listened for a moment. The left rear wheel
was spinning, and that was the only sound. I couldn’t see the highway, but I looked up in its direction and heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was a clean exit. The nearest house was a mile away. I was certain no one had heard the crash, but still I was in a hurry. I stripped off the helmet and the pads and threw them in the Blazer, then I ran farther down the ravine to a spot where I had hidden the gasoline.”

“When?”

“Earlier in the day. Very early. At dawn. I had four two-gallon plastic jugs of gas, and I quickly hauled them up to the Blazer. It was dark as hell and I couldn’t use a flashlight, but I had marked off a little path. I placed three of the containers in the Blazer, stopped, listened. Nothing from the highway. Not a sound anywhere. The adrenaline was pumping and my heart was in my throat. The last container I splashed inside and out, then threw it in with the rest. I backed off thirty feet or so, and lit a cigarette I had in my pocket. I threw it, backed up even farther, and ducked behind a tree. It landed on the Blazer, then the gas exploded. Sounded like a bomb. In an instant it was roaring from all the windows. I climbed up the steepest side of the ravine and found a vantage point probably a hundred feet away. I wanted to watch without getting caught. The fire was howling; I had no idea it would make so much noise. Some brush started to burn, and I thought maybe I had started a forest fire. Luckily it had rained on Friday, a hard rain that soaked the trees and ground cover.” He took a drink of his soda. “I just realized I forgot to ask you about your family. I’m sorry, Karl. How’s Iris?”

“Iris is fine. We can talk about the family later. Right now, I’d like to hear the story.”

“Sure. Where was I? I’m so scatterbrained. It’s all those drugs.”

“Watching the car burn.”

“Right. So the fire gets really hot, then the gas tank explodes and it’s another bomb. I thought for a second I might get scorched. Debris flies through the air, and rattles through the trees as it falls. Finally, I hear something from the highway. Voices. People yelling. I can’t see anybody, but there’s a commotion. A long time passes and the fire spreads around the car. It’s coming at me now, so I leave. I can hear a siren coming. I’m trying to find a creek I’d come across the day before a hundred yards or so through the woods. I’m going to follow it. And I’m looking for my dirt bike.”

Karl hung on every word, absorbed every scene, made every step along the way with Patrick. This escape route had been the subject of many fierce debates in the months after the disappearance, and no one had a clue. “A dirt bike?”

“Yeah. An old one. I bought it for five hundred dollars cash from a used car dealer in Hattiesburg several months earlier. I played with it some in the woods. Nobody knew I had it.”

“No title or registration?”

“Of course not. I gotta tell you, Karl, as I ran through the woods, looking for the creek, still scared but in one piece, and I heard the fire and voices fade behind me and the siren getting louder, I knew I was running to freedom. Patrick was dead, and he took with him a bad life. He would get honored and buried properly, and everyone would say good-bye. And before
long people would start to forget about him. But me, I was running wildly to a new life. It was exhilarating.”

What about the poor guy burning in the car, Patrick? While you were running joyously through the woods someone else was dying in your place. Karl almost asked. Patrick seemed oblivious to the fact that he had committed murder.

“Then suddenly, I’m lost. The woods are dense, and somehow I stumble the wrong way. I get a small flashlight, and I figure it’s safe to use it. I roam and backtrack until I can no longer hear the siren. At one point, I sit down on a stump and make myself get a grip. I’m in a panic. Wouldn’t this be great? Survive the wreck only to die of starvation and exposure. I start walking again, get lucky and find the creek. Before long, I find the dirt bike. I push it a hundred yards, up the side of a hill, to an old logging trail, and of course by now my two-hundred-and-thirty-pound lumbering fat ass is practically dead. There’s not a house within two miles, so I start the bike and follow the logging trail. I’ve ridden the area several times on the bike, so I know it well. I find a gravel road, and see the first house. I’ve got the bike jerry-rigged with aluminum tubes that act to muffle the engine, so I’m not making much noise. Before long, I’m on a paved road in Stone County. I stay away from the main highway, and stick to the back roads. A couple of hours later, I make it back to the cabin.”

“Why did you go back to the cabin?”

“I had to regroup.”

“Weren’t you afraid of being seen by Pepper?”

Patrick didn’t flinch at the question. Karl had timed it perfectly, and he watched for a reaction. None. Patrick studied his feet for a few seconds, then said, “Pepper was gone.”

Twenty-four

Underhill was back. Fresh from eight hours of watching videos and reviewing notes in another room. He walked in, gave a generic hello in the general direction of Stephano and his lawyer, then got to work. “If we could pick up where you left off yesterday, Mr. Stephano.”

“Where might that be?”

“Your invasion of Brazil.”

“Right. Well, let’s see. It’s a big country. A hundred and sixty million people, more square miles than the lower forty-eight, and a history of being a marvelous place to hide, especially if you’re on the run. Nazis favored it for years. We put together a dossier on Lanigan, had it translated into Portuguese. We had a police artist work with some computer people to develop a series of color-enhanced renderings of what Lanigan looked like now. We spent hours with the sailboat charter captain in Orange Beach, as well as
with the bankers in Nassau, and together they helped us develop a series of detailed sketches of Lanigan. We even met with the partners in the firm and went over the sketches. They, in turn, showed them to the secretaries. One of the partners, Mr. Bogan, even took the best rendering to the widow Lanigan for her opinion.

“Now that you’ve caught him, were your photos close?”

“Fairly close. The chin and the nose threw us off a bit.”

“Please continue.”

“We hurried to Brazil, and found three of the best private investigative firms in the country. One in Rio, one in São Paulo, and one in Recife, in the northeast. We were paying top dollar, so we hired the very best. We put them together as a team, and gathered them in São Paulo for a week. We listened to them. They developed the story that Patrick should be an American fugitive wanted for the kidnap and murder of the daughter of a wealthy family, a family now offering a reward for information about his whereabouts. The murder of a child was, of course, designed to arouse more sympathy than stealing money from a bunch of lawyers.

“We went straight to the language schools, flashing pictures of Lanigan and offering cash. The reputable schools slammed their doors. Others looked at the pictures but couldn’t help. By this time, we had a lot of respect for Lanigan, and we didn’t think he’d run the risk of studying in a place where questions were asked and records were kept. So we targeted the private
tutors, of which there are only about a million in Brazil. It was tedious work.”

“Did you offer cash up front?”

“We did what our Brazilian agents wanted to do, which was to show the pictures, tell the story of the murdered child, then wait for a reaction. If there was a nibble, then we’d gently drop the hint about some reward money.”