He was in his fifties, a time when normal men did not strip to the waist on a rock wall. But his body looked twenty years younger, long, lean like Marsh, but with more muscle. It took a lot to preserve a body like that at his age, along with a strong assist from nature.

  I watched him scamper up and down the wall for twenty minutes. The only other person around was a young, very fit, very attractive young woman who sat with a fixed gaze, holding a couple of white towels in her lap.

  When he finished, he jumped down to the floor from halfway up the wall, landing like a graceful ski jumper, and trotted over to the woman, who provided an admiring smile along with the towel. As he wiped the sweat from his face and chest, he surveyed his surroundings, and his eyes soon fell on me.

  I was standing twenty feet from him, with my arms folded across my chest, making no effort to conceal my interest. I dipped my chin and said, “Pretty impressive, Fogerty.”

  He narrowed his eyes, examining me. His study took a few seconds, before he determined that he didn’t have a clue who I was. He dropped the towel onto the young woman’s lap and came over to investigate further.

  “You know me?”

  Up close, he looked closer to his age. His skin was tanned, rested. I’m sure he got his fair share of massages and treatments, but the wear and tear, and wrinkles under his eyes and at the corners of his mouth could not be completely erased, even with Botox.

  “Yes and no.”

  His eyes probed mine, and we had a moment together. I didn’t like it. Maybe it was Rachel’s story infecting my view of his character, but I didn’t think so.

  This was a bad hombre.

  Judging from the expression on his face, I didn’t seem to be his type either.

  He glanced away, looked over his shoulder, nodded.

  A moment later, a pair of hands clutched my shoulders smartly. I started to turn my head, but the grip tightened to the point of pain. I let it be.

  “What’s your name?” Fogerty asked.

  “Plank. Max.”

  “Do you know me, Mr. Plank?”

  “Like I said, yes and no.”

  The hands dug into my clavicle, and I winced. I moved my right foot farther right and my left foot back a step while the pain spiked. Handsy responded by moving a foot between my legs. I slammed the heel of my right foot down hard on his toes. His grip released right before he cried out. I danced away, my eyes on Fogerty.

  Who smiled at me.

  “I see,” he said.

  Handsy squatted low over his shoe, rubbing it and cursing. Muttering about how I should just wait. Hold on just one minute, God damn it.

  After a few more humiliating moments, he stood, rolled his shoulders back twice, settled into a semi-Neanderthal stance, and took a step toward me.

  “Enough, Waldo,” Fogerty said. “Go.”

  Waldo, who was a big slab of meat in his thirties, gave me a dirty look, but backed up, spun, and disappeared.

  “What do you want?” Fogerty said.

  I explained myself, shading the truth.

  He invited me up to the Chairman’s suite.

  Thirty-One

  No use describing the suite in boring detail.

  Like I said, twenty-seven televisions, gym, spa, karaoke room. Gold, silver, stainless steel, wall to wall glass, stunning views.

  Big wow.

  Really.

  What money can buy.

  Fogerty made me a cappuccino from a fancy machine and poured himself a glass of white wine that probably cost more than my boat.

  He told me to take a seat. I had a choice of a dozen in the living room overlooking the sprawling majesty and tawdriness of Las Vegas, from its glittering candy-colored heart, pumping relentlessly, its artery-clogged streets spilling into palatial estates, mundane suburbs, and shabby, desperate corners.

  I took a seat at the large, fully-stocked bar.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the suite, although my information said it had up to seven bedrooms and more than eight thousand square feet. No telling who might be hiding out in its far-flung reaches. Waldo had disappeared, but I assumed he was within barking distance.

  “My wife sent you here?” he said, then took a sip of the wine, his tongue laving his lower lip.

  “Indirectly,” I responded, biding my time, but feeling a nasty itch inside me that I was dying to scratch.

  “You have a problem answering direct questions, Mr. Plank?”

  “Nice place you have here. Homey, in its own way. Donald Trump might find it lacking, but—”

  “I’m losing my patience.”

  “Well, William, I guess, exiled to this far flung,” I looked around, opened my arms out, “Xanadu, I’d think you would have cultivated patience. As nice as it is here, you’re kind of on the periphery of things. You can’t go near your family, or your wife’s business. It must sting, just a little bit. I’ve been wondering what you do with your time…” I picked up my cappuccino, took a leisurely sip, and continued, “I would think patience, and boredom, would be your good buddies by now. I mean that rock wall is pretty pathetic as a pastime for a man of your age, despite your undeniable flair for scaling it.”

  Fogerty placed his wineglass down on the top of the bar, turned it once, positioning it exactly to his liking. He put his hands down flat on the gleaming hardwood surface, looked down at his feet in contemplation, and said, “I’m just going to say this once. I don’t know who you are or what you want. I’ll give your one more chance to tell me why you are here.”

  He was irritated, but still in control. His voice carried a hint of the beast, but he was still a polite, card-carrying member of civil society.

  I thought about what I wanted. The call of the wild or just some answers to my questions? Was there any chance that this man would tell me what I wanted to know? Would he unburden himself of his guilt, his role, his actions, in the whole terrible mess that he’d made of his own family?

  I reminded myself that I was in the lion’s den, the devil’s lair, and that I had no weapons with me, save for my wits and my hands, for which I often tended to have too high a regard.

  No telling what my opponent held at the ready here in his not-so-humble abode.

  I considered all this as the timer ran down—I could almost feel Fogerty’s coiled spring tension threatening, just a bar skip away.

  I bit my tongue, prepared myself for what might come out of my mouth.

  “As I said, I was hired by your wife,” I said, and as I did, I decided to tell him the truth, mostly, from the point three weeks ago when the Mrs. stepped onto my boat until yesterday, when Rachel told me the secret at the heart of her family’s hidden life. Once I reached that point, depending on how he responded to the rest, I’d decide how to proceed.

  I realized that I didn’t even know if the man was aware of Christopher’s suicide, although I guessed someone must have contacted him by now.

  I told the story, summarizing, omitting some details, but leaving nothing of importance out.

  When I got to Christopher, he didn’t respond in any appreciable way, so I assumed he already knew or didn’t care enough to have an emotional response.

  While I spoke, he’d wandered out from behind the bar and settled into a high-backed chair in the center of the room that was angled toward the windows. He sipped his wine, glancing out reflectively on greater Las Vegas from time to time.

  “Is that it?” he said, when I finished.

  “Pretty much.”

  He stood, the empty glass of wine clutched in his right hand, and walked until his nose almost touched the massive floor-to-ceiling wall of glass. He kept his back to me.

  “Isn’t this something?” he said.

  “That it is.”

  “Do you know what it took for me to get here?” He turned to face me, waved his hand in an arc, encompassing the room, all the lush accoutrements that wealth brought. “To get all of this?”

  “Magic, right?”

  He looked perplexed.

  “You married into it. Your wife’s great-great granddaddy made his fortune off Wizard Oil. He was a carnival barker without peer, giving the poor and suffering all the hope they could stand. Maybe you’re a little similar to him. Something of a con man. You saw an opportunity to get rich quick without effort. Seizing on the neediness of a lonely, rich woman. You married her for her money. Doesn’t seem like hard work to me.”

  The truth will set you free is my motto.

  I felt the glass more than saw it whizzing by my ear before shattering against the back wall of the bar.

  All the tiny hairs on my body started tingling.

  The beast had emerged without warning. I wondered if when he attacked Christopher, it happened the same way, like a flipped switch, one minute light and bright, the next total darkness. With Rachel, it had to be different. His actions there were pure premeditated evil.

  My time here, I could tell, was short.

  I can take a hint, perhaps not as well as the next guy, but still.

  He acted like nothing had happened. He moved back to the bar, poured himself another glass of wine, and downed in a single gulp. He poured himself another and gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Her father paid me to take her out.” He smiled, remembering back. “Said that his daughter was lonely and hadn’t had a date in years. Said she was a good girl, but too focused on the business.”

  “How’d you meet him?”

  “At a big society event. I was working with a service that provided dates to mature women of means. We shared a drink, and he offered me the job.”

  “The job?”

  “That’s what it was. Strictly confidential between him and me. She was always trying to please the old man, get some of his love and attention. She adored him but didn’t understand him and so she feels unloved to this day. I understood him. He did care for her, but she never knew.” He paused, glanced back out to the blaring light of the midday sky, took another sip of wine, and smacked his lips. “I kept it a secret until long after we were married and the old man was dead. She didn’t believe me at first. I tried to convince her that it showed his concern for her. How he was trying to make her happy, in his own way. When I saw how devastated she was, I doubled down. Told her that it had been a setup, sure, but I’d fallen in love with her. I could see that she was starved for it. Seeing what the old man had done to her. It gave me my opportunity…”

  His eyes were far away, back in time, the wheels of his mind churning, remembering, congratulating himself on taking advantage of his big break. He may have never told this story before and had been dying to let someone else know what a brilliant strategist, a smooth operator he was. Pulling a fast one, the big score, over on the wealthy magnate and his poor, ugly duckling daughter.

  “He never expected me to marry her, but by then, I’d even fooled him. I saw my chance. She loved me, needed me. It worked out all around.”

  “Still doesn’t seem like hard work.”

  “Shit,” he said, turning, moving back into the center of the room where he faced me. “I wasn’t attracted to her. You’ve seen her, haven’t you? She looks like that actress in the Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch of the West. I’ve been to bed with some homely women, but those were one- or two-time deals. She was crazy about me and wanted me to feel it, show it. For months, I had to act like I wanted her. I deserved an Academy Award. It was acting for real.”

  My skin was crawling. I didn’t want to listen, but I needed him to keep talking.

  “I had to convince her and her father that I’d really fallen for her and wasn’t just after the money. He still made me sign a prenup, but I figured I could work with that. As soon as he kicked the bucket, I got her to tear it up.” He laughed. “That bitch will do anything for me.”

  I couldn’t believe he was telling me all this so brazenly. I’d been right speculating how much this luxurious exile had affected him. The pent-up resentment and anger for the compromises he’d had to make for mere money. Lots and lots of mere money.

  “What about your children?”

  “What about them? I never wanted them. She begged me, but I refused. She lied to me. Said she was taking the pill. So, Rachel came along. I was furious, but nothing I could do about it. Rachel wasn’t half bad. A beautiful girl. Not like her mother at all. Takes after me.”

  “Christopher?” I said.

  “Didn’t like him. He was a selfish little brat. A momma’s boy. And his mother lied to me again. Told me she was on birth control. I was furious that time. I actually went out and got a vasectomy after that. I wouldn’t trust the bitch anymore.”

  Jesus. I’ve listened to a lot of miserable, SOBs, but William Fogerty made me want to puke my expensive breakfast up all over his fancy carpet.

  “Isn’t she still paying for all this?” I waved my hand in a circle.

  “Sure. She’s still crazy about me. She comes and sees me at least once a month. I don’t sleep with her anymore, but I let her hang around. She’s like a moon-sick puppy. Believe me, Plank, it gets old. Don’t tell me I haven’t earned all this.” He paused, shook his head, moved to the bar, and poured himself another glass of wine. He downed it in a single gulp and poured another. “Only thing she loves as much as me is dear dead Daddy’s company. She’d do anything to make sure nothing hurts Wambaugh. It’s double insurance for me. If she ever decides she doesn’t love me, I’ve still got her and Christopher over a barrel. I’ve earned what I have here and I’m not giving it up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He fixed me with a steady gaze. “I’ve said enough. The rest is none of your business. In fact, why am I even talking to you?”

  “You’re not the first who’s ever asked that question.”

  I sized him up, thought about what to say next, decided to go for broke. “Did you hire someone to take a shot at Sarah Swan?”

  Surprisingly, he didn’t throw another glass at me. Not even his shoe, which I was half-expecting. My question seemed to calm him.

  He waited a beat before responding. “Who is Sarah Swan?”

  He was good. Or clueless.

  “You’ve never heard of her?”

  He shook his head.

  So, I told him about Sarah. Her involvement with Christopher and Rachel and his wife’s obsession, along with the attempted murder.

  “I don’t keep track of my children’s love lives. I don’t know why Marjorie hired you to investigate this singer. To be honest, I no longer have any contact with my children. As to the shooting, this is the first I’ve heard of it and hopefully the last.”

  I stifled a remark that might have led to deadly projectiles aimed for my head.

  “We’re finished,” he said, walking to the bar and placing his glass down sharply.

  He acted as if nothing of consequence had happened between us. That the despicable behavior he’d revealed toward his wife and family was no big deal. That throwing a glass at someone’s head out of the blue was not worthy of an apology or an explanation or even a brief mention.

  “I have a couple more questions.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you two more minutes as long as you don’t act like a jackass.”

  He was asking a lot of me. I was pretty sure I was going to disappoint him. I took a long breath through my nose to calm my own inner animal and work up the gumption to say what needed to be said. I felt like I owed it to Rachel, and to Christopher, to at least attempt to make this man acknowledge what he’d done.

  And, despite his claim of complete ignorance around his children’s lives, I still couldn’t shake the feeling, the suspicion, that he knew much more than he was saying. He wasn’t going to answer my questions directly, so I had to rattle his cage, so to speak.

  “Did you know about Christopher’s suicide?”

  “I was contacted, yes.”

  “Your wife. The police?”

  “Who cares?”

  “I wonder if the police might have any interest in the kind of father you were to Christopher.”

  The quiet in the room seemed to suddenly deepen, the stillness sharpen. A long moment passed.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I understand you were pretty tough on the boy.”

  “This is none of your—”

  “In fact, you beat him viciously, repeatedly. You didn’t father him; you tortured him.”

  He loomed large in the center of the room. He had all the trappings of wealth and power but had done nothing but deceive and manipulate to get them. He was a pathetic monster, a gross perversion of a human being.

  “You belong in jail, William. Not here. This is not your due.”

  He closed his eyes and smiled. “I’d advise you to leave right now, Mr. Plank.”

  “Unfortunately, Christopher never had the wherewithal to confront you. You’d beaten it out of him. And now he’s dead. You’re safe, the statute of limitations protects you.”

  “Waldo,” he barked. “Terrence.”

  Heavy footsteps in a hallway nearby.

  “But not with what you did to Rachel. She can still bring charges against you. Your daughter, who you sexually abused all those years ago. I think she’s ready, William. Maybe you’re going to end up in that jail you belong in after all.”

  My friend handsy Waldo, crew cut, left tackle for the Vegas Also-Rans, and Terrence, a cougar-slick slice of svelte devil-may-care, both carried what appeared to be .38 specials with silencers attached.

  Fogerty nodded to them and then to me, and the two men moved in on me. I turned to face them, crouched in a fighter’s stance.

  “Stop,” Fogerty called out to his men. They froze in place ten feet from me. “Lay down on the floor, flat on your stomach, and put your hands behind your back.”

  “Unlikely,” I said, opening and closing my fists, readying for a little of the old ultra-violence, as Alex in A Clockwork Orange terms it.

  “Waldo, shoot him in the knee cap.”

  I dropped to the floor, put my hands behind my back, cursing under my breath, wondering where-oh-where in the world Marsh was.

 

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