“You know, the thought has crossed my mind,” says Harry, “that Bonguard wouldn’t look bad dressed up in killer clothes.”
What Harry means is in a plastic raincoat and brandishing a hammer.
“If we can’t find the letter or some way to talk about it, to get it into evidence,” says Harry, “Bonguard gets my vote for runner-up in the ‘golden idol’ awards.”
“Except why would Bonguard kill the client who was filling his coffers?”
“Maybe the letter was worth more than his fifteen percent on book sales,” says Harry.
“Even if it was a copy?”
“Okay, I’m still working it out,” says Harry, “but think about it. If the shadow on the leather portfolio means anything, it means that the Jefferson Letter was in Scarborough’s possession at the same time Bonguard was bird-dogging him out on the tour. To believe that the agent never saw it when he must have been in the same room with it on countless occasions is to believe in the tooth fairy.”
Harry has a point. Aside from Scarborough, Bonguard would have had the best access to the letter.
He reaches down, picks up his briefcase, and starts shuffling toward the garage. “What was it Scarborough called it? Then I gotta run,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“The letter. According to Scott, he had a name for it.”
“You mean the ‘infamous Jefferson Letter’?”
“Yeah. Damn,” says Harry. He’s smiling. “Forget Bonguard. Anything with a name like that, we gotta find a way to get it in. Almost begs you to fly it in front of the jury, just out of reach, keep ’em wondering what’s in it,” he says.
My partner is starting to believe in paper dragons.
“That’s a dangerous trip,” I tell him, “seeing as we don’t know what’s in it. It could be a story with no punch line.”
“You gotta have faith.” Harry is moving away from me toward the garage. “Trust me, we want to fly ‘infamous Jefferson.’ I’m betting one or more of them-Bonguard, Scott, or Aubrey-saw the copy and knows what’s in it. There’s our foundation. Of course, it’s just a guess.”
“Don’t stay in the office too late,” I tell him. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
Just when he gets to the door, he stops and turns.
“One thing is certain, though,” he says. He’s no longer smiling. The look on Harry’s face is stone sober. “Scarborough’s e-mails. If we’re tracking, if those mean what we think they do, then Ginnis has the McCoy, the real item, the original letter.”
17
Eight o’clock Saturday morning, and I’m planted in my favorite chair in the large den of the bungalow I call home, tucked away on Coronado Island.
For the most part, my house is now a sanctuary, safe ground from the snarling media, though occasionally one of the satellite news vans will cruise by to take a look. It doesn’t matter any longer whether your phone is unlisted or your mail is delivered to a post-office box-these people will find you. It’s the one thing you learn about the media: They possess an olfactory nerve that would shame a bloodhound. And as soon as one of them locates you, the rest of the pack is right behind.
I had to live with it for about two weeks just before the trial started. Three mobile video trucks blocking traffic on the narrow street in front of my house, my lawn littered with cigarette butts and decorated with discarded paper coffee cups. Each morning I had to wave, smile, and be polite, since they were filming as I tried to bulldoze my way out of the garage, heading for work.
This was before they met Suki. Suki Kenoko is my Japanese gardener. He drives a 1957 Dodge pickup that once belonged to the original owner, his father. This accounts for the sign on the truck’s door: KENOKO AND SON, YARD SERVICE. Hitched to the truck, he tows a trailer with all his gardening equipment-mowers, rakes, you name it, Suki’s got it. Behind the wheel he never drives faster than ten miles an hour. I can verify this, having been stuck more than once in the train of cars behind him. Regardless of speed, however, you never want to cross an intersection in front of him, because until Suki gets where he’s going, he never stops. It doesn’t matter if there is a stop sign or a traffic light or what the color is, Suki will drive right through it, and everybody on this end of the island knows it. To my knowledge, he has never been ticketed. None of the local traffic cops want the hassle. Suki owns one of the more stately houses on the island, and his brother, who is a lawyer, is on the city council.
Late one afternoon I thought I might inherit another case when Suki showed up to do the garden. He looked at the front lawn, strewn with coffee cups and crushed Coke cans, cigarette butts in the bushes. For a moment I thought there might be blood in the street. He just stood there like a stick in his tan long-sleeved shirt and pith helmet, shoulders hunched forward, and shook his head.
It’s true that you would have to know the man in order to realize that for Suki this was a display of raw emotion; think rattlesnake with the rattles removed. Nonetheless, one of the sound guys was sitting in a folding chair not ten feet from Suki’s trailer, and he was laughing-toying with death.
Suki dropped the ramp on the back of the trailer and was getting a rake and a bag to get all the trash off the lawn. That’s when he saw it. One of the cameramen had migrated with some of his equipment-a camera, a tripod, and cables-into a corner of the front yard, probably angling for a picture through one of my windows. In doing so the guy had snapped a limb off a small tree, a miniature Japanese maple. God help him. Suki wanted him out. And the fool resisted. The next thing I knew, my gardener was going at one of the legs on the camera’s tripod with a large, curved pruning saw, a thing about eighteen inches long, sprouting glinting teeth like Jaws.
Confronted by Asian fury, they not only moved the camera, they moved themselves across the street and behind one of the vans. The tripod, which like Captain Ahab was now missing the better part of one leg, Suki calmly tossed into the street. It was followed a second later by the missing appendage. Through all this the gardener never said a word.
What was more amazing was that after days resting on their haunches outside waiting for something to film, not one of the news guys got a picture, not a single frame of the helmeted, saw-wielding ninja as he drove them out of the yard. They stayed huddled behind the van while Suki picked up the trash, mowed the lawn, and pruned some bushes. They didn’t come out until the truck with the trailer, and the crazy guy driving it, left.
The day the trial started, the gypsy caravan camped in front of my house pulled up stakes and disappeared. Having missed the only pictures worth taking, they motored their movable feast back across the bridge to catch the rock-throwing Renaissance faire taking shape out in front of the courthouse.
I drink tea, Earl Grey, and scan the coroner’s report, prepping for Monday’s testimony. Across the room I have the television on, but with the sound muted. It is a much more peaceful way to catch cable news, without all the frenetic screaming. If somebody blows up a city, I can turn up the sound. Otherwise I’m not missing a thing.
This morning the screen is filled with election news, the presidential primaries, flashes of smiling faces, handshaking, and toothy grins, the political postmortems. Two Republicans and one Democrat are down and out, folding up their tents and tossing in the towel. But the real day of reckoning is just around the bend. The final state primary elections or caucuses. When that party ends, you’ll need a dump truck to pick up all the bunting, banners, buttons, and body parts left over from the fallen candidates. If it isn’t decided by then, within weeks-at most a month-the two principal party candidates, the nominees, will be the only ones left standing.