“Mr. Tate,” I said. “I need a word with you.”
He didn’t look at me. “If you want an interview, call my office.”
He tried to move past, but I stepped with him.
“Sir.” I flashed my badge. “We need to talk.”
Behind me, a car door opened. Tate’s driver. Who probably doubled as his bodyguard.
Tate took in the badge and then my uniform, and finally he looked at my face. His eyes flicked to Clyde. “I’ve nothing to say to you. Get out of my way.”
A man who’d clearly created himself at a gym loomed into my field of view. Clyde lowered his head, ready to leap if I gave the word.
“Back off,” the bodyguard said to me. Now the uniformed cop who’d been holding off the media was heading in our direction.
I ignored the muscle and said to Tate, “It’s about that old merger between T&W and Davenport’s railroad. I’d rather talk to you than the media.”
“That wasn’t a merger. That was a scalping.”
The uniformed cop arrived. “You guys need help?”
The bodyguard and I both said no, and the cop retreated.
“I know there was something off about that merger,” I said to Tate. “That’s exactly why I want to know about it.”
“You work for DPC.”
“My concern goes beyond that.”
His gaze dropped again to Clyde and he frowned.
The bodyguard puffed out his chest as if he thought that would scare me off. “Sir?”
“Five minutes,” I said.
The look Tate gave me could have taken flesh. But he nodded. “Make it two. We can talk by your truck. If you lock up your dog.”
“I was bitten by a stray dog when I was a kid,” Tate explained after I’d settled Clyde in the passenger seat of my truck. “I had to go to the hospital for stitches and a rabies shot. We always had dogs when I was growing up. But now I try to avoid them.”
“Understandable.”
I leaned against the sun-warmed truck. Not even eight in the morning, and the day was already hot. Leaves hung listlessly and steam rose from nearby drainage vents. Tate stood on the sidewalk, in the shade cast by Hiram’s high-rise. If he was roasting in the three-piece suit, he didn’t show it.
“I know Hiram is a formidable rival,” I said. “Losing T&W must have been hard on your father. I just wondered if he ever talks about it.”
“You and that TV reporter,” he said. “If you’re looking for a way to link that old merger with the fight for the bullet train, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“How did your father feel about that takeover?”
Tate folded his arms. “It broke his heart, at least for a time. I was away at school when it happened, but my mother told me how much it hurt him.” He shrugged. “But he’s a businessman. And this is the business we’re in. The history of railroads is all about mergers. Has been from the very beginning.”
“Did you know that just a few weeks ago, your father asked Clinefeld Engineering to do a site investigation of the land that was part of that merger?”
“That’s impossible. My father can barely remember his own name. Where did you get that idea?”
“Could someone else in your company have requested it?”
“Why would they? We’ve had nothing to do with that land for almost thirty years.” He dropped his arms and drummed the fingers of his left hand against his thigh. “What are you getting at?”
“Could you confirm with your people, Mr. Tate, and let me know?”
“If you think it’s important, I can check with our land office.” He shrugged. “But if my father actually managed to request a survey, or got someone to do it for him, it was probably because he thought it was 1982 again.”
“Thank you.” I took out a business card and wrote 02XX56XX15XP on the back, then showed it to Tate. “Does this number mean anything to you?”
“The police showed it to me yesterday. Sorry, it means absolutely nothing. What is this about?”
“What if you take out the Xs?”
He looked at the number again, then shook his head. “No.”
“The locals called it Deadman’s Crossing.”
His face cleared. “Wait. This is the crossing at Potters Road, isn’t it? My dad mentioned that name years ago—Deadman’s. It’s the crossing that Hiram made such a big deal about upgrading after the merger.” His wide eyes met mine. “Samantha Davenport was killed near that crossing. You think these deaths have something to do with that crossing.”
“We’re looking at everything.”
“But how could the Davenport murders and Lucy’s kidnapping have anything to do with that crossing?”
“Let’s stick with the past. If mergers and takeovers are a regular part of business, why did the 1982 takeover upset your father so much?”
Tate gave a disgusted shake of his head. “You work for Hiram Davenport. What do you think?”
“There are a lot of layers between his office and mine. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Hiram Davenport is the most rapacious man I have ever known. He went after my father’s railroad using every legal tactic known. Which, as I’ve said, is business. I can at least understand that. But I suspect he used a few illegal tactics as well.”
“Such as?”
Tate looked across the parking lot. I followed his gaze toward the media vans parked on the street, then looked back at him. I noticed a small cut near his ear where he must have nicked himself during his morning shave. Odd, for a man who seemed so meticulous. When he brought his eyes back, his expression had turned hard. He shoved his hands in his pockets and spread his feet, a gesture that looked like he’d watched too many Great Gatsby movies.
“All I know,” he said, “is what my father told me when I came home from school that year. This was months after the fact. Dad called Hiram a lot of names. Cheat and scoundrel were some of the nicer ones. Then yesterday, after the detectives came to speak with me, I went to see my father. I wanted to try and explain to him what had happened to Hiram, to ask him if he had any ideas about it. Dad still lives in the house I grew up in. But it’s more like a hospital now than a home. He’s been bedridden since the stroke.”
I nodded in sympathy.
“As soon as I mentioned Hiram’s name,” Tate said, “Dad started talking about the merger.”
“What did he say?”
“Just that it was wrong. That what happened was all wrong. But I don’t think he was talking only about the merger.”
“What do you think he meant?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. He got agitated, and I changed the subject.”
“Would your mother have a better idea what he might mean? Surely they spoke about it.”
“My mother passed away years ago.”
Again, I nodded my sympathy. “Have you ever heard of a man named William King? He lived in Columbus, Ohio.”
Tate scratched his chin, thinking. “Sorry. No.”
“Or maybe his mother, Betsy. She worked for DPC.”
“I’m afraid not. Is this important?”