“Bullshit,” he says calmly.
Royal is right. That last part was a lie, but he can’t know for sure. And part of my purpose is to sow seeds of paranoia in the enemy camp. The predatory eyes narrow, the mind behind them judging odds based on variables unknown to me.
“You ordered the deaths of Dr. Leland Robb and everyone else on his plane. You told Snake Knox to sabotage it, and after Robb was dead, you married his wife. Killed two birds with one stone there. Nice trick. Only before Dr. Robb died, he told my father what Albert Norris had told him. And my father will testify to that in court.”
“You’re a book writer, aren’t you?” Royal says in a conversational tone. “I can see you’d be good at it. Because every bit of this sounds like hearsay to me.”
Reaching into my back pocket, I take out Caitlin’s tape recorder. “Let’s see if this sounds like hearsay. You might want to take a shot of that whiskey before I press play.”
The falcon’s eyes settle on the tiny Sony. “What’s that you got there?”
“You’ll understand soon enough. Listen up.”
Before Kirk and I entered the hospital, I cued the recorder to the point where Katy begins to implicate her father. As her slurred voice repeats the damning words, the old man’s face goes gray, then white.
By the way Brody is staring at the recorder, I’m betting that Randall Regan already told him about the tape recorder Caitlin left behind—which contained no incriminating information. Brody probably doesn’t know enough about cell phones to know they can also record memos.
“Speaking as a former prosecutor,” I tell him, “that doesn’t sound like hearsay to me. It sounds like your daughter is accusing you of murdering her mother, among other people. And if she dies, I’d say that what you just heard becomes a dying declaration given prior to suicide. Claude Devereux could challenge the recording in court, of course, along with your daughter’s mental status, but by that time your reputation will long since have been destroyed. So … if you don’t do exactly as I ask—tonight—what you just heard will be published tomorrow morning in every newspaper owned by the Masters Media Group. That’s six or seven million readers, at least. By noon you’ll have CNN setting up cameras in the lobby of your bank. There’s nothing like a Klan story to give the liberal media a taste for blood. Think about Trent Lott. He had ten times the connections you’ve got, and he quietly exited stage left when only a hint of this kind of scandal touched him.”
“You print that,” Brody says calmly, “and I’ll own John Masters’s media group.”
“No you won’t. You’ll be watching a jury listen to how you forcibly committed your teenage daughter to an institution where she was given electroshock therapy against her will—and sexually abused—all because she fell in love with a black boy. Crucifixion, flaying … the murder of those women from Royal Insurance. Christ, man. The DA will have a hell of a time even seating a jury who doesn’t want to string you up on the courthouse lawn. But you might actually prefer that to spending your last years in Angola with large, angry African-American gentlemen who are well informed about your past.”
Royal’s eyes are still on the tape recorder.
“Don’t waste time wondering how I got this. It’s only a copy. One of many, and soon to be number one, unless you do what I ask—tonight.”
Royal raises a hand and rakes the gray stubble on his chin. I sense anxiety mounting in him, charging him with energy, like the armature of an electric motor. Despite all his wealth and power, in this moment Brody Royal is nothing more than a cornered animal searching for escape. I half expect him to come out of the chair and throttle me. Instead, he rolls his shoulders to loosen them, then gets to his feet, takes a pull of Maker’s Mark, and gives me a knowing smile.
“Why don’t you tell me about this favor you need?”
I glance back at Kirk Boisseau, who’s staring at us in amazement.
“You want a sandwich?” Brody asks Kirk. “That chicken salad’s pretty good.”
“No thanks.”
A fraction of a second before I speak, inspiration strikes me. If I have Brody Royal by the balls, I’m a fool not to ask for everything I can get. After all, the APB is inextricably tied to the dead trooper. “I need two things from you,” I say, and then another possibility hits me. “Three, actually.”
“I’m all ears, son.”
“First, there’s a Louisiana State Police APB out for my father and a man named Walt Garrity, accusing them of killing a state trooper. I want that rescinded tonight.”
“I see. What else?”
“The death of that trooper will have to be written off somehow. Blamed on drug dealers or whatever else you can make work. I’m almost certain he was a dirty cop, but one way or another, you kill that case.”
“And the third favor?”
“I want Viola Turner’s case closed. To get the Natchez DA to do that, you’ll probably have to sacrifice a Double Eagle. I don’t care which, but you’d better pick one fast.”
Brody takes a deep breath, then nods amicably. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
The multimillionaire gives me an expansive smile, then chooses a chicken salad sandwich from the tray, takes a bite, and washes it down with Maker’s Mark.