Afterlife

by EB

(c)2004

Chapter Eleven

"I met Nick while I was working on a story, back in '97, I think. He was new in town, I think he'd just been here a couple of months. Ruben Olivares' wife, Rebecca, when she jumped out of a forty-first-floor window. Remember that?"

Gil nodded tightly. The shock of knowing Nick connected them hadn't worn off yet; he felt shaky, dizzy with surprise.

"The cop wouldn't say anything." Huckaby twisted a lock of hair around his finger, making a wry face. "Man, he was such a dick. I think he watched too many episodes of Dragnet or something. Just the facts, ma'am.' Whatever."

Probably Brass. And he had been a dick back then. True enough.

"And Nick?"

"Well, after Sergeant Pole-Up-His-Ass left, I asked Nick what he thought. I mean, he didn't tell me jack, either, but he was a nice guy, you know? Personable. But I didn't meet him again until two days after Paul Brooks was murdered."

"How?"

"He came to me," Huckaby said simply. "He said he'd seen my story in the paper, and could we talk. Because the PD was going to call it case closed, and he didn't think that was right."

The idea of Nick – procedure-conscious Nick – going to a reporter was so outlandish, for a moment Gil couldn't think of anything to say. Finally he stuttered, "That doesn't sound like Nick. Why you? No offense, but a reporter?"

Huckaby shrugged. "I don't know what made me stick in his memory. But I said I'd meet him the next day, maybe compare a few notes. On the QT, you know. He's twenty minutes late showing up, and when he does he looks scared. Really scared. He tells me he has all this information, and he doesn't know what to do with it. I said, Show it to the cops, you know, and he says, I got a phone call this morning."

"Who?"

"Santley. Turns out Nick knows the guy from way back, friend of the family, something. And Santley tells him to sit on the stuff. Don't let it get away, but don't pursue it yet."

Gil frowned. "What in God's name did Evan Santley have to do with this?"

"Santley started an investigation into some of Henley-Jackson's financial deals, about a year earlier. Henley's based in Houston, although they're so multinational a lot of people don't know it. Santley's the Attorney General, blah blah, right?"

With a game nod, Gil said, "And the connection with Brooks? Besides the fact that his firm is a Henley-Jackson subsidiary?"

"Right." Huckaby gave an enthusiastic nod, and Gil noted reluctantly just how much like Nick's his smile really was. "So get this. Those papers that you couldn't get a look at this morning, the ones Diane Abram told you were destroyed? Nick got copies before anyone could put the fix in. Part of the investigation into his death; Brooks was keeping them at his house. Nick starts looking at this paperwork, and finds out that audit was turning up a lot of money that shouldn't have been anywhere near the Horseshoe. A hell of a lot."

"How much?"

"Two hundred million and change."

"Two hundred MILLION?"

"Not so outrageous for a big casino, but even then the Horseshoe wasn't the brightest light on the Strip, you know?"

Gil nodded. "Laundering?"

"That's what Nick thought Brooks believed."

"Henley-Jackson. Tell me what this has to do with Henley-Jackson."

"Don't you get it?" Huckaby sighed noisily. "Benton, Goldman, & Benton is owned by Henley-Jackson. Brooks was poking into a money-laundering deal without official authorization. Nobody audits a casino without everyone and their dog knowing about it first. But Brooks was sure he was onto something, something big. The numbers were there. So somebody made sure he wouldn't be around to tell anyone about it."

Gil sat back. "That's not proof Henley-Jackson is involved. You know that."

"Who else would have known what Brooks was doing? His goddamn company was a PART of Henley. Unless you buy into that crock of crap about a random break-in, there's only one company in a position to know!"

"But why would a monster conglomerate like Henley-Jackson care? It's a lot of money to you and me, but to –"

"Because the money Alfred Coppa laundered at the Horseshoe didn't stay there. And guess where it went?"

Gil gazed at him. "Where?"

Huckaby stood and strode over to a locked file cabinet, spun out the combination and opened the second drawer. He came back with a stack of thin files, and held them out. "Take a look at these."

Gil took the manila folders, but kept them in his lap unopened. "What are they?"

Huckaby flopped back down in his chair. "The first one's the official earnings report. Stockholder crap. Henley, 1998. Then there's a file for every person on the board. Company didn't do spectacularly well that year, but the big guys got bonuses. So where'd that money come from? I mean, it's no Enron, at least not yet. But if Henley didn't exaggerate that earnings report, I'm Martha Stewart."

"Where did you get this information?"

"I'm a journalist. I do this shit for a living. Or did." Huckaby drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "I know: It's not ironclad proof. The proof was in the documents Nick had."

"Where are they?"

Huckaby sagged. "I don't know. He said they were in a safe place. Where that was –" He raised his hands, palms-up. "That he didn't tell me."

Gil sat back, mind working so hard he thought if he looked to the sides he'd see steam coming out of his own ears. "So," he said slowly. "Where was this money coming from?"

"Good question," Huckaby replied, nodding. "That I don't know. Wish I did. Hello, Pulitzer."

"And Santley knew about all this? The money, where it was going?"

"According to Nick, yeah. I think sometime in 1999, Santley would have announced the results of an audit of Henley. Only someone took care of him before that could happen. Without him at the wheel, it fell through."

"Or other people were scared off."

"Equally likely." Huckaby's eyes narrowed. "Nick never said a word about this to you?"

Gil shook his head. "Nothing. I wish he had."

"I didn't see him much after Santley bit it. Something happened right after that, I don't know what. We didn't talk for a long time. I was having trouble at the paper, getting those weird phone calls." He sighed. "I got scared of it. Then Nick called, about a year after Santley was shot. He said he had the stuff in a safe place, that he'd made arrangements. But what those were, he didn't tell me. After that, we talked maybe three, four times. Nothing much."

"But he didn't pursue it."

"He just said things were in motion."

Gil leaned forward. "Did Nick know the source of this extra money?"

Huckaby gnawed at his lower lip for a moment. "I don't think he did, at first. I think -- The last time we spoke, that was – God, 2002, early. February, March, something like that. He didn't tell me anything specific, but I got the feeling that he knew a hell of a lot more than he was saying. Christ, he was scared to death. He said it was the last time he'd call me, that he was sorry he'd ever gotten me involved in it. It was not long after I lost my house."

Gil hadn't even been dating Nick yet at that point. And yet that first time, that glorious insane night of too many Gibsons and too few inhibitions, Nick had been carrying this around with him, like an invisible lead-filled pack on his back. How had Gil never seen the signs? Were there none to see? How had Nick kept this all so completely from him?

"I wanted to go to the memorial," Huckaby said awkwardly. His handsome face twisted with honest regret. "I thought about it, you know? Meant to go. But I kept thinking, Nick wanted things the way they were. No contact. Brooks was dead, Santley was dead, and now Nick. Everyone I knew who'd had anything to do with that money was dead. I was too scared to go. I'm -- I'm really sorry."

Gil nodded, but the words seemed telegraphed from a very far-off place. "Who was Nick working with? At the end? What were his arrangements?'"

"I don't know. He never told me. Like I said."

"Santley was a friend of the family's?"

Huckaby nodded. "They're connected out the ass in Texas. His dad's on the Texas Supreme Court."

"Yes, I know," Gil murmured.

"Listen, you gotta understand. When Nick got his hands on those papers in Brooks's home office, he turned into – some kind of wild card. Those things were radioactive; they named names, sources. Somebody went to a hell of a lot of trouble to make sure all the evidence was destroyed. But they have to have known there was a renegade copy floating around somewhere."

Gil nodded grimly. "I need those papers."

Huckaby sat back, shaking his head. "Then I guess it's been nice knowing you, man."

"It won't come to that."

"Yeah. I bet that's what Paul Brooks thought, too."

Gil stirred. "Do you mind if I borrow these?" he asked, indicating the files. "Until I can make copies?"

"Knock yourself out. You think I'm going to do anything with them?" Huckaby shook his head again, decisively. "Wherever that money came from, it's dirty as hell."

"You think this was a one-time deal? A single payoff, maybe?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Thanks for talking with me," Gil said after an awkward second. "Your help has been invaluable."

"Don't thank me," Huckaby said gruffly. A trace of color appeared in his cheeks. "And watch your back. Paranoia can keep you alive, you know."

"So noted."

Huckaby trailed him to the door, his expression wan and unhappy. "Good luck," he said, when Gil stood in the doorway. "Don't have to tell you you're gonna need it."

Gil mustered a smile. "Thanks," he said softly.

At home, he went straight to his desk, turning on the computer and rummaging for paper and pen. So much, so very much to absorb, to consider. His little flow chart in his mind had suddenly expanded radically, and he had to write it down, see it in prosaic black and white. Then maybe he'd begin to comprehend all the contorted ways it fit together.

His phone rang just after five in the afternoon. He was so absorbed in his work, he didn't pause to think who it might be this time. Simply picked up the receiver.

"Hey," Catherine said in his ear. "How you feeling?"

He blinked, reaching up to rub one eye. "Feeling?"

She sounded as if she were outdoors, speaking a little louder than usual. "Brass told me you came by the lab last night; sorry I missed you. Headache's gone?"

"I feel fine, thanks. No, I -- I have some things to work on here. You'll call me if you need me?"

"Yep. Some things?' What things?"

"Bits and pieces," he said vaguely. "I'll know more later." He sat up. "Catherine?"

"Yeah?"

"That night – after the shooting." He swallowed. "Did you go through Nick's things? His personal effects?"

Her tiny pause said she hadn't expected that line of questioning. Fine; he hadn't known he'd ask before the words came out of his mouth. "No," she said evenly. "Robbins did, when he -- You know."

"The next day I got Nick's wallet, his keys. But I never asked about his – clothing, shoes."

"Gil, they were evidence. Bagged and tagged. It's standard procedure."

"But they weren't destroyed."

"Shouldn't have been. Not yet. Why?"

"I don't believe Hector Ramos shot Nick," Gil said slowly. "Neither do you. And there could be evidence on his clothing. We should have done that long ago."

Her tone, when she spoke again, was quenched. "It's a closed case. There was no reason, Gil. I don't think Al did anything but the most cursory examination of Nick's body, even. The cause of death -- Well."

"I need your help, Catherine," Gil told her. "I need to know who killed Nick. It's – part of a larger picture. Much larger."

"How large?" was her suspicious question.

"I'm finding that out as we speak. But whoever it was, the only connection we have to them is whatever is left of Nick's clothing, effects. I need you to pull those items for me. I can come later and –"

"And do it yourself?" Instead of acerbic, her tone was gentle. "Put yourself through it? Don't do it, Gil. I'll do it."

He sat very still for a moment. "Yes," he said finally. "Maybe you're right."

"If it's not too crazy tonight, I'll get right on it. That work?"

"That works very well, yes. Thank you."

"What am I looking for?"

He sighed. "Anything. Anything at all. Maybe nothing. I don't know."

"So, basically do every test in creation."

"Right." He found a tired smile on his face. "That ought to cover it."

"Right. Could take me a while, Gil. If we get slammed –"

"I understand. As able."

"Got it."

After she hung up, he went back to his pages of notes. Before her call, he'd written "Brooks – wife?" in hurried letters. He picked up his pen and tapped it against his left knuckles.

It was a day for long shots. Why not?

Andrea Brooks, he discovered, had become Andrea Wilkinson in the years since her husband's untimely death. Fortunately she still lived in the Las Vegas area, in a tidy suburb with her new spouse and her children by her first marriage. Seated in a sunny living room, dressed in vibrant blue, all Gil could manage to see for the first few minutes was the massive mound of her extremely pregnant belly.

"I kept most of Paul's things," she told him, one foot tapping the floor. Andrea was a very pretty woman, inclined to a bit of extra weight, but looking far younger than her thirty-six years. "For a long time. It wasn't until I met Bill that I finally went through a lot of it, got rid of most of it."

"Did you keep anything related to his work? Appointments books, address books, that sort of thing?"

Her expressive blue eyes met his squarely. "Why are you interested in this now? Paul's been dead for six years. No one ever asked me for his calendars before."

Gil nodded. "I believe," he said carefully, "that a case I'm working on now may relate in some way to your husband's – your first husband's – death."

"I have a couple of boxes. They're in our storage unit, by the interstate."

"Would it be possible to have a look at those boxes?"

"Don't you need a warrant or something?"

Her tone wasn't belligerent, merely curious, and he smiled and shook his head. "Not if you give consent."

"I -- I don't mind. I mean, I haven't looked at them myself in years." Her gaze dropped. "We were very happy," she said in a slightly husky voice. "I don't like to be – reminded. I mean, don't get me wrong. Bill's a wonderful man. The kids and I, we were lucky to find him." Her faint nervous smile faded away. "But Paul was -- Paul. I don't know how to describe him."

"Before he was killed, were there any changes you noted? Did he seem at all different?"

She shook her head. "Nothing I noticed. I mean, job stress. But he always had that. He took his job very seriously, worked extremely hard. Too hard, sometimes."

"Did he ever talk to you about specific stressors? Projects he was working on?"

"If you're asking about the casino, then yes." Her chin came up. "I knew about that."

Gil gave a cautious nod. "Anything related to that? Any particular individuals he might have spoken with on the phone, or referenced when he discussed it with you?"

"Well, Don, of course. Don was his manager. Don Fargason. And Diane." Her upper lip curled slightly; he wondered if she were even aware of the expression on her face. "But they were his colleagues, he worked with them every day."

"Any odd phone calls? Anything at all?"

"I just don't know. I don't think so."

"Well, if you think –"

"Wait." She put a well-manicured hand up, her head cocked slightly to one side. "He had a business trip, about two weeks before he – passed away. I remember, because we had to juggle our schedules. The boys and I were going the next week to visit my parents in California."

Gil gave an encouraging nod. "Business trip? Where to?"

"Texas. Houston. But he was vague about it. I remember that. He said it had nothing to do with work, but then he called it a business trip. And he was – excited." She uttered a short, harsh laugh. "I never understood why he'd be excited about Houston."

A prickle tingled Gil's spine. "Do you have any idea what he did in Houston? Did he meet with someone?"

She shook her head again. "I don't know. He never told me. But right after he got back, I answered the phone and someone was calling him. I can't remember his name. I'm sorry."

"Someone from work, maybe?"

"No." Decisive. "I know them. No, I hadn't heard his name before that. Sant, Santa-something."

Gil froze. "Santley?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe. That might have been it."

"Evan Santley?"

"I – think so." She raised a hand to dab delicately at one cheek. "It's been a long time. I don't know." She glanced at her watch. "I'm sorry, I -- I have to go pick up the boys. They're with their cousins; today's Skyler's birthday. My nephew."

"Of course. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me."

"Paul, he –" This time he saw brightness in her eyes that wasn't explained by the sunshine pouring in the windows. "He was a good man," she said thickly. "I know, a lot of people say that. But with Paul, it's completely true. He was a good, decent man. He had – principles. You know what I'm saying? He had – backbone."

Gil nodded slowly. "I think I do, yes."

"What that man did to him -- No one deserves that. I miss him every day, Mr. Grissom. Every single day." She wiped away the two tears that snaked down her cheeks. "Please don't tell my husband, all right? I mean, I love Bill. I do. I just -- Paul wasspecial." She cleared her throat, while he nodded awkwardly. "Will looking at Paul's things -- Will that help his death make any sense? Will it?"

"Possibly," Gil said. "It might."

She stood, moving with heavy grace. In a dish on a table near the front door, she fished out a heavy set of keys, and extracted one. "Here," she said in a voice still shivering with tears. "We have a unit at the All-Stor, on the interstate. Number 94. There isn't that much in it. Paul's -- Paul's things are in the two boxes with the Christmas tape on them." She gave a tiny, sad smile. "It was all I had at the time."

He took the key and forced himself to smile. "I appreciate it," he said softly. "I'll return this as soon as possible."

"Please mail it. I don't -- I would rather my husband didn't know you'd been here."

"Understood, Mrs. Wilkinson. I'll do that."

He tried not to see the fresh tears on her face as he went out the jaunty red-painted front door.

The sun was setting by the time he found the storage units and the Wilkinson's particular space. Inside 94 was a welter of old kids' toys, a few bits of furniture, a lot of boxes. And the ones she'd specified, shoved back into the corner and nearly covered by ancient lawn chairs.

He sneezed at the dust, and then self-consciously moved enough detritus to be able to reach the boxes, toting them out to stow in the back of his truck. Feeling guilty, he carefully locked the unit behind him, studiously trying not to think of Andrea Wilkinson and the love she still obviously felt for her long-dead first husband. Would that be him, six years from now? Possibly with someone else, but always finding that person somehow less than the man he'd replaced? Would Nick become idealized in his mind, an object of myth, rendered so perfect by his memory that no one else could possibly match up?

He sneezed again as he climbed into his vehicle, and drove away.

When he got home it was fully dark, and windy; he was glad for the garage door holding out the blowing dust as he carefully unloaded Paul Brooks's last few earthly possessions. Setting the boxes on the living room floor, he took out his pocket knife and carefully slit through the gay green-and-red packing tape.

Four hours later, his feet were completely numb, sitting so long in an awkward half-lotus on the tile floor. He was surrounded by the contents of the two boxes, but near at hand was a stack of what he'd so hoped to find: calendars, address books, and two small spiral notebooks holding what appeared to be figures and notes from various audits Brooks had conducted. Unlike Nick's journeyman-neat writing, Brooks wrote in a haphazard scrawl, making some of the pages a bit like deciphering hieroglyphics.

But within those books, he found four references to Evan Santley. The Houston meeting Andrea Wilkinson had mentioned was not the first time Brooks and Santley had contact. In fact there had been three previous meetings, to his eyes. Certainly there were no names named, but within the six months preceding his violent death Paul Brooks had gone four times to Houston. Twice they appeared to be very short trips – overnights – but the last two had been lengthier. He'd come back from the final trip only four days before his death.

And he'd met with Evan Santley each time. Gil was sure of it. Santley, who'd been preparing a case against Henley-Jackson, one that would have linked most of the board members to an extremely illegal flow of money from a limping old casino in Las Vegas, owned by a man with generations of Mob blood flowing through his plaque-clogged veins. Santley, who just might have been the person to set Brooks, an idealist in his wife's eyes, on a course to investigate the questions that had gotten him killed. Santley, who had died choking on his own blood on his doorstep almost exactly a year later.

And after Brooks was out of the picture, why, Santley had evidently turned to Nick. The man who didn't believe Javier Lewis was dumb enough to take off his gloves and then use a crowbar to turn Brook's head to mush. The man who, a week later, contacted a local reporter about the connection between the Horseshoe, Brooks, and a company that hadn't been out of the Forbes top ten in at least twenty years. Nick, who made a trip of his own to Houston the following October.

Three dead men. All connected, and the strongest bond holding them together was a monster conglomerate whose very name commanded the utmost respect in boardrooms worldwide. From a start in Texas oil to multiple lucrative defense contracts, to spreading into computer hardware and multinational banking, and God knew how many other side interests.

Gil laid the last appointment book on the nearest pile, and stretched his legs, sighing gustily. And nowhere in all that pile of information, all the notes and copies and originals, was there a single clue as to where that laundered money originated. It had appeared out of thin air, scrubbed by Alfred Coppa's efficient Mafia infrastructure and spat out the other side, newly minted and sent to line the accounts of a group of men and women who, by all accounts, were already more than wealthy. What had that money bought? Good will? Greased some wheels? Whose? Henley-Jackson had an open ticket, much of the time. Even with the comparative economic crunch going on today, Henley wasn't the sort of company that folded. Too huge, too entrenched. In hard times they could sell off a few subsidiaries, endure some stock fluctuations. But the war now meant that the company's multiple defense contracts more than made up for other shortcomings.

His phone rang while he was rubbing his tingling feet and thinking distractedly about ordering some food. Chinese sounded good, moo shu pork. Dumplings, or egg rolls. Might put one or two of those lost pounds back on, but he'd been working hard, right?

He thought about his mystery caller, almost hoped it was him this time. But it was Catherine, sounding a little remote.

"You weren't asleep, were you?"

"No, not even close." He stood with effort, making a face at the pins and needles in the soles of his feet. "What's up?"

"We were lucky; it's been a slow night." She still sounded a bit off. Distracted. "I've been going through Nick's things. Everything was there, just like it should be."

He padded through to the kitchen, searching for the delivery menus. Used to keep them stuck on the refrigerator with magnets, but since Nick's death he'd put them in the drawer beneath the microwave. Didn't use them as much any longer. "Good. Find anything?"

"It's -- Gil, I did find another person's DNA. I mean, besides the ones you'd expect."

He paused with the menu clutched in his hand. "Whose?"

"It's not anything we have on record. I found a few complete hair follicles, and I've just got the preliminary analysis. I'll – have more in a little while."

"But no hits." Gil leaned his hip against the counter, sagging a little. "It was worth a shot, I suppose."

"There's – something else."

"What?"

"Okay." He heard her take a deep breath. "I've got Nick's DNA in here. I mean, like you'd expect. But the mystery DNA -- There's a lot of it. A lot of it's blood."

Gil frowned. "Blood?"

"Yeah. Gil, this shirt, it's soaked. Like you'd expect. But it's -- Jesus, I don't know how to say this."

"For God's sake, just tell me," Gil said thinly. "What about Nick's blood?"

"That's the thing," she said in a glassy voice. "This isn't Nick's blood."

For a moment all he could do was stare into space. Finally he managed a stupefied, "What?"

"I'm saying whoever bled all over this shirt -- It wasn't Nick."

From a very high place, somewhere far above where his body stood transfixed in his cool kitchen, he watched the restaurant menu flutter to the floor.

TBC. EB