Parallel Lies (16 page)

The hotel concierge interrupted Tyler’s viewing of the tape with a call saying he’d arranged a tuxedo fitting. Tyler walked the few blocks to the tailor, his mind still on
60 Minutes.
William Goheen didn’t seem like someone who would be cajoled or bullied into volunteering information. Tyler needed explanations about the murder of Harry Wells but knew he faced an uphill battle. He would have preferred Priest’s boss, Keith O’Malley, to Goheen. O’Malley had certainly known that Harry Wells had been riding Midwestern trains in search of a Latino. Was Goheen’s intention to soften him up, downplay the events of the past few days? Tyler accepted that NUS would place undercover agents in the field. Hobos were insurance risks, vandals, and unpaid passengers. He accepted that NUS would pull surprise inspections in yards, stopping trains and rousting the hobos. But none of that explained the actions of Harry Wells in that hobo camp.

The tux fit fine. Now it was time to try it out.

Tyler rode the elevator to the Rainbow Room amid a half dozen different perfumes and colognes, the provocative whisper of women’s satin slips, and the silence of strangers confined in a small space.

His imagination ran wild: the salaries…the expendable income. He had stepped into a world of the rich, a world he’d only viewed in film and television, a world so far from his own that he felt slightly intimidated.

Again, he considered Goheen’s motives in extending this
invitation—the man
wanted
Tyler off-balance. And William Goheen got what he wanted.

Bright-eyed, blue-suited hostesses greeted each guest just outside the elevators. One of these women, twentysomething and handsomely dutiful, hooked Tyler’s arm, requesting his name as she guided him over to the registration table. She announced him to her colleagues behind the table. There would be no crashers. When a rehearsed warmhearted expression met Tyler, he beat her to the punch by explaining his name would have been added late this afternoon. That drew her to another list and, this time, a throaty invitation for him to enjoy himself.

The volume of the people in the room, the social energies given to shouting and gesticulating, laughing and cheek-kissing, conveyed an air of overindulgence. The crab hors d’oeuvres and bubbling flutes of champagne added to this first impression of his.

A college-aged fellow with broad shoulders grabbed Tyler’s coat from behind, helped him to slip out of it, and handed him a check stub. Orchestrated and well rehearsed—nothing here was left to chance. He felt determined not to allow the environment to run him but to remain businesslike and professional. This, despite the opulence of the Rainbow Room, an NUR publicity event, and William Goheen’s scripted world.

Tyler accepted a glass of champagne, a stuffed mushroom, and a party napkin as he threaded his way through the melee of white-toothed smiles and stretched skin. Black velvet, diamonds, and pearls appeared the favorites for the ladies. The gentlemen leaned toward Christmas red and green for their bow ties and cummerbunds. Tyler overheard discussion of politics, the stock market, and world travel. Chins were held high here, shoulders square, backs straight—everyone postured, posed, ready for the society pages. He raised to his
toes and searched for Goheen. Like searching for a specific penguin.

The room roared with conversation. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on glittering towers of glass and red streams of taillights, strung together like a Chinese kite. Two dozen Christmas trees had been overdecorated, their boughs sagging under the weight of gold balls and strings of twinkling lights. Lavishly wrapped decorative boxes, empty of presents, were piled in stacks beneath the trees. Sprigs of mistletoe had been hung in doorways, though few seemed to notice.

“Agent Tyler?”

The voice came from a man in his late thirties. He reeked Ivy League and old money.

“Mike Campbell,” he introduced himself with a vigorous handshake. “Northern Union.”

Tyler shook the man’s firm hand.

“Mr. Goheen has been expecting you.”

“Fine.” He looked for a place to put down the champagne. He’d drunk it a little too fast.

“Mr. Goheen appreciates that, like him, you’re a busy man.”

“In other words, you’re with public relations,” Tyler stated.

Campbell recoiled at being so easily pinpointed. He nearly disconnected a woman from her drink. Apologies all around. These people were so damn polite, it was almost sickening. “Well, yes,” Campbell confirmed.

“Lead on,” Tyler instructed, wondering how many other eyes were watching him. He pictured the high-rise’s security room with a half dozen black-and-white monitors and a pair of tuxedo-clad NUS guys sitting in. They had located him quickly in a crowd of hundreds. He kept that in mind: they were good at what they did.

“What do you think?” Campbell asked over his shoulder, taking his time through the gathering.

“The mushroom was a little salty. The champagne not quite cold enough.” They stopped abruptly, to make room for a big woman with a bigger walk. Tyler realized that few of the women he’d seen could be considered even a few pounds overweight. In this crowd, if you couldn’t lose it yourself, you had it tucked or liposucked.

“The event in general,” Campbell corrected, still civil.

“Either these guys in the tuxes are treating their daughters to some holiday cheer,” Tyler said, “or there are more trophy brides per capita in this room than I’ve ever seen.”

He won a genuine smile from Campbell. The guy leaned more toward women-and-sex jokes.

Tyler tried again, “There’s more breast in this room than a turkey shot with hormones.” Another chuckle from Campbell. He was gaining ground, breaking the ice. He raised his voice to make sure he was heard. “Mr. Campbell, do you know why Harry Wells was aboard that train?”

Campbell stopped, and Tyler collided with him. They held each other by forearms, eye to eye. Tyler squeezed. Campbell tensed.

“I don’t know any Harry Wells, Mr. Tyler. So I certainly don’t know what train he might be on, if any.”

“Since when is a fireman unaware of the fire?” Tyler still held him by the forearms. “If you’d said you didn’t know what he was up to, that would have been one thing, but a complete denial? No one has briefed you on the murder of one of your company’s security agents?”

“Security is a separate company,” Campbell said strongly enough to sound almost convincing. “Maybe that explains the confusion.”

“Nothing explains the confusion,” Tyler corrected, “except a cover-up, and that’s a word that someone in your department must certainly recognize. I’m a federal law enforcement officer, Mr. Campbell. Maybe I should have reminded you
of that fact up front. Lying to the federal government is not generally considered a good idea.”

“It’s a big job,” Campbell said. “Maybe I did hear something about a Harold Wells.”

“Maybe so,” Tyler replied.

“I’m in the executive offices.”

“A PR department just for the corporate officers?”

“For all employees, including corporate officers, yes. If a guy’s volunteering Little League, or mentoring, or if one of our female employees has qualified for the Olympics—any of those help our company image.”

“As long as others hear about it.”

“Which is why it’s a big job. We have over four thousand employees.”

“And what did you hear about Harold Wells?”

Campbell struggled free of Tyler’s grip.

Campbell said, “Mr. Goheen is over there. I see him now.”

“Your job, Mr. Campbell, is to make your CEO look good. Am I right? Your job in particular?”

Campbell made sure he met eyes with Tyler. “I wish I had that job. Nothing could be easier. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Goheen doesn’t need any hand-holding when it comes to public image. I make sure the office looks good, Mr. Tyler. I make sure the CEO of Northern Union Railroad is seen as a community leader and one of the good guys, and as I’ve said, it’s a no-brainer when you work for somebody like Mr. Goheen.”

“So you’re one of the lucky few going to Washington with him,” Tyler said.

“Providing he goes, I’m hoping to be a part of that team, yes.”

“Congratulations.”

Campbell never broke eye contact and said, “You beat an African American by the name of Chester Washington nearly
to death. You’ve lost your badge, your salary, and all benefits.”

“Shield,” Tyler corrected immediately. “Badges are for cowboys and Indians.” He added disdainfully, “And security guards like Harry Wells.”

Campbell wasn’t easily ruffled. “You’ve survived a criminal trial, but a civil suit still remains. That civil suit could cost Washington, D.C., over two million dollars in damages. Mr. Goheen knows all that, and more, about you, Agent Tyler. I offer that as a heads up. You will find him polite, knowledgeable, and generous. Brilliant, even. He feels bad that this boxcar investigation was apparently handled inappropriately by our security company. I believe he intends to correct that tonight. But make no mistake, he will not be badgered. NUR has always cooperated fully with the NTSB. He hoped to speed up that cooperation by inviting you here tonight.”

“And for that I thank everyone involved.”
Diplomacy,
Tyler reminded himself.

“This is a public event, Mr. Tyler. I ask you to keep that in mind. People will be hovering about—they always do where William Goheen’s involved. If Mr. Goheen seems to be avoiding certain language, you might want to keep that in mind.”

“Point taken.” Tyler was reminded of Loren Rucker’s similar admonishment. Since the Chester Washington assault, and his expulsion from the department, a bitterness had taken root inside him, surfacing at the most unexpected times. He had yet to find a way to contain it, but he knew he had to. It would eat him alive otherwise. The money, the artifice in this room had set him off. Or maybe the champagne. When his anger surfaced, it took over, it owned him. He searched for control as he stepped up to the man of the hour and stuck out his own hand.

William Goheen was a commanding presence—the deep golfer’s tan, the salt-and-pepper gray hair, the piercing blue eyes—and yet
Agent
Tyler sensed reservation in the man, not quite fear but a caution that Tyler typically associated with a suspect. They shook hands and made introductions. It seemed that even the economically mighty felt a bit of knee tremble when confronted by police. Tyler had heard his civilian friends explain this before: even innocent motorists feel a nervous twitch, an acceleration of the heart, when a cop car pulls up behind them at a light.

“Listen,” Goheen said, as if in the middle of an explanation, “I appreciate this is neither the time nor the place, but I wanted us to make contact as soon as possible. This job keeps me on a pretty tight leash. It’s a busy time for us.”

“I appreciate the opportunity to meet you.”

“I understand there’s been some confusion concerning this investigation, and that our security subsidiary is at least partly to blame. I wanted to assure you, face to face, that I’m personally on it now, and that we’re going to clear this up. Apologies where apologies are due.” He added, “I take it that neither you, nor our people, have shared everything with the FBI. They’re certain to question me in the next day or two.” He was pointing out the similarities of Tyler’s handling of the investigation with that of Northern Union. “As I understand it, you believe our suspect is in New York,” Goheen said. “If I’m asked about it, I’m going to have to share that with the FBI. And I will, as it’s my duty to do. Just so you know where things stand.”

Goheen obviously knew that Tyler had still not informed the FBI. Tyler felt off-balance. “I appreciate that, sir.” He had come here not wanting to like the man, but men like William Goheen could win converts out of anyone, given a tuxedo and ten minutes.

“I need access,” Tyler urged. “A meeting with Keith O’Malley. I had actually hoped that meeting could have taken place before this one.”

A tic in Goheen’s left eye. Fatigue, or reaction to Tyler’s request? Tyler was aware of people swarming around them trying to get to Goheen. Several of the tuxedoed males at their elbows were security guys acting as bodyguards. Tyler could feel his time was nearly up.