ain’t gonna cut it.”
“Get them up,” Kelly ordered.
He rolled up the paper and strode off, muttering “Subtle” under his breath as if it were a filthy word.
Kelly handed the piece of paper to Riley and said, “See, right there, it says she will be struck by lightning. I mean, that’s not a new prediction when it comes to politicians, but—lightning? When electricity killed her? That makes sense, doesn’t it, in a twisted sort of way?”
“Yes,” Riley murmured. Jack read over his shoulder and commented on the greeting (“Jezebel”) and the all-caps handwritten font, both similar to the letter they’d found at the victim’s house but with one significant difference—a signature. “We’ll check this out. But Kelly . . . how did you know she’d been electrocuted?”
With a look more pitying than guilty, she said, “Some friend of a friend of a friend called and told us an hour or two ago. There’s no way you were ever going to keep a lid on that detail—it’s too bizarre.”
Riley’s molars made a grinding sound. “We were hoping to. It helps to hold back some facts to weed out the false confessions. We expect a boatload of them in this case.”
One side of her mouth turned up. “This is politics. We have no secrets here.” Then she amended: “Not for long, anyway.”
Chapter 7
The writer of the “Jezebel” letters, Harold Boudelet, lived in a nondescript bungalow in Maple Heights, with a sagging roof and a canoe resting on the front porch. Jack pressed the doorbell. Riley went over and nudged the canoe’s peeling paint with his toe, as if checking a sleeping dog to be sure it still breathed. Nothing happened as a result of either action. Jack gave up on the cracked button and knocked.
Riley had grumbled through the whole drive that this interview would inevitably be a waste of time. Every politician in the world had to have a stack of hate mail, and Diane Cragin had much more likely been killed over the cash in her safe, but Jack insisted.
Boudelet needed a shave and wore a pair of pajamas pants and a rumpled T-shirt over a pot belly the size and shape of two basketballs, but his eyes were clear as well as clearly suspicious. Their names and badges did not prompt him to invite them in; he held the door with his left hand as if he might have a rifle in his hidden right, stashed. But once they said they wanted to ask him about the letter he’d written to the senator, he grew downright welcoming. His face cleared, the door swung open, and he ushered them into his living room. He even offered to make coffee. They politely declined as Jack scanned the area behind the door. No rifle.
The cops took a seat on the threadbare sofa as Boudelet plopped into a leather armchair across a cluttered coffee table. No sound came from the rest of the structure, which smelled of overcooked beans and rice. Jack could not guess Boudelet’s age, race, or cultural background from his mottled, dry skin or the wisps of an unfamiliar accent, but even if he’d been curious he didn’t have time to ponder these details, since Boudelet began to speak before Jack even settled onto the faded chintz.
“I wrote the senator a few times, not that it did any good. That woman has no shame, but then most people in my former line of work didn’t. It’s the only way you can stand yourself. But I wanted to remind her that people like me exist, people who know what was done and where and when. The companies might keep all our names off their memos and their grant applications, but we still exist.”
“Okay,” Riley said. “Let’s keep this simple. What was your former line of work?”
“EHM.”
A pause, during which Jack waited for that to make sense. It didn’t.
Riley opened his mouth as if to ask for clarification, but he needn’t have bothered. “Economic hit man,” Boudelet said. “Corporations find a country with natural resources we want. I go in and say, look, let us help you build a power plant and put a bunch of your people to work and lift the economy of the whole country—sounds great, right? You’ve got no money to pay us for the expertise and the infrastructure, but we’ll arrange a loan for you. The rulers are wealthy families who don’t care about long-term effects as long as they’re making a bundle, and since they make the rules, they don’t need to worry about a pesky parliament or those damned citizens asking questions. For example—”
“I think we understand,” Riley said.
“For example, we went into Indonesia in 1971, purportedly to ‘help’ them build an electrical grid for the island of Java and, to make it more palatable, save the country from Communism. That was big then. I made up all sorts of logical-sounding economic forecasts on behalf of New England Electrical of how the new grid would pay for itself, elevate the populace from poverty, blah blah blah—so overoptimistic as to be an outright lie. The grid was set up, yes, but didn’t generate nearly the projected income, the loan proved crushing, and Indonesia owed out the wazoo. Then the oil companies moved in, and there wasn’t much the country could say about it. If any uppity locals argue, like Mossadegh in Iran and Torrijos in Panama, they have mysterious accidents.”
“What’s this got to do with Diane Cragin?” Jack asked when Boudelet paused for a hacking cough. A dog wandered in, missing half of one ear. His tail wagged to see visitors.
“She was one. An economic hit man for Parsons Corporation, like me. We worked together on my last project, before I finally grew a conscience and got out. Diane, if she ever had a conscience . . .” His graying, shaggy curls quivered above faded green eyes.
“And that project was . . .”
“Site location specialist work. It’s the domestic version of IHM work. Instead of raping a country for its natural resources, we do it to our own cities for their tax breaks and subsidies. We convinced the state of Washington to give Boeing the largest corporate tax break in the country’s history, with an estimated lifetime value to Boeing of nearly nine billion dollars. Billion. The problem isn’t Boeing, the problem is the public servants who don’t seem able to crunch grade school math.”
“Again—”
“I just wanted to remind Diane where she came from.”
“You called her a soulless jackal.”
“As I had been. Difference is, I admit it. Why does the media spend all day pushing our buttons instead of telling us why, after seventeen years, we’re not getting anywhere in the Middle East? Because it’s easier to get people hot and bothered about abortion and gun control and flag-burning amendments than it is to impart real information. It’s easier to sell Us versus Them than it would be to propose any real solutions or even ask any real questions. Because people on both sides have a full-time job dealing with that issue.” He slumped back into the armchair, his spine hitting the leather with an audible thump. “I sold my soul for a job that made me a ton of money and then gave it all away, trying to buy it back.”
The dog had wandered out but now returned, carrying a bag of treats in his mouth as gently as if it were a newborn kitten. It presented the bag to Jack with reverence. “Uh-huh,” Jack said. “About Diane Cragin—”
“Let me tell you about foreign aid.”
“No.” Riley said. “Tell us about Diane Cragin.”
“I am. Because that was the last place I ran into her. As I said, I had found a conscience—so
