jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Come on, I’ll take you up. They ain’t doing nothing special.”
Kellogg followed Sully to the second floor, which was as spacious and fancifully decorated as the first, and found Mickey Gowan in the entertainment room, where Gowan spent most of his time with friends and associates. The space took up the entire east wing of Gowan’s mansion, and sported the most impressive display of electronics money could buy. A custom-built HDTV with its seventy-two-inch screen and sixteen-channel surround-sound theater system took up nearly one wall. Theater-style seating branched off the central viewing area. Just beyond the seats the low-rise steps spread onto a wall-to-wall raised floor with a full wet bar and a burnished oval table that could easily seat twenty people. Massive mahogany pillars carved with intricate designs sprung up throughout the room. Contrasting honey-oak shelves ran along the exterior walls and supported wood carvings and hand-beaten metal pieces. The term rustic came to Kellogg’s mind the first time he saw this room.
A fire crackled in a free-standing brick fireplace in the middle of the room, although it had to be at least sixty degrees outside with plenty of humidity. The rumor mill had it that Gowan suffered from some malady that caused him to be cold most of the time, so the guy always kept his place like an oven. Kellogg usually needed a shower after staying in the house any length of time, although he hadn’t attributed it to the psychological component of washing away the filth that surrounded him.
Music played quietly over the hardwired entertainment system. It sounded to Kellogg like something from the River Dance, but he ignored the Gaelic-style tune. He’d heard enough of that shit to last him a lifetime. Gowan was hunched over a pool table, his bushy white eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His wife, Glenda, sat on a padded leather barstool while she nursed a sweating beer. Although nearly fifty, Gowan’s wife had the figure of a twenty-year-old, and Kellogg had to force himself to avert his eyes from the shapely legs in fishnet stockings that dangled seductively from the denim miniskirt.
Kellogg started forward and opened his mouth, but Sully put a finger to his lips and blocked the approach with a hand against Kellogg’s chest. Kellogg stopped in his tracks and bit his tongue. He folded his arms and waited at a respectful distance until Gowan took his shot. He missed banking the green No. 6 into a corner pocket by a long shot. Gowan cursed as he straightened and only then did he recognize the two arrivals.
Mickey Gowan looked at them a moment before his scowl transformed into a smile as false as that of a crooked televangelist. Kellogg didn’t trust Gowan any more than he trusted Sully, and he genuinely liked Sully. Part of it had to do with the fact Gowan treated him more like a hired hand than a partner—not that Kellogg had any high ideals about their relationship. And at least Gowan had been true to his word, which was fine as long as the old man kept the money coming.
“Jefferson, good to see you,” Gowan said. He stepped forward and extended a hand.
Kellogg took it with reticence; the old man had a slimy shake. “Sure. You too, Mickey.” He hated it when Gowan called him Jefferson. Christ, even his mother hadn’t called him that, and she’d named him.
“You want a drink?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “Mickey, I have some bad news. I think maybe you’re going to want to sit down for it.”
“I’m not a fuckin’ old man, see? I think I can take whatever you have to tell me, so out with ’er.”
“Okay,” Kellogg said, surprised at his enjoyment when he blurted, “Billy Moran’s dead.”
The room was so silent Kellogg wondered for a moment whether Gowan had heard him. Something fell in the old man’s countenance. The light went out of his azure-colored eyes, and his face went nearly the same shade of white as the shock of unkempt hair matted across his head.
“Stop the lights!” Sully cut in. “You didn’t tell me that was the news, ya yonker. Sorry, boss.”
After the old man’s lip quivered for a time, he finally said through gritted teeth, “Who? Who did this, Jefferson?”
“I don’t know yet. But I got my suspicions.”
“Who?”
“Like I said, Mickey, I don’t know—”
“I don’t give a shite! I wanna know who yer suspect!”
Kellogg felt his face flush as he replied, “Cooper…a guy named Matt Cooper.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. But I think he might work for the U.S. government.”
“FBI? One of your guys?”
Kellogg shook his head. “Shit no, Mickey. If it were that simple, I’d already know about him right now. No, he doesn’t come up in anything I run his name through.”
“Well, what the hell does that mean?” Sully demanded.
“I’m not sure.” Kellogg shrugged and continued, “He could be a special operative of some kind, although black ops are technically illegal in the U.S. unless it has to do with terrorism.”
Kellogg couldn’t swear to it, but he thought he noticed a silent exchange between Sully and Gowan. Gowan was basically a glorified labor bully, with his fingers mostly into the most basic of the vices: illegal gambling, numbers and cons. He was also involved in prostitution and drugs, but Kellogg had learned to overlook that minor indiscretion. Recently, however, Gowan had got himself caught up in dealings with the Earth Liberation Front, and that little fact had started to make Kellogg nervous. Gowan wasn’t aware that Kellogg already knew about his relationship with the ELF. For the sake of plausible deniability and to protect his own interests, Kellogg decided to act as if he didn’t.
“If this guy’s onto us at all, boss, we need to get rid of him,” Sully declared.
Gowan nodded. “Ya, and it don’t mean shite to me if we can prove the bastard busted a cap on Billy or not.”
“That’s where I might be able to help,” Kellogg said.
“What do you mean?” Gowan asked.
“If he is operating illegally, then that would be enough for me to open an official investigation inside the Bureau. At best, he could be a freelancer, in which case he’s still operating illegally. And if he isn’t sanctioned and he did kill Moran then that’s homicide. We might be able to bring him in on that alone if I can get enough evidence.”
“Who’s looking into it right now?” Sully asked.
Kellogg shrugged. “Well, since it happened in Siskiyou County and Tulelake has no real police force to speak of, it will probably fall to the sheriff’s office and possibly the state if the locals call for help.”
“Naw,” Gowan said. “We’re already going to have enough cops crawling around here, and I don’t need that. Everybody knows Billy Moran was in my employ, and that’s going to bring some serious heat on my head.”
“Why didn’t you know about this guy before?” Sully asked.
“I did,” Kellogg admitted with a shrug. “But what the hell do you want me to do? I can’t just go rousting someone because he’s walking down the sidewalk.”
“That’s
