Rogue Justice (16 page)

Chandler scanned one last story about how Don Goldsberry had moved his act to Iceland following the passage of the U.S. Marine Mammal Protection Act in 1972. The article went on to say that, over the next several years, demand by SeaWorld and other aquariums around the globe had increased exponentially, with the price for a healthy killer whale soaring to between $150,000 and $300,000.

Hell,
if it was legal today
that number would be well north of a million.

Chandler closed the binder and clamped his arms across his chest, thinking about all this. He was about to step outside for some fresh air when his cell phone burred.

It was one of his assistants at the office.

* * *

Preston Tradd's phone vibrated at precisely the same moment, waking him with a start. He'd fallen asleep soon after being picked up at Sea-Tac airport, the return trip from Sitka every bit as brutal as getting there. It took a moment for him to orient himself, but he quickly recognized his surroundings as the plush leather and teak interior of a hand-crafted Rolls-Royce Phantom. His father drove the same model and swore by these whisper-quiet, half-million-dollar driving machines. For a just a second, Tradd was a kid again headed to lacrosse practice in Laguna Beach, not far from where he and his family now resided.

He checked the caller ID, picked up, and was instantly transported back to real time by the voice of his exasperated wife. She wasn't happy about the stop-over in Seattle, and it took some doing to convince her that he would be home later that evening. He said they'd leave the following morning for their long-overdue ski vacation. After a brief exchange, she calmed down. He told her he loved her, clicked off, and pocketed the phone.

A few minutes later, the driver turned onto a smooth ribbon of asphalt that snaked up to a spectacular hilltop manor. Tradd had seen some lofty estates in his day, but this was the Holy Grail. The gates were huge, the walls high, the setting breathtaking. The compound sat gloriously on fifty manicured acres, with drop-dead views of Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. Even through a gray mist, the dome of the Washington state capitol building glowed in the distance.

"Nice digs," Tradd said.

The driver nodded. "Yes sir, the boss does it right. Helipad's over there behind the waterfall. Par-three golf course down the hill. Tennis courts out back. 'Wimbledon-inspired,' I'm told, whatever that means."

"I didn't think the
boss
even played tennis. Golf either, for that matter."

"True, but many of our visitors do. The guest house can accommodate a dozen people, give or take, and the garage holds enough cars for every one of 'em to drive their own vehicle."

"And what's your story?" Tradd asked. "I take it you weren't a mall cop in a former life."

The driver laughed. "No, sir, special ops, Marine Force Recon, same as the other guys in the unit here. Actually I'm filling in for Mr. Chandler's regular driver tonight. It's his day off."

"Well, I appreciate the lift. Feel safer already."

"You're in good hands, sir. Just like the commercial says."

Moments later, the Rolls pulled in front of the mansion. The driver explained that the main house was thirty-five thousand square feet. It included a climate-control wine cellar, art deco 3-D home theater with Dolby Surround Sound, yoga studio, fitness center, nine bedrooms... and more bathrooms than he could count.

"Like I said, quite the pad," Tradd noted. "Listen, thanks for the ride. This shouldn't take long. I need to catch the last flight out of Sea-Tac tonight for LA, leaves a little after nine."

And this time tomorrow night, I'll be relaxing in a comfy chateau at Mammoth Mountain.

Tradd couldn't remember his last vacation, something his wife constantly reminded him of. Maybe this time away, this escape from the kids, would help mend a marriage badly frayed around the edges.

"Yes, sir, no problem. Standing by."

Tradd slid out of the vehicle and was greeted at the front door by a polished-looking older gent wearing a crisp white shirt and dark slacks.

"Mr. Chandler is expecting you, sir. He's in his study. Right this way."

They walked down a long, wide marble-floored corridor, their footsteps echoing off the fortress-like walls. Mitchell Chandler was dressed casually, stretched out in a recliner, speaking into a cell phone. He was bigger than Tradd had expected and everything about him communicated a single message: absolute and total control. Tradd took a deep breath, reminded himself of something he already knew.

This is not a man you want to disappoint.

Chandler looked up, waved Tradd in, and covered the phone. "Have a seat. I'll just be a minute." He then motioned him to a heavy burgundy sofa.

Tradd strolled across the room and, as he sat down, he adjusted the knot on his $300 tie, unbuttoned the jacket of his $4,000 Armani suit. Despite his overall uneasiness with this assignment, he felt much more at ease in these surroundings than in some honky-tonk bar in the Land of the Midnight Sun.

Chandler's phone conversation was brief, less than a minute. "Hello, Tradd," he said, after clicking off. He didn't bother to stand or shake hands. "Listen, I got your message earlier, about the flight delays. A real bitch. I'd rather walk through a snake-infested swamp than fly commercial." He then reached for a crystal Waterford decanter sitting on the oak table next to his chair, poured three fingers of Hennessy X.O into a pair of snifters, handed a glass to Tradd. "Here, this will take the edge off."

"Thank you," Tradd said, glancing outside. He repeated the remark he'd made to the driver about the estate.

Chandler nodded, sipped his brandy. "Well, it's home, my one and only these days. Fortunately, I was able to keep my ex-wife's mitts off the property. You married, Tradd?"

"Yes, sir, seventeen years."

Chandler raised his glass. "Well, here's to seventeen more. Listen, I have a conference call in twenty minutes, so why don't you tell me what you've got, starting with the infamous Ms. Flynn. I'm guessing she's a Hall of Fame ball-buster. Am I right?"

Tradd sat up straight. He felt good about what he'd accomplished up in Alaska, though he regretted having to resort to the unseemly tactics. "Well, let's just say the woman's alpha all the way, sir, a real man-eater."

"Can't say as I'm surprised, not after reading the dossier your people put together. The most thorough goddamn piece of work I've ever seen, especially on such short notice. Good job."

"I'm just the messenger. You can thank our team of investigators for that. All former big-city homicide cops, as you know. L.A., mostly. Hollywood Division."

Chandler nodded. "Well, now, Hollywood is precisely where our talented captain belongs one day. If she plays her cards right, that is. I understand she's on board."

"Yes," Tradd said, his neck flushing hot. "But, umm, things didn't go exactly as planned."

"You said. What happened?"

"For starters, she refused your generous cash offer, didn't bat an eye in fact."

Chandler shifted in his chair. "No surprise there, either, right? What about the charity angle?"

"I'm afraid the response was the same, and believe me, I pushed her hard. She left me no choice but to go with the backup plan."

"Shit! The mother," Chandler barked. "I was hoping to avoid that unpleasant bit of business. How did she react?"

"Not well, sir." Beads of perspiration the size of tiny pearls now formed on Tradd's brow. And the room was cool. "To be honest with you, I thought she was going to come across the table and break my neck. She could've done it, too, in a heartbeat. Anyway... I managed to calm her down. Assured her no one would hurt her mother if our terms were met."

"And no one
will
hurt dear old mom, assuming our captain gets the job done. And keeps her mouth shut, of course."

"I made that very clear."

And God help me if I didn't.

"What about the money transfers?" Chandler asked.

Tradd finished his drink with one gulp, set it down on the table in front of him. "The account is under one of our corporate shells. No way can it be traced back to us,
or
you. But here's the thing—Ms. Flynn's only taking enough cash to cover expenses. She refused the rest, even for her girls' home in Nepal."

"Well, now, that's interesting, isn't it?"

Tradd smiled. He thought he might score a few points with that one.

"So at this juncture, she knows nothing about the dead whale?"

"No, sir," Tradd said. "I explained that further instructions would be forthcoming as soon as she put everything in place. I checked in with her an hour ago, right after my plane landed. She said things are already in motion. Some bush pilot friend is flying her down to Port Angeles. She plans to rent a big fishing boat there. I had to Google the place, it's–"

"I know where it is, Tradd. When is she leaving Sitka?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Okay, good. Did she say anything else?"

"Like what, sir?"

"Like how she intends to pull this off."

"No, but then I don't see how we could expect her to—"

"Look," Chandler interrupted. "Obviously, this is not going to be easy, but what I
don't
want is a repeat of the goddamn tactics used back in the day when it was legal to capture killer whales."

"In the early sixties to mid-seventies, you mean?" Tradd had downloaded and absorbed reams of information on killer whales while biding his time in that miserable little motel room in Sitka. He'd known almost nothing about the powerful creatures before making the trip. Now he qualified as a quasi-expert.

"Precisely," Chandler said. He leaned down, picked up the binder sitting on the floor, and tapped the hard plastic cover repeatedly. "Inside this file is everything you need to know about two enterprising characters named Ted Griffin and Don Goldsberry. These guys essentially created the entire killer whale industry and made a bundle doing it. They also made a lot of enemies along the way."

Griffin and Goldsberry. The names rang a bell. Tradd remembered reading about their brutal tactics, how they spent most of their time chasing down the whales. After making contact, they'd buzz them with helicopters and powerboats. The idea was to confuse the big animals, get them to crowd together in bunches. If that didn't work, seal bombs were deployed, nasty little suckers that looked like miniature sticks of dynamite. Once the orcas were contained, the men would drop big mesh corrals into the water, trap them inside, then lasso them like cowboys roping steers.

Chandler took a long pull from his drink. "It was a circus sideshow, Tradd, something we've got to avoid at all costs. Understood?"

And Tradd did. But what could all this possibly have to do with him? All he wanted now was to catch a ride back to the airport and fly home. Hell, he'd done his job and done it well, which was why Chandler's next words came out of left field.

"I need you to stick around for a few days, make sure our captain takes a more, shall we say,
subtle
approach."

Tradd nearly choked.

A few more days? Son of a bitch!

His wife was going to kill him.

Chandler seemed to pick up on his discomfort. "Is that a problem, Tradd?"

"No, sir, of course not," he lied.

"Good man. Normally I would offer you the guest house out back, but under the circumstances, that's not going to work. That was my assistant on the phone when you came in. She made arrangements for you to stay at a nice little B&B down on Budd Inlet. You'll find it quite comfortable there."

Hell, maybe he'd move in. It would beat going home to face the wrath of Khan. "Thank you, sir. Mind if I ask a question before we wrap up?"

"Sure, make it quick," Chandler replied, glancing at his watch.

"I was just wondering about Griffin and Goldsberry. They're a little long in the tooth by now. Is that why you didn't recruit them for this assignment?"

"That's part of it, Tradd. Of greater concern was the fact that those two yahoos stirred up so much shit in their day they'd
still
stink up the place. We just can't afford that kind of risk."

Tradd stood to leave, cleared his throat. "I understand. Oh, one last thing. What about those monster whales everyone's talking about? I mean, they're all over the news... the Internet too."

"Yes, I know. But look at it this way. They'll provide valuable cover, distract any reporters who might otherwise come snooping around."

"And if they don't, sir?"

Chandler cut him a piercing look. "Goodnight, Tradd. Get some rest."

Chapter 18