The Governor's Wife (12 page)

E
vidence and motive can be hard to come by, which is why I found myself hiking up onto a highway overpass at three-thirty in the morning. Jack O’Donnell had insisted we meet at the same Beacon job site I’d visited a week earlier, only this time the site was wrapped in darkness. I took out a nightscope and scanned the construction area. The place looked deserted. The scope was equipped with a thermal-imaging lens that told me all of the engines in the cars and trucks were cold. I slipped the scope back in my pocket and stared down at the Ike. The highway uncoiled like a jeweled serpent, stretching west toward the flatlands of Schaumberg and back into the heart of the city. A semi thumped past in a rush of wind and rubber. I walked back across the overpass, got in my car, and drove three exits east. Jack O’Donnell’s blue SUV was waiting.

O’Donnell eased through the labyrinth of construction cones and pulled up to a fence emblazoned with a Hi-Top Construction
logo. “If anyone asks what we’re doing here, you let me talk.”

“Fine.”

He pulled a thermos of coffee from under his seat. “You want some?”

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” O’Donnell poured himself a cup and sipped. Outside, sodium lamps were mounted on thick poles strung along the perimeter of the work site. The lamps threw chunks of hard white light on concrete dividers and silent lumps of machinery. Beyond that, the darkness was absolute.

“The first crew’s scheduled to get here at five,” O’Donnell said. “We’ll be long gone by then.” He was still a young man, in his early forties, with a small square head, anxious hairline, and quick, angled features. He flicked a hand at the world beyond his windshield and sighed. “Want to tell me why you care about this stuff?”

“It might tie into a case I’m working.”

“What sort of case?”

“I got hired by a guy…”

“What guy?”

“Actually I don’t even know if it is a guy. Might be a woman.”

“You’re a private investigator and you don’t know who hired you?”

I described the e-mail I’d gotten, followed by the adrenaline shot to my bank account. O’Donnell whistled. Low and smart. “Sounds like my kind of client. Why does he want you to find Perry?”

“No idea.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Not yet.”

“How do you think I can help?”

“Tell me about Beacon Limited.”

“The roads of Illinois are paved in red and white.”

“Excuse me?”

“Those are the colors Beacon uses for all its subsidiaries. Red and white.” O’Donnell cranked open the driver’s-side door and flicked on a flashlight. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”

The entrance to the site had a gate that was latched, but not locked. O’Donnell didn’t seem surprised and eased it open. The highway curved gently to the left. I could see the reporter’s breath in the predawn cold and hear the scrape of his boots in the gravel. We walked for about a hundred yards and stopped.

“Six years ago, this road got a face-lift,” O’Donnell said.

“I remember. Edens, Kennedy. They all got face-lifts.”

“Let’s stick with the Ike.”

“Fine.”

“You know how a road’s built?”

I shook my head.

“The old highway had twelve inches of gravel, called a sub-base, covered over by four inches of asphalt and ten inches of concrete. That’s twenty-six inches deep. Not enough for today’s traffic. Beacon’s people proposed laying in a new surface—twenty-four inches of sub-base, six inches of asphalt, and fourteen of concrete. That’s forty-four inches, as thick and sturdy as any piece of highway ever built in this state. Great, right?”

I nodded.

“Then why are we six years in and it’s falling apart? This way.”

We cut between two dividers and walked past a couple of dump trucks. They were painted in violent shades of red and black and had
EAGLE CEMENT
, another Beacon subsidiary, printed across their doors in white block letters.

“The Eisenhower project began in 2006,” O’Donnell said.
“Ray’s first year in the mansion. Finished up in the winter of 2008. Beacon initially estimated the cost at eight hundred million dollars. The final price tag was closer to one-point-four billion. Springfield kicked, but Perry rammed it through the legislature anyway. Here, take a look at this.”

O’Donnell set his flashlight on the ground and squatted beside a gray tarp that covered a hundred yards of road. He removed a couple of pegs and peeled back the covering. Two parallel cracks, each about five feet long and a couple of inches wide, ran side by side down the middle of the road. O’Donnell peeled back the tarp a little farther. The cracks cobwebbed into smaller fractures and split off in a dozen different directions.

“Beacon claims this is nothing,” O’Donnell said. “Just surface cracks that are easily patched.”

“And is it?”

O’Donnell pulled a steel tape measure from his vest and slid it into one of the main fissures. “This one runs almost ten inches deep. Halfway to the sub-base. It’s a major flaw and an indication the road’s falling apart.” O’Donnell snapped his tape measure shut. “As we speak, Beacon has seven different ‘patching operations’ they’re doing on the Ike.” O’Donnell stood and looked back behind us. “It’s gonna be getting light soon. Let’s get back to the car.”

We didn’t say a word on the walk back. O’Donnell climbed behind the wheel. I got in the passenger’s side. For the first time I noticed a child’s booster seat locked into the seat behind me. We drove back to my car, parked on a dead-end street bellied up next to the highway. O’Donnell took out a laptop and fired it up.

“What’s your e-mail?”

I gave it to him.

“I’m sending you information on three crashes that happened on the Ike. Six fatalities, total. Including three kids.”
O’Donnell turned around the laptop so I could see a picture of a ten-year-old girl in her school uniform.

“I visited two of the accident sites myself,” O’Donnell said. “They’d already patched up most of the road, but I was able to get a look at the damage underneath.”

“And?”

“I saw the same cracks you saw tonight. A road essentially coming apart at the seams.”

“And you think it caused these crashes?”

“Clean driving records. No evidence of drugs or drinking. No bad weather. I can’t prove it, but, yes, I’m convinced it was the road that killed them.”

I scrolled through a list of the articles. Then I returned to the picture of the kid. “You’re going to send this stuff to me?”

“I already did.”

“How about evidence? Did you take any photos of the accident sites when you visited them?”

“I shot some videotape, but it won’t help.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not conclusive. Not even close.”

“Can I see the tapes?”

O’Donnell glanced out the window at the heavy chain-link fence that separated us from the expressway. “Let’s wait on that.”

“Fine. So, how did they do it?”

“Do what?”

“Cheat the system? Spend a billion dollars and build a substandard highway without anyone catching on?”

“It’s not as hard as you think. In this case, they probably did a couple of things. First, there are the state’s weigh scales. Trucks filled with cement would be weighed as they left Beacon plants in the morning. The state would then be billed for raw materials based on those readings.”

“Beacon messed with the scales?”

“Most likely they rigged the computers that recorded the weights. Five tons of material get recorded as six, and the state gets overbilled. Every single day. Every single truck. Adds up pretty quick.”

“What else?”

“They cheat on their mix. A contractor has certain specs he’s supposed to follow in creating asphalt and concrete mixes. If they skimp on the recipe, throw in a little more sand, too much water, the mix gets compromised. And the contractor saves money.”

“How much money?”

O’Donnell chuckled. “On a project like this? The final price tag to the state was roughly one-point-four billion. Based on the quality of work I’ve seen, I wouldn’t be surprised if Beacon skimmed fifteen, twenty percent of that.”

“That’s almost three hundred million dollars.”

“And that’s just the Ike.”

“Why haven’t you written a story on any of this?”

O’Donnell jerked his head toward the child’s seat in the back. “My youngest was three years old last month. You think she deserves a dad? ’Cuz I do.”

“It’s like that, huh?”

“I first got onto Beacon when I was with the
Trib
. My editor killed every investigative piece I ever pitched. One night he took me out for a drink. Said he wanted to talk about my work. So we had our drink. Actually, a few drinks. Then he pulled out an envelope. Inside was a picture of my oldest. Six, seven years old at the time. She was holding the hand of a man and smiling. The man was cut off at the shoulders so I couldn’t see his face.” O’Donnell’s voice was even, but there were the faintest tracings of pink in his face and a froth of spittle at the corner of his mouth. “I grabbed my boss by the throat and was about to put my fist through his teeth. Job be damned. He pulls out a second photo. His kid. Same age as mine. Same guy holding her hand. My boss told me
we wouldn’t run anything on Beacon. Now or ever. Not if we loved our kids. I agreed. We had another drink and never talked about it again.” O’Donnell pulled the thermos out from under his seat and unscrewed the cap. “You sure you don’t want some?”

I nodded and he poured us each a cup of coffee. I took a sip. It was hot and strong.

“Why are you here, Jack?”

“You’re supposed to be a hard man. And you don’t have any family. I figured maybe you could do something about it.”

“Who owns Beacon?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you.”

“Can you give me anything else?”

“I’ve already given you too much.”

“How about the tapes you made of the roads?”

“I’ll think about that.”

I took out one of my business cards and stuck it on the dash. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Good luck. And don’t call me again.”

I climbed out of O’Donnell’s SUV and watched him drive away. Then I got in my car and headed back to the job site. I figured I still had some time and wanted to get another look under that tarp. So I got out and picked my way across the work zone. There was a fresh wind at my back, and the first fingers of sunlight brushed the highway in delicate shades of blush. I found the section O’Donnell had led me to and walked a bit farther. Then I crouched down and peeled back the thick canvas. The cracks here were wider and deeper. I took out a small flashlight I’d brought with me and positioned it so it lit up one of the largest fault lines. I was about to snap a photo with my phone when I heard the hard crunch of gravel behind me. I reached for my gun and looked back. Just in time to see the dark shape of a shovel dropping out of a sky frosted in pink.

T
he water was cold and dirty, forcing its way up my nose and sluicing between my teeth. I knew better than to struggle. If the person leaning on the back of my head wanted to drown me, my resistance would only accelerate the process. And why drown me in the first place? A gun was easier. The hand seemed to read my mind as I was pulled free of the bucket. I coughed and retched. Someone dragged me to a chair and cuffed me. Then a black bag went over my head. I never saw the shovel coming this time.

I woke up strapped to a chair. My hands were stretched out, palms down, fingers spread and secured to a table made of grained wood. There was some dim light behind me and a pockmarked wall in front. I could hear breathing and guessed there were at least two of them. They smelled like smokers. One stepped out where I could see him. It was Iron Belly. He carried the shovel in both hands.

“Maybe we should put the bag over your head?” I said.

Iron Belly rammed the shovel, blade first, into my stomach. If I’d eaten anything, I would have lost it. As it was, I just retched some more and spit on the floor.

“Who was with you at the job site tonight?” Iron Belly’s voice was low and guttural, like a metal burr being buzzed flat by a bandsaw.

“I was by myself.”

Another shot to the gut. Not as bad this time. But when I retched, I saw leavings of blood in my saliva.

“Who was with you?”

“Fuck you.”

Iron Belly raised the shovel again, then paused. The other man in the room walked out onto the small, sullen stage and took a seat across from me.

“I’m enjoying the hell out of this,” Bones McIntyre said. “How about you?”

I spat in his general direction. Iron Belly made another move with the shovel, but Bones waved him off.

“I’m surprised you’d let me see your face,” I said.

“That’s because you don’t understand how we work.” Bones pulled out one of his cigars and rolled it between a thumb and forefinger. Then he took out a silver cutter on a chain and clipped off the end.

“Why don’t you explain it to me?” I said.

Bones crinkled his forehead in surprise. “I already tried.”

“Try again.”

“Maybe a little history would help.” He struck a match and sucked up the yellow flame in a long, cool draw. The room filled with the rich smell of burning tobacco. Bones eased back in his chair and picked a piece of cigar wrapper off his spotted tongue. “The whole thing started in the late eighties. The powers in this town decided they needed their own little cash cow. A slice of an anonymous industry they
could fleece without anyone being the wiser. So they picked highway construction. And they created Beacon Limited.” Another draw and a ribbon of blue smoke spiraled over my head. “All the heavy hitters bought in. City, county, state. We built our fix into the DNA of the system, cooked the amounts we planned on skimming right into the state budget. I like to call it the Chicago annuity. Hell, we’ve been doing it so long, it almost seems legal.” The old politician chuckled and laid his cigar down so the ash hung, pregnant, over the side of the table. Then he tipped forward and tapped me on the forearm. “That’s why someone like you could never make a case against us. If you did, you’d be taking it to a cop whose boss or boss’s boss is part of Beacon. Same thing with all the major prosecutors in the state and half the judges on the bench. The thing would go nowhere. And whoever you gave it to would have their career snuffed. Maybe worse.”

“No one could have things locked up that tight.”

“We’re very discreet. Our interests are narrowly defined. And we only exercise our muscle when those interests are directly affected.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Bones turned to look at Iron Belly. “He doesn’t believe it.” Back to me. “I could put a bullet in your head. Leave the gun here with my prints on it and walk away clean. I guess that would make my case. Of course you’d be dead, so the ‘I told you so’ might feel a little hollow.”

“And what’s stopping you?”

“First smart thing you’ve said all night. There’s one person we don’t control. And that’s Ray Perry. You’re gonna help us with that.” Bones walked behind me and came back to the table with an iPad. “Surprised? Old fuck like me. Rotary phone, all that shit. What do I know about technology? Nothing, really. They cue the stuff up, and I just play it. This one I’ve played a half-dozen times.”

Bones flipped the iPad around and hit a button. A video rolled. The camera was somewhere in Rachel Swenson’s bedroom. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t matter. I could hear the soft groans and oiled squeak of bedsprings I knew all too well.

“She’s had a couple of cowboys in there since you.” Bones’s voice had dropped to a hazy whisper. “This one’s a trader down at the Merc. We paid him to make the tape. He did your girl for nothing.”

Iron Belly snickered, and I knew somewhere in my brain he’d just bought himself a bullet. Bones was a given.

“We’ll take the judge whenever we want,” he said. “Ruin her professionally, financially, or maybe just have her raped and killed in that pretty fucking graystone of hers. We’ll videotape that, too, and send it to you. Open your eyes.”

I did. The iPad had gone to a merciful black. Bones scraped his chair closer and fixed me with a slitted stare. “Tell Ray I want my money. If he gets it to me, I’ll forget about him. And you.”

“What money?”

“Tell him.”

“I don’t know where Ray is.”

Bones’s smile was a razor. In its bloody arc, I caught a glimpse of the awful price paid for power. “Just tell him, Kelly. And keep your fingers out of other people’s business. We’ll all get along fine.”

Fear spiked a claw in my gut as Bones McIntyre rose out of his chair. Iron Belly stood just behind him. The shovel had been replaced by a hatchet. My eyes flew to my hands, naked and spread, each finger separated and secured to the rough wood with a small metal clamp. Somewhere in my head a door closed and I knew, whatever happened, things would never be the same. I looked up again at Iron Belly, gaze flat as a sledgehammer. In one movement he raised the hatchet and swung it down, through a crust of nail, tissue, blood,
and nerve, until the sharp blade bit into the ragged wood and stuck there. I might have screamed. I’m sure I screamed, but it was drowned out by the roar in my ears. Then my eyes rolled back in my head, and my world went white with pain.