The Lacey Confession (17 page)

The drive from the Atlanta airport to Roswell goes straight through the middle of the city of Atlanta. After picking up his rental car, Walter took I-85 North and merged onto the Downtown Connector just south of the city's center. As he passed the exit for Freedom Parkway, the one that would have taken him past the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial, right to the Carter Center and a nearby neighborhood bar he couldn't forget, he realized he was not riding alone. The 800-pound gorilla in the back seat was Isobel Gitlin. Could she see him from her office window? Right now, while he was on the highway? And if she could, would she know it was him? “Five years,” he whispered. His cheeks flushed and he felt a small lump gather in his throat. Could it be five years since Isobel moved here to be the Executive Director for The Center for Consumer Concerns? Five years she's been living in Atlanta. And five years since the last time he saw her, at that old bar, the one with a lot of photographs of the owner on the walls. Five years since Leonard Martin. Five years since . . . He turned the radio on, very loud and jerked the car into the left-hand lanes of the Connector. When it split apart, I-75 heading north to Tennessee and I-85 turning east toward the Carolinas, he stayed on I-85 until he exited at GA Rt. 400, and headed north to the Atlanta suburbs.

Sadie Fagan lived in an older subdivision with rolling hills, heavily wooded lots and a large lake, around which Walter had to drive to find her street. She and her husband bought the house in 1967. The house was just up the block, within walking distance of the pool and tennis complex. Back then, living here was thought of as way out of town. Not so far now. In those days, people in Atlanta looked at Roswell as almost being in Tennessee or North Carolina. It wasn't, of course. The Tennessee state line was more than a hundred miles from Roswell and North Carolina a good two-hour drive. Roswell was barely fifteen miles from downtown Atlanta. But back then, there were no major highways or interstates connecting Atlanta and Roswell. Larry Fagan's original commute, about half on tree-lined, two lanes and half on Atlanta's city streets, took about forty-five minutes each way. Even without traffic the trip could take nearly that long. For him, that was nothing compared to what he was used to—getting into Manhattan every morning from Brooklyn. More than a few of his co-workers in the Atlanta office thought he was nuts to live so far away. There were plenty of nice neighborhoods in Atlanta, they said. None of them, of course, came from New Jersey or Connecticut. The Fagans liked their house and never saw a need to buy another one. Elana lived and died there. Harry grew up there. Now, it was just Sadie and Larry. It was a big house for the two of them, but it was their home.

On its headlong rush to Lake Lanier, Atlanta's northern sprawl reached Roswell not too long after Sadie did. By the time Harry was grown up, the once small town with its own cobblestone Historic District and antebellum mansions, had become a bedroom community. Some of the old mansions were turned into trendy restaurants. Others were available for weddings and other special occasions.

The instructions she gave him were simple. Walter found Sadie's house with no trouble. He parked in the driveway and rang the front doorbell. An older woman, about his age he realized with a little shock, short, squat and heavy set, with a smile that strangely reminded him of Ike, greeted him warmly.

“Mr. Sherman. Come in. Please come in,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fagan.”

“Come in. Come in.” Sadie led Walter through a narrow foyer into a living room or den. In a new house such a room is referred to as a
great room
. It was a room that showed every sign it was comfortably lived in. Walter noticed the cushions on the large, tan, fabric-covered couch were spread about randomly, not perfectly in place. Someone had been lying there, maybe napping, recently. Two paperback books were on the coffee table that separated the couch and a large recliner from the TV. He couldn't make out the titles, but he did see that the spine on each was broken in a manner to show they'd been opened and read. The copy of
TIME
he recognized to be the current one. The floor was carpeted, and had two small throw rugs on either side of the coffee table. Family photos hung on the wall. Walter took note of the one showing Conchita, Harry and Sadie. It had been taken outside, in the front yard of the Fagan house, with all three standing next to the big pine tree that dominated the lawn.

They went into the kitchen to sit and talk. Sadie motioned for Walter to have a seat at the small, wooden block table. Her half-filled coffee cup and today's
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
lay facing him. A copper bowl loaded with fruit—apples, oranges, plums and bananas—rested in the middle of the table. The faint scent of cooking oil hung in the air.

“Can I get you something?” she asked.

“No thanks. I'm fine.”

“A cold drink perhaps?”

“Sure, any diet soda, please. That would be nice.”

Sadie Fagan put a cold can of Diet Dr. Pepper in front of Walter. He thanked her as she said, “You said Conchita hired you to find Harry? I didn't know he was missing.” The tone of her voice told Walter she was not especially concerned. He gave two possibilities for that: first, she knew where Harry was; second, she'd heard from him, maybe today. One or both might be true, he thought. It was too early to know. Of course, she might not know anything at all about this.

“Conchita hasn't spoken to you about this?” he asked.

“No, she hasn't. We don't talk all that frequently, you know.”

“You're not close?”

“Oh, we're very close. No, no, I didn't mean that. What I meant was that we don't talk all that frequently.” Walter stared at her, waiting for more, and she added, “We're both very busy.”

Walter began where Conchita brought him in. He made it plain to Sadie that what he told her was what had been told to him. He had no firsthand knowledge of events. He told Sadie everything Conchita had told him about Harry, the document he came into possession of and his flight from London, to parts unknown. He said only that certain people's deaths contributed to the confusion that might have precipitated Harry's disappearance. He offered no details or names. He didn't say why any of this had happened. He never mentioned the Kennedys. He watched her eyes and the corners of her mouth as he told her about people having already died in connection with Harry's disappearance, looking for signs of some existing understanding on Sadie's part. How much did she know? He saw nothing remarkable. She talked with Harry weekly, at least once a week, she said. But it was not unusual to go days without a call. She really didn't know he was in any trouble.

He asked Sadie about the early years with the four of them living in her house. “Tell me about Elana,” he said. Sadie told him the whole story of David being drafted, Elana being pregnant, David getting killed—that's how she put it—Harry being born and the two of them moving to Atlanta. Elana Levine had been dead eight years, but it was easy to see how much Sadie missed her. Then she changed the subject.

“Why did Conchita hire you? I mean, why you?” She tried not to sound judgmental.

“I help people in this way,” Walter said. “It's the work I do.”

“What way?”

“I find people, missing people, people who may be lost.”

“How long?” Sadie asked. Walter understood her perfectly, knew exactly what she was getting at. He was inclined to like this little old lady with a slight hint of a moustache.

“Thirty years,” he answered, with a warm grin Sadie returned. It was a look only two older people could share. “Forty, if you count the Army.”

“Vietnam?” she asked, nodding her head to indicate her sympathy.

“Yes.”

“Too bad you couldn't find David.”

“Yes,” Walter said. “It is. Tell me about him.”

Sadie drank tea and talked about her brother while Walter listened for clues about his son, Harry. David Levine died more than thirty-five years ago. He lived in New York City. Sadie Fagan moved to Atlanta when David was only seventeen. In truth, Walter knew, there wasn't much she could accurately remember about him. Although she spoke about David Levine, Walter heard more about Harry. She revealed more about herself and her nephew than about her brother. Her memory of David was colored by time and distance. What she had to say about Harry, on the other hand, was current. Perhaps, he thought, she spoke with him earlier today, or yesterday, or maybe the day before.

“Tell me more about Harry, if you will.”

Walter's cell phone rang in the middle of Sadie's monologue. She was telling him about Harry as a youngster and how he loved living in Roswell. “He always wanted to be home,” she said. “Right here.” The ringer was on vibrate and Walter felt it buzzing against his chest in his shirt pocket. “Excuse me,” he said to Sadie. “I'll take this outside.”

“No need for that,” she said. “I'll be in the other room. Holler when you want me.” With that pronouncement, she took her teacup, the Atlanta newspaper, and walked off. Walter flipped open the cover of his phone, pushed the call button and said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Walter—may I call you Walter?—You and I need to talk.”

“Who is this?” Walter asked, then quickly added, in his usual, neighborly tone, “You can call me whatever you like.”

“Good.”

“And you are?”

“My name is Louis Devereaux. I've admired your work for many years. It's a treat just to talk to you. I guess you might say I'm a fan.”

“What is it I can do for you, Mr. Devereaux?”

“I think we can help each other, Walter. We need to talk about Harry Levine. I'd love to join you later today, perhaps even for dinner. I can be there, in Atlanta, this afternoon. Do you know Il Localino in Inman Park? A small restaurant. It's on Highland in a very quiet street. Meet me there at seven. We'll have an early dinner and it'll give us plenty of time to chat. How does that sound?” Walter had no idea who Louis Devereaux was. But he knew Walter's cell phone number, was familiar with his work, knew he was in Atlanta and used Harry Levine's name. Impressive stuff, he thought.

“See you at seven, Louis,” he said, then snapped his phone shut and put it back in his shirt pocket.

Harry's aunt was outside, sitting at a wrought-iron, glass-top table on a concrete slab in the backyard. Walter brought his cold drink with him, sat down next to her and for an hour or more listened to Sadie Fagan talk about her nephew.

The gentrification of North Highland, in Inman Park, on Atlanta's east side, began in the 1990s. The old apartment buildings, four and five stories tall, the ones with the Depression-era, pre-WWII facades, were renovated, turned into condos and sold to lawyers, IT professionals, advertising executives and salespeople. Most of the new apartments, mainly condos, were too small for big families. That kept the neighborhood relatively free of children. The city built jogging paths and lined local streets with bicycle lanes. Housing prices doubled, then doubled again. So did property taxes. Still, they came. The old residents, working-class people who bought their clothing and kitchen appliances at the same store—Sears—were forced out. Developers descended like locusts. Bars, coffeehouses and restaurants followed close behind. The yuppies and buppies of Atlanta, the ones who wore two-hundred-dollar tank tops from Hugo Boss and drank their coffee from espresso machines imported from Milan, flocked to the neighborhood. The men proudly displayed their Rolexes and always carried business cards no matter how they were dressed. The women wore underwear from Victoria's Secret so that if they got hit by a car, they'd look good. At The Emory Clinic, an outreach of Emory University's hospital and medical school, Inman Park was often called Herpesville. An MBA offered no protection from an STD.

Il Localino was one of four restaurants on the same, tree-lined block of North Highland. They shared a common valet parking lot. Walter pulled his car up to the entrance. The attendant, a young, clean-cut, college kid, asked him which restaurant he was going to. He told him and watched as the young man jotted it down on the portion of the ticket he kept to place on the dashboard. He supposed it was to help them sort out and locate the folks who got so drunk or so lucky they never made it back to their cars. Louis Devereaux was waiting for him, already seated at the corner table by the front window. As he entered the restaurant, a smiling Devereaux rose to signal him. Walter realized he'd been made on the short walk from the parking lot to the front door. He never once looked around to see if anyone was looking at him. Stupid, he thought. Just plain dumb.

Louis Devereaux was a man in his fifties, average height, trim and fit, with a full head of dark brown hair. He had sharp features, a bony forehead, small nose, thin lips and a pointed chin. Except for the gleam in his eyes, he was the kind of man who could easily fade into the background. His smile was internal. Walter had seen looks like that before, smiles meant only for the smiler, smiles to complement fiery eyes. Devereaux's grin was definitely on loan from the Devil.

He was from Washington. Walter was sure of that. Everyone in Washington wore the same dark-blue, three-button, natural shoulder suit with a shirt and tie designed to make them inconspicuous. These were not cheap clothes, not by any means, but they did defeat the very purpose of dressing in the first place, especially in this neighborhood. Walter was reminded of something a Dutchman said once, in Vientiane in 1971. One evening in a hotel bar, as they watched the Frenchmen come and go in the capital city of Laos, Aat van de Steen said to Walter, “A man who dresses not to be seen, is a man who will not show you who he is.” A lesson learned in Laos, still true in Il Localino.

“Hello,” said Walter, reaching across the table to shake hands.

“A pleasure to meet you, Walter,” Devereaux responded. They shook hands and took their seats. “Do you like this place?”

“Very nice,” Walter said without looking around at all. A skinny, old Italian man, accompanied by a young girl who might have been his niece or more likely his granddaughter, approached immediately. He brought with him a bottle of wine.

“Gentlemen,” he said presenting the wine bottle to them as if it were a great treasure. “Allow me to select this fine Chianti for you. Colle Bereto Chianti Classico, 1995. This is a wonderful wine, believe me. Make you warm in winter. Keep you cool in summer and make the women love you. If you don't like it, you tell me so, it's on me.” He handed the bottle to the young girl who tore off the seal and began screwing an opener into the top of the cork. While she did this, the Italian began with the specials for that night. With each one he went into great detail about the ingredients and the method of preparation, and ended each item with an opinion on the merits of the dish. He looked at Walter and, with a warm smile, said, “For you, the grouper piccata in a white wine sauce, with lemon and fried capers. On the side, some linguini, al dente, in a light clam sauce. No?”

“Sure,” said Walter, returning the waiter's friendly smile.

“Would you like to begin with a salad with roasted pine nuts and the world-famous Localino vinaigrette?”

“World famous?”

“In my world, to be sure.”

“I'll skip the salad, thank you,” said Walter.

“And for you, sir . . . ,” the waiter continued, turning to Devereaux.

“The filet mignon will do just fine,” Devereaux said. “Angel hair pasta with that.”

“Of course, sir,” said the waiter. “Sliced medallions of filet mignon in Italian Romagna brandy, with mushrooms and peppercorns. Will that be all?” Devereaux nodded and the old man motioned for the young girl to pour the wine—first a taste for Walter's approval, then a full glass for each of them. “Welcome to Il Localino. Anything I can do to make your meal more enjoyable, you call me, no?”

“Thank you,” said Walter. “We're looking forward to a wonderful dinner.”

Devereaux looked at Walter and said, “You should look around. Go ahead, turn your head. Take a look.” Walter did. Il Localino was a small restaurant in a narrow building with the tables almost on top of each other, except for the ones by the window where he and Louis Devereaux sat. They had plenty of room, lots of privacy. In the middle of everything was a fountain gurgling with enough running water to keep conversations private. The walls and high ceiling were covered with old paintings, photographs and posters. As small, even tiny, as the restaurant was, so narrow you could not walk straight for more than a few feet in any direction, large potted plants were scattered about, lending privacy here and there while making it seem even more crowded. The walls and ceilings were dark, with exposed brick adding to the flavor. “The place has the feel of New York, don't you think? Third Avenue, downtown or somewhere in the East Village?”

“Charming,” said Walter.

Devereaux laughed. “Wait till they start singing.” He took a sip of his wine, silently indicated his approval, and leaned back in his chair.

“It's really great to meet you. Seriously. I never thought I'd get the opportunity.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Walter said, in a casual, comfortable, friendly tone of voice. “But I haven't got the slightest fucking idea who you are.” There was no hint of anger in his voice.

“Aha,” laughed Devereaux. “You'd like to know, though, wouldn't you? Haven't figured out yet how I got your cell phone number, have you?”

“Haven't even thought about it,” said Walter. “The options are fairly limited. I was guessing you'd want to tell me. So, who are you and why am I here—other than to have a delightful dinner?”

“You're looking for Harry Levine. I'm looking for Harry Levine.” Devereaux's smile became a wide grin as he shook his head. “I'll tell you, it's hard to believe that I'm looking for the same man as Walter Sherman. I'm getting a real kick out of it. And I need you to find him.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

“No, no,” chuckled Devereaux. “You're already on the job.”

“Just want to horn in? Is that it?”

“Yes, that's exactly it. Levine has two aunts. One of them—a woman of exceptional beauty, I'm sure you'll agree—visits you on St. John, and the other, you visit here in Atlanta.”

“Roswell.”

“Roswell, right. Sadie Fagan didn't hire you. That's for certain. So, that leaves Conchita Crystal. Don't get me wrong, Walter. I'm happy you're looking for Harry. I could never find him myself.”

“Why do you want him?” asked Walter, fumbling about the basket of long, thin bread sticks, finally picking two of them.

“How much do you know about Lacey?” Devereaux asked.

“Lacey who?”

Devereaux smiled. “You're good.” He knew, from the look in Walter's eyes, the name
Lacey
meant something to him. Of course Walter Sherman knew who Frederick Lacey was. But Devereaux thought it best to defer to Walter, to let him at least temporarily appear as a true professional. Only moments later, when he got no further response from Walter, he changed his mind. “I want to find him for the same reason you do,” Devereaux said. “We both know what he has. Although neither of us has read it and neither of us really knows precisely how important it might be. It's possible—make that probable—that what Harry has, contains . . . things—things that some people don't want to see openly exposed in the harsh light of public knowledge. Who can guess what such forces might do to get that document. When you find him, Walter, you'll read it. Then you'll know what I'm talking about, won't you?”

“I have no interest in anything Harry Levine may have. I don't want to read a thing. Couldn't care less.”

“Of course. You never get involved, do you? You just find them, wherever they're hiding.”

“Maybe you're the guy he's hiding from,” Walter said, munching a bread stick he dipped in garlic butter. This time he laughed.

“No,” Devereaux said. “I work for the President of the United States. I'm the guy Levine's trying to get to. I'm the one he wants to give the document to—the document about which you have no interest. But I'm also the guy who can't find him. He got spooked in London and took off. You can find him. Probably, you're the only person in the world who can. And I want to help, in any way I can.”

“Because . . . ?”

“Because, when you find Harry Levine, I'm the guy who gets the President to guarantee his safety. And we get the document, which I freely admit is my principal objective. I'm as interested in finding him as his aunts are. More. If Conchita Crystal hadn't hired you . . .”

“I don't work for the government, the FBI, the CIA, the whatever initials you come up with. Actually,” Walter said, once more with a smile, this one tinged with real irony, “I don't work at all, anymore.”

“I heard you retired,” said Devereaux. He took a sip of his wine and adjusted the napkin protecting his lap. “You came back, I see.”

They were almost finished with the bottle of Chianti. Their food came out of the kitchen looking great, smelling wonderful and tasting as good as they'd been told it would. Walter's grouper was moist and tender, flaky at the touch of his fork, with just the proper amount of capers on top. The linguini was al dente, perfect. Devereaux seemed to enjoy his meal too. As the two men ate, Louis Devereaux told Walter how much he knew about him, and how long he knew it. He was either an admirer or a good actor. He obviously enjoyed telling the story as much as, or more, than Walter liked hearing it. It took Walter only a few minutes to understand Louis Devereaux was CIA. Like he said, the options were limited. He had so much information about him. He knew about Vietnam. He knew about Gloria. He mentioned Walter's daughter and her family in Kansas City. He didn't say it, because he didn't have to, but of course Devereaux knew Walter had gone so far underground he hadn't filed an income tax return for almost forty years. For all practical purposes, Walter Sherman was a phantom. He didn't offend Walter by revealing specific knowledge of his clients, but he did drop the name Leonard Martin, twice. Walter gave him no reaction either time. After dinner, they ordered coffee. Each passed on dessert. They did, however, graciously accept an after-dinner drink, compliments of the house. As they sipped their brandy, Devereaux asked, “Is there anything you need? Anything I might be able to help with?”

“Not now,” said Walter. “When I find him, what do you want me to do?”

“Not a thing,” Devereaux said with a sense of earnestness not previously part of their conversation. “I know you don't do anything. That's not the deal you make. And I'm not asking you to change that now. I'll give you a number. Call it and we'll take over from there.” Walter did not reply, not in words. He simply nodded. For Louis Devereaux, Walter could tell, that nod had only one meaning—acceptance. He said nothing to Devereaux about Conchita's plan to hide Harry somewhere, somewhere no one would find him.