Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl

“No problem. She’s great.” Caitlin reaches out and touches my knee. “You really look tired. You want me to go to my room so you can crash? Our flight to Gunnison leaves at eight-thirty.”

We’re renting a Cherokee in Gunnison for the drive up to Crested Butte. “I don’t think I can get to sleep yet.”

“Okay.” She scoots back in her chair and folds her legs beneath her. “Let’s talk business, then. Your assistant called. Your ATF friend called her and confirmed that Payton’s car was destroyed by C-4 plastic explosive. They found traces of something called RDX in the shrapnel. He said there should be plenty more embedded in the metal of Payton’s car. No problem to prove in court.”

Half my fatigue disappears into the shot of adrenaline this produces. “So, Ray Presley planted the blasting caps and dynamite. And someone falsified the lab report.”

She nods. “I’ve been studying your copy of the police report. It’s mostly gossip really. Wild theories. The interesting thing is that there were rumored suspects the detectives never talked to, local guys who had done other race crimes. Almost as if Creel and Temple knew those suspects weren’t guilty.”

“Presley may well have planted that C-4 himself. He’s killed before. But for money usually. If he killed Payton, it wasn’t on his own hook.”

“You think he killed Payton for Leo Marston?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you first get the idea Marston was involved?”

“From the deputy who saved us the other night. Ike Ransom.”

“Well … I hope you can trust him. Because I’ve got to tell you, everything my people have found on Marston indicates that he’s a liberal, as far as race goes, anyway.”

“I know. I think the murder might not have been about race at all.”

Her mouth opens slightly. “What else could it have been about?”

“I don’t know yet. Have your people learned anything about Dwight Stone?”

“Yes. One of our reporters in Alexandria, Virginia, says Stone was dismissed from the FBI in 1972 for alcohol-related problems.”

“Anything else?”

“He was second-generation law enforcement. His father was a state trooper in Colorado. Stone himself served with the marines in Korea and won a handful of medals I don’t know the significance of. He went to law school after he got out of the service, and joined the Bureau in 1956. He spent sixteen years in, and received several commendations before being dismissed.”

“Althea Payton told me Stone was sympathetic to her, that he really wanted to solve the case. I wonder if the fact that they both served in Korea was the root of that?”

“I guess it could be.”

“Something strange happened at the prison tonight, Caitlin.”

“What?”

“The director of the FBI showed up.”

“John Portman? Why would he show up at the Hanratty execution?”

“To warn me to stay out of the Del Payton case.”

“What?”

“Portman and I have a history. When you asked about the Hanratty case on the plane, I left out some details. When Hanratty committed that first murder in Compton, he was seen by a dozen witnesses before he fled the scene, and they ID’d him from photographs under his real name. An LAPD detective remembered that Hanratty had been the star witness in a federal hate-crime trial a while back. His testimony put a half dozen white supremacists in jail and made a star out of the U.S. attorney of Los Angeles.”

“Portman,” Caitlin says softly.

“Exactly. The LAPD went to Portman, who told them Hanratty was under witness protection and couldn’t have committed the crime. Political pressure started building. The next day Hanratty ‘escaped’ from the program and wound up in Houston with his brothers. The rumor was, Portman tried to cover up the murder to keep his reputation clean. I’m pretty sure now that it’s true. Hanratty referred to it tonight in his deathbed statement. Anyway, Portman wanted to neutralize the rumor by throwing the book at Hanratty in the L.A. courts.”

“And you stopped him.”

“Exactly. The guy hates my guts.”

“But what does that have to do with the Del Payton case?”

“I’m not sure. But Portman just killed the career of an FBI agent who gave me a little help on the phone. He’s transferring him to Fargo, North Dakota. I don’t think there’s even a field office there. Just a resident agency. Whatever’s in the Del Payton file must be embarrassing as hell to the Bureau. I want you to get your people working on Portman immediately. I want to know everything there is to know about him.”

“I’ll call our Alexandria guy before we fly out in the morning.”

“I’m going to call that FBI agent right now. I owe him an apology.”

“It’s the middle of the night. And it’s later in Washington.”

“I doubt he’s sleeping.”

I pull the phone over from between the beds, dial directory assistance, then use my credit card to call Peter Lutjens at his home in Washington. His phone rings five times before he answers, but his voice is wide awake.

“Peter, this is Penn Cage.”

Silence.

“I had no idea this thing would boomerang on you like this. I am so sorry.”

“Shit. I don’t blame you. I gave you the list, didn’t I?

“Peter, if there’s anything I can do—”

“Can you get Portman fired?”

“I don’t—” Suddenly an idea hits me. “Maybe I can.”

“What?”

“Peter, have you wondered why Portman would punish you so severely for what you did?”

“He hates you, that’s why.”

“It’s the Payton file. Portman flew to Huntsville, Texas, tonight to warn me off the Payton case. And asking about the Payton file is what got you into trouble. Right?”

“Yes.”

“I think Portman is concealing some illegality about that case. If he is, and you can find out what it is—”