Red White and Black and Blue - Stevenson Richard (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений .txt) 📗

"It sounds as if you're saying Assemblyman Louderbush might be more of a humanitarian than some people give him credit for."

"Au contraire."

"Okay, au contraire."

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"I'm not going to get into motives. You can if you want to.

I'm just sticking to the facts."

"What's your evidence, Don?"

"Could I fax you a couple of things?"

"Sure." She gave me the number.

"They'll arrive in two minutes."

"Let me just ask you something. Are you by any chance associated with the McCloskey campaign?"

"You bet. But that in no way alters the facts of the situation."

"Uh-huh. Send me what you've got, and maybe we'll go from there."

"What I can also tell you, Ms. Jablonski, is that there's a lot more to this story. It's going to finish off Louderbush's gubernatorial candidacy. Just follow the insurance card."

"What are you, some kind of Deep Throat wannabe?

Exactly what are you trying to tell me, Don?"

"Just follow the health insurance."

I gave her my new cell number, rang off and faxed her Bigelow's receipt and the number of his insurance policy.

Hospital records were confidential, but I assumed Jablonski had her sources, just as I did.

Timmy called at ten till four and said, "I called Louderbush's office and asked if he was available for a short budget committee meeting later today. I was told no, he'd been called back to Kurtzburg on some family matter, and he wouldn't be back in Albany until sometime tomorrow."

"Good. I'm headed back out there, then to the city. I'll be in the car a lot, but that's okay. I'll listen to some 246

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Mendelssohn and some Monk. It'll be good for my ear and for my soul to think about anything besides this disgusting case for several hours."

"Do you want me to come along? I'll be out of the office in an hour."

"No, I won't be back till tomorrow afternoon, so you might as well hold down the legislative fort and do everything you can to keep the state budget from getting passed for another day."

"I'll do my level best."

"But it's safe to go back to the house now. The Serbians are off the case. I talked to Sam Krupa."

"You actually talked with him? Was it like talking to Richard Nixon himself?"

"Krupa is less verbose than Nixon and, so far, less obscene. But we'll see how long that lasts. I'm meeting him tomorrow in New York, and he's not going to be happy with my proposal."

Timmy went back to work, and before I climbed into the rental car again, I phoned my friend at APD. I told him it would be a good idea to get out the files on the Greg Stiver suicide, because I thought the department would soon be reopening the case.

* * * *

"Where's your wife?" I asked Louderbush. "She might want to be recording this."

"My wife is at Pizza Hut with my daughter Heather's soccer team following their game, which is where I should be and 247

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where I would certainly prefer to be. I'll be talking things over with Deidre later this evening. Even though the packet you or one of your agents dropped off was addressed to me, she went ahead and opened it and examined its contents before I arrived home."

"I'll bet you're in Dutch now."

"In what?"

"You don't know that colloquialism? She gets the picture that your years of savagery are now known far and wide, and she's ripshit."

We were seated in Louderbush's district office, a room on the second floor of an old business block on Kurtzburg's Main Street. He was behind his desk, and I was in the constituent's chair facing him. There were the obligatory photos on the wall, framed and signed, with Louderbush and George Pataki, Louderbush and Pat Boone, Louderbush and Sarah Palin. On his desk was a framed family photographic group portrait, tinted.

"Yes, Deidre is going to need reassurance," he said.

"Although surely this Krupa character isn't going public with this tired old gossip about me pre-Greg Stiver. It looks as though you've got enough on Krupa and the way he operates—like some scumbag Mafioso—to shut him up."

"I think so. Though the way we're headed here, it looks as though all three of the gubernatorial candidates are going to have to drop out of the race. Each of you has enough crud on the other two to force everybody out."

"Well," Louderbush said with a funny look, "everybody or nobody. Since no one of us can put his or her opposition 248

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research to use without being exposed as one thing or another by both other camps, in a sense we're all back to square one. And that's good. No one will be waging a campaign of personal destruction. The campaign can just be about the issues."

I sighed and said, "Well, in your case, Mr. Louderbush, it isn't as simple as that."

He saw it coming and reddened. "Not simple? How so?"

"I've met Trey Bigelow, and I know about Scott Hemmerer."

He had the humanity to look cornered. "I... I..."

"How many others have there been?"

He thought about that. "No others," he mouthed barely audibly with no conviction at all.

"And it gets worse," I said.

He waited.

"Insurance fraud. Bigelow's health insurance."

His liar's instincts kicked in. "Well, I'll have to look into that. I hope Trey didn't misunderstand something I said and come up with some fake insurance card or anything like that."

"He said you gave it to him."

"Oh no. That kid is so, so troubled. Troubled and treacherous, I now see."

"How about Hemmerer? I understand he's in the hospital with broken bones."

He slumped. "Bone. Just one. His ulna, I believe. Scott doesn't look all that fragile. He's actually kind of a rough little bugger. He and Trey must have concocted some insurance 249

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scam using my name and my state policy. You really have to wonder who's victimizing whom here, wouldn't you say?"

"Trey Bigelow told me that you got drunk one night and told him you had pushed Greg Stiver off the roof at SUNY.

You were enraged because Greg told you he'd had enough of you and the beatings, and he was going to break off the relationship. You killed Greg, and you told Trey if he left you, you'd kill him, too."

Louderbush stood up. He shook his head. He sat down again with a thud. After a moment, he opened a desk drawer, and I pulled my Smith & Wesson out of the shoulder bag and raised it, barrel in the air. But what Louderbush lifted out of the drawer was not a weapon, just a bottle of Cutty Sark.

"I wasn't able to quit drinking, either," he muttered. He retrieved a plastic cup from a nearby shelf and poured himself a generous half cup. "Care for a shot, Donald?"

"No."

He had a healthy snort and then ruminated for a minute or so.

"You have no proof," he said finally. "Just the word of that fucked up little fairy."

"Of the murder, no, there's no smoking gun. But the insurance fraud is going to sink your political career. I've already passed that part of it to an investigative reporter. And she'll undoubtedly dredge up most of the rest—the young men, the beatings, the hypocrisy."