Page 74 of The Lie Maker

Dad looked down into his lap, maybe so I wouldn’t see his face crumble. He sighed, and said, “Some advice, in case I don’t get another chance. You’ll be heading off into the world soon. Try to learn from my mistakes. Never let anyone manipulate you into doing something you know is wrong. Listen to that voice in your head. I allowed a man to drag me into the darkness. But Frohm didn’t destroy me. I did that to myself.”

“Okay.”

“I should go.”

He stood, gave me a light pat on the shoulder as he walked past, and whispered, “Don’t be hard on Earl. We’re all flawed.”

He winked. “I’ll be keeping my eye on ya, God willing.” He left my room without another word.

And then there was the time Dad saved my life, but more about that later.

I printed out what I had and called Gwen.

“Done what I can for now,” I said.

She said she would have it picked up.

All the reminiscing, at least for a while, had pushed my concerns regarding Harry Breedlove out of mind. But I still wanted to get in touch with the guy and find out what the hell was going on, and if that meant getting on a train, going to New York, and tracking him down, I was prepared to do it.

I sent him another email, texted him, tried to get him on the phone, but struck out everywhere. I felt I had given him enough opportunity to explain himself. It was time to get back to Ann, my former editor, and tell her what Harry had done.

I opted to call her directly at her editorial office.

“Oh, Jack,” she said after I identified myself. “I was just going to call you.”

“Sorry I didn’t reply to your email right away,” I said. “There’s been some funny things going on with Harry.”

“That’s what we’re all thinking,” Ann said. “To take his own life. It’s so sad. I mean, I suppose it could have been an accident, but it certainly doesn’t look like it. He must have been very troubled. You never really know anyone, do you?”

I don’t know that I heard much more. I must have zoned out. I hung up, finally, without saying another word.

Thirty-Eight

June1997

In the days following the early-morning raid at his home, Michael Donohue had a lot to think about.

They had him cold on the Len Klay murder. When that woman on the faraway dock started shouting at him, asking him if everything was okay, he got the hell out of there. Ran to his car and took off.

What he didn’t know, until later, was that the woman ran from the dock to the road in time to see him race past. Even noticed the license plate number and used a stick to write it in the sand of her driveway so she wouldn’t forget it.

Police found Michael’s shoeprints—not wet ones on the dock, but impressions in the sand by the shoreline—and inside the house, they found his fingerprints on the screen door. Once he was arrested, and his car taken in for a forensic examination, they found sand by the brake and accelerator pedals that matched sand on the lake’s shoreline.

As they dug into this case, their attention was drawn to the murder in Chicago, months earlier, of a man who had a business arrangement with Galen Frohm. Michael was unable to account for his whereabouts during that time period. They were also looking into the deaths of the manager of three dollar stores in the Milwaukee area and the child-porn enthusiast who ran some Frohm fast food franchises in Nebraska.

Michael was in deep shit.

When Michael was arrested he’d sought help from Abner Bronklin, the top legal mind used by the Frohm organization. But it didn’t take Michael long to realize that Bronklin’s primary interest would be to protect Frohm, and if that somehow meant sacrificing Michael, that’s exactly what he would do.

So Michael got his own lawyer.

Her name was Alicia Tarrington, and during one of her visits to prison to discuss his situation, she laid it out for him.

“They want Frohm, and they want him bad. Bad enough to cut you a deal.”

“On the murders?”

“They don’t have enough to charge you for what went down in Chicago. They have their suspicions, but there’s no physical evidence that connects you, no witnesses. Same with Milwaukee and Nebraska. But with Klay they have more than enough. A witness, motive, that sand in your car. If you want to plead not guilty I’ll give it my best shot, but I’m here to tell you your chances are about as good as the Big Dig getting done on time and under budget. You’ll be an old man when you get out, if you don’t end up dying in prison from something else, or some new hitter sent by Frohm. They want Frohm for the murders he sent you to commit, sure, but that’s just for starters. His corporate empire is basically one huge criminal organization. They want him on blackmail, tax evasion, extortion, and a host of other things. And you’re the one who can give them everything they need to put him away. You can tell them where to look, how it all went down. You were in the room, Michael.”

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