Page 50 of The Lie Maker

These thoughts, and the new backstory I was trying to write for Bill, were interrupted by a phone call, on my own cell. I was hoping it would be Lana. We hadn’t talked in a day or two, and a text of mine to her, a simple question mark, had gone unanswered. I assumed—I hoped—that she was just busy.

But the call was not from her.

“Hello?”

“Mr.Givins?”

“Speaking.”

“It’s Elaine at Consolidated Insurance. It’s about your car. I wanted to let you know the investigation is ongoing.”

“Ongoing?”

“There’s evidence of an accelerant.”

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“An accelerant. Most likely gasoline. Traces were found throughout the vehicle. The vehicle was doused with a flammable liquid, inside and out, and then set ablaze. It was arson, not some manufacturer’s electrical fault. We’re awaiting a police report before we issue any check.”

An accelerant.

Could Earl have been right? Was someone sending a message? But who? And why? And if that was the case, did it even have anything to do with what happened years ago?

“Have there been other incidents?” I asked. “Other cars set on fire like that?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Have a nice day, Mr.Givins.”

I walked over to the window and looked out onto the street.

Something was not right.

I went back to the kitchen table and sat, intending to get back to work, but I had my doubts I’d be able to focus. My phone buzzed. It was a text.

Got a minute? It’s Dad, and I’m outside.

Twenty-Nine

June1996

He’d decided he wouldn’t do it. Fuck Frohm.

There was no way, Michael Donohue told himself, that he was going to Chicago to kill Abel Gartner. Oh, sure, he’d go to Chicago, and he would take another run at persuading Gartner to see reason. But kill the man? No.

I am not that person anymore.

Over the years, Michael’d done many things for Galen Frohm that crossed the line. Immoral and unethical at best, illegal at worst, but they were what Michael had come to see as crimes of little significance. They fell into the category of “doing business” or “process crimes.”

The ugly truth was that, in America, if you wanted to get things done, you had to bend the rules, or fucking ignore them altogether. So you cut corners, you had a second set of books, you overpromised and underdelivered, you made secret deals where you had to, you hired the best accountant money could buy so that you paid no taxes even though you were making a fortune.

Sure, occasionally you had to threaten someone to make them fall in line. Which was what Michael had tried with Abel Gartner. He was just going to have to try a little harder.

Michael knew Frohm wouldn’t he happy. Certainly not at first, when he returned to Boston without Gartner’s head. (A little artistic license here, Michael thought. The man’s metaphorical head, of course.) But he was confident he could persuade the boss that this time, Gartner would come around, cease to be an issue. And they wouldn’t have to worry about the authorities sniffing around a homicide.

Still, some precautions were worth following.

Michael did take Frohm’s suggestion and fly into Indianapolis instead of Chicago. He then rented a car and drove the rest of the way, conducting transactions with bogus identification. Why take such precautions if he did not intend to carry out Frohm’s orders? Michael told himself it paid to be careful. He did not want it known by anyone—not by the airlines, not by the police, not by anyone—that he was making this trip.

It was a three-hour drive from Indianapolis to Chicago, which gave Michael plenty of time to think about his approach. He’d done some further research on Gartner, looking for avenues of leverage. What was precious to him? What did he love, outside of his own family?