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Authors: Thomas Perry
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to the interviews with the witnesses. The whole thing had been completely unexpected. The monthly meeting of Local 602 had adjourned, he had climbed into this truck and was blown up. That was all any of them seemed to know.
After an hour and a half of reading and study, Elizabeth had made only two notes: to interview Richard O'Connell, the union president, about the minutes of the meeting, and to request file checks of Precision Tooling and Local 34
602. The file checks would have to wait, because it would be lunchtime at Justice now. She went to one of the empty desks and dialed the extension at Precision Tooling that O'Connell had given the homicide man. Yes, O'Connell said, he could see her at ten thirty .
Elizabeth sat for a minute staring at the file. She got out her telephone credit card, deciding to take a chance that Padgett was still busy enough to be working through another lunch hour.
On the other end she heard Padgett's phone snatched up and his voice say, "Justice Padgett" as though it were a title.
"Roger," she said. "I know you must be busy if you're answering phones at twelve thirty, but I need some background. I need a file check on a company in Ventura, California, called Precision Tooling, and on Machinists' Local 602."
"All right, but what specifically?"
"I'm afraid I'll need the whole thing on both. Any indication that anything isn't aboveboard. History, assets, cast of characters, everything."
"So you don't know what you're looking for." He said it without emotion, as though he wasn't surprised.
"I'm afraid not, Roger," said Elizabeth . "I'm fishing."
"I'll get somebody on it after lunch. Give them a couple of hours and call back."
"Thanks, Roger. I'll do that. You're a love."
"I'm that all right. But Elizabeth?"
"What?"
"Try to keep it within bounds. Fishing can get expensive."
She put her notebook away and went down the hall to Donaldson's office.
She found him still pondering the same sheaf of papers. "Chief," she said, "I wonder if I could get a ride in a squad car. Agent Hart has the keys to our rented car, and I don't want to interrupt him."
"A ride? Sure," he said. He lifted his phone and said, "I'm sending Miss Waring to you. Get her a car and driver. Right."
The factory was a small, rectangular aluminum building surrounded by a chain-link fence with an open gate. The place seemed to be all metal. Even the sounds that came from it were metallic, the noise of metal machines cutting and grinding and shaving metal, heating, bending, cooling it.
When she entered the shop, a man working a lathe lifted his safety goggles and walked over to her. "Are you Miss Waring?" he asked. He seemed to be about fifty, balding, and with the massive forearms of a man who worked with his hands.
"Yes. Mr. O'Connell?"
"We can talk out in the yard where it's quiet."
She followed him through the shop—where the whine of machinery was punctuated by an occasional ring of a hammer or the clank of chains—and out into a small asphalt square where there were a picnic table and benches. "Is this 35
where you eat lunch?"she asked.
"That's right," said O'Connell, sitting down. "Now what can I tell you?"
"Mr. Veasy's death was rather unusual, as you know, and so we're working with the Ventura police to find out whatever we can about it. If there's anything at all you think should go into the record, I can guarantee that it will."
She watched him for a moment, but he was just waiting for her to continue.
"I'd like to know what went on at the union hall that evening. Do you have the minutes of the meeting? I understand you're president."
"There aren't any minutes of that meeting. We didn't vote on anything, so there wasn't much to write down," said O'Connell.
"Do you remember what was said?"
"We were talking about the investment of the pension fund. How to get the best return for our money, how to keep it safe, you know. The usual things."
He looked at her through clear,
After an hour and a half of reading and study, Elizabeth had made only two notes: to interview Richard O'Connell, the union president, about the minutes of the meeting, and to request file checks of Precision Tooling and Local 34
602. The file checks would have to wait, because it would be lunchtime at Justice now. She went to one of the empty desks and dialed the extension at Precision Tooling that O'Connell had given the homicide man. Yes, O'Connell said, he could see her at ten thirty .
Elizabeth sat for a minute staring at the file. She got out her telephone credit card, deciding to take a chance that Padgett was still busy enough to be working through another lunch hour.
On the other end she heard Padgett's phone snatched up and his voice say, "Justice Padgett" as though it were a title.
"Roger," she said. "I know you must be busy if you're answering phones at twelve thirty, but I need some background. I need a file check on a company in Ventura, California, called Precision Tooling, and on Machinists' Local 602."
"All right, but what specifically?"
"I'm afraid I'll need the whole thing on both. Any indication that anything isn't aboveboard. History, assets, cast of characters, everything."
"So you don't know what you're looking for." He said it without emotion, as though he wasn't surprised.
"I'm afraid not, Roger," said Elizabeth . "I'm fishing."
"I'll get somebody on it after lunch. Give them a couple of hours and call back."
"Thanks, Roger. I'll do that. You're a love."
"I'm that all right. But Elizabeth?"
"What?"
"Try to keep it within bounds. Fishing can get expensive."
She put her notebook away and went down the hall to Donaldson's office.
She found him still pondering the same sheaf of papers. "Chief," she said, "I wonder if I could get a ride in a squad car. Agent Hart has the keys to our rented car, and I don't want to interrupt him."
"A ride? Sure," he said. He lifted his phone and said, "I'm sending Miss Waring to you. Get her a car and driver. Right."
The factory was a small, rectangular aluminum building surrounded by a chain-link fence with an open gate. The place seemed to be all metal. Even the sounds that came from it were metallic, the noise of metal machines cutting and grinding and shaving metal, heating, bending, cooling it.
When she entered the shop, a man working a lathe lifted his safety goggles and walked over to her. "Are you Miss Waring?" he asked. He seemed to be about fifty, balding, and with the massive forearms of a man who worked with his hands.
"Yes. Mr. O'Connell?"
"We can talk out in the yard where it's quiet."
She followed him through the shop—where the whine of machinery was punctuated by an occasional ring of a hammer or the clank of chains—and out into a small asphalt square where there were a picnic table and benches. "Is this 35
where you eat lunch?"she asked.
"That's right," said O'Connell, sitting down. "Now what can I tell you?"
"Mr. Veasy's death was rather unusual, as you know, and so we're working with the Ventura police to find out whatever we can about it. If there's anything at all you think should go into the record, I can guarantee that it will."
She watched him for a moment, but he was just waiting for her to continue.
"I'd like to know what went on at the union hall that evening. Do you have the minutes of the meeting? I understand you're president."
"There aren't any minutes of that meeting. We didn't vote on anything, so there wasn't much to write down," said O'Connell.
"Do you remember what was said?"
"We were talking about the investment of the pension fund. How to get the best return for our money, how to keep it safe, you know. The usual things."
He looked at her through clear,
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