“Told you those fuckers could mindfuck you,” he said.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Badja Adeyemi’s legal team wrangled me a personal audience at his newest residence, the Metropolitan Correctional Center in Manhattan. My presence wasn’t strictly necessary. That dungeon wasn’t on my list of dream attractions either. Adeyemi wanted to see me, and so I reluctantly went. I emailed the case files to his lawyer prior to our security screening. We met in a private room. Adeyemi had lost a few pounds and gained some crow’s-feet. I told him the reddish-orange jumpsuit went with his eyes. His lawyer, Tambour, booted a laptop and played the videos I’d recorded at the farm. Adeyemi slipped the headset on. He studied the video, his mouth set grimly.

The footage became, to employ a technical term, janky in spots, and completely degraded a few seconds prior to Buckhalter’s murder. I would’ve edited that shit anyway. However, much of it was clean. Give me a hallelujah. The footage of Danny Buckhalter’s Mr. Hyde impression and the audio recordings of most of the debacle would likely be worthless in a courtroom. No smoking gun confession. Luckily, I hadn’t risked my life to gather courtroom evidence. The only person in New York whose opinion counted was hunched over the monitor. Adeyemi played it several times. He didn’t take notes. He simply finished and stared at the institutional beige concrete wall.

As agreed, the lawyer kept my report and deleted the sensational files. My copies were safe in a secret location.

“I have my opinion,” I said. “And that’s all I’ll ever have. I’m sorry.”

“Same,” Adeyemi said. He embraced me, which was a surprise. He’d intuited I’d killed some guys, or done something vengeful on his and June’s behalf. The fact I looked like I’d been chucked into a running cement mixer was a giveaway of sorts.

“No hugging in prison,” I said. “No hugging in prison!”

As I readied to accompany his lawyer out into the fresh air and sunshine, I asked Adeyemi what he planned to do.

“I’m going to ponder.”

“Elections coming this fall. I don’t know how much it matters to you, that business with the Jeffers Project. If Redlick holds on as a senator, he’ll do his damnedest to revive the collider. Off the books. A diversion of resources so the RG or an ally, such as Spencer Industries, can finish the job.”

His old nasty-cop persona resurfaced with a derisive snort.

“Be realistic. Gerry isn’t satisfied with a seat in the Senate. He’s gunning for the presidency. Joke candidacy? Joke’s on us; he’ll win.”

“Goodbye, Lieutenant.”

“Goodbye, hard-ass.”

I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. I’m wrong all the time, so why not about that too?

■■■

Lionel and I dug the Croatoan’s trove up in the spring.

We hauled it to a warehouse on the Hudson near Kingston. Sonny, the former Japanese diplomat, bade us sit in an office cluttered by shipping manifests and milk crates crammed with documents. Old-timey posters of tugboats and capsized barges and stonily aggrieved barge captains set the mood. Serious, serious Japanese dudes in excellent suits paced the dingy hallway. More loitered in the stairwell, passing cigarettes back and forth. A couple carried wakizashi under their jackets. We’d parked in view of the window. As I chatted with our patron, Lionel watched two guys circling his car, eyes shaded so they could look inside.