Chapter Thirty-Three
The midsize business jet was four years old. It had a few creases in the upholstery and scuffs on the trim that went with the miles it had flown before and after its acquisition by Walt Kimbel from a distressed leasing firm.
He finished off the last of his kombucha. No coffee. No alcohol. He didn’t touch drugs of any kind. Drugs will kill you, he liked to say with a smile, a line that always landed well coming from the founder of a cutting-edge pharmaceutical empire.
He checked his Breitling, cuff link flashing with the Genyra logo.
Kimbel was late. Not like him. The longer the delay, the more Matheson’s mind wandered to the headlines, the fallout, the implications.
The murder in the Garden District had already made the front page of The Times-Picayune.
The narrative was forming. And if they didn’t control it, someone else would.
The cabin door hissed open, and a gust of Lake Pontchartrain’s humid air rolled in. Kimbel stepped aboard, tie loosened, bag in hand. He stuck his head into the cockpit to tell the pilots they could take off, then dropped into the seat opposite his boss.
The engines spooled up, and the jet began its slow taxi. Matheson leaned across the aisle.
“So?”
Kimbel exhaled. “It’s not good.”
“Why?”
“Vargas is furious.”
“At us?”
“No. At our friends.”
Matheson relaxed slightly. “The NOPD?”
Kimbel nodded. “They botched it. Or someone interfered.”
Matheson gestured to the phone on the tray table. “I read the article. Sounds like a drug war.”
“That’s the line.”
“Is it true?”
“Could be. Either way, it’s the perfect note for Icy.
She’ll have both senators screaming for action.
Divert blame to the administration and it plays right into her law-and-order platform.
She can claim that she cleaned things up locally and that it was the feds who screwed up; promote her and she’ll clean up the state the way she cleaned up New Orleans. ”
Matheson faced the window as the jet bumped toward the runway. He thought of Icy on the dais at the Four Seasons, announcing her run for governor. She had looked unstoppable. Now she was pulling strings behind the scenes, shaping narratives, bending institutions to her will.
Goddamn, she was good.
He should have married her.
“She’s going to win this thing,” Matheson said.
“I’ve been thinking the same.”
“We need to get on the record. Donate to her campaign. Possible?”
“Can we afford not to?”
Matheson shook his head. That’s why he had Kimbel. He had a good team paving the way for him these days, making his job much easier than it used to be. His CFO was already in New York prepping the shareholders. Carolyn Boyle was spinning the press. The machine was humming.
“How much?” he asked Kimbel.
“Five million.”
Matheson raised an eyebrow.
“Off balance sheet. One of the partnerships. Vargas will fund it as a pass-through. He’s vested in us. We’re vested in Icy. It’s a smart investment for him. And he’s a shrewd businessman.”
How much deeper can we go with Cuchillo?
“And the FEC? Won’t the feds be looking into campaign contributions? Isn’t that a problem?”
“The Federal Election Commission doesn’t have jurisdiction over a governor’s race. State-level. Louisiana Board of Ethics handles it. And they refer criminal cases to the local DA.”
“Icy.”
“Exactly.”
“But the attorney general, her opponent, could override that. He’d hit her hard with the conflict of interest.”
“Which is why we’re going to contribute legally. She’s set up a 527 political action committee. T-JAW.”
“T-JAW?”
Kimbel grinned. “Truth, Justice, and the American Way. No campaign limits on a Super PAC, provided they operate independently.”
“I thought Super PAC contributions were disclosed to the FEC?”
“They are, but we won’t give directly. We create a 501(c)(4) group to run educational issue ads.”
“And since they do not have to disclose their donors, they make the contribution to T-JAW.”
“Exactly; for general welfare and educational purposes. And sir, there are some things best left to me.”
The jet braked at the hold-short. Kimbel tightened his seat belt.
“Get some rest, sir. We want you fresh in New York.”
The engines roared, the wheels thumped, and the jet lifted into the sky.
As they climbed, Matheson looked down at the lake, the city, and the low-slung brick buildings of the FBI’s New Orleans Field Office. The place looked like a prison: intimidating fences, squat architecture, black SUVs crawling in and out. One of them exited the gate as he watched.
Get your head straight.
He forced his thoughts to the investor meeting.
Today was the day he would unveil his forecasts for Xylaxyn, a revolutionary anti-inflammatory and synthetic painkiller for cancer patients.
Among its other benefits, it eliminated the need for fentanyl, the legitimate opioid for stage four cancer sufferers that had become politically radioactive thanks to Chinese knockoffs and overdose deaths.
Matheson’s line was ready, drafted by Carolyn, just waiting for the press release: Not only are we enhancing lives—we’re eliminating the need for fentanyl. My competitors like to say it’s a controlled substance, but is it, when we’ve lost so much control?
That sound bite would echo across CNBC, ripple through trade journals, and land like a sledgehammer on his competitors. Kimbel would make the calls. Senators would listen. The pressure would mount. Fentanyl would become a drug of the past. And Xylaxyn, his drug, would be the only alternative.
Ten years on the patent. Ten years of dominance. He wouldn’t just be a multibillionaire. He’d be untouchable.
He glanced around the Bombardier’s cabin, at the worn leather and scratched chrome.
Fake it till you make it.
The old mantra flickered in his mind like a neon sign. He’d faked it once upon a time. Everyone had. But then he met Fulgencio Vargas—Cuchillo—and everything changed. Vargas had made him an offer he was not strong enough to refuse. Vargas had offered him the world.
As much as he knew he needed to stay focused on Xylaxyn, his mind was drawn back to the Garden District.
“Is the story true?” he asked. “Was it a rival cartel hit?”
Kimbel hesitated, then leaned closer. “You really want to know?”
Matheson raised an eyebrow.
“Word is that some guy with a dog showed up and took out most of the crew like a pro. Bates said they’re keeping it quiet.”
“A professional?”
“Current theory is he’s a sicario. Maybe hired by a rival. No one knows who. But it’s not in the reports.”
“Come on. Even I don’t buy that.”
“It won’t matter for much longer.”
“Why?”
“Because our friends are going to find him before he can talk.”
“Bates?”
“Could be Bates. Could be Cuchillo’s people. Could be both. Regardless, he’s not going to be around much longer.”
“Meaning the official story sticks and Icy can spin it right into the governor’s mansion.”
“Exactly. One guy and a dog against Bates’s COPE unit and Cuchillo’s assassins? Shit, sir. I wouldn’t want to be him.”
Matheson leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Neither would I.