Chapter 8… I-95
The funeral went as well as could be expected, thought Harry, and he would have liked to think that it ended ten days of extraordinary sadness for Suzanne and the kids, but he knew that the sadness was just beginning. Now it would be more private, however. The kids at least had spouses, all of them, but they lived far enough away that just popping over to mom’s house to make sure she was okay wasn’t going to happen. Their busy-ness and their families would cushion their grief, but Suzanne was all alone, in a way. Talking on the phone with them would help, but it would accentuate her loneliness at the same time. While the Hutchinsons had plenty of friends in North Cambridge and greater Boston, the friends were their friends and now they had to become her friends. He wondered if that would happen. Probably not. He wished he could help, and the situation made him angrier.
Strange that a friend’s death could cause one to be angry, Harry thought further. What an unexpected way for him to express sorrow, but that’s how he felt. He wondered if the other brothers felt the same way. He looked over at Denise who was nodding away in the passenger seat. No wonder; she was probably drained. The last three days had been an ordeal for her too. She was an empathetic sort, always able to feel people’s emotions as her own—except his, when he got like this; she didn’t empathize with anger well. However, there were moments in her life when it took her over too. It would only last for a minute and she’d calm down to her serene self again. He wondered if that would happen if she found out about the blustery little chat he’d had with Brendan and Jerry at the wake. If Brendan called Suzanne as he’d threatened to do, it would be entirely possible that two of the nicest, calmest, most caring people on the planet would be extraordinarily steamed at him.
He decided immediately that if that situation came about he’d tell the truth, which was that he’d tried to intimidate those bank guys because there was no way in a million years that Hutch had died from natural causes, and something that was going on at that bank was connected. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it.
They were motoring along on the Connecticut Turnpike, I-95 South, having just passed Bridgeport on their way to the George Washington Bridge. It was about a five-hour drive from North Cambridge to Point Pleasant, and they’d been on the road for about half that time with the late afternoon sun now blindingly full in the windshield. It was going to be a tough drive, Harry expected, knowing that I-95 in Connecticut could become a parking lot at almost any point, especially during rush hours, one of which they were fast approaching. Oh, well, they’d get home sooner or later, he figured. Maybe they’d stop and get something to eat after they crossed the bridge, although he could feel the undigested chicken parmesan he’d eaten after the funeral sitting on his stomach. He’d just drive until they felt like stopping; from the sound of Denise’s breathing it wasn’t going to be anytime soon.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon and Harry lowered the visor to block the light spears stabbing into his sunglasses when he noticed the maroon Jaguar in his rearview, not so much because he liked Jaguars, which he did, but because this particular Jaguar had been in his rearview since he’d come off I-91 before New Haven—that he’d noticed. It could have been behind him longer than that. He was no expert in surveillance or being followed, and clearly neither was the person driving the Jag, but something didn’t feel right. Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t like when two cars happen to be travelling in the same direction on the same highway. When that happens, it’s not unusual for those cars to pass each other back and forth due to the ebb and flow of traffic, but eventually they lose each other, only to be reunited at a rest stop, or a traffic tie-up somewhere, and the only reason you notice it is because the other guy is driving a lime green Cadillac with pink doors, or something. Well, this was no lime green Cadillac, and this particular Jaguar hadn’t been distanced by any ebb and flow; it had been directly behind him for at least fifty miles now.
So as not to disturb Denise, Harry whispered, “What the hell is this?” If what he perceived was actually happening, and to not alert the other driver, Harry flipped his blinker and casually changed lanes so that the Jag was now in the lane to his left. His own vehicle, a four-year-old Acura SUV was a little higher off the ground, and he thought he might be able to get a view of the other driver’s face in the side view mirror. Nothing doing. Just like with himself, the driver’s visor was down, covering his face almost completely.
Ca-thump, ca-thump, some uneven bridge joints rattled the image in his side view, and Harry whispered, “Okay, dickweed, I can see how this is going.” He looked down, seeing that he was doing just over fifty and noting that all three lanes were jammed with cars following each other at much too close a distance. It wasn’t stop-and-go yet, but it was getting there. Weaving in and out of traffic was going to be difficult, as well as unsafe, so he decided to just wait it out to find the right opening. In just the amount of time it took for his eyes to come up from reading the speedometer, the Jag vanished from his side view and was now behind him again. He punched the gas and changed lanes again, then slowed and squeezed in between two other SUVs that were travelling only a couple of car lengths apart, hearing the horn blast that came when he swung hard into the space. Each time he changed lanes, it was only a minute or two before the maroon Jag was behind him again.
Suddenly, he spotted a line of three tractor trailers, nose to tail like three huge elephants. It took some doing, but he guided his SUV so that he was able to wiggle in between the first and second truck. There was no way the Jag could move in behind him. Then, at the first opportunity, he swung his wheel and hopped into the furthest right hand lane so that he was completely hidden by the line of trucks. The Jag was nowhere to be seen, and the traffic in that lane was significantly slower due to cars ramping on and off the highway. The huge trucks were so close he could touch them, riding the dashed lines of his lane and blanketing him completely. He let up on the gas and the trucks moved by ever so slowly so that it took a couple of minutes for them to pass. The Jag was gone now, no longer behind him, but that wasn’t his objective.
As the final truck passed, he flicked on his left blinker and left it on until someone was courteous enough to let him in to the lane to his left. Making the move, he looked for the Jag but the sun was fierce now, making every car in his view nothing but a dark spot in the intense light. He searched for some time, scanning all three lanes over and over again until suddenly all the taillights in front of him turned red and he had to step on his brake harder than normal so as not to plow into the car in front of him. He’d lost the Jag, but he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. As predicted, I-95 between Bridgeport and Fairfield had slowed to a crawl, and his sudden push on the brakes caused Denise to rouse from her catnap. “Where are we?” she asked sleepily.
“We just passed Bridgeport,” Harry replied. “I think we’re in for some rush hour traffic from the looks of things. Sorry I woke you, honey.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “But I think we need to stop anyway. I think I drank too much tea after the funeral. Can we find a rest area?”
“Sure,” said Harry. “I think there’s one right up the road.” Indeed there was, and he pulled in to a parking spot in the second row, sixth spot in from the end, not paying any attention to that exact spot until he opened door and noticed that the car two spaces away was a maroon Jag—and the person driving was good old Jerry Brennan, the CFO from Hutch’s bank. Harry walked right by, noting that the Jag’s windows were shut tight and the engine was running, and Jerry was on his cell phone with a very intense look on his face. It didn’t look like Jerry noticed him, and Harry didn’t dare turn around to verify that as he casually followed Denise into the building.
Denise held the door for him as she went through first. “Are you okay?” she asked when she turned and looked at him. “Why is your face all red?”
* * * * *
In
side, Harry brushed off her question and convinced Denise that he was all right—but he wasn’t really. His stomach was churning because he now knew that the hard-ass act that Jerry and Brendan had put on at the wake two days earlier was intentional, and there was something very shady about their reluctance to reveal what Hutch had been working on. His brain was churning because he was still trying to connect the dots between that and Hutch’s heart attack. If he tried to connect those dots now, there would be nothing to connect because it would essentially be only one dot, which was Hutch’s death, the only known entity.
In the men’s room, Harry did a quick shake-and-zip and remembered that he’d put Jerry’s card in his wallet. He pulled it out and looked at it: FIB, First International Bank, with an address on Boylston Street. The churning in his brain gave way to numbness. What the hell was going on, he asked himself. He, Harry, was headed to New Jersey. The bank was in Boston, and it was doubtful that Jerry was on his way home if he was the CFO at FIB. Then, trying to give Jerry the benefit of the doubt, maybe he was headed someplace on business, New York perhaps, but then why was Jerry following him? And Jerry was following him. Why else would he have stayed behind him like that? Harry decided to find out.
Exiting the men’s room, he stomped right past Denise who was also just exiting the ladies’ room. “Get some coffee,” he said to her tersely, not paying any attention to the look he got in return. Outside, he bee-lined it to his car, looking for the maroon Jag the whole time. It was gone. When Denise came out with two cups of coffee, he said to her, “I think we’re being followed.”
* * * * *
“Harry, are you sure about this?”
Denise’s voice had that tone, that tone that after twenty-five years of marriage Harry knew had its own meaning, regardless of what words were associated with it. “I’m not imagining this, and I’m not flipping out,” he shot back.
“I didn’t say you were guilty of either one of those behaviors,” Denise shot back just as fast. “I just think this whole situation with Hutch has... well, made you think about your own mortality, perhaps.”
Interesting that she’d just used the words guilty and mortality in back-to-back sentences, two words that seemed particularly poignant at the moment. He didn’t want to go through this with her, but he had to admit that his thoughts were frenzied and chaotic, ricocheting randomly off the insides of his skull. Still, he couldn’t let it go. Sitting there inside his SUV, he noted that the sun was now a blazing orange-grey ball on the horizon. He glanced at the dashboard clock and the next thought that bounced around inside his skull was about Fish, and whether he’d stopped in Wallingham to see if there were more security cameras near Slick’s that might have captured what happened to Hutch on the night of his death. Not having the courage to look at Denise now, he pulled his cell phone from the cup holder and found Fish’s cell number.
Fish picked up immediately and said, “I was just about to call you.”
“Well?”
“You know, sometimes you really don’t notice things until you look for them.”
“C’mon Fish, what’dya got?”
“In addition to the two ATMs I mentioned that might have surveillance cameras, there’s also a big convenience store gas station up the street from Slick’s. I also checked out the street lights on Newberry Street to see if I could spot any police surveillance cameras, and I think I spotted something there, but I’m not sure. Anyway, it’s something we should check out, right?”
Fish seemed hopeful. “Right,” said Harry. “Listen, there’s another reason I called.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“I think I was being followed today.”
Fish hesitated. “What’dya mean, being followed, like, where?”
“Like on my way home on I-95, that’s where.”
Fish hesitated even more. “Harry, are you sure about this? I mean—”
“It was that guy Jerry from the bank, the CFO guy. He was behind me all the way past Bridgeport.”
“Harry, are you sure?” Fish asked again.
“I saw him, Fish, up close. Why would he be following me? If he works for the bank, the fucking bank is in Boston. The bastard wasn’t on his way home to see the wife and kids, Fish.” Harry took a moment and let Fish think. “What about you?” he asked after some silent time passed.
“What about me?”
“You and I were both talking to those two assholes from the bank. If I was being followed, maybe you were too.”
“Jesus, Harry. Now you’re really talking crazy.”
Harry thought: now he had two people saying he was off the deep end. “Listen, just pay attention to what’s going on around you, okay? I don’t know what the hell is happening here, but it’s really fucking spooky.”
“Yeah, Harry, okay, but I think you’re seeing ghosts.”
“Yeah, well, when you figure out why Jerry followed me all the way to Bridgeport, let me know.” Fish didn’t respond. “What about the ATM machines?” Harry asked as an afterthought.
“One belonged to Hampshire Bank, the other was from Citibank. Harry, the ATM from Hampshire Bank is clearly visible from the spot where Hutch’s car was parked.”
“Hot damn,” said Harry. “Ain’t that some shit?” He ended the call and looked at Denise.
“I heard,” she said, holding up her hand like a stop sign. “I don’t know why you have to use all that profanity when you talk to your fraternity buddies. It’s so juvenile.”
* * * * *
Finally reaching Point Pleasant, Harry drove slowly through town and even more slowly through his neighborhood. Since the rest stop, he’d formulated all sorts of scenarios in his head as to why Jerry would be following him, and in none of them was Jerry one of the good guys. As he approached their street, he cut the lights and carefully took the turn into their cul-de-sac called Monument Way which was shrouded in darkness.
“What in the world are you doing?” Denise asked.
Harry pulled to the curb, peering from side to side. It had been dark for about an hour and as such there was still a whisper of light in the night sky. “I’m looking for that maroon Jag,” he replied as he dimmed the dashboard lights to nothing. Even in the darkness he could see Denise staring at him.
“I think you’ve flipped out,” she said to him.
“Bear with me, okay? I have a feeling about this.” Luckily, she didn’t say another word but just sat there, and he knew she was really, really pissed. After about a minute, he pulled away from the curb and crept toward their house, which still a couple of hundred yards down Monument Way at the very end of the cul-de-sac. Harry knew every house along the way, knowing almost every car that belonged to those families as well. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary and he didn’t spot any Jaguars, but it was pretty dark out. Reaching their house, he dropped his bag in the foyer while Denise wordlessly carried hers to their bedroom without even checking for phone messages, which was one of her rituals whenever they returned from a trip. He knew he wouldn’t hear her voice again until the next day, and even then he wouldn’t hear much of it. Quickly now, he went to his office off the family room and fired up his laptop, waiting the endless ninety seconds until he could get onto the internet.
The first thing he did was to find the official website for First International Bank, which turned out to be a customer service website to do online transactions. That wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was the page that contained bios or information about the bank’s officers. He scanned the current page for About Us, or Our Team, but he knew after a minute that such pages were the mark of smaller businesses and not necessarily pertinent to large institutions such as international banks. Changing his search strategy, Harry typed Brendan Phillips, CEO First International Bank directly into the search bar.
Again, he waited the endless seconds for the search results. Scanning, opening, reading, none of them contained what he wante
d until he came across the website for American Banker magazine. There, published a couple of years earlier, one of the search results showed an article published by Brendan Phillips titled, Staying Focused In The 2000s. Harry felt his pulse thumping in his ears. Deliberately, he clicked on the article headline and up comes the article with a picture of Brendan Phillips, which caused Harry to read the caption three times. There was no doubt about it. According to the magazine, it attributed the tantalizing financial quote in the caption to Mister Phillips, whose smiling face filled the space above it. The problem for Harry was that the Brendan Phillips in the picture, the man that the article so clearly stated was the CEO of First International Bank, that man was double-chinned, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and was almost completely bald, not at all the man with the swarthy skin and slight accent he’d met two days earlier at Hutch’s wake.
The Brothers Page 9
