The Shut Mouth Society (The Best Thrillers Book 1)

by Unknown

  They went into the city by train the following morning and took the subway to the financial district. Evarts knew there would be some risk in attempting to enter the DTCC building, but they had kept an eye on the news and had seen the barest mention of the shooting in Boston and no mention of their names. He had also checked the Internet law enforcement web pages and found no reference to himself or Baldwin. He didn’t know the security procedures for the building, but he didn’t believe they could be too onerous. Besides, he wanted to see the documents firsthand, and he needed to keep Baldwin in sight so he could protect her.

  As they emerged from the subway, Evarts considered how to find the right building. He decided the best way was to ask. With Baldwin at his elbow, he approached a Wall Street type and said, “We’re lost and late for an appointment with a client at the DTCC. Could you tell us where it is?”

  Without hesitation, he pointed down the block at a building that looked like all the others. “That’s the DTCC.”

  “Thanks.” So much for keeping the address secret. Baldwin had been right about dressing appropriately. People projected their own values on others dressed as they dressed.

  The lobby looked like every other office building except that, behind the reception counter, no company name appeared blazoned in huge brass letters. Baldwin approached the woman behind the counter with her account card in hand. “Good morning. I’d like to access my deposit,” she said in a slightly haughty tone.

  “Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. My attorney told me yesterday afternoon that she needed to see the originals of my trust.”

  “No problem, but there might be some delay. May I see your card?” After she examined it, she said, “My, this looks tattered. You must have been with us a long time.”

  “My family has.”

  She pushed a larger card toward Baldwin. “Would you be kind enough to sign?”

  “Of course.”

  After she compared the signature against her computer screen, she asked, “Have you been here before?”

  “No. I’m preparing for probate.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Baldwin. Unfortunately, we see many of those.”

  “May my fiancé accompany me?”

  “Of course, if you sign a release. The elevator banks are behind me. Go to the reception area on the second floor. When one of our custodians becomes available, he’ll escort you to your deposit. You’ll have to sign another signature card upstairs.”

  Baldwin retrieved her card and perfunctorily said thank you. Evarts noticed that the elevator required a key to go to any floor other than the second. He also spotted cameras. He presumed they would be under surveillance everywhere but in a private viewing room, and they couldn’t count on that.

  The upstairs lobby had the ambiance of a private bank. The paneling, Persian rugs, and tasteful art were supposed to make a waiting client feel comfortable, but unobtrusive cameras in the corners had the opposite effect on him. He was beginning to worry that he had underestimated their security measures. They hadn’t been sitting long when an impeccably dressed young man approached them.

  “Ms. Baldwin, my name is Jonathon. I’ll escort you this morning.”

  After Jonathon shook Baldwin’s hand, Evarts introduced himself using his real name. He didn’t think that Jonathon’s first name familiarity went with the refined character of the Depository Trust, but nowadays everyone, including doctors, seemed to have adopted the informality of the waitress at Mrs. Olson’s Coffee Hut. Only the police and the military continued to use proper titles and sir and ma’am.

  Jonathon led them into a small anteroom that Evarts recognized as a mantrap—an elegant mantrap, but a mantrap, nonetheless. The design of these rooms allowed people through an exterior door, but if they didn’t present the proper identification, it kept them locked inside until the authorities could deal with them. Jonathon waved them into two office chairs situated in front of a glossy wood desk that supported only a telephone and a flat panel computer monitor.

  Jonathon opened a drawer a few inches and slipped out two three-by-five cards. “Ms. Baldwin, we need you to fill out both of these forms, please.”

  The first was another signature card, and the other was a release form for Evarts’s entry. After Baldwin filled them out and pushed them back across the desk, Jonathon said, “Thank you. May I see your account card?” After he glanced at it, he chuckled. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. Our new cards carry a photograph, and a scanner reads the account information automatically.” He nodded to indicate something behind them. “After we finish, would you mind if I take your picture? I can have your new card ready before you leave.”

  “Of course.”

  Evarts noticed admiringly that Baldwin didn’t flinch or hesitate to agree. He had anticipated Jonathon’s next request. He wanted picture identification from each of them. That was why he had used his real name. It was a gamble, but if they had his name on a watch list here, the game was probably over anyway. His concern grew, however, when he saw Jonathon hold the card by an edge and casually pass it below the edge of the desk while making distracting small talk. Their escort had just digitally photographed their identification, and a computer somewhere in the building now ran their names and images against a suspect file. Did the computer know every wanted person in the nation? Probably. Evarts told himself to relax—or at least to appear relaxed.

  Jonathon glanced at the flat panel and said, “Aw, I see you’re a police officer in California. Have you seen a system like ours before?”

  “Nothing this sophisticated.” Evarts evaluated Jonathon’s tone but detected no alarm. “We’re a small town.”

  Jonathon’s composure perplexed Evarts. If the computer identified him as a police officer, then it must contain national criminal records as well. The Los Angeles Police might not have filed formal charges against him in the Rock Burglar case, but surely the Boston shoot-out marked him as a wanted man. He studied Jonathon carefully but didn’t detect disingenuousness. Odd, but he concluded that his record must be clean.

  “We have a lot to protect. One of our vaults holds nearly a trillion dollars’ worth of old coupon bonds. Everything went electronic years ago, but we still need to deal with the old stuff. Antiquated paper.”

  “I like the sense of security that a physical piece of paper gives you,” Evarts said. “I don’t trust a bunch of ones and zeros spinning around inside a computer.”

  “A false sense of security,” Jonathan answered. “Paper can be burned, stolen, or lost. Computer records can be copied.” Jonathon made an encompassing wave with his arm. “We duplicate every computer record in this building and send a copy across the Hudson to live a lesser life in New Jersey at our Disaster Recovery Site.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Evarts said to be social, rather than because he cared.

  “Very. We spend an enormous amount of money making sure we can recover our records under any contingency. It would be a bad thing if a terrorist bombed this building, but it would be a disaster if we lost track of who owned America.”

  Evarts guessed that he said that several times a day.

  After another check of his computer screen, Jonathon asked if they would like a private room. Baldwin answered that they might need several hours and asked if that would be a problem. Jonathon responded that they could stay as long as they liked. After taking Baldwin’s photograph, Jonathon led them to a room that had a small aluminum table, two aluminum chairs with embedded black cushions, nothing on the walls, and a cantilevered metal counter. Jonathon closed the door, and Evarts turned the lock on the handle. He slowly walked the periphery, but seeing no surveillance devices, he realized the DTCC had used the Spartan décor to reassure clients of their privacy.

  The doorknob jiggled and they heard a soft knock. Baldwin opened the door to a uniformed guard who wheeled in a trunk-sized metal box with built-in wheels and handle. Evarts was wondering how much the box contained, when the
guard said he would return momentarily with the second cart. Evarts looked at Baldwin and they both grinned at each other.

  After a second identical cart had been wheeled in, Baldwin removed a small key ring attached inside her computer bag and unlocked the side panel of both carts. When she opened the door, Evarts saw two drawers similar to a file cabinet. He heard Baldwin take a deep breath before she opened one of the drawers. It slid with the smooth motion of precision machining. Not surprisingly, the drawer contained file folders. Baldwin extracted the first one and lay it unopened on the metal table.

  “I’m trying not to get my hopes up too high,” she said.

  “Too late for me. Open it.”

  She gently gripped the lower right-hand edge of the file folder and slowly lifted it open. She gasped.

  “What is it?” Evarts asked.

  “Lincoln’s discharge from the Illinois militia,” she whispered, barely breathing. Baldwin rifled through the folder. “These are Lincoln’s preinaugural papers. They appear to be in chronological order.” She quickly thumbed through all the documents in this particular folder. “My god, to a historian these are priceless, to a collector they’re worth millions.”

  “And as a solution to our predicament, they’re worthless. We need to find the William Evarts files.”

  “Can’t I have a half hour to see what’s here?”

  “Of course … if you’ll allow me to look through your other cart.”

  “I’m not sure I should let you forage through my birthright … unless you’ll give me a full hour to peruse these Lincoln documents.”

  He made a show of checking his watch. “Deal.”

  Evarts quickly determined that the second cart held her birthright. File after file contained trust documents, contracts, real estate deeds, last wills and testaments, the provenances for dozens of artworks, and an aged box of heirloom jewelry.

  “These are your family affairs. No Lincoln or William Evarts documents.”

  Baldwin had buried her head in a pile of papers. She made a distracted wave toward the cart in front of her. He opened the bottom drawer and immediately saw from the labels that these folders contained the William Evarts dossiers on the misdoings during Reconstruction. Without saying anything to Baldwin, he started reading from the front folder.

  Two hours later, he said, “Sorry to disturb, but we need to talk.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “These papers in the bottom drawer implicate people by name in the looting of the South during the Johnson administration, but I can find nothing that relates to the union or modern crimes.”

  She looked at the file drawer. “You can’t possibly have read everything.”

  “I’ve flipped through it all.”

  She now gave all her attention to Evarts. “There must be something; otherwise, why would the union fear their disclosure?”

  “Good question.”

  Chapter 40

  Baldwin had looked at only three of the dozen or so files in the top drawer, so Evarts started searching from the back. The last folder contained about thirty pages of code. At first, he wished he had brought a copy of The Tempest with him, but he realized these encrypted communiqués would probably not help in their battle with the union.

  He heard a knock and Jonathon stuck his head in to say, “I’m going to lunch. Would you care for a break or would you like me to bring something back for you?”

  “No. We’re fine,” she said.

  “Any coffee out there?” Evarts asked.

  “Coffee, tea, soft drinks. What would you like?”

  Baldwin smiled sweetly. “Tea for me and if you have one available, a carafe of coffee for my friend here. He likes it black.”

  “Certainly.” He disappeared behind the closed door.

  Evarts jumped up and opened the door. “Excuse me.”

  Jonathon turned around to face him. “Is there a copy machine available?”

  “Would you like one wheeled into your room?”

  “That would be perfect. Thank you.”

  After he closed the door, Baldwin asked, “What should we copy?”

  “The encrypted pages and the Evarts dossiers. I only glanced through them.”

  “And these.” She held up several handwritten pages.

  “What are they?”

  “Letters to Lincoln from William Seward, secretary of state.”

  “Can they help us?”

  “No, but I want to study them. They’re not Illinois documents.” She looked at the papers with a puzzled expression. “Lincoln probably stuffed his preinaugural papers in some closet, and a few administration papers from the early days must have gotten included accidentally.”

  “Any dark secrets?”

  “I’d put them in the class of revelations. When Lincoln agonized over whether to reinforce Fort Sumter, Seward opened a back channel through a Supreme Court justice from Alabama who hadn’t resigned. He assured Jefferson Davis that the fort would be evacuated. Of course it wasn’t. Historians assume Seward acted on his own. Early on, he thought Lincoln weak and tried to set himself up as some kind of prime minister to act as the real head of the government, using Lincoln as a figurehead. Supposedly, after Lincoln discovered that Seward had made assurances without his permission, he engaged in a little political theater to put Seward back in his place. After being embarrassed in front of the entire cabinet, Seward became a loyal cabinet member.” She waved the pages. “These letters say Lincoln knew all along. Seward explained exactly what he was doing.”

  “Why would Lincoln allow that?”

  “To buy time. It paralyzed the Confederacy until Lincoln made a decision.”

  “Okay, so why the charade?”

  “If it were official, then Lincoln lied. My bet is Seward told him about the back channel and Lincoln never responded. Seward took that as permission. Lincoln gave Seward free rein while it served his purpose and then later jerked him back in line.” She shook her head. “Lincoln could be devious as hell.”

  An attendant wheeled in a copier, and Evarts grabbed his ancestor’s dossiers to start the copying process.

  They completed a quick search of the remaining files and copied hundreds of pages, while Evarts consumed the entire carafe of coffee. He suggested that they take two of the William Evarts originals that mentioned his investigational targets by name. Evarts explained that they should each hide one of the original documents and not tell the other about the hiding place. It would give them each a bargaining chip that couldn’t be compromised by the other—the same strategy Douglass had used. She agreed but insisted that the originals be replaced with copies so the files in the cart remained intact.

  “Let’s see,” she said. “How many hiding places are there in an Explorer?”

  “Not now. In fact, perhaps never. Depends on whether we can settle some place for a while. For now, it’s just an idea.”

  “Greg, I’m beginning to worry.” She tapped the file in front of her. “The thrill of finding these made me forget that we came looking for a two-by-four to bludgeon the union.”

  “I’d prefer a small nuke.” He looked at the remaining files. “It’s here. We just haven’t found it yet … or we saw it and failed to recognize its significance.”

  Chapter 41

  When they emerged onto the street, Evarts saw that the day had grown overcast and threatened rain. They returned by public transportation to Newark, carrying the box of document copies. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the humidity made their new clothes cling uncomfortably to their bodies. In the room, he threw the box of papers onto the bed and said, “Let go eat an early dinner.”

  They found one of those chain eateries that looked like a cross between an upscale coffee shop and an uninspired restaurant. These establishments advertised themselves as family restaurants and then subtly promoted themselves as a respectable place to drink alcohol. As a cop, Evarts had seen too many automobile accidents to like the idea of taking the wife and kids out f
or the evening, getting a bit soused, and then driving them all home in the family sedan. He usually made it a practice to avoid these places, but it was close by the motel, and the sky continued to forewarn that a thunderstorm would soon be on them.

  Baldwin sipped her wine and made a face. Evidently, the usual clientele had less sophisticated palates. Beer made life simpler. After finishing his drink, Evarts excused himself to make a telephone call. Using a calling card, he phoned Lieutenant Clark.

  When Clark answered, Evarts said without preamble, “Give me the news.”

  “Good news or bad news first?”

  “Give me the good. I need it.”

  “You’re no longer a person of interest to the LAPD for the Rock Burglaries. They checked your whereabouts around the time of all the burglaries over the past three years and found no pattern that implicates you.”

  “And the bad?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Never mind that. I don’t want to stay on this line long. Give me the rest.”

  “You got two days to get back to work, or the chief is going to suspend you again: This time as a disciplinary action. You better fly your ass back here. The chief wants you to bring back Baldwin as well. We still haven’t solved that Douglass mess and she’s a witness.”

  “I gotta go.” Evarts had a premonition. “Hey, one more thing. You heard anything about a big shoot-out in Boston? Three, four people killed.”

  “Yeah. Some kind of botched drug hit. The dead all had long rap sheets.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “The cops ain’t got a clue. Who cares? Bad guys just shooting each other. Hey, are you in Boston?”

  “No. Why does the chief want me back so bad?”