by David Lyons
“It’s supposed to be complicated,” Palmetto said. “They get rich off our ignorance.”
Boucher spoke. “Ruth Kalin made a study of the market swings in Rexcon stock every year for nearly twenty years and compared them with the company’s annual reports, where option information is disclosed. What she says here is that she found evidence of Perry backdating his stock options over two decades. She claims he received over two hundred million dollars in undisclosed compensation.”
“So, go nail the bastard,” Fitch said.
“We feel that with his history—” Boucher began.
Palmetto interrupted him. “If Perry’s been getting away with his stock fraud for two decades, don’t you think he’s been paying bribes to somebody for his ride? We announce to the SEC—the guys that he’s probably had in his pocket all this time—they’ll slam the door in our face, and Perry will bury the evidence we need to hang him.”
“So what do you plan to do?” Fitch asked.
“I believe you call it B and E,” Palmetto said.
Fitch laughed so hard, tears formed. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
“I’ve been on the force almost thirty years. I’m sitting here with a federal district judge and a noted scientist telling a police detective that they are conspiring to commit a felony. There’s hard time involved with breaking and entering. I could turn you both in right now.”
“Then Perry walks,” Palmetto said. “A hundred other Perrys walk too, and they get to keep poisoning the well from which the rest of us must drink. Think of your hometown, Detective. Katrina slammed us to the mat and we’ve fought like hell to get back on our feet. There’s not enough money for the investment we need. Our economy has been perverted by the Perrys of the world. They buy judges, politicians, regulators—and that’s just to manipulate our financial system. I’m telling you, this guy’s also about to do things with a unique but complicated energy resource that could cause unbelievable damage.
“I saw with my own eyes that he blasted a protective layer off a source of subsea methane hydrate. That could have caused a release of gas in such a quantity that it could have initiated irreversible climate change. He could have caused an earthquake and tsunami that could have flooded the East Coast. I’m tired of pissing in the wind. I want to get evidence so strong that no amount of money will be able to save him.”
Fitch sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Simple. Just keep your boys away while I do what I have to do.”
“You?” Boucher said. “Why you? I’m the one who knows the layout of the executive suites.”
“And I was with you every step of the way with that cell phone you had in your pocket, remember? I’ve already got the floor plan. Right here.” He tapped his right temple. “Besides, they’ll recognize you. . . . What’s wrong?”
Boucher looked like he’d swallowed a stone. “I just remembered. Dawn said her job was filling out forms. What is one of the most common entries on forms? D-o-b: date of birth. She was telling me to remember her birthday.”
“No disrespect intended,” Palmetto said, “but it’s too late to order a cake.”
“I know what she meant,” Boucher said.
Palmetto definitely had the down-and-out look that fit the stereotype of a janitorial services worker. That evening he walked three times past the lobby of the Rexcon Tower until he saw a man polishing the street-level lobby’s marble floor, the services company’s logo on his overalls. By the next evening his counterfeit uniform was ready.
The plan was simple. Get in the building when employees were leaving, find a place to hide, then just meld in with the late-night cleaning crew and get up to the executive suites—specifically, to Dawn Fallon’s desk and files. It wasn’t foolproof. It was an act of faith.
He entered the building without problem, went to the basement, and found a storage closet filled with mops and brooms. He’d been told ad nauseam that he was as skinny as one, so it seemed logical to hide out with like company. He decided eleven o’clock was a good hour; late workers would have left by now, the last of the cleaning crews would still be working in the building. He changed into his uniform and got on a service elevator from his basement level. It went only to the lobby. From there he had to take another to the executive offices. In the lobby he pressed the button and waited. The security guard looked at him, then rose from his desk. He was walking toward him, staring at him.
“Hey,” the security guard said, waving an unlit cigarette in one hand, “got a match?”
“I don’t smoke,” Palmetto said. “It’s an appetite suppressant.”
“Yeah, whatever.” The guard returned to his desk.
Palmetto inhaled a deep breath as an elevator arrived. He stepped in and pushed the correct floor number. The executive lobby he recognized immediately. He even knew the number of steps from the elevator bank to the huge double doors that led to the executive office suites. He opened the doors and stepped inside. Dawn’s office was to his left. The hallway was dark. To his right at the end of the hall, light seeped from under a closed office door, the office of CEO John Perry. Unable to resist the temptation, Palmetto walked toward the office of his nemesis like a moth to the flame.
Listening outside the closed door, Palmetto heard the sound of heavy breathing. There were piglike snorts that he recognized from his own errant ways. He was listening to the fitful sleep of an inebriate. He opened the door. Stuck his head in. Saw the man who had ruined his life sprawled out drunk on a sofa too short for his frame, empty glass and bottle on the rug beside him. Didn’t he have a home to go to? Palmetto stepped inside. He walked over to Perry and stood right over him, casting a shadow on his face. He raised and looked at his own hands with their long, bony fingers; fingers that could so easily wrap around that neck and squeeze, squeeze the life out of the man. Palmetto brought his hands together as if in prayer, and bowed his head, his lips moving but no sound coming forth:
I will not take your life, but the life I leave you will not be worth living. You will lose your wealth and power: your identity. Those who once loved you will disappear. You will be alone and damned. You will long for death, but even this you will be denied. You will come to doubt whether the privileges you once enjoyed were ever real. You will retain just enough sanity to know one thing: you are living in hell.
He dropped his hands to his sides, turned, and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.
It was a long, dark walk to Dawn’s office. His cell phone had a flashlight and cast a pencil-thin ray to guide him. The door to her office was open. It was an inner office with no windows. He closed the door and turned on the light. Her desk was French provincial with a leather top. On her desktop was an antique silver blotter and inkwell. An old pen had a gold nib and a piece of carved ivory in the shape of a feather—all items purely decorative. He tried the drawer. It was locked. In a malachite pen holder containing cheap ballpoints he found a paper clip. The desk was a fine piece of furniture, but the lock was crap, a common five-pin mechanism. From his pocket he pulled a small pocketknife with a screwdriver, which he inserted into the lock with slight pressure. He straightened the paper clip and stuck it in and out slowly, gently pressing up on the base pins until all five were up and even with the shear line. He pulled open the drawer. It had taken him less than ten seconds.
The center desk drawer contained odds and ends and personal items. He moved to the larger side drawers; again with the screwdriver and paper clip. Bingo. The file was marked PERRY STOCK OPTIONS and was the first one he saw, as if it had been placed there for him to find. He stuffed it inside his overalls without even opening it, then went through the other files, finding nothing more of interest, but the first one was enough. He turned off the light and walked from the office. He again opened the double doors to the lobby. The lights were on, brightly blazing. A large black woman was pushing a metal wheeled trolley with mop, broom, and cleaning supplies. She was startled.
“What y
ou doin’ here? They ain’t downsizin’ again, are they? Damn it, every time I see a new white face on my floor, next day I get notice. I need this job.”
“Hold on, sister. I’m not taking your spot,” Palmetto said. “They asked me to find you to warn you that the boss is drunk again and for you not to wake him up. Just stay out of his office. That way we’ll all keep our jobs.”
She frowned. “That’s all? You here to warn me?”
“Fact is, if it was me, I’d get on to your next floor altogether. Disturb him when he’s out like he is now and he gets mean. He’s a nasty drunk.”
“Well, shit, don’t have to be told twice.” She turned her trolley back toward the elevator. “You comin’?”
“I’ll catch the next one. You go on.” And she was gone. Palmetto was right behind her.
Boucher had set himself a different task. He was committing no crime—Dawn had given him a key to her home—but it still felt like invasion. In the dark of night, it also felt plain scary.
The wrought-iron gate creaked as he opened it. That alone could have brought out the neighbors and their firearms. He walked the gravel-covered path to the front porch and the wooden stairs groaned as he stepped up between Corinthian columns. Beneath the leaded beveled glass inserts in the heavy oak door he inserted his key into the lock. It swung open of its own weight. He stood there, getting up courage to enter. Courage wasn’t coming, but a car was, so he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Dawn’s unmistakable scent was heavy in the air, as if she were standing next to him. The perfume she had worn was subtle on her person, but as he stood in her home it was intense. He stifled the urge to call her name, its presence was so strong. It was enough to make him weep.
He recalled the afternoon. He’d been standing by the sofa in front of the fireplace when she’d called to him for help unfastening her necklace. Now he walked in the dark to the sofa, stood there as if waiting for the sound of her voice, and swore he heard it. Not as before, this time it was a whisper, but calling to him, calling for help. He walked toward her bedroom, wanting to find her there. The bedroom door was closed. He reached for the crystal glass doorknob and turned it slowly. Again the door swung open as if pulled from the other side.
Her authentic antebellum pieces, the solid walnut mansion bed, armoire, and dresser, all glowed with the light of the streetlamp outside. He stepped in. There was just enough light to see his reflection in her full-length dressing mirror.
He’d brought a Mini Maglite, and pointed it at the wall. He carefully removed the painting that covered the wall safe, a watercolor landscape from the antebellum Picturesque movement, and laid it on the bed. He addressed the combination lock: one complete turn left to the first number, a complete turn right past the first to the second, then direct to the third—month, day, year. He pulled. Nothing. He tried the combination again, same result. He couldn’t have been wrong. He’d gotten her birth date from her Web bio and was sure he remembered it correctly. He could picture her standing in this room telling him what he needed if he ever decided to become a cat burglar. He was sure she had meant for him to know. Then he remembered. In Europe the order is different—day, month, year—and she had studied abroad. He tried the European order and the door opened. He shone the light inside the safe. There was jewelry, some cash, a will bound in blue-back legal paper, and a manila office file folder. It stood apart from her personal items. He took it out, stuck the Mini Mag in his mouth, and read. He closed the file, the safe, and replaced the watercolor. He was done here.
Boucher was sitting at the kitchen table when Palmetto returned. He called out, “Any luck?”
“Well, I got in and got out. That was lucky. But this wasn’t.” He opened the file in his hands. The few pages held little information.
“I’m afraid Perry got there before I did. I would have broken into the safe in his office, but he was there, passed out on his sofa. How did you do?”
Boucher opened a similar file on the table in front of him. “Read this.”
Palmetto stood behind him and looked over his shoulder. The script was feminine, the signature was Dawn’s. It said:
If you’re reading this, I’m either in Puerto Vallarta or I’m dead. I have a strong preference for the former. My role in John Perry’s stock fraud was at first unwitting, but I should have known better and have no excuse. He was doing it long before I came on board. Then I became a witness and a party to his backdating of stock options, working with him to select the optimum dates and the various ways of covering up. It was too easy. I was too frightened to reveal what I knew, so to ease my conscience I began this record. I hope whoever is reading this knows what to do with this information. Get John Perry. He’s guilty of stock fraud, and if I’m dead, he’s responsible. Anyway, I hope I’m in Puerto Vallarta.
Sincerely,
Dawn Fallon
“I’m calling Fitch.” Boucher grabbed his phone.
Fitch came running; he was there in ten minutes.
He did not touch the paper, but read it carefully. “I suggest you both get yourself good lawyers,” he said.
“Us? Why?” Palmetto asked.
“To cover your asses. I don’t want anything to corrupt this evidence and keep it out of court. You’ve done a good deed and I don’t want it to blow up in your faces. Remember, Perry still has deep pockets. He can buy a lot of influence.”
“You’re right,” Boucher said. “But I’m not worried. I did not break into Dawn Fallon’s home. She gave me a key and she told me the combination of her safe. I’ll swear to that and no one can dispute me. But we should get lawyers, just in case. I’ll pay for them.”
“And I didn’t even find anything,” Palmetto said.
“When you’ve got counsel, I’ll call the FBI.”
“No,” Palmetto said, “not them. I’ve done that dance. Never again.”
Fitch raised his hand. “You’ve got to trust me on this. They’re the government’s largest investigative body, with the broadest mandate. Fraud relating to executive compensation is one of their top priorities right now. This will have their undivided attention, I guarantee it. Now I’m calling my good buddy Detective Frank Hebert of the New Orleans Police Department. With Dawn’s note we can book Perry on conspiracy to commit murder at the very least.” He made the call, then looked at his watch.
“Detective Hebert will be walking into John Perry’s office in about fifteen minutes to arrest him on a charge of conspiracy to commit murder. I would have loved to have done it myself, but it’s better to hand this one off, for obvious reasons. I told my guys to make sure his mug shot is good enough for The Tonight Show. But definitely, get yourself some copies of the morning papers. Now get some sleep, both of you. You’ve earned it.”
Boucher and Palmetto did get a good night’s sleep but were up with the sun printing copies of Ruth Kalin’s reports and the file found in Dawn’s safe. Boucher refused to give the two FBI agents the originals when they came calling. They tried to play tough, making threats till Boucher said something he’d wanted to say for years: “Don’t fuck with me; I’m a judge.”
They took copies with them and left.
“I think we are due some decent coffee,” Boucher said, getting out his French press.
“With chicory?”
“Mais oui.”
They took their cups out to the courtyard. Boucher surveyed the slave quarters and the broken railing.
“I was up there waiting,” he said, “with those ear things on, and, God, what I heard.”
“I told you that you could hear a rat crawling in the next room.”
“It wasn’t that, I was listening to slaves two hundred years ago.”
“You fell asleep. Good thing you woke up.”
Boucher stared at the broken railing. “It sure didn’t feel like I was asleep.”
“Then it was spirits,” Palmetto said with no emotion or surprise whatsoever. “I felt them the other night. Somebody sure didn’t like me sleeping on yo
ur antique sofa. He pushed me on the floor.”
“Listen to us,” Boucher said, “two educated men talking like this. I pushed you off the sofa.”
“Maybe, but don’t doubt spirits,” Palmetto said, “they’re with us. There’s no doubt there was misery up there”—he pointed to the slave quarters—“and you’ve got to live with it because the Historical Society won’t let you tear it down, but I think the spirits helped you up there. Maybe it was the spirits of slaves, maybe it was the spirits of those taken before their time, like Dexter, Ruth, and Dawn. Think about it. Two of them, one of you, and they were armed. I think you were a damned fool to do what you did, but I think you had help. I’ll go to my grave believing that we both had help.”
“If there are spirits up there, I think I’d better fix the place up a little.”
“They’ll appreciate that,” Palmetto said. “Oh, by the way, you might want to put the battery back in your old cell phone. I think there’s a lady who’d like to talk. She’s been trying to call you.”
“How did you know that?”
Palmetto just smiled.
CHAPTER 34
YOU’LL PROBABLY NEED TO charge your cell phone before calling her,” Palmetto said. “That seems to be a constant failing of yours.” Then he changed the subject. “I don’t mean to denigrate your hospitality, Your Honor, but since I’ve been your guest in this fine historic home, I’ve had little more to eat than a muffaletta. You can’t imagine the nights I’ve spent on the road, dreaming of standing in line on the sidewalk of Bourbon Street, maybe a U.S. senator in front of me, maybe Mayor Landrieu himself, all of us equal because it’s first come, first served, all of us hungry and waiting for a table at Galatoire’s.
“They take reservations now,” Boucher said.
“You’re kidding.”
“Only for the second-floor dining room. The first floor is the same as always, and people still line up on the street to get in. On their one hundredth anniversary, they tried for a world record: longest line. Didn’t make it, but it was still quite an event.” Boucher looked at his watch. “It’s eleven forty-five. They opened for lunch fifteen minutes ago. There shouldn’t be too long a line if we hurry.”
