Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  And Duran might walk in the door any minute. Ted was starting to wonder whether facing a suspicious police detective might be preferable to continuing this conversation. He tried the direct approach.

  “Mrs. Rubiano. Cheryl. That detective is coming here to interview me. If he sees us together, he is going to make some assumptions.”

  “What assumptions?”

  “That’s what the police do. It will look bad for both of us. Can you and I talk another time?”

  “I know where you live.”

  It wasn’t exactly a threat, but it was close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “That’s good, because I want answers. You find who killed him, and I’ll pay you for your time outa the money I get from this deal.” She slid the file across the table again.

  There is no money. The words screamed in his head, but he kept them from spilling out. The path of least resistance was clear. An hour or two of research at the courthouse would give him enough documented facts to convince her of the futility of proceeding further. It would not break a commandment, only bend it.

  “Fine. This deal. This one deal. Anything I make off of this, you get half.” Negotiation was as much a part of him as his gender. He added, “After expenses.”

  “Agreed. Now go find who killed Richie.”

  “Not happening. I’m not a cop.”

  “You got to.”

  “Why?” Why wouldn’t she just leave?

  “’Cause he was your friend.”

  That was the price of getting her to leave. Ted had to acknowledge Richie Rubiano as a friend. That’s what she needed. Then she would go. He would pay the freight. “I’ll do what I can. Maybe I do owe him that. But Richie and I worked on a cash basis. No promises. I want to be paid up front. One thousand dollars. In cash.” Ted thought he could fend her off with an outrageous demand.

  No such luck. Cheryl reached into the bag and pulled out a plain white envelope from which she extracted ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. She tucked them into a second envelope, which she pressed into his hand. “Now you work for me.”

  She’d called his bluff and then some. It felt like a devil’s bargain. Already he regretted it. But he crammed the money into a jacket pocket and sealed his fate. “I’ll call you next week.”

  “No way.” She took his newspaper and scribbled a phone number across the cartoon of the mayor being pursued by junkyard dogs while a line of real estate developers smiled in approval. “That’s my cell. You call me tomorrow. I want daily reports.”

  He wanted to shake her up, even if only to show he hadn’t been bought. “Who’s the big guy waiting for you?”

  Cheryl stood, hoisted the big bag onto one shoulder, and started for the door. Before she reached it, she turned once more and said, “Tomorrow, Eddie.”

  “Ted,” he said, but the door had already swung shut behind her.

  -5-

  Detective Duran was not what Ted expected. He had pictured a balding, overweight middle-aged version of the kids he had known in high school. Trained by Jesuits to be proficient in both obedience and skepticism, they became excellent investigators and administrators.

  This broad-shouldered man topped Ted’s six-two by an inch or so and appeared to have all his hair. If he carried any excess weight, it didn’t show on his chiseled black face.

  “Edward Molloy? You still look like your picture.” Duran held out a big hand.

  There were three images of himself that Ted had found on the Internet: a smiling Ted in the official wedding announcement from the New York Times twelve years earlier; an uncertain young man of twenty-five, broad shouldered and lean faced, standing with the half-dozen other new hires at Hasting, Fitzmaurice, and Barson; and a fierce wrestler in a one-piece St. John’s uniform, being honored for leading the team with twenty-two falls competing at 165 lbs. in his junior year.

  “What picture is that?” Ted asked, taking the proffered hand and giving a brisk shake.

  “You were a wrestler.”

  Ted didn’t think he looked much like that boy anymore. He was twenty-five pounds heavier, and the fire in that young man’s face had burned out years earlier.

  Ted nodded. “A long time ago. Call me Ted. Please.” He gestured for the cop to sit.

  Duran sank onto the bench opposite. “Okay. Ted.”

  “You came alone. I’m surprised,” Ted said.

  The detective waved away the comment. “You are not now a target of this investigation. If that changes, I will be back with my partner and enough uniforms to overwhelm any resistance you might exhibit. Till then.” He turned up both hands and raised both eyebrows in an expression of openness and lack of guile. “Now. Tell me about your business dealings with the deceased.”

  “And then we trade, right? You answer my question.”

  “Let’s see how things go.”

  Ted described the surplus-money model, making it clear that Richie’s part in it had been purely as a researcher in county records. “I paid him twenty-five dollars for every decent lead he brought me. You want that burger now?” He signaled to Lili.

  Duran took a menu from behind the salt and pepper. “What’s good here?”

  “I usually get the pad thai.”

  Duran gave him a skeptical look.

  “Or the burger,” Ted said.

  “Make mine cheese. Cheddar, if they’ve got it.”

  “Two heart-stoppers, Lili,” Ted called out. “Medium rare.”

  Duran pulled the conversation back on track. “Sounds like a sweet deal for you. He does the legwork, and you make a few phone calls. He makes maybe a grand a week, and you get the big payoffs.”

  “Yes and no. Richie never had the work ethic to bring me forty cases a week—if there were that many to be found, which I very much doubt. And out of those forty good possibilities he found, I’d guess that at best one would lead to any kind of payoff. Most weeks they all turn out to have problems. I’m not the only guy chasing these deals.”

  “But you make a nice living.”

  “I’d have trouble getting a new car loan. But it’s legal.”

  “Maybe a bit shady, though.”

  Ted could tell Duran was pushing buttons, hoping for an unguarded response, but he didn’t like it. “I provide a service. I find people who have been through tough times, and I put some money in their pockets. I can’t force people to work with me, but when they do, they walk away happy. It’s not altruism on my part, but it’s not stealing.”

  “Suppose Rubiano cut you out of a deal? Maybe he found something juicy and kept it for himself.”

  This was uncomfortably close to Cheryl’s version of reality, but Ted could see no way this might be related to Richie’s death. He shrugged. “He was always free to go his own way.” Finding possible deals was a boring, repetitive, by-the-book operation. Closing deals was an art.

  “But that would have pissed you off.”

  “No. Richie was a crook. I knew that when he came to work with me.”

  “But . . .”

  “My turn. How did he die?”

  Duran paused, feigning to consider whether to answer or not. Ted wasn’t impressed with the act. The detective must have been prepared to answer some questions.

  “He was shot,” Duran said.

  The news should have been chilling, but Ted realized that he had expected it. Murder in America. Four out of five assaults involved a gun.

  “Do you know the widow?” Duran hunched forward, forcing himself into Ted’s space. It was the kind of move the hothead detective on SVU always tried when the pace of the interview was getting him frustrated.

  Ted wanted to distance himself from Cheryl Rubiano as much as possible without straying too far from the facts. He was well aware that police always looked to the spouse first—and with good reason—but explaining the half-assed pla
n he had agreed to not ten minutes earlier would clarify nothing. “I didn’t know the guy was married until today.”

  “I asked if you know her.”

  “We’ve met. Once. I wouldn’t say I knew her.”

  “She’s young,” the detective said, as though that would be reason enough for Ted to find her attractive. But as it wasn’t a question, Ted ignored the comment.

  “Did he suffer?” Ted asked.

  “I wouldn’t think so. When’s the last time you saw Cheryl Rubiano?”

  The cop knew, or he wouldn’t have asked. Or he would have asked differently. Tell the truth or tell them nothing. Too many old movie plots hung on an unnecessary lie. “She was here about ten minutes ago. That was the first and only time we spoke. I didn’t know there was a Mrs. Rubiano until she showed up. Uninvited.”

  Duran nodded.

  “You saw her leave,” Ted said.

  The detective nodded again.

  “Did you see the guy she was with?” Ted asked.

  “She walked out of here alone,” Duran said.

  “He would have been waiting for her.” Though this was pure speculation, Ted had a strong feeling that he was right.

  “I must have missed him,” Duran said, though he made it sound like this was unlikely in the extreme. He was the kind of cop who didn’t miss much.

  “You missed him? He’s the size of an offensive lineman. He’s like two of you.”

  Duran shrugged indifference. “What did you talk about?”

  The ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills in Ted’s pocket felt like a signed confession. “Wait up. My turn.”

  “You wasted your turn. What did you talk about?”

  Honesty was one thing, full disclosure something else. The cop could have the truth, but Ted was going to skimp on the portions. “She wants to know who killed her husband.”

  “And she suspects you?”

  “No. For some reason she thinks I can find out who did it. She’s delusional. It’s grief talking.”

  “Watch yourself. She’s gaming you,” Duran said.

  “Could be,” Ted said. “Explain.”

  “She has a JD file. Her parents made their living scamming people. She was in court six times before she turned sixteen.”

  Juvenile Delinquent status was determined by a judge. The arrest and conviction files would have been sealed but available to the police and justice system.

  Ted thought back over his conversation with the woman. Certain moments now made more sense. “She claims she’s a model citizen.”

  “If she told me the sun was shining, I’d look up before I took her word for it.”

  Ted was warned but not alarmed. He would continue to filter anything Cheryl told him.

  “She say anything else?” the detective asked.

  “It’s got to be my turn by now.”

  Ted could see Duran struggling. The cop didn’t like Ted breaking the rhythm of his questions, but he needed cooperation. “One question,” he agreed.

  “You said on the phone that Richie had other cards on him besides mine. Have you spoken to any of those people? Anyone I might know?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “First to refuse to answer loses. Sorry. Next contestant.”

  “Ask me something else.”

  “You say he was shot. Did he see it coming?”

  “The first one, for sure. Two bullets. One in each eye. Twenty-two caliber, heavy grain. Probably subsonic ammunition—it’s quieter and more accurate. With a head shot, they tend to go in and not come out. They bounce around in there, turning the brain to soup. The first was sufficient. The second was a message.”

  Lili dropped two heaping plates on the table. The burgers were the size of two stacked hockey pucks. Lettuce, tomato, two spears of pickle brined in the liquor vault in the basement, and hand-cut fries cooked twice.

  “Ketchup? Mustard? Mayo? Hot sauce?” Lili offered.

  “Bring ’em on,” Duran said.

  Ted wasn’t hungry anymore. Richie’s murder had become real. He couldn’t lose the image of two bloody holes where there had once been eyes. And if someone was sending a message, who was the intended recipient?

  -6-

  There wasn’t a lot of overhead in Ted’s life, either in the business or in his personal affairs. Neither was there much long-term financial security. He had developed a good-sized war chest, but dipping into it to cover expenses violated another of his commandments. Work couldn’t wait. There wasn’t going to be a wake for Richie—there wouldn’t be enough mourners. It was time to move on. Ted needed a new researcher. Also, his promise to Cheryl Rubiano, though made chiefly to get rid of her, was nagging at him. He needed to do something, if only as a sop to his overworked conscience. Stopping by the courthouse would cure a pair of headaches.

  The Supreme Court of Queens County soared behind a plaza facing Sutphin Boulevard. While it was the grandest building on the block, with fluted Ionic columns and balustraded balconies, it always seemed to Ted a bit neglected. The scaffolding over the entranceway was a near-permanent fixture, and streaks of grime hung like bats beneath the windows. One or another of the trees planted along the curb always seemed at death’s door. Ted tipped the Uber driver in cash and darted across the plaza, avoiding the small crowd of ever-present protestors. Once through the security line, he turned to his left and headed for the records room.

  Title insurance investigators were busy on most of the computer terminals, checking lis pendens, mechanic’s liens, and any other evidence of potential problems that might affect a real estate closing. They generally worked freelance, and there was no dress code, though the guards at the door fitfully maintained an ever-changing set of arbitrary rules regarding flip-flops, short-shorts, tank tops, and headwear. Most of the workers were younger than Ted by a decade or more; it was piecework and the burnout rate was high.

  He was looking for someone a little older, maybe down on his luck, but also someone with a functioning brain. Twenty years of staring at screens and checking real estate records might take the shine off the brightest apple.

  And then Ted saw the recruit. The man was hanging back, not engaged with the screens, though from his interactions with the others, it was obvious he was a regular. Unlike the younger investigators, he wore a jacket, tie, and dress shirt that might once have been white. He was dressed for a job interview, Ted decided. A slope-shouldered black man in his late forties. Greying. His pants pressed but shiny. Comfortable shoes. Slip-ons. Scuffed up. Ted edged up to him.

  “You’ve got the air of someone who knows his way around here.”

  The man looked Ted in the eyes when he answered. “I’ve worked title if that’s what you’re asking.” The man had more self-confidence than Ted had expected. There was a touch of attitude in his reply. Ted liked that.

  “I’m looking to hire somebody, and I don’t have the time or inclination to train him from the ground up.”

  “I know you,” the man said. “You’re the money guy who was teamed up with Richie Rubiano. I knew Richie. Everybody’s been talking about what happened.”

  Ted processed this. He had no problem hiring a crook, as long as the man got the job done. But he wanted all the bad news up front. He started slowly. “You were friends?”

  “Nah. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he kept to himself. A scammer is always waiting to be scammed.”

  Good answers. Ted relaxed. A little. “He served time.”

  “Never been there myself, but I don’t hold it against a man. Is it a job requirement? Because I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you.”

  Ted liked him. “What’s your name?”

  “Lester. Lester Young McKinley. My father knew him.”

  Ted was confused. “Your father knew Richie?”

  The man looked insulted. “No. He knew Lester Young.
That’s who I’m named for. He knew all those guys. I have a letter he got from Nat King Cole congratulating him when I was born.”

  Ted had heard of the Lester guy, but everybody knew Nat King Cole. He did that Christmas album. But Ted now revised his estimate of the man’s age up a decade. Cole had been dead for fifty years or more. “Was your father a musician?”

  “No. He sold sheet music. He worked at Colony in the city. On Broadway? It’s gone now. Worked there his whole life almost. He’s long gone now, too.”

  Ted was now close enough to notice the combined scents of breath mint and vodka coming off the man. “And you? You work here?”

  “I’m semiretired. On a disability. I pick up a little of this and that here. I know the drill.”

  “Are you interested in doing a little of this and that for me?”

  “I don’t know the kinds of cases you look for, but I’m a quick study. I know the system. It can’t be that much different than doing title. Am I right?”

  “Let me walk you through it, and then we’ll see if we can cut a deal.” The whole exchange had been a touch too easy. Lester had been waiting to be found. Not merely for any job but for this one. Ted reminded himself to be cautious until he was entirely sure of the man.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Lester said.

  They pulled a pair of chairs over in front of an empty computer kiosk. The banks of florescent lights overhead washed out colors so that the ancient green screen appeared a matte black. Ted walked his recruit through the first stages of identifying a potential surplus-money case. Lester took notes and seemed to catch on quickly. Ted used the Barbara Miller property to demonstrate so that the next time he had to speak to Cheryl Rubiano he could truthfully say he had looked into the matter.

  The glacial pace of justice flicked across the screen at speed. Motion. Motion Answered. Judgment. Appeal. And so on through to Sent to Auction. It took only a few minutes more to reach the bottom line. Surplus.

  “Sweet Jesus, that’s a lot of money,” Lester said when the number appeared on the screen. $1,200,000.

  “This case is not my usual thing,” Ted said. “It’s big, for one thing. And I don’t believe in big for its own sake. But it’ll do for training purposes. You’ll pick up my likes and dislikes. I’m not picky, but I am particular.