“So, was the trip worth five minutes of your time? Can you do anything with that video?”
Duran sighed. “Mr. Molloy, I would love to run with this. The very thought of linking a corrupt city councilman with a Russian money-laundering scheme makes me rock hard. Never mind the fact that the widow of a recent murder victim is enjoying their company. But without some corroboration from an actual witness, I have nowhere to go with this. The LT will toss me out of her office.”
“I was there. I watched Kenzie make that video.”
“You are a person of interest in the Rubiano case.”
“I’ve been downgraded? Kasabian said I was still a suspect.”
Duran’s face closed up. “We are examining another theory that may or may not preclude your involvement.”
Ted let it go. The cases were one, he was sure. He and Lester didn’t have all the connections, but they were close. “Tell me what you need. I’ll find some way to make it happen.” Ted tried to sound confident.
Duran softened a tad. “Give me someone who will talk to me. A witness.”
Ted ran through a mental checklist. Cheryl wouldn’t talk to the cops unless he could prove without a doubt that she was complicit and facing hard time—and maybe not even then. Jackie was protected by client confidentiality. Then he hit on it. There was one possible witness—she was also a victim.
“I’ve got someone,” Ted said. “The old lady. Barbara Miller. She’ll talk to you.”
“That’s a hard sell. Didn’t you tell me she’s got Alzheimer’s?”
“Dementia, at any rate,” Ted admitted. “But you catch her at the right moment, and she’s as sharp as either of us.”
“If she isn’t crystal clear on the main points, I won’t talk to her. I can’t afford to make a mistake.”
Ted didn’t like it, but he understood. “I’ll see her tomorrow and let you know.”
“Heeeere’s Johnny!” Paulie McGirk was back, swaying to a slow rhythm distinctly out of pace with the Allman Brother’s “Whipping Post,” which was blaring from the jukebox. He stood at the end of the table, his face scrunched in concentration. “Did I forget to tell you something?”
“I’m in a meeting, Paulie,” Ted said. “Let’s chat some other time.”
“Did those two guys find you, then?” Paulie asked.
“What two guys?” Ted asked, though he had a strong feeling he already knew.
“I don’t know,” Paulie said, unhappy to disappoint, so unable to maintain eye contact. “They didn’t leave a card. They came in today, asked if you’d been in, then they left.”
Duran was following this conversation intently. “Describe them,” he said.
“Who’s this?” Paulie asked in an exaggerated stage whisper.
Ted thought that identifying Duran as an NYPD detective would make Paulie clam up and disappear. As much as Ted wanted to get rid of the brain-addled bar sponge, he wanted to hear about these two guys. “He’s a new friend, Paulie. Very interested in keeping me safe.”
“Then he should keep you away from those two guys,” Paulie said.
“What did they look like?” Ted asked.
Paulie stood, mouth agape, for long seconds. Direct questions on matters of fact often sent him into this kind of trance.
Ted tried another approach. “They were tough guys? Scary?”
“I wasn’t scared.”
Whether this was drunkard’s bravado or alcoholic depression, it was probably true.
Ted tried softening his approach. “I meant they were scary dudes. Most people would be scared of them.”
“Without a doubt,” Paulie agreed. “They had shark eyes. Know what I mean? Like they would have been happy to kill you, but maybe later when they weren’t so busy.”
Ted knew exactly what he meant.
Duran tried again to get a less subjective description. “Was one of them taller than the other? Fatter? Thinner? Both the same?”
“One of ’em had a shaved head and a face like a boxer.” Paulie flattened his nose with his index finger so it resembled the nose of a fighter who’d taken too many punches to the face. “And they had funny accents.”
Paulie lived in a part of the world where even the minority who grew up speaking American did so with an easily identified and often ridiculed accent. Ted let himself smile. Just a touch.
“Anything else you can add?” Duran asked.
“That’s the story.”
“Thanks, Paulie,” Ted said. “I’m going to tell Lili to put one—and one only—beer a day for you on my tab all this week.”
“Thanks, Johnny. You’re all white.”
Ted chose to have misheard. “And you’re all right, too, Paulie. Let me know if they come around again. Don’t talk to them if you can help it, but if they ask, you haven’t seen me.”
“You can depend on me, Johnny.” Yawing erratically, Paulie shuffled toward the bar.
Duran snorted a laugh. “You do travel in elite circles. First Nicky Greco and now Popov and Jackoff, the Russian tag team.”
“So?” Ted said, facing Duran. “Can we agree that there are evil forces out there meaning to do me and my friends some serious harm?” He was being hunted. His apartment had been torn to shreds; two people hospitalized, one in a coma. Bribery, fraud, assault, and worse. What more did Duran need?
“Get me that witness,” Duran said.
-57-
The weather had turned overnight, and a mini squall buffeted the car as they raced down Cross Bay Boulevard. Jamaica Bay was covered in whitecaps, and the rain didn’t so much fall as explode from one horizon to the other, hitting the window on Lester’s side like shrapnel. Lester flinched constantly. He looked rested and clear-eyed, though his mood matched the weather. Mohammed’s driving didn’t help.
Lester kept one hand gripped on the door handle in case he needed to bail out. “This trip is like fishing for eels. They’re a bitch to catch, and once you’ve landed one, you wish you hadn’t.”
“Duran needs a witness,” Ted said. “We have to find out if Barbara Miller is capable of making a coherent statement on her own behalf.”
“If you’d care to make a wager on our success—”
Ted cut Lester off. “I know it’s a long shot, but we don’t have a lot of options.”
“Amen to that.” The car slammed through a pothole. The bag on Lester’s lap clinked, and he hugged it to his chest. He had skipped his dose of liquid medication that morning but had brought the bag with him.
“Are you always this nervous a passenger?” Ted asked, enjoying a little the other man’s discomfort.
“This guy learned to drive dodging terrorists in Beirut.”
“Beirut’s in Lebanon. Mohammed’s from Yemen.”
“That’s two places I’ll never go.”
The same young woman guarded the front desk at the assisted-living facility. If she remembered Ted or Lester from their visit a week earlier, she gave no clue.
“Please sign in,” she said, pushing a three-ring binder across the desk. “Who are you here to see?”
Ted was glad to see Lester shake off his bad mood and turn on the charm he had shown the last time they were there. He no longer wore the metal brace on his teeth, claiming a miraculous recovery—though Ted wouldn’t believe it until he saw the man chow down a steak and corn on the cob—but his arm was still in the sling, and the plastic cast showed. He was on the mend, but it was a forlorn look.
“You may not remember us from last week,” he began. “We are here to visit with Miss Barbara Miller. She is the aunt of her only nephew”—here he gestured grandly as he created yet another forgettable alias for Ted—“Ethan Phillips.”
The woman looked at them blankly through thick glasses. “Barbara Miller?” she said, in a suspicious tone.
Ted felt the first stirr
ings of impending disaster. Lester plowed on.
“Yes.” He held up a white box with red lettering: andre’s hungarian bakery. “We brought her a little treat.”
“One moment,” she said before picking up the phone and turning away. She whispered with muted intensity for a minute before speaking to Lester again. “Would you take a seat? The director will be right out.”
Lester smiled confidently at Ted and led the way to a high backless couch on which they perched like petitioners at the manor house. Ted thought they were screwed.
A tall pinch-faced woman wearing sensible shoes, a heavy grey skirt that reached to midcalf, and what could have been a man’s dress shirt buttoned to the neck strode across the lobby. She introduced herself in a monotone voice at triple speed, adding her title, education, credentials, length of service, and a brief résumé. It was a performance that would have qualified her to announce the disclaimers for a pharmaceutical ad. Ted missed her name but got the gist of the speech. This woman was in charge here. “Who are you people?” she finished. “And why are you here? Do not dissemble, as I know that Miss Miller has no family.”
Ted looked to Lester—it was time for improvisation—only to find Lester staring at him with a blank, unreadable face.
Ted took the last resort of a failed lawyer; he told the truth and threw himself on the mercy of the court. “My name is Ted Molloy. I am not her nephew. I am a limited business partner with Miss Miller. If you like, I can show you our signed agreement. I need to speak with her.”
She didn’t react to his admission of attempted trickery. Instead, she cocked her head to one side and appeared to be deep in thought. “Miss Miller is no longer a resident here. She left yesterday afternoon.” The woman spoke much more slowly, incorporating the event into her worldview.
Ted found he wasn’t surprised at all. He was still a step or two behind the opposition. “Who authorized her move?”
She drew herself up. He had maligned her personal integrity. “It was all quite regular. The gentlemen from the ambulette company came with a signed court order.” The words came faster this time.
He stopped himself from grinding his teeth. “Who gave the authorization?” A judge, obviously, but Ted wanted to see the name on the form. “May I get a copy?”
“That is not possible. Patient records are inviolate.” She was back at full throttle, consonants leapfrogging over vowels, syllables indicated rather than realized.
Lester rolled his eyes.
“Tell me this, then,” Ted said, slowing his own speech in hopes that doing so might have some effect on her. “Isn’t this all a bit unusual? Don’t you usually get notice well in advance?”
“One moment,” she said and turned and walked into an office, almost immediately reappearing with another woman. She rattled off an introduction, and this time Ted caught the essential information. This was the staff social worker, Mrs. Starkey. Or Stocky. Or possibly Sparkey or Spaaki.
She was a harried, frizzy-haired woman whom Ted guessed to be in her early sixties, and judging by the dark bags under her eyes and her well-gnawed lower lip, she was counting the days to retirement. The director left her in charge and strode back to the office.
“Barbara Miller was transferred to a full-service nursing facility out of state. The paperwork was all in order, but nevertheless, I would not have authorized the move if I did not think it was in my client’s best interest. Obviously.” She was firm but pleasant, and she spoke at a normal pace.
“Of course not,” Ted said. As long as she was talking, he thought he could take a direct approach. “Where did they take her?”
He’d misjudged her. “What was your association with Miss Miller?”
“I’ve already explained—” Ted began.
“Not to me,” she said, laying out the rules of engagement.
“Business partners. I’m concerned for her. We have competitors who would not refrain from trickery, or worse, to gain an advantage.”
“Nonsense. Barbara Miller could not be your business partner, because she has been judged to be incompetent to handle her affairs.”
“As of when?” This could invalidate the claim to the surplus money, leaving Ted with no legal standing. And no leverage.
“This week. I suggest you take your concerns to the county court.”
After Miller had signed the agreement. Ted stood. He was angry and frustrated, and patience wasn’t accomplishing a thing. “I need to find her. If someone here doesn’t become a lot more cooperative in the next few seconds, I am going to call the police. You could be an accomplice to kidnapping.”
Again, he had misjudged her. Rather than wilt at the threat of police, she put her back to the wall and stood her ground. “We have nothing more to discuss.”
“No,” he said, meeting her eye. “You need to give me some answers.”
Lester stood and took Ted’s arm. “I think we all need to step back and take a deep breath.”
“I don’t know what any of you are up to, but rest assured I am going to find out.” The woman, eyes locked with Ted’s, barely registered Lester’s presence.
“I’ve got a feeling we’re all really on the same side here,” Lester said. Ted let him take the wheel. “Am I right? We are all concerned for the welfare of Miss Barbara Miller. Can we keep that in mind and try to talk nice to each other?”
The woman gave Ted one final defiant look before turning a softer face to Lester. “I am confident that she is in good hands.”
“Would you at least share the name of the ambulette company?” Lester asked.
Ted could see her mulling over the ethical issues involved in releasing this bit of inconsequential information. It took her a minute, but she came down on the right side. “I don’t see how that would violate confidentiality. Let me check with the director.” She scurried to the office.
“How did you do that?” Ted asked.
“I have no idea,” Lester said. “But it won’t be that easy getting the ambulance people to open up.”
Whoever was orchestrating the defense was a magnificent chess player, anticipating Ted’s thoughts and plans. He was beginning to feel hopeless. Which was the point, of course.
The director reappeared. “I am uncomfortable offering any further information. If you would like to leave a business card, I will call the ambulette service and ask them to contact you directly. That is the best that I can do.”
Ted could tell when he was beaten. The woman wasn’t going to budge. He thanked her and gave her his card.
But Lester wasn’t done. “One more thing, if you don’t mind. Could we talk with Miss Miller’s aide for a minute? I think her name is Anora. She was a big help, and I need to thank her.”
“She’s been reassigned to another patient and is working right now,” the director said.
She was probably watching her new charge play bingo. Or they were both nodding out in the lounge in front of CNN.
Lester worked his magic again. “We won’t keep her long.”
-58-
They waited for Anora in the library, where they had met the last time. There was no one else there. Ted imagined that in another decade or two, rooms like this—devoted to providing a comfortable space to store and peruse hardbound copies of brightly colored dreams—would have disappeared, replaced by reclining couches with virtual reality headsets. Aging baby boomers could be laid out in rows, fed a soy and vegetable soup combined with tranquilizers and stool softeners, and monitored occasionally for continued heartbeat and respiration. He hoped that when he got to that point, they’d have some old noir movies programmed.
But if he wanted to stay alive now, he needed to keep focused. These depressing thoughts came from his growing fear that the forces against them were going to prevail, in which case his best bet would be to emigrate to Tasmania or Uruguay—he’d heard the beaches were great.
Anora sidled into the room, and Ted could see she was frightened. No. She was terrified. She seemed to have shrunk inches in every dimension. Her eyes had the thousand-yard stare of the doomed. He let Lester take the lead.
“Come and sit with me. You look like you’ve had a rough couple of days. We’ve all been there. You’re safe with us.” Lester spoke in a gentle voice.
She took a seat across the room and gazed intently at the floor.
“Okay, sit all the way over there. I’m adaptable.” He pulled his chair a few inches closer to her. “There. That’s better.”
She flashed a sideways look at him.
“I guess you were there when they came for Miss Miller.”
No response.
“Was it the lawyer who brought the papers? The same one? The woman?”
She gave a tiny shake of her head.
“No,” Lester said soothingly. “This time it was a man. Two, maybe.”
A slight nod turned into a shudder.
“Yeah. We’ve met those guys, too.”
Another flashing glance.
“Don’t worry. They won’t be back. They like to scare people, that’s all.”
Ted found himself lulled by the quiet compassion and sincerity in Lester’s voice. He wanted to believe it, too.
“They threatened you, didn’t they?” Lester said.
A shrug.
“Said they’d know if you talked to anyone. Did you recognize them? Have they been here before?”
Another quick shake of the head.
Lester carried his chair across the room and sat next to her. He patted the back of her hand. She tightened but did not flinch. “They won’t be back. They may have said it, but it won’t happen. Did they tell you where they’re taking her?”
Another shake of the head—but this time an uncertain one.
“No, they wouldn’t tell you. But maybe you heard them talking?”
She froze.
Lester made no change in his tone or pace. “I mean they wouldn’t even care if you heard. They probably acted like you weren’t even there. But you’re smart enough to keep your ears open and the brain working, aren’t you? You couldn’t stop them, but you might be able to help us find her again.”
Tower of Babel Page 26
