Xinhan looked across the table at me as if peering into my soul, and taking my measure. “It feels strange, having another man’s reputation in your hands. Smithson wasn’t a person who sat back and did nothing. I should follow his example.”
I said nothing. It wouldn’t have helped anyway.
Xinhan exhaled then leaned on the table. “Smithson was gay though he never broadcast that fact. Not that he was ashamed. As I said, he was a private person. Not showy, not flamboyant. Through and through, he was a good man.”
“Did you know Brad?”
“Not exactly. As I said. I knew about him. Smithson was very fond of him.”
“They were…?”
“No. That would’ve made Smithson very happy, though. They were good friends and Smithson helped with some financing for Brad’s spa.”
“Did he back it personally?”
“Smithson was an investor. Usually very astute. This time I’m afraid his heart did the thinking. Still, he believed Brad’s business was sound. Smithson enjoyed supporting gay business ventures. He had enough money to indulge his heart and his whims.”
“Do you know if there were other backers?”
“I don’t know. Smithson did say Brad would need much more money to realize his plans. Something about that worried Smithson.”
“Worried? You mean, he was concerned Brad wouldn’t raise the money?”
“That, of course. But it seemed more than that. He was troubled about Brad and money in general. The scale of Brad’s plans surprised him. ”
Xinhan paused and Luke poured us each more tea, then set the teapot aside with the lid ajar signaling the waiter we needed more.
“Mr. Wheeler never gave many details about Brad and money issues?”
“Nothing concrete. I’m sorry. All I know is that Smithson worried Brad was digging himself too big a hole and might get desperate.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“Smithson was surprised that Brad scheduled pricey renovations on the spa. He wondered how the money had been secured.”
“Did Wheeler ever tell you anything further concerning his worries about Brad?”
“Smithson was a complicated man. He may have known more but Brad was a favorite and he’d never sully Brad’s reputation. Smithson was the kind of man who took care of things for himself.”
“Got it,” I said. This is why Xinhan’s help was valuable. No outsider would know these things. The money issue Xinhan hinted at was too vague. Nothing to hang a theory on. Maybe Phil Caragan knew more.
“Brad wasn’t his only worry, Marco. Smithson wasn’t a love struck fool. He was a prominent businessman and had other things on his mind. Don’t place undue emphasis on his connection to Brad.”
“What else bothered him?”
“The usual. Fellow developers always sought his attention or cooperation and politicians constantly badgered him for money. He did his best to steer clear but if you know developers and politicians, well, pit bulls are distracted more easily.”
“Was there anything unusually bothersome lately?”
“I surmised as much from things Smithson said but I believe he was trying to protect me from whatever it was or whatever the fallout from it might be. I have nothing concrete to base that on, however.”
“Smithson sounded like a good friend to have. You must miss him, ” Luke said. He looked at Xinhan and I saw a lot in that look. Luke wasn’t often taken with someone but it appeared that Xinhan had made an impression.
***
We finished lunch, said our goodbyes, and I left them sitting there. I turned back to look at them through the curtain of bubbling water and I saw their silhouettes as they leaned in toward one another. I turned away, suddenly feeling the need to get outside into the sunlight and the bustle on the sidewalk. Chinatown was always busy, and I could lose myself in the crowd.
As I moved through the peaceful bamboo vestibule, my cell phone rang and I imagined the terracotta soldier’s fierce expression was aimed at me for disturbing him. I answered the call outside.
“Fontana.”
“Get yer pencil out, I’m gonna fix you up with information.”
For some reason I was overly happy to hear Mort’s voice.
Chapter 21
Mort gave me his contact’s name and a trial title. So I headed for the Criminal Justice Center to meet Sam Paspatis and see what he’d found. Mort’s old pals owed him plenty. What he’d done to gain those favors, I didn’t think I’d want to know.
The Criminal Justice Center is newer than City Hall by almost a hundred years. In all that time, you’d think the city could find an architectural firm with the imagination to come up with something even a little inspired. Impressive design isn’t high on the city’s list. Years before, a skyscraping disaster known as the Municipal Services Building, north of City Hall, was built and made cereal boxes look good. The fact that the Criminal Justice Center is just another cardboard box with windows, is no surprise. It’s what they know best.
The problem with getting into the Criminal Justice Center is you’ve just about got to strip down for them to prove you aren’t a threat. Easy to understand. When you’ve got every kind of criminal and their lawyers trudging in and out all day, being careful is a way of life. I was fine with the meticulous security procedures until it came to my gun. I have a thing about leaving my gun with strangers. Never makes me happy.
After squeezing through security, I searched for Mort’s contact. The halls were crawling with lawyers, police, and assorted others. On the surface it looked like the well oiled machinery of justice. That was on the surface.
Finding Paspatis wasn’t difficult. With a moniker like that, almost everyone knows where you’re located. I was directed to the office by a bored security guard. Paspatis was headquartered on a busy floor flush with lawyers and clerks. I found my way through and pushed open the door.
A tiny, dark woman, sat at a desk situated behind a low counter. Of indeterminate age, her leathery flesh suggested she’d had one too many tanning sessions. Head down, concentrating, she didn’t appear to hear me enter. The office had a stale, acrid, old food and coffee odor.
“Good morning,” I said.
No reaction.
“I’m here to see Sam Paspatis. This is his office, right?”
That got her attention. Her head snapped up and she gave me a death-ray stare. Her light brown eyes, surrounded by the heavy tan and dark hair, were startling. “This is my office. Who’re you?” She casually fingered her necklace of green beads the size of walnuts.
“Marco Fontana. Mort Zucker sent me to talk to Sam Paspatis.” It dawned on me that I was talking to Sam.
“You’re the private dick Mort told me about.” She paused to look me over, her eyes had a tough and hardened quality that gave her an intimidating edge. “Said you were one’a the good guys. Didn’t say you were so cute.” The way she said it didn’t sound like a compliment.
“Makes us even. He didn’t tell me you were a woman.”
She laughed then stared at me again. “So, you want a transcript.”
“Right. The Branko trial? That’s what Mort said the defendant’s name is.”
“Court reporter just gave us the uncorrected draft. You’re gettin’ something nobody’s seen yet. You tell Morty he owes me big on this one.”
“Will do.”
She smirked.
“Mort said that includes the names of lawyers, jurors, and witnesses?”
“It does. It’s got everything you want,” she said and laughed. “All right, maybe not everything.” Her look sent a feeling down my spine I didn’t want to experience again.
“Sounds good,” I said.
“Boy is Morty gonna owe me.” She winked. “You’re gonna owe me, too. Got that? I got a big family and you never know…” Whatever she meant by that, she let her words hang in the air a moment before holding up a sheaf of papers. “The transcript.”
I stretched out my hand bu
t she didn’t move. I looked questions at her.
“I didn’t hear you promise,” she snapped.
“What?”
“You forgot already? You owe me for this. You and Morty both.”
“Sure. I promise,” I said and held out my hand again.
She placed the papers in an accordion file and handed it over. “You don’t know where you got this… understand?”
I nodded.
***
Getting out of the Center was lots easier than getting in. I had a sweet reunion with my gun when they returned it. They didn’t appear happy about giving it back but they couldn’t argue with my permit.
Outside the Center, I briefly watched the parade of people in and out of the place. Even if you paid attention to the news, you could never get a clear idea of how much crime there was and how many people passed through the system because of it. I almost felt sympathy for Giuliani and Shim and the load of cases they dealt with. Still didn’t make me feel better about them putting Brad’s case on a back burner.
At least they’d given me room to maneuver on my own. That was something.
With the trial information, my list of leads had suddenly expanded. Since Brad’s ex, Max, was still in the wind, I figured I’d concentrate on the trial and see if that led anywhere. I skimmed the top sheets of the transcript which summarized everything.
No use trying to talk to Branko. With his shiny new guilty verdict, he’d be locked snugly away and unavailable for a sit down. According to Mort, Branko was a second rate mobster from “over there” which, in Mort-speak, meant somewhere in Europe. With a name like Branko, the guy could have come from any one of several places. Russia, Serbia, Slovakia, you name it. What mattered was that after he crawled out from under his rock, he ended up in Philly and did his dirty work here. I’d never heard of the guy but that just meant he was a behind-the-scenes type. Not one of organized crime’s show horses.
With Branko locked up, his lawyers were next on my list. Messina and Jarrette, headed up one of the city’s sleazier law firms. I may not have heard of Branko, but I knew Messina and Jarrette all too well. They’d long been lawyers for a variety of mob figures. One of the firm’s associates was rumored to have been a consigliere to a local don who’d eventually been blown to bits. It was only a matter of time before the law firm started branching out to the Russians and other Eastern European organized crime families. An equal opportunity criminal law firm.
Lucky me, I got to go face to face with them for a little info. Sometimes this job is nothing but fun. First I’d have to do my homework. Reading the transcript would give me what I’d need when I questioned them.
***
I arrived at the office and found Olga bent over her keyboard and Jean-Claude sitting on the couch reading a magazine. He popped up his head when I entered the room.
“Marco!”
“What’s up, Jean-Claude? What’re you doing here?” I was unintentionally sharp and he appeared surprised.
“You asked me to see you. About work? You don’t remember? You said that maybe there would be something to do. For this case you are on.”
I vaguely remembered telling him that I might have some work for him. Since he’d planted himself here I decided to show him how boring investigative work could be. “You’re here at the right time,” I said. “Come on in and we’ll get started.”
Jean-Claude jumped up and was at my side like an eager puppy. Just as cute and cuddly, too.
“Olga, I’m gonna have some work for you, too.”
“Is why I am living.” She looked up at me, smiling insincerely.
“Thank you, sugarplum.”
“Messages are on desk,” she said over her shoulder as I moved into my office followed by my new best friend. I caught a whiff of brewing coffee and was instantly energized.
Jean-Claude shut the door behind him and took a seat. I went around to my chair, placed the transcript on my desk, and sat down.
“This is exciting, eh?” He was ready for a scene out of Magnum, P.I. what he’d be getting would be more like Magnum, The Librarian.
I was almost sorry to disappoint him.
“Detective work is not all guns and chases, Jean-Claude. Once you start school, you’ll find that out. There’s a lot of legwork, desk work, and things most people would find boring.”
“Nothing a detective does is boring. This is what I was born to do! And to learn from you… it is… an…”
“Okay. Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I took two yellow highlighters from my desk and handed one to him. Then I slipped the transcript from the folder, took a large part for myself and gave him a good chunk. The rest went back into the folder. “Sometimes you’ve got to slog through a lot of crap to find leads. The papers are part of a trial transcript which might contain information we can use.”
“What should I do?” Jean-Claude looked from the transcript to me, no sign of disappointment.
“Look through the pages, highlight any names you come across in testimony or in the questions the lawyers ask. We’ll make a list to check against other lists I have.”
“Oui, je compr… I mean… I understand, Marco.” He stared at me and said, “Then… we…?”
“Get going. We’ve gotta get this done today.” I chuckled. For a guy who stripped to pay his way through school, Jean-Claude seemed innocent and naïve in so many ways. Maybe that’s what Anton found so charming.
“Sure, Marco.” Jean-Claude sat back, crossed one leg over the other making a surface for the papers, and began reading, highlighter at the ready.
I watched him for a few moments. He was handsome, more than handsome. His features made him appear strong, even fierce, but also had a vulnerable quality. I knew from observing him at the club that he was gentle and caring. It was easy to see a lot of guys swooning over him. Anton was obviously falling for him. And I wasn’t doing much to change that.
I shook off my feelings and got down to reading the transcript. There was a long witness list. The prosecution and defense had lined up quite a few people. I ran a finger down the names, looking at each, to see if there was anyone I recognized. At the end of the prosecution list Smithson Wheeler’s name was crossed out. As if they’d intended to call him but did not. Of course, it’d be easy enough to check. The rest of the names on both lists were unknown to me.
Forty-five minutes later, we’d both finished the shares of the transcript we’d taken. After a break, we tackled the rest and created a list of names mentioned in testimony. By checking our list against the witnesses, we were able to pare down the number of names we’d collected. With that I’d search for any connections to Brad and the murders. The other jurors would be on my list, too.
“Bored, Jean-Claude?” I asked as I massaged my temples. My eyes were bugging out after skimming the transcript. I needed more coffee.
“Disappointed? Pas du tout. Not at all, Marco.”
“Not as exciting as a gun battle. But a lot safer.”
“The man on trial sounds dangerous. So maybe this will not prove to be so safe, this case, eh? It is like we are going through his laundry.”
I laughed.
“This man… the man on trial… he is in prison, yes?”
“He’s away for a long time. Nothin’ to worry about. Besides, you wanna be in this business, you gotta be able to handle guys like him.”
“Yes. I don’t fear this man.”
“We’ve only seen him on paper. I’m sure in real life he’s even more scary.” I laughed when Jean-Claude’s eyes widened. “Just a joke, Jean-Claude. Now I’ve gotta deal with this maniac’s lawyers. That oughta be a lot of fun.”
“Be careful, Marco. Anton will worry when I tell him where you are going.”
There it was. He’d be telling Anton where I was going. When did I stop doing that?
Chapter 22
Messina and Jarrette occupied offices in a distinguished three-story building on Lombard Street in Old City. The cream colored shutt
ers on the windows of the red brick structure lent it a classy appearance. Small electric candles burned in every window.
They tried offsetting their huge sleaze factor with a fashionable location. Except no amount of sophistication in a neighborhood could wash away the stain they carried.
I hadn’t called, I’m not inclined to warn people I’ll be on their front step wanting an interview. I like surprises. For other people. There’s always a chance your target might not be at home, but catching them off guard is always sweet. In this instance, if I found only one of them in the office that’d be even better. They wouldn’t be able to coordinate their answers.
I pushed open the door and was faced with a sleek, high-tech operation. A glass wall separated the vestibule from the receptionist and offices beyond. The door in that wall sported the names Messina and Jarrette etched in the glass and layered in gold leaf. A few other names in much smaller lettering trailed beneath the big guns, as if they were an afterthought.
Opening the door, I stepped up to the receptionist’s desk and cleared my throat.
“May I help you?” She looked up at me, and I was sure any straight man would have fallen desperately in love then and there. Her eyes were a liquid brown that spoke of dreams not yet achieved and a wish for something better.
It was wasted on me, but I didn’t think it was a conscious effort on her part anyway. She reminded me of a guy I knew who had the same eyes, that same look, and the identical hypnotic effect on men. Getting involved with him had been a mistake.
“Marco Fontana to see Messina or Jarrette. Or both, if you’ve got ‘em.”
“Are you expected?” She trained her eyes on me, and I noticed a quiver of uncertainty. Maybe because I didn’t melt when she spoke.
“No. I have business regarding Konstantin Branko. He was a client of theirs. That’s what I was told.” I stared at her.
Involuntarily she started looking over her shoulder, as if seeking out one of the big kahunas for advice. She stopped herself in mid-turn, snapped back to look at me. “You’d have to talk with one of them.”
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