JM01 - Black Maps

by Peter Spiegelman

  “That’s alright,” I said, “I can wait. I was just admiring these photos.”

  She grinned wryly and laughed. “Those? Yeah, they’re kind of mean, but I like them too.”

  “I’ve never heard of H. Barrie. Did these fashion people bump him off when they saw the pictures?”

  She laughed again. “H. Barrie isn’t a he. H. Barrie is me. Barrie was my maiden name.”

  “You were a photographer?”

  “That would be generous; I was strictly amateur. I was modeling back then, actually. Nothing big—catalogs mostly. I was working all those shoots, and took the pictures in my downtime. You’re right, though, it did piss some people off,” she said, laughing some more. “Not that I cared, mind you.”

  “You quit modeling when you got married?” I asked. She was aware that I was probing, now, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’d more or less quit when I met Rick. I was working my last job, in London, and he’d just moved over from New York. Modeling was fun for a while, and I got to see more of the world than I would have from Asheville, North Carolina. But it’s no kind of life, really.”

  “Do you still take pictures?”

  “Just vacation snapshots now,” she said, chuckling.

  She knelt in front of her son and wrestled a coat on him. She zipped it to just under his chin, adjusted the small collar, ran her fingers through his thick hair again, and kissed his forehead. Then she pulled a knit cap on his head. This broke his concentration, and he focused on me for the first time.

  “Hi,” he said. I walked over and knelt down.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “This is Alex. Alex, this is Mr. March,” Helene said.

  “Nice dinosaur,” I said.

  “T. rex,” Alex replied, and with that he went back to his smashing. I stood.

  “I heard he was a wild man. He doesn’t seem so wild to me,” I said.

  Helene laughed ruefully. “Oh, he’s just biding his time, believe me. We’re going out to pick up his big sisters, and when those two get home they’ll whip him into a frenzy.” Helene pulled on her own coat, a chocolate brown shearling. She took the keys and envelopes from the table and slipped them into her pockets. “We’ve got to run. Are you sure I can’t get him for you?” she asked.

  “No, thanks, waiting is fine,” I said

  “Okay, then. . . . It was nice to meet you, and I’m sure we’ll see you again.” We shook hands, and she rolled Alex out the door.

  The apartment was quiet. No traffic noise made it through the thick old walls, and the only sounds were my own slow footsteps around the foyer. I looked at Helene Pierro’s pictures and thought about her. She struck me as more than just another trophy wife, though she seemed to be eminently qualified for that too. It was interesting that she’d asked me nothing about the case or what I was doing there, but it was hard to know what to make of that. It could mean that she didn’t delve into her husband’s affairs. It could mean that her husband had told her everything and she had no questions to ask. It could mean a bunch of other things too.

  More footsteps, and Pierro was back. His cheerfulness had returned.

  “Hey, John, sorry for the wait. Did Helene go out already?” he asked.

  “Yes, she just left with Alex. He’s a cute little guy,” I said. Pierro smiled.

  “Oh, yeah, but he’s a handful. Come on, let’s get back to it.” We returned to the study.

  “What else can I tell you?” he asked as we took our seats.

  “Tell me about Nassouli.” Pierro collected his thoughts for a moment.

  “Gerry was a smart guy, charming too. He was a guy a lot of people did business with back then. He was a big schmoozer, and a big deal maker,” Pierro said. “And he was very social. MWB entertained a lot. They sponsored events—concerts, sports, charity dinners, you name it. Gerry was their head guy in New York, so he’d be at all these things. Usually with a cigar and a brandy, and a model on his arm.”

  “It sounds like you knew him pretty well,” I said.

  “We were friendly. Like I said, MWB did a lot of entertaining. I was on their guest list, along with a lot of other people.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “It’s been a long while. We lost touch when I went to London; that was around thirteen years ago. Nothing but company Christmas cards since then.”

  “I read in Mike’s file that Nassouli was the treasurer of the New York branch. The kind of deal-brokering he did with you and Textiles, is that the kind of thing the treasurer usually does?” I asked.

  Pierro smiled. “Not typically, no. But Gerry wasn’t just the treasurer. He was MWB’s head guy here—their main relationship guy with other banks, customers, regulators, you name it. So it was the kind of thing he did. And he loved it.”

  I had no more questions for the moment, and I told Pierro so.

  “This was great, John,” Pierro said, smiling. “Thanks for coming by. And thanks for your help on this.” He was looking encouraged again.

  “I haven’t done much yet, and, as I keep telling you, there may not be much I can do,” I said. “I’ll poke around MWB, and try to stay away from the feds while I do it. And I’ll try to get a line on Burrows. But our best bet may be to wait until someone contacts you again, and hope that gives us a little more to work with.” Pierro nodded his agreement, but he still looked altogether too optimistic. He walked me to the elevator.

  “I hear you, John, and I appreciate the straight talk. But I know if there’s anything that can be done, you’ll do it. I know you’ll look out for us.” He said good-bye as the door slid closed.

  I thought about him on the ride down. He had seemed forthcoming in his answers, and sincere in his desire to help, but I knew that appearing guileless was his strong suit, and I was still uneasy. Pierro had come a very long way since night school, and I had no doubt that the distance was much on his mind.

  It was colder outside but still clear. The low afternoon sun lit the east side of Park in a rich orange light, and cast the west side into shadow. I was in those shadows, looking for a cab downtown, when I saw Helene Pierro across the street, headed home with her three children. The girls had their mother’s glossy hair, tied back in dark bows. They wore matching navy overcoats, and dark tights on their legs. Alex was still in his stroller, shrieking in delight each time his sister, walking beside him, pulled his knit cap over his eyes. The eldest daughter walked with Helene, who pushed the stroller. She was talking earnestly and at length to her mother, who listened and nodded gravely.

  Chapter Six

  The day had dwindled to cold, blue twilight by the time I got home. There were no moving vans out front or boxes in the hallways, no rumble of freight being hauled across the floor upstairs. I emptied my pockets of the contraband I’d taken off the kids in the park, flushing the drugs and tossing the knives in a drawer with my loose change. Then I checked my messages. There were two. One was from Clare. She’d called in the morning to say she couldn’t make it, but would see me next week. She spoke hurriedly, and there was traffic noise in the background. Well, I hadn’t exactly planned my day around her, either.

  My older sister, Liz, had also phoned, to invite me to Thanksgiving with the family. She and Lauren had a good cop–bad cop thing going, and Liz was definitely the bad cop. The thrust of her argument, delivered in her tight-jawed, nasal drawl, was that if I didn’t come I’d be running true to my usual asshole form, so why didn’t I just surprise everyone and show up. She added at the end of her message that it had been too long since she’d seen me. That last bit must have been an effort for her. Liz is many things—smart, tough, acerbic—but nice is not one of them.

  I had no call back from Tom Neary, so I left another message on his voice mail and went for a workout—a five-mile run and some weights at the gym on Fourteenth Street. I was back in less than two hours, just in time to miss Neary’s call. He was having dinner at an Indian restaurant downtown at seven, his message said; I coul
d join him there if I wanted. I showered, dressed, and walked to the subway.

  Taking Tiger Mountain is a few blocks from city hall, and close to the Brill offices. It’s a small, dimly lit place, with walls the color of paprika, and chairs and tables the color of saffron. I got there just after seven and it was still pretty empty, but even if it had been packed, it would have been hard to miss Tom Neary.

  Neary is big—around six foot four and two hundred fifty pounds— like a refrigerator in a dark suit and tie. The feds who’d worked with him in Utica had called him Clark Kent. When I’d first heard it, I figured it was because of his looks—the dark, wavy hair, the chiseled features, the horn-rimmed specs—and the earnest, Eagle Scout quality he projects. As I’d gotten to know Neary better, I’d seen the subversive secret identity behind the mild exterior—the ironic sense of humor, the independent streak, the disdain for pompous authority—and I’d thought the nickname even more apt. That independence, along with his smarts and his basic sense of fairness, had made it hard for him to find much peace with the FBI. I’d seen that firsthand, upstate. He had treated me decently at a time when it would’ve been easier for him not to, and he’d caught hell as a result.

  In some respects I knew Neary well, but there was a lot I still didn’t know. I knew he was married, but I didn’t know his wife’s name. I knew he had kids, but not how many, or how old, or what kind. I knew he lived in Jersey, but I didn’t know the town. One thing I did know, from years back, was that he loved good food—foreign food especially. And after years in the culinary wilderness of Utica, Neary had come to the Promised Land.

  He was sitting alone at a table for four, poring over the menu like it was a holy text. His suit jacket was on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up over his big forearms. I took the seat across from him. He gave me a hand like a porterhouse and we shook. The waiter took my order for a cranberry juice. Neary was working on a ginger ale and ordered a backup.

  “Cheap dates, huh?” he said, smiling. “But you’re still living healthy, that’s good.”

  “Have you ordered yet?” I asked.

  “Just bread.” He pointed to a basket of naan, plates of stuffed roti and puri and small bowls of various chutneys. “I’m thinking about a tandoori,” he said.

  I took a piece of naan from the basket where it lay wrapped in a white cloth napkin, and bit into it. It was warm and a little spicy. Delicious. The warm bread and the riot of cooking smells coming from the kitchen spoke to my stomach, and my stomach answered back. I scanned the menu.

  The waiter returned with our drinks and we ordered, then Neary sighed and turned his attention to me.

  “Life still good in the private sector?” I asked.

  “Life is busier than hell. It seems like every client I’ve got wants their security procedures overhauled, or their management vetted, or needs a few dozen investigators to help out on their shareholder lawsuits. Even with all the cops and feds jumping ship, I’ve still got more gigs than I’ve got people to fill ’em. But the money’s good—we must be the only growth industry left these days. That’s the upside,” Neary said.

  “And the downside?” I asked. He thought about it for a while.

  “The gray areas are bigger, I guess, and there are more of them. The bureau was a political swamp, no question, and it had more than its share of professional assholes. But you always knew that you were one of the good guys, or that you were supposed to be. In the private sector, what you know mainly is who’s paying the bill. For some people, that’s enough. Me, I worry a little more. Must be the Jesuit schooling.” He took a bite of potato-stuffed puri.

  “You keeping busy?” he asked. I nodded, and we were quiet for a bit. Time to get to the point.

  “I can count the number of times I’ve called you when I wasn’t looking for a favor,” I said.

  “So can I. My tally is zero. Don’t tell me you’re going to screw up your stats now,” Neary said, deadpan.

  “No, I wouldn’t disappoint you. I’m looking for a favor. But maybe I can do something for you, too.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

  Without using any names besides MWB’s and Nassouli’s, and staying vague about the dates, I laid out the bare bones of the case. It was blackmail, I explained, on account of some dealings my client had had almost twenty years ago, with Nassouli and another firm, an MWB client. I told him that my guy had gotten some documents, which might have come from MWB’s files.

  “If they did come from MWB, it could mean that the investigation is compromised, or that your liquidation work is. It could mean that somebody is doing a little freelancing.” Neary stopped eating and stared at me as I spoke, his face empty. When I finished talking, he stared at me some more. Then he shook his head slowly.

  “I must not be following,” he said. “Your guy gets faxed a bunch of documents from a deal he did with MWB, twenty years back. Somebody wants to squeeze him. Now, you’re trying to backtrack the documents. Okay, I’m with you up to there. It’s after that I’m missing something— like the part where this has anything to do with me.” Neary paused to tear off a mouthful of naan, and continued.

  “These documents are twenty years old. You have no idea how many copies of these things were around back then, or who had them. And you have no clue where those copies could’ve got to in twenty years’ time. But somehow you decide—I don’t know why—that maybe they came out of my shop, or from the feds.” He shook his head more vigorously. “I’ve got to tell you, this is the thinnest damn thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “It’s pretty thin,” I agreed. “But pretty thin is all I’ve got.” Neary stared at me and shook his head some more. I continued. “I can’t give you the details, but believe me, of the possible sources for these documents, MWB looks the best. Plus, I have reason to believe that a cop or an ex-cop might be involved.” I figured it couldn’t go much worse, so I told him about my chat in the park with Faith Herman, and how she pegged the guy who paid her as a cop. Some amusement mixed with his incredulity.

  “This just gets better and better. Your solid lead is a bag lady who’s probably off her meds and thinks everybody’s a cop or a werewolf or a space alien. And based on this you figure it’s got to be one of my guys, right?”

  We paused as the waiter laid bowls of steaming soup before us. Neary regarded his with some reverence and tucked his tie inside his shirt. He had a few peppery spoonfuls and sighed heavily before he continued.

  “Your star witness give you a description?” I gave him what I had. “Could be anybody,” he said after a while. He had some more soup. “So, assuming I gave this an ounce of credence, which I don’t, what’s this favor you want?” he asked.

  “I want to look around MWB, meet some of the people on the job, see how the records get handled, see who has access to what. See if I can find copies of the documents in the fax.” Neary snorted.

  “While we’re at it, maybe I could put my whole staff in a lineup, for your bag lady to look over.” Neary shook his head and had some more soup. “You want to tell me anything more about the documents, or your guy?” he asked. I looked at him, but said nothing. “But I’m supposed to just invite you in and hold your coat while you rifle the drawers. I guess client confidentiality only applies to your clients, huh?” He sat back in his chair and looked at me, expressionless again. He was skeptical of the trail I was following, and indignant at the suggestion that his operation might be compromised. But behind the sarcasm and the studied dismay, there was something else—a little worry.

  “Look, I’ve got a very narrow set of interests here, Tom. I could give a shit about MWB, or how your people pad their time sheets or how the feds get tangled in their own underwear. I just want to know if these documents are in MWB’s records and, if so, who might have got at them. Chaperone me if you’re worried. You can slap my wrist if I step out of line.” I paused to taste some soup. “But if you’re really concerned about confidentiality, then you’ve got to be interested in
whether one of your people has something going on the side.” He turned this over in his head for a while, and then decided.

  “Okay, you get the cheap tour. You can meet a couple of people, see how we manage the documents. And we’ll have a look for your stuff. But unless we turn up more than the nothing you’ve got now, that’s where it ends. And, trust me, I’ll do more than slap your wrist if I think you’re out of line.” I believed him.

  “Thanks, Tom,” I said, and went back to my soup.

  “You work closely with the feds on this?” I asked.

  “Pretty close,” he said. “I see them once a week, sometimes more.”

  “They hang around the office much?” I asked. Neary looked up.

  “Not so much anymore. Why? You looking to avoid awkward encounters?” I nodded.

  “I’d like to keep a low profile,” I said.

  “I bet you would,” Neary said, nodding. But there was a knowing edge to his voice that I didn’t understand.

  “What?” I asked. Neary looked a little puzzled.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’m just not surprised you’d want to keep clear of him.” It was my turn to be confused.

  “Keep clear of who?” I asked. Neary stared at me, an odd look in his eyes.

  “Shit. You don’t know, do you? You don’t know who the special agent in charge on this thing is?” I shook my head. “It’s Fred Pell, John.” The waiter came to clear our soup bowls and lay out the main courses. But suddenly I wasn’t so hungry.

  Fred Pell, there was a name to conjure with. He was FBI, based in D.C. but posted to upstate New York when I’d met him, there to work the case with Neary and the rest of us—the state police, the Mounties, and the Burr County Sheriff’s Department. Technically, he’d been Neary’s boss, a fact Neary had all but ignored. It hadn’t done much for their relationship, or for Neary’s prospects in the bureau. But Neary had never actually hit the guy, and that was a claim I couldn’t make. Of course, Pell had never threatened him with murder and conspiracy charges, or had him worked over in a holding cell, either, so maybe Neary just lacked the proper motivation.