Mike’s building is on East End Avenue, a broad, redbrick prewar that faces Carl Schurz Park and the East River. It has white stone trim, a long, green awning, and a wood-paneled lobby with a wide fireplace. A fire was burning briskly in it when I arrived. The doorman greeted me by name and tactfully ignored my damaged face. He called upstairs and sent me through to the elevators. I got out on eleven. Mike’s door was ajar.
“In here,” he called. I walked through the book-lined entrance foyer, down a book-lined hallway, and into the kitchen. It was a long room, with white cabinets, stone counters, and steel appliances. At the far end was a windowed breakfast nook with a steel-topped table and wooden chairs. Paula Metz sat at the table, drinking coffee and sorting through mail. She wore a black T-shirt, and snug jeans on her long legs. Her bare feet were propped on another chair, and her thick, dark blond hair was tied back. Mike stood at a counter, slicing bagels. He looked vaguely academic in khakis and a gray sweater.
“Jesus, Michael, he looks like shit. You didn’t say he looked like shit.” Paula brushed a ribbon of hair from her cheek with long fingers, and wrinkled her face in a sympathetic wince.
“He neglected to mention it in his message,” Mike said. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty much like shit,” I said. I crossed the room, pecked Paula on the cheek, pulled off my jacket, and took a seat. Paula noticed the gun and raised her eyebrows.
“A little paranoid today?” she asked.
“Appropriately vigilant,” I said.
At rest, Paula’s face is too medieval looking to be usual-pretty— it’s too pale and bony, and too long in the nose; the brown eyes are shadowed and too narrow, the brows too heavy, and the wide mouth is naturally downturned. But set in motion, animated by a keen interest in people, a wry sense of humor, and an intellect that made her the youngest name partner in the city’s biggest patent law firm, her features lose their severity, and Paula is lovely. She sighed and drained her coffee mug.
“I hope he’s giving you danger pay for this,” she said.
“Danger pay? I’m just grateful he’s feeding me lunch,” I said. Paula rose and took a mug from a cabinet and filled it with coffee from a carafe on the counter. She passed it to me and leaned her hips against the counter next to Mike. He’d finished with the bagels and now was taking strips of smoked salmon from a white paper package and laying them on a platter.
“Well, he’s good at that. And I hope you brought a few friends, ’cause there’s enough here for ten,” Paula said, and she was right. Besides the bagels and salmon, Mike had laid out a basket of muffins, a bowl of fruit salad, a plate of sliced onions and tomatoes, and a pitcher of orange juice.
“You always say John could use some meat on his bones,” Mike said.
“You too,” Paula said, and pinched him gently at the beltline. “I also say he could use a girlfriend. You got that covered yet?”
“First things first, honey,” Mike said, and took some plates from a cabinet. Paula put some salmon and tomatoes on one and refilled her coffee mug.
“Well, much as I enjoy eavesdropping on your sordid business, I have to go into an actual courtroom next week, so I’m going down the hall to pretend to work. Eat hearty,” she said, and she left.
Mike loaded up a plate. “Let’s sit in the dining room,” he said.
I took some of everything and followed him in. The dining room was square and cream colored, with wide windows that looked out onto the park and the river. The walls were hung with colored illustrations of fruits and vegetables, and in the center of the room was a round oak table covered with a white cloth.
I ate a little and talked a lot, about Kenneth Whelan, the Lenzis, Lisa Welch, Steven Bregman, and Bernhard Trautmann. Mike ate slowly and listened and did not interrupt. He was quiet when I finished, staring out the window.
“You think Lenzi was in the same boat as Bregman?” he asked, after a while.
“Pretty much. My guess is when the squeeze came he didn’t pay, and he got burned because of it. Lost his job and a lot of money. But he’s just as angry as Bregman, and just as scared. He’s just as nuts, too.” Mike nodded.
“And Welch? Did you buy the insurance guy’s story?” he asked.
“Kulpinski. And I did buy it. It was pretty compelling, even if it was all circumstantial.”
“Not compelling enough for the cops or the Coast Guard, though.”
“Kulpinski couldn’t come up with a motive for Welch’s suicide.”
“Blackmail’s not a bad one,” Mike said.
“A perennial favorite,” I said. “According to his wife, Welch had turned his life around when they married. He’d left behind his wicked ways and discovered the virtues of hearth and home, and got reborn as Ozzie Nelson. In which case, it might’ve been pretty stressful to have his ugly past come up and bite the ass of his idyllic present. If that happened, in the form of blackmail, then staging an accident might’ve seemed like the best option to him. It put him beyond the reach of the blackmailer, left his family whole financially, and left them with untainted memories. It’s more tenuous than Lenzi and Bregman, but my gut tells me Welch was squeezed too.” Mike nodded again, slowly.
“And Whelan?” he asked.
“Hard to say. He took my call pretty quick, but we shouldn’t read too much into that.” Mike drank some coffee and looked out the window. I tore a corner off a bran muffin and ate it. Mike took a deep breath.
“A question mark by his name, then,” he said. “But we know a few things now. We know this business with Rick isn’t a one-shot deal. He seems to be the latest in a string of victims. How long a string, we don’t know. And it looks like whoever is doing all this is using Nassouli’s files.” I nodded agreement.
“We know some other things, too,” I said. “Whoever this is has been at it for a while now, a couple of years at least, and hasn’t gotten caught. Which means he’s not completely stupid. And he’s had a chance to practice, a chance to get good at it.” Mike grimaced.
“Which brings us to the question of who,” he said.
“I know I’m not behind it, and I guess I’d be willing to vouch for you in a pinch, but beyond that, I’m not so sure,” I said. Mike smiled a little.
“Trautmann’s not at the top of your list?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It’s easy to like him for blackmail, or just about any other evil thing you can think of. But that has more to do with Trautmann being a psycho scumbag than with proof.”
“How do you interpret yesterday’s high jinks, then? You think he just attacks people for the fun of it, and yesterday was your lucky day?”
“It’s fun for him, no question about it, but that’s not the only reason he jumped me. He wanted to find out who my client was, and he wanted to scare me off.”
“His methods were kind of extreme,” Mike said.
“ ‘Extreme’ is his style, I think. It’s certainly a big part of his management technique.”
“Wanting to scare you off would indicate he’s got something to hide,” Mike said. He went into the kitchen and came back with the coffee carafe. He filled my mug, and his too.
“I’m sure he’s got a lot of things to hide, but nothing you can scare out of him. You come at this guy with anything less than rock-solid proof—smoking gun, pictures, and all—and he’s going to file his nails and laugh in your face. He may be crazy, but he’s not stupid. He’s a genuine hard case.”
“But is he a blackmailer?” Mike asked.
“He’s capable of it, and from what Burrows said, he knew about Nassouli’s files. He also fits Faith Herman’s description of the guy who paid her to send the fax . . .”
“I’m waiting for the ‘but’ here.”
“. . . but there are pieces of this that I just don’t think are his style,” I said.
“For instance?”
“The handling of Bregman’s payment, through the Luxembourg account. That’s a big step up from kicking ass at the mall.” Mike th
ought about it and shook his head.
“That doesn’t convince me. You said Trautmann isn’t dumb. He worked for Nassouli and MWB for a lot of years. You don’t think he picked up any handy skills along the way?” he said.
“How about the way Bregman was played? One fax with bad news, the next one with worse news, then a couple of weeks to stew before the squeeze. To me that seems too subtle for Trautmann.” Mike shook his head some more. His brow wrinkled.
“Or the items in Pierro’s fax,” I continued. “Would that stuff look incriminating to just anybody off the street? I don’t think so. You need to know something about banking, about how credit is extended and how loans are arranged, for that stuff to mean anything. You think Trautmann picked that up hanging out with Nassouli?” Mike tapped his chin with a finger.
“Point taken,” he said. “But if not Trautmann, who?”
“I keep coming back to Nassouli’s files. They didn’t make it into Brill’s document system, and we’re working under the assumption that they weren’t shredded. That means someone walked off with them. Who was in a position to do that? And who had the expertise to use them?”
“You know my vote goes to Nassouli himself,” Mike said.
“But there are other candidates—someone from the investigation, maybe, or from the liquidation team. They had access, and most of them would have the knowledge,” I said. Mike shook his head.
“No one had easier access to those files than Nassouli, and no one would know better how to exploit them. And he could be very strapped for cash, out there on the road,” he said. He looked at me. “You still have reservations?”
“Nassouli looks good on paper, but I just can’t get over what a big fucking risk it would be for him.”
“I go back to what I said last week—maybe he’s got help. Maybe from Trautmann,” Mike said.
“Maybe, but that’s risky in a different way. A partner like Trautmann could be awfully dangerous for a guy on the run.”
Mike thought about it for a while. “Everything we’ve heard about Nassouli says he was a risk taker. And how nervous would he really be about Trautmann? The guy did his dirty work for over twenty years. Trautmann already knows where all the bodies are buried. Why should Nassouli start worrying about him now?” I shrugged. Despite what my gut told me, Mike was right. A good case could be made for Trautmann and Nassouli as partners.
“Okay, it’s a theory. But it’s not one we can do much with. No one has seen Nassouli for nearly three years, and we’ve got no leverage on Trautmann.” We were quiet for a while, and I watched a barge move slowly down the river. It rode low in the water, and gulls wheeled above it.
“Maybe your friend in the park can ID Trautmann from the photos,” Mike said.
“We’ll see—assuming I can find her again. But even if she does, how much is that worth? She’s not exactly unimpeachable.”
“I wasn’t planning on taking this to court, John.”
“If Pierro is serious about negotiating, our evidence needs to be solid enough for court, even if we never go there.”
Mike squeezed his eyes shut and ran his fingers through his thin hair. “What about Neary’s source in the investigation? Anything come from that?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Mike stared at a drawing hanging on the wall as if he’d never seen it before. He looked suddenly tired.
“We’re fast running out of things to do,” he said. I nodded. “We need to talk to Rick and set his expectations.”
“By telling him what?” I asked.
“Beats the shit out of me,” he said.
“That’s a good line. Remember that for when we meet with Pierro. It’s a confidence builder.” Mike got up and moved restlessly around the room, looking out the window, staring at the pictures on his wall.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“Not well,” Mike said. “He can’t ignore this anymore, or pretend it’ll just work itself out. He can’t keep it in its box much longer, and he’s running out of steam trying.” I nodded.
“It’s about three weeks until the French executive committee meets,” I said after a while. “We could try a brute-force approach. Blanket surveillance on Trautmann, smother him, and see what turns up. But even if Pierro wants to spring for the manpower, three weeks is not a lot of time. And if Trautmann is our guy, he’ll be extra careful now.” Mike looked at me, more tired. I went on. “If I find Faith Herman, and she makes Trautmann from the photos, we can try going at him full bore with that. Threaten to bring in cops, the feds, civil action, whatever. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch him on a day he’s feeling jittery. Of course, he might get pissed off instead, and up the ante on Pierro—or burn him altogether.”
“You’re not helping,” Mike said.
“I know,” I said. “Look, if this works the way it worked with Bregman, Pierro should be getting another fax soon. Maybe we can get some play off of that.” Mike gave me a skeptical look. I didn’t do optimism well. He sat, and chewed distractedly on a bagel. Paula padded in from the hall, an empty coffee mug in her hand. She filled it and looked at Mike and put her hand on the back of his neck. He smiled up at her and leaned his head against her hip.
“You think Pierro could be more help to us than he has been?” he asked me.
“I wouldn’t call either of them forthcoming, though they work hard at seeming to be,” I said. I looked at Paula. “What do you make of them?” I asked her.
“Rick and Helene? They’re the topic of the week, I guess.” She smiled at Mike. “I don’t know either of them well, and him less than her . . .”
“Don’t let that stop you,” I said. “We’re at the point where baseless speculation looks like expert testimony to us.” She smiled wider and nodded.
“Then I’ll tell you the same thing I told him,” she said, ruffling her fingers through Mike’s thin hair. “I’d say Rick’s a nice enough guy, in a salesman sort of way. He does the grip-and-grin with the best of them, but he manages to eke a little sincerity out of it. And he’s smart— smarter than he pretends to be. I’ve got a client who was on the other side of an acquisition from him who can testify to that. He likes to be underestimated. But at least he’s not the type to beat you over the head with how brilliant and successful he is.” She swallowed some coffee. “I know he’s into his kids, and I think he’d do pretty much anything for Helene.”
“And Helene?”
“She’s an interesting one, isn’t she? Smart, great-looking, a sort of quirky take on things, also devoted to the kids . . . but kind of like a cat, don’t you think? Very self-sufficient, very self-possessed—and tough when she needs to be.”
“How so?” I asked. Paula smiled.
“A few years back, I ran into her and her girls one Saturday morning, at a doughnut shop out in East Hampton. There was a long line, and we were queued up behind these three body-builder types—real gym rats, giant arms and legs, crew cuts, lots of tattoos, the works. No one on line would look them in the eye. One of them had had a hot date the night before, and he was telling his pals about it—very loudly—grunt by grunt, with full anatomical detail.
“They were going on and on, and the line wasn’t moving, and I was about to suggest we go elsewhere, when Helene just lit into them. Bawled them out, something fierce. She never cursed, or even raised her voice; she just got . . . all southern on them. Said how dare they ever talk about a woman that way, much less in the presence of children; and didn’t their mommas raise them any better than that; and maybe they were afraid of women, and liked men better, and they were just too scared to admit it. She went on like that—nonstop—for five minutes, until these guys just went away. Everyone in the place gave her a round of applause.”
“Tough,” I said. Paula nodded.
“Like a cat—you get along with her, on her terms. Leave her—and her kittens—alone, and you can get along just fine.”
“Otherwise?” I asked. Paula chuckled.
“Otherwise, she’ll scratch
the eyes right out of your head.”
It was midafternoon when I left Mike and Paula. Behind the cloud cover, the sun was waning, and a raw wind was picking up off the river. It was gray and cold from sidewalk to sky. I was stiff and tired and overfed. Tomorrow I’d be looking for Faith Herman, and right now I just wanted to soak in my tub some more. I took a taxi home. It dropped me at the corner, and I stood there for a moment, looking around. No pedestrian traffic just then. No cars coming. Nothing much to see in the gathering twilight. Not at first, anyway.
I’d just started down the block when a panel truck pulled away from the curb in front of my building, revealing a dark sedan parked in the space behind it. Inside I saw the silhouettes of two big men. One of them was talking on a cell phone. Shit. I pulled the Glock from behind my back and held it down along my leg. I crossed the street and walked slowly, keeping close to the buildings, keeping parked cars and trucks between the sedan and me. I hadn’t gone ten paces when I heard tires squeal at the corner. I turned to see an identical dark sedan driving the wrong way up the block. It pulled up a few feet behind me, and its doors popped open and two big guys in dark suits got out. I looked up the block at the first car. Its doors were open and two big guys were standing beside it. All the guys had guns, and all the guns were pointed at me.
Chapter Eighteen
“Federal agents,” the biggest guy yelled. “Put your weapon on the ground. Put it on the ground now, and step back. Keep your hands visible. Do it now!”
“Fuck you, Pell. I’m putting it away. You want to have your own little Ruby Ridge here on Sixteenth Street, fine—tell your boys to blaze away.” I kept my left hand up in the air, and slowly holstered the Glock with my right. My throat was tight, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Tension ran through my arms and legs like electricity. Fred Pell lowered his gun and motioned to his men to do the same. What the hell was he doing here?
“Long time no see, Killer. A little jumpy today, are we?” Pell crossed the street, smiling. His companion from the car followed. At a gesture from Pell, the other two feds got back in their own car, drove the wrong way up the block, and pulled into the space in front of Pell’s sedan.
JM01 - Black Maps Page 22
