She had packing to do.
Chapter 22
Zach Springer carefully read the Times article concerning the latest development in the Republican nomination battle. Gabriel Rooney had selected Stephen Delsiner as his running mate, which seemed kind of presumptuous, given that he hadn’t even secured the nomination. Sitting in his car outside a Gold’s Gym outlet in northern Westchester County, he scanned the entire first section of the Times and found not a single mention of Charles Moore. Less than a week after his tragic plane crash the remaining players had regrouped. A few days ago his widow had briefly made headlines when she announced that she would not endorse a candidate despite the considerable pressure on her to do so. She had been dignified and resolute following the crash, and her endorsement would have been political gold. In fact, there was a brief flurry of rumors that Elisa Moore herself might run, but while widows picking up their late husband’s mantle worked at the state level, it wouldn’t fly in a presidential campaign, or so the pundits theorized.
A woman walked in front of his car. He checked the photo he’d printed from the internet and decided it wasn’t her. Then he checked again and decided it might be—something in the mouth, locked in a disappointed frown. He got out of the car.
“Francesca Garamondo?” he shouted as she was entering the gym. She turned and watched as he approached her.
“I’m Zach Springer. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Williston.”
“For Christ’s sake, enough about that.”
“Just a few questions.”
“There was a hearing. Google it.”
“That’s how I found you.”
“My address isn’t—”
“No, but you came up as a trainer here.”
She looked away and slowly shook her head. “I moved a hundred miles from Williston, I lost fifty-five pounds, got in shape, even made a career of it. And I still can’t get away from that place.”
“I’d say you’re a long way away.” He handed her the old photo, which she stared at for a few silent moments.
“I don’t know this person.”
She’d been plump and matronly then, thirty-six years old with shoulder-length dark hair. The fingers on her right hand, raised to take the oath, were thick and stubby, with rings embedded in the soft flesh. Now there didn’t appear to be any fat on Francesca Garamondo: her face was narrow to the point of gauntness, but her shoulder muscles bulged against taut skin, her arms revealed long, ropy muscles, and her thigh and calves stretched a pair of black, ankle-length spandex pants. Her hair was cropped short and dyed white-blonde. The transformation had been remarkable but perhaps counterproductive, for it had added several years to her appearance, and those years looked hard.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “That’s all I need.”
“Sorry, I stopped talking about Williston fifty pounds ago.”
“Don’t you owe it to your husband to get to the truth?” Her husband, Jim Garamondo, had been murdered in the prison uprising.
“Where the fuck do you get off telling me what I owe my husband?” Angry veins rose to the surface of her neck. “And since when does anything about Williston have to do with truth?”
“It’s the lies I want to hear about.”
“Get lost.” She entered the gym and let the door close behind her. He followed her inside.
“I want a training session.”
She turned around. “Like hell you do.”
“One hour.”
“Gil, which trainers are on the floor today?” A beefy blond man behind the reception counter consulted a datebook.
“No, I want you.”
“I’m booked.”
“Actually, your ten o’clock just called to cancel, Frankie,” the blond guy said. The veins in her neck looked ready to burst.
“You’re not dressed to work out,” she said, taking in his oxford shirt and jeans. At least he had sneakers on. He walked over to the counter.
“I’ll take one T-shirt, size large, and a pair of shorts, also large.”
“It’s seventy-five dollars for the hour,” she said.
As the blond man rang up the purchases, Zach imagined what Sarah would do if she could see him blithely dropping two hundred bucks on a training session. Throw him out of the apartment seemed a reasonable guess. He paid with Arthur Sandler’s credit card.
“The locker room is that way,” Francesca said. “I assume you know how to use a locker room?”
He changed quickly and met her on the gym floor.
“We’ll start with legs,” she said and directed him to a Cybex leg press. Once he was angled onto the machine she set the weight at 35 pounds, the lowest amount possible. He reset it at 150 and pushed out twelve reps.
“You’ve done this before,” she said.
“I’m a biker,” he said, trying to ignore the screaming pain in his quads. “Now, about Williston. I’m looking into the involvement of one of the inmates, Billy Sandifer.” He saw the name register. “Tell me what you know about him.”
“Give me another set.”
He managed ten reps, wishing he hadn’t set the weight so high.
“Jim hated him, even before the riot. Sandifer was a celebrity, you know. Reporters would show up now and then to interview him. He never talked to them, but I used to hear that he was a hero to a lot of people, you know, hippie types who hated oil companies and Walmart. Jim could never get over the irony of that.”
“Irony?”
“That this so-called people’s activist was such a freak.”
“In what way a freak?”
“Like, an inmate said one thing wrong, or touched him the wrong way, he’d lash into the guy. And not in the way prisoners do, you know? It wasn’t shoving or talking trash. It was mean stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Like a guy’s wrist would be broken—not just broken, flattened back against his arm, or every front tooth would be knocked out of his mouth. Everyone knew to stay away from him, but sometimes a new guy would step over the line in some small way. And there were never any witnesses, no proof, so he got away with it. Jim said shit went on all the time at Williston, only that Sandifer took it to an extreme. You want to do another set?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Maybe a cup of coffee, though.” She frowned and led him to the small juice bar overlooking the parking lot, where he bought two cups of coffee.
“Why are you interested in Billy Sandifer?”
“He may be connected to a guy I used to work for.” Zach knew this sounded vague, perhaps even evasive, so he changed the subject. “I called a few of the guards who survived the riot, but they wouldn’t talk.”
“So you figured you’d try a widow.”
He shrugged. “You were closest to where I live, in Manhattan.”
“So I guess you know that Sandifer was the intermediary between the government and the inmates.”
“Why was he chosen, given his background?”
“He chose himself, as far as anyone could tell. He was high profile, don’t forget. A man of principles. I think he knew he’d get time off for good behavior if he helped contribute to a peaceful resolution. I remember when they told us, me and the other wives—we were holed up together in a bus outside the prison—when they told us it was Sandifer who was going to be the go-between we couldn’t believe it. But we were so desperate to get our men back we forgot what we’d heard about him and just prayed he’d do a good job. And you know what was really sick? In most people’s eyes, he did a good job. The uprising ended within twenty-four hours.”
“With eight dead.”
“Three guards and five inmates. Not bad for a day’s work.” Her hand shook, threatening to spill hot coffee. Gently, he took the cup from her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve changed everything about myself, where I live, how I look, but talking about it takes me back there. The other two wives, they had children, deep roots in Williston. They couldn’t leave. I suppose I’m lucky,
no kids, no family up there. You know, I never planned to become like this.” She ran a hand along her right deltoid, which flared from her shoulder like an epaulet. “I started working out for something to do and I couldn’t stop.”
“At least you found something…”
“The funny thing is, I don’t think Jim would have liked me this way. We were only married a year. I was heavy when we met, fat, really, and he never complained.”
He gave her a few moments before talking.
“Billy Sandifer was regarded as a hero after Williston,” he said. “The prevailing thinking was that, bad as the uprising ended, without Sandifer it would have been a lot worse.”
“You’re talking to the wrong person if you believe that.”
“There were never any specific allegations against Sandifer.”
“None. Matter of fact, the state shortened his sentence by almost two years. There were eight guards held hostage. Five came home. That’s five happy endings against three tragedies. I’m surprised he didn’t get the medal of honor or something. And then there’s his daughter.”
“Daughter?”
“Yeah, she was born right after he went in. Major problems, I think she’s retarded or autistic or both. He made a big deal with the parole board that he’s her only family.”
“The mother?”
“Flew the coop after the daughter was born, or after she was diagnosed. Nice, huh?”
“What happened to the daughter?”
“He testified at the parole hearing that she was in some sort of state institution. Horrible place, the way he described it.”
“Does the name Julian Mellow mean anything to you?”
“He owned Acorn, which owned Williston.”
“Did he have any direct contact with Sandifer?”
“I don’t think he wanted to dirty his hands.”
“Then who was Sandifer’s contact with the state negotiators?”
“He met one-on-one with the warden. Just the two of them.”
And yet Mark Verbraski denied ever meeting with Mellow during the negotiations. So how did Sandifer hook up with him?
“Everyone stayed away,” she continued. “We kept waiting for the governor to get involved, the president. Conditions were awful at Williston once Acorn took over, and not just for the inmates. The guards took a 10 percent pay cut the year before the riot, they had their benefits cut back, their hours extended. You can only do that so many times before something happens. Jim used to say it was only a matter of time before someone rioted—the inmates or the guards. So I guess we were stupid to expect the governor to get involved, after he’d basically ignored all the problems at Williston. One time, about four days into the uprising, this huge helicopter came down not far from the main gate. We thought for sure it was the governor or maybe even the president. Stupid us.”
“Who was it?”
“Someone from Acorn, I guess. We weren’t allowed close enough to see who it was. One guy got out, I do remember that. But it was dark and I didn’t see his face.”
“This was four days into the negotiations. Wouldn’t everyone important enough to arrive by chopper be there already?”
“Hey, we asked who it was, but it was all hush-hush.”
“How long was the helicopter there?”
“Less than an hour. That same guy got back in, at least I assume it was the same guy. Trust me, it wasn’t a good moment for us, watching the helicopter leave. I mean, we all felt abandoned before, but watching that helicopter disappear into the night was a low point.”
It was Julian in the chopper, he’d bet his life on it. Julian was notorious for squeezing every dime out of his portfolio companies—none of his executives had access to private helicopters. But Julian kept one on call at the heliport on the East River. He’d swooped in, made some sort of deal with Sandifer, either directly or through Warden Verbraski, then left. The next day the standoff ended. Verbraski lost his job and then his family but somehow had enough cash for a brand-new Escalade and top-shelf vodka. Sandifer flew around the country on Julian’s jet. Somehow it all connected back to Williston.
“You never did tell me why you’re interested in Billy Sandifer,” she said.
“I said it was about my former employer, Julian Mellow.”
“But why?”
“An old score, I guess.” She stood up and tossed her coffee cup into a nearby can. He rose and extended a hand. “I know it’s not easy talking about this.”
She took his hand, shook it, but didn’t let go. Her hand felt small and hard.
“Since you prepaid the training session, and we only worked out together for, like, a minute, I feel I owe you something.”
“You’ve already given me a lot of good information.”
“Here’s something else. Whatever it is you’re doing, give it up. It’s not worth it.”
“But you don’t even know what I—”
“I can see it in your face, in your eyes, the way you get almost breathless when you start talking about Sandifer and Julian Mellow. It’s the way I was two years ago, convinced that there was some avoidable mistake or grand conspiracy that killed my husband. It’s like a hunger you can never satisfy. It grabs you from the inside. But eventually, if you’re lucky, you realize two things. First, you’re never going to figure things out, they’re much too big—too big for you, at any rate. And second, it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Jim is dead, he’s going to stay that way. I’m lucky because I figured that out, and because I found this.” She ran a hand down her flattened chest and across her taut midsection. “You seem like a nice guy, and by the way, your legs are fucking amazing. I hope you find something else, Zach, before you’ve invested so much in this search of yours that you have nothing left over for anything more constructive.”
“Good advice.”
“Which you’ve heard before.”
“Thanks for the information and the advice,” he said, and she released his hand.
Chapter 23
“Mr. Mellow? I have a Mark Verbraski on the phone.”
When Julian didn’t reply immediately, Stacy Young added, with a touch of nervousness, “He says it’s important.”
“Put him through,” he said.
“Yeah, Mr. Mellow? It’s Mark Verbraski, I was the—”
“I know who you are.” Or were.
“So, how’ve you been, Mr. Mellow?” He sounded drunk, so Julian waited him out. “Okay, well, listen, you’ve been very generous, Mr. Mellow. I don’t know what I’d do without the money you sent.”
If he was calling to demand more money, he was wasting his time. One untraceable deposit in a numbered account two years ago was the first and last payment. That had been agreed upon.
“What do you want?”
“And the best part? My wife doesn’t have a clue about it.” His voice wavered in volume and tone. Julian hated drunks: under the best of circumstances, their lack of control was offensive; with Verbraski, it was potentially dangerous. “She took everything, every stick of furniture, even the microwave oven. What kind of person takes a built-in microwave oven?”
“I have a meeting to attend. Please don’t call again.”
“Wait! Wait. There’s a reason I called. I called because I…” While Verbraski tried to work out why he’d called, Julian recalled their one and only meeting two years earlier, in Williston. He’d taken the chopper upstate, landed near the prison at night without tipping off the swarms of reporters, and met with Verbraski in a small conference room. That’s where the deal had been struck.
Verbraski cleared his throat and coughed, bringing Julian back to the present.
“What is it you want?”
“This guy came to see me, Zach something-or-other.”
“Zach Springer?”
“That’s him.”
Julian felt the muscles in his chest constrict. What the hell did Springer want with Verbraski? What possible connection could there be?
“What did
he want?”
“He asked a lot of questions about back then, you know, about the riot.”
“What kind of questions?”
“He wanted to know if I ever met you.”
“What did you tell him?”
He heard Verbraski take a big swallow of something that was probably not orange juice.
“I told him we never met.”
“Then there’s no problem.”
“I just thought you’d want to know.”
“You did the right thing. Call me if he makes contact again, otherwise—”
“He asked about Billy Sandifer.”
“What did he want to know about Sandifer?”
“About him and me.” He heard liquid being poured into a glass, then another noisy swallow. “And him and you.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing. I told him nothing.”
“Good. As far as Zach Springer is concerned, you and I never met, and I never met Sandifer.”
“No problem.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Well, yeah, one more thing.” Julian braced for more bad news. “You’ve been very generous to me in the past.”
He actually felt relief that it was only money. “You want more money?”
“My wife, she took everything, and I—”
“I’ll arrange for a transfer to my Swiss account and then move the funds into your account. You can draw down on it in three days or so. What amount were you thinking?”
A long silence. He could practically smell booze and greed through the phone line.
“I was thinking about…ten—no, fifteen thousand.”
Julian had already resigned himself to sending ten times that to buy his silence. He had nothing but disdain for men who left money on the table. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Let me know if anyone else contacts you.”
“You got it,” Verbraski said.
Julian hung up and felt uncharacteristically overcome. Zach Springer was a name he never expected to hear again. He’d assumed Zach had moved on. What was he doing, nosing around Williston? What had he learned?
Presidents' Day Page 11
