Now, our breakfast finished, and oblivious to the murmur of voices and clatter of dishware around us, Sam shoved some plates aside on the table and pointed to his laptop screen.
He’d pulled up a video from CNN, covering the apparent suicide last night of a junior attorney at McCloskey, Singer, and Ganz. Howard Gould, married and the father of three, had been found in his office at the New York branch of the law firm. Dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Though he’d left no note, family and friends confided to police that Gould had been troubled by mounting gambling debts. Behind on house payments and private school tuition, as well as losing a hoped-for promotion at work, Gould had grown increasingly despondent.
The report ended with a statement from a spokesman at the renowned firm, expressing shock at the tragic loss of one of its valued employees and offering its condolences to Gould’s family.
Sam clicked off the video and gave me a sober look.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
I nodded. “Howard Gould was Henry Stubbs’ mole inside the firm. The guy who’d recorded that conversation between McCloskey and one of his clients. About Sinclair. With all his debts, Gould probably felt he had no choice but to work for Stubbs. He needed the money.”
“Then, somehow, Gould was exposed. He must’ve admitted to working for Stubbs. Even told them about the recording.”
“Which is why Roarke and Baxter were sent to Harville. To kill Stubbs and retrieve it.”
Sam snapped the laptop lid closed and reached for his coffee. His eyes were lidded, heavy from lack of sleep. He’d been working on the Gould suicide since the story broke in the middle of the night.
“Once Gould was found out,” he said, “God knows the pressure he was under. I guess he saw only one way out.”
“Any doubts about the suicide?”
“None. Cops found no evidence of foul play.”
I leaned back as our waitress approached, giving her room to refill my own coffee mug. Though I was beginning to think there wasn’t enough caffeine in the world. Not for how woolly-headed I was feeling.
After she’d moved on, Sam folded his hands under his chin. “So, we’re still figuring McCloskey is behind all this? That once he found out about Gould, he sent Roarke and Baxter into action?”
I sipped the hot coffee without tasting it.
“That’s the thing, Sam. I was with Roarke in the barn when I mentioned McCloskey. Looking right at him. I swear, he had no idea who I was talking about.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, I don’t think he got his marching orders from Evan McCloskey.”
“Then from who? Or whom. I never get that straight…”
“I have no idea. Just like I don’t understand the bank robbery. I mean, I know it’s part of all this. I just don’t know how…or why.”
Sam favored me with that crooked smile of his. “That’s why God invented the police department, Danny. Maybe you oughtta let them figure it out for a change. I know it’s a crazy idea, but…”
I said nothing. Draining my coffee in one gulp. As I watched the smile fade from Sam’s lips.
“You realize, of course, that we could be all wrong about Gould. He could just be another poor bastard who got in over his head financially and cracked under the strain. With no connection to Stubbs. The fact that he happened to work for McCloskey, Singer is just a weird coincidence. They’re a big firm, with a hundred guys like Gould on the payroll. A hundred junior lawyers.
“The truth is,” he went on, “we’ve got nothing. No proof. Henry Stubbs is dead. Gould is dead. Any recording—if it ever existed—is gone. Probably destroyed. Which means all my theories about McCloskey and his sinister plans are…well, just that. Theories.”
He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Maybe he’s exactly what he seems to be. Just another filthy rich lawyer in a world full of filthy rich lawyers. Maybe everything I’ve come up with is pure fantasy. Or else I just dreamed it all. Hell, maybe I’m dreaming now.”
“You’re not dreaming, Sam. If you were, you’d be having breakfast with Angelina Jolie. Not me.”
He laughed sourly. “True enough. Though it’s funny… whether or not I’m right about all this, looks like Lee Sinclair’s going to win the election. I was checking out yesterday’s poll numbers online before you got here. He’s moved way ahead of Garrity. Six, seven points.”
“That ought to make Brian Fletcher happy.”
“Ecstatic. You oughtta see the press release the campaign put out an hour ago. I guess Fletcher wanted to make sure everyone knew which way the wind was blowing before the debate tonight.”
“To suggest that a Sinclair victory in November is a foregone conclusion, no matter how the debate turns out.”
“You got it, Danny. Politics 101. Act like you already won and the voters will follow suit.” That crooked smile returned. “Everybody wants to back a winner. Right?”
***
I was heading out of Squirrel Hill, the sun low and at my back, when my cell rang. The dash clock read 8:00 AM.
“Danny, it’s Eleanor.”
“Hey, I was just going to call you. Did Harry—?”
“Whatever you said to him last night did the trick. He was in this morning before I was. Did a huge mea culpa in Biegler’s office. Even brought the lieutenant coffee and bagels. I think he’s officially out of the dog-house. For now, at least.”
“Good.”
“But that’s not why I called. We need you at the Federal Building in an hour.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“The brass, that’s who. There’s some new info that’s just being processed. Some background stuff we’re still putting together. And we’re going to need your input. About how to talk to Treva about it.”
“Treva? What’s this all about, anyway?”
“Bobby Marks, the assistant bank manager.”
“What about him?”
“Just get your ass down here, okay, Danny? Everything’s coming to a head, and I don’t have time to explain it all now. See you in an hour.”
***
I found a shaded parking space near the construction site at the Point and cut the motor. I had a few calls to make myself.
First I checked my office voice mail. Again, nothing urgent. Quiet week, at least in terms of my practice. As Angie Villanova would say, “Thank God for small favors.”
Then I checked in with Nancy Mendors. She was already in her office at Ten Oaks and picked up on the first ring.
“I just wanted to see how Victoria Tolan was holding up,” I said. “More importantly, how you are.”
“Victoria’s fine, Danny. And she’s decided to stay on here at Ten Oaks.” I heard a warmth enter her voice. “And I’m fine, too. Still a little stunned by what Stan Willis did, but glad that it’s all over. Thanks to you.”
“No need to thank me. Once in a while I get lucky, that’s all.”
“Yeah, right. Anyway, now that the real story about Andy’s death has come out, a few patients have even asked if they could have his room. I think that’s a good sign. Like it means things are getting back to normal around here. Or at least what passes for normal.”
She took a breath. I knew what was coming.
“Look, Danny, I really think it’s time you and Warren met. You’ll like him, I promise. And he’ll like you.”
“You know I’m going to think he’s not good enough for you, right?”
“You kidding? I’m counting on it.”
I nodded at the phone, as though she could see it. But she’d already hung up.
***
My last call was to Noah Frye. He picked up from the phone next to the cash register at his bar. I could tell from the clink of glassware, which he compulsively arranged and rearranged in the overhead rack as we talked.
“You’re starting work early, Noah. You okay?”
“I’m fine. Couldn’t sleep, that’s all. Too wired. We did an extra set last night for a group of dentis
ts in town for a convention. Real jazz nuts. Lousy tippers, though.”
“Where’s Charlene?”
“I’m lettin’ her sleep in. Poor kid, works her fingers to the bone around here.”
“You take your meds when you got up?”
“Yes, Warden. And I cleaned all the porn out of my cell. Now I’ll get my harmonica and play a melancholy jail tune.”
“I just want you to stay on top of things, man.”
“Bullshit. You want to know if I heard what really happened to Andy the Android, and how it wasn’t because his meds stopped working. It was because he stopped takin’ ’em, the stupid jerk.”
“It’s true, Noah. He’d stopped for a week or more.”
“I get it, okay? As a matter of fact, I did take my head candy this morning. With my orange juice and fiber pills. This way, not only am I rational, I’m regular, too. Any other personal info you need, Danny? My blood pressure? Religious affiliation? Favorite sex toy?”
“No, I’m good. Glad to hear you are, too. Say hello to Charlene for me, okay? And Thelonius.”
“Charlene? Sure. Though the cat and I ain’t currently on speaking terms. Don’t ask me why, it’s a long story.”
So I didn’t.
***
The parking lot at the Federal Building was nearly full, which was unusual for a Saturday. But not for today. Not with the debate only eight hours away and law enforcement on high alert.
On the radio driving here, the lead story detailed the tight security planned for tonight’s political event at Hilman Library on the Pitt campus. Most divisions of the Pittsburgh Police, as well as a contingent of FBI agents drawn from the tri-state area, were being deployed. Streets would be blocked off, traffic diverted.
“Despite these precautions,” the reporter intoned, “tensions are running high. After all, who can forget Jimmy Gordon’s chilling words—even as police hauled him away—about District Attorney Leland Sinclair? ‘He won’t make it to the debate alive.’”
I frowned and clicked off the radio. Not Gordon’s exact words, but close enough. Certainly the kind of quote that gets news directors salivating.
I finally found a spot at the west end of the Federal Building lot and went in the main entrance. Grateful for the blast of air conditioning, since the sun—even at this early hour—was already baking the Steel City. According to the weather report I’d heard, officials were expecting a record high today. Maybe 105, if not higher.
The guy at the desk checked my name and sent me up to the top floor conference room. When I got there, I found the double doors not only closed, but locked.
I knocked, loudly.
Chapter Fifty-six
I hadn’t finished shaking hands with Neal Alcott, the local FBI agent in charge, before he was complaining about the fact that I was there.
“Biegler here tells me the department needs Treva Williams as a witness.” Alcott turned back to take his seat at the conference table. “And that they need you to keep her from going off the deep end.”
I said nothing as I took the only remaining empty seat. The conference room was wood-paneled, igloo-cold, deliberately impersonal. Classic FBI décor: stoic, no-nonsense, purely functional.
Alcott leaned back in his swivel chair, hands locked behind his head. A bit thinner than he’d looked on TV, he still displayed wide shoulders in his tailored suit. And the burred hair of a former jock.
“Personally, though, I don’t like using civilians in any law enforcement capacity. Dilutes the gene pool, if you know what I mean.”
Stu Biegler stirred, grinning. “You and I are on the same page there, Agent Alcott.”
“No need to pucker up just yet, Lieutenant. There’ll be plenty of time for that after this fiasco is contained.”
An embarrassed silence, as Biegler ducked his head down over the files fanned out on the table in front of him. Everybody else, glancing down at the duplicate materials in front of them, pretended to do the same. This included Harry Polk, ADA Parnelli, and Eleanor Lowrey.
Since a similar packet of files hadn’t been left on the table for me, I was free to keep my attention focused on Neal Alcott. Watching the color drain from his smooth, telegenic features as I stared. Smiling.
Finally, offering me a weak smile in return, Alcott put his palms down on the table. “Obviously, Doctor, it’s nothing personal against you. I assume that if you weren’t an asset to the department, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Assume whatever you want, Agent Alcott. Especially since I have no idea what’s going on. Except that it concerns Bobby Marks.”
Alcott flipped open a slim manila folder.
“Before we begin, I should mention that I’ve already briefed the assistant chief on most of what we have so far. He and I have agreed that we’ll need more clarification on some crucial aspects of this case before sending our conclusions further up the food chain.”
“Meaning the Cchief, the DA, the mayor…” Biegler stating the obvious in a desultory, still-wounded voice.
Which Alcott studiously ignored, as he looked at me.
“First of all, Dr. Rinaldi, Detective Lowrey shared with us your suggestion that the bank robbery wasn’t exactly what it appeared to be.”
“And…?”
“Apparently, you were right. There are a lot of puzzle pieces still missing, but we’re fairly convinced the bank job was a cover for something else. Namely, the murder of Bobby Marks, the assistant bank manager.”
I let this sink in. “You mean, Marks was the intended victim all along?”
“It appears so, yes. But I’ll get to that.”
I turned to Harry Polk. “What about James Franconi, the bank manager at First Allegheny? Did you ever figure out whether or not he was involved?”
“He’s clean as a whistle, far as we can tell.” Polk rubbed his broad, ruddy brow. “He really did have a bad cold the day of the robbery. Plus he’s got no priors, not even a parking ticket. Solid gold rep. Friends and family swear he’s a fuckin’ paragon of virtue.”
“Moreover,” Alcott continued, “it was Franconi who set everything in motion…whether he meant to or not.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“We just found out yesterday that Franconi had suspected for some time that Bobby Marks was involved in shady financial doings. So he approached the SEC a few months ago and they began an investigation into Marks’ activities. Let their forensic accountants loose on him. Turns out, Marks has been using the bank’s resources to funnel large funds through various dummy corporations into the Cayman Islands. Some of these funds were traced back to a number of PACs—political action committees, who work to help specific candidates get elected.”
“I know what PACs are,” I said. “Now let me guess: one of the PACs is affiliated with Leland Sinclair.”
Dave Parnelli spoke up quickly. “That’s right, though in itself that fact proves nothing. Not a goddam thing.”
“We’re all aware of that, Mr. Parnelli,” Alcott said evenly. “But it’s certainly suggestive…”
“Of what? Shit, as evidence of wrong-doing it doesn’t even pass the laugh test.”
Alcott raised his hand, palm out. “Relax, will you? We’re nowhere near making any connections to your boss yet. But one thing is clear: Bobby Marks was the target all along. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Roarke and Baxter never even tried to open the bank vault. Then, with the whole Bureau on their tail, instead of heading for the border ASAP, they go after this Henry Stubbs. These two murders have to be connected.”
Eleanor glanced over at me. “Which is the same notion Dr. Rinaldi came up with. A couple days ago.”
Alcott ignored this. “The point is, whoever Marks was working for got nervous for some reason, and—”
“You know exactly what the reason was,” I said. “Evan McCloskey found out his conversation about having Sinclair in his pocket had been recorded. Because Henry Stubbs had been paying somebody to spy for him inside the firm.
My friend Sam Weiss, from the Post-Gazette, thinks the spy was some poor guy named Howard Gould.”
Harry Polk smirked. “You mean, that loser in New York, on the news? Ate his gun last night in his office?”
Alcott peered at me. “Oh, yes. This obsession of yours about some big-shot lawyer named Evan McCloskey. We’ve heard about that, too. As I understand it, you believe he’s been pulling strings to help Sinclair win the election. So that he can leverage this influence to get the newly-elected governor to play ball with one of his firm’s major clients. That’s the gist of your theory, right?”
I held his gaze. “I don’t think it’s a theory. I think McCloskey paid Bobby Marks to hide illegal funds used to bankroll Sinclair’s PAC…and who knows how many other candidates’ campaigns? But once he discovered that Howard Gould had sent an incriminating recording to Henry Stubbs, both Gould and Stubbs had to go. As well as Bobby Marks.”
“But why kill Marks?” Eleanor asked.
“Because McCloskey didn’t want any loose ends. Marks might talk, if pressured. Maybe McCloskey had even gotten wind of the SEC investigation and figured it was only a matter of time before Marks was exposed.”
“So Roarke and Baxter were sent to get rid of Marks, but to make it look like he’d been killed as a result of a bank hold-up gone wrong.”
I nodded. “Which was why Roarke didn’t care about killing the only guy who knew the codes to open the vault. They were never there for the money. They were only there to silence Marks.”
“I’m bettin’ Marks was probably supposed to be the only victim,” Polk added, “but when Baxter panicked and skipped out, Roarke freaked, too. Figured he’d lost control of the situation. Started shootin’.”
“Better than that,” Eleanor mused, “killing the other bank employees helped disguise the fact that Bobby Marks had been the target all along.”
Polk rubbed his chin. “Then, after Roarke escapes from the hospital and drives to the construction site, his old buddy Baxter is there to pick him up. Next stop: Harville, PA, to finish off Henry Stubbs and get the recording.”
Fever Dream Page 28
