The Anonymous Source

by A. C. Fuller

  “You look like a commercial for Hawaii,” she said. “Where are your clothes?”

  “Left them down in the changing room by the pool. Concierge lent me these.”

  “Have you eaten? Wait, lemmee guess. You swam out, caught a baby shark, built a fire out of driftwood, then grilled it on the beach for a tasty, low-carb option?”

  Alex smiled and wiped the sweat from his chest with a towel he’d grabbed from the bathroom. “You’re just making fun of me because you’ve probably never seen a shirtless younger man up close.”

  Camila glared at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t mean it that way. Look, the breakfast buffet is open downstairs. Let’s eat and I’ll tell you about Hollinger.”

  “Ok, but please put some regular clothes on first.”

  * * *

  They piled their plates high at a forty-foot buffet of standard American breakfast foods—sausage, bacon, eggs, pancakes—and local foods like mango, pineapple, and crab legs. Camila led them to a table in the corner, and they sat overlooking a courtyard dotted with cedar planters filled with flowers and miniature palm trees.

  Alex had read several bios of Hollinger and many flattering profiles in finance and investment magazines. He told her Hollinger’s story as they ate.

  “Mr. Hollinger was born on a New Jersey dairy farm on September 11, 1917, died on his eighty-fourth birthday. His dad went to fight in Germany just before he was born and never came back, so he was raised by his mom and three older brothers until he left for Princeton in 1933. Went there early, it looks like. His mother and brothers are all deceased and he has two kids from a previous marriage, both of whom live in California.”

  “From a farm to Princeton?” Camila poured syrup over pineapple pancakes that were already drenched in butter.

  “From what I could tell, they weren’t exactly farmers. They owned a large dairy operation, over a thousand acres, that sold milk wholesale to cheese makers. Anyway, his mom ran the business after his dad died. So, he goes to Princeton, majors in math, graduates in ‘37, and finishes an MA there in 1940. Spent World War II breaking codes for the Navy. Gets out of the Navy in ‘47 and decides to teach the world about math, about why numbers matter.”

  “So how’d he get so rich?”

  “Hold on a sec.” Alex walked to the buffet and returned with a plate covered in crab legs.

  “That much crab would cost two hundred dollars in the City.”

  “I know. I’m thinking about moving here.”

  “So how’d he get so rich?”

  Alex cracked a giant crab leg and dipped the meat in salted lemon juice. “At some point, he started investing a little of his family’s money. They didn’t have a ton, but enough extra during the boom of the fifties that they needed to do something with it. So he’s hopping around between crappy teaching jobs and he starts to invest little pieces of his family’s money. He lands a tenure-track job at Tulane in 1956. Taught there for fifteen years and left in ‘71 to start his own investing firm. Weird thing was, he was already rich. He was investing the whole time at Tulane. The financial magazines describe him as a pioneer. In the sixties and seventies, he used advanced math in his investing before anyone else. Used computers to design trades before the first computer appeared in the New York Stock Exchange.”

  “So he was some sort of genius?” Camila asked.

  “Basically, yeah. Just made trades based on numbers, which everyone does now. I don’t really understand it, but it worked. By the time he set up his own firm in ‘71, he had some very rich clients. Plus, he already had a personal fortune of over fifty million.”

  Camila nibbled a slice of watermelon. “Anything that helps explain the interaction at the funeral? What could John have meant when he said it was lucky Hollinger died when he did?”

  “Well, we already knew that Martin, Hollinger, and Bice were all at Tulane at the same time. But I did find out that a good chunk of Hollinger’s fortune came from an early investment in Standard Media. Ended up owning ten percent of their stock, more than five hundred million’s worth. So that’s a connection with Bice. But who knows what it means?”

  Camila wiped her watermelon in a pool of syrup. “Mac’s wife might.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  BACK IN THEIR ROOM, they checked the phone book for Sonia Hollinger but found nothing. Alex flipped open his phone and called James Stacy at home. James picked up on the first ring as Camila flopped down on the bed.

  “Waiting by the phone?” Alex asked.

  “Actually, y-yes. Where the hell are you?”

  “We’ve been in transit.”

  “We?”

  “I mean, I.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Calm down, James. I need some help.”

  “More h-help? I’m already freaking out that I helped you with that video.”

  Alex walked to the balcony and stared at the beach. “James, calm down. Can you do research from home? I mean, do you have access to all the same stuff you have at the office?”

  “Most of it, bu—”

  “I need you to look something up.”

  “I’m not d-doing another thing until you t-tell me what’s going on.”

  Alex held his hand over the phone. “He wants to know what’s going on,” he whispered to Camila.

  She sat up in bed and nodded. Alex told James about the video, Baxton squashing his story, and the man in their apartments. “We’re in Kona,” he concluded.

  James coughed into the phone. “I’m not involving myself in this any-m-m-m-m—” He cleared his throat. “Anymore.”

  “You’re already involved,” Alex said. “Please, we just need an address or phone number for Sonia Hollinger in Kona.”

  “Aren’t you a reporter? Can’t you go d-down to the town hall or something?”

  “We don’t want anyone to know we’re looking for her.”

  James sighed. “Give me a half hour.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Alex said. He hung up.

  Camila lay on her back across the bed. “I feel like I’m in a sugar coma.”

  Alex lay on his belly beside her, his feet dangling off the bottom of the bed. “Let’s think about this, Cam. What do we know?”

  “Cam? So we’re doing nicknames for each other now?”

  Alex pressed the nail of his index finger into his thumb then flicked her leg. “You’re the one who held my hand on the plane,” he said. “And leaned toward me flirtatiously last night.”

  She rolled away from him onto her elbow. “That was a mistake. I’m really not . . . I mean . . . it’s not a good idea.”

  Alex stood up and walked to the window. “I could use another call from that source,” he said after staring at the beach for a minute.

  “What about your list? Read me a few names.”

  Alex took the list from his bag. “Well, Bearon eliminated five names. I called a few. About seventy are left. Brian Adler, officer on the NYU beat. Simone Bryant, assistant DA for Manhattan County. You’re not gonna know any of these people.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Alex scanned the list, then looked up. “Weird.”

  “What?”

  “James put the names of the prosecutors on here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he put Davis, Morganthal, and Sharp on here. The three lead prosecutors in the Santiago trial.”

  “You asked him for everyone who would have access to the file, right?”

  “Yeah, but I figured he would eliminate people who obviously aren’t my source.”

  “Did you ask him to do that?”

  “Well, no.”

  Camila walked over and took the list. “Wait, that could fit,” she said. “If Santiago is innocent, they are likely to know it. Maybe one of them has a guilty conscience.”

  “That’s pretty farfetched. They’re putting all their energy into prosecuting the guy. Why would they leak information to
sabotage their own case?”

  “Think about it,” Camila said. “You said Sharp wants to run for mayor, right? Maybe he wants the case to get even bigger. Even if he loses, if it’s not his fault, it won’t matter. The more press the trial gets, the bigger his profile gets. For better or worse, he’d become a national figure.”

  “Maybe. But if it’s him, he’ll never go on record. He’d be disbarred. Finished.”

  “That’s why he’d go to great lengths—like a voice scrambler—to make sure he stays anonymous.”

  “Let’s stick with what we know, okay? I need to get this straight before we meet with Sonia.”

  “If we meet with Sonia,” Camila said, dropping the list on the bed and sitting down.

  “We know the guy from the sketch killed Demarcus and rifled through my apartment, probably looking for the recording. But why didn’t he rifle through your apartment?”

  “Maybe he heard Charlie next door and looked through everything quietly. Or maybe he was just waiting for us there and left when we didn’t come home.”

  Alex closed the curtains, then opened them again. He closed his left eye and focused on a pair of surfers far out on the waves. “And if the bartender is right, we know the killer was in the bar on New Year’s Eve. So somehow that night he dosed Martin’s drink with fentanyl, probably while he was in the restroom.”

  “That would explain the wobbling and shaking on the video.”

  “Right,” Alex said. “So he gets to the park as the fentanyl hits. He leans on the statue. Santiago walks through the park, stops, and watches him die.”

  “Any chance Santiago was somehow in on it, and is taking the fall?”

  “I don’t know, but he seems like a pretty weird kid. Seems like the kinda kid who could’ve done it.”

  “That’s not exactly how these things are supposed to be decided,” Camila said.

  “Well, he had the drug in his apartment.”

  “Yeah, but lots of students get fake prescriptions.” Camila walked over to Alex and looked out at the surfers.

  “So if Santiago had nothing to do with it,” he said, “we’re back to motive. My source said we need to figure out why Martin was killed, that there are three dead, not two. It’s possible that refers to Hollinger, but it’s quite possible it doesn’t.” Alex paused. “Plus, Hollinger died in 9/11. How could his death be linked to anything else?”

  Camila went back, sat on the bed, and closed her eyes.

  Alex watched her. “What?” he asked. “I can tell you’re thinking something.”

  “I’m just thinking about that interaction John had with Bice at the funeral. Maybe John knew something Bice didn’t want him to know. Something connected to Hollinger.”

  “That would tie them together, but we need to talk with Hollinger’s wife.” Alex paced the room.

  “What are you thinking now?” Camila asked.

  “Before we ran out of your apartment, you said that Martin kept everything. Do you have an assistant? Anyone who can send you Martin’s papers?”

  “I can get Charlie to do it. He’s got a spare key.”

  “What about e-mails? Can we get his e-mails?”

  “John rarely e-mailed, and when he did, it was just for work. He didn’t even have a personal e-mail account.”

  Camila called Charlie and explained where she was. Next, she asked him to send all the files from the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet, plus the letters Martin had written her, which were in her desk drawer. “Everything should be here Saturday,” she said when she hung up.

  Alex’s phone rang and he looked at the caller ID. “It’s James,” he said, flipping it open. “What happened to fifteen minutes?”

  “Rich p-people are harder to find.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “HOW’D YOU FIND the number?” Alex asked.

  “Called the c-county c-clerk in Kona and pretended I was a cop following up on some 9/11 stuff about her h-husband. Couldn’t get an address but the woman gave me a number.”

  Alex took down the number. “Thanks,” he said. “I promise we’ll be in touch soon.”

  He dialed Sonia and got no answer. “Now what?” he asked Camila.

  Camila’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and walked out through the sliding door to the balcony. Alex sat at the desk and listened.

  “Mama? Yeah, hi. What’s going on with Papa? Yeah . . . Yes, I’ll talk with him . . . Hi Papa . . . Yes, Mama told me, I’m so sorry . . . I’m going to try to come . . . Yes, okay, go rest, Papa . . . Hi Mama. Let me try to figure some things out. I’ll see if I can make arrangements . . . Yeah, bye.”

  She walked back into the room and closed the sliding door behind her. “My father is going to die this week,” she said.

  Alex tried to catch her eye, but she was staring at the carpet. After a moment, she picked up her purse and walked out of the room.

  * * *

  Alex didn’t see her the rest of the afternoon.

  He called Sonia every half hour and finally left a message at around 3 p.m. In between calls, he worked at the business center. First he looked up Damian Bale, who was listed on the Web site of the Old Rhino Bar as a wine expert, and even had a one-page Web site of his own at nycchocolatebar.com. Alex knew there was no way to confirm what the bartender had said about New Year’s Eve, but he had a feeling the guy was reliable.

  At 4 p.m., he checked the homepage of The New York Times for news on the Santiago trial. That day, prosecutors had called two police officers and both had testified that they’d searched Martin’s apartment within hours of the murder but hadn’t found anything helpful. The next day, they’d retraced Martin’s steps from his apartment, to the Old Rhino Bar, to his walk across the park. By the end of the first day of the investigation, their only clue had been a law student who’d said she had seen a strange-looking kid in the park that night. After police questioned her, the strange-looking kid had become their only lead.

  Canvassing the neighborhood the next day, they’d traced Santiago to the adult theater. They were in his room by noon, where they’d found the spray bottle of fentanyl. At that point, they hadn’t had a cause of death for the professor. But when Santiago produced what had looked like fake prescriptions for numerous drugs, he’d been held and questioned. Once they’d had Santiago in custody, the police had ordered a fentanyl test on Martin’s body. And when the test had come back positive two days later, they’d known they had their man.

  As Alex read the AP story The Standard was running where his own work should have appeared, his phone rang. He flipped it open. “Mrs. Hollinger?”

  Silence.

  “Sonia?”

  “No, this is Juan Carlos.” The man’s accent was thick and Alex thought it sounded Cuban. “I am her assistant. Is this Alex Vane?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have called many times.”

  “Yes I—”

  “What do you want with Mrs. Hollinger?”

  “I am a reporter with The New York Standard but I am not here on an assignment. I believe she may be able to help us solve the murder of a friend of her husband. His name was Professor John Martin.”

  “I thought the police already solved that murder. You say you are a reporter or a police?”

  “Reporter. But it’s a long story. Please. We will only need a few minutes of her time.”

  Alex heard Juan whispering to someone. Finally, Juan said, “You can come by tomorrow morning around eleven. We are on Alii Drive, 1616.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CAMILA SAT ON THE BEACH, listening to the waves and watching a pair of surfers far out in the water. She saw a giant turtle and wondered whether it was the same one she had seen that morning. She remembered the cold chair from earlier in the day, then relaxed as her butt sank into the sand. She thought she could feel the weight of the earth pushing her up from below. She wondered whether it was because there were no pipes, subways, or people below her.

  She dug her toes in
to the sand. A warm wind blew her hair across her face. Her body felt light as she closed her eyes.

  “Cam, what are you doing?” Her father’s voice in her head. She felt the words as an inner recoil, a tensing that started in her legs and moved through the rest of her body. It was like the phrase contained all his anger, all his cruelty, as well as that of his parents and their parents. A stabbing sadness coursed through her chest. She doubled over and cried for a few seconds, then sat back up, wiping sandy tears from her face. She dug her toes deeper into the sand.

  She felt him throughout her body, and felt his parents and grandparents, too. Generations of congealed suffering moved through her. She opened her eyes. The beach and the sea were still there. She heard laughing in the water and saw blurry surfers through her tears.

  She breathed deeply and felt her father drift through her. Maybe he was dead already, and this was him trying to move into her. She shivered and closed her eyes. Her father’s mother appeared to her in a black dress, scowling on a dock in Buenos Aires. The cruelty had been in her grandmother, too.

  She lay in the sand and covered her eyes to block the bright sun. She felt her father and grandmother settle over her, her sense of self crowded out until she could no longer track what was happening. They were both full of a sadness that came from a time before she was born.

  She was too hot. She writhed in the sand, feeling that the sadness would kill her—that years upon years of cruelty had finally arrived within her, to take her away. She’d let it take her. She spread out her arms and legs in the sand and sobbed as the sadness stabbed at her chest. After a few minutes, her sobbing quieted into a soft whimpering and she became still. The heavy earth pushed her up and a lightness came into her. Her mind was empty and her father and grandmother were gone.

  She sat up, rubbed her eyes clear of tears, and looked out at the water. Light glimmered on the edges of waves. The turtle was gone. She imagined it swimming away under the surf.

  She felt new to herself. Light and unburdened.