by A. C. Fuller
It took three hours, and when he was finished, Aliouh said, “We’ll compile our report and send it along to the NYPD, but I should say that nothing beyond what happened on the island is in our purview.”
“What’s gonna happen to Rak?” Alex asked.
“We’re sending him to New York. We have him on attempted murder here but they have a better case in New York, so we’re extraditing him. From what I could gather on the phone, the city is pretty embarrassed about this Doyle guy. I still don’t get why he would just start firing like that.”
“Seems like he was here to kill Rak. To protect me. But why he did what he did, I don’t know.”
“My guess is you’ll never know what really happened,” Grady said.
“Don’t be so sure. I’m a pretty good reporter.”
“Anyway, as far as we’re concerned, the case is closed. That whole mess with the Santiago kid, all that 9/11 stuff, we wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole. I’m sure the folks in New York will want to speak with you though.”
“I’m sure they will,” Alex said, shaking the detective’s hand and showing him out.
“When will that be?” Grady asked, standing in the doorway. “I mean, when are you leaving?”
“I’ve got a redeye tonight. Leave at ten.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight,” Grady said.
* * *
On the flight from Kona to San Francisco, as most of the other passengers slept, Alex stood in the airplane bathroom with his head ducked down and his lips an inch from his recorder, dictating parts of his story. Several times, he took out the tape he was working on and inserted the recording of his conversation with Downton, memorized a quote, then swapped tapes and dropped the quote into the story. After he filled a tape, he started another.
On the connecting flight from San Francisco to New York, he wrote out a series of notes on a yellow legal pad. He planned to give a copy of the notes to the NYPD, though he knew that he would have to repeat much of what he was writing in interviews. He started with his work on the Santiago trial and his meetings with Downton. Then he covered the precise details of how he had obtained the video, the day his apartment had been ransacked, and his flight to Hawaii. He described his encounters with Rak, his four days under the protection of the KPD, and his eventual role in apprehending Rak. He also included a detailed description of Doyle and some quotes from Downton about how he had recorded the video in the first place.
Finally, he included a few pages of notes with everything he had learned about Macintosh Hollinger and Denver Bice. He knew that it would not be enough to connect Rak or Doyle to Bice, but he thought maybe the NYPD would have information that could fill in the gaps.
By the time the plane landed at JFK, he had filled twenty pages, which he stuffed into his bag as he walked off the plane.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Saturday, September 21, 2002
ALEX AWOKE AT 7 A.M. and surveyed his apartment. He stepped into the kitchen over books, clothes, and papers, and put on a pot of coffee. As it brewed, he pushed everything into the corner of the room.
He saw a red envelope wedged under the door. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It had no markings. He opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. It was one page of Denver Bice’s phone bill. A single call was highlighted in yellow. Alex recognized the number. At 9:39 a.m. on 9/11, Bice had received a two-minute call from the pay phone at World Trade Center Plaza.
This was it. It wasn’t enough to convict Bice of anything, but it would certainly make things uncomfortable for him.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and smiled. As he turned to look out the window, his mind flashed and he jerked his head to look at the paper in his hand. He had expected the phone record to be an official copy from the phone company, the kind police get when doing an investigation. This was a regular phone bill—the kind customers get in the mail.
He put down the paper and paced the room, sipping his coffee. How in the hell could Sharp have gotten this? He put the coffee down and took out James’s list. He called Sharp’s home number and left a message.
“Mr. Sharp, Alex Vane. I need to speak with you. Look, I’m going to publish in the next couple days—at least I think so. I know you don’t want me calling you, but I need a little more. And I need to know this phone record isn’t stolen. Please, I can guarantee your anonymity. Call me.”
After two cups of coffee, he sat down at his computer with his notes and the recordings next to him. He opened a new document, pressed play, and began to type. When the first tape ended thirty minutes later, he had transcribed five thousand words.
He took a break to check his e-mail and opened one from an address he did not recognize.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Concerning the Matter of Macintosh Hollinger
Date: September 20, 2002 9:29:14 PM EST
Dear Mr. Vane,
After consultation with Sonia—who speaks highly of you—I have determined that it is in everyone’s interest that I allow myself to be quoted in your article about the death of Macintosh Hollinger. Since it is likely that the media will link me to Mr. Hollinger eventually, I would rather my statement be included from the outset.
My legal advisors have copies of this statement to ensure I am accurately quoted.
Here is my statement: On the evening of August 28, 2001, I received a call from Macintosh Hollinger, formerly a client of my financial advisory firm, Harrison Investments. Our professional relationship ended in 1995, but our friendship developed and I often offered him informal advice on a wide range of financial matters.
On the night in question, Mr. Hollinger called me and asked what the tax consequences would be of selling $500 million of his holdings in the Standard Media Group.
At the time, he also made clear that he intended to donate all the proceeds of the sale to a not-for-profit, the Media Protection Organization.
“Why?” was the first question I asked. That evening, both Mac and I had the Yankees game muted on TV as we spoke. He loved the Yankees and was eager to get back to the game. He told me that he would explain when we met in person. But I insisted he tell me right away.
The game went to commercial and the television showed a row of Yankees leaning on the dugout. To their right, there was a row of reporters and cameramen.
“Louis, do you have the game on?” Mac asked me. “You see them? The players, the journalists?”
“Yes,” I told him. “I see them.”
“They lied to us,” was all he would say.
Mr. Hollinger was a lovable, eccentric man, and though I never had the opportunity to try to dissuade him of this particular financial move, I doubt I would have been successful.
Sincerely,
Louis Harrison
When he finished reading the e-mail, Alex leaned back in his chair. His phone rang. “Hello?”
“Alex, it’s J-James. Where have you been?”
“I’m just finishing a story that should explain it pretty well. Can you be here in an hour?”
“Yes.”
“Bring the video.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
JAMES STOOD IN FRONT of him, red-faced and panting. “That’s a lot of s-stairs,” he said, collapsing on the bed. Alex watched as a bead of sweat dripped onto his bed. “S-sorry,” James said between breaths.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re about to help save my ass. I hope.”
“That’s why I’m here. I want your story to be the first on my new site. And we better get it out f-fast. Things look bad for Santiago.”
“Will anyone read it on your site?”
“Leave that part to me. And what about Rak? Have you heard anything on him?”
“Nothing,” Alex said. “I have an appointment with the NYPD Sunday. They want to interview me about the whole thing. But I know someone who might have heard something.”
&nbs
p; James sat at the desk as Alex dialed Bearon at the courthouse. “Hey it’s me . . . Yeah, I know . . . This is important. Have you heard anything about Rak? You know he got caught and was extradited back here and—Yeah . . . Yeah.” Alex listened. “For everything? And where are you getting this?” Alex nodded his head, smiling. ”Okay, thanks.”
He hung up and turned to James. “Rak is taking the rap for the Downton murder, saying he acted alone. Eyewitness from The Post story has him leaving Downton’s apartment that night. Now the Ukraine wants him back. Says he blew up a church there ten years ago.”
“What about M-Martin?”
“My guy said no,” Alex said. “They don’t have enough to connect him to Martin. Just that bartender, but that’s pretty circumstantial.”
“We’ll have to change that. Santiago is gonna be convicted in the next week or two.”
“Then you better read this fast,” Alex said, leaning over the desk and opening the story on his laptop. As Alex lay on the bed, his buzzer rang again. His shoulders clenched.
“Don’t worry,” James said. “It’s our mystery g-guest.”
Alex sprang up and pressed the button to unlock the door at street level. A few minutes later, Lance Brickman walked into Alex’s apartment wearing a neat brown suit and fingering a cigar. He looked around the apartment. “Damn son, no wonder you want to work in TV. My humidor is bigger than this shithole.”
* * *
Alex recounted his entire story to Lance as they sat on the bed and James read his story.
“Don’t you want to listen?” Alex asked James as he reached the part about Doyle and the capture of Rak.
“I can read and listen at the same t-time,” James said.
“James, just how smart are you?” Alex asked.
“He’s smart enough to hire me,” Lance said.
“What?”
“I quit,” Lance said. “After twenty-nine years and ten months, I am no longer employed by The New York Standard.”
Alex smiled at him.
“I’m gonna work for the Internet. Don’t really know what that means.” He shrugged. “But James tells me you’re coming on board. Says I can write whatever I want about all the bastards in the sports media. Says he’ll get people to read it. Gonna rip everyone in sports a new one.”
“What about your vesting?” Alex asked. “Your stock?”
“Hell with the stock. Once we run your story, it’s not gonna be worth anything anyway.”
Alex laughed and nodded toward James. “He said I was coming along, too?”
Not looking away from the computer, James said “I figured you would decide on the plane. I guess that makes us p-partners.” He swiveled his chair around. “Finished.”
“Well, how is it?” Lance said. “Was it worth you both getting fired?”
“Well, it’s too long, and five things are missing,” James said.
“Having you as my editor feels weird,” Alex said. “Didn’t you work for me like two weeks ago?”
“Get used to it,” James said. “It’s good, but c-c-can we stick to what it needs? Lance, can you call around and g-get some people to go on record about Downton? Sports people, people who knew him, the more famous the b-better. You know, heartwarming stuff.”
Lance nodded. “That I can do.”
“But what are the five things?” Alex asked.
James held up his index finger. “First, we need to add the evidence showing that Hollinger called B-B-Bice from the pay phone on the morning of 9/11. Like I said, I have those records now.”
“I almost forgot,” Alex said. He handed him the phone bill he had received that morning.
“Wow,” James said. “This is better than what I got. At some point I’ll want to know if you got this legally, but that can wait. Second,” he held up another finger, “we need to get the finance guy who spoke to Hollinger to go on record. What was his n-name?”
“Harrison. He e-mailed this morning. I can insert that,” Alex said.
“Good,” James said as he put up a third finger. “Third, we need Bice’s denial. Or a denial from Bice’s c-camp. Fourth,” he continued, holding up another finger, “we need an explanation of that black fuzz found in Hollinger’s mouth.”
“I’ll handle the Bice denial today,” Alex said. “But I’m not gonna be able to find out anything about that fuzz. Could be a million things. And, as you know, we’re not getting the coroner’s report.”
“At least call his office so we can insert a ‘no comment.’”
“And what about the video?” Alex asked.
“That’s the centerpiece of the story,” James said. “If we do it right, every news station in the country will be running it by tomorrow n-night.”
“Okay, what’s the fifth thing?” Alex asked.
James held his hand up like he was asking for a high five. “Finally, we need that source. Even if he stays anonymous, we need him to go on record and say something—anything—that connects Rak to Bice, or Bice to Hollinger on the m-morning of 9/11. We have the Santiago p-piece down cold. But without any solid evidence, the story doesn’t implicate Bice. It’s just a bunch of d-dots. Even though we know they connect, the reader won’t. It could be dismissed as a crazy Internet thing.”
“And you think a quote from an anonymous source will solve that?” Alex asked.
“Most p-people skim articles. They skip the attributions, they skip the B-Matter, and they scan down for the quotes. People are more willing to believe something between quotation marks. That’s why j-journalists spend half their time trying to get people to say things they already know to be true.”
“I called Sharp this morning,” Alex said. “Haven’t heard back. And, to be honest, I’m no longer a hundred percent sure he’s the source. How could he have gotten Bice’s personal phone bill?”
Lance was already on his cell phone making calls and James turned to the computer.
Alex looked down at his phone. He had a text from Camila: I found your pole in my apartment. Dinner tomorrow? Sweet Marie’s at 6:00?
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Sunday, September 22, 2002
JAMES STACY LIVED in a large loft in Washington Heights, with two windows facing onto 160th Street. Alex stepped in, then stopped and surveyed the room. “Damn, this is not what I expected,” he said.
The ceilings were high, the floors bright and shiny hardwood, the furniture modern leather.
“Doesn’t exactly go with my outward ap-p-pearance,” James said.
“Or your desk at work.”
“My desk is messy here, too,” James said. “Only place I keep messy.”
James walked over to a large desk in the corner covered in trash and three computer screens set up in a U shape. “Make your c-calls,” he said. “I’m gonna drive traffic.”
“What?” Alex asked.
“I’ll explain later.”
James went to work on his computer as Alex called around for denials and inserted them in the story on his laptop. When Alex said that he was going to publish a story that exonerated Santiago, the NYPD spokesman begged him to wait until Tuesday to run the story so his bosses could have time to respond. Alex politely declined. He left a message for the coroner in charge of the bodies from 9/11, informing him that he was going to publish a story that implied that 9/11 had one less victim than reported. He did not expect a call back.
He reached a spokesman for Standard Media who said that Denver Bice had no comment. Before hanging up, the spokesman added, “If this article comes across as a disgruntled ex-employee trying to smear his former employer, we will not only sue for libel, we will use our considerable resources to—how shall I put this—correct the record in the public forum.”
Alex knew he would be attacked and discredited once the story came out, and he braced himself inwardly for what was to come.
Next, he called Sonia Hollinger to go over her version of events and double-check her quotes. After a few minutes of small talk, during which
she admonished him for not coming by before leaving Hawaii, she confirmed her piece of the story. When Alex tried to say “good-bye,” she said, “If you ever come back to Kona, please come and see me, honey. I imagine this story will ruffle quite a few feathers. If you need to get away, you can always stay with Juan and me for a spell. We’re both quite fond of you.”
Alex thanked her, hung up, and turned to James, who was swiveling between screens and drinking soda. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Driving traffic,” James said.
* * *
That afternoon Alex met with Damian Bale, who confirmed everything he had said previously, then tried to make Alex promise to mention his new venture in the story.
When he returned to James’s apartment, Alex read through the story one final time, then handed it to Lance when he walked in the door. “Take an ax to it,” Alex said. “It’s still too long.”
“Well, you do like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” Lance looked around the apartment, then at James. “Damn, this place is nicer than mine.” He waved the stack of papers in the air and took a red pen and a cigar out of his shirt pocket. He smiled. “I’m gonna sit on a park bench and smoke while I do this.”
* * *
An hour later, Lance returned and handed the pages to Alex. They were covered in red ink and the top page was smeared with ashes held on by an unidentifiable wetness.
“You didn’t sleep with it, did you?” Alex asked.
Lance laughed. “Kind of looks like it, huh? Never had a project of my own to work on. Really poured everything into it. It’s a good piece. When you enter my edits, it’ll be a great piece. It’s gonna cause a splash if anyone actually reads it.”
Alex entered Lance’s changes, then e-mailed the final copy to James, who read it and corrected typos on one of his screens while running Internet search applications on the other two.
