With his antennae now on full alert, Max walked over to Beth’s closed bedroom door and asked her to check her jewelry and other valuables. By the time she came out of her bedroom, he was satisfied that everything was in place in the other rooms.
When the pizza arrived, the odor of bug spray was replaced by the comfortable aromas of pepperoni, peppers, and merlot. The two sat down at the kitchen table and had dinner.
Chapter 7
Beth went straight from karate class to the office, made herself a cup of coffee, and dialed a number on her private line. After the third ring, a male voice with a proper British accent picked up. “P.P. Private Investigations. Can I help you?”
“Reggie?” Beth asked.
“Who’s this?” the speaker replied, not confirming his identity.
“Beth Swahn. Is this Reggie Pearson?”
“Hello, Beth.” The voice warmed up with recognition. “Haven’t spoken to you in a while.”
“Reggie, I need you to sweep my dad’s condo on East Seventy-second Street today. It’s urgent. I’ll leave your name with the concierge.”
“Want to tell me what this is all about?”
“Hopefully it’s just paranoia, but there’s something else I want you to do, too. My car was broken into yesterday on the Jersey Turnpike and I’m not sure it was a random thing. Can you send one of your guys over to the dealer to take a look at it?”
“Give me the dealer’s name and address.”
“Hang on a sec. I have it here….”
* * *
—
Beth stuck her head into Max’s office. “Hey, did you see Mom’s email?”
“I got it this morning.”
“Excited about her coming home?” Beth asked.
“I miss her very much, sweetheart. Did you tell her that you’re moving out next week?”
“No, I figured I’d postpone the melodrama. Want me to drive you out to JFK?”
“I think your mother would love that.”
“Fine, as long as the car window’s fixed. See you later.” Beth left his office, closing the door behind her.
Chapter 8
Beth watched intently from behind her desk, reminding herself that this was serious. The tall, wiry man with a pencil-thin mustache and a double-breasted trench coat took a miniature electronic device out of his pocket and walked slowly around her office.
The device emitted a steady low-pitched hum. Finally, when it didn’t seem to be ending, she exclaimed, “Jesus, Reggie! What are you looking for?” He looked around and motioned Beth to be silent. Any Pink Panther imagery came to an abrupt halt when the investigator reached under Beth’s desk and retrieved a wireless listening device.
“All clear now, lassie, thanks to this new type of scanner I’m testing for the manufacturer.” Eventually, he folded it up and sat down across from Beth’s desk.
“What about my car? Do I have a problem there also?”
“It appears you do. Your dad’s flat, too.”
“No need to sound so cheery,” Beth replied. “What did you find?”
“Well, we found a GPS transmitter under the rear seat of your car. Someone’s definitely been tracking you.”
“Do you think that’s related to the break-in?” Beth asked.
“Possibly, but can’t say whether the thief used it to follow you or whether he’s the one who put it in your car.”
“Either way’s bad. What else?”
“My crew found three electronic bugs in your father’s condo: one in the master bedroom, one in the den, and one in the living room.” He took a sample the size of a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it on Beth’s desk.
“I’ll give it to the police when they get here.”
“Actually, I think the bad guys were trying to save on hardware. A place like Max’s really requires seven or eight to be thorough.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.” Beth put on her reading glasses and examined the device while she quietly digested the invasion of her privacy that it represented. “Any way to connect the one in my car with those here or in the condo?”
“I suppose with enough time and effort, we might be able to identify the source of the equipment. Here’s the one I just took from under your desk. It’s not cheap stuff, and there aren’t a whole lot of suppliers.”
“What do you think we ought to do?”
“Any idea who might be interested in this sort of surveillance?”
“We’ve been working on a land deal where at least three of the parties have enough at stake to want to know what we’re doing and thinking.”
“When’s the last time you conducted a security audit?”
“We never had the need to before this.”
“That’s what I thought. With a wake-up call like you’ve just had, you need us to sanitize your flat and office on a regular basis. We do it for a number of law firms in the city.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“How big’s this office?”
“Almost twenty-five thousand square feet on two floors. We have forty-three attorneys and about twice that many in support staff.”
“I’ll send one of my people over here first thing tomorrow to give you a proposal. He’ll also help you report the listening devices to the cops and the feds.”
“Good. I’ll make sure Max is available. We need to protect our confidentiality around here. Clients depend on it.”
* * *
—
Mentoring associates did not come naturally to Beth due to her competitive nature, so she worked hard to develop the ability after becoming a partner. She reminded herself to wait patiently while Terry Kahn, a third-year associate, made copious notes on the BMI land-use case, a subject that was second nature to Beth.
“Our opposition papers need to have every argument we can think of so the record is complete if we end up in court.”
“I’m working on the draft already,” Terry replied. “Chris Osgood, our local counsel, is being very helpful.”
“Good. Your historical research on Bordentown must be thorough. Find out what’s fact and what’s urban legend about the Old Main and the tunnels.”
“Got it.”
“We have to know more about this property than Gartenberg, and we certainly can’t look to Chord Masters for any support.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll try not to micromanage too much but nothing is to be taken for granted, and nothing is to be assumed.”
“I got it.”
“Anytime some bureaucrat from Bordentown P&Z tries to justify something by claiming ‘It’s routine’ or ‘That’s the way it’s done,’ that’s our danger signal.”
“Yes, Beth. That’s one of the rules you taught me my first day on the job.”
“Glad you were paying attention.”
* * *
—
Beth listened as the phone rang in Sean’s office and was certain she felt her pulse rate go up a beat or two like it used to in the good old days.
“Special Agent in Charge Sean Harris,” her ex-fiancé formally answered.
“I love the sound of your new title,” she replied.
“Our breakup was a big cost to pay for it.”
“But if you had turned down the L.A. gig three years ago, you never would have been promoted to SAC here in New York,” Beth said.
“If you had come with me, we’d be married.”
“And probably living with a kid and a dog in Nome, Alaska.”
“I don’t think the FBI has an office there.”
“We’re both career oriented,” Beth said. “Can you meet me for lunch?”
“Did Andi get in okay?”
“She’s fine. Just not back on New York time yet.”
“Everything else okay?”
“I’m buying a handgun.”
“Why?”
“Because I want your advice on which one to buy, and then I want you to teach me how to use it.”
“That’s not really a responsive answer, counselor.”
“I’ll tell you all about it at lunch.”
“Hot-dog cart outside my building at one P.M.?” Sean asked.
“My treat.”
“Then make it Café Emile at one-thirty.”
“Hot dogs it is. See you at one o’clock.”
* * *
—
Beth put her hot dog and diet Coke down on the bench in Foley Square, kissed Sean on the cheek, and sat down next to him.
“You look great!” he said.
“Thanks,” Beth replied. “You look pretty good yourself.”
“Has someone been threatening you?” Sean asked.
“Wow, so much for foreplay.”
“You’re not a drama queen. If you feel the need to be armed, I worry.”
“I’m working on a land-use case in Jersey, and the deeper I get into it, the more concerned I get about personal safety: mine, Max’s, and Mom’s now that she’s back from Antigua.”
“Who are the bad guys?”
“My top bad-guy candidate is Herb Gartenberg, a sleazy real estate promoter who’s done time for fraud and has a history of physical violence. The other bad guy is a nasty Venezuelan dude by the name of Nikko Benetez.”
“I’ve seen both their names in reports recently. How’d you get involved with these guys?”
“We’ve been retained by the Alumni Association of Max’s old boarding school to oppose a subdivision application Gartenberg’s making to develop the vacant campus. Benetez is somehow involved with the Paulo Pendayan family, Gartenberg’s Venezuelan investors.”
“Since when does an ordinary land-use matter make you worry about personal safety?”
“When my car gets broken into on the Jersey Turnpike and the only thing stolen is my camera loaded with pictures of the campus, and when Max’s condo gets bugged and searched, just for starters, not to mention our offices being bugged.”
“And you were going to tell me about this when?”
“I just did.”
“I ought to put you under curfew.”
“I’m glad you still worry about me.” Her hand rested on his for emphasis.
“I’ll check both those names for you when I get back upstairs.”
“Thanks, Sean.”
“Have you considered dropping this land-use case?”
“My mother wants me to, but I’m not quitting.”
“Let’s do dinner this weekend,” Sean suddenly said.
“You mean like go out on a date?”
“You seeing anybody?”
“Couple of casuals but nothing serious. You?”
“I burned all bridges when I left L.A.”
“Okay, let’s do it Friday.”
“Perfect.”
“And don’t forget about the handgun.”
“I’ll ask our armorer what’s a good piece for you.”
“You’re the best.”
“And you didn’t ask me, but I’ll also push the NYPD to fast-track the handling of your app for a pistol permit.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Love you, too.” Sean got up, crossed the street, and walked back to his office.
In the cab ride back to her office, images of long, hot showers with Sean invaded her memory. Her career had prospered since their breakup, and so had his. Was marriage a career impediment? It had all seemed so clear to her two years ago.
Chapter 9
1984
After the BMI varsity football team rolled over St. Bernard Prep on Friday afternoon, the entire cadet corps stood up in the mess hall to cheer the team as it entered for the dinner meal. The celebration continued all the way through dessert when the postgraduates on the team started to leave.
The postgraduate cadets at BMI were a privileged group. BMI only had a small endowment, and it helped close the gap by admitting former high school athletes for a postgraduate year of study to qualify them for full scholarships to Division I universities. These cadets were older and more experienced than the BMI seniors, and after “Taps” blew at night, they hung out together in the tunnels under the Old Main. Hence the name Tunnel Rats.
The BMI administration closed its eyes to the after-hours behavior of the Rats as long as its varsity teams won on Fridays and new PGs came in every semester. They relied on the Rats themselves to police the only unwritten rule anyone cared about: “No liquor or pot during the week.” The threat of expulsion was sufficient deterrent.
Herb “Tank” Gartenberg sat on one of the couches in the tunnels, watching TV and drinking beer with the other Rats, while they waited for the girls from town to show up. He struggled to remove his varsity football jacket. “Help me get this friggin’ thing off,” he finally said in frustration to Al LaVerne, sitting next to him on the couch.
“Sure, Tank.” LaVerne had to get off the couch so he could hold the jacket high enough while Gartenberg slipped his arm through the sleeve. “Does Coach Borchelli know your arm’s so bad?” he asked, recording everything on the micro-recorder Colonel Moore had forced him to carry around since Terry Berland’s death two weeks ago.
“My arm’s fine. The trainer gives me pills to kill the pain.”
“You should forget about playing basketball for BMI this season. Penn State won’t give you a football scholarship with a bum shoulder.”
“I’ll get that scholarship,” Gartenberg muttered. He sat back down on the couch as other PG members of the varsity football team high-fived them on their way into the tunnel.
“Did you bring the pot?” LaVerne asked him.
“Yeah, I bought a bag from Chord Masters during history class this morning.”
“Good,” said LaVerne. “Hey, guess what I heard about Terry Berland?”
“I know already. The Berlands live next door to us on Long Island. His mother told my mother over the holidays that Terry died in his sleep. He was born with a bad heart.”
“Wrong! That’s not what happened. Elias Strauss heard Colonel Moore telling Coach Borchelli in study hall that Berland committed suicide.”
“That’s bullshit!” Gartenberg was angry.
“No, really,” LaVerne replied, unfazed by his teammate’s temper. “Elias said Colonel Moore saw Berland hanging in his dorm room. He helped the cops cut him down.”
“The kid was a little faggot. Crying, homesick, always sneaking into my room after ‘Taps.’ ”
“Holy crap, Tank. I didn’t know that.”
“His friggin’ mother used to call me every two days to find out how her precious little baby was doing.”
“The colonel was saying that the board of trustees is going to investigate the whole thing.”
“Why? What’s there to investigate?”
“I got no idea. Maybe they want to make sure the kid wasn’t smoking pot or something.”
“Berland? I couldn’t even teach him to inhale.”
Chapter 10
Gartenberg sent a limo to pick up Beth and Max at 8:00 A.M. They were surprised to find another passenger already sitting up front, an attractive woman of fortyish in jeans, preppy blouse, and a natural smile.
“I’m Pam Gartenberg, Herb’s wife,” she said. “I just landed at JFK after visiting my mother in Israel.”
“Nice to meet you,” Beth and Max offered politely in joint response.
Before they had even buckled in, Pam volunteered: “I was a pilot for El Al a few years ago when my mother fixed me up on a date with Herb.”
“Where did your mother know him from?” Beth asked.
&nbs
p; “Actually, we both knew him. We lived next door to the Gartenbergs on Long Island from the time I was born until I was five. Then Mom divorced my father and moved us to Israel, but she always stayed in touch with Herb’s mother.”
“Wow, what a cultural shock the move must have been for you,” Beth replied.
“I don’t remember much about it. I had a brother who died of a heart attack at some prep school in New Jersey. My parents couldn’t handle the loss and split up.”
While Max read a law review article, Beth and Pam passed the time out to Great Neck chatting about everything from life in Israel to being single in New York.
They arrived at the Gartenbergs’ house just after 9:00 A.M. and were met at the locked front gate by Lance Sturrman, a muscular thirtyish man in a blue blazer. After greeting Pam, he eyed Beth and Max carefully through the window and asked for photo IDs before opening the gate and directing the limo driver to a small cottage in the rear of the property.
As they entered the cottage, they found Gartenberg and his attorney, Zeke Shadenheim, seated around a desk engrossed in animated conversation. Anybody seeing Gartenberg for the first time had to be impressed by his size. Max had alerted Beth to expect a big man, but reality exceeded her expectations. The passing years had added 150 pounds or more to Gartenberg’s BMI weight. He was imposing, to say the least, but walked with the assistance of a cane as he slowly got up and crossed over to greet them. Shadenheim remained seated at the desk, his face buried in a large pile of papers.
“Mr. Swahn, how are you?” Gartenberg began formally.
They shook hands politely, but with mutual reserve.
“This is my partner, Beth Swahn,” Max replied.
“Hi, Beth. Thanks for coming all the way out to Great Neck. I heard my wife joined you on the drive.”
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