by R. T. Ray
“Easy, Joe. It's all over. You try take it easy now, eh,” the voice said. The phony Italian accent stood out like a veteran streetwalker at a nun's gathering; even to Matuszak in his exhausted state.
The first attacker had recovered. Unaware of what had happened to his cohort, he began rising and had reached the kneeling position. Suddenly, a vicious kick buried itself in his ribcage. Again, the sound of bone breaking reverberated in the tight confines of the alley. Instantly the first attacker dropped back to the cobblestones and lay still. A form appeared out of the shadows and stood over the crumpled body.
“That's Lido, he'sa my friend,” the phony Italian said.
“Thanks,” Matuszak said, gesturing to the shadowy form. Turning his attention back to the first Italian, he asked. “Who are they?”
“Beats me, Joe. I no know them. Saw them trying to rob you, and Lido and me, we help.”
Accepting the outstretched hand, Matuszak allowed himself to be helped up. His legs were still weak, barely able to support his weight, and he leaned on the Italian for support. His body ached from the ordeal, but, he was alive and in one piece.
“Think you can make it, if we help you to your car?”
Matuszak nodded his head. “Yeah, but what about them? Shouldn't we call the police?”
“Nah, we do that. You go home, Joe. You don't looka so good.”
“I don’t know-”
“It's okay, Joe. Lido and me, we call the cops. You go home.”
“I think I should stay.”
“We'll watch them. The cops talk to you later, if they wanta.”
The throbbing pain in Matuszak's head was urging him to leave. In the inner city, a simple street robbery was nothing unusual. Besides, the police would probably take forever to come and his body was crying out for rest now.
“Okay. If the police need me, they can contact me at this number,” he said, handing his business card to the Italian.
The Italian slipped the card into his shirt pocket, as he helped Matuszak into the car and closed the door.
“You go straight home, Joe,” he said, leaning into the car window. “No worry. Lido and me, we talk to the cops.”
Matuszak started the car. He shifted into drive and slowly pulled from the curb, careful to avoid any sudden movement ... and the resulting pain that would surely follow. Maneuvering the Escort onto Lombard Street, he blended into the sparse evening traffic.
He had driven only a short distance. His body still throbbed from the punishment it had received, but his head was beginning to clear. Something wasn't right.
That crumpled body lying in the alley, dead. He was sure of it. And if that were the case, he would surely be needed as the witness for the two men who had helped him. “Christ!” he swore, he had forgotten to get their names. Hell, he doubted if he could even describe them; after all, it all happened too fast.
Spotting the patrol car sitting at the intersection, he pulled to the curb. After briefly explaining the incident to the cop, they returned to the alley. The uneasy feeling grew as Matuszak turned the corner onto the street. The street was vacant.
Where in the hell was the ambulance? The police cars? The flashing lights? There should be the usual crowd of onlookers gathered.
The street stood deserted. The alley was deserted. No bodies, no good Samaritans, no crowds. Nothing. Even the normal street traffic was absent.
“I'm positive,” Matuszak insisted, in answer to the cop's question. “This is the alley.”
“You could be mistaken. It happens with all the excitement, one alley looks pretty much like another.”
“No,” Matuszak insisted, pointing to the deserted alleyway “I’m telling you it happened here. The two bodies were lying right there,
“And when did you say this happened?”
“It couldn't have been more than four, five minutes ago.”
The cop returned to his vehicle and picked up the microphone. “Any disturbance calls or requests for ambos in this area?”
“Negative,” the radio crackled in reply. “Screen shows that sector's clear.”
“That can't be! Christ, just look at me. My torn clothes and this puffy lip. Somebody sure as hell did this to me.”
“Look, Mr. Matuszak, I don't doubt you-”
“Then where are they?”
“How in the hell should I know?” the cop shrugged. “This neighborhood's existence depends on its restaurants and shops. It doesn't like police cars with flashing lights. Draws too much public attention. Street crime is bad for the tourist trade. These two guys probably kicked them in the ass and sent them on their way.”
No, thought Matuszak. That cannot be. Neither man got off the ground on his own. That first one was dead before he touched the ground; of that, he was positive.
“I wouldn't worry too much bout it,” the cop said. “It can't be that serious if they got up and left. We'll call if we hear anything.”
Matuszak left his card with the cop, in case something came up. But, the uneasy feeling that something else was at work here wouldn't go away.
* * *
While sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, on impulse, Matuszak called Sergeant Becker.
“Sorry, old buddy,” Becker said, thumbing through the rundown of the previous night's crime stats. “I can't help you on this one. There's nothing on the activity sheets even remotely connected to your assault.”
“I wasn't hallucinating. It happened!”
“Yeah, I'm sure it did, but it probably looked worse than it was. They'll turn up at some emergency room later, claiming they were the victims of an assault and robbery. Just be glad you came out of it okay.”
“I guess so,” Matuszak said. “You'll let me know if anything turns up?”
“Sure. Take care.”
Matuszak replaced the receiver and returned to his morning paper. He sipped his coffee as he rechecked each page, but could find no mention of the incident.
He had been so sure that at least one of the attackers was dead. Well, maybe he wasn't. Maybe, like the cop said, they had walked away after all. Maybe he had read more into it than there was. Matuszak considered this for a moment, shrugged, then turned to the sports page.
* * *
The small item buried deep in the Washington Post, several days later would probably have escaped Matuszak's notice, even if he should chance to read that issue. It told of the finding of an unidentified body beneath an Alexandria, Virginia overpass, just across the DC line.
Cause of death was tentatively listed as massive injuries to the neck area, possibly caused by the fall from the bridge. Alexandria Police were classifying it as a suicide after finding a note left on the overpass.
23
Federal Building
Downtown Baltimore
Matuszak pounced on Arthur Donnley's invitation. It meant another opportunity to see Judith, a change to explain the Pier Six incident and his failure to meet her afterward.
The vision of her supple body stretching across the desk and her intriguing smile, had lingered in his thoughts long after their first meeting. His spirits sank when he learned she had been called away. Another member of the staff directed him to Donnley's office.
By any standard Donnley's office would be considered austere. Although of great dimension, the lack of adequate furnishings, coupled with walls void of any decor, gave it a bleak, almost barren appearance. A mirror duplicate of Donnley's icy personality, Matuszak thought, as he was ushered into the dreary office. The room's lone extravagance was the giant, oak desk and the accompanying oversized chair. They occupied the major portion of the wall facing two massive oak doors. Donnley's gaunt body was dwarfed by the chair’s massive size.
“Come in, Agent Matuszak,” Donnley said, rising from behind the desk and extending a thin, bony hand. He gestured toward the vinyl-covered chair facing the desk. “Please, have a seat.”
Being offered a seat in Donnley's office was like a condemned prisoner bein
g led before the bench. Only the hand on the Bible and oath portions were missing. Donnley, sitting in his high-back, leather throne was the presiding judge.
“Thank you for coming, Agent Matuszak,” he said, in a crisp businesslike manner. “I'm afraid we may have gotten off on the wrong foot earlier. I would like to apologize and start anew.”
“Not necessary,” Matuszak said, trying to make his response seem as sincere as possible.
“Perhaps not,” Donnley agreed. “But with Victor's failing health, then that nasty business with the train...well, the whole episode has been very unsettling for me. There are so many unpleasant memories associated with that incident you see,” he said, turning an empty palm. “I hope you will understand.”
“Certainly,” Matuszak replied.
The formalities completed, Donnley sank into his seat and, appearing to have forgotten his visitor, busied himself with arranging paperwork into waiting folders. Matuszak waited patiently while Donnley affixed his signature to several documents. Finally, closing the last folder and putting it aside, Donnley looked up. “Now then, Agent Matuszak,” he said, displaying a smug, paper-thin smile. “How can I be of service to you?”
Matuszak had sat placid during this episode. Outwardly he was composed; there wasn’t the slightest hint, the slightest trace of annoyance or displeasure in any of his features. It was obvious, this little charade was Donnley's petty ruse to demonstrate his dominance over what he considered an intrusion into his well-structured world, and he would not be drawn in.
Inside was a different matter. Matuszak fumed.
If that little act was supposed to impress me with your importance,” he thought, it didn’t. Another time or different circumstances things would be different; he would not have held his tongue. Bradford's warning, not to antagonize the senator, and more importantly his desire to meet with the senator’s father forced him to put aside any personal feelings. “I was hoping you could tell me about Jonathan Lambert,” he said. “For instance, how well did you know him?”
“Jonathan? Oh, probably better than most,” Donnley said, reclining back in the chair's soft cushioning.
“How did you first come to know him?”
“Jonathan gave me my first real opportunity in the business world. It was quite early in my career. I was a young, struggling criminal lawyer at the time, and I had fallen in with the wrong sort of clientele. Recognizing the perils, I began looking to make a fresh start.”
“So you sought out Lambert?”
“No. Quite the contrary, Jonathan was in the process of restructuring the family's ship repair business, and was searching for an attorney to oversee the legal process. Being relatively fresh out of law school, I was eager to prove my worth. And while I had little experience in corporate law, Jonathan was very gracious and decided to take a chance on me. The arrangement worked well for the both of us.” His voice fell. “That is until his tragic disappearance.”
“The newspapers hinted of a possible scandal,” said Matuszak. “The implications were that missing moneys, kickbacks, and huge cost overruns on government defense contracts were somehow connected to Lambert’s disappearance. Now, I realize these were only baseless speculations, but I would be interested in hearing your theory on it.”
Donnley shifted slightly in his chair. “The prewar years were a very wild and turbulent time. Business was conducted... “ He paused, his fingertips came together forming a loose steeple as he considered his response. “How should I say it? Business was conducted differently then, and on a different scale. Anything was possible during that period. What today may be considered at best unorthodox transactions were a normal occurrence of daily business then.” He smiled a benevolent smile. “Naturally, I considered Jonathan an honorable man and there never was any real proof of him taking the money.”
Beautiful, Matuszak marveled. In the space of a couple of sentences, Donnley practically accuses Jonathan Lambert of embezzling company funds, and then makes a complete about-face and defends him.
“But you wouldn't deny that a power struggle did occur?”
“No. I can understand how it came to call that, but I would prefer to classify it as healthy corporate competition. You see, Agent Matuszak, Jonathan's disappearance left a void in the firm’s leadership. Naturally there were several factions, each with different goals, vying for control of the firm.”
“And your group won?”
“No,” Donnley added, in a slightly irritable tone, “it would be unfair to say my group. It was the committee headed by Victor Ewald that eventually won out... and rightly so I might add. My sole function was to act as legal counsel for the firm both prior to and during the transition.”
Matuszak sensed Donnley's discomfort, maybe he had hit upon a sensitive subject. He decided to push a little harder.
“But isn't it correct to say that it was you and the elder Ewald that stood to profit the most from Lambert's disappearance?”
“I really don't follow your line of reasoning, Agent Matuszak,” Donnley said, avoiding a direct answer.
“Your retention as legal counsel placed you in a very admirable position. You were a part of the winning team. There was a huge amount of money involved, quite naturally you and the elder Ewald stood to profit.”
Donnley ignored the first part of the question. “I've never looked at Jonathan Lambert's disappearance in terms of dollars and cents,” he said, fighting to suppress his growing anger. “We suffered too great a loss to consider personal gains.”
Matuszak decided to take a different approach. “Tell me, was it customary for Jonathan Lambert to travel to Baltimore at such odd hours? You must agree it was a bit out of the ordinary. Could it have been anything to do with Lambert Industries and the impending contract negotiations?”
“Firm business, you mean?” Donnley shrugged and eased deeper into the chair. “No. I see your point Agent Matuszak, but I hardly think that’s the case here. There’s nothing I’m aware of that would necessitate a late night return on such short notice. No, most probably you’ll find the trip was of a personal nature.” He smiled, a shallow deprecating smile. “Perhaps of the feminine persuasion?”
“Possibly,” Matuszak conceded.
He considered Donnley's suggestion. While Jonathan Lambert was widowed, he was relatively young with all the desires and needs of any healthy man. Baltimore, with its neon-filled marquees and dinner parties lay a short distance away. He couldn’t rule out a romantic rendezvous. He returned to the interview. “Now, in his statement to police, the chauffeur said Mr. Lambert had received a mysterious phone call, just prior to his ordering the car for his departure for the train station. Further he stated that Lambert appeared apprehensive during the drive to the station and barely spoke.” He studied Donnley’s features. “Any thoughts on the nature of the telephone conversation, or who the caller might have been?”
Donnley appeared to give the matter some thought, then slowly shook his head. “No. Personally I never believed there ever was such a call.”
“Oh?”
“Everyone knew Clifford, that was Jonathan's chauffeur, was getting along in years, almost to the point of becoming senile,” Donnley charged, in a somewhat dismissive manner. “It was common enough knowledge. Clifford had a history of getting dates and times confused or making things worse than they actually were.”
“I see. Can you tell me what happened to the chauffeur?”
Donnley shrugged. “No, I’m afraid not. My duties didn’t require daily contact with Clifford. I suppose with Jonathan’s disappearance, there was no further need of his services. I believe he left the family's employment either at that point or shortly after.”
“Can you tell me was it a voluntary parting?” Matuszak inquired.
At this point Arthur Donnley became evasive. “I'm not sure,” he said. “I didn’t make it a habit to inquire into the status of every domestic Jonathan employed. As I have said I had little dealings with Clifford.” He rose. “If you wi
ll excuse me a moment, Agent Matuszak, I would like a drink. Can I get you something? A glass of sherry, perhaps?”
“No thank you.” Matuszak glanced at his watch. “It getting late and I should be leaving shortly.”
Donnley walked to the nearly empty bookcase, stopping at a shelf containing a decanter, an excellent example of American brilliant cut glass and several matching glasses. He returned a few moments later, carrying a small silver tray, on which was a glass of club soda, several lime wedges and a glass of fortified wine.
“I'm not permitted alcohol while on my medication,” he said, “but I took the liberty of pouring a glass of sherry for you. It's a gift from a prestigious client, and of a truly excellent vintage I’m told. Won't you sample it? I’m planning on severing it at a function and would value your opinion.”
Matuszak reluctantly accepted the glass, he first sniffed then sipped a small amount. With no knowledge of wines, he could only pretend to judge the wine’s merits. He rolled the dark amber liquid around his mouth for a few seconds, much as he had seen the so-called wine connoisseurs do, before reluctantly allowing it to flow over the tongue and down the throat. He smiled, all the while loathing the vile tasting concoction.
Donnley looked on expectantly, like an impatient child, eagerly awaiting Matuszak's verdict.
Matuszak fought to conceal his displeasure. Terrible stuff, he thought, as the bitter aftertaste lingered in the recesses of his throat. Beer was his choice of beverage. Never could understand why people would drink this stuff. Still, better to placate Donnley, at least while the investigation was still in progress.
“Yes. Well, of course, I'm no expert, but it has a sort of light, fruity taste,” he lied. “I think your guests would enjoy it.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” Donnley exclaimed, smiling as his head bobbed rapidly in agreement. “Perhaps I could arrange to have a bottle or two sent to your office.”
