Five Knives_Thriller_Series Prequel

by D. F. Bailey

  “It’s all in the story.” Finch turned his hand to the folder. “The fax originated from your residence. And two calls are from Esposito to this office. We know that TruForce purchased multiple Mortgage Backed Securities from him. Securities that are losing value every day. The fact that he was facing imminent bankruptcy forced your hand. You decided to make a move before he could use Chapter Eleven protections to shield himself from further liabilities.”

  Blomquist pulled the file folder towards him again, glanced at the first page as if he might have overlooked something. He covered his mouth with a hand and glanced up at the ceiling, then nodded as if he’d reached a decision of some kind.

  “There’s more,” Will said and waited to measure the reaction on Blomquist’s face. “It’s not in that article, but I know about Paul Blomquist.”

  “About Paul.” A frown creased his lips. “And what exactly do you know about Paul?”

  Finch leaned forward and lowered his voice. “About your grad night fight that led to the death of Darrell Wiggins. The triple suicide at Stanford. The drug bust in April of 1983 and the lawyer who sprung you free on a technicality.”

  “The law is nothing but technicalities.” Blomquist gestured with a quick tip of his head that seemed to question Finch’s accusations. Then he set both hands on the desk and edged forward, preparing to issue a firm denial. Instead, he paused, leaned back in his chair, and stood up. After another hesitation, he stepped over to the wall of glass overlooking Washington Street. He slipped his hands into his pants pockets, stared into the distance and studied the cloud formations above Marin County.

  “Well, there’s an answer to all of that,” he said after the long pause. As he continued to face the window, his right hand began to roll some loose change in his pocket.

  “What might that be?” Will asked.

  “When I was twelve I got my diagnosis. It’s quite a thing at that age to have your life yanked out from under your feet.” He spoke in a low, confessional tone. “One day you’re running around a football field scoring two touchdowns a game. Teasing a few girls. Scooping the school math prize.” He glanced at Wally to see if he’d appreciate the promise of a young, white boy born into privilege. Without any acknowledgment from the editor, he turned back to the window and continued. “Two months later you’re in a hospital bed, clinging to life. A series of nurses show you how to prick the tips of your fingers and test your blood three or four times a day.”

  “Juvenile diabetes,” Wally said.

  Blomquist’s head nodded an affirmation as he continued to ball the coins in his pocket. “That fight with Darrell Wiggins? I was just protecting myself. The people who witnessed what happened stood up for me. All of them. Wiggins was the school bully, and everyone knew it.” This time he turned to Finch. Again, his head swiveled back to the window.

  “So that’s why the police didn’t press charges,” Finch said. “From what the local press reported, the school principal didn’t mention Wiggins bullying anyone.”

  “After a tragedy, it’s a mistake to take what people say as the whole truth. Eulogies are meant to console the living. Nothing more.”

  “What about the three women who took their lives at Stanford. Weren’t you part of that?”

  Blomquist lifted his hand from his pocket and waved at Wally as if he was acknowledging a point. “Your reporter’s done his research, Wally.” He chuckled with a derisive laugh. “The boy’s a keeper.”

  Wally said nothing. He and Finch waited for Blomquist to continue.

  “As for the suicide pact….” He sucked in a long draught of air. It sounded like he’d just climbed a steep hill. “The truth is that I was part of it. My first time away from home, but I handled it on my own. At least I thought I did. Until I met these women. Part of me wanted to join them and just give everything up. Give in to the disease. I felt their loneliness. Their despair. It affected me. Maybe ‘infected’ is a better word. Have you ever felt that?”

  Finch found himself wondering what it would be like. He’d had a friend in high school who’d developed type one diabetes. In his late teens, he took his own life. A drug overdose. Now Blomquist’s brush with the drug trade seemed like a logical — but perverse — step forward. When you’re injecting yourself with insulin several times a day, it isn’t a huge leap to try something more powerful. And if you fantasize about suicide and you’d seen death close at hand, then oblivion was one short step away.

  “After the court case, things changed. I’d had a taste of reality, I guess. Then the insulin medication and protocols improved. I got an insulin pump. I started to use my middle name. I moved back to San Francisco and finished my degree. Got a job in finance. Within a five years I had a new life.”

  He paused and opened his hands in a broad sweeping motion that invited some reply. Finch and Wally stared at him, at this scant gesture intended to explain himself.

  Wally put his fist to his mouth and let out a light cough that broke their silence. “Julian, I appreciate your candor. But there’s a larger issue here.”

  “I know.” Blomquist held up a hand to silence him. He turned back to his desk and stared for a long moment at the telephone. Then he picked up the handset and pressed a button. When his secretary responded he said, “Gilly cancel my two o’clock meeting and apologize to Ralph. You’ll have to clear the rest of my afternoon, too. Then call Bettleson. Tell him I want him to come to the office immediately.” He paused while she replied, then he continued. “No, this is a priority. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  He examined Wally and Finch with an air of uncertain hope. “To answer your question, I have no formal response to your article.” He pointed to the file folder containing the draft of Finch’s story. “Print what you like. You will no matter what I say. Any future communications will come through my lawyer, Frank Bettleson.”

  “All right.” Wally lifted the folder into his briefcase and set it on his knee. “You should know that I have to inform the police about this.”

  “Before you go to print?”

  “As soon as we leave here.”

  Blomquist’s stoic posture faltered, and he braced himself against the desk. Beneath the toned skin of his cheeks, Finch detected a deep wariness. The air of a condemned man who’d just heard the metallic clanking as his prison door swung open, and his name summoned by the executioner.

  ※

  Finch and Wally sat at a table opposite the bar in Novela, an up-scale club not far from the Post headquarters, on Mission between Second and Third Streets. Hundreds of happy-hour office workers packed the lounge, eager to kickoff their evening reveries. It reminded Finch of two or three New York City bars painted in black and white and illuminated with soft backlights. However, Novela possessed a few unique twists to distinguish it from other bistros. Over-stuffed bookcases lined the walls, and the drinks bore the names of famous authors and book characters. The zebra-stripe, zigzag floor tiles created a fluid, slow-motion effect as if the room were tumbling left-to-right, back-and-forth. Finch imagined that it could be difficult to navigate his way across the floor if he had one drink too many. He resolved to limit himself to two beers. Then straight home.

  “That was smart. Calling Staimer right after the meeting,” Finch said after he took the first swig of his beer. Racer 5 IPA. It tasted cool and fresh. He immediately upped his drink limit to three.

  “I had to bring them into the loop,” Wally said. He lifted his forearms onto the table and inched forward. He was sipping a Glenlivet 18 straight up. “If I didn’t tell the police what we knew before we print, they could charge me with withholding evidence — or who knows what else. No, most days we’ve got to work with the cops and keep them onside. I called the FBI, too. Agent Busby. Left him a message anyway.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Dunno.” Wally shrugged. “He hasn’t called back.”

  He pulled a hot wing from one of the two appetizer plates that he’d ordered from the kitchen. The other dish held fo
ur crab cakes. Finch took a crab cake and savored the sweet meat on his tongue. He slipped into a moment of contemplation and considered the confrontation with Blomquist.

  “You know,” Finch said, “when Blomquist went over to the office window? I had no idea what was coming.”

  “The diabetes story? Until he started talking, I didn’t see it either.” Wally exhaled with a light chuckle and sipped lightly on his Scotch. He had a tender way of nursing it, slowly coaxing the drink along. “But a lot of kids get hit with juvenile diabetes. Not many of them go on to serial killing.”

  “Probably not.” Will’s eyebrows rose with a doubtful expression. “But that’s what I can’t figure about Blomquist.” He took another swallow from his beer. “How did he get from this unfortunate kid — to cold-blooded killer?”

  “Maybe the unfortunate kid was also a born psychopath. Maybe that makes him twice as dangerous.” Wally’s voice suggested nothing but contempt. “That long tale about his so-called troubled youth? He’s trying to spin us. Hoping his sad story will swing the jury before it’s even selected.”

  “You think he’s that manipulative.”

  “You bet. Blomquist is one of those guys who can dress for one part — like corporate CEO — and also play a second role that nobody sees.”

  “Yeah. It fits his pattern.”

  “What pattern?”

  “His double life. Paul Blomquist, the high school kid implicated in a lethal street fight. The junior at Stanford involved with a suicide pact that took the lives of three girls. The dealer who dodged a drug trafficking conviction on a technicality. Take away his poor-me sob stories, and the facts remain.”

  Wally turned in his chair and took a moment to consider Finch. “Tell me something. How did you end up here?”

  “What do you mean?” Finch shrugged, unsure how to respond. “I thought you asked me here.”

  “Didn’t you say you did a tour in Iraq?” He studied at him as though the question were obvious. “I mean, how do you get from there — to taking a master of journalism degree at Berkeley?”

  “Yeah. Well.” He sounded as if he’d often debated the issue and never found a wholly satisfactory answer. “It’s a good question.”

  “So tell me. I’m giving us the rest of the afternoon off” — he caught the waiter’s eye and made a circular motion with two fingers — “and buying another round.”

  Finch wondered where to start. “You know, after Iraq, a lot of us were left with more than a few questions.”

  “I get that.” Wally closed his eyes and shrugged. “I did three years in Vietnam. Sixty-nine through seventy-one.”

  Finch did a quick calculation. Wally appeared to be about fifty-five, sixty. In sixty-nine, he would’ve been in his early twenties. Roughly the same age when Finch had enlisted. Too young to be smart about it. Too stupid to think it wouldn’t change him.

  “And your questions had no answers, right?” Wally said.

  “Not many.”

  “So, as I said, what’s your story, Will?” Wally tipped his glass toward Finch and then took a final sip of the Scotch. The waiter set another Glenlivet and IPA on the table.

  “Bottom line, Iraq was both the best thing I ever did — and the worst. I mean, it woke me up. From a dream into a nightmare.”

  “Really? What was the dream?”

  Finch tried to explain it, to make sense of his own life. Over the next twenty minutes, he told Wally the short version. He was born in New Jersey but moved to Montreal in the 1990s with his mother and father so that his dad could work for Westmount Gems and Jewelry. The store belonged to his maternal grandfather. Will finished high school there and managed to learn to speak French. The year he graduated, his mother died. Cancer. He moved back to New Jersey with his dad and decided to try journalism in college. Four years later, the same year he finished his BA in journalism at NYU, his father disappeared. A week later he was found dead, next to a rail line outside Jersey City. Will talked about the confusion he felt. The emotional loss and lack of direction. He knew he had to shake things up. After 9-11, the call went out. Suddenly the war in Afghanistan expanded to the war in Iraq. President Bush said, “You’re either with us or against us.” At the time it seemed like an actual choice that everyone had to make. “So I took a step forward,” he concluded, thinking that those few words offered an explanation. “I did two years in Afghanistan and two in Iraq. And it got me un-stuck.”

  “Un-stuck, huh? Yeah, I guess it would do that.” Wally coughed up a bleak laugh. “Tell me something. How old are you?

  “Twenty-seven.” Finch waited a moment, then returned the question. “How old are you?”

  “Ha! Guess I stumbled into that one. I’m fifty-seven.”

  “That’s thirty years.”

  “What?”

  “Difference between us.”

  “I guess it is.” Was he so old? He shrugged as if he wanted to change the conversation. “Have you got a wife? A kid?”

  “Thanksgiving weekend, Wally. That’s when I’m getting married. To Cecily Hughes.”

  “Really?” Wally’s face brightened. His smile stretched from ear to ear. “So, next month.”

  “Yup. And the baby’s due in May or June.”

  “Wow.” He held up his drink, and they clinked glasses. “I wish you well. I mean it.”

  Finch smiled, too. It was a happy moment. He hadn’t told anyone about the baby. Not even Biscombe.

  “I imagine you’ll be looking for a job.”

  “Already am.”

  “When do you finish at Berkeley?

  “My thesis is due in December. And it’s ninety-nine percent done. That’s it.”

  “What’s the thesis about?”

  “I’m comparing the editorial perspectives of the media in the west to those in the Islamic world. On the issues of 9-11 and Abu Ghraib.”

  Wally nodded, a moment of introspection. “All right. I can’t promise anything, but one of the women in editorial is pregnant, too. She just asked me for a six-month maternity leave, starting in January. So I have a hole to fill. You interested?”

  “Interested?” He smiled again. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Good. Okay.” Wally rocked his head from side to side as if he needed to assure himself that he’d made the right decision. “In the meantime, I want you to work with Olivia to finish off this story. And the latest chapter with Blomquist.” He pointed at the table to indicate that the story sat right in front of them. “I’ll extend the freelance contract to carry you to the end of December. You also have that interview with the FBI coming up. Once we clear it with them, you can report on the five knives thing, too. Would that work for you?”

  Finch felt as if the universe had opened a channel that flowed directly into his being. The energy poured into him. It was clean, white, pure. The one thing that he truly wanted now stood before him. He knew it was the passageway to a new world.

  “Yes,” he said, trying to contain himself. “Of course.”

  They heard a telephone chime. Wally shrugged and dug a Nokia phone from his jacket pocket.

  “Yes?” A pause. “Olivia. Hi.”

  He glanced away with an apologetic frown that suggested he needed to concentrate on the call. It went on for five or six minutes while Finch ate another crab cake and a hot wing. At first, Will tried to decipher the other half of the conversation, then gave up. His mind kept looping back to the job offer. At the San Francisco Post. Cecily would be pleased. So would her mother. All the pieces were falling into place. Magic in the air.

  The call ended, and Wally struggled to turn off his phone. “That was Olivia. There’s good news and bad.”

  “Good news first.” Finch was still smiling. “My rule.”

  “The SFPD found something missing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember I asked you what was missing in the case. You said, Esposito’s computer. The cops found it in Blomquist’s house up on Nob Hill.”

  Finch
sat upright. “That’s fantastic.”

  “It gets better.” His smile returned. The Cheshire cat grin. “A confidential source says Felix Madden’s prints were found on the laptop.”

  “Olivia got all this?”

  “Yeah.” Wally’s face bore a self-satisfied grin. “She’s that good.”

  Finch felt his pulse quicken as the news set in. Another piece had clicked into place. He felt everything coming at him in waves as if he sat at an intersection of luck and good fortune.

  “Wally, this isn’t just good news. Hell, it’s a two-point conversion in overtime. Esposito, Madden, Blomquist. All tied in a bow.” He started to think through the implications. “Madden must have broken into Esposito’s office the day after he fell from the window. He took the computer and passed it on to Blomquist. That must be what Blomquist wanted all along. To get the files from the MBSs that he’d purchased from Esposito.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That would explain why Esposito’s office was unlocked when I tried the door. He must have been in there just before I arrived.”

  “It was unlocked?”

  “Yes.” The second unlocked door. The troubling coincidence led Finch to realize something else. “And that’s why the apartment door was open on the eleventh floor. After Esposito went out the window, Henman panicked. He realized he’d be next. He tore out of the room, and Madden chased after him. That left Jojo in the room on her own.”

  “Right. Jojo.” Wally’s voice dropped a note. He paused as a feeling of dread swept through him. “Olivia caught some new info on Jojo, I’m afraid. This is where the bad news comes in.”

  For a moment Will froze. “So where did they find her?”

  “Under some shrubs over in The Presidio.”

  “Some shrubs. How did she…?” Will couldn’t finish his question.

  Wally raised two fingers and made a slicing motion across his neck. He glanced away. “Sorry. I know you got to know her pretty well. It happens sometimes.”