Collar Robber: A Crime Story Featuring Jay Davidovich and Cynthia Jakubek

by Hillary Bell Locke

  “Thanks.”

  A couple of minutes later Rand nodded at a plainclothesman and started to walk in my direction. Looked like he had some of his old piss and vinegar back. The detective gestured toward me. Just before passing Rand I caught his eyes.

  “Maybe you could explain to Ms. Huggens about our being unavoidably delayed and suggest that we meet at eleven forty-five.”

  Rand stopped and turned an interesting expression toward me. Puzzled, which I’d call fair enough. But also a touch of who the hell do you think you are?

  “Ms. Huggens is now chairing a meeting of the Acquisition/Deaccession Committee that began at eleven o’clock. It’s likely to run well into the afternoon.”

  “Perhaps she could take a little recess at the first restroom break.”

  I didn’t mention the cooperation clause in Transoxana’s policy. C. Talbot Rand, Esquire, could probably have recited the thing from memory. If some judge someday said that Pitt MCM had forfeited coverage of a fifty-million dollar loss by copping an unconstructive attitude, no one was going to pin that on Tally Rand.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Willy Szulz’s name came up in my chat with Detective-Sergeant Lamarr, which told me that Rand had mentioned him. I gave Lamarr the whole story and I gave it to him straight. When a cop has been shot, you don’t play coy with the officers investigating the incident. Let me amend that. I gave him the whole story except for my suspicion that Szulz had visited Vienna recently. Lamarr didn’t ask about that part, and I didn’t tell.

  I had to cool my heels for awhile after Lamarr had finished with me Eventually, though, Rand came back for me and led me to his office. His office, not Huggens’, but Huggens was waiting there for us. Not much Charming Hostess in her expression, and as soon as she said, “Good morning, Mr. Davidovich,” I knew right where I stood. She said it with the kind of for-the-record politeness that chicks use when they’re pissed off at you for no reason that a guy would understand. As far as she was concerned, I was supposed to deliver critical documentation to help save the Museum’s prize holding, and I’d shown up empty-handed.

  “Good morning.” I smiled blandly at her.

  “On behalf of the Museum, I apologize for your unpleasant experience this morning. I can assure you that we will conduct a full investigation of our own, as well as cooperating with the police.”

  Unpleasant experience? Seriously? Rachel saying, “Not tonight, Hot Pants, I’ve already had my bath” is an “unpleasant experience.” I’d put this morning’s adventure on a different level, somehow.

  “In loss-prevention, that’s sometimes the way the game is played. Please don’t think another thing about it.”

  “Thank you. Is there anything further we have to discuss?”

  “Well, there’s the document that Transoxana bought for you.”

  I slipped off my travel vest, unzipped a long pocket inside the back of the thing, and pulled out the bill of sale and authenticating affidavit that Jakubek had turned over to me. In the men’s room before leaving her building, I had taken the thing out of the attaché case, folded it once lengthwise, and stashed it in that pocket, along with one of the copies I’d had Jakubek make. Then I’d attached one of the other onion-skin copies to a phony authentication that I’d tricked up using Rachel’s notary sealer to make an embossed stamp on the signature I’d forged. I’d tacked on a red wax thingie from her corporation minute book kit, just to enhance the illusion that some self-important European notaire had spent all morning fussing with it. It wouldn’t have stood up for more than three minutes to a careful examination. Your average snatch-and-grab, though, involves something closer to three seconds than three minutes.

  “So the thief got a fake?” Huggens had the grace to seem dumbfounded and ambivalently pleased at the same time.

  “Yep. Oldest trick in the book.” I took out a receipt attached to the last copy Jakubek had made for me. “Please date and sign on the line at the bottom. No need for a notary. Mr. Rand will be happy to witness your signature, and I’m sure that no one would question his word.”

  “So you’ve managed to throw this thing in our laps after all, and the clock is now ticking.”

  “That’s one way to put it.” I handed her a pen.

  She favored me with a game smile as she accepted the pen and bent over Rand’s desk to execute the receipt.

  “Well played, Mr. Davidovich.”

  I couldn’t help wondering whether she’d said the same thing to the cox of the St. Paul’s boat crew after his shell came in ahead of Groton’s when she was seventeen. Except I’ll bet his name didn’t have a “vich” in it.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Cynthia Jakubek

  “Lemme get this straight.” On your basic redness scale, Willy’s face had gone past fire-engine and was careening toward candy-apple. “If I hadn’t reported the theft, that would prove the gun wasn’t really stolen and I was the perp. But because Amber did report the theft three days before the paper grab, that proves the gun wasn’t really stolen and the report was just part of my clever plan.”

  “Dial it back a couple of clicks, buddy.” I said this to Willy, but mostly for the benefit of Detective-Lieutenant Rod Plichta. It was seven hours since I’d turned the bill of sale over to Davidovich, and I suddenly found myself in the middle of an unplanned house call at Willy’s condo. I’d gotten there fifteen minutes after the police had, and that took some doing.

  “‘Dial it back?’ Did you see that split lip the burglar gave Amber when she surprised him? Amber, show them your face again.”

  “Save it, Szulz.” I could read on Plichta’s mahogany face that he’d seen phony indignant histrionics before, from guys who were just as guilty as hell. “Your Taser shot a cop, the burglary is way too convenient, and for all we know you could have busted the girl’s face yourself. You’re in shit up to your eyebrows.”

  I got two good handfuls of Willy’s coat and shirt and held on for all I was worth. One thing Willy didn’t need right now was a rap for assaulting an officer. He was just about to shake me off when Amber jumped in, God bless her.

  “No. Willy has never hit me. Except, you know, little love-slaps in fun, during five-play.”

  “WHAT?”

  Plichta’s bleat suggested genuine astonishment. I couldn’t blame him. Amber blushed like a tween who’d let a cussword slip out in front of mom.

  “Willy says that what we do is way more than foreplay.” She bobbed her head earnestly. “So he calls it five-play.”

  Plichta spun on the ball of his foot and took a couple of steps away from us, muttering something about how he could have been a bouncer at a casino but nooo, he had to pick police work.

  “Okay.” I let go of Willy and spoke to the back of Plichta’s head. “You’ve tossed the place like a rock band in the middle of a groupie-strike. You haven’t found a Taser. You haven’t found anything else listed on your search warrant. Mr. Szulz has answered your questions. You have my card. If you think of anything else you’d like to ask him, give me a call and we’ll set up an interview.”

  Plichta turned angry features in my direction. Now he was pissed off at me instead of Willy—which was the idea.

  “We have enough to arrest him right now!”

  “An arrest stops the conversation. He wants to help, but he won’t say word-one in custody.”

  Plichta tapped his notebook three times on the tips of his right fingers. He nodded slightly and even managed a tight little smile.

  “Maybe I’ll take you up on that interview offer. Or maybe the next time I see your client the only conversation we’ll have is me reading him his rights.”

  It took him and his colleagues five more minutes to clear out. They left a world-class mess and a volcanically fuming Willy Szulz behind them.

  “Amber,” I said, “what are the chances of getting some w
ater over ice?”

  “You got it.” She sashayed toward the condo’s kitchenette.

  I sat down on a black leather footstool in front of a black leather recliner. Willy took the hint and dropped into the chair. He’d pulled out a handkerchief and now started mopping his face, muttering, “Goddamn fascists. It’s like living in a third-world country.” I just sat there, taking calm breaths, until he’d gotten it out of his system. Then I leaned forward and waited for him to look at me.

  “Okay, Willy, listen up. I’m not one of those new-age lawyers. I don’t lose sleep fretting over whether my clients might not technically qualify as plaster-cast saints. I’m old-school. I don’t care who you are, what you did, or what you think. If you can pay my fee I’ll take your case. But I need you to play straight with me.”

  Willy relaxed a little. Looked me straight in the eye. Gave me a hipster smile that said Don’t hustle a hustler.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Good enough for me. Now tell me the rest. The whole story.”

  He didn’t, of course. Clients never tell you the whole story even if they’re trying to, and Willy wasn’t. But he put a pretty good percentage of it on the table. I nodded from time to time. Didn’t take any notes, just let his words flow into the Univac that God blessed me with for a memory.

  “So anyway,” he said, winding down, “I’m just through customs at Kennedy—no Commie cigars, by the way, thanks for that one—when I pick up a voice-mail from Amber about this burglar giving her a clop across the chops while he’s making me for my Taser. I told her just to make absolutely sure with you that I was legal to have that thing, and if I was then she should report the burglary pronto.”

  “Did he take anything else?”

  “Just some crap electronics to make it look good.”

  “Okay.” I paused, took a deep breath. “This looks easy, then. Who knew you had a Taser except you, Amber, and me?”

  He blushed. I swear on Black’s Law Dictionary that he blushed.

  “A few people. I let my tongue flap about it.”

  “A few people such as…?”

  “Well, the only one that matters is a guy whose name I don’t know. He and his partner were the towel-hats who might have bought the bill of sale if you hadn’t cut the deal you did with the Museum and the insurance company.”

  “How did your Taser come up in the conversation with them?”

  “When I told him he was a day late and a dollar short and was prob’ly gonna be outbid, he starts making like the baddest ass in the camel-jockey hall of fame. So I said, ‘Hit me with your best shot, A-Hab. I’ve got a Taser and in your honor I’ll put bacon grease on the prongs.”

  “This conversation didn’t by any wild chance take place in Vienna recently, did it?”

  “Nah. It was just before I left for there.”

  I took a look around the condo. Nothing fancy or over the top except for a big-screen TV that looked like it wanted to be an IMAX when it grew up. Nice view of the Monongahela, but otherwise just your basic living quarters.

  “You have a security system, right?”

  “Sure. Pretty good one. But turning it on makes Amber nervous, so when I’m away she just relies on the deadbolt.”

  Maybe. Or maybe she’d seen you with this guy often enough that she let him in when he fed her some line about leaving something here for you. Maybe there were some things you didn’t choose to share with your lawyer, Willy.

  “Okay. You want to tell me what happened in Vienna?”

  Willy’s face sagged a little sheepishly. He fished out a pack of Marbs, remembered for once not to offer me one, and lit one for himself.

  “Sorry, I shoulda told you about that. I would’ve, but I was on a mobile phone the last time we talked an’ you know how it is—someone might be listening.”

  “Should’ve told me about what?”

  “A-Hab’s partner got caught short of breath with his pants down. Once in a lifetime experience for him. At least that’s the way I heard it.”

  “Is this guy’s name really Ahab, or are you just trying to get the PC police on you on top of everything else?”

  “I dunno what his name is. I call all towel-hats A-Hab after this song from the sixties: ‘A-Hab, the A-Rab/the sheik of the burning sands.’”

  “Well, that explains that.”

  Willy grinned at me through a rich cloud of blue-gray smoke.

  “I didn’t do the guy in Vienna.”

  “Good. I’ll add that to my list of crimes you haven’t committed. Just in case it comes up, though, do you have anyone who can tell the police where you were the last night you were in Vienna?”

  “Matter of fact I do. Karl von Leuthen. I was talking to him in his apartment around the time A-Hab’s partner apparently bought the farm.”

  “How do you know the approximate time of death?”

  “’Cause when von Leuthen told the Vienna cops what time we were together, they lost interest in me. At least that’s his story. The message he left hinted that he might have some memory problems down the road.”

  “Shakedown?”

  “Yep. And a shakedown like that only makes sense if he’s a genuine alibi.”

  I spent about three seconds processing that. Damned if it didn’t make sense, in a sleazy, underbelly-of-humanity kind of way. The next question was obvious:

  “What did you want to see Karl von Leuthen about?”

  “Nothin’. I wanted to see his mother, Alma. But she wasn’t home.”

  “You wanted to see her about documentation for famous paintings?”

  “Nope. I wanted to see her about something you and I can’t talk about yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Cynthia Jakubek

  Back in my office at six-thirty I read the list of proactive steps for Willy’s case that I’d spent fifteen minutes jotting on a legal pad:

  ALMA VON LEUTHEN?

  TRANSOXANA/SHIFCOS/DAVIDOVICH?

  Not much to show for three-tenths of a billable hour (rounded up).

  Further effort, though, would have to wait. The time I’d spent holding Willy’s hand during execution of the search warrant was ninety minutes that I’d planned on using to put the finishing touches on my Sovereign Citizen et cetera brief. I couldn’t let anymore grass grow under my feet on that one, so my vision of stir-frying vegetables in my wok at home had pretty much evaporated. I needed food I could eat at my desk.

  Downtown Pittsburgh offered a decent array of healthy options. And my scale this morning had insisted that I was two-point-eight pounds over my target weight. Screw it. I called for a pizza anyway.

  I had the finish line for my brief in sight when the guard at the delivery entrance in the building’s basement finally called to let me know that someone there had a pizza with my name on it. Clock-check: fifty-four minutes since my call. About time. Telling myself to deep-six the grumpiness, I headed for the elevator.

  The man with his back to me standing at the guard desk seemed a little overdressed for a pizza delivery guy. Before I could draw any useful conclusions, he turned toward me—and I did a double-take right out of a seventies sit-com. Phillip Schuyler, assistant United States attorney for the Western District of Pennsylvania, offered me a sheepish grin and a medium, thin-crust cheese pizza.

  “Mischievous impulse,” he said. “I happened to see the delivery truck pull up as I was headed back to my place. I confirmed that it was for you and talked the driver into letting me take it the rest of the way.”

  I’d recovered a little by the end of his speech, but I was still a liter or so short of aplomb.

  “You went to all that trouble just to talk to me? I mean, you could have phoned.”

  “The last time we talked you said that it wouldn’t be fair to me for us to start seeing each other because you were in the first f
ew months of starting your practice, you wouldn’t have time for anything but your work and your clients for a while, and you’d end up treating me like crap, which I didn’t deserve.”

  “That does sound familiar.”

  “Well, you were probably right.” Tenderness and a charming timidity warmed his voice. “But I’ve had several months to think it over. I’m a big boy. I’ve been around the block. Walking into this with my eyes wide open, I’m willing to take the thorns with the rose.”

  I didn’t need ten months to think that one over.

  “Let’s go up to my office. The guard is blushing.”

  Next thing I knew we were sitting on the carpet in front of my desk with the open pizza box between us. I practically had to get a court order to get him to take a slice of pizza for himself. His next words came around a gentlemanly nibble.

  “So, how’s the solo practice adventure going?”

  “First nine months I lost money and lived on borrowed funds. Worked my rear end off, but mostly on client-development stuff that I couldn’t bill. Next three months I basically broke even and took a little draw. Lot of work on spec or at a discount or for capped fees. I started my second fiscal year this month, and I’m actually going to make some money.”

  “Here’s to success.” He raised a plastic bottle of water that I’d scrounged.

  “A relative term.”

  “You got that right. Why did you do it? Leave a top Wall Street firm paying you more than federal judges get, trade the bright lights of Manhattan for provincial Pittsburgh, give up work on billion-dollar securities cases for the kind of bread-and-butter stuff you can do here? I know Calder and Bull is a sweatshop, but you’re probably working even more hours here than you did there. Why?”

  “Hard to explain. Now or never kind of thing. Had a client offer me enough business to cover my rent because he liked me, and Calder and Bull had pissed him off. I wanted to help clients instead of just doing assignments for partners. Bottom line, I guess, I wanted to star in my own movie, even if it’s a barebones indie flick, instead of work as an extra in a big-budget epic.”