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

by Hillary Bell Locke

  I called Dany Nesselrode. No answer, left a message, said it was important. Checked my watch. Still early evening in Vienna, so I had a shot.

  I called Jakubek, the shysterette. No answer, left a message, said it was important.

  I called Father Utica, the rector of the seminary in Albuquerque. No answer, left a message, said it was important.

  I made a list of all the guys I’d known in the army who at some point had found themselves less than six degrees of separation from the State Department. Short list, because I ran out of names after I reached one: Tat Baldwin. I don’t think “Tat” is short for anything. Just the name his mom and dad had hung on him. Marine lifer whose last pre-retirement gig put him on the security detail of a U.S. embassy somewhere in the Balkans.

  Ordinarily a Marine veteran wouldn’t give an ex-Army National Guardsman the time of day. Tat, though, kind of liked me. During beer call at an Enlisted Personnel Club in Baghdad, one of my fellow PFCs noticed Tat and decided it would be hilarious to refer to a cat house raid we’d done the day before as “Operation Tit for Tat.” If you’re a guy, you can make fun of another’s guys looks, or his sexual prowess, or his athletic skill, or any number of other things without getting anything more than verbal pushback. But there are two things you don’t make fun of: a guy’s mom, and his name. So the second time I heard the “Tit for Tat” thing I told the perpetrator that I thought he’d exhausted the comedic potential of the idea. (I didn’t put it quite that way.) Tat appreciated that, because otherwise he would have had to kill the guy, which might have gotten him busted from gunnery sergeant down to lance corporal.

  Fingers crossed, I clicked on the number my contact list had for Tat.

  “Thank you for calling Pelican in the Wilderness Holiness Gospel Church.” Hmm. “‘I am like a pelican in the wilderness.’ Psalm one-oh-two, verse six. At the tone, please leave a brief message including the nature of the ministry you require and a number where you can be reached. May God be with you, and have a blessed day.”

  Beep!

  “Hey, Tat, blast from your past. Jay Davidovich. Listen, I need to talk—” I didn’t get any farther because Tat’s voice interrupted my message.

  “Davidovich! Man, that brings back memories! Where are you now?”

  “Transoxana Insurance.”

  “Thank God you called! It’s so hard to get life insurance when you have leukemia!”

  “I’m not in sales.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t come as a complete surprise.”

  “I’ve got a name for you. Alma von Leuthen. I’m wondering whether she ever showed up on a list of people embassy staff shouldn’t play footsie with when they’re out sightseeing.”

  “Hmm.” Tat let that syllable hang in the air for a second or two. “Believe it or not, you’re actually on to something. They did circulate what they called a DCM List every month when I was in Belgrade. DCM stands for Deputy Chief of Mission. He’s the pro, even if the ambassador is a political appointee. Or she, I guess. The names on that list belong to people who, when you’re around them, your lips and your fly both stay zipped.”

  “Alma von Leuthen’s name ever show up, that you can remember?”

  “Oh, man, that list wasn’t for the likes of me. That was for real foreign service officers. And I wouldn’t remember anyway.”

  “Can you ask around?”

  “Sure, but it’ll cost you.”

  “Name your price.”

  “First, you have to ‘Like’ Pelican in the Wilderness Holiness Gospel Church on Facebook.”

  “Can do.”

  “That’s just for starters. The big one is you have to go to www dot chapultepecanniversary dot org. There’s an online petition there to make September thirteenth a state holiday in Virginia, in time for the one hundred-seventieth anniversary of the American victory in the Battle of Chapultepec in the Mexican War.”

  Rang a bell. I recalled mentioning Manifest Destiny to an Austrian cop not long before. Still…

  “Are you yanking my chain, Tat?”

  “No, sir, I am most certainly not yanking your chain. I am as serious as a hernia exam about this. You get the point, right?”

  “No.”

  “That’s where the ‘Halls of Montezuma’ in the Marine Hymn comes from. Chapultepec. Sons of Virginia such as George Pickett and Harley Grafton were heroes in that battle.”

  “Tat, like every American, I’ve heard of the Halls of Montezuma. And I’ve heard of Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg. But who in the bloody hell is Harley Grafton?”

  “The great-great-grandfather of a particularly prosperous member of our congregation who is a great believer in both Gospel holiness and in celebrating this battle.”

  “Comes the dawn. Done, Tat. I will sign the petition.”

  “Okay, then, I’ll call you back when I’ve got something.”

  “I’d appreciate a call-back for sure, Tat, but the main idea is to put von Leuthen’s name out in this connection to as many people as possible.”

  “What will that accomplish?”

  “If she wasn’t on any of those lists, it won’t accomplish a thing. But if she was on, say, one or two of them, some ambitious desk officer is going to get the bright idea of circulating an email to a long list asking for information about von Leuthen’s whereabouts.”

  “Well, I hope you know what you’re talkin’ about, ’cause I surely don’t. But I’ll start the ball rolling.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  “Remember that website, now.”

  “Will do.”

  I quick-stepped over to Rachel’s computer table in the dining room to find something I could use to write down Tat’s website while I still remembered it. Murphy’s Law operated in its usual way, and I knocked a manila folder on the floor in the process, scattering its contents onto the rug.

  Nuts.

  I scooped the pages up to replace them in the folder. All of sudden I found myself looking at a print-out of the head-and-shoulders shot from Cynthia Jakubek’s website. Plus a lot of other stuff about Cynthia Jakubek, with yellow highlighting over words like Harvard Journal of Law and Public Policy, “federal court clerkship,” and “Calder & Bull.” Hmmm. Nice to have your spouse take an interest in your work, but even so…

  Well, I had other things to worry about, so I went back to worrying about them. Such as, what’s the connection between the computer hacking investigation I’d abandoned and the Eros Rising matter? Because the more I thought about it, the more it seemed there had to be a connection. Did someone wonder why Jay Davidovich had been called into the Eros Rising mess, instead of some other loss-prevention specialist who wasn’t already busy on something else? Getting the answer to that question made at least as plausible a reason for trying to grab Proxie’s attaché case as the long-shot chance of diverting a wire-transfer payment.

  Forty minutes later I hadn’t come up with an answer, and nothing else important had happened. I checked my emails. Some genius in Hartford had blitzed a Transoxana directory list that included my name to ask, “Is anyone licensed to practice law in Nevada?” Someone else had hit REPLY TO ALL and answered, “Yes, several thousand people. I’m not one of them, but good luck!”

  It came as a great relief when Nesselrode returned my call. After something in Yiddish that I didn’t understand he asked what was so important.

  “Alma von Leuthen.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s a painter, or at least she knows how to paint.”

  “That’s like saying someone in Nashville knows how to play guitar.”

  “Someone who knows how to paint could forge a painting. She got out of Vienna just before a guy who was supposed to take you and me to a forged painting was killed. Plus, one of the American players in the Eros Rising sweepstakes was in Vienna at the same time, and I heard von Leut
hen’s name from his lawyer. I don’t believe in Santa Claus, but it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”

  I heard the distinctive whoosh-click of a butane lighter being fired up and then snapped shut. I waited. Nesselrode finally rewarded my patience.

  “And so you’re looking for her?”

  “Yes, and I’m not the only one. I need to talk to her.”

  “And you think I can help?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Wild guess.” I hate it when guys play dumb—especially smart guys. “Look, Dany, Transoxana is a great big multi-national company, and one of the places it lives is Austria. We can’t afford a rep as a bad corporate citizen there. I’ve got a typical, head-up-his-ass, by-the-book corporate careerist telling me we should whisper Frau von Leuthen’s name to the Vienna cops. I need a good reason not to do that, and the only way I can get one is to talk to her.”

  That was not, of course, strictly speaking, true. But Quindel would have been telling me that if he’d had the street smarts of a crack mule, and sooner or later even he was going to figure it out.

  “Okay, Alma von Leuthen has nothing to do with either the original or any forgery of Eros Rising. I know this with absolute certainty, and I give you my word on it as a diaspora Jew.”

  “Dany, your word is good enough for me. End of the day, though, it’s not my call. So let me make a suggestion. If, by some wild chance you find yourself in contact with von Leuthen in the next couple of days, please ask her to give me a call. Meanwhile, I’ll try to stall the numb-nuts up in Hartford.”

  “‘Couple of days.’ Wait a minute.” Dead air followed for ten seconds or so. “Look, I’m coming to New York on Monday. We could talk face to face on Tuesday evening if you could get up there. Can you stall him until then?”

  “‘The difficult we do immediately; the impossible takes a little time.’ Sure, I can stall him until then.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And how do you know about Nashville and music?”

  “Everyone in the world knows about American popular culture. That’s why they hate you so much.”

  “Thank you for explaining that.”

  “Also, I’m sorry I cursed you the last time we saw each other. I was drunk.”

  “No problem. Forget about it.”

  Yes, Dany, you were drunk. I tried that excuse on Rachel once and her answer was, “In vino veritas”—which, roughly translated, means, “Drunks tell the truth.”

  The Second Thursday in April

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Cynthia Jakubek

  I picked up Davidovich’s message at eight o’clock the morning. I was shouldering my way through a throng of drunks, wife-beaters, hookers, street-hustlers, first-offense (sure) shoplifters, and bar brawlers in the hallway outside Branch 2 of the City of Pittsburgh Municipal Court. I got the “it’s important” part, but it wasn’t as important to me as stalking a client, which is what had brought me to this Hogarthian hallway.

  Not that I had any interest in Muni Court work. I’d do insurance defense before making a career out of that. George Fenzing, however, wasn’t your average Muni Court defendant. A Pittsburgh cop had clocked him doing fifty-two in a thirty-five zone, and he’d find himself right on the edge of a license suspension if things went too far south this morning.

  None of which mattered a whit to me. All I cared about was that his company, Shear Genius Precision Cutting Tools, Inc., had just had a high six-figure judgment entered against it in a suit by a distributor claiming wrongful termination. This morning I planned to bump into Fenzing, introduce myself, shake his hand, wish him luck, and scoot back to my office. That way, I could email him later in the day that I’d handle an appeal of the verdict on a straight contingent fee basis—no fee if I lost—without breaking the rule against solicitation, because I’d be contacting an “acquaintance” instead of making a cold call.

  No Fenzing in the hallway. Nuts. Inside the courtroom I spotted him in deep conference with an early-fifties white male who was probably his lawyer and a mid-twenties African-American woman with all the earmarks of an overworked assistant city attorney. Talking plea bargain, no doubt, so I’d have to bide my time.

  I decided to stay in the courtroom to keep my eye on him. Mistake. Judge Monica Childress promptly took the bench. Fenzing et al. adjourned to somewhere less public to continue their discussion. Childress’ clerk called “City v. Washington” and a slight, aging African American male in clothes straight off the Goodwill rack stepped forward to answer a citation for “loitering or prowling.” Translation: a cop had decided Washington was up to no good when he wandered onto a parking lot. The clerk asked him how he pled. “Not guilty!” he shouted angrily. “And I wants a lawyer!” Not clear that he had a right to one, but Judge Childress didn’t go in much for legal research. Gripping her gavel at the hammer-end like a pistol, she pointed the handle’s tip straight at yours truly.

  “Congratulations, Counsel, you just got a new client. Ten minutes to confer. Call the next case.”

  No point in arguing. I took my client and a postcard-sized arrest report out into the corridor. Twenty seconds to read the card and another forty to get Clarence Washington’s story: “I’m walkin’ to the river, kickin’ a can along the sidewalk, and the can go into this parkin’ lot, see? I goes in to get it, an’ I sees a pack o’ cigs. Or I thinks it is. Turned out it was empty. Next thing I know Bull Connor in there is cuffin’ me.” So I was ready for trial with nine minutes to spare.

  “Got it,” I told Washington as I took my phone out to speed-dial Willy.

  “You know who Bull Connor was?”

  I tapped Willy’s icon and glanced up at Washington.

  “Sort of. Top cop in, what, Birmingham or maybe Selma during civil rights demonstrations in the early sixties…Hey, Willy, this is CJ.”

  “Yo. What’s up?”

  “You think we gots a chance? ’Cause I can’t pay no fifty dollah,” Washington said.

  “Just a second, Willy.”

  I turned my face back to my new client. I looked into eyes where rage, despair, and resignation fought losing battles with each other. I kicked myself in the butt for acting like an asshole. This is your CLIENT! Treat him like one!

  “The odds are ten-to-one against us, Mr. Washington. The judge already thinks you’re guilty. We’ll have to move her off that.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Don’t know, but I’m going to give it a shot.”

  He gave me a decisive nod, as if this were good news. I went back to Willy.

  “Sorry about the interruption, tiger. Here’s why I called. Transoxana has keyhole peepers looking for the lady we discussed.”

  “von Leuthen?”

  “That’s the one. We’d like to find out what they find out.”

  “Damn right we would.”

  “So the game is I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours. What dope can we give them in exchange for theirs? If whatever you wanted to see her about is off the table, what else can we tell them that they don’t already know?”

  Long pause, accompanied by the sound of a lengthy exhale.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Can you think about it between now and…let’s see…ten-thirty?”

  “Sure. Your office?”

  “Yes. And bring Amber.”

  Reholstering my phone, I returned my attention to Clarence Washington.

  “What was the can?”

  “Wha’?”

  “The can you were kicking. What was it?”

  “They wants us back in the court.”

  He pointed to an open door where a bailiff was gesturing to us. I grabbed the threadbare serge coat that had once been half of a suit.

  “Can, Mr. Washington. What
was the can you were kicking?”

  “Oh. Sprite, I guess. Yeah, thass it. Sprite.”

  Okay.

  “Nice of you to join us, Counsel,” Judge Childress said thirty seconds later as we strode up to the bench.

  “Ready for the defense, your honor.”

  She scowled over at the assistant city attorney who’d drawn Clarence Washington’s case.

  “Call your first witness.”

  The arresting officer stood to the city attorney’s left, facing the judge. No witness stand in this courtroom. He took the oath and said he’d spotted the defendant casing cars in the fenced-in parking lot of a private company and had arrested him because he couldn’t give a plausible reason for being there. Feeling Washington’s eyes on me, I leaned a little to my right so that I could look the officer in the face while I cross-examined him.

  “Mr. Washington identified himself to you when you asked him to, officer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he gave you his correct name?”

  “Yes.”

  “He did give you an explanation for being in the parking lot, didn’t he?”

  “He tried one on me.”

  “You just didn’t buy, it, right?”

  “You got that right. In my professional judgment based on seventeen years as a law enforcement officer, he was there casing cars.”

  “By the way, this ‘fenced in’ parking lot had openings in the fence so people could walk in and walk out, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t have to open a gate or climb over the fence to get in, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Hurry it up, Counsel,” Childress said impatiently. “This isn’t Trial Practice One-Oh-One.”

  “When you arrested Mr. Washington, you searched him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Reviewing your report, I don’t see any mention of a slimjim or a tire iron or a heavy wrench that someone might use to break into a car. Did I miss something?”

  “No, I didn’t find anything like that.”

  I glanced at Washington to draw the judge’s eyes to him so that she could try to imagine the smallish man breaking a car window with his bare hands.