“I guess it depends how much money I had. Puerto Rico for sure.”
“Yeah, they’d never think to look for you there.”
Ruben, all churched up in a black sport jacket and striped shirt, gave him a dirty look.
“Hey,” Cobb said, looking out the side window. “There he is, blue overcoat, tan sport cap, briefcase.” He watched Joe Sculley come out of the apartment building and head south along the outer edge of the sidewalk close to the street. Sculley walked to the end of the block, turned right.
Ruben said, “Sure it’s him?”
“Trust me.”
“Let’s go get him then, uh?”
“You want to take him now, in broad daylight?” They were creeping in heavy morning traffic on Varick Street.
“Why not?”
Cobb could think of a few reasons—all of them breaking the laws of New York City. “What’re you gonna do?”
Ruben told him, and it didn’t sound too bad, New Yorkers being uncaring, who-gives-a-fuck kind of people. Would anyone care if something happened to a lawyer with a briefcase? Then Cobb thought, hold it, kidnap a lawyer, people might cheer them on, give them a medal. Up ahead Sculley walked, occasionally looking over his shoulder.
“What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s paranoid, thinks he’s being followed. You might be too, someone broke into your house, hit you with a sap.”
“You think I’d let that happen?”
“Well, if someone snuck up behind you, you didn’t see it coming. Bam.” Cobb slapped the dashboard with an open hand.
“I’d hear the motherfucker.”
“What if you didn’t? You get hit, you’re out cold.”
“I can take a punch. I don’t think it would put me out.”
Was anything easy with this guy? “Well, everyone else in the fucking universe, it would, okay?”
“You don’t know that.”
“Just go do the job, how’s that sound?”
Ruben made a fist, gaudy diamond ring on the middle finger, making a face, faking like he was going to throw a punch, and broke into a big smile. “Thought I was going to do it, didn’t you?”
Jesus, Ruben, would’ve been a psychiatrist’s dream. Thirty-nine going on twelve. Cobb slowed down and let him out. The car behind him honked. Cobb opened the window and motioned the driver to come around him. Guy in a Benz drove up next to Cobb and flipped him off. Cobb grinned and nodded, wanted to follow the guy, shoot his tires out. “Count your lucky stars, asshole.”
Ruben was almost to Sculley, closing the gap fast, when Sculley got into a taxi and shut the door. Cobb went fifty yards, picked up Ruben, and followed the cab to a high rise on Wall Street, pulled over in a no-parking zone. “Why don’t you wait here,” Cobb said. “I’ll see where he’s going.”
For once Ruben didn’t say anything. Cobb got out and Ruben got behind the wheel. He followed Sculley into the building, into a crowded elevator up to the fifty-fifth floor, and down the hall to a law firm, Cobb hanging back, letting Sculley put some distance between them.
This was the difficult part, trying to figure out what someone was going to do. Should they wait for Sculley to go to lunch? Or wait for him in front of his apartment? Cobb saw himself sitting in the car all day, breathing Ruben’s cologne. Maybe there was another way.
Cobb went through the big floor-to-ceiling glass door that had four names on it, into the lobby, and up to the slick granite reception counter. The receptionist wore a black tapered headset, talking to someone as Cobb approached. She finished the call, looked at him, and said, “May I help you, sir?”
“Duane Cobb here to see Mr. Sculley.”
“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Cobb?”
“I do not. But I’ll bet Joe will make some time for me. Tell him I was recommended by Jack McCann.”
Cobb wandered over to one of the couches, sat and picked up a National Geographic, opened it to an article on the headhunting tribes of Borneo, Cobb wondering where Borneo was. There were pictures of shrunken heads and Dayak warriors who carried spears and machetes and looked like native chinks. Apparently headhunting was a sport in Borneo. Jesus, it took all kinds.
Maybe they should do that to Jack when they caught him, cut off his head, shrink it in boiling water, and give it to Frank as a souvenir, let him hang it from the rearview mirror of his limo.
“What can I do for you?”
Cobb looked up at Sculley standing in front of him, closed the magazine, and put it back on the table. “Somewhere we can go and talk?”
“About what?”
“The mysterious whereabouts of Jack McCann.”
“I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news. Jack passed away tragically on nine-eleven. We believe he died when Tower One collapsed.”
“Except that I saw him in a Midtown hotel day before yesterday.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“No, I saw him all right, and I know you’ve been talking to him.” Cobb paused. “He called you that morning, didn’t he? First plane had already hit, Jack dials your number, called you before his own wife. What’d he say?”
“The building was severely damaged, a lot of people were dead. Jack didn’t know if he was going to make it out.”
“How’s your jaw, by the way?”
Sculley gave him a knowing look. “What’d you hit me with?”
“A lead-shot sap.”
“Don’t be surprised if the Ridgewood Police show up at your door. They got your license number.”
“You’re making that up. They never saw me. Tell you what, I’ll give you one more chance.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m telling you the way it is. Where’s Jack?”
Sculley raised his voice. “Get the hell out of here.” He turned and glanced at the receptionist. “Ann, call security.”
“That’s how you’re gonna play it, huh? Okay, I’ll see you around, Joe.”
TWENTY-TWO
Mel Hoberman had called and said he and corporate counsel Barry Zitter wanted to talk to Diane face-to-face, explain the severity of the situation, and try to resolve the matter in question. They took the red-eye from San Francisco and met in a conference room at the Four Seasons on West 57th, Diane insisting on a neutral site. She could have had an attorney present but decided not to.
There were scones and Danish pastries on a plate on the conference table, and pitchers of regular and decaf coffee.
Mel was six three and lean, wore a suit coat without a tie, sat across the table from Diane, and drank decaf. Barry Zitter had a reddish-brown perm. He was short and chunky and sat at the end of the long table to her right and fixed his immediate attention on a blueberry scone, breaking it into pieces he stuffed in his mouth with pale, plump fingers, with nails that looked like they had been chewed down by a wild animal.
“Diane, again, let me offer my condolences, I’m sorry for your loss.” Mel sounded like he was reading a passage from a book on coping with death. “This is an extremely delicate and difficult situation. I wanted to give you the courtesy of a full and candid explanation. I knew Jack, not well, but I liked him. He was at heart a good man, but sometimes even good men make mistakes.” Mel paused and drank his coffee. “We’re here in good faith. We want to avoid litigation.”
“Mrs. McCann,” Barry Zitter said, wiping scone crumbs off the front of his blue suit. “This is what we know: your husband misappropriated seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars from Barbara Sperrick, a Sterns and Morrison client.”
“How do you know?” These corporate assholes annoyed her, especially Barry Zitter.
“Your husband had power of attorney,” Barry Zitter said. “The woman, Mrs. Sperrick, is elderly and incapable of making intelligent decisions regarding the management of her wealth. Your husband managed her portfolio. Your husband sold equities totaling seven hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Isn’t that what brokers do, buy and sell
stocks?”
“Yes,” Barry Zitter said, “but they don’t embezzle their client’s money.”
“And you’re positive Jack did that? What proof do you have?”
“We have a record of the transactions,” Barry Zitter said. He reached a finger in his mouth and dislodged a food particle, took it out, examined a little piece of masticated blueberry and wiped it on a napkin.
Mel Hoberman said, “We would appreciate you granting us permission to review your bank statements.”
“As I told you the last time we talked, that money was never deposited in our joint cash management account.”
“We want to look at your bank accounts,” Mel Hoberman said.
“I told you, I’ve got a little over five grand and a pile of bills I can’t pay.”
Barry Zitter said, “If you force our hand, we’ll have no choice but to subpoena your statements.”
“It’s an interesting story. A grieving widow whose husband was killed on nine-eleven is being harassed by his former company. I wonder if the New York Times might want to pick up a story like this? Or how about CNN?”
Mel Hoberman said, “We don’t want this to get ugly.”
“I’ll bet you don’t.”
“We assume Jack had life insurance. We can settle this quietly without tarnishing his good name,” Mel Hoberman said.
“That’s correct, Mrs. McCann,” Barry Zitter said. “We just want to do what’s right, what’s fair.”
Now she was convinced Jack had taken the money. But why? What else didn’t she know? “Jack’s dead, and I don’t have Mrs. Sperrick’s money. And if you think I’m going to give you his life insurance, you’re out of your mind.” Diane stood up and walked out of the room.
Duane Cobb was parked in front when she got home. He was walking up the driveway as she stepped out of the car. He looked different in jeans and a black leather jacket, his hair slicked back. As he came closer she said, “Can I see some ID?”
Cobb didn’t react. Maybe he didn’t get it.
“You vaguely resemble someone I know, but he wore ties and sweater vests. What did you do, come out of the closet?”
“Can we talk?”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“I mean inside.”
“You going to tell me the seven stages of grief again?” She started down the driveway to the side door, opened it, and went in. “Can I take your coat?”
“That’s okay.”
She hung hers on a hanger in the back hall closet and walked into the kitchen. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“At least take your coat off; you’re making me nervous.”
He did and fit it on the back of a chair at the island counter. Cobb was wearing a Western shirt with pearl buttons tucked into the jeans and a belt with a big oval buckle that had a bull embossed on it. “Looks like you’re on your way to a rodeo?”
He didn’t react.
Still all business, Cobb said, “Did you get the insurance money yet?”
“What does that have to do with grief? Oh yeah, I remember, something about balance, right? Mental health and financial health, isn’t that it?”
“I made that up. Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”
“What else did you make up?”
“A lot of it. I’m not a grief counselor. But I could be, don’t you think?”
“What are you?” Although she had a pretty good idea. “Why the confession, does your conscience bother you?”
“You owe us seven hundred and fifty thousand. It has nothing to do with conscience. I collect money.”
“You’re with the Puerto Rican, aren’t you? I wouldn’t want to wake up in the morning looking at him.”
“Just be glad you’re not looking at him all day.” Cobb grinned now. “The surprising thing—and I know you’re gonna find this hard to believe—Ruben attracts women. I’ve seen him in action.”
“Yeah, I can understand how some girls might go for a guy like that ’cause he’s a brute. There’s an element of danger. You’re more my type, Duane. I like guys that are handsome. Jack was a good-looking man.”
“You coming onto me?”
“No, I’m giving you my opinion. And I have to say, I like you better in the Western outfit a lot more than the schoolboy clothes. But the sweater vest and tie helped convince me you were the real thing. Perception is reality. But not really, huh?”
“Let’s get back to the debt,” Cobb said.
“Whatever Jack did is on him. You say he borrowed money, it’s his problem. I didn’t know about it. I didn’t have anything to do with it. And I never signed that bullshit contract.”
“Where’s he at?”
“I’d like to say up in heaven, but after what I found out, I’m not so sure.”
“You’re not in contact with him?”
“How exactly would that work? You think I’m having séances at night, sitting here with a Ouija board, communicating with Jack’s spirit?”
“I’m saying if he wasn’t dead, if he didn’t go down when the tower crashed, if he faked his own death.”
“Don’t tell the insurance company. I need the money.”
“How much are you getting?”
“Come on, Duane, are you kidding?”
“I can get you out of this jam you’re in, offer my employer a lesser amount, see if he’ll accept it under the circumstances.”
“Under the circumstances, I don’t owe you anything. Why do you think this is my problem?”
“My employer Mr. DiCicco says as Jack’s wife, you’re responsible for the debt. There’s nothing I can do to change his mind.”
“You’ve been conning me since day one, and you’re still at it. I don’t think there is a Mr. DiCicco. I think you and the Puerto Rican are running this scam on your own. San Marino Equity is out of business, so you used the name and probably had some fake contracts printed or used their old ones. Does that sound familiar?”
“I’m gonna ask you to think about this before it gets out of hand.”
“It already is out of hand. You’re out of hand. Jesus. Do you ever quit?”
“I’m looking out for your best interests.”
“As long as my interests agree with yours, huh? I wish there was some way I could turn you off, flip a switch and you’d stop talking. I can’t listen to any more of your bullshit.”
“Sleep on it, you’ll feel different tomorrow; I guarantee that. I’ll stop by, we can continue the dialogue.”
“I see you again, Duane, I’m going to call the police.”
Cobb was staring at the mail piled on the countertop. He picked up a stack of envelopes and started shuffling through them.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Cobb ignored her and she moved around the counter and swatted the envelopes out of his hand and they dropped on the granite surface.
Cobb, giving her his full attention now, said, “Looking for the check from the insurance company.”
“I spent it.”
“Uh-huh.” Cobb put his coat on. “It’s been friendly up till now. How we proceed from here will depend on how cooperative you are.”
Diane watched him walk out and close the door. She’d had it, decided she wasn’t going to put up with any more, grabbed her purse, went out the French doors to the garage, and got in Jack’s BMW. She adjusted the seat, revved the engine, backed out, turned around, and gunned it. Cobb’s Toyota was halfway down the block when she got to the street. She followed him, all the way to the Holiday Inn in Stamford, parked in the lot, and waited.
Half an hour later, Ruben and Cobb appeared, carrying suitcases they put in the trunk of the Toyota. It was strange seeing them together; they were so different. After taking another shot at her, it looked like they were giving up, leaving town. Diane had finally reached her breaking point. Now she could try to turn things around, find out where they lived and who they worked for.
She followed the
Toyota to the freeway and all the way to an apartment building on 2nd Avenue in the East Village. Cobb pulled over, Ruben Diaz retrieved his suitcase and went in the building. Diane wrote the address on a piece of paper in her purse. When she looked up, Cobb’s car was moving again. She followed him to Houston, went right and right again onto 6th Avenue and took that to West 21st Street.
Cobb parked on the street, grabbed his suitcase, and entered an apartment building. Diane found a parking space across the one-way street and sat for a minute trying to calm down. She had butterflies in her stomach, and wondered if she should phone Detective Brown now or trail Cobb a little longer and see what he was going to do.
She got out and walked to the building, went in and saw his name on the directory: D. Cobb apartment 312.
TWENTY-THREE
Jack picked up his new Visa card and rented a Honda Civic. He wanted to blend in, not call attention to himself, and it was the perfect car for that. He put on a pair of shorts and drove up the coast, stopped in Del Ray, and had grilled red snapper and a Heineken at a restaurant on the beach, thinking about Vicki. He remembered how excited and appreciative she had been when he took her to London. She had never flown business class and had never been to Europe. They stayed at Claridge’s and saw the sights: Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, and Big Ben. They went to a fourth-round match at Wimbledon and saw Roger Federer beat Pete Sampras. Diane had seen Jack on TV and asked him about the girl sitting next to him, the one he kept talking to. Of course he lied to her.
They went out to dinner, made love, slept late, and ordered room service for breakfast. One day they rented a car and went to the Cotswolds, Jack driving on the right side of the car and the right side of the road, shifting with his left hand. It was an adventure.
They had lunch in Cheltenham and drove back to London at rush hour, and neither of them was stressed out or lost their cool despite the difficult driving conditions. Jack was thinking, you want a test to see if you’re compatible with someone? Rent a car and drive around London.
From there they flew to Rome for a couple days and stayed at the Hassler Hotel. They had coffee on their private balcony, looking down at the Spanish Steps and out at the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica in the hazy distance.
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