The two men looked at each other. “Someone’s trying to kill me,” Bolden said finally.
“That’s a good reason,” said Kravitz. He nodded to the entryway. “My briefcase. There’s some material you may find interesting.”
“Does this mean you’re going to let me know what you found on Schiff?”
“May I?”
Bolden stood and retrieved the briefcase, setting it down between them. Kravitz opened it, and methodically withdrew one folder after the next, setting each on the table beside him. “All right then, first things first,” he said. “Diana Chambers.” He picked up a folder and opened the cover. “No record of her at any hospital. She isn’t at home either. Or, if she is, she’s not answering her phone or door. Easy ruse: send over takeout. There’s been no police report filed, either. Not in the five boroughs, at least, and you said the crime took place in Manhattan.”
“Downtown.”
“Yeah. Anyway, not a peep about big bad Bolden beating her to a pulp. No record at all of someone by her name pressing charges against you.”
“But Mickey Schiff said she’d filed a complaint. He had detectives waiting to take me to the station.”
“He was lying,” said Kravitz matter-of-factly. “We had better luck with Schiff. Didn’t know he was a marine.”
“Yeah, Mickey’s our own Chesty Puller,” said Bolden.
“I’d watch invoking the name of a legend to describe Mr. Schiff.” Kravitz settled a folder on his lap. “Lieutenant Colonel Schiff served in supply. A procurement officer. Outstanding record. Numerous medals, commendations. All in all, a fine career. After leaving the military, he joined the firm of Defense Associates.”
Bolden nodded, feeling a gear lock into place.
“Schiff lasted at said company for all of nine months, then jumped ship to HW.”
“Defense Associates went bankrupt,” said Bolden.
“Nothing fishy there. Just a few lousy investments. Paid too much for Fanning Firearms and couldn’t turn it around despite Mr. Schiff’s best efforts. That’s that.”
“What happened next?”
Suddenly, Kravitz went mute. One by one, he slipped the folders back into his briefcase.
“We’re not done here,” said Bolden.
“Speak for yourself.” Kravitz buckled his briefcase and stood. “The way I see it, Tom, you’ve taken advantage of me enough as it is.”
Bolden remained seated. “Did you expect me to stop you? Go ahead, if you want. But I’ll leave it to you to explain to Allen Prell that you used the firm’s resources on behalf of a suspected murderer without doing any double-checking. You said it yourself. You thought you were helping the next CEO of HW. Guess you screwed up. Right now, your ass is on the line as much as mine. You help me, and you’re helping yourself. If I get caught, sooner or later it’s going to come out that we met. I don’t think Prell likes to be caught in bed with a murderer any more than HW.” Bolden shrugged. “Your call.”
Kravitz walked past Bolden to the door. “Good luck, Tom.” He opened it and stepped outside.
Bolden let him go. He wasn’t about to beg. What was the point? Kravitz had confirmed what he knew. Schiff had been involved with Defense Associates. He opened a bottle of water and drank greedily from it.
The knock on the door startled him. He looked through the peephole, then opened the door. “You’re back?”
Martin Kravitz swept past him into the bedroom. “I’m not quite the cynical bastard you think I am. If you’d killed Sol Weiss, you’d never have allowed me to leave. Therefore, I’m left with the conclusion that you are innocent, and that someone at your firm is helping to frame you. Given the information I discovered this afternoon about Mickey Schiff, I believe I can help you get out of this mess.”
Bolden nodded. “Glad to hear it. Have a seat.”
Kravitz sat down, and once again, unpacked his briefcase. He sighed, slapping his hands on his knees. “And so . . . Lieutenant Colonel Schiff’s last project as a procurement officer was overseeing bidding to equip the Marine Corps with a new generation of side arm. Following his recommendation, the Marine Corps signed a seventy-million-dollar contract with Fanning Firearms for the purchase of nine-millimeter automatic pistols.”
“Interesting.”
“Not as interesting as Mr. Schiff’s purchase of a $1.2-million home in McClean, Virginia, a few months after his retirement from the military. This was 1984, I remind you, when a million-dollar home bought you something more than a tract house with marble flooring and a toilet that irrigates your asshole. The place was located next door to the Kennedy estate, Hickory Hill.”
“Sounds like a good neighborhood.”
“Schiff’s maximum pay grade was ‘0-10.’ With nineteen years in, Lieutenant Colonel Schiff earned a maximum of fifty-two hundred dollars a month.”
“Did he have a trust?” asked Bolden, playing the devil’s advocate. “Parents leave him any money?”
“No to both questions. The highest balance his account at the credit union ever saw was twenty-two thousand. Respectable, but hardly sufficient to make a three-hundred-twenty-thousand-dollar down payment on the home.”
“Three hundred twenty thousand? That’s not bad for a career military officer.” Bolden looked squarely at Kravitz. “You’re saying that Schiff steered the contract to Defense Associates and got the house and a job as his reward.”
“I’m saying no such thing. I have no proof of any wrongdoing, Tom. What I offer you is conjecture based on the information I was able to gather. But,” he added a moment later, “a reasonable man might make that assumption.”
Kravitz paused and took a breath. When he next spoke, his voice was softer, pitched high with a tangible fear. “Are you currently doing any business with Jefferson Partners?”
“Yes, I’m handling the purchase of a consumer data company. Trendrite. Heard of it?”
“Oh yes, most definitely.” Kravitz dropped his eyes to the floor. “Earlier you mentioned Scanlon Corporation. Back in the late seventies, Scanlon was split into two divisions. One concentrated on surveillance software systems designed to gather information from consumers. I believe it’s called ‘data mining’ now. They started a company called Guardian Microsystems in Albany, New York.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have. Before your time. What you should know is that the company changed its name a few years back. Now they call themselves Trendrite.”
“You said they split into two divisions?”
“The other is their training side. Contractors. Officially, they’ve ceased to exist, but unofficially . . .” Kravitz shrugged.
Before Bolden could question him further, he delved into his briefcase and came out with a buff envelope. “I almost forgot. You asked for the background check we performed on you. Here it is. Interesting about your name. Do you know of any reason why your mother changed it?”
52
In the spacious parlor of his Georgetown townhome, Senator Hugh Fitzgerald kicked his stockinged feet onto an ottoman and succumbed to the pleasures of his worn and comfortable leather chair.
“Ahh,” he sighed loud enough to rattle the windows. “Marta, a glass of Tennessee’s finest, por favor. And generoso. Muy generoso.”
From the start, it had been a taxing day. A prayer breakfast with his conservative counterparts across the aisle at seven—yes, even Democrats like Fitzgerald believed in God—was followed by the usual office business, the meeting and greeting of visiting dignitaries from his home state. Today, that meant pumping hands with the head of the Vermont Dairy Promotion Council and saying hello to this year’s National Spelling Bee champion, an impressive young man who hailed from Rutland. Then came the “specially scheduled” appropriations hearings that had drawn on and on.
Six point two billion dollars to refill the military’s pre-positioning depots, or pre-pos, as they were called so affectionately. It boggled the mind that the armed forces could requ
ire so much money. Six point two billion . . . and that just to return the country to fighting fettle. It was a minimum. Not in any way earmarked to expand manpower, or to gear up for imminent conflict. Six point two billion dollars to bring the water back to the level mark and ensure that the United States of America could respond with adequate force to two regional conflicts. Six point two billion dollars to buy boots and bullets and uniforms and MREs. Not a dollar of it to commission a new tank, buy a new airplane, or build a new boat.
The terrible irony was that while America had the finest equipment and the best-trained troops, she did not have enough money to finance their use in battle. Waging modern war was prohibitively expensive, even for the wealthiest nation on the face of the globe. One year prosecuting a half-assed war against a pitiable opponent had cost the country over two hundred billion dollars. And for what?
As chair of the appropriations committee, Hugh Fitzgerald was party to the nasty details the public could never see. Like the fact that a crack division of the army had run out of food for two days—not a biscuit or tin of peaches to eat. Another had gone short of water, preventing it from joining in an attack. His favorite tidbit belonged to the marines. An entire battalion had actually run out of bullets during a prolonged engagement in the Sunni Triangle. Bullets. The little devils cost fifty cents apiece, and the fightingest men on God’s green earth had run out of them. Even those dirty little Arab bastards had bullets. They had ’em by the truckload.
“Here you are, Senator.” Marta padded into the room and handed him the evening’s cocktail.
“Gracias,” he said. “Yes, yes, muy generoso. You’re too good to me.” He took a generous sip and set down the glass. “Come, Marta, sit next to me. An old man requires some attention after a long day.”
Marta squeezed onto the arm of the leather chair. She was a svelte woman, barely a hundred pounds. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she smiled at him with dark, mournful eyes. Slipping a hand behind his neck, she began massaging his shoulder.
“That’s better,” he said. “Very good, indeed.”
Fitzgerald closed his eyes and let Marta’s hands do their work. It was hard to believe such a slight woman could be so strong. Her fingers were like steel. He sighed as her kneading broke his tension into little pieces and banished it to another place. He decided he needed more of this and fewer battles on the Hill.
Six point two billion dollars. He couldn’t get the figure out of his mind.
He might be able to push off the bill this session, but it would be back the next, and then with another billion or two tacked on for inflation. Part of him thought this the best course. Delay. The fox couldn’t raid the henhouse if he didn’t have any teeth. On the other hand, there was the security of the country’s men and women to think of.
Fitzgerald considered Jacklin’s offer of a post at Jefferson Partners. There were worse places to end a career, he conceded, even if he did despise the vain, cocksure man. Politics, however, had forever ruined his ability to hold a grudge. There was no such thing as friendship on the Hill, or its opposite. There was only pragmatism. He imagined himself strutting the halls of the investment bank, welcoming clients to his large, well-appointed office. A view of the Potomac would be mandatory. There would be prestige and power and money by the boatload. He didn’t have to look far to see what a partner at Jefferson earned. Jacklin and his ilk were billionaires to a man. Billionaires. He’d seen a few of the homes and the cars purchased by men who’d made their name on the Hill, then gone and sold it to Jefferson.
Fitzgerald had grown up on a dairy farm in the thirties and forties. Having money meant buying a new set of clothes for Christmas and putting three meals on the table each day. If they were lucky enough to make a trip to the coast each summer, they were considered rich. His father never made more than two thousand dollars a year his entire life.
A billionaire. If Jacklin cared so deeply about the troops’ well-being, he should throw a few hundred million of his own into the kitty. Not that he’d notice it gone.
The strong, supple fingers continued their work, kneading away the tensions of the day, clearing his mind. Fitzgerald weighed his alternatives. Another run for office. Six more years working the corridors of power. Six more years of horse-trading . . . and with it, the promise of expiring under the Chesapeake sun. It was too much for a Green Mountain boy to take.
Of course, he could return home to his wife, take up a teaching post at the university, and earn even less than he did now. He snorted loud enough to make Marta jump. “Excuse me, dear,” he said, opening his eyes and gazing at the kind, loving woman next to him. And Marta?
Reaching out a hand, he patted her leg. She grasped it, and slid it toward her thigh.
“Lord, no,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, guiding his hand back to a safer area. “The very thought exhausts me. I’ve got a party to go to this evening. Any hanky-panky, and I’ll be out till the morning.”
Marta smiled. She was hot-blooded, was what she was. He brought her close and kissed her on the cheek. He could not leave his Marta.
Six point two billion dollars.
These days, it wasn’t that much money, was it?
Later, he told himself. He would decide later.
53
Franciscus hurried down the hall into the booking room. A beige, waist-high machine that resembled a copier stood in the corner. It was a LiveScan machine—officially labeled the TouchPrint 3500. It had been three years since he’d rolled a suspect’s fingers over a messy inkpad and struggled to get ten decent prints onto a booking sheet. To make matters worse, not to mention waste infinitely more time, the suspect’s prints had to be taken twice more as he advanced into the bowels of the criminal-justice system. Once for the state police in Albany, and again for the Department of Justice in D.C. These days, all you did was press the suspect’s fingers one at a time onto a card-size scanner, check on the pop-up monitor that the print was properly recorded, and—bingo!—it was transferred automatically to Central Booking downtown, Albany, and D.C. All at the touch of a button.
Franciscus flipped open the peripheral scanner and laid the transparency onto the bed. A piece of paper set on top was necessary to ensure a good read. The LiveScan machine hummed as it digitized the prints and copied them into its memory. Franciscus keyed in instructions to send them to the NCIC, the National Crime Information Center in Clarksburg, West Virginia, as well as the FBI’s Criminal Justice Information Services Division. The collected databases would check the prints against any on file. The list ran to federal employees, current and past military personnel, aliens who had registered to live in the United States, and the department of motor vehicles in forty-eight states.
Franciscus left the room, closing the door behind him. It would take an hour or so for the system to come up with any matches. If, and when, LiveScan found one, it would notify his PC. As he advanced down the hall, he spotted Mike Melendez’s head popping out of the squad room.
“Hey, John!”
“Short Mike. What’s doin’?” Franciscus could see that Melendez was worked up about something.
“I should be asking you. Chief’s on the phone.”
“Whose chief is that? You mean ‘the Loot’?”
“The friggin’ chief. Esposito. On line one.”
“Impossible. It’s after five.” But Franciscus made sure he hustled to his desk.
“The Chief” was Chief of Police Charlie Esposito, “Chargin’ Charlie” to his friends, “Charlie Suck” to others, but to all the highest-ranking uniformed cop in the city. Only the commissioner and his deputy stood above him, and they were appointees. Franciscus and Esposito had processed through the same class at the academy back when their peckers still stood straight up. But where Franciscus had gone to work for love of the job, Esposito had always had his eye on the brass ring. He’d never made a single decision without asking himself first how it was going to advance his career. Officially, they were still friends.
“Detective John Franciscus,” he said, unable to keep himself from standing a little straighter.
“John, this is Chief Esposito. I understand you’ve been looking into some old police business?”
“Like what?”
“The Shepherd and O’Neill murders up in Albany.”
Franciscus didn’t answer. He was dumbstruck. Part of him had somehow come to the conclusion that Esposito was calling to give him grief about his failure to hand in his medical papers. But as that illusion rapidly dissolved, he was all the more confused. How in God’s name had Esposito gotten wind of Franciscus’s informal investigation? And even then, what was his motive for calling?
“And so?”
“That case is closed.”
“Really? From what I see, there’s a suspect that’s been on the run for the better part of twenty-five years.”
“That matter’s been adjudicated,” said Esposito.
“Excuse me, sir, but I beg to differ.”
There was a pause. An unhealthy sigh that said it all. “I want you to drop it, John.”
Franciscus took a breath. He should have seen that coming as soon as Esposito had announced himself as “Chief.” “Charlie,” he said, turning his back to the squad room and speaking in a quieter voice, man-to-man, no bullshit. “Look, Charlie, it’s a long story, but it’s got something to do with the crazy business that went down in Union Square today. I had a guy in here last night name of Tom Bolden. . . .”
“Bolden? That’s the Weiss murderer. We have an APB out on him. Feds are getting into the game, too. It’s not your beef. Leave it to Manhattan South.”
“No, no, listen to me, Charlie. You know the girl who was shot? Her name’s Jennifer Dance. Bolden was right next to her when it happened. She’s his girlfriend. You getting this, Charlie? Someone wanted to take out Bolden and they missed.”
“I’m not following where the Albany murder ties into this, and frankly, I don’t care to know. You’ve done enough snooping around. Bolden belongs to Manhattan South. Don’t concern yourself with him.”
The Patriots Club Page 30
