“Yes, right now we’d much rather be short.”
“Anything we can do? Can we shorten it?”
He laughs, no doubt at my ignorance. “No, we can’t shorten it. All I would recommend at this point is waiting for the stock to go back up. The fundamentals are sound, but it’s going to be a while; the market will have to believe they can adequately replace this guy. And the worst part is that I’m not sure they can.”
“Laurie doesn’t approve of investing in a stock run by a guy she affectionately calls a ‘complete and total pig.’”
“He won’t be running it anymore.”
“I know, but she wants nothing to do with him or it.”
“This is the wrong time to sell, Andy,” he says.
“I should have spoken to you before I married someone with ethics and principles. Find the best time to get out, but let’s do it this week.”
“You’re the boss,” he says.
“Mention that to Laurie when you get a chance.”
I’m no sooner off the phone than Sam Willis calls.
“Hilda found Eric Benjamin,” he says.
“Great. How did she do it?”
“She googled his name.”
“I could have done that,” I say.
“That’s open to question,” Sam says, based on his knowledge of my computer skills. “Regardless, don’t mention that to Hilda. But it wasn’t exactly tough. He’d probably be in the damn phone book, if damn phone books existed anymore. He’s not hiding, that’s for sure.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s president and CEO of a company called the EB Group. I think it’s fair to say that EB stands for Eric Benjamin.”
“What do they do?”
“Website says corporate security, but it’s notably short of information,” Sam says.
“Who are their clients?”
“That’s one of the pieces of information that’s lacking. I’ll attempt to find out through other means.”
He gives me the phone number for the EB Group, and I call. I get a computer that asks me to verbalize who I am trying to reach. I inform the computer that I am trying to reach Eric Benjamin, and it puts me on hold. I wait for at least two minutes, but I don’t mind, because the computer tells me that my call is very important to them.
Finally, another computer comes on and tells me that Mr. Benjamin is not available and that I am welcome to leave a message. I leave my name and phone number and say that I am an attorney wanting to speak to Mr. Benjamin about a significant matter.
I do not expect to hear back from Mr. Benjamin but would relish another chance to chat with his computer.
I head down to Ricky’s room, where he’s playing a video game. Ricky is not devoted to them, at least not as much as I’d have been as a kid in a similar situation. If these options were available to me back then, I would never have left the house.
“You want to have a catch?” I ask. It should be said at this point that in New Jersey you have a “catch” with a baseball, and a “pass” with a football. Getting that wrong would be akin to going to the “beach” rather than to the “shore.”
“Sure,” he says.
It pleases me to no end that Ricky is always up for doing things; he grabs at life in a way that I never did. “Get your glove,” I say.
We go into the backyard and throw the ball around for half an hour. Most of the time is spent with me in a catcher’s crouch as Ricky pretends to be the pitcher. His pretending extends to his holding imaginary runners on first base before coming to the plate. He holds them on for a really long time.
“You can throw it anytime you like,” I say while my knees are begging me to get up.
“I’m afraid he’s going to steal.”
“Don’t worry; if he tries it, I’ll throw him out.”
Laurie calls us in for lunch, which is a good thing, since if I have to spend one more minute in the crouch, it will take a crane to get me up. As I’m entering the house, my cell phone rings.
“Carpenter? Eric Benjamin.”
“Thanks for calling me back.”
“You have questions for me? Let ’er rip.”
“I was hoping we could meet. I ‘rip’ better in person.”
“What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?”
He’s going to be in Manhattan tomorrow, so we make plans to meet at La Masseria, an Italian restaurant on Forty-eighth Street.
That’s just twenty-four hours away, about fifteen miles from here, so based on the normal traffic getting into and out of the city, I probably should leave now.
“Do you know Eric Benjamin’s cell phone number?”
I’m asking Sam the question because it came through on the call to me as “Private Caller” on my caller ID.
“That’s insulting to Hilda,” Sam says. “She’s done a deep dive on him. She has his cell number, home number, address, mortgage, and probably knows the last time he took a piss. Hilda’s better at this than she is at rugelach.” Sam is clearly proud of his eighty-six-year-old protégé.
“What about his office phone?”
“Doesn’t have one; he must work out of his home.”
“I’m going to be having lunch with him tomorrow at a restaurant in Manhattan. I want to know who he calls afterward.”
“For how long after the lunch?”
“At least for the rest of the day. Even longer if this can be done.”
“It’s a piece of cake, or rugelach,” Sam says. “We can’t listen in on the call, you understand. But we can find out who he calls or who calls him. I’ll put Leon on this one; he knows his way around the phone company computers better than they do.”
“Perfect. That’s what I want.”
Once I get off with Sam, I consider having Marcus be there tomorrow as well. Not to protect me; unless Benjamin poisons the spaghetti, I should be fine in a Midtown Manhattan restaurant at lunchtime. I could have him follow Benjamin and see where he goes when we’re finished, but I decide against it as unnecessary.
Hike comes over with more discovery documents; I’m not spending much time in the office even though it is now cool and comfortable, thanks to Eli Mandlebaum. Sam told me that Sofia Hernandez gave each of the Bubalah Brigade a whole watermelon to thank them for fixing the air-conditioning.
There are quite a few more forensics reports, including the ballistic tests on Kramer’s gun. It comes as no surprise that the weapon did fire the shot that killed Zimmer.
The coroner also has certified that Zimmer died of a bullet wound. It’s possible she based that on the huge hole in Zimmer’s chest.
There is another item that has more significance, at least in terms of how I judge my adversary. They’ve sent the results of the additional fingerprint testing done on the truck. It is displayed in as unobtrusive a way as possible, buried amid mounds of material. Additionally, the prints are identified without giving the full names of those who left them.
For example, and most importantly, Eric Benjamin becomes E. Benjamin. Had Pete not told me about it, there is a chance that I would not have picked up on it or realized what it meant. I like to think that I would have, but I can’t be sure.
There is always the possibility that Carla does not know who Benjamin is; she was in California when his issues with the law and state police came to light. That would be the innocent explanation; the other possibility is that Laurie was right when she described Carla as an ultracompetitive, win-at-all-costs person.
Pete has also gotten me the video that I requested of my last trip to the rest stop. It shows what I wanted it to show, although I’m disturbed by one thing; I’m looking a little paunchy these days. We have a treadmill and exercise bike in our house; it’s possible that I actually have to use them for them to be effective.
Hike also brings me a briefcase full of documents regarding the death of John Craddock. It includes police reports on the investigation they conducted, news stories that ran right after the accident, and background information
that Sam and his team have accumulated.
Christine Craddock described her husband as successful, which was dramatically understating the case. He was a pioneer in robotics, which is one of the few fields that is so new and developing that there is room for actual pioneers. His company was called Roboton and, based on the information I am reading, it immediately took a position as a leader in the field.
Unlike in more established industries, individuals in nascent fields like robotics can mean everything to a company. General Electric or AT&T can have chief executives that are important to their respective companies, but if they leave, they can be replaced. Maybe the replacement will not be as competent or effective, but the companies will go on and usually thrive.
Not so with companies like Craddock’s. It is a highly competitive field; they were competing with other start-ups vying for dominance. Craddock’s departure will likely be, if not a death knell for Roboton, a grievous wound.
But while his death might have been a boon to his competitors, there is absolutely nothing here that indicates murder. He was hiking on dangerous terrain and is not the first person to die in that area.
Even taking the opposite view, that he was pushed to his death in a premeditated murder, that’s a long stretch from having anything to do with setting up Dave Kramer. But I’ll talk to Kramer to see if he can provide any further insight.
That talk will have to wait, because for now I have to read up and learn what I can about Eric Benjamin. It could be an interesting lunch.
La Masseria is on West Forty-eighth Street near Eighth Avenue.
That puts it in the heart of the theater district, which means it’s dependent on Broadway patrons. Like many other nearby restaurants, when it comes to dinner, pre-theater and post-theater hours find it packed. Between 8:00 and 10:00 P.M., however, tables are easy to come by.
Matinees are a similar boon to theater restaurants. They take place on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays, so at lunchtime on those days, they are always crowded.
Today being Thursday, there are no matinee crowds to contend with. I arrive at the restaurant right at the designated 12:30 time and give the maître d’ Benjamin’s name. He nods and brings me directly to the table; I get the feeling that Benjamin is a regular here.
Benjamin is waiting for me, and he stands to shake my hand when I reach the table. He’s medium height and obviously in great shape; there’s a toughness to his face and demeanor that I could easily match with a tough cop working the street. This guy could have been a regular in the cast of one of the four hundred incarnations of Law and Order.
Something about him is intimidating. Not Marcus intimidating, but you wouldn’t want to run into him in an interrogation room. If he says, “Try the veal; it’s the best in the city,” I’m out of here. No one has ever confused me with Michael Corleone, and I doubt there’s a gun taped to the toilet.
“Good to meet you,” I say.
“You don’t remember me?”
“No. Have we met?”
“You cross-examined me in a murder case about eight years ago.”
I have absolutely no recollection of it; I’ve cross-examined a lot of cops. It’s one of the reasons they hate me, despite my charming and affable personality. “I hope I was gentle,” I say.
“Let’s just say you’re lucky you didn’t run into me in the parking lot afterward.”
“That’s why I take a bus to court.”
The waiter comes over and takes our orders. He has a chicken dish, and I get the branzino, once I confirm that they are willing to cut off the head before they bring it to me.
“What’s the matter with the head?” Benjamin asks.
“It makes it impossible for me to pretend it was never alive, and the eyes give me the creeps. I don’t like to eat anything that can watch me while I’m doing it.”
He just shakes his head at my squeamishness. There’s also some irony at play here; if the police suspicions are correct, Benjamin would not only cut the head off a branzino, he cut the head off Orlando Guadalupe for squealing on him.
“So ask your questions,” he says. “I’m curious.”
“Your name has come up in connection with a case I’m working on.”
“The Zimmer murder?” When he sees my reaction, he adds, “I checked you out. It wasn’t hard; you don’t exactly have a lot of clients.”
“I go for quality rather than quantity.”
“How did my name come up?”
I’ve decided to be up front with him. If he learns the truth another way, he might have time to come up with a story. If I confront him with it as a surprise, he might be more prone to make an error. In addition, I’ll be able to judge his reaction in the moment.
“Zimmer was murdered on a tractor trailer that he was driving.”
“So?”
“Your prints were found on the truck.”
“Bullshit.”
I’m surprised by his reaction for two reasons. First, and most important, he knows that fingerprint evidence is not bullshit. If his prints are on the truck, then he was on the truck. Everyone knows that, and he was a cop, so he knows it better than anyone. Even though this was sprung on him, the fact that he couldn’t come up with a better story, or any story at all, is unexpected.
Of course, “bullshit” could have meant that he thinks I am lying to him about the print being there. But he’s not questioning where I got the information; he’s simply denying it. That doesn’t ring true.
The second surprise is his nonverbal reaction. He doesn’t seem worried, or flustered, or panicked in any way. He is coldly calm and unfazed. He told me that my statement was bullshit, and he didn’t care if I believed him or not.
“You’re saying you were not on that truck?”
His stare seems to go right through me. “I’m saying two things. One, I was never on that truck. Two, you’d better be careful who you’re accusing.”
Before I can answer, the waiter comes over and places the food down in front of us. I wait to respond until he leaves.
“I wasn’t accusing you of leaving a fingerprint in the truck,” I say. “I was stating a fact, and one the police are aware of. And I’m getting the feeling that you’re threatening me.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“I’m pretty good at threat detecting, and that sounded like one.”
He leans forward, not taking his eyes off of me. I’m not much for eye contact, but in this case, it feels like I’m left with no choice. “Let me clear it up for you, counselor, so you can be sure. I was never on that truck, and I have nothing to do with your case. And if you push it, if you drag me in, it will be the biggest mistake you have ever made in your life.”
This guy is chilling. I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something about him that scares me, right now in the moment, even though I’m sitting in a crowded, public restaurant. It’s more than the words he is saying, as threatening as they may be. It’s his demeanor; there’s a combination of intensity and coldness that is impossible to miss.
But it’s suddenly very important to me that I don’t back down, even though I’ve always considered backing down my specialty. “I don’t have to drag you in,” I say. “You’re already in. And that was your biggest mistake.”
With that, I stand and walk out of the restaurant. Let him eat my branzino; he’s paying for it.
Chesterfield Township sits close to the geographic center of New Jersey.
Being situated in the geographic center of New Jersey is not necessarily everyone’s dream, which may explain why less than eight thousand people live in Chesterfield.
Chesterfield is sixty-seven miles from New York City, thirty-five miles from Philadelphia, and one hundred sixty-nine miles from Washington, D.C. It is surrounded by thousands of acres of farmland.
Were you to fire a Soviet-made Iskander-M surface-to-surface missile from Chesterfield, the hypersonic-speed missile would get to Washington in 1.8 minutes. Obviously, because of the c
loser distance, the time to get to New York and Philadelphia would be less.
This is significant, because in a barn three miles from the center of Chesterfield, there are twenty-three Iskander-M missiles. Ten of them are pointed toward targets in New York, nine toward Washington, D.C., and four toward Philadelphia.
The purchase of the land, and the construction of the barn, were done strictly to house the missiles. The barn has five large doors, to be raised from floor to ceiling, so that the mobile launchpads can roll out, allowing the missiles to be in firing position within minutes.
It has so far taken eighteen months to procure the weapons and ship them safely and undetected to Chesterfield. Rodgers has supervised the entire process, and it is nearing completion. Once that is done, the weapons can be prepared and aimed.
The hard part will be over.
I haven’t visited my not-that-tall, not-that-good-looking, unmarried client in a while.
I generally don’t like it to go this long, because clients languishing in jail generally want to feel that someone out there is paying attention to them. I don’t think Kramer needs as much hand-holding as the typical client, but I’m still stopping there on the way back from my meeting with Benjamin. I also have some questions for him.
But first, of course, he has his questions for me. He asks them in ten different ways, but they basically come down to two. What have you come up with? What are our chances at trial?
My answers come down to not much, and slim. One thing I never do is bullshit a client. It is his or her life that is at stake, not mine. If we lose, the client is going away for the rest of his life, and I’m going home to take Tara for a walk and tuck Ricky into bed.
So I never lie, and I never sugarcoat. Not to a client. Not ever.
With that unpleasantness out of the way, I say, “Tell me about John Craddock.”
He seems surprised. “What do you want to know?”
“Was his death accidental?”
“I don’t know, but if I had to bet, my money would be on no.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“I don’t want to overstate this. Let’s just say I think there is at least one person out there, maybe more, who knows what really happened.”
Rescued Page 10
