“You’ve been here before,” I said to Guelli.
“Not at all. This was never my case.”
“Then how did you know?” I nodded toward the camera.
“I am a trained investigator,” he said. “And I did some speculation.”
This time we waited less than a minute before she was back.
“Herr Kuhn will see you now,” she said. She walked to the elevator and removed a small black key from a pocket and inserted it into the plate next to the door. I slid my hand into my pocket and rubbed a finger over my key. If they weren’t identical, I would be mightily surprised. I had to devise some strategy for checking it out.
Moments later she ushered us into a large, heavily furnished corner office. Dark wood, possibly mahogany, prevailed in the desk, chairs, and the glass-fronted bookcases. Leather cushioned the chairs and the couch. The blue-and-maroon Persian carpet felt like it was ankle deep. There was a faint aroma of expensive cigars. It was a space where decisions were made and secrets were revealed—though they never left the room.
I put Herr Kuhn in his early seventies, though he could have been younger. The crutches and leg braces added years. But despite the ravages of what I assumed was some degenerative disease such as multiple sclerosis, the man radiated power. He made a point of rising to greet us, then let us see the mechanical effort the act had required by releasing the braces on his leg, one at a time, as he lowered himself back into an intricate, motorized wheelchair.
Guelli took the lead and I sat back and watched. He explained that there were no new direct developments on the case of his murdered partner, but some new questions had arisen. Nothing that would challenge the firm or the other partners, of course. He was smooth, but Kuhn was impossible to read. Even his pupils were under control. He gave me a polite smile when Guelli introduced me as a “private investigator from the U.S. who is assisting police on both continents.”
“He brings a new point of view to the case. Would you mind answering a few questions about your colleague?”
“As long as it does not interfere with client confidentiality, I am prepared to give you complete cooperation.” He gave the same neutral smile.
If I opened with polite, he would be able to twist me in circles and tell me nothing. There was nothing to lose if I played the rude American.
“MS?” I said. “I had an aunt with MS,” I lied. “When did yours start up?”
He blinked before answering. I had gotten to him. “This is relevant?” he asked Guelli.
I jumped in before the cop could answer. “No, not really. I was guessing that the elevator is for you, so I was wondering when it went in.”
“You are correct. My father had it installed more than forty years ago, soon after my first series of bouts.”
“You seem to be holding up pretty well. You’re what? Seventy-something?”
He looked to Guelli for help with the madman in the room. “I cannot imagine how this bears on Serge’s death.”
“You’re right. Sorry. Who has keys to the elevator? Everyone who works here? Do you ever inventory them? Who would know if one disappeared?”
Kuhn nodded. “You are thinking how did his killers get in? But the police have already been through that, Mr. Stafford. Unfortunately, the camera downstairs is focused on the door, not the elevator. But it is possible that there is no mystery about it. You see, there is an override switch on this floor. For me. In case I misplace my key. Serge must have let in the men who killed him. Obviously, he was expecting someone else.”
“Everyone else has a key?”
“This is a law office, not a bank. Active case files are kept secure, but anyone can ride the elevator. There are probably hundreds of keys that fit that elevator. When someone leaves the firm, we do not check to see that they have turned in their key. If someone loses a key, they simply request another. Our office manager probably orders them ten at a time to get the discount.”
“So, did you know that Biondi was doing business with the Von Beckers?”
He blinked twice—I had him on the ropes. “William Von Becker?”
“The same. The one and only.”
“Your question presupposes that he was, in fact, working for the Von Beckers, a notion that I would challenge. Where does your information come from?”
Rude Americans don’t have to answer questions, no matter how polite the questioner. “How would you know whether he was or not?”
Kuhn let some of his annoyance with me begin to show. “Because I personally reassigned all of his active files. There were not many. Most of his time was devoted to managing or mentoring our junior lawyers. I can tell you unequivocally that there was nothing to indicate that this firm has done any business for William Von Becker or for any of his companies, either directly or through their New York law firm.”
“And if there was a cache of bearer bonds hiding in Biondi’s files, you would know about it.”
“Bearer bonds?” He looked to Guelli again, but the cop gave him nothing. “This is absurd.”
“So if Biondi was doing something, he was hiding it. From you and the rest of the firm. Why would he do that?”
“I have answered that question. He was not working for the Von Beckers.”
“Actually, Mr. Kuhn, you haven’t answered me. The question is why. Why would he do it? It’s actually a pretty interesting question when you think about it. Here’s this senior partner at an exclusive firm, too experienced to get involved in something truly stupid, and yet he’s helping a crooked banker launder money for Central American drug gangs. So, excuse my directness, but why would this guy be doing that?”
“And I maintain that he was not doing any such thing. This is fantasy. What evidence do you have for any of these allegations?”
“You said that you had been through all of his active files. What about old files? Are they warehoused somewhere nearby?”
“There are over a hundred years’ worth of files in the basement.”
“And have you checked all of those?”
Kuhn’s eyes were threatening to leap out of their sockets. “To what purpose? To prove a negative?” He slammed both hands on the desk in frustration. “This is nonsense. Serge Biondi was murdered here, and in six months the best the police can come up with is this fantasy? What is next? Knights Templar? UFOs? An ancient curse?”
I nodded distractedly. “Is there a bathroom up here I could use?”
Guelli looked at me as though I had just started ranting about UFOs.
I patted my stomach and made a scrunched-up face, indicating intestinal discomfort. “That roesti seems to be going right through me. I guess I’m not used to your rich foods.”
Herr Kuhn tried not to look disgusted, and almost succeeded. “Across the landing. The door to the left of the elevator.”
Perfect.
I walked out of Kuhn’s office, took the black key out of my pocket, and headed straight for the elevator. Was I nuts? Delusional? Or was the germ of an idea taking root? What Vinny had said about hiding sand at the beach—was that possible?
The key slid in like magic. I turned it. There was a click and a hum. The elevator car rose up and the door slid open.
The next step would not be looked on kindly. Once in the elevator, I was a snoop and a potential threat. I stepped in and inserted the key and hit the button for the basement. The door seemed to close very slowly.
The car sank, emitting soft chimes as we passed each floor. In case anyone stopped the elevator and found me, I put on my best dumb smile, imagining myself as a goofy tourist, out joyriding on the elevator. It was weak, but the best I could come up with. But I didn’t need it. The car stopped, the doors slid open, and I was facing a wall of metal shelves loaded with identical cardboard boxes. The aisle stretched in both directions for forty feet. I flipped a mental coin and jogged down the aisle to the
right, passing a giant shredding machine—industrial-sized. Rows of shelving extended to the far wall, fifty feet away. Four thousand square feet of shelves—I looked up and estimated—ten feet high. Forty thousand cubic feet. A team of forensic accountants and lawyers might be able to search through it in a week or two. If they knew what they were looking for. If someone pointed them in this direction.
I checked my watch. I’d been gone for three and a half minutes. Time to head back—almost. The elevator was still waiting, door ajar. I braced my foot to hold it while I examined the nearest boxes. Each had a handwritten label. At the top, a feminine hand had written the name Kuhn. Below, there was a series of numbers. Case numbers? The first four digits were definitely years—the section immediately in front of me was all in the last decade. Then there was a dash, followed by another four-digit number. Case numbers. Each box label showed anywhere from one to twenty case numbers. The boxes were all about a foot and a half wide. Eighty linear feet per aisle—fifty-three boxes, stacked eight high, each containing, on average, say ten cases. If each row took up five feet, there were forty-five thousand case files here. I revised my one- or two-week estimate upward. A month. But with luck, I wouldn’t need a month. A plan was percolating in my head.
I stepped back into the elevator, inserted my key again, and pushed the button for the fourth floor. The door closed and the hum began. The car chimed once, twice, and stopped. Second floor. The door slid open. I was busted. What possible, legitimate reason could I give for being on my own traveling in the elevator? I tried to give myself a friendly aura. I stopped breathing.
The little gray lady pushed in with a small wire basket cart filled with sorted mail. She gave me a vague smile. She inserted her key and pushed for the third floor. We rode up. She exited. I started breathing again.
They needed to work a little harder on their security arrangements.
I stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands. The man looking at me from the mirror had a crazy look in his eyes, as though he was planning something that had the potential to put me in a Swiss prison for a number of years. I ignored him.
There was a thick cloud of silence hanging in the air between the cop and the lawyer when I reentered. Kuhn was too polished to seethe, but I could see he wanted to.
“Mr. Kuhn, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have a plane to catch. If you have nothing more to add . . .”
Guelli stood up. “I have just finished telling Herr Kuhn that we will be seeking a subpoena to examine the firm’s files.”
Guelli was no fool. He saw the potential of the situation as well as I did.
Kuhn drove the wheelchair out from behind his desk. “And I will file an injunction to stop it.”
I had to hand it to him—he was a fighter. He must have asked himself what his dead partner might have been involved in that got him tortured and killed, but he wasn’t going to let us see his doubts. I’d done my best to shake something out of him, but he had nothing to tell. You can’t bluff an honest man.
We saw ourselves out.
Guelli checked his watch as we walked out onto the cobblestone pavement. “This way.” He pointed back up toward Bahnhofstrasse. “I’ll take you to the airport. We can finish our talk on the way.”
The car was still on the same corner. The two uniformed cops saw us coming and leaped out to open the rear doors for us. Guelli gave them orders, and we were off.
“It will take me a day to make the arrangements. Kuhn will eventually cooperate—there is no reason for him not to. He is a proud man, and he was angry. Give him a day or two and he will be reasonable.”
“What will you ask for?”
“How good is your information? About the bonds themselves?”
“The Honduran bonds? I think very good. My source knows.”
“Then I will request that they turn over all such bonds and any records they have regarding the beneficial owners. That way if I have to go back, I will have specific account names.”
I nodded as though it made a difference.
“Judges are more amenable to these kinds of fishing expeditions if I cast with a fly rod than if I approach with a trawling net.”
My mind was elsewhere. I had my own arrangements to make.
“You are unconvinced?” he continued. “Or are you concerned for your client? If the bonds are there, they will be delivered to the American authorities. That is where they belong. Your client—and you—will be given all due credit. There will be enough accolades to go around.”
“You’re coming at it ass end first. It won’t work. Or, rather, it might work, but it will take months.”
“What do you mean?”
The police car pulled out onto the highway. The traffic was heavy. The driver put on the flashing lights and the cars in front of us immediately gave way.
“The bonds could be buried anywhere. I guarantee you they are not sitting in a file marked ‘Von Becker’s Bonds.’” Nor in a file marked “Honduran Drug Cartel’s Bonds.” “You’ll be filing separate subpoenas for each and every business subsidiary and every charity that had any connection to Von Becker. And you may still not hit on the right file. If I were Biondi, I’d keep them in a file with my son’s name on it. Technically, anything in that file legally belongs to my son. It might take you years to get your hands on it. And there’s a very good chance that you’d lose in court in the end anyway.”
Guelli stared out the window. He knew I was right.
“I’ll fax you a list of all the subs, but I doubt it will do you much good. You’re looking at a mountain of work, based on speculation, which may have a zero payoff. Best of luck.”
I thought I could hear his teeth grinding. It didn’t matter. I had my own thoughts and my own plans to make.
We pulled up to the curb at the airport. I shook Guelli’s hand and hopped out of the car.
I turned to give him a final wave—and to watch him actually leave—when he rolled down the window.
“Just one question, Mr. Stafford. Did your key work?”
“Uh, what’s that?”
“Your key. It fit the elevator in Biondi’s offices, did it not?”
The stupid grin wasn’t going to work with Guelli.
“It did,” I said.
“Interesting,” he said. “If I need to speak with you again, I am sure our mutual friends at the FBI will know where to find you.”
“Yes.”
“Then have a good flight.” He rolled up the window and they pulled away.
I watched long enough to see that they really were gone, then I went inside—straight to the Swiss First lounge.
“What’s the earliest flight you have to New York tomorrow morning? I may have to change my flight.”
“Nine-fifty-five,” the petite blonde behind the counter purred. “It gets in at one p.m. Would you like me to make that change for you?”
“I need to make some calls first.”
| 31 |
The first call was to Tom.
“How’s my son?”
“Is good. No problem.”
Impossible. “Really?”
“Is good boy.”
“Everything went okay getting him to school?”
“No problem.”
“Where are you now?”
“In school lobby.”
“No problem with Mrs. Carter?” The six-foot, three-hundred-pound dragon that guarded the gates of my son’s school.
“I tell her we are on same side. Both want boy to be safe. Is good.”
Tom got along with both my son and Mrs. Carter. His next assignment—peace in the Middle East.
“Any problems with my ex-wife?”
“Ah.”
That spoke volumes. “What’d she do?”
“She tell us to leave. She get angry.”
“What’d you
do?”
“Ivan talk to her. She leave.”
“I didn’t know Ivan spoke English.”
“He not speak English.”
“I see. Give him my thanks. Listen, I won’t be back tonight. Something’s come up, so you guys are on for another twenty-four hours. Is that a problem?”
“No problem.”
“I’m going to try and meet you at school tomorrow at the end of the day. With luck, I’ll be there by two.”
“Is good.”
I wouldn’t have minded having Tom watch my back for what I had to do that night.
• • •
HEATHER WAS NEXT. She was missing her Weight Watchers meeting, but that was okay because she was up two pounds and felt like ordering a pizza.
“How’s my guy?”
“Great. He had a quiet night. Except for your ex. Excuse me.”
“No, it’s okay. I heard. She went off on the bodyguards.”
“Autistic children make scenes, but they don’t like to witness them.” She had mentioned this before—at least a dozen times.
“What’s her issue with those guys?”
“They are a little creepy. They don’t talk much.”
“Did the Kid eat anything green last night?”
“A few peas.”
“He swallowed them?” He was quite capable of keeping them tucked in his cheek until they disintegrated; then he’d spit them out in the bathroom.
“He did,” she said proudly. “We made a deal. I let him draw at the table. If he eats one pea, he gets to draw one car.”
Drawing was something new for my son. All year at school he had refused to become involved in any organized art projects. Then one day he had suddenly begun drawing. Of course, all he wanted to draw were cars.
“Oh, and Carolina said she needs more of that all-natural cleaner. If you want her to keep using it.”
Our housekeeper maintained a deep distrust of all household products that she considered to be “new” in any way, and that included anything “green.” She would use them if I insisted, but she would not buy them. And I couldn’t ask Heather to get it, because shopping was not in her job description. Managing a group of prima-donna foreign exchange traders had been a walk in the park compared to running a household—even one the size of mine.
Mortal Bonds Page 24
