The Sandler Inquiry

by Noel Hynd

  He was speechless.

  "They can't do anything in here" he offered weakly "Too many people."

  "Mr. Daniels," she intoned, 'you underestimate people' He glanced around again and couldn't tell if a third man was with the other two.

  The crowd began to roar again as the Rangers worked the puck into the attacking zone. For those seconds they were fully in control, the Boston team only trying to knock the puck back to center ice.

  "Obviously," she said, 'we'll have to meet again at another time and place. Somewhere more private. Like your home office" There was a scramble in front of the goal. The din had increased to such a point that he hadn't heard her.

  The collective voice of the fans suddenly erupted. The red lights beneath the scoreboards flashed and the crowd came rudely roaring to its feet. Ranger goal.

  Thomas looked to the far end of the ice to see the crowd of five white shirts in front of the enemy goal. The scorer was being mobbed. A dejected goaltender swept the puck out of the net.

  Thomas turned back to Leslie, began to speak loudly, to be heard above the din, and stopped short before speaking a single word.

  An empty seat. She was gone.

  He looked to her end of the row, knowing she hadn't crossed in front of him. He could just see her stepping away from the final seat in the row and moving back up the aisle between sections.

  "Leslie!" he called after her. His voice was lost in the roar as the Rangers skated slowly back to center ice for the next face-off. Those around him took amusement from the fact that his 'girl' had seemingly walked out on him.

  He called after her again, then pursued. He pushed rudely through the row, more aggressively as she disappeared -through a gateway and from his sight. He was jostled in return by those whom he struggled to get past.

  At that moment, the eyes of the men who'd followed them returned from the ice. They saw that she was gone. They saw that Thomas was leaving. Quickly, the three of them followed.

  He ran back up the steps and knew that she was way ahead of him now. He ran to the escalator, craned his neck over its side to see two flights below, and saw her running down. He called again to her. She only moved faster.

  He tore down the escalator behind her and momentarily was aware of the three heavy sets of feet behind him, pursuing him just as he ran after her. Thomas couldn't believe how fast she moved.

  She was out the Eighth Avenue entrance to the Garden. He had no idea which way she'd turned until fifteen seconds later when he ran out the same exit. He looked each way. He saw nothing. But he knew that the three men were not many seconds behind him.

  He looked north again, south again, in desperation. Then, through the traffic, on the opposite side of eighth Avenue, he saw her to the south. Still running, passing bemused pedestrians and attracting the leering catcalls endemic to that section of the city.

  Thomas looked at the traffic. The light was changing. He saw the traffic south of him, given a green light, start to move toward the center of the block where he stood. He heard the men behind him reach ground level. Thomas ran out across the avenue as the lead car screeched its tires and its horn shrieked its complaint. Other cars screeched their suddenly slowing tires into the asphalt and other horns blared their disapproval.

  Halfway across the avenue his left foot caught a pothole. His arms waved wildly as he tried to catch his balance. Then, quickly steady again, he continued. One car roared in front of him and he darted in front of another which abruptly slowed. He crossed the last lane of the avenue and was on the sidewalk of the opposite side, in front of the Thirty-third Street post office, its giant steps and columns.

  Neither rain, nor snow… Everywhere, the Federal government intruding.

  He looked south. He saw her enter a building beneath a yellow sign with giant blue letters. PA-R-K. Leslie McAdam had escaped, if that was what she was doing, into a five-story self-service parking lot a block and a half away.

  Thomas ran after her. When he crossed Thirty-second Street he was aware again of the three men on the opposite side. They were waiting for the traffic to allow them to cross. They had Thomas in full view and they followed him southward on the opposite side.

  The green WALK sign had changed to flashing DON'T WALK.

  In fifteen seconds they, whoever they were, would be on his side of Eighth. One of them carried something black in his thick fist.

  He fled into the parking lot, stood at a frenzied halt at its entrance way and looked in every direction.

  Nothing.

  He looked to the man behind a glass, the man whom a driver would pay on the way out. The man's face was quizzical as he watched Thomas.

  "Did you see a girl?" Thomas called frantically.

  The quizzical expression creased into a knowing grin.

  "I seen lots of girls!" The accent was singsong and Jamaican.

  "This Eighth Avenue, mon!" As if that explained everything.

  "A woman ran in here ten seconds ago!"

  The man laughed and nodded toward the only stairwell.

  "She go upstairs, mon. Happy evening!"

  Thomas listened. He could now hear the footsteps of someone running-one flight up. Leslie! But he could also hear the footsteps pursuing him.

  He turned. The men who were chasing him burst into the parking garage.

  They froze, staring at him. First three men, then a fourth.

  Thomas Daniels recognized Shassad, the last to arrive. He whirled again and ran not upstairs but straight to the rear of the garage to a door marked EXIT.

  Two of the plainclothes policemen pursued Thomas. Two others slowly took the stairs.

  Thomas reached the exit door and pushed it open, stopping, looking out onto Ninth Avenue, and calling Leslie by her first name.

  He stood in the exit staring at the empty avenue, as if searching for her. There was no Leslie running in either direction. Shassad and Hearn were next to Daniels. Hearn was breathing hard, Shassad wasn't.

  Shassad stepped past Daniels and looked up and down Ninth Avenue. He looked back to the attorney and spoke sourly "Where is she?"

  "You got a hell of a nerve! Where's who?"

  "Don't get smarttassed," Shassad grumbled.

  "Where is she?"

  Thomas Daniels was incensed.

  "It's you who owes me the explanation! You frightened away an important client" "My ass, we did!" snapped Shassad.

  There was the sound of a mechanical voice. A walkie-talkie.

  Thomas heard the voice say,

  "Sergeant, we might have something.

  Second floor."

  Shassad smiled slightly.

  "Not so smart after all, are you?" he said.

  Hearn held up and answered the walkie-talkie.

  "We'll be up." The detectives walked quickly upstairs. Thomas Daniels followed.

  There was no woman to be seen anywhere in the second story. just an assortment of parked cars, plus one car for which the owner had arrived. The car, a long dark-blue Pontiac, was at the top of the second-floor ramp. Its owner, a tall, conservatively dressed man in an overcoat, was standing beside the car. He'd been confronted by the first two detectives.

  "We looked on every other floor," said one of the detectives to Shassad.

  "She's not in here' "This guy wants to take his car out the other cop told Shassad.

  "I asked him if he'd open his trunk and he wouldn't" Shassad looked the man up and down. The man had been the first to appear who wanted to remove a car fron the premises. The car owner looked ordinary enough, but Shassad was laden with suspicion. He asked the man again if he'd open the car's trunk. Thomas Daniels studied the victim of the harassment.

  "I'm sure you're only trying to do your job, patrolman," said the man, 'but-" "De-tec-tive corrected Shassad, pronouncing all three syllables succinctly.

  "-but, yes, I do mind" The two other detectives ea suafly stepped up and down the sides of the car, eyeing it as if they could see through it. The back seat and interior had l
ong since been looked into.

  "Why do you mind?" pressed Shassad, buying time.

  "Because," said the man with growing annoyance,

  "I don't like being treated like a criminal. My trunk's empty," he said caustically.

  – You have my word."

  The man's key was in his hand. He opened the door on the side of the driver's seat and began to step into the car.

  "Suppose I insisted" said Shassad angrily, placing a hand on the man's shoulder.

  Thomas, observing, spoke,

  "Couldn't an officer get a pretty severe reprimand for in sistine asked Thomas. All five heads turned to Thomas.

  "For insisting without a warrant? In front of a witness who also happened to be an attorney?"

  Shassad removed his hand from the man's shoulder. He looked at Thomas Daniels bitterly When he stepped from the cab on Seventy-third Street, he looked both ways, a habit he'd developed in light of recent events.

  Daniels entered his building and climbed the stairs. He was still somewhat preoccupied with the events of the evening. He noticed nothing conspicuously unusual as he unlocked the double lock on his apartment door and entered.

  He had already turned on the dim light in the entrance hall and had taken two steps forward into the living room. It was at that time, from the side, that an unseen hand turned on the living-room light and Thomas whirled to see a stunning second presence in the room with him.

  In that immeasurable short lapse between realization and recognition, a thousand fears flashed through his mind. Not the least of which was that this was how people were murdered.

  Chapter 10

  "Well" he said, fumbling with the words. His heart left his throat and tumbled back to where it belonged in his chest.

  "Life is filled with surprises."

  He eyed Leslie appraisingly as she stood by a light switch in the living room. He was close enough to see her eye movement, close enough to notice that she was checking to be sure he was alone.

  Satisfied, she stepped away from the light switch. With a graceful, feminine gesture she swept her skirt under her and sat down on his sofa.

  "You lied to me," she said.

  "At least three times."

  "I? Lied to you?" he repeated. Both anger and confusion marked his words. He tried to fathom her statement.

  "Yes she said flatly, as if it made no difference. But of course it did.

  He pulled off his coat and tossed it onto a chair. He sat down a few feet away from her across an open space of room. In one of the tributary channels of his mind it occurred to him that his door had shown no signs of tampering. How-had she gained entry-magic?

  "Lie number one: You told me you have an office here. You don't. Two:

  You said originally that you had access to the will. You haven't. And three, you said we were speaking in confidence.

  You've broken that confidence. Those men tonight were police."

  "You're right," he conceded.

  "Well?" she asked impatiently.

  "Aren't you going to offer an excuse?"

  "Should I bother?"

  "I wish you would" He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, acting just as a witness must when trapped with perjured testimony.

  "My offices were completely destroyed by arson. You saw what was left.

  The arson may or may not have had to do with this case" He looked at her carefully, trying unsuccessfully to see how the story was being received.

  "When you came and presented your story, I believed you. I wanted to take your case and retain you as a client. So I misrepresented my files as being intact. I needed time."

  "What about the police?"

  "I had to account for my time on the night of the fire. They were questioning me on another matter."

  "And the will?"

  "I don't have it."

  "Where is it?"

  "I don't know. I'm grateful for the benefit of the doubt," he said heavily.

  Her left hand played with a strand of brown hair by her shoulder.

  "What worries me," she said thoughtfully, 'is how proficient you are at lying. Tell me, is it hereditary?"

  He let a moment pass before answering.

  "I might ask you the same thing."

  Her hand was still.

  "Excuse me?"

  "A lot of people maintain that you don't exist' ' "They're all lying' " she said with a stiff smile.

  "In fact he continued, 'you're the only one who maintains that you exist. That's something of a minority opinion " "What about you?" she asked.

  "Do you still believe me?"

  He allowed a few moments before answering.

  "Yes' he said finally.

  "But I wouldn't mind an answer or two."

  "Such as?"

  "For starters, how did you get out of that garage?"

  "I can't tell you."

  He looked at her with a pained expression.

  "I'm sorry," she said firmly.

  "If enough attempts are made on your life, you'll always have a few escape tricks ready, too. Next question " How did you get past those locks?" he asked, motioning toward the apartment door. She smiled.

  "Your mistake is with your reasoning" she said.

  "The way you phrased the question precluded outside possibilities.

  I didn't use the door." His gaze was skeptical.

  "Look in the next room," she said.

  Thomas was hesitant to take his eyes off her. But he stepped into the bedroom and glanced around. The small pane of one of the windows was broken inward. She'd climbed the fire escape from the outside, broken the glass, then unlocked the window and climbed in.

  "Pretty fair job of breaking and entering," he said without admiration.

  "Have you had practice?"

  "I needed to get in," she said.

  "I was frightened."

  "Of what?"

  "Of those men!"

  "They we're merely local police. Detectives. From a homicide investigation. He grimaced slightly and sat down again.

  "I don't think running away from them made them any less suspicious.

  And the vanishing act. That will have them working overtime' ' "I'm very selective about whom I trust," she said evenly"I consider myself honored " He was about to ask why he'd been so chosen as a recipient of trust. Then the telephone began. It rang twice loudly.

  "It was ringing when I came in, too," she offered.

  "Someone's been trying to get you " He looked at her as he picked up the receiver.

  "If I'd known you were going to be here I would have had you take a message' ' Thomas picked up the telephone and heard the voice of Andrea Parker on the other end. To say she was angry would have been to understate greatly.

  "What the hell are you trying to do to me?"

  "What are you talking about?" asked Thomas.

  "The fingerprints" snapped Andrea, not assuaged a bit.

  "Did you level with me a about them?"

  "Completely."

  "The one thing I don't need is a hassle."

  "You're rambling. Tell me what you're talking about."

  "The fingerprints " she said icily.

  Thomas turned and looked at Leslie. She was still seated across the room on a sofa, now leafing through a magazine. But Thomas got the impression that she was listening to his end of the conversation very intently.

  "Go ahead", said Thomas noncommittally.

  "Okay," said Andrea, calming slightly.

  "Augie Reid sent them to the State Detective Bureau. Nothing. Then, automatically, they went into a New York Police Department computer at One Police Plaza. From there, when nothing turned up in N.Y.C. records, they went through a computer linked to Washington. It took a couple of hours."

  "And?" asked Thomas calmly.

  "Nothing turned up in New York. But in that Federal computer the lights must have started flashing from here to hell and back."

  "Oh, really?" asked Thomas with guarded evenness. He watched Leslie
as he listened. Her position on the sofa was now subtly seductive. Or perhaps it was the angle from which he was watching her.

  "I had a visitor this afternoon," said Andrea.

  "A Fed."

  "A what?" He'd heard it properly the first time, but wanted to be sure.

  "A Fed. A pricky career Treasury Department type named Hammond. Paul Hammond. Name mean anything?"

  "Nothing. Should it?"

  "Secret Service" crackled Andrea as Thomas Daniels listened without replying.

  "Those prints blew a fucking gasket on the Federal computer. Not only were the prints classified as to identity, but this Hammond prick was God-awful anxious to find out where I'd gotten them."

  "Did you tell him?"

  "No. But I might have to."

  Why?"

  "I told him they were from a minor piece of evidence in an article on a case I was working on. Not important at all."

  "What did he say?"

  "He told me I was a liar. Which I was."

  "Then what?"

  "Then I told him I wasn't telling him anything else. I told him I had the right to protect my source of information. He cursed my God-damned ear off and told me I'd be getting written orders from the nearest Federal court to tell everything. Then he stalked out."

  Thomas put his hand slowly to his head, as if to welcome an enormous headache. He was still looking at the woman who, in some way, had begun this.

  "I'd love the publicity of a court fight," she added, 'but I don't have the stomach for it. Not now. And I doubt that this is the end of this."

  "No, I doubt it, too," Thomas said with resignation.

  There was a pause on Andrea's end.

  "Tom," she finally said, "this is my first brush with Feds and I'm not looking forward to the next one. But…" she added slowly "I did ask around a little bit!

  "About what?"

  "Fingerprints in that category. The classified category."

  "And?"

  "One gets two words of advice on any investigation involving prints like these." "Go ahead ' "Drop it!" It's more than either of us bargained for."

  Thomas slowly placed the telephone back down on its hook. He could feel a thin film of sweat on his face and he felt slightly hot. He also thought he felt a sensation he'd not felt for a long time, and never in such a circumstance. Fear.