Insider Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “What do you think?” Paxton asked Marc.

  “I think this guy is a total weenie. This is the caliber of people we send to Congress? No wonder Washington is a dysfunctional mess.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “He’s a politician and a lawyer. He’ll likely be very careful about what he says. But you can wear him down. I really don’t think he does know anything about the deaths of Zach and Lynn McDaniel. If you were Cal Simpson, would you let this guy in on anything he doesn’t have to know?”

  “Ask him about the list of people who sold short Cannon Brother’s stock. The list Eric gave us,” Carvelli said as he handed the waiver back to Paxton. “See if he recognizes anyone.”

  “Will do,” Paxton replied.

  They finished their water then Marc said, “Go get him, tiger.”

  They started shortly after 4:00 P.M. and finished, with breaks, just before midnight. Peterson looked like he had taken a beating.

  It had been decided that Carvelli would spend the night in the two-bedroom suite with Peterson. If they had to keep Peterson there longer, the other ex-cops would take their turns.

  When they had finished they adjourned back in the room across the hall where they had a brief discussion.

  “Some of the names he came up with as being involved. No wonder so many people try to get into Congress,” Marc said.

  “How do you think they can retire as multi-millionaires on a congressional salary? By being frugal?” Carvelli asked.

  “You think we got it all?” Marc asked Paxton.

  “Who knows? Like I told him, we’ll review the video and if we think of more questions, we’ll be back,” Paxton said.

  “He’s gonna want his deal in writing. Can you do that?” Marc asked.

  “I’m supposed to run it by my boss. Fortunately, she’s in Washington at some big DOJ conference. So, I couldn’t wait for her.

  “Now, you two get out of here so I can get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The next morning, after they had met for breakfast, they were back in Paxton’s room reviewing the video. Across the hall Del Peterson, still not getting it, was on the phone with his most recent paramour, the delicious Angela. Despite her setting him up to be photographed, he had not made the connection.

  “Stop the tape,” Carvelli said.

  “There is no tape,” Conrad replied.

  “Conrad!” Carvelli said giving him a nasty look.

  “What?” Marc asked.

  Carvelli turned back to the TV screen and said, “This has been bothering me. This is the part where Paxton gives him the list of people who sold short Cannon Brothers stock. He said he didn’t recognize anyone. I think he was lying. Watch.”

  Conrad started it up again and they all stared intensely at the screen. They watched while Peterson read the names and at one point, Carvelli pointed and said, “There. Did you see it? He read a name and his left eyebrow twitched. Back it up and run it again.”

  Conrad did this and the next time through, in slow motion, they all saw it. A slight twitch.

  “He recognized a name,” Paxton said. “I guess we better have a little chat with him.”

  They went back into the suite where Peterson was and Carvelli went right at him. “You were lying when you told us you didn’t recognize any of the names on the list of people who sold short Cannon Brothers stock,” Carvelli said.

  “No, I …”

  “No deal if you lie to us,” Paxton reminded him.

  This obviously deflated him. He slumped down on the room’s sofa, looked back and forth at everyone in the room who were all staring at him. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah, I recognized one of the names. My wife’s sister’s maiden name is on the list. I don’t know if it’s her but…”

  “What’s the name?” Carvelli demanded.

  “Betty Kemp.”

  “We’ll check it out and do not withhold anything again. You got it?” Carvelli leaned down and snarled at Peterson.

  “Yes,” he meekly replied.

  While this was taking place, in the early morning hours in the Nevada desert, Mike Nicoletti was finishing his pre-flight checklist. Some minor modifications had been made to the A-15 prototype. This was hardly unusual. The Air Force and their contractors were always tinkering with improvements. Not just during the production process. This would continue until the aircraft’s service time was finished and it was dropped off in an airplane graveyard.

  Ninety minutes later, Nicoletti was almost finished with this test flight and flying the A-15 toward the test grounds for his final run of the day. A simulated ground attack at 350 mph at 150 feet. The bird was handling as flawlessly as usual until he hit five thousand feet. Almost without any warning at all, the plane violently shuddered only once and the right wing tore away putting the aircraft into a spiral of certain death.

  The aircraft was diving at almost eight hundred feet per second. Nicoletti had barely four seconds to realize what had happened and jettison himself. As the A-15 passed one thousand feet, Nicoletti found and pulled the eject handle. He was almost at five hundred feet when he felt the jerk of the straps and saw the chute billow open above him.

  Nicoletti looked down in time to see his ride explode on the ground. A wave of relief washed over him as the faces of his children went through his mind.

  Five hundred feet is barely high enough for a jump. Mike Nicoletti was a terrific pilot. He was not a trained Airborne Ranger. Alive and grateful, he would spend a week in the hospital with a broken leg, fractured wrist, several ribs and multiple bruises. He also had a wife who insisted his test pilot days were over.

  Fortunately for the Nicolettis, Mike’s brain was not injured thanks to a state-of-the-art helmet. The first thing he told his wife, Jackie, was to sell all of their Morton Aviation stock.

  Within days, the multi-billion-dollar government contracts awarded to Morton Aviation were withdrawn. Numerous other contracts Morton had were also either suspended or canceled. As a result, Morton Aviation stock went into a nose dive.

  When Cal Simpson finished reading the reports in The Wall Street Journal, he lit a celebratory cigar.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “I see it, thanks,” Carvelli said into his phone.

  Carvelli slipped his phone back into the inside pocket of his tan, suede sports coat. He was standing on the corner of Third Ave and Seventh Street looking south. He had been waiting here for ten minutes trying to remember the last time he had ridden a public bus. It was probably high school and the fare, as he recalled, was around twenty-five cents. Now he needed two-fifty.

  The bus he was waiting for pulled over and stopped for him. Carvelli got on, paid the fare and looked for his seat. It was almost 6:30 P.M. and rush hour was over. There were at least a dozen empty seats, but the one he wanted was occupied by a woman reading a romance novel.

  Carvelli quietly sat down next to her. She turned her head to look at him, looked around at the empty seats and scowled. She silently slid over as close to the window and as far away from the intruder as she could. To ignore him, she went back to the paperback she was reading.

  The bus had barely traveled another block when Carvelli whispered, “Hello, Marjorie. We need to talk.”

  Carvelli’s crew, especially Franklin Washington and Tommy Craven, had been tailing her for almost two weeks. What they had learned was that Marjorie Griebler, Zach Evans’ one-time assistant, had virtually no life. This actually made it more difficult to find a way to approach her. She arrived at the offices of Everson, Reed via this particular bus line by 7:00 A.M. every day. A normal day was finished at 6:00 P.M. Not once did she leave for lunch or to just get outside for a while.

  At 6:10 she arrived at her bus stop and within a couple of minutes of 6:15 her bus picked her up for the ride to a block away from her small house. It was so routine, boring and lifeless, Tommy had started a pool to guess how many cats she had living in her house. It was Tommy who had called Carvelli while he waited on th
e corner to give him the heads up which bus she was on. It was also Tommy who was following in his car to pick up Carvelli when he finished.

  Marjorie, with a wide-eyed, shocked expression, looked at Carvelli and nervously whispered, “I don’t know you. Now go away and leave me alone.”

  Ignoring her remark Carvelli said, “I’m a private investigator, Ms. Griebler. I’m investigating the murder—and that’s what it was, a murder—of your former boss, Zachary Evans.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. It was a terrible accident but…”

  “It was not an accident,” Carvelli whispered. “And I believe you are involved. Probably unwittingly, but you are involved.”

  “What are you talking about?” the fifty-something-year-old woman vehemently hissed.

  By this point, there was fear coming off her that Carvelli could almost smell. Instead of looking at him, her eyes were shifting about the bus interior searching for help or an escape route. So far, the noise from the bus was covering their conversation. None of the other passengers was paying any attention to them.

  “First of all,” Carvelli continued, “calm down. I don’t believe you’re guilty of anything, yet,” he added. “I have not given your name to the police and probably won’t have to if you cooperate.”

  This last statement, regarding the police, made Marjorie’s stress meter overload. She could barely breathe and Carvelli thought she was on the brink of crying. The word ‘police’ had never once in her life been used in the same sentence as her name. How could this be happening?

  “I, I, didn’t do anything!” she practically pleaded.

  “Ssssh, relax,” Carvelli said. “I think you did but without realizing it. Before Zach died, he gave you a document to mail. I know this because he told the person he was mailing it to what it was. Maybe it was in an envelope already addressed when he gave it to you. It was supposed to be mailed to a friend of his, a lawyer. His name is Marc Kadella.”

  The instant Carvelli mentioned Marc’s name, the light of recognition flashed briefly in her eyes and on her face. It went away, but there was no mistaking it.

  She started to say something but Carvelli abruptly cut her off by saying, “Don’t lie to me. It will only get you in trouble. All I want to know is, instead of mailing it, who did you give it to?”

  Marjorie lowered her head until her chin was touching her chest. She silently wept, believing her life as she knew it was over.

  “Marjorie,” Carvelli softly said, “tell me who it was. He’ll never know it came from you. This conversation will stay strictly between the two of us.”

  “I’ll lose my job,” she sniffled. “I’m too young to retire and too old to start over.”

  “It won’t happen. I’ll protect you. The police won’t know either. Zach was murdered because of what was in that envelope. The people who did this cannot get away with it,” Carvelli assured her.

  She took a deep breath to compose herself, sat up and looked at Carvelli. “Are you sure? I was told it was a hit and run accident.”

  “No, I’m sorry. It was a deliberate murder by the same people who killed Lynn McDaniel. It was about money and greed and what was in the envelope.”

  The bus pulled away from another stop while Marjorie stared out the window. Finally, after almost a minute, she turned back to Carvelli and nodded.

  “Brody Knutson,” she whispered.

  “Who?” Carvelli asked, mildly shocked after expecting it to be Cal Simpson.

  “Brody Knutson, the managing partner of Everson, Reed,” she replied.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. He came to me a few days before and told me I was to give him all of Mr. Evans’ correspondence,” she said. “Why don’t you believe me? If he finds out, I told you, I would be fired instantly.”

  “Sorry, it’s just, I was expecting it to be someone else. Do you know if a man named Cal Simpson was a friend or client of Knutson?”

  “I don’t know,” Marjorie said. “I don’t know that name, but I did not work directly for him.”

  “Who does?” Carvelli quickly asked.

  “I won’t tell you that. I told you what I know, what I did, but I won’t involve anyone else,” she emphatically replied.

  Carvelli looked at her for a moment then said, “Okay. I respect that. And, as I promised, this conversation will stay just between you and me. I promise.”

  With that, he reached up and pulled the cord to have the driver stop and let him off. While he watched the bus pull away, Tommy Craven stopped to pick him up.

  “I’ll find out who works for Knutson. Thanks, Marjorie,” he quietly said to the back of the bus.

  “What did you find out?” Tommy asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Hang on,” Carvelli replied. He retrieved his phone, found the number he wanted and dialed. It was answered on the first ring.

  “Did you talk to her?” Marc asked without a greeting.

  “Yeah, I did. I laid my Italian charm….”

  “Stop. What did you threaten her with?”

  “Jail. She folded like a cheap suit,” Carvelli replied.

  “And?”

  “You’re not going to believe this. She admitted intercepting the mail Zach was sending to you. Then she gave it to a guy by the name of Brody Knutson.”

  “What? You can’t be serious.”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve met him,” Marc admitted. “He’s the managing partner at Everson, Reed. The same as if he was the CEO. Why would he want to sabotage a lawsuit his firm is defending?”

  “You’re the lawyer, not me,” Carvelli said.

  “I don’t know. Unless he’s in Cal Simpson’s pocket,” Marc replied.

  “Or someone else’s” Carvelli added.

  “Why didn’t Del Peterson tell us about this?” Marc asked.

  “Likely didn’t know. If you were Simpson would you tell him?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. It’s worth a conversation. Where are you?” Marc asked.

  “Tommy’s taking me to my car. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “I’ll call Maddy; you call Vivian. Let’s meet at Vivian’s if we can,” Marc said.

  “Where are you?” Carvelli asked.

  “At my desk, but I was just about to leave. Connie is still here. I’ll see if she wants to attend. Call me if we can’t meet at Vivian’s.”

  “Will do.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Thanks, Tommy, I’ll talk to you later. Be sure to keep track of your time, and I’ll get you paid,” Carvelli said.

  They had arrived back at Carvelli’s home in South Minneapolis. He closed the passenger side door of Tommy’s car and waved as Tommy drove off. He felt his stomach growl and realized he had not eaten since breakfast. As he got in the Camaro, he thought about driving through Mac’s. He pulled away from the curb and felt his phone vibrate.

  “Yeah,” Carvelli answered.

  “It’s Paul,” he heard Paul Baker, his hacker say.

  “What?”

  “I got more names. In fact, in a couple more days, I should have them all cracked.”

  “Great, Paul. Did you get a written list for me? I’ll swing by.”

  “Yeah, come by anytime.”

  “Ten minutes,” Carvelli replied.

  Marc and Connie were led to the library where they found Vivian on the phone and Maddy on a sofa. Vivian was seated at a table speaking to someone and taking notes. She wiggled her fingers in greeting while Marc sat next to Maddy. Connie took one of the matching chairs.

  Marc was sitting on Maddy’s right while she examined the seven-inch scar where his scalp had been ripped open. The stitches had been removed, and a nasty looking red line remained. It ran from two inches above his left ear diagonally toward the back of his head.

  “What do you think?” Marc asked.

  Maddy remained silent for a few seconds then took his left hand in both of hers. “I think how we almost los
t you and how sad and scared I was,” she quietly said. “And angry.”

  “I’m fine now, thanks. I meant the scar,” Marc said.

  “It’s pretty bad right now. But it will lighten up, and your hair will cover it.”

  “Until you go bald,” Connie said.

  Maddy laughed and released his hand while Marc snarled at Connie, “That’s not funny. Why do women think that’s funny? If you woke up tomorrow going bald, there’d be panic in that house and you’d do something about it immediately.”

  “We’re just teasing,” Maddy said poking him in the ribs with an elbow.

  “I almost died. You’re supposed to be nice to me,” Marc said sticking his lower lip out, feigning a pout.

  “Poor baby,” Maddy said.

  “Who’s Vivian talking to?” Marc asked, turning serious.

  “I don’t know,” Maddy said. “I think someone from Washington. The cesspool, not the state.”

  “Thank you, Arthur. I appreciate the information,” they heard Vivian say ending the call.

  A moment later, Vivian joined them on a couch across from Maddy and Marc. She pleasantly greeted Marc and Connie then asked, “Should we wait for Anthony?”

  “You found out something,” Marc said. “What is it?”

  “In today’s paper,” she began, “buried in the A section was a small article about a plane crash in Nevada. It was an Air Force test flight. The pilot was able to bail out and was not seriously injured. I assume that’s why it wasn’t a bigger story. The military has accidents, not frequently, but…”

  “Often enough so that if no one is hurt it’s not really a big deal,” Marc interjected.

  “Yes,” Vivian agreed. “That’s a good way of putting it.

  “I noticed the story because the airplane was an A-15 prototype being tested for Morton Aviation. Sound familiar?”

  “That’s the company that Del Peterson told us about. He thought there was some insider trading being done by Cal for his little group,” Marc excitedly said.