“Have fun in the big city. Stay out of trouble,” she says in a teasing tone of voice. Then she leans forward and gives me a light kiss on the lips, like the one from last night.
I could get used to those kisses.
• • •
I ride the elevator up to Buster’s floor and present myself to the receptionist, who’s trying to handle five phone lines simultaneously. Barely glancing at me, she informs me that Buster’s in conference with a client and is running about twenty minutes behind schedule. She’d get me something to drink, but there’s no one to relieve her. She goes back to her phone juggling.
There’s a magazine rack on the wall behind her station, near the hallway that leads to the inner sanctum where Buster and the other stars have their offices. I walk over and peruse the selection. Heavy on the financials and techs. I find a copy of The New Yorker I haven’t seen and start leafing through, checking out the cartoons. As I’m about to sit down and amuse myself, I hear a familiar voice. I look up, my face obscured by the Art Spiegelman cover.
James Roach has come out of a conference room and is standing in the hallway about forty feet from me. He’s in urgent conversation with an older man whose face seems vaguely familiar.
I back off so they can’t spot me if they look up. That’s the last thing I want, James Roach seeing me here. I glance around the reception area. It’s a circular space, nowhere to hide, except in the men’s room. But if I go in there and Roach has to drain the snake, I’ll be trapped.
Another voice joins Roach’s and the man he’s with. One that I know, much better than I know Roach’s. Slowly, I turn back to the hallway.
Buster has joined the two men. He greets Roach. They talk; I don’t know about what, I can’t hear specifics.
This is unnerving. The reason I’m here is because I’ve decided to tell Buster what I know about the murder that took place on Roach’s property. I figured that was the safest way to go, given Buster’s virulent antipathy toward the man, the way he’d put Roach down so hard that day I picked his brain about going to the police. Now I don’t know what to do.
I have to get out of here—I can’t let them see me. I look over at the receptionist. She’s too busy to be aware that I’m still here.
Carefully, I back up to the bank of elevators and press the down button, holding the magazine in front of me for cover. I can hear the three of them talking; they seem to be coming closer.
Behind me, the bell rings, an elevator door silently slides open. I duck inside, push the button for the ground floor, stab at the door close emblem. As the three enter the reception area the door slides shut with a pneumatic whoosh, and I’m safe.
• • •
I watch from across the street as Roach emerges from Buster’s office building and gets into a limo parked curbside in front of the building. As his car pulls away into traffic, I dial Buster’s office number on my cell phone.
“This is Fritz Tullis,” I tell his secretary when she picks up the line. “I’m late, the traffic was worse than I anticipated. Would you apologize to Buster for me, and tell him I’ll be there in about ten minutes?”
She assures me that my tardiness isn’t a problem, Buster has been running behind schedule himself.
Ten minutes later, Buster greets me in the lobby and ushers me to his office. The harried receptionist gives me a quick “weren’t you just here?” look, but doesn’t comment, thank God.
“You wouldn’t believe who was here earlier this afternoon,” Buster says as he shuts the door behind us.
“Who?” I ask, the picture of innocence.
“James fucking Roach, that’s who.” He gives me a Cheshire cat grin, like we’re in on a secret no one else knows; which we are, except he’s on the outside, too. “Too bad you missed him, ace.”
“I’ll pass,” I say dryly. “What was he doing here?”
“Business with Rex Clements. Something shady, I’m sure,” he says with a wink. “Rex is the last founding partner still active in the firm. He’s pushing eighty now, but he’s still a force to be reckoned with. The old man was Roach’s mentor, years ago.”
Clements. That’s the man I saw with Roach, now I remember. He was a player in the Nixon-Ford era, too, as I vaguely recall. “Did you see Roach?”
“For a minute.” Buster gives me a shit-eating grin. “I told him to go fuck himself. I really despise the guy.”
“You used those exact words?”
“What’re you, nuts? Of course not, I’m not suicidal. But he knows I think he’s a shit, that’s no secret.”
“How do your partners feel about that? Isn’t Roach important to them?”
Buster crosses to his minibar. “You want a brew?”
“Make it a scotch.” I want something with a kick, to help digest this.
He pours a couple tumblers of Laphroaig, hands me one. We toast.
“Roach is very important,” Buster says in answer to my question. “He and Clements and some of the old guard, they ran the world. Still do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like what he stands for, and my partners know that. This office covers the political spectrum, we speak our minds. If we couldn’t, we wouldn’t be able to do the job.” He sips from his drink. “This is the majors, man. We play hardball here. James Roach doesn’t care how I feel about him, as long as I don’t fuck him up. Which I wouldn’t—unless I had to.”
That may be sooner than you know, I’m thinking as I stare at him.
“So,” Buster says, “what’s on your mind? Hey, before I forget. We’re on for tonight, dinner and whatever, right? You’re staying over?”
“Sure.”
“Good. We’re going to have a good time.” He leans back. “So . . .”
The moment of truth. Either I trust Buster, or I don’t. That I saw him and Roach together doesn’t mean they’re in cahoots over anything. He’s explained their relationship. I have to tamp down my paranoia or it’s going to overwhelm me.
“Do you remember what we were talking about, back aways?”
“That hypothetical crime you witnessed?” He pauses. “Which wasn’t hypothetical, was it?”
“No,” I answer. “It wasn’t.”
He leans forward. “Has anything changed?”
Slowly: “Yes and no.”
“Yes and no how?”
“No one else knows about it, but . . .”
He’s getting antsy. “You saw a crime being committed. For real.”
“Yes.”
“What kind?” he asks, sounding like he’s afraid to know what it was.
“Murder.”
He stares at me. “That’s . . . big.” He gets up and pours himself two more fingers of scotch. “Where did you see it?”
“Near where I live.”
“Like a few days before we talked about it?”
“A week. A little more.”
“Do you know who it was? The victim?”
“I didn’t.” I pause. “Now I do.”
“Someone you knew?”
“No.”
He thinks about that answer a minute. “Then how do you know now?”
“I saw his picture in the paper. And on TV.”
“Somebody famous?” Buster leans toward me.
“No. But he was important.”
Buster shakes his head impatiently. “Let’s quit beating around the fucking bush, Fritz. Who did you see get murdered?”
I brace myself with another swallow of scotch. “The Russian senior counselor to the United States. He was based in their embassy.”
Buster sits up like he’s been zapped with a cattle prod. “You’re shitting me,” he says. “I mean, that’s impossible. That guy was found in an alley in Baltimore. He was cruising for gay hookers.”
“He was found there, but he wasn’t killed there.” I take a deep breath. How far can I trust him, having seen what I just saw? Partly, I decide. “Take my word for it; or don’t, I’ve got the proof.”
“You what?” Buster flies o
ut of his chair. “What the fuck kind of proof could you have?”
I take two pictures out of the envelope where I’ve stashed them—my original of the three men on the tarmac, and the ID that came off the computer. I hand them to Buster.
“This man,” I say, pointing to the picture I took, the one in which the faces can’t be seen because of the lighting, “is this man.” I point to the computer image. “And both”—I take out the newspaper clipping I’d cut out of the Post—“are this man. The counselor.”
Buster looks from one picture to the second to the third. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say heavily. “I’m sure.”
He looks at the computer image again. “This is a diplomatic driver’s license photo. Where did you get it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What do you mean, you can’t tell me? How did you get access to this?”
“From a friend. And I can’t tell you his name or what he does. I promised him I wouldn’t.”
Buster shakes his head. “That’s bullshit. I’m your lawyer, for Godsakes. Everything between us is confidential. I need to know, man.”
“Why?”
He looks like he wants to throw me out his window. “To protect you, you asshole. You could be in trouble over this, Fritz.” He brandishes the driver’s license facsimile. “You’re not supposed to have access to these records.”
I hadn’t thought of that. I knew I could be in jeopardy from the killer, but not in trouble from merely having the picture. “I didn’t even think about that.” I’m in over my head, and I’m beginning to realize how deeply.
“Shit on a fucking stick.” Buster starts pacing the floor, running his fingers through his unruly hair. “Who knows this picture exists?” he asks, holding up the one I took.
“No one. Except me and the guy who helped me out. And you, now.”
“That’s one too many. I’m going to have to talk to this guy who helped you out.”
I shake my head. “You can’t. Don’t worry, he erased everything from his computer. Anyway, he doesn’t know who this is. He thinks it’s part of a divorce proceeding.”
“Absolutely no one else knows? Don’t bullshit me, Fritz,” he says gravely.
“No one. Who else would I tell?”
Buster thinks for a minute. “Where did this murder happen?”
I take a beat. “On James Roach’s farm.”
Buster sways. “For Christsakes! You saw this diplomat get assassinated on property that’s owned by an assistant secretary of state?”
I nod.
Buster slumps into his chair. “Do you know if Roach was there when this happened?” He looks panicked—I’ve never seen him lose his cool like this before.
I shake my head firmly. “No, he wasn’t. He doesn’t know anything about this—I mean, that it happened at his place.”
Buster regards me suspiciously. “How do you know Roach wasn’t there? Are you holding anything back from me? I’m a lawyer, remember? You don’t keep secrets from your lawyer.”
“I’m telling you everything,” I aver, fighting not to sound defensive. Except that I have other pictures, transparencies to back them up, and a pushy Baltimore cop is chasing after this as well.
“So okay, you and I are straight, but you haven’t answered my question—how do you know for sure Roach wasn’t there?”
“I asked him.”
“You what?” Now he’s out of his chair again. He looks like he wants to strangle me.
“Not directly. Give me some credit.” I realize how idiotic and naive I sound. “I met him the same day the murder happened, that evening. At my mother’s, a social occasion, pure coincidence. We got to talking about his job and I brought the conversation around to his schedule, and he mentioned that he’d been at a meeting in D.C. that morning and hadn’t gotten to his farm until late afternoon.”
Buster stares at me. “And while you and he were talking about his schedule, and he convinced you of his honesty—through what, his body language?—did he also sell you a nice piece of property?” he asks sarcastically. “The Brooklyn Bridge, for example?”
“Come on, Buster,” I answer peevishly, feeling stupid. “It sounds dumb out of context, but it was just conversation. He wasn’t trying to sandbag me with some alibi or anything.”
“Of course not,” Buster says caustically. “You’re positive about the time frame? Where he was—said he was.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what happened,” he orders me. “Where, when, the usual suspects stuff.”
I tell him what went down, except that instead of birding I say I was out fishing, a plane landed, I looked through my camera lens to see what was going on, and I saw the murder occur, the body taken away.
Buster stares at me when I’m finished. “That’s it?” he asks. “The whole kit and kaboodle?”
“That’s it.”
He starts pacing the floor like a fretful husband whose wife has been too long in labor. “Roach is in a dangerous position. He could be fucked if this ever gets out.” His brain is working overtime. “Or he could have knowledge of it and for whatever reason isn’t letting on, which would really be a bitch.” He makes a note. “I’ll try to figure out a way to find out what happened. I’ll have to test the waters gingerly—I don’t want to set anybody’s neck hairs on edge, particularly Roach’s.” He gives me a bracing stare. “The important thing is to keep your name out of everything.”
I feel greatly relieved, hearing him say that. “Thanks in advance for doing whatever you can on the q.t. Because I sure don’t want to get involved.”
“You don’t know how much you don’t want to get involved.” He holds the incriminating photographs up to me. “Are there any more of these?”
“No, they’re the only ones,” I lie.
“Okay,” he says. “Here’s the drill. This never happened—the pictures, you taking them, you seeing anything. You with me?”
“All the way.”
He crosses to the far corner, where there’s a small machine that looks like a copier. He lifts the lid of the machine, drops the photos in, closes the lid, pushes a button. I hear a high-pitched grinding sound.
“A shredder?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m surprised that there’s a paper shredder in his office—he must have use for it dozens of times a week, for occasions such as this.
He nods. “Now they never existed, for sure.” He walks back to me. “Fritz, listen to me. Carefully. Do not talk to Roach about this. Not even indirectly. You listening to me?”
“I hear you, Buster. Loud and clear.”
“I’m serious. You’re out of your league when it comes to stuff like this.”
“I know that, believe me.”
He shakes his head. “I know you know it, Fritz, but I don’t think you know it, if you know what I mean.”
Too many “knows.” “I understand what’s going on, Buster.”
Buster gives me a worried look. “You wish. I wish. You are one reckless, impetuous SOB. You always have been, from our first week at Yale, when you jumped out your dorm window on a bet. Do you remember that crazy stunt?”
I grin. “Of course I remember. I made twenty bucks.”
“And damn near broke your neck.” He groans. “You jump into things without thinking about the consequences. I know you, Fritz, I’ve known you half our lives. You know what I’m afraid of?”
“What?” I ask. I don’t like being chastised by someone my own age—I get it enough from my elders, particularly my older brother.
“That you’re going to chase after this.”
“I’m not,” I protest.
“I hope not,” he says fervently. “I sincerely hope not.” He puts a brotherly arm around my shoulder. “I love you, man. I don’t want to see any more misery coming your way. You’ve already had your full ration of shit.”
“Thanks.” We’re the same age, but I feel like he’s the grown-up, and I’m still the kid. He’s wearing
a tie, and I’m not.
“Okay.” He grins, a big smile that says maybe all’s not right with the world, but the important stuff is. “We’re out of here.” He tosses down the dregs of his drink. “You’re in good hands with me, Fritz. Beats the crap out of Allstate.”
I smile wanly. He really wants me to trust him—as much for him as for me. Maybe more.
• • •
Buster’s is a blonde, mine’s a redhead. Otherwise, two peas in a pod. Tiffany and Whitney. I assume those aren’t their real names. The women, both in their mid-twenties, are pleasant enough, bubbly, sweet, savvy. Built like Playboy centerfolds, of course. Buster’s idea of the cure-for-whatever-ails-you.
We get to know each other over a bottle of champagne—Krug, only the best for Buster—and a few lines of quality blow. Whitney, my date, asks the obligatory questions: am I a lawyer like Buster, are we partners? She’s met a couple of his partners. They’re cool guys, the younger ones all drive Porsches. I tell her I’m a university professor, and drive a Jeep. She thinks that’s neat; “you must be a real brain” (although I have to explain what “sabbatical” means). And where do I live now? She scrunches up her nose at my address. The boondocks as far as she’s concerned; she comes from a two-stoplight hicksville in Ohio and doesn’t ever want to go back to the small-town life, she’s a big-city girl through and through. Until she gets married and has kids, then that would be okay, if it’s a hip little town like Aspen or Santa Fe (neither of which she’s actually been to). She likes outdoor activities (she’s recently taken up golf, her instructor says she’s a natural), music, dancing, moonlight walks along the C&O Canal. She recites these things like she’s composing an adult ad, although a woman with her looks is never going to have to scrounge for a date.
So now we know each other as well as we need to, as well as we’re ever going to. We’ve been in each other’s company for fifteen minutes.
The ladies are in high heels but they’re game for walking, since we aren’t going far, and Buster wants to. We stroll a couple of blocks to 1789, a Zagat top ten restaurant that Buster uses as his local since it’s close to his house and they treat him like the crown prince, and have another bottle of champagne at the bar before we go upstairs to the dining room for dinner. They’re out of Krug, we have to settle for Dom Pérignon.
Bird's-Eye View Page 17
