by Steven Gore
Milsberg poked around in his chow fun with his chopsticks.
“It was only after the collapse that Matson told me that Granger and Burch set up a bunch of burn companies…You know what burn companies are, right?”
Gage nodded.
“When Matson went back after the collapse, the customers were gone. Poof. Up in smoke.”
Milsberg set down his chopsticks.
“If it weren’t for our pastor, my wife would’ve divorced me. She’s kind of a religious nut. She used to teach this marriage class at the church. You know, ‘It’s not a contract, it’s a covenant with God.’ That kind of stuff. Naive. She says I’m naive. She never liked Matson. She thought he was slick. And Madge. My wife saw through her the first time they met. But you can’t blame Matson. He looks at his wife, he still sees what she was like when they first got together. We’re all that way.”
Gage had come to the restaurant ready for psychological combat with an accountant constantly calculating his position, but what he saw before him was a fragile, flailing man.
“It’s called being human.”
“I guess so. But you didn’t come here to listen to me ramble on.”
“It’s okay. You’ve had a tough couple of months.”
“I wasn’t sure whether to blow my brains out or Granger’s or Burch’s.”
Gage’s eyes went dark.
Milsberg pulled back and held up his hands. “I didn’t shoot Burch. It wasn’t me.” He shook his head. “I haven’t the stomach for any kind of violence.” He hunched forward again and stared down at this chow fun. “I can only eat this stuff because I don’t think about how cow becomes beef.”
Gage glanced toward the door. “How about we go for a walk?” he said. “Get some fresh air. Talk a little more.”
“Sure. I got nothing much to do at the office. What about your lunch?”
“She can pack it up. I know somebody who’ll eat it.”
Gage drove Milsberg to Coyote Creek Park. They entered the Japanese Friendship Garden, bought fish food pellets, and walked to the crest of the bridge over the koi pond.
“You don’t know me,” Gage said, as he tossed a few pellets to the koi schooling below, “and I don’t know you.”
“That’s not quite true.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’ll bet you’ve met a lot of Robert Milsbergs in your career and you take them to comforting places like this for a little heart-to-heart.”
“You’re an insightful guy.”
“Sometimes too much. You know what I wanted to be when I was in college? A poet. I wanted to be a poet. And I could write, too.” Milsberg tore open his bag of pellets. “There was something heroic about being a poet. Now look at me. I’m as broke as if I was one. But I ain’t no hero. I’m a middle-aged guy who screwed up his life.”
Milsberg leaned over the wooden railing and stared down toward the water, his eyes losing focus, then he blinked hard and tossed a few pellets to the koi.
“You know haiku?” Milsberg asked, watching the fish vacuum them up.
“Of course.”
“Try this one: The somber wind stills, the dark river of pain speaks, of what might have been.”
“That could be anyone.”
“But it’s me. I write haiku to keep from jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge.” Milsberg sighed, still staring at the koi. “What do you need?”
“Look at me,” Gage said, as if a father to his son.
Milsberg turned to face him.
“You tried to ride this scam, didn’t you?”
Milsberg glanced away, then returned his eyes to Gage’s.
“I shouldn’t have. But I did. Everybody said we had great products, ones the country really needed. And I thought everything would work out in the end.”
“But it didn’t. And a lot of people suffered, not just you.”
“Maybe I’m lucky. I’m still young enough to earn it again.”
“But not the old folks who lost all of their retirement money.”
Milsberg hesitated, off balance, as if for the first time seeing the victims in his mind’s eye. “No. Not them.”
“And you knew Matson was in on it?”
“Yes.”
“And you did what he told you?”
“Yes. And my name is all over the paperwork. Even the SEC filings.”
Gage pulled a photograph out of his suit pocket, holding it by the bottom center between his thumb and forefinger.
“You know what building this is?”
“Sure.” Milsberg shrugged. “It’s the Federal Building in San Francisco. I went there a few times to pick up tax forms, back when the IRS had an office on the first floor.”
“And what’s in the Federal Building now?”
“Courts, U.S. Attorney, FBI.”
Gage moved his thumb.
Milsberg’s head jerked forward. Eyes riveted on the small figure walking toward the entrance. “That son of a bitch!”
CHAPTER 27
M r. Gage, this is Robert Milsberg.”
Gage glanced at his watch. 9:01 A. M. He was surprised by the call so soon after their talk the previous day.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation. And I talked to my wife. She reads situations pretty well. For her everything is basically black and white. Maybe that’s what religion does for her. She doesn’t think the U.S. Attorney will believe me if I tell him that I was just doing what Matson told me to do. And she figures since they made the deal with him first, he’s their guy. She says they’re invested, no pun intended. They’re invested in him.”
“She’s right. That’s exactly how it works.”
“And I’m thinking, they don’t need me anyway, except to make their indictment longer and pump up their stats.”
“I think so, too.”
“You know, there’s a rule in writing. It’s called show, don’t tell. And if they won’t believe what I say, then I’ll just show them who Matson really is.”
Gage held his breath. He was a heartbeat away from getting inside SatTek, but he couldn’t risk Milsberg later finding out the truth and bailing out when Gage needed him most. “Robert, there’s something you need to know before you tell me anything else.”
“About Jack Burch?”
“Yes.”
“I was wondering if there was a connection. I saw the look on your face when I talked about wanting to shoot him. His wife hire you?”
“No. I volunteered.” Gage knew that he had to give Milsberg a picture of Burch that would give him confidence that he was doing the right thing. “This isn’t about money. I’ve known him half my life. The worst he can be accused of is negligence, not realizing what Matson was really up to-but there’s mitigation. Matson showed up right after Burch’s wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. We didn’t know if she’d survive. He just stopped thinking, his mind followed his heart and his heart was with her.”
“Until just now all I knew about Burch was what that asshole Matson told me.” Milsberg paused, then said, “I won’t help you try to get him off, but I’ll do what I can to make sure he gets his day in court. He at least deserves a chance to clear himself.”
Gage clenched his fist. “That’s enough for me.”
Milsberg exhaled. “Now it’s time for show, don’t tell…Get this. Matson’s flying to London tomorrow.”
“Did he say why?”
“He didn’t say anything. I got a peek at the receptionist’s message pad.”
“What’s the flight?”
“United 930. First-class. Can you believe it? The company is in the tank and he’s traveling first-class, 12:50 P. M. out of SFO.”
“Good work. Maybe you should’ve been a private eye.”
“No. I should’ve been a poet. Then I wouldn’t have ended up in this mess.”
Gage hung up, checked his contact list, then dialed a London number.
“Mickey, it’s Graham.”
&n
bsp; “You old gaffer. How’s work?”
“Complicated. How’s retirement?”
“Bloody boring. I couldn’t wait to get out of police work, now I miss it like my best chum.”
“What’s your schedule like for the next few days?”
“The same as always-except when you call with a little job. Cheap tea and the Times crossword.”
“You ready for another one?”
“Willing and still able. What’s the topic?”
“You on the Internet?”
“Only through my grandson.”
“Have him do a search on a company called SatTek. It’s a stock scam. My friend, a lawyer in San Francisco, is being set up to take the fall.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Help me tail the company president. Two hundred pounds a shift for each guy you need to bring in. I’ll be coming in on his flight into Heathrow.”
CHAPTER 28
T wenty-four hours later, Gage was standing in the economy line at the international terminal at SFO waiting for Matson. When first-class was called, Gage watched Matson stroll to the front and nonchalantly present his ticket to the ground crew.
Gage pulled out his cell phone, then cupped his hand over his mouth. Mickey picked up the call on the first ring.
“He’s about five foot nine, mid-forties, brown hair, a little pudgy,” Gage said quietly. “Unless he changes clothes on the plane, he’ll be wearing tan slacks, a yellow button-down shirt, and a dark brown sweater. He’s carrying an attache case, a camel overcoat, and a suit bag.”
“Will you be able to stay with him?” Mickey asked.
“He’ll be getting off before me, so I’ll probably lose him at passport control, but I’ll catch up at baggage claim.”
Gage called Mickey as he followed Matson through customs, and stayed on the phone as Matson met a woman in the arrivals hall. Gage scanned the crowd until he spotted Mickey by an exit. Late sixties, gray-haired, alert eyes that darted, never resting too long on Matson and not reacting when he spotted Gage.
“Did you see the dumplings on that one?” Mickey asked Gage “She’s a tidy package.”
“Mickey, you’re supposed to be watching him.”
“May they stay as close together as a banger in a bun for as long as he’s in London. Amen.”
“I have a feeling they will. What do you think? French? German?”
“With her Eurasian features and those tight pants? I’ll bet Russian or Ukrainian.”
“In any case,” Gage said, “they’re all yours. I’m heading for the hotel. Keep me up on what they do.”
“With delight,” Mickey said. “And by the way, thanks for getting me out of the house.”
Gage took the Heathrow Express train to Paddington Underground Station, then caught a cab to his hotel. By the time he checked in and unpacked, Mickey called.
“She took him to a flat in Knightsbridge. Right off Brompton Road. It must’ve cost a bomb. Top floor. And she was driving a Jaguar XK, red.”
“Convertible?” Gage asked.
“Right. How’d you know?”
“You’ve seen the guy. What else would it be? Did you see the way he draped his sweater over his shoulders like some…what’s the word?”
“Would that be a five-letter word down or a seven-letter word across?”
“Take your pick.”
“Dandy or coxcomb.” Mickey chuckled. “I’m sure either one will do.”
“You think you can find out who owns the flat and the car?”
“My dear, dear Gage.” Mickey’s voice oozed with mock disappointment at Gage’s seeming lack of respect for his talents and his remaining connections in the Metropolitan Police.
“Sorry. Will you find out who owns the flat and the car?”
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
“I’m going to take a nap and try to head off some of the jet lag. Come by at 11 A. M. I’m in 1704 at the Carleton Tower.”
Gage knew exactly what time it was when he heard the knock at his door.
“I like the beard,” Gage told retired Superintendent of Police Mickey Ransford. “It makes you look like a fuzzy old bear.”
“The wife says it tickles. Apparently, after forty-three years of marriage I’ve become cute again.”
Gage smiled to himself as Mickey stepped through the doorway. Just a few years earlier, Mickey’s subordinates had variously compared him to a bloodhound, a bulldog, and a pit bull. Somehow, in retirement, he’d devolved into a pug.
Gage directed Mickey to a couch, then poured tea from a service resting on a side table and sat in a matching armchair.
“Any chance Matson spotted you?” Gage asked.
“No. Old men like me are like lost house keys. You don’t pay them any mind until they’re gone, and then you can’t find them.”
Mickey stirred sugar into his tea. “There’s an old Ukrainian saying.” He looked up, winking. “It’s something like, ‘Old age is not a blessing.’”
“So you were right.”
“As always. Alla Petrovna Tarasova. A long-legged Ukrainian with a beautiful name. Tourist visa. Extended.”
“And who owns the flat?”
“TAMS Limited, registered in Wales.”
“T…A…M…S…Let me guess.” Gage smiled. “Tarasova-Alla-Matson-Stuart.”
“That’s how the smart money is betting.”
“Did you happen to find out-”
“Morely Alden Fitzhugh IV, chartered account. Director. A memorable name.”
Gage felt SatTek’s offshore financial universe begin to rotate around a fixed point. “That’s the same guy who’s head of a holding company connected to SatTek.”
Mickey squinted toward the ceiling and raised a forefinger. “How do your American girls say it?” He grinned, then looked at Gage. “I…don’t… think…so.”
“What? You mean there are two guys with that name?”
“There isn’t even one with that name. There was, of course, until last week when his various components were found drifting about in the Thames. As I said, a memorable name. One must pass through the news sections of the Times to reach the crossword puzzle.”
A wave of jet lag shuddered through Gage’s body. The fixed point turned out to be a black hole.
“And no. No one was arrested. The home secretary was quoted as claiming that the Russian maffiya was responsible. But it’s budget time in Parliament so one can’t take these sorts of announcements seriously. Blaming Russian gangsters for everything is quite popular among the political classes. For all we know, there was a domestic quarrel and he simply went to pieces under his wife’s wrath.”
Mickey’s cell phone rang.
“A taxi just picked up Matson,” Mickey said. “Shall we join the chase?”
Gage slipped on a jacket and dropped a digital camera into his breast pocket. Mickey guided him from the hotel to a black London cab parked on a bordering street.
“We’re lucky,” Gage said, after getting into the back with Mickey.
“Luck has nothing to do with it.” Mickey aimed a finger at the driver, a stocky man leaning toward the steering wheel, gripping it with both hands. “Meet Hixon One. Sergeant, Metropolitan Police, retired.”
“Is there a Hixon Two?”
“Certainly,” Mickey answered. “Following Matson.”
“Nice to meet you Mr. Gage,” Hixon One said, pulling into traffic.
While Mickey relayed the directions from the car following Matson, Hixon One fought the midday traffic from Sloane Street, to Kensington Road, and finally to Kensington High Street, where he pulled over.
“Hixon Two says Matson went into that pub over there.” Mickey pointed across the street at a heavy wooden door, the center of which was occupied by a stained glass image of an ax. “Shall I go in?”
“No. Send Hixon Two. But tell him the guy Matson’s meeting may not be as naive as he is.”
“You mean her.”
“How do you know
Matson’s meeting a woman?”
“No. Hixon Two is a she.”
“My daughter,” Hixon One said, smiling and reaching for his cell phone. “Reconnaissance and Surveillance Regiment, SAS, on leave, helping her old man out. Eighteen months from now we’ll be Hixon amp; Hixon, Enquiry Agents, Limited.”
Gage scanned the sidewalks, cars, storefronts, and apartment windows above for countersurveillance or for others also tailing Matson.
A young woman wearing black pants and a fur-necked jacket slowed near the entrance to the Ax Man Pub. She stopped to read the specials written in chalk on a green board attached to the wall, then pushed the door open and walked in.
Hixon One glanced over his shoulder at Gage, and smiled with a father’s pride. “Lovely, isn’t she?”
Gage nodded. “And no one would ever guess what she does for a living.” He grabbed the door handle. “I need to get a closer look at some of the guys on the street.” He glanced at Hixon One. “Why don’t you stay here?” Then at Mickey. “How about a little fresh air?”
Mickey climbed out after him and they walked along the sidewalk to the corner, stopping first at a flower stand, then inside West London Newsagents for cover while surveying the street.
“You see them?” Gage whispered to Mickey, peering out through the window.
“I see one, the rather stout fellow on the opposite corner.”
“Look at the third car down from the pub, the dark blue Rover.”
“Ah yes,” Mickey said, “a disturbingly unattractive little creature. His face looks like a bleached prune.” He chuckled. “His mother must be quite embarrassed.”
Gage nodded toward a silver Mercedes directly in front of the pub. “I think that one may be part of this, too.” He then glanced back and forth between the automobiles. The license plates of both were blocked by the cars bracketing them. “We need the numbers. I’ll slip by the Rover.”
