Galliano looked up open-mouthed from her notes. Outrage radiated from her violet eyes, and shock made her slender shoulders tremble. She didn’t blow her cool over murder, but making fun of sexual orientation set her aquiver with indignation—which actually made her look pretty hot. But I didn’t let that distract me.
“‘Just trust me’ is a deal-killer, Stan. No plan, no deal.”
Seconds ticked by. I couldn’t believe the bastard was actually thinking about what I’d just said. We had a good fifteen seconds of dead air before he spoke again.
“I will give this some thought. We have plenty of time before Trowbridge’s next chance to breach his contract. So no rush. In the next few days I will think up your million-dollar plan.”
“Think up a quarter-million-dollar plan while you’re at it. The CFO here keeps saying that Trans/Oxana is in business to make money. He gets cranky when it doesn’t And remember, keep it legal.”
A dial tone abruptly sounded over the speaker, so I punched it off. Interesting to feel the vibe around the table. Schuetz gave me a quick, two-millimeter nod: Nice job. Proxy was as cool and detached as if we’d been discussing price-earnings ratios for a Fortune 500 company. Quindel and Stepanski were a little defensive: Yeah, I could sound tough over the phone too. Galliano looked a bit scared. I could sense her gut flutter from across the room. Not scared of Chaladian, scared of me. Not in the way Seawright had been, just scared on general principles. Dealing with guys like Chaladian meant I must be at least a little like him—and I was right here in the room. I actually got kind of a kick out of it. Guilty pleasure. I made a mental note to feel ashamed of myself when I had time.
“What did he mean about time before the next possible breach of contract?” Quindel directed this question at Proxy.
“Prescott Trail is scheduled for release in August. Under his contract, Trowbridge has to show up at the premiere and do at least three promotional appearances on national TV. He’s also supposed to do a little meet-and-greet at the advance showings for critics, the week before the official opening.”
“When does filming on the second movie start, the retro-spy thing?”
“Set for next February, but that’s tentative.”
“I thought you already saw a clip.”
“That was just a tease to use when they’re shopping the concept to backers.”
Quindel looked at Stepanski. Stepanski looked at Quindel. No one looked at Galliano. Or at me. Then Quindel snapped his head around, sweeping his gaze over Proxy and me.
“Stall Citadel Re. We’re not laying off any of the risk at this time, but keep them interested while we try to get harder numbers on the Thompson variable. You hear anything from Chaladian, I want a report pronto. Also from your boy Wells.”
“Written report?” I hated to ask that, but I had to.
“Yes,” Galliano said. “Addressed to me. That makes it privileged.”
“No,” Quindel said. “Oral. To Ms. Shifcos or directly to me. Real time, no voice mail. I’ll handle liaison with Legal.”
“Got it.”
Quindel stood up. So did the rest of us, maybe two seconds behind him. Proxy took her and my copies of the Galliano chart and slid them across the table to Stepanski. He folded them up with his spreadsheet and Quindel’s. Quindel started for the door, then turned back to us.
“Thanks for your time. Good work so far.”
Quindel and Stepanski went out first. Galliano, obviously smarting from Quindel’s spanking just now, waited for a good thirty seconds before she followed them. Schuetz smiled at her exit, shaking his head. Then he was gone too.
Proxy walked over to make sure the door had closed all the way behind Schuetz. Then she sat down in the chair nearest the door. In other words, not the chair where she’d been sitting during the meeting, where her laptop was: I’m not taking notes. This is off the record. I took the hint and sat back down. She looked up at the ceiling, as if she were thinking out loud instead of talking to me.
“I can’t see Chaladian solving this problem for us.”
“Neither can I. Not by sabotaging Prescott Trail and not by putting in an imaginary fix.”
“What are you going to do if he calls again?”
“Report to you and ask for instructions.”
Now she looked back to me.
“I’m not going to tell you to go in harm’s way.”
“Instructions are strategy. Going in harm’s way is tactics. Chaladian isn’t going to solve the problem for us, but if we string him along for awhile we might be able to keep him from making it worse.”
Proxy picked up a pencil and started fiddling with it. She reminded me of Carrie Deshane playing with her cigarette that first night. She put it down again when she had her next question ready.
“How sure are you that Trowbridge has fallen for Thompson?”
“Hundred percent.”
“How can we use that?”
“To start with, we can try to keep Thompson alive. After that I’m like Chaladian: I’m making it up as I go along.”
“You think Chaladian might kill her if he gets frustrated?”
“No. I think he might kill her if he thought that would make us pay him a million bucks. So it makes sense to string him along.”
Proxy frowned. Again with the pencil. For a second I imagined her actually smoking the thing. Then she put it down. No, she didn’t “put it down.” She smacked it against the table top with an audible pop.
“Okay, Jay, here it is. I don’t care what Galliano’s little exposure analysis chart says, I’ve got thirty-six million at risk. One-half of one percent of that is a hundred-eighty-thousand. I can get approval to spend that much on loss prevention without raising any eyebrows—as long as it prevents the loss. But I don’t think that road runs through Chaladian. I think it runs through Thompson—and so does Quindel. That’s what his ‘harder numbers’ crack meant.”
Time for me to think things over. I didn’t have a pencil to play with, but I managed to think without it.
“The Chaladian road and the Thompson road intersect. You’re right: our best shot at avoiding a Trowbridge meltdown is getting Thompson on board. But Thompson is hiding in a Mexican border state in a casa with an old man who shoots first and asks questions later.”
“Okay. Next step?”
“Find out what the deal was between her and Chaladian and see if we can do anything about it.”
“Makes sense.” Proxy nodded. “I’ll get Schuetz to start digging.”
“Suit yourself, but I wouldn’t bother. If checking public records and calling in chits from old buddies at the Bureau could dig it up, Schuetz would already have it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to start by talking to Sydney Wellstein, Jeff Wells’ dad.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Two things were waiting for me when I walked into my apartment just after seven-thirty that night.
The first was a thin, midnight blue vase holding a single red rose and a single yellow rose. The note attached said, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Rache.” The roses had come from her garden—technically, our garden—not from a florist. The vase was one I’d given her for the Valentine’s Day before I left for my last tour in Iraq. I found them just inside the door, which meant that she’d had to leave them with the building superintendent so that he could actually put them in the apartment. If she’d talked him into letting her in, she would have set them on the kitchen table.
The second was a message on my answering machine, left by someone with a California area code. I’d called Wells on my way to the Hartford Airport and asked him to put me in touch with his dad. Hadn’t muscled him or threatened him. Just a polite request. Really. I hadn’t expected a response until the next day, at the earliest. But this
figured to be it. I pushed PLAY.
“This is Sydney Wellstein.” The voice seemed a little labored, like someone elderly and chronically short of breath. “My son informed me that you would like to speak with me, and gave me your number. I’m sorry that you aren’t there to take my call, because I’d prefer to respond to you directly. But so be it. Here’s my answer: Go to hell. Don’t call me again. Don’t ask Jeff to call me again. Don’t ask anyone else to call me again. Don’t write. Don’t drop by.”
“I’m going to have to take that as a no,” I muttered out loud as I hit ERASE.
Okay, time for Plan B. I’d picked up a big roast beef sandwich and chips on the way home from National, because until I hit my front door I was technically still traveling and I could charge them against my per diem. Pulled out a plate for the sandwich, just so Rachel’s roses wouldn’t think I was a complete slob. Grabbed a Miller Genuine Draft from the refrigerator. Didn’t bother with a glass. Then, while I ate, I thought about what Plan B might look like.
After I’d worked it out, it seemed pretty obvious. As soon as I’d finished my dinner I emailed Proxy, because I’d need her approval for the money and her assistant’s help with the logistics:
Need to fly to Houston Friday morning; reservation for a smoking room at the Embassy Suites–Galleria for Friday night and Saturday night; $3,000 cash advance.
Once I’d launched that missive into cyberspace I called Rachel to thank her for the flowers. I reached the voice-mail prompt.
“Hi, Rache. Got the flowers. Beautiful. Classy. Thanks. No problem about last week. Apology accepted. Don’t beat yourself up.”
By the time I hung up, Proxy had replied to my email:
“Smoking? Seriously? Why Houston? And $3,000 for what?”
I was about to hit REPLY when the phone rang. Rachel. I answered.
“I just got the door unlocked when you finished leaving your message. Sorry I’m late getting home. I was tied up on something. A good client just had a customer go bankrupt.”
“Ouch. Big bill unpaid?”
“Opposite. The customer paid the client almost a hundred-thousand dollars over the last three months before bankruptcy. The bankruptcy trustee is demanding that we give it back.”
“How does that work? You got paid fair and square, right?”
“It’s complicated. Basically, anything you get paid by someone who files for bankruptcy within ninety days is vulnerable to getting clawed back into the bankrupt estate by the trustee. It really sucks.”
I shook my head. Thank God I’m not a lawyer.
“Well, I hope it works out for you. Good luck with it.”
“Thanks. Uh, Jay? I threw Nick out. That guy you talked to.”
“He didn’t hit you again, did he?”
“No. But after you talked to him, he couldn’t get it up anymore. With me. He’s fine with other women. At least that’s his story.”
Win-win, then. I self-censored fast enough to keep from saying that. Barely.
“Well, I think you’re better off with him out of the picture.”
“Jay? Do you think we could get together this weekend? We don’t have to make love if you don’t want to. Maybe we could just be together and you could hold me a little.”
“I’m heading for Houston Friday. Tell you what, I’ll call you from there.”
I braced myself for an f-bomb, but it didn’t come. Instead I heard a tiny, little voice with a hint of a catch in it.
“Okay.” Then she hung up.
Back to Proxy’s email. REPLY: “Seriously. Smoking. Houston is the only important thing I know of in Harris County, Texas, and that’s where Thompson spent seven months in the slammer. The $3k is for a call girl.”
Seventeen seconds after I hit SEND my phone rang. Proxy.
“Davidovich! I can’t approve $3,000 for a hooker!”
“Not a hooker. A call girl. Different thing altogether. Mistaking a call girl for a hooker is like confusing Miller Genuine Draft with Bud Light.”
“I guess I’ve led a sheltered life. When you explained your plan yesterday, I was picturing something a bit more corporate. Why don’t you cut the crap and give me a little primer on where you’re going with this?”
I did. When I’d finished she almost said, “Oh, shit.” But she caught herself and whistled instead.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I worked my ass off on Thursday. Sat in my apartment all day long, keypunching on my laptop and my phone, just like one of the drones at the Trans/ Oxana cubicle farm up in Hartford—except with better coffee. I called every buddy from Iraq and Afghanistan who was now working as a cop or a bouncer or a bodyguard for unknown bands without finding one who knew who to call for a good time in Houston. So I did the obvious thing: I called Wells to lie to him for his own good. Got him on the first try.
“Still no Chaladian.” He said this groggily, and I realized I’d probably gotten him out of bed.
“I’m calling about something else. Has Levitt asked you about Omaha yet?”
“No. I reported the search to him and he shrugged.”
“Well some stringer for an entertainment e-zine that I never heard of left a message saying he wants to talk to me about it. Me. And I’m nobody. I doubt that Levitt will shrug about that.”
He bought this little piece of fiction without thinking twice about it. Didn’t ask me the name of the e-zine or the caller or the number or anything else. Just swallowed my story.
“Shit. When they get around to calling Saul he’ll launch the nukes. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.”
“So make sure he hears it from you. When you go see him, know one thing: I’ve got your back. I will not throw you under the bus on this thing.”
“Okay.” Wells didn’t make the word sound very enthusiastic.
My brainstorm came around one in the afternoon, when I was wolfing down a pizza I’d had delivered. The Harris County Clerk of Court files are available on-line. There were tons of women named Thompson who’d found themselves in court down there during the time frame I cared about—but only one of them spelled her middle name “Starr” with two r’s. A complainant who claimed to be the kid’s father had somehow gotten an assistant DA interested enough in a kidnapping investigation to try to force a DNA test for the baby. He didn’t call himself Chaladian, but that meant nothing. Three judges had their fingerprints on the case that came out of all that. It took me thirty solid minutes to figure out which one had winked at her with the hint about joining the Marines. That turned out to be the Honorable Samuel Trinity Bosworth—or “Trinity Sam,” as Google said he periodically presented himself to voters.
He had retired in the meantime, and even serving judges tend to have unlisted numbers, so I needed a little help from Schuetz to get a current telephone number for him. By two o’clock, though, I was on the phone with his former honor. Fortunately, if you spend more than fifteen minutes in the United States armed forces, you learn to talk southern.
“Good afternoon, your honor. Jay Davidovich with Loss Prevention at Trans/ Oxana Insurance. I’m hoping you remember a case several years ago where a young mom went to jail for not telling a grand jury where her daughter was.”
“What’s ‘Loss Prevention’?”
“People who try to keep insurance companies from having claims made under policies they’ve issued.”
“Well I bet your mama’s proud you’re doin’ that. You a reporter?”
“I can barely spell ‘reporter,’ judge. You can call me back through Trans/Oxana’s general number if you want to.”
“No, skip it. Assuming that I do remember that case, why should I tell you a blessed thing about it?”
“Here’s my theory, your honor. I think you were pulling for the young lady. The guy who got her into that scrape is trying to find her,
and I don’t think his intentions are altogether honorable. If I find out what he was up to with her back then, I might be able to stop him.”
“Is that so?”
“Yessir, that’s a fact.”
“Well, I surely have no idea of any scam he was trying to pull. For all I know he really was the father and just wanted a look at his baby girl.”
“I know you wouldn’t know about anything dodgy, judge. I figure, though, that there are probably some people who do know, and they would have been known to the Harris County courts.”
“Young man, if your intention is to ask me who was in the high-end skin trade in Houston several years ago, why don’t you quit beatin’ around the bush and just come out with it?”
“I guess that’s about the size of it.”
“Well, I don’t rightly see how I can help you. I assume you are aware that it is a violation of federal law to use instrumentalities of interstate commerce to arrange for the exchange of money for sex.”
“That doesn’t come as a complete surprise to me, judge. Sex trafficking isn’t exactly what I have in mind.”
“Sure it isn’t, son. You know, I didn’t just get to town last week. You have yourself a good day.”
Click. Shit. Now what? Fly to Houston and try to find a vice squad cop who didn’t hate yankees? Or, even worse, start nosing around on my own?
The only thing that went right for the next hour was the arrival of a bonded messenger. The envelope he had for me held a boarding pass for a flight out of Reagan National tomorrow at 10:20 a.m., the code for a confirmed reservation at the Embassy Suites—Galleria in Houston, and thirty hundred-dollar bills. I was surfing Houston smut sites on the web when the phone rang.
“Davidovich.”
“Hi, Davidovich. This is Molly. I’m a Houston-based entrepreneur doing cold calls in your area. I wonder if you might have any use for our services in Houston this weekend.”
Thank you, judge.
“Well, I just might at that.”
Jail Coach Page 13
