Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  Curled up on his right side, Arnold gazed out at multicolor city lights, the sky well into the first paling shades of dawn. He doubted sleep would come, but the double dose of Xanax had subdued his hyperactive brain, for which he was extremely grateful. He knew Davidson had been right to insist they unwind before attempting to sort through the issues and map a strategy for dealing with this mess. Last night had been more horrible than any nightmare imaginable. He thought about how, at this very moment as he lay snug in bed, Howard’s cold lifeless body undoubtedly lay stretched out on a steel gurney in the King County morgue. And as Howard awaited autopsy, Arnold was actively hunted by terrorists. How the hell do you deal with such perverse twists of fate? He had no idea and at the moment was not able to even attempt to think clearly. There was, however, one thing he did know: the FBI and the witness protection program could never resolve his dilemma. There was only one person in this world who could accomplish that: Arnold Gold. Meaning it remained his responsibility to find a way to destroy Firouz. Once that was finished, he could begin to construct a new life.

  19.

  Davidson and Arnold sat at the kitchen counter with thick white ceramic mugs inscribed with the green Starbucks mermaid logo in front of them. Once again his lawyer had him describe, minute by minute, the events of the previous night, clarifying even the minutest details, jotting notes, asking questions. He opened his mouth to ask another question when his cell rang. After a quick glance at caller ID, Davidson muttered, “Better take this.”

  As Davidson talked, Arnold sat back to let his eyes wander over the city view, but instead of concentrating on the sights his mind began toying with possible ways of dealing with the Jahandars. Several options came to mind, but no one of them seemed any more likely to succeed than any other. What he needed was a plan that would destroy the terrorists while simultaneously shaking the FBI off his back, but he just couldn’t figure out exactly how that might work with minimal risk of failure. Whatever he came up with had better be bullet-proof. Then a thought hit: what if he were to die in the process? Wouldn’t that resolve everything? Of all the options, this one held the most promise. But how could he do that? For now, however, this would be the core of Plan A.

  Davidson interrupted his thoughts with, “Tell me about your finances.”

  Arnold realized his lawyer was off the phone now and talking to him. Once again, he had to think a moment to retrieve the question. Where the hell had that subject came from? “I’ve told you everything there is to tell. There anything in particular you want to know?”

  Davidson started drumming his Mont Blanc on the note pad. “How much you make in a year?”

  Good question. Now, thinking it over, he realized he never kept track. Money came in and money went out for various bills and expenses. He could probably come up with a ballpark figure but couldn’t cite a specific number with any accuracy. “Tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. Enough to get by on, why?”

  Frowning now, Davidson asked “Mean to tell me you don’t have a figure? Think back to last year’s tax forms and the line titled ‘adjusted gross income.’”

  A queasy feeling bloomed in his gut. “Never really looked all that closely at my tax form.” Well, sort of the truth. No, don’t kid yourself, not even close to the truth.

  Davidson now appeared clearly puzzled. “Why? An accountant does your taxes?”

  “No, not really. Why do you ask?”

  “That was Fisher on the phone. He wants us back in his office right now. He’s charging you with income tax evasion.” Silence, then, “Just so there’re no surprises, you have been paying income tax, correct?”

  Boom.

  Aw, Christ. “Uh… not exactly.”

  Davidson flipped the pen in the air, caught it on the way down. “Oh, boy, not at all?”

  “No.”

  “Just what we needed.”

  Soon as Fisher shut the door to the interrogation room he handed Arnold a two-page document and Bic ballpoint. “It’s a consent to record this interview. Sign it.”

  Davidson nodded for him to sign, so he did, and then slid the paper back across the table to the FBI agent. Fisher folded the paper, slipped it into the breast pocket of his suit coat. For several seconds the FBI agent studied Arnold with an expression that was making him even more nervous than when he walked in.

  “Here’s what we know about you, Gold. You’re twenty-three years old, single, and living in what used to be your parents’ home. You have no sibs and no other relatives that we could determine, so it appears you’re all alone.

  “Your parents managed their own small jewelry store. Five years ago they were apparently robbed and, during the commission of that crime, were shot to death with a small caliber handgun. The store inventory was never recovered nor adequately covered by insurance. There was a still two years of lease in effect on the store at the time.” Fisher paused to look from Davidson to Arnold, back to Davidson. “Either of you want to add anything?”

  Davidson nodded to Arnold to answer.

  “No.”

  Fisher looked like a gambler laying down four aces. “Good, because I know this information is accurate. In addition to the store debt, the house was mortgaged to the hilt. Apparently your parents leveraged the mortgage to start the business. Correct?”

  Arnold shrugged. “I guess.”

  “That mean a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “What I’m laying a foundation for,” Fisher continued, “is that you inherited major debt at a time in your life when, as far as we can determine, and as far as Social Security records go, you weren’t employed. Still aren’t, for that matter. Have I overlooked anything?”

  Arnold glanced at Davidson, who nodded at Fisher. “Continue please.”

  “Point of this little exercise is, I find it extremely interesting that you not only paid off the house mortgage and settled the jewelry store debt, but in addition you also settled a few other outstanding debts your parents managed to accumulate.”

  Another round of glances between Fisher, Davidson, and Arnold.

  “Your folks didn’t have life insurance. Basically, every cent of their assets were tied up in the business.”

  Arnold was stunned. How did they accumulate so much information so quickly?

  Because they’re the feds, stupid.

  He didn’t say a word.

  “What’s even more intriguing,” Fisher continued, “is apparently you now have a half-million dollars invested in a discount brokerage account.” He raised his eyebrows. “And guess what? You still don’t have any obvious employment, and you’re not a student. So, Mr. Gold, the big question is: where did you—and do you—get your money?”

  Davidson cleared his throat. “Just what, may I ask, are you suggesting?”

  Fisher slowly turned to him. “I’m not suggesting anything, not yet, but I do know one thing for certain: Your client has managed to come up with a substantial sum of money without any identifiable source of income. Don’t you find this fact extremely interesting? I sure as hell do.”

  Davidson gave an almost imperceptible headshake at Arnold: don’t say a word.

  Fisher held up a finger. “One possibility, of course—considering that the store inventory was never recovered and the security system had been defeated—is that the robbery could’ve been an inside job. To put it more bluntly, it’s crossed my mind that Mr. Gold could’ve easily orchestrated the theft and fenced the inventory. But that’s neither here nor there.”

  Arnold was struck speechless. How could Fisher suggest such a thing?

  Davidson was on his feet now, livid, pounding the desk. “Are you accusing my client of murdering and robbing his parents? Because that, sir, is egregiously offensive and slanderous.”

  Pretty gutsy of his lawyer, Arnold thought, considering that they hadn’t been able to discuss this issue yet.

  Fisher sat back in his chair, smirking, digging something from his left eye, a granule of protein perhaps from fatigue, no
t showing the slightest intimidation from the lawyer’s outburst. He flicked the something off the tip of his finger. “Calm down, Davidson. I haven’t accused anyone of anything. Every word so far is purely hypothetical. I’m simply stating the obvious scenario any investigator would consider. I haven’t a clue who committed the robbery and murder, but the one thing I do know for certain is your client, Mr. Gold, hasn’t paid one goddamn penny in income tax. Ever.”

  Davidson raised his eyebrows at Arnold as if to say this was the point of his earlier questions, that he knew Arnold wasn’t divulging something important and here they were being blindsided with it. Davidson slowly turned to Fisher but said nothing.

  Arnold was struggling to keep from lunging across the room to strangle Fisher for even thinking he might be instrumental in his parents’ deaths. He remembered too clearly the events of that morning, of being called out of class and walked to the principal’s office where a gray-haired school counselor with a compassionate face broke the news. He was a senior in high school, yet they were treating him as if he was a child. Shocked and numb, he sat in the small, overheated office smelling faintly of orange peels and damp wool, thinking this had to be some kind of sick joke. But the woman—he couldn’t remember her name—seemed so serious and so compassionate that he kept telling himself it had to be true.

  Later, when Howard’s parents showed up to take him to their house, where he stayed until things settled down, he gradually let the reality seep into consciousness. For the next several weeks he tried to sleep in Howard’s room in the spare bed while he processed the irrevocable non-negotiable change his life had just taken. Eventually he was able to convince Howard’s parents to allow him to return home, and that he was sufficiently prepared to stay there alone. They finally consented to let him return home but only if an adult—usually one of them—checked on him every day for a few hours to make sure he was eating and wearing clean clothes and all the other things a teenager should have. Howard stayed over a lot in those first few weeks.

  “Are you okay?” Rachael asks, deep concern reflecting from her eyes.

  They sit in the Weinsteins’ TV room, a football game on—he isn’t tracking—with the entire family watching, trying their best to make Arnold feel at home. But it isn’t working very well because he seriously wonders if life is even worth caring anymore. Even being here with Rachael doesn’t mean anything now.

  She takes his hand in hers and holds it. Not tightly, not loosely. Just perfectly. Soft, warm, caring, the human contact flowing into him, warming a very cold feeling he hasn’t been able to describe or comprehend. It’s just there, chilling him in spite of any number of blankets or hot showers. He’s never missed anyone like he misses he parents. Not even when he got so damn homesick those first days at camp, when he cried himself to sleep on the top bunk, the other boys sniggering about it unabashedly.

  It was in that moment he really understood the meaning of death.

  Many a night since then he spent on his back, staring at the shadowy ceiling, wondering who’d committed the crime. He suspected—as did the police—the itinerant who’d been hired to wash the shop’s windows, but the police were never successful in tracking him down. A point Fisher either purposely elected to exclude or, more likely, didn’t know about.

  Fisher seemed satisfied to have the income tax revelation and accusation weigh on their minds before pressing his attack. He finally broke the silence with, “In addition to the tax issue, we have evidence that your client associates with members of a suspected terrorist group. Can you finally appreciate where this discussion is headed?”

  Davidson gave an overly dramatic sigh. “What exactly is your objective in calling this meeting?”

  Fisher continued to lean back in his chair, peering down his nose at them, a study of supreme confidence. “For starters, how about your client giving me an accurate statement, one for the record. Once that’s agreed to, we can talk about developing an understanding.”

  Red faced, Davidson said, “I need to discuss this with my client first. In private.”

  Way the conversation was going—back and forth exclusively between Fisher and Davidson—he might as well be down at Starbucks enjoying a latte.

  With Fisher out of the room and the door closed, Davidson leaned in close. “He correct about the taxes?”

  Arnold blew a long breath and nodded, feeling guilt upon guilt layering over him like thick coats of paint.

  Davidson didn’t flinch. “Okay. What about the robbery?”

  “Hell no!” He resented the question. Anyone who knew him during the family’s lifetime knew how much he loved them. “What kind of person would do such a thing? To his own parents? My God.” Should’ve stopped at a drug store on the way here for a pack of Tums, because the pain was intensifying again and he had nothing for it.

  “You’d be surprised what people do when it comes to money. Hey, hey,” Davidson shook Arnold’s shoulder, “slow down your breathing. You’re hyperventilating.”

  Arnold couldn’t sit still, so he stood up. He decided pacing wouldn’t help either, so, just to do something, he bent over and touched his toes and held that position while slowly counting to twenty, then straightened up, the move making his head spin.

  Davidson waited for him to settle down before, “I prefer not to give clients ultimatums, but I’m giving you one now: tell Fisher everything you know about everything we talked about—gambling, the embassy bombing, all of it—or find yourself a new attorney. We absolutely clear on this?”

  Arnold sucked an audible breath and nodded. “Sounds like you’re not giving me a choice in the matter.”

  Davidson went stone cold serious. “You do have the choice. Full disclosure or a new lawyer, your choice.”

  Arnold looked up at the ceiling, dreading what he had to do. Embarrassing and self-incriminating as this would be, he feared losing Davidson more than any FBI repercussion. It left him little choice in the matter. “Okay. Just don’t leave me now.”

  Davidson stood there looking at the kid. What a mess. He felt palpable anger build inside. Hated being lied to by a client, especially over something as major as the tax evasion. Was Gold so stupid to believe that wouldn’t be one of the first things the feds checked out? That was the question, wasn’t it? Was the kid so far into his own world that the outside seemed irrelevant to him? Well, he intended to sort this out, and if the kid was a manipulator, he’d drop him as a client and do it in a heartbeat. His practice was prospering well enough that he didn’t have to scrounge for work, especially some computer genius who might think themselves above those less digitally suave. So, for the moment, he said nothing to Gold.

  In answer to Fisher’s question, Davidson said, “Yes, he will make a positive identification of both Firouz and Karim, but in return we expect Mr. Gold to be placed in the witness protection program.”

  News to Arnold. Although they’d briefly discussed that possibility, it seemed like years ago and only as a hypothetical. Made sense. In a way. Yet a part of him knew he could never rest comfortably relying on some federal bureaucrat and a government computer file to maintain his new identity. Especially in view of the more recent self-anointed Keepers of Freedom who felt their moral duty was to disseminate classified or sensitive information regardless of employment agreements: Julian Assange and Edward Snowden served as prime examples. In addition, witnesses’ true names and whereabouts were stored in a computer disk and no computer on earth was completely impervious to unintended penetration of information leakage. No, he would never rely on the WPP. If he were ever to safely extricate himself from this mess, it would have to be up to him and him alone.

  Fisher answered Davidson with, “I—meaning the bureau—doesn’t have the authority to negotiate the WPP. Justice handles all such offers. I’ll talk to my contact but can’t make any agreement until I have their thumbs up. Having just said that, I’ll also say it’s a very good chance they’ll agree.”

  Davidson shrugged.

 
; Fisher asked, “What about motive? Why’s a person like Firouz Jahandar coming after a guy like Arnold Gold? Explain that one to me.”

  Davidson’s turn to smile. “My client will be able answer that. Once we’re guaranteed protection.”

  Fisher yawned, covering his mouth with a hand. “I’ll take your word for it, but let’s be honest here, we have a huge problem. For the sake of argument, say he fingers the Jahandars. As things presently stand, SPD doesn’t have a shred of evidence that verifies either of the brothers was in his house. Ever. None of the neighbors saw or heard a thing—no car out in front, nobody or nothing suspicious—except the neighbor on the property to the south reports his dog might’ve heard something about the time the incident occurred and he let him out the back to investigate. But again, he heard and saw nothing unusual. On top of that, there was no sign of forced entry. Where I’m going to with this is, we need some supporting evidence to back your client’s story, something to prove they were actually in the house at the time of the murder,” now looking at Arnold. “Otherwise, any defense lawyer worth his salt is going to argue the brothers were in another part of town at the time this went down.”

  Arnold nodded for his lawyer to answer.

  Davidson smiled again. “We have solid and sufficient evidence to prove Mr. Gold’s account of events.”

  This appeared to catch Fisher’s attention. “Yeah? What might that be?”

  “My client’s home is equipped with a state-of-the-art security system, complete with a motion-activated video feed from outside cameras covering both the front and back areas. Although we haven’t had time to actually view those recordings, they should clearly document the brothers’ arrival. The high-def video, by the way, is time stamped and good enough to read a license plate at 100 feet.”