Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests

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Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests Page 28

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America


  “I do! Lawyers and accountants are supposed to be the watchdogs who make sure offerings are legit. And the ones in these deals did more than look the other way. The promoter was smart, but not that smart. He couldn’t have put the fraud together without professional help.”

  I made a calming motion with my hands, I was determined not to argue with her. Besides, it was an old debate. “Okay, okay, these lawyers and these accountants were dirtbags. You have my blessing to prosecute them.”

  She grimaced. “Easier said than done. I barely had enough evidence for a search warrant. By the time it was executed, they had shredded all the documents. I needed the promoter’s testimony that the attorneys and accountants were in on the scam from the get-go.”

  I rubbed a thumb against the rubberized band of my watch. “Those guys can be hard to find once they’re in the wind.”

  “The coal mines were in Kentucky, so I started there. I went to the town, talked to the guy’s landlord, the people who leased him office equipment, even the waitresses at his favorite diner. Wasn’t hard—I was raised in a place like that. Turns out the guy’s Norwegian, grew up working on a family fishing boat. He immigrated to the States about ten years ago with plans to make it big.”

  “Let’s hear it for the American dream!” I took a mouthful of scotch and let it sizzle on my tongue. I was feeling good again. “He must have played Monopoly when he was a kid.”

  Lauren glared at me. “I expected him to go back to Europe. But Immigration didn’t have a record of him leaving.”

  “How about Canada?”

  “They said he wasn’t there either. So that left Seattle.”

  “Seattle? What made you think—”

  “When we went through his office in Kentucky, we found a bunch of blank Seattle postcards and some country-western CDs in the back of a desk drawer. Apparently he missed them when he cleaned out the place.”

  “You thought he came here because of some postcards?”

  “Don’t give me a hard time, Tommy. It was all I had to go on. The databases—”

  “I was wondering when you’d get to those.” I heard that edge in my voice again. “Do you feds even bother with warrants anymore? Or do you just whisper the word terrorist and wait for the sysop to hand over the master password?”

  Lauren’s expression told me she wasn’t in the mood for my privacy-rights rant. “Oh, we got the password all right, but the databases were a bust. There was nothing in the computers—no driver’s license, no address, no credit cards.”

  I was impressed by Lauren’s quarry. Despite disposable cell phones, false identities for sale on the Internet, and banks that were more interested in fees than references, it was harder than ever to live off the grid. “So what did you do?”

  She flashed that luminous smile. “Drove around in the rain, hyped on caffeine. I went to bars, hotels, used-car lots—anywhere he might have gone or done business. Nada. It was as though he’d never been here.”

  Despite myself, I was getting interested. “Why not give up?”

  “I almost did. I was running out of places to look. But I knew—I just knew—he was here. The local Norwegian community, the climate, the fishing, the postcards” —she ticked each one off on a finger— “made Seattle the most logical place for him to go to ground.” She shook her head. “Thank goodness for clams.”

  “What do clams have to do with this?”

  “I was eating lunch at this tiny joint downtown—”

  “The one next to the bridge? You ever have the chowder?”

  “Every Tuesday. White, with extra crackers.” She ducked behind a grin. “And an Elysian Fields Pale Ale, no glass.”

  A noontime beer should be the least of your worries, Lauren. For half a second, I wondered if she would go to lunch with me. Maybe if I called it a bon voyage thing…

  “Anyway, I was eating on the patio when the ferry came in from Bainbridge Island. That’s when it hit me.”

  “A boat,” I said.

  “A boat,” she repeated, clearly relishing the memory. “And I had five days to find it before I had to start working another case.”

  “The State of Washington must have a hundred thousand registered vessels. How did you think you were going to come up with the right one in time?”

  “Make that three hundred thousand, plus transients.” Lauren flicked invisible lint from her dress. “Still, it was no problem.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. How did you find the needle in a third of a million boats?”

  “Did you know the DMV is in charge of maritime registrations? It handles them just like cars. I sat in a back office and scrolled through the listings for vessels over thirty feet—the DMV guy said that would be the minimum size for someone to live on. I found it the second day.” Her tone was only slightly smug.

  “He couldn’t have been stupid enough to put his name down as the owner.”

  Lauren looked offended. “Of course not. Besides, I didn’t look at the owner registry. I figured title would be held by some offshore corporation. I went through the list of boat names instead.”

  “Boat names? Why would you do that?”

  “Because men aren’t sentimental, except when they are.” She looked at my watch. “They can’t hide the things that matter to them.”

  I tugged my cuff over the gold dial. “So did he go for a name from the old country? Or something dumb, like Other People’s Money or Sucker Bet?”

  “Wrong, and wrong. But I knew I’d found the right one as soon as I saw it.” She grinned, and I half-expected to see canary feathers sticking out of her mouth. “The Loretta Lynn.”

  “Isn’t that a country-western singer?”

  “You got it. Born and raised in Butcher Hollow, Kentucky.”

  “Why would this guy name his boat after her? He’s Swedish.”

  “Norwegian.” Lauren hugged herself happily. “Remember when I told you the coal mines were in Kentucky? Well, guess what town they’re in.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I still don’t see how the hell you made the connection with Loretta Lynn. I didn’t think you were a country-western buff.”

  “I’m not. But the CDs he’d left in his office were all hers, except for—here’s the good part—the soundtrack from Coal Miner’s Daughter, the movie they made about her life.”

  The pride in her voice was beginning to grate. “So then what did you do?”

  “The records said the Loretta Lynn was a converted trawler. The DMV guy said that meant it ran on diesel. I called around to the fuel docks until I found the one that knew the boat. The gas jockey ID’d an e-mail photo of my guy, and the Harbor Patrol took me out there. Two days later, I was waiting when he showed up with empty tanks and a grocery list.”

  “I suppose you called the media for the perp walk,” I said into my glass. The tumbler was almost empty again, and I considered refilling it.

  “Of course.” She almost purred the words. “You know I love the look of a man in a monogrammed shirt and handcuffs.”

  “Yeah, those initials come in real handy when it’s time to sort prison laundry.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched. “Always the clever one, Tommy.”

  Looking out the window, I could see the interior of my office reflected endlessly across the skyline, illuminated boxes filled with bland furniture, screen-savered computers, and generic wall art. As I scanned the warren of other buildings, I half-expected to see someone like me looking back. It made me uncomfortable, and I pulled my gaze back to Lauren.

  “So why did you stay?” I fiddled with the thick clasp on my watch—opening it, snapping it shut, opening it again. The diamonds winked at me. “In Seattle, I mean.”

  Her reply was quiet, measured. “I met you, Tommy.”

  I stopped playing with my watch.

  Lauren got up from her chair.

  “Assuming that ridiculous sundial on your wrist is correct, I better get going,” she said. “One of the secretaries let slip that part of
tonight’s program includes a small celebration in my honor.”

  The words jumped out before I could stop them. “A celebration?”

  Her eyes drilled into mine. Anticipation shimmered off her.

  “I’m leaving Seattle too.”

  I felt something flutter in my chest, forced my eyebrows up in feigned surprise.

  “You’re looking at the new DOJ liaison with the local SEC office.” Lauren leaned forward and placed her hands flat on the desktop. Her fingers were long and tapered, the nails filed into perfect ovals. “In Boca Raton.”

  The change in her demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. Damn. Sooner or later, we always came to this point in the conversation.

  “You may be clever, Tommy, but you’re not clever enough.” Her voice was as soft as cashmere, but underneath I could feel the chill of steel. “I’m going to get you. Three years left on the securities fraud SOL. And, of course, there’s Nick. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  Even when I held the winning hand, she still made me feel like I was chasing the pot. Had I refilled my glass twice or three times? I passed a damp palm over my face.

  “This isn’t one of your coal deals.” My tongue felt slightly too big for my mouth. “For starters, the REIT investors’ lawsuit was tossed.”

  Lauren blew out a dismissive breath. “Plaintiff’s lawyer jumped the gun. Doesn’t affect the criminal prosecution.”

  “Lack of evidence—that’s what the judge said when he granted my lawyer’s motion to dismiss. If the plaintiffs didn’t have enough proof to get past more likely than not, how are you going to make it all the way to beyond a reasonable doubt?”

  The determination was plain on her face. “I’ll find the evidence.”

  By any means necessary. I tapped my watch. “You know as well as I do, the more time that passes, the more memories fade, the more documents are lost, the more people decide to put all this behind them and move on. As for what happened to my partner” —I put on the sad expression I’d used for the reporters— “carjacking gone wrong. Real tragedy.”

  “Four thousand investors lost everything in your REIT, Tommy. Four thousand. Already there have been two suicides, plus God knows what other damage—divorce, derailed retirements, ruined careers—” Lauren paused, bit down on her lip.

  But it wasn’t my fault, I wanted to tell her. I’d been in hock up to my eyeballs to those deranged Russian bookies. They “let me” pay off my marker by washing their gambling profits through the REIT. I didn’t know they were going to rip off the investors, too.

  “And we both know Nick wasn’t killed by any carjacker.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and I had to lean forward to hear her. Our faces were so close, I could see the pulse beating at her temple and smell her perfume. Definitely grapefruit. Maybe a little cypress?

  “He’s dead because he decided to take the immunity offer and testify.” She nearly spat the words. “Against you.”

  Also not my fault. Since when did my partner the schmoozer ever bother to look into the mechanics of a deal? Nick’s job was to bring in the business, not run it. When he stumbled onto the money laundering, I had no choice. Otherwise the Russians would have left me lying on that cold concrete floor.

  Lauren pushed herself off the desk. “Run to Florida, run halfway around the world. It won’t make a bit of difference. You’ll never be able to put enough distance—or time—between us. More search warrants, new witnesses—I’ll plant the damn evidence if I need to—I’ll get the proof I need. Then it’ll be like that hideous watch of yours was turned back to yesterday.”

  Her look of distaste stung. I dropped my eyes to the digital recorder in the drawer. I imagined I could hear its motor humming. Everybody’s on the run from something, Lauren. Or should be.

  “I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy. Don’t get too comfortable in your new place. Before you know it, you’ll be moving to another gated community—the kind where Security carries pump shotguns instead of cell phones and the bars on the windows aren’t just for show.”

  With a rustle of blue silk, she was gone.

  I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy.

  The black October rain beat against the window. I checked my watch, drained the last of the scotch, and pushed back my chair. I picked up the recorder from the drawer, turned it off, and dropped it into my pocket.

  The irony of where I was headed hit me in the hallway and kept me laughing all the way to the elevator. I punched the down button.

  Galletti wouldn’t have offered a talk-and-walk on the Russian thing if he suspected anything about Nick. Lauren must have been keeping her cards close. Made it sweet for me. Once her overeager—or dumb—boss put blanket immunity on the table, I had my Get Out Of Jail Free card. If I took his deal, I’d be untouchable for the murder.

  As the elevator doors slid open on the parking garage, I thought back to that night. I hadn’t expected Nick to struggle, let alone rip the watch from my wrist. The Rolex had fallen into a crack in the cement floor beside one of the support beams, wedged out of reach. I averted my eyes as I walked past the spot. What the hell had possessed me to engrave the damn thing?

  My DNA, Nick’s blood … The feds had already been over the scene. But Lauren was talking about a new search warrant. If she found the watch before I disappeared into witness protection, my deal with her boss would evaporate. I’d be facing the needle instead of twenty years.

  The gray Buick was parked next to the exit ramp, its engine running, in one of the spaces with a good view of the main entrance. The air was thick with the stink of exhaust. I could hear tires swishing through the puddles at street level.

  I slid into the backseat and rested my head against the plump leather. Galletti eagerly twisted around in the driver’s seat. No doubt he’d seen Lauren leave. Jesus, the guy had it in for her so bad, he was going to be late to his own roast.

  Our last meeting had not gone well. He’d moaned about my coming up empty-handed again. I’d dropped the bomb about my Florida move.

  “We both know witness protection is gonna stick me in someplace like Oshfart, North Dakota,” I’d told him when he finished squawking. “I want to see sun and beach and girls in bikinis one last time. Besides, isn’t this all moot, like you lawyers say? If Lauren’s moving to Florida, she’s not your problem anymore, right?”

  He hadn’t been able to hide the ambition and spite in his hooded eyes. Galletti wasn’t gunning for Lauren because she crossed the line. He wanted to take her down because every month she won more cases, more headlines, more fans. She wouldn’t be the first prosecutor to parlay those into a glory ride. But it was a trip her boss wanted to take himself.

  I let my eyelids close as his voice once again bore into my skull, more excruciating than the hangover I knew I’d have in the morning.

  He asked me the question.

  How many had it been this time? Two—no, three counts of prosecutorial misconduct, any one of which was enough to deliver Lauren’s head—and career—to Galletti on a silver platter.

  “Nothing.” I shifted in the seat. The recorder jabbed me in the rib. “Didn’t even get a chance to turn it on.”

  I got out of the car and went back to my office. I sat down at my desk, took the whiskey bottle out of the drawer, and poured slowly until my glass was full again. I thumbed the rewind button on the recorder and turned up the volume so I could hear her voice over the rain.

  I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy.

  THE EVIL WE DO

  BY JOHN WALTER PUTRE

  The light of the late afternoon was failing. Deep caverns of shadow had begun their conquest of the corners of the chamber. Already, the audience had lasted too long, and now its disposition was becoming increasingly testy. A muscle at the back of Maculano’s neck had stiffened. The tightness was turning into pain.

  “You forget yourself, Reverend Father,” he heard himself being warned for yet another time.

  “I apologize, Your Holiness,” the priest
repeated, again with a respectful inclination of his head. “I belabor these issues only out of the weight of my concern.”

  “Ahh, Vincenzo. I know you do. I know it.” With fingers the color and texture of parchment, the Pontiff stroked the side of his short, stubbled beard. “Were you not among the few in these precincts I trust, I’d have ended our discourse long ago. My son, there are times I wonder if intelligence such as yours is a gift. I fear that, by the final standard of salvation, the child or the fisherman may well be better off. I say without hesitation both are happier.”

  Maculano lifted his head. “I’ve no doubt that Your Holiness is correct in both opinions.”

  The Pope reached toward a tasseled strip of burgundy fabric that dropped from the ceiling to hang within reach of his chair. A slight tug of his hand produced no sound within the room, but the appearance of two servants was all but instantaneous. He ordered candles for the chamber and, “Since the supper hour approaches, Father, perhaps some wine would be in order?”

  “For myself, may I please decline, Holy Father? I have duties that yet require my attention. I must transcribe the mental notes I’ve kept of our discussion so that I will not misrepresent or fail to recall any of the guidance you’ve given me. If my responsibilities were otherwise, I would be honored beyond expression by your invitation.”

  The Pope offered a sad smile. “For your own peace of mind, Reverend Father, do not make so much of these difficulties you foresee. Heresy, spoken, is an offense against God. If written and disseminated, its danger—and so the sin—is far worse. When the construction of it is such as to bring ridicule and disrespect to the very institution of His Holy Church, the offense becomes inexcusable and impossible for even the most tolerant of His servants to overlook. A successful prosecution will not be nearly so difficult as you imagine.”

  “Yes, Holy Father.” Maculano sighed. “With your invaluable assistance, I will continue my preparations. As always, Your Holiness, I’m in your debt.”

  “Go with God, Vincenzo. Be thorough, but make haste in your work.” Urban made the Sign and gave the priest his benediction. “This is not an occasion on which the Church can be seen to be dilatory or timorous.”

 

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