by Matt Witten
A man in a ski mask?
What the hell was this?
It was a dark, nighttime shot of Dennis Sarafian handing over a briefcase to a man with a ski mask covering his head. But the ski mask man didn't have any weapons that I could see, and it didn't really look like a stickup. Apart from the unusual costume, this transaction had the aura of a business deal. It was the same sort of deal I'd seen recorded in that other photo of Sarafian, Pierce, and the envelope of cash.
Speaking of envelopes, as I stared closely at Ski Mask I noticed something in his left hand that looked like a large clasp envelope. He seemed in the process of handing it over to Sarafian. Were the two men exchanging the briefcase for the envelope?
The next two photos in the file confirmed that impression. They showed the men walking away from each other, but now Sarafian had Ski Mask's envelope and Ski Mask had Sarafian's briefcase.
Who was that masked man? Pierce again? No, the guy was about as tall as Sarafian, which made him way too tall to be Pierce—
And then all at once I knew exactly who that masked man was.
Okay, maybe I was jumping to conclusions—but they were the only conclusions that fit all the facts. Yancy Huggins and Hack Sr. had been right all along: Hack Jr. did have dirt on Ducky Medwick. This was the dirt, right here. The man in this photograph was Ducky.
And the briefcase had to be full of dough. Sarafian was bribing Ducky, probably on behalf of Global Electronics. But unfortunately for Ducky, Zzyp had been spying on Sarafian's whoopee-making, and he'd stumbled upon this payoff. Zzyp managed to identify the masked man as Ducky, and then sold this newfound dirt to the Hack.
Everything was clicking into place. The Hack, thus armed, blackmailed Ducky into endorsing him for Congress. But then Ducky discovered the Hack was sleeping with his wife. To add insult to injury, maybe the Hack was also planning to double-cross Ducky and reveal the bribe during the radio debate. But Ducky found out. So finally he snapped. He couldn't take being blackmailed, cuckolded, and betrayed by some worthless two-bit politico. In a moment of fury he grabbed his gun and headed for the radio station to put an end to his own misery and the Hack's life.
With that taken care of, Ducky proceeded to eliminate the other major threat to his safety: Zzyp. I realized with a guilty start that I was the one who'd informed him of Zzyp's existence. That made me, in a way, responsible for Zzyp's death.
Not a pleasant thought, so I shook it off and started rifling through the rest of Sarafian's file. But then someone from the front room called out, "Hello?"
I stuffed the photos of Sarafian and Ducky down my shirt. Then I shoved "Wilson, Kate" back in the file cabinet and went to the front room. "Oh, hi," I greeted Freshly Scrubbed, faking nonchalance. "Has it been a half hour already?"
"Just about," he said brightly. "So what do you think?"
"No go," I answered sadly. "Wrong vibes."
He wrinkled his forehead. "Are you sure? Because if there's something you want changed, or moved around ..."
I got an irresistible urge to mess with Freshly Scrubbed's narrow capitalist mind. He was probably a perfectly nice guy, but salesmen tend to bring out the worst in me. "It's the music," I said.
He threw me a puzzled look. "But that's no problem. You can always just shut the door and close the music out—"
"Too late," I declared. "Aural contamination."
"What?"
"That Muzak version of 'Eleanor Rigby' has already seeped through the walls and fatally infected this office," I explained. "Just like nuclear radiation. Before any true creative work can be done here, the building needs to be defumigated, possibly even bombed. But thank you anyway for letting me check it out," I said, giving him a firm manly handshake as he stared at me in befuddlement. "I appreciate it."
Freshly Scrubbed found his voice. "No problem," he said. "Why don't we come on out of the office, and I'll lock the door."
He seemed in a hurry to get rid of me. I couldn't imagine why.
Actually, I was in a hurry to go, too. It was 3:30, time to hook up with Will at Madeline's and hustle him for that big Washington job.
And after I got done with the Shmuck, I'd go after the Duck.
When I stepped into the espresso bar, the Shmuck-man was standing at the front counter, but I could barely see him. He was surrounded by fawning customers and employees. Amazing. For months, whenever he came into Madeline's with me, people would greet him with a nervous "Good luck" and then sort of sidle away from him. They didn't want to be stuck listening to his hopeless delusions about getting elected.
But now that it looked like Will would actually win, people just couldn't get enough of him. He'd taken that quantum leap from glasses-wearing nerd to BMOC. I had a sneaking suspicion I wasn't the only one asking him for a job that day.
I waved hello to him over the crowd, then ordered some coffee and found a table. After several minutes, Will tore himself away from his admirers and came over.
My first good gander at him threw me for a loop. Gone was that haunted, coffee-addled, lone-liberal-in-the-conservative-wilderness look I'd seen in his eyes ever since he started the campaign. He was transformed. He was positively beaming.
"Hey, Shmuck-man," I said, "you look great."
"I feel great. Listen, I only have a minute, it's incredible what's happening, Jake. I've got an interview with the Saratogian, then a photo session with the Times Union, then a meeting at City Hall, then drinks with the Rotary Club, which is actually going to endorse me if you can believe that—"
"I can't."
"Neither can I, but it's true— Hey, thanks. Don't forget to vote," he said to a gorgeous young woman who had come up to wish him luck.
"Now that you're famous, does that mean I can't call you Shmuck-man any more?"
"Damn straight. From now on, you have to call me The One and Only Shmuck-man."
"Okay, Mr. One and Only, I got something to say. I want to be your legislative aide down in Washington."
Will smacked his palm against his forehead in a show of mock irritation. "Oh, God, not you, too," he said, but then broke into a grin. "Just kidding. Consider it done. We'll put your writing talent to good use."
"Excellent, that's just what I was thinking."
"Shmuckler and Burns, together again." He clapped me on the shoulder and stood up. "Listen, I'm running late for the Saratogian, I gotta roll on out of here—"
"One more thing. Check this." Feeling like a magician pulling rabbits out of his hat, I pulled the photographs from my pocket and spread them out on the table.
He stared at them and frowned. "What the hell is this about?" he said.
"Guess who the guy in the ski mask is?"
"Who?"
"Ducky Medwick."
He sat down, stunned. "You're kidding."
"Nope." Then I told Will about my growing conviction that Hack Sr.'s confession was false and the real killer was Ducky.
"Awfully far-fetched," Will pronounced doubtfully.
"Not when you really think about it. These photos gave Ducky all the murder motive he needed. He was covering up something that would've wrecked his career and landed him in jail."
"But I can't believe Hack Sr. would falsely confess to murder to protect somebody. Does he really like Susan that much?"
You have no idea, I thought, but said nothing. Meanwhile Will asked, "And how can you be sure this guy in the mask is Ducky? If you show that photograph to Chief Walsh, he'll laugh in your face."
Will had a point. "Here's what I'll do," I told him. "First I'll go to Sarafian, get him to admit this is Ducky. Then I'll go to Walsh."
"I don't like it," Will said.
"Why not?"
"Look, my campaign is going great now, with everybody thinking Susan's father-in-law committed the murders. Why muddy the waters?"
"You really want to let Ducky Medwick get away with killing people?"
He put up his hands. "I'm just saying go easy until Wednesday, when the election's over. Tha
t's only four days away. It won't hurt your investigation to wait that long."
Before I could make a snappy rejoinder, Judy Demarest walked up. "Afternoon, gents," she said. "Thought I might find you here."
Will stood and shook her hand. "Thank you for all your coverage, Judy. That story you wrote really shook this district up."
"My pleasure," she said. "Sure beats writing about the county fair. Guess what?"
"What?"
"Our editorial board just voted to endorse you."
"Wow, that's terrific," Will said, beaming.
"It sure is," I agreed, then patted him on the shoulder and got up. "I'll go leave you two important public figures alone. Time to head home and take care of the kids."
"What are you up to later?" Will asked. "Wanna come by the Parting Glass tonight, hang out with the Rotary Club?"
"Sounds like a wild party. But we're hitting Grandma's for dinner tonight. Gonna sleep over and do some leaf peeping tomorrow."
At the time, that was my intention. But as I drove home, I changed my plans. It hit me that we might not get back from Grandma's until late tomorrow night, and I couldn't bear the thought of waiting that long before confronting Sarafian.
But I also couldn't bear the thought of telling Andrea and the kids I was back to work on the murder cases. I didn't want to ruin our family's newly acquired calm. So I made up a little white lie—actually, a medium-sized white lie.
"Honey, I'm so sorry," I greeted Andrea when she came home, "but I can't make it to your Mom's house until later."
She stared at me, not sure if she should be worried or angry. "But—"
"I know, I know, I promised. But I forgot I have a tournament game with Dima tonight."
Dima—short for Dmitri—is an old Russian guy who's in the Saratoga Knights Chess Club with me. We were in the middle of a long-running club tournament.
"Since when do you play your tournament games on Friday nights?" Andrea demanded. Anger had won out.
"We had to schedule a special makeup day. Don't worry, Dima will probably beat me in no time flat. I'll be at your mom's in time for dessert."
In truth, Dima usually does beat me in no time flat. For a seventy-nine-year-old codger who barely made it out of World War Two alive—he claims the only thing that saved him from freezing to death at the Battle of Leningrad was a bottle of homemade vodka he'd stashed in his gun belt—Dima packs a mean wallop in his King's Gambit Opening.
But tonight I wouldn't be facing that killer gambit. Instead I waited until Andrea and the kids were safely on their way, then stopped off at Madeline's for a quick prosciutto and brie on a bagel. This was my third time at Madeline's in one day, I noted; I was getting awfully predictable.
After my sandwich met its destiny, I headed out the door to my car. As I got in, I noticed Chief Walsh walking into Madeline's. I was surprised to see that; Walsh wasn't an espresso bar kind of guy. I wondered briefly if he was looking for me. But I had no desire to speak to him until I had firmer evidence against Ducky in my pocket. I started up the car and headed for Sarafian's place.
It was already past seven by the time I got there. I was hoping he'd be in his apartment upstairs, and not out on a date with one of the bevy of beauties he liked to surround himself with. At this hour on a Friday night I never expected to find him still in his office. But that's where he was. I guess when you're a shill for Global Electronics, you lose not only your soul but also your weekends. I could see Sarafian through the window, talking on the phone and gesticulating. There didn't seem to be anyone else there.
I got out of my car. The sky was a dark twilight blue and a couple of stars were already out. The street was quiet except for the lonesome sound of one chirping cricket. I guess he didn't realize that spring and summer had already come and gone and his chances of finding a mate were pretty nonexistent. Well, you couldn't fault him for trying. I walked into the building without knocking, entered the deserted reception area, and observed my quarry through the gauzy curtains.
"Listen," Sarafian was saying, "forget this Pierce business. We've got something much more important going on. We're putting it out next week. I can't give you the details just yet, but it's gonna make the EPA and all the rest of them shit in their pants. So if I were you, I'd just sit tight for a while and not run any anti-Global El editorials—unless you want to end up with egg on your face."
Egg on your face, shit in their pants . . . Sarafian was making some pretty messy threats here. But maybe he was just pissing in the wind. He got off the phone just as I walked in. He eyed me, startled. Then his face reddened with outrage.
"The hell are you doing here? How many times do I gotta tell you people: Robert Pierce and I did nothing wrong! Jesus, I've got the cops hounding me, the media, now Global El is getting on my case—"
"I'm not here about Pierce."
He raised his eyes to the heavens in mock prayer. "Well, hallelujah."
"I'm here about Ducky."
He stared at me. "Ducky Medwick? Why?"
"Why do you think?"
"I don't have a clue."
"Maybe this will refresh your memory," I said sarcastically, and threw the photos of Sarafian and the masked man on his desk.
He picked up the photos, then gave me a strange look. He opened his bottom desk drawer and reached inside.
And like a cold cream pie in the shnoz, it hit me: what if I got this all wrong?
What if the man who killed two people to cover up his bribes was none other than Dennis Sarafian?
And what if he has a gun in that drawer?
My veins turned to ice. But all Sarafian took out of his drawer was a cigarette. He lit it. Then he asked, "What makes you so sure it's Ducky Medwick inside that ski mask?"
I'd anticipated this question, so I had a lie all ready for him. "Because I have Zzyp's surveillance notes. He followed Ducky home from the meeting."
"He did, huh? That's very funny." Then, as if to show just how hilarious it truly was, he threw his head back and burst into laughter. His mouth was open so wide, I could have dropped a baseball in there.
"I'm glad you're amused," I said pleasantly, then got up, reached across the desk, and grabbed a fistful of Sarafian's tie. He stopped laughing in a hurry. I shoved him back against his chair. A part of me stood back and watched myself in amazement. The rest of me was having a ball.
"Listen, wise ass," I said, "you better can the bullshit or I go to the cops and the media all over again. Wait 'til I tell them about you bribing Ducky. Global El will drop your ass like a hot potato. So will all your other accounts. When I'm through with you, you'll be on food stamps."
Sarafian regarded me with surprising calm. "I suggest you don't tell anyone I was bribing Ducky."
I narrowed my eyes. "Are you threatening me?"
"No, just suggesting. I'll let you in on a secret. That's not Ducky in those photographs."
"Like hell it's not."
His lips curled into a cheerfully vicious sneer. "You sure you want to know who that masked man really is?"
I nodded uncertainly but tried to keep my voice tough. "Yeah," I growled.
"It's your pal. Will Shmuckler."
I sat back down without even realizing it. "What?"
His lips curled even further as he pointed at one of my photographs. "You see that big envelope the masked man is giving me? I had a friend of mine from the FBI take fingerprints off that envelope and run them through the computer. They matched up with Shmuckler's prints from twenty years ago, when he was arrested at an anti-nuke demonstration."
Maybe this was all some elaborate lie. But I didn't think so. I remembered that demonstration. Hell, they would have busted me, too, but the police wagon was too full.
"I don't understand," I said, in a voice that had suddenly turned very small. "What was in the envelope?"
Sarafian took a puff of his cigarette, enjoying my discomfort immensely. "Information."
"What kind of information?"
He m
ade a big show of thinking it over, then gave a magnanimous shrug. "Oh, I guess I can tell you, since we're releasing it to the press next week, anyway." He opened his drawer and handed me a bound copy of some kind of long, official-looking report, about a hundred pages thick. It looked strangely familiar. Then I read the title—On the Efficacy of Dredging Major Waterways for Settled PCB Contamination—and realized where I'd seen this report before.
I'd seen it in that box of the Hack's personal effects.
"Look pretty dry, doesn't it?" Sarafian said. "But trust me. It's dynamite."
"How?"
He put his feet up on the desk, drawing out the moment. "This is a scientific study, commissioned by the Hudson-Adirondack Preservation Society. The outfit Will works for," he added.
I nodded, my head feeling almost too heavy to move, and Sarafian continued. "They thought it would help them prove that Global El should pay to dredge the Hudson. Imagine their shock when their own study showed that in reality, dredging the Hudson is the absolute worst thing to do, environmentally speaking. When you dredge, you stir up the sludge and release all the chemicals. It's much better for the river if you let the PCBs just lie there undisturbed and gradually disintegrate.
"But the problem is, the Hudson-Adirondack Preservation Society has been fighting for four years now to get the river dredged. That's the main thing they harp on in all their fundraising letters. So they couldn't afford to suddenly change their position—it would ruin them. They decided to hush up the study and just file it away.
"The only reason I ever found out about it was because someone called me anonymously one night last May. He told me the highlights of the study and offered to sell it to me. Very cloak and dagger—midnight rendezvous, lonely spot, no witnesses, all that. Global El gave me the money and the okay, so I went ahead and met with the guy." He pointed to the photographs. "That's what you're looking at right there."
My heart was sinking, but I kept going. "So what did you do with this study when you got it?"
He shifted his feet on the desk. "Soon as we realized how powerful it was, we thought about the best way to publicize it. We decided to give it to some friendly politician. That way he'd get lots of good press, and we'd get the word out."
