by Andrew Gross
Fitzpatrick was silent. His gaze was fixed on the sheets. Hauck took back the evidence. He placed it back in the file. Stood up. He wrapped his briefcase around his shoulder and looked back at him.
“Am I, Vern?”
Suddenly the door to the adjoining room opened. A woman stepped out. In a navy pantsuit. Slim. Pretty. Round, gray eyes and short, dark hair.
Hauck’s stomach almost hit the floor.
“No.” She shook her head. “You’re not the only one who sees it, Mr. Hauck.”
Hauck looked back at Steve and Vern with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he had just been betrayed. “Who are you?”
The woman dropped a federal ID in front of his face. Department of the Treasury.
“I’d like to see just what you have,” the woman said. “And I promise, no one, at least no one with half a brain, thinks you had anything to do with those murders.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
My name is Naomi Blum, Mr. Hauck,” the petite agent said. “I’m an investigator with the Treasury Department.” She put away her ID. “And yes, I’m interested in how these deaths are connected too.”
Hauck swung his gaze back to Vern. His first instinct was that the very people he thought were his friends had turned him in. And he’d laid it all out for them.
On a platter.
And a government investigator had been listening to every word.
“Ty, she came to us,” Fitz said. “She only wants to hear what you found. No one turned you in.”
“You’re not under any investigation, Mr. Hauck.” The Treasury agent met his gaze. “No one’s thinking you had anything to do with either of these deaths. But if it’s all right with Chief Fitzpatrick, I would like to speak with you alone, if possible.” She motioned to the conference room. “On the record this time.”
As a rule, Hauck trusted government agents about as much as car salesmen. He’d butted heads with enough over the years, last but not least on the David Sanger drive-by shooting last year. And he still hadn’t figured out what side of the mess the FBI had come down on there.
But something about this agent seemed to put him at ease. He needed someone to run with what he’d found. And the last thing he needed after his run-in with the NYPD was to give anyone the sense that he had something to hide.
“Sure.” He nodded. He looked at Vern and Steve with a grunt of disappointment. “Thanks. I’ll decide later whether to buy you a beer or take a swing at you.”
“I think I’d go for the beer,” Naomi Blum said with a smile. “They both went to bat for you one hundred percent. They told me there was zero probability you were involved.”
“Cheers,” Hauck chortled, managing a dry half smile.
He and Agent Blum went into the adjoining room. There was a large polished table that would seat ten or twelve in front of a picture window overlooking the courtyard between the new and old buildings. Hauck took a seat at one side of the table. Instead of sitting across from him, Naomi pulled up the adjacent chair and swung it around to face him.
She had bright, intelligent eyes.
“I guess it was you who spoke with Leslie Donovan?” Hauck said to her.
She nodded. “And Detective Campbell of the NYPD. Sharp as a tack, that man.” She rolled her eyes. He liked her even more. “I’d like to record this, if it’s okay. Your call. Technically, you’re not under any official obligation to do so. Although we both know I could have a judge’s writ to make it official in about a quarter of an hour if you choose to decline.”
“You had me at ‘sharp as a tack,’” Hauck said with a smile. “Go ahead. It would be good, however, if whatever I say could be kept clear of my current employers, only so I have a job to go back to when we finish up, if that’s okay.”
The agent took out a small digital recorder from her briefcase. “You seem to be eliminating that prospect rather well on your own,” she said, matching his smile.
“Touché.”
She flicked on the recorder. “Anyway, it’s a deal,” she said, adjusting the volume and placing it between them. “I’d like to go back over a few details of what you said in the other room, but first, it would be good to get a few things out on the table. You’ve never met either Mr. Glassman or Mr. Donovan, is that correct?”
“Never.” Hauck shook his head.
“But you did have a connection to Mr. Glassman’s wife? I think her name was April?”
“Yes,” Hauck said. “I knew her several years ago, before I even moved up to Greenwich. It’s what first made me look into her murder.”
Naomi Blum turned off the recorder. “Do you mind characterizing that relationship on the record?”
“I’m not sure what bearing it has on the case.”
“It has the bearing that it will help eliminate any suspicion that your motives in looking into her death had any connection to her husband,” she said.
“Okay.” Hauck shrugged. “What the hell…” Agent Blum turned the machine back on. Hauck noticed that her fingers were slim and graceful and her nails brightly polished, a stylish brown to match a highlight in her hair. She restated the question.
“We were friends,” Hauck answered. “We met as part of a support group for handling depression under the care of a Doctor Paul Rose in Manhattan.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I had lost a daughter in an accident, and my marriage had fallen apart. I left the force. It was part of my union separation agreement. I stayed in the group for around four months. April—Ms. Glassman,” Hauck corrected himself, “she helped me back onto my feet.” The rest he felt he could leave out. “After I left, I never saw her again until years later, here in Greenwich. On the street. And only one time. That was three years ago. But what happened to her”—he wet his lips—“I couldn’t put that aside.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Picking up where we were before, you had never been to Mr. Donovan’s place of residence, the place where he died, prior to the conversation you had with his wife, Leslie, in her apartment, after his death?”
“No, I had not.”
“And you claim you have no idea how the pen found by the NYPD at the place of Mr. Donovan’s apparent suicide, with the logo of the Talon Group, the company you work for, got there?”
He shook his head. “None.”
“Even if, after testing, your fingerprints turn out to be on the pen?”
“Especially if my prints turn out to be on it,” he said. “If that’s the case, the pen could have come from a variety of sources. From a jacket. Directly from my desk. A business meeting…”
“Why would someone be interested in placing a pen that could be tied back to you at the scene where an unrelated person took his own life?”
“The obvious thought might be that someone was trying to set me up.”
“Set you up?” The Treasury agent jotted on her pad. “For what purpose, Mr. Hauck?”
“My guess, since it would likely never be enough on its own to warrant any indictment, would be to distract me from linking the deaths of Mr. Glassman and Mr. Donovan.”
“You said inside you were looking into a person’s background on behalf of your firm? You referred to him as Subject A?”
“Confidentially, Agent Blum. I could get into a boatload of trouble if that got out.”
“You’re already in a sizable amount of trouble, Mr. Hauck. You’ve illegally obtained private phone records. You’re being looked into by the NYPD. I don’t know what your definition of a boatload is, but if I were you, I’d start to look at me as the person who’s going to get you out.”
He could have asked for an attorney. For a guarantee against further prosecution. But he decided there was no gain. He had done nothing wrong. Whoever was trying to steer him off, he had to trust someone, he realized. Agent Blum seemed capable and earnest. She might as well be the one.
“His name is Thibault,” Hauck said. He spelled it out. “First name Dieter. He also goes by Dani.”
“This Mr. Thibault is an American c
itizen?” Naomi Blum asked, making a note on her pad.
“Dutch. Or at least, that’s what he claims. His passport is Dutch. He might also have a Belgian one as well. Of course, that’s only the beginning.” He shook his head and smiled.
“So what is it people might want to distract you from, Mr. Hauck? Take me through.”
He did. Starting in his office with Merrill Simons. Then Thibault. The Conyers Farm photo—Thibault’s connection to Glassman. Knowing he could get himself fired for what he was divulging, for going around Foley—and probably would. Finally Thibault’s connection to Donovan, the phone calls to the super’s office where the second trader died.
Agent Blum made notes. She could take it from here. She had the resources on the highest levels. Find out who Thibault was. Subpoena the security video in Donovan’s building. Trace it back to Cat Rock Road. The black SUVs. Find the guy with the red knotted hair and the tat. Maybe a hundred ways everything could be tied to Thibault. What his motives were. Where it all led from there.
April. Find who killed her.
Naomi listened, making occasional notes. She asked astute questions. Her sharp eyes deepened as the links to Thibault grew more clear. When he was done, around forty minutes later, she thanked him. Made copies of what he’d found. He felt a little deflated when it was over. After giving up everything he knew. He realized that for four weeks his juices had been running.
And he realized how much he had missed that. How good it felt again.
When she was arranging her notes, Hauck said, “I’ve given what I have to you. Now you owe me a couple.”
Naomi Blum turned to him. “Okay.”
“The first is, how did you get onto this? You visited Donovan’s widow. That was a police matter, not Treasury. You weren’t looking into either of these people. How did you know?”
The agent shrugged. “When two high-level money managers die and both their firms fall apart due to their actions, it’s my job to check it out.”
“What do you think is happening?”
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid that’s one I can’t fully answer right now.” The agent started to get up. “What’s the second question? You said there were two.”
Hauck placed his hand on her arm, stopping her. “I want to stay involved.”
“Stay in?”
“I have a reason to keep looking into Thibault. Without attracting notice. There’s also the chance my firm could even be involved. It won’t hurt to have someone on the inside.”
Naomi shook her head. “Look, Mr. Hauck—”
“Ms. Blum…” She sat back down. “These people think I’m onto something. As far as they know I’m only looking into this matter for a client. But that can be useful. Whatever they’re hiding. You can chase down all the money wires, the fake passports, the overheard chatter, the e-mail trails. But I’m already involved.”
“How about I think about it,” the Treasury agent said. “It’s not exactly the policy of the U.S. government to put private citizens at that kind of risk.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
“I said I’ll think about it,” the agent said, standing up. “Look, Mr. Hauck, I know your background, and the United States of America owes you its full appreciation. But we have people who handle this sort of thing. Interagency people. The kind of money it takes to do what they’re doing—it’s the kind of money that takes on governments, Mr. Hauck, not suburban police departments. I know what you’ve already done, but to put it plainly,” the pretty agent said, looking at him directly, “you have no idea the shit-storm of trouble staying in this could bring on.”
Hauck stood up as well, opening the door for her. “I don’t mind trouble.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
There might have been a time, years back, Jack “Red” O’Toole reflected, riding the Metro-North train to Greenwich, that his soul was worth saving.
The teenage girl texting on her BlackBerry reminded him of someone from long ago. A girl he knew back in high school. Desiree Flynn. When he played linebacker at Haysville High in Kansas and the thought of stuffing the line and knocking heads for the blue and white of Kansas State was something he could reach out and touch. When maybe a job at a lathe at Great Plains Tool Company like his father had was a dream worth living for.
But that was before the sky grew dark and an F5 tornado crashed through town one May afternoon, leveling half of it, including the die plant.
Red O’Toole’s parents too.
Before he left to go into the army and developed a deft touch with an M4. Before IEDs exploded in his ears or, amped on Dianabol, he chased a fleeing insurgent into a stone hut in Hilla and emptied his mag on six “unfriendlies” sitting there—who turned out to be a family at the dinner table and their ten-year-old son, who’d been chasing after a soccer ball.
That was when the army sent him home with a full discharge, and he came back to a town of rubble and zero prospects, bad as anything he had seen over there, and he spent all of six days there, Desiree off in Utah somewhere, before signing up for two years with Global Threat Management, making five times what he did for Uncle Sam.
And got a bona fide, free license to use his skills.
They played a game when they went out on a field trip, beyond the Green Zone. They called it Tin Can. Try to knock one off the fence with their M4s. Except the “can” was more likely an old man who popped his head up watering his plants or boys playing cards on a rooftop as their armored convoy sped by.
O’Toole kept looking at the girl across from him. She kept texting, as if she didn’t even notice him.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Like shooting a tin can off a fence in a dusty field.
The train slowed, approaching his destination. “Greenwich,” the conductor announced over the loudspeaker. “Greenwich. Old Greenwich will be next.”
O’Toole stood up. He took one last look at the texting girl, who, he decided, didn’t look like Desiree at all. He stood in the line of passengers waiting to disembark.
The door opened.
O’Toole crossed onto the platform. The exiting passengers funneled down into the station. O’Toole continued along the track.
The man he was looking for was reading a magazine, hair smoothed back, wearing wire-rim glasses, waiting on a bench on the northbound side.
O’Toole took a seat next to him. He glanced at his watch. “Right on time.”
“If you can’t trust Metro-North, who can you trust?” the man replied.
“Always a good question. I ask myself that a lot.”
“Well, in your case,” the man said, “I’m afraid you have to trust me.” He closed what he was reading, the Economist, and removed an eight-by-eleven manila envelope from the pages. He slid it along the concrete bench to O’Toole.
“We have another job for you.” O’Toole opened the envelope. “I want him to become disinterested in our affairs.”
There was a series of photos inside. On top, a man he might characterize as rugged, handsome, opening the door to an office building. The next was a not-so-bad-looking chick with short, dark hair getting out of a Prius.
The third was a kid in an oversize hockey jersey. O’Toole noticed he clearly had something wrong with him.
Retard, he thought. What did they call them? Down syndrome or something.
He flipped back to the first photo. Hauck. An ex-cop. “You want him dead?”
“What I want is for him to be no longer engaged in our affairs.” His contact took off his glasses and started to clean them. “What you do is your business. I always trust the judgment of my people on the ground.”
O’Toole slipped the photos back inside the envelope. “Sounds reasonable.”
His contact stood up.
“You know, I was thinking,” O’Toole said. “See that guy over there?” A man on the other side of the platform, reading a newspaper, waiting for a train.
“The one in the suit?”
“If a twister hadn’t levele
d my town when I was a kid, that might’ve been me, waiting for that train. Coming home from work. Someone waiting for me with a beer. Maybe a kid. Who knows”—O’Toole raised his shades and grinned at him—“I might’ve even been like you.”
“No.” The man in the wire-rims rolled up his magazine and tapped O’Toole’s knee. “You would never have been like me. Just make sure he’s clear of our affairs. Whatever you decide, make it something he’ll clearly understand.”
“You know, we had a saying over there…” O’Toole squinted back at him. “‘The unwanted, doing the unthinkable—for the ungrateful.’”
“Really.” The man in the glasses smiled. He dropped another envelope on his lap. This time a fat one. “I think you’ll find us grateful. As usual. Next train back’s at five thirty-two.”
He walked off, leaving O’Toole on the platform. He tapped the thick envelope against his knee and studied the man on the other side of the track.
Yeah, he thought, laughing to himself; his contact was right. That was never in the cards. He rubbed the back of his neck. Where his panther was. Shiva. The tattoo had kept him safe through five tours to the Sandbox. The tip of her long, bright claw reaching onto his neck.
If he had ever been worth saving, the statute of limitations had long run out. The pieces of his soul had scattered across the globe. Like an F5 blowing into town. Leveling most everything. Scattering the rest.
He reached back and reknotted his thick, red-brown hair.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The man in the Burberry raincoat turned up his collar against the drizzle as he stepped out of the office building onto Madison Avenue. He chatted for a second with a woman—maybe a coworker—who waved good-bye and headed north.
