J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide

by J. D. Trafford

  Brea continued. “We’re talking about a half billion in assets or more. I’m not confident you’ve found it all.”

  Gadd nodded, and calmly replied.

  “Forensic accountants have spent years tracking it —”

  “That’s not what I said or asked.” Brea unfolded her arms. She sat up, staring down Gadd. “If you don’t know the original total, then you can’t say with any confidence that you’ve found it all. I mean, I’m sure you’ve frozen eighty percent, maybe ninety percent, but there could be millions more hidden. Collins doesn’t need that much to live comfortably for the rest of his life.”

  “We’re confident we have it all.” Vatch looked at Gadd for support, but didn’t receive any. They had been having the same arguments internally for the past six months.

  “Let me rephrase my question then.” Brea folded her hands in front of herself. “Are you as confident about the money as you were that Michael Collins was going to be on that airplane yesterday?”

  Brent Krane laughed at his sister’s question and ran his hand through his spiked and messy hair. The crowd thought the question was hilarious, especially since they’d seen Michael Collins burn. The government was evidently unaware of their prime suspect’s demise.

  Brea Krane waited for a response that never came. She let Vatch squirm in silence, before coming at him again. “I want to know the plan. Tell me the plan about how you are going to get Michael Collins.”

  Mention of a plan silenced the rowdy crowd in Brent’s head. The crowd perked up, listening.

  Vatch looked at Gadd, and then said, “Well, it’s unusual for us to disclose such information. We can share some things as a courtesy, but —”

  Gadd cut him off.

  “We expect he’ll be coming to New York in the next few days. When he does, we’ll catch him.”

  “New York’s a big place.” Brea wasn’t convinced.

  “But we know where he’s going.” Gadd glanced up at the clock on wall. She was ready for the meeting to be over. “He’ll be going to the funeral. I can’t imagine he’d stay away.”

  “The funeral for the priest?” Brea asked.

  “That’s right.” Gadd nodded her head. “Collins won’t miss it. His friend, Mr. Guillardo, is already in town and we have a few agents following him, seeing where he goes.”

  Agent Vatch raised his eyebrows. There were no agents following Guillardo. They tried to follow him, but the weirdo lost them within an hour of getting out of the airport. Perhaps Gadd was lying or maybe she didn’t know, either way Vatch decided that he wasn’t going to correct her.

  “But Michael Collins hasn’t arrived?” Brent’s voice cracked. His full participation took everybody by surprise, since neither Vatch nor Gadd could remember the last time Brent Krane had uttered a complete sentence.

  “No,” Vatch said. “But he’s coming.”

  Brent wanted to ask a few more questions just to embarrass them. He liked feeling smart. “How do you know? I mean …” His voice trailed off as the crowd warned him not to reveal too much. Brent stammered out a few more words and then shrugged away the rest of the question as Vatch filled the silence.

  “He played a little game with us. Bought an airplane ticket, checked some bags, got his boarding pass, and then never got on the plane.”

  This was confusing. How could a dead man buy a plane ticket? The crowd didn’t like this.

  ###

  After the meeting, Brea called Tad Garvin. He picked up after the third ring. Brea walked a few steps away from her brother as they waited for the elevator.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  Tad Garvin told her that he checked the post office box that morning and nothing had arrived. There were also no emails sent to the account that he had established for her, and no phone calls to the cell phone that he had bought.

  Of course the post office box, email, and phone were not created using Brea Krane’s real identity. Garvin had created a series of limited liability corporations and subsidiaries to obscure the real owner. It was a simple service offered by the firm for its elite clients, and all for the bargain price of $700 an hour.

  “Well, the bureaucrats say that Collins is coming to the funeral.” Brea glanced over at her brother, and then at her watch. “I guess we’ll just wait.”

  She tapped a button, ending the call, and wandered back to a small group gathered for the elevator to arrive.

  “Talking to your lawyer again?” Brent Krane worked hard to convey a tone of snarky condescension.

  “Yes,” Brea nodded. “Just keeping him up-to-date.”

  Brent Krane rolled his eyes. “When’s this elevator going to come. It’s, like, taking forever.”

  “Why do you care, Brent? You have a job interview or something?”

  “Ha ha, very funny.” Brent put his hands in the pockets of his baggy, dirty jeans. “I got stuff to do.”

  “Like reaching level 45 in World of Warcraft?”

  Brent shook his head. “I make good money at that.”

  “Collecting gold and storm jewels in a videogame and selling it to other losers over the internet so they can buy a virtual dragon mount is not a job.”

  The bell for the elevator rang, and its doors slid open.

  “Whatever.” Brent walked inside. “See you later, sis.”

  Brea watched him as the doors slid closed. She decided to wait for the next elevator.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  It was a solid three day drive from Texas to New York. While Michael and Andie drove Cheeto’s Jeep across the south and up to New York, Kermit had a long list of tasks to complete.

  He needed to find a place for them to sleep that wasn’t a hotel. If the price was right, Michael preferred a furnished brownstone that also had plenty of ways for Michael to get in and out. Kermit was further instructed to purchase a half-dozen disposable pay-as-you-go cell phones, and set up a home office for them to work. The office needed desks, computers, pens, paper, an internet connection, and a scanner. Finally and most importantly, Kermit needed to find Michael a lawyer.

  The People’s Legal Center was located in a narrow, dilapidated, four-story brick house about a half-block off the intersection of Malcolm X and West 126th.

  Built in 1880, the house had originally been the home of a prominent businessman who owned three garment factories on the lower East side. His wife died before him, and his only daughter inherited everything.

  She promptly sold the factories, and turned the house into a meeting place for the local communist party. When she later died without heirs and the local communist party in hiding, her will decreed that all of her money “shall be used to provide free legal representation to the poor.” The house became a law office, although a very strange one, and the first legal aid office in the country.

  Her financial endowment disappeared over time, the victim of poor investment choices. The house, however, continued to be a place where people could obtain a free lawyer. Operated on a shoestring budget, the People’s Legal Center was now loosely affiliated with the New York Public Defender’s Office.

  Kermit got out of the cab and opened a black, wrought-iron gate in front of the house. He walked up the sidewalk to the entrance. Kermit looked for a buzzer or a doorbell, but there wasn’t one. So he just walked inside.

  The house was chaos.

  The front parlor, converted into a waiting area, overflowed with people of all shapes and colors and ages. Babies cried. Toddlers bounced on a torn, blue couch while their mothers pretended not to see. Others were talking on cell phones, a few were fighting imaginary devils, and some simply sat quietly with brown grocery bags filled with receipts and other papers that their attorneys needed to review. The veterans of the People’s Legal Center — knowing it would be an all-day wait — had brought coolers filled with food and various malt liquor beverages.

  Kermit grinned, digging the vibe. He strolled toward a young woman with a clipboard. She was in her early twenties. She wore black
hipster glasses and a small nose ring.

  “Hey pretty lady.” Kermit entered her personal space. “You look like the boss.”

  She took a step back and looked Kermit over. She tried to figure out what legal box Kermit’s problems would likely fit into: criminal, civil, domestic, landlord-tenant or all of the above.

  “Have an appointment?” She looked down at her list of people who were scheduled for morning meetings.

  Kermit shook his head.

  “It’s a personal matter,” he paused, “for a friend.”

  She nodded. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that.

  “Well, you’re going to need to set up an appointment with intake and then they’ll determine whether you qualify for our services.”

  “No.” Kermit shook his head, undeterred. “I need to talk with Quentin Robinson about a mutual friend.”

  “Well, Mr. Robinson is already behind schedule, and he’s got several people waiting.”

  Kermit took a few steps back, and he decided to turn on the K-Man charm. He closed his eyes, thinking about the twelve gauge bosons dangling from his head.

  Kermit regrouped and came back at the young woman with a smile.

  “What’s your name?” He winked. Kermit allowed his graying dreadlocks to sway back and forth.

  The question took the young woman a little off-guard, but she recovered. Her job was to be a gatekeeper. She couldn’t just allow anybody back to see the attorneys or she’d be fired.

  “Listen,” she said. “I know you have a legal emergency.” She pointed at the room. “But everybody’s got a legal emergency. So, I need you to call intake and set up an appointment.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” Kermit put his hand on his heart and gave a little bow. “I am Mr. Kermit Guillardo, and I am introducing myself so that you may return the favor and elevate this perfunctory level of discourse to something more meaningful.”

  “Listen.” She shook her head and put her hand on her hip. “I don’t want to call security.”

  “Nor do I want you to take such a harsh action, senorita,” said Kermit. “But I do want to call you something. At least give me that.”

  The young woman looked around, and then softly said, “Anna.”

  “Anna.” Kermit closed his eyes and repeated her name. Then he opened them and continued with an offer. “Well Anna, I have a proposition for you. In my pocket is $100. All I ask you to do is to go to Quentin Robinson. Inquire of him. And, ask whether he will talk to me about his old friend, Michael Collins.” Kermit paused. “Again, his friend’s name is Michael Collins and Michael’s in trouble. Ask him if he’ll talk with me. If he says no, then I will leave. If he says yes, then I will proceed. Either way, my dear Anna, this is yours.” Kermit stuck his hand in his jacket pocket. He removed a folded hundred-dollar bill and fastened it onto Anna’s clipboard.

  Anna looked down at the money, and then up at Kermit. She scanned the waiting room, thinking. Then she looked back down at the money, took it off the clipboard, and placed it discreetly into her pocket.

  “You said your friend’s name was Michael Collins?”

  Kermit nodded.

  “Yes, my love. Just ask if he’ll see me, and then maybe later we could grab a bite to eat since I’m new in town.”

  She smiled. “I’ll think about that. Give me a few minutes.”

  ###

  Quentin Robinson’s office occupied one quarter of a third floor bedroom. Sometime in the 1960s, the legal center divided the bedroom into four individual offices, each one slightly larger than a cubicle. Since Robinson had been with the organization for ten years, he got the office with heat and a window. The other attorneys froze in the winter and baked in the summer.

  Kermit sat down in a rickety wooden chair across from Quentin, and waited for Quentin to finish typing something on his computer.

  Quentin pressed return on his keyboard, and then he swiveled around in his chair. He was a short, pudgy guy with a ponytail, beard, and round tortoiseshell glasses. He didn’t look like a lawyer, but then, neither did Michael Collins.

  Quentin brushed some cookie crumbs off of his 1998 Green Day concert T-shirt, and then he picked up his cup of coffee.

  “Michael Collins.” Quentin took a sip of coffee. “I hadn’t heard that name for quite awhile.”

  “Well, he sent me here,” Kermit said. “Told me you’d help.”

  Quentin rolled his eyes.

  “Michael and I were in the same study group back in law school, but I can’t say I ever expected him to ask me for help.” Quentin took another sip of coffee and put the cup back down on his cluttered desk. “Michael was on the big-firm track from Day One.” Quentin paused and looked around his humble office. “Me …” he shrugged, “A little different track.”

  “Well,” Kermit inched forward onto the edge of his seat. He tapped twice on Quentin’s desk and then pointed at the puffy lawyer. “He wants to hire you.”

  Quentin shook his head.

  “I’m not in private practice. Nobody gets to hire me.”

  “No?” Kermit smirked. “Maybe you don’t understand.” Kermit bent over and opened up his backpack. He removed a black leather case and put it on Quentin’s desk. “He really needs to hire you.”

  Quentin looked down at the case that had been placed in front of him. Curious, Quentin took off the top and saw a roll of coins. “What the hell are these?”

  “Gold coins, counselor.” Kermit’s head bobbled.

  Quentin laughed. “Does Michael think I’m a pirate?” He pushed the coins away. “What am I supposed to do with gold coins?”

  “I got a place in Chinatown that will gladly and discretely convert these coins into any currency you desire.” Kermit touched one of his dreadlocks, spinning it around his finger. “So that problem is solved.”

  Quentin shook his head. “Sorry, but this isn’t my thing. I work for poor people, and frankly Michael could hire somebody better suited for whatever he wants me to do.”

  Kermit nodded. “Collins thought you’d say that.” He nodded toward the box. “There’s probably a hundred thousand dollars worth of coins in there. Just take a leave of absence, pay off some student loans, and then come back to fight the good fight.”

  Quentin looked away. “I don’t make career decisions based on money,” he shrugged. “That’s never been who I am.”

  “Fair,” Kermit said. “But how about a career decision based on money and an old friendship. Philosophically, I think you’d agree, that presents a different scenario.”

  Quentin looked back at the roll of coins, then looked at his pathetic office, and sighed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  The query rattled around in Michael’s brain, and he couldn’t quite kick it. Long drives always lent themselves to unanswerable questions. For him, the question was always, “Why? Why did he love Andie Larone?” Michael could never answer that question, and in the end, he wondered if he was just being a chump. Do people in love actually ask such a thing, thought Michael.

  It was dark as they approached the city. Michael looked over at the passenger seat. Andie was asleep. She had rolled her jacket into a ball. Her head rested on it.

  Michael drove, glanced over at her, drove some more, and then glanced again. The question circled. If he was objective, he never should have risked his own life to save her. If he was rational, he would have never let her back into his life after she ended their brief engagement. And if he was smart, he wouldn’t trust her now.

  But here he was, entering the city and preparing to end it all with Andie Larone as his partner. Why? Why was he so committed to her?

  She was attractive, but there were a lot of attractive women. She was smart, but there were a lot of smart women. She was fun to be with, but fun is pretty easy to come by when you’re living on the beach in Mexico.

  Michael rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted after being on the road for more than thirty hours.

  Michael turned on the blinker.
He changed lanes, passing a tractor-trailer and a minivan. Then he returned to the far right lane, still thinking as they entered the Holland Tunnel.

  Michael stole another glance, and then looked back at the road. Perhaps it was just a matter of timing, he thought.

  There were moments when individuals were simply available to love and be loved, and maybe he had met Andie at just such a moment. She had managed to get through that secret door in his heart for the brief second that it had been open, and now she couldn’t leave and Michael couldn’t get her out. She offered him comfort when he had most needed it and a home when he was lost. Perhaps he was still repaying a debt.

  Michael saw the sign for Varick Street and moved over to the left lane. The sound of the tires on the road deepened as they slowed and came to a stop. Andie started to stir, but she didn’t wake up. Maybe that was for the best, Michael thought. He reached over and put his hand on her leg. Don’t wake up until we’re through this, Michael thought, because I can’t let you break my heart again.

  ###

  Kermit was proud. He and Michael stood on the sidewalk under a streetlight. They admired the brownstone that Kermit had found. The rental was located in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn. It was marketed as a vacation rental for large families looking for an adventure away from Times Square: four furnished bedrooms, kitchen and an office.

  Michael put his hand on Kermit’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  “You did good, Kermit.”

  Kermit puffed out his chest. “Just a block to the subway, six blocks to the highway, and a half-mile to the warehouses and barges in the bay.”

  Michael nodded, already planning an escape if necessary.