by Steven Gore
“Why not just narrow our focus?” Alex Z said. “Go after Anston and try to reopen TIMCO and Moki’s cases? Maybe sic the IRS on the fake insurance scam?”
“Because everything that’s happened began with the wallet. It’s a link between Charlie and Brandon and led to Charlie’s death. I’m sure of it. And Socorro won’t be safe until we figure out why.”
Gage scanned the list of Pegasus star names to which Alex Z had added the wire transfer information from Joe Casey.
“Quinton referred to what Charlie was doing as investments,” Gage said. “And Brandon said he and Charlie had a sort of investment club.”
Shakir spoke up. “Sounds like they’re trying to push you in that direction—”
Gage smiled. “Us.” He pointed at Shakir. “You’re in this, too, kid.”
Shakir smiled back. “Thanks, boss.”
“And they’re succeeding in moving us that way,” Gage said, “either because they’re clean or because it’s a dead end.”
“It seems like a dead end,” Alex Z said. “None of the acronyms match the names of any of the companies that appeared in his court or were part of the insurance scam. And we haven’t been able to match them with the cases Anston handled.”
Gage leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and interlinking his fingers. He closed his eyes, thinking.
Finally, he opened them.
“Maybe they really did have a little investment club,” Gage said, “and they’re more than happy if we spend our time investigating it. There’s nothing illegal about him and Charlie investing together.” He glanced at Alex Z, and then pointed at the star list. “Did you compare those acronyms with Charlie’s retirement account statements?”
“No match, even after we tried decoding them different ways. They’re not stock symbols.”
Gage shook his head. “We’re not seeing something. It could be something as simple as Brandon not wanting it exposed in the press that he’s using offshore money to make investments. It would remind voters that Landon is a child of privilege and not a regular guy.”
“I don’t know,” Alex Z said. “We’ve had lots of wealthy presidential candidates who swaggered around like itinerant cowboys and golly-gee-whiz farmers and voters bought the act.”
“Maybe times have changed.” Gage rose and said to Alex Z, “Run GRID and the rest through the code-breaking program again. See if any meaningful words emerge unrelated to either cases or investments.”
Gage stepped toward the door, then turned back and smiled as he pointed down at Shakir’s forearm.
“I like the tattoo,” Gage said.
Shakir grinned and held it out. “Mighty Mouse.”
Chapter 67
I wish I could’ve delivered a clean victory, Mr. President,” Landon Meyer told President Duncan in the Oval Office, “but it doesn’t appear possible. The vice president will have to break the tie, assuming there’s no filibuster.”
Duncan rose from his desk chair and walked the few steps toward the window facing the South Lawn. He centered himself as though the pose would be memorialized someday as part of a Smithsonian retrospective on presidential decision making.
Landon almost turned his head toward the door to see whether the White House photographer had slipped in behind him.
“I don’t see a filibuster in the works,” Duncan said. “None of the Democrats would even mention the word on the Sunday talk shows.”
“Still, all it takes is one and we’ll have a constitutional showdown. It’s one thing to filibuster a district court judge, another to filibuster a justice of the Supreme Court.”
Duncan returned to his desk. He picked up the telephone and pressed the intercom. He listened, and then said, “I need you in here.”
Stuart Sheridan, Duncan’s chief of staff, entered less than a minute later carrying a yellow legal pad, his pen already poised.
“We need some talking points,” Duncan told him. “This nuclear option threat is sounding stale. We need something that’ll turn a filibuster into a turd nobody’ll want to touch.”
Sheridan tapped the pen against the pad and closed his eyes, then he opened them and smiled. “Tyranny of the minority.”
“Brilliant,” Duncan said, grinning. “Tyranny of the minority. FOX News will go rabid on the Democrats with that one.”
Duncan laughed, and then grinned at Landon. “Did you see the head of the Democratic National Committee on FOX last night?”
Landon shook his head. “I was at a fund-raiser.”
“Hilarious. Every time they cut to a commercial, it was for Preparation H.” Duncan slapped his hands together. “Hilarious. I’ll bet Wyeth Pharmaceuticals didn’t even ask for it. A couple hundred grand of advertising and it probably didn’t cost them a dime.”
Landon didn’t smile in return.
Sheridan pushed through the awkward moment by turning the conversation back to strategy.
“After we do the tyranny of the minority,” Sheridan said, “we’ll send the vice president out to compare the Democrats to the Sunnis in Iraq under Saddam. A minority dictatorship.”
“And then . . .” The excitement rose again in Duncan’s voice. “And then we wait a couple of days and add something like: Why did we fight for democracy in Iraq only to lose it at home?”
Landon spoke up. “Isn’t that somewhat excessive, Mr. President? The Democrats aren’t traitors.”
“We aren’t calling them that. We’re just making it a matter of majority rule.”
“I’d be careful how far you push the analogy,” Landon said. “The other side will surely point out it’s only the vice president’s vote that gives us the majority and we’ve used the filibuster ourselves a hundred times. And look at the polls. Less than fifty percent want the nominees confirmed.”
“Plus a margin of error of four percent,” Sheridan said.
“Or minus a margin of error of four percent. And how about the rest of the data? A majority favors abortion. Seventy percent of the public believes innocent people are being executed. Seventy-two percent want stricter gun control. And only thirty-six percent think you’re doing even a half-decent job. We need to be careful about how we construct our talking points.”
“You’re not getting weak-kneed on this, are you, Landon?”
“No, Mr. President. Sometimes we have to do what’s in the people’s interest even if they don’t recognize it at the time, and this is one of those moments.”
Duncan looked over at Sheridan after the door closed behind Landon.
“Did you hear his speech to the Press Club yesterday morning?” Duncan asked.
Sheridan shook his head.
“I couldn’t tell whether it was brilliant or just bullshit.” Duncan opened a folder on his desk. “Listen to this: ‘Conditional charity for the poor, not a free lunch . . . Return matters of governance to the states, reserve for the federal government matters of national character . . . A humble foreign policy aimed at retilting the trade balance, not at leveling every Islamic dictator.’ ” Duncan closed the folder. “Conditional charity? What the devil does that mean?”
“I think it means the poor eat at the Salvation Army instead of at the public trough.”
Duncan laughed. “Once you translate it into plain English, it sounds like what every Republican president has been saying since Reagan.”
Sheridan shrugged. “Saying and doing are two different things.”
“Except I have a feeling if Meyer gets elected, they’ll be exactly the same.”
It was Sheridan’s turn to laugh. “You mean he’ll be a one-term president?”
“Better a one-term messianic Republican who knows what he believes than a one-term Democrat who navigates by polls and focus groups.”
Chapter 68
Graham,” Tansy Amaro said into the intercom, “Senator Meyer’s office is calling.”
“I guess the pipsqueak went running to his big brother,” Gage said. “I’ll take it.”
Ga
ge punched the flashing button on his desk phone.
“This is Graham Gage.”
“This is Landon.”
“Sorry, I thought I was speaking to your secretary.”
“Since when do we have people running interference for us?”
“I assume you’re running interference for your little brother this time.”
“Interference?”
“He didn’t call you?”
“This concerns him, but not because he called. It was something else. A call from a maniac in San Francisco.”
“Which maniac?”
“The poisoner. Porzolkiewski. He called my office ranting about Brandon. That Brandon killed his son or covered up for the TIMCO people who killed his son. He threatened to go to the press. My secretary promised him I would look into it personally and I’d ask someone to visit him in jail by this time tomorrow.”
“Why me?”
“Brandon said you’ve gotten to know Porzolkiewski.”
“How did he find out?”
“He didn’t say, but I need to put a lid on this thing. I can’t have this kind of grief right now, assuming the media listens to him.”
“Trust me. They’ll listen to him. Maybe not now, but eventually. Do you know the DA’s theory about the case?”
“Only what’s been in the press. I heard a couple of reporters were trying to find a connection between Charlie Palmer and TIMCO, but I assume they gave up. The only story recently was about Porzolkiewski saying he wanted time to hire a lawyer.”
“I’ll tell you the answer, as long as you keep it to yourself.”
“What about Porzolkiewski ?”
“I’ll quiet him down.”
“Okay. Just between you and me.”
“I think Brandon and Anston have been involved in a few things that may slop back—”
“Maybe we should talk in person.”
“Where?”
“I’ll be in Des Moines tomorrow.”
“What did you think you were going to accomplish?”
“I don’t know,” Porzolkiewski said, “I don’t know what I was doing. Maybe it was a substitute for not having a gun to blow my brains out.”
Porzolkiewski stared down at the table, as if embarrassed by his own weakness.
“Just listen to the noise in this place,” Porzolkiewski said. “I don’t understand why more people aren’t committing suicide in here.”
Only then did Gage’s mind register the yelling and clanging that composed the relentless gray background noise of the jail.
Porzolkiewski finally looked up. “You’re the reason I’m locked up in this joint.”
Gage shook his head. “Like I planted the poison in your storeroom?”
“No. You got them to search for it. How do I know you’re not in it with them?”
“In with who?”
“Brandon Meyer and Marc Anston. You sure as hell aren’t doing anything to get me out of here.”
“Tell me what I should be doing.”
Porzolkiewski spread his arms. “How should I know, you’re the investigator.” He tapped his chest. “I’m just the schmuck who pushed his kid too hard.”
Gage squinted at Porzolkiewski. “Now you’re blaming yourself because he took the job at TIMCO?”
Porzolkiewski’s shoulders slumped, and then he exhaled and said, “Now that you repeat it back, it sounds stupid.”
Gage leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
“Look,” Gage said, “everything in life could’ve turned out differently. Just because you think back and one thing seems to have led to another, doesn’t mean everything was inevitable and you’re responsible. That applies to Brandon Meyer, too. And threatening his brother just makes you look like a paranoid lunatic.”
Porzolkiewski rose and stared out through the wire mesh window of the visiting room door.
“This place is unreal,” Porzolkiewski said. “It makes everything unreal. There’s no way to control your thoughts, they just fly around with nothing solid to hold on to. Then they start to hook together in weird ways.” He turned back toward Gage. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I called the senator’s office. Everything just seemed like a huge conspiracy.”
“You want to talk to a psychiatrist?”
Porzolkiewski shook his head. “Jailhouse shrinks just want to drug people up because they know there’s nothing they can do about this place and the way it makes you go crazy.”
“Then let me give you a few things you can to hold on to when things seem to start spinning.”
Porzolkiewski sat down.
“Lieutenant Pacheco is having toxicology tests done on every liquid or powder that was in Charlie’s room. We’re also checking out the background of the physical therapist. How he got hired by the agency and how he got assigned to Charlie. Spike says they’re stonewalling, but we’ll keep pushing. If we can prove he was planted there, the case here will look weaker and maybe we can get you transferred out to Contra Costa County. There’s no law that says you have to go to trial in the county where you were first arrested.”
“How does that help?”
“It’s a quieter jail and close enough for your lady friend out in the Delta to visit you every day.”
“They have conjugal visits out there?”
“Sorry. You’ll have to get convicted and sent off to state prison for that.”
Porzolkiewski winced. “I think I’ll pass.”
Chapter 69
Thanks for bringing dinner,” Faith said to Gage as they sat on the edge of the circular fountain near the Hearst Anthropology Museum on the UC Berkeley campus. It was at that spot decades earlier that an ex-cop chanced to offer a napkin to a graduate student who’d splashed coffee on her blouse just before her first meeting with her dissertation committee.
Between them now lay sourdough French rolls and paper take-out boxes of grilled vegetables, olives, mushrooms, and tuna salad. Both were sipping on sodas and watching students and staff flood from the buildings and separate into streams, some heading to the garages, some to the buses, some up or down the sidewalks to dorms or frat houses or the apartments surrounding the campus.
“How’s Porzolkiewski?” Faith asked.
“Off the deep end.”
“There’s a student group here that visits prisoners. You want me to give them his name? Maybe some outsiders would keep him in contact with reality.”
Gage shook his head. “I can’t take a chance he’ll start ranting about Brandon and TIMCO. Next thing you know one of them is running to the press, either because it would be a big story or because Porzolkiewski looks like the victim of a conspiracy. They’re good-hearted kids and too likely to believe everyone is innocent. And once they get a glimpse of that hangdog face of his, they’ll be marching on San Francisco City Hall. That’s the same reason I told him not to hire a lawyer. I didn’t want to lose control of the case.”
“What do you think?” Faith peered at him. “Is he innocent?”
“I don’t know. I can see him losing control and committing a manslaughter, but premeditated murder, I’m not sure.” Gage opened the grilled vegetables and handed Faith a plastic fork. “On the other hand, he was on a mission for years trying to prove TIMCO lied about the explosion and that Brandon was involved. He was damn methodical about that.”
“He had to have been furious when Brandon got appointed to the bench. It must have felt like a betrayal, like the devil being appointed God.” Faith smiled at Gage. “As I recall, he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.”
“I don’t know what Landon was thinking when he put in his brother’s name. It was like opening the door to the henhouse and laying out a red carpet for the fox.”
“But I thought you said you can’t link any of the premium payments into Pegasus to any decisions he’s made in cases.”
“None of those companies really thought they were buying insurance. Charlie Palmer didn’t run an insurance company and the Pegas
us money we’ve traced came back as payoffs to witnesses, not as payments on insurance claims.”
A car backfire rocked Bancroft Avenue as it bounced off the concrete façade of the building behind them. They both glanced over to see smoke envelop an early-seventies Suburban as it rolled to a stop.
When it cleared Gage noticed a familiar brown Taurus with a man in the passenger seat. Unlike everyone else on the street, he didn’t watch the spectacle. He kept staring down toward the bay. He was also too old to be a student and too tough to be staff or faculty.
Gage lowered his eyes. “Look away from the street.”
Faith reached for the vegetables and made a point of picking through them. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll try to find out.” Gage pulled his cell phone out of his shirt pocket and called a number in its memory.
Viz answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”
“I’m in Berkeley with Faith, near her office. Boots Marnin just showed up across the street. When can you get here?”
“I’m at the Federal Building waiting for Brandon to come out. So about a half hour.”
“We’re by the fountain. Call me when you get close and we’ll figure out a plan.”
How long did he hang around our house after Faith and I got home?” Gage asked Viz in a late night call.
“Couple of minutes, then he followed the ridge and took Snake Road down to the freeway. I think he’s been to your house a few times, he drove those winding streets like a local.”
“And after that?”
“He was all over the place. I couldn’t tell whether he was doing countersurveillance or what. He hit about eight different restaurants and warehouses in San Francisco. Inside for fifteen or twenty minutes, then on to another one.”
“Did he make you?”
“Me?” Viz’s voice rose. “Make me?”
Gage laughed. “Sorry I asked.”
Chapter 70
A message was waiting on Gage’s voice mail when his plane touched down in Denver on the way to Des Moines to meet Landon Meyer.
