The Devil's Analyst

by Dennis Frahmann

  Now everything was threatened. No wonder he needed time to himself in this room. Only one person was to blame—Oliver Meyers. Without Josh, that guy would still be a nobody. He owed Josh everything, but he wasn’t repaying him. Instead Oliver was about to stab him in the back even though Josh was the one who helped him time after time.

  But Oliver Meyers had a surprise coming. And there was no way he could duck when Josh’s attack hit him straight between the eyes.

  Josh never found it challenging to keep on top of everything that was going on in his life. After all, he wasn’t just anybody. Of course, Josh had people he trusted, and he had Project Big Stick. Luckily, only he knew how far along the secret activity really was. It was remarkable the ways it could already poke into the hidden crannies of the World Wide Web. Oliver might think his secret backers could protect him, but truly there was no place for Oliver to hide. For the moment, Josh would let the guy savor his delusion that no one knew of his partners and that Oliver held the winning hand. Oliver would discover soon enough that it was damn hard to win when the other side always saw your cards.

  Feeling satisfied with the tricks up his sleeve, Josh wanted to dance a little jig around his desk. It was so energizing to know you were going to win. Oliver and his people thought they controlled Josh and Premios, but it was the other way around. That prick Oliver tried to threaten Josh at the New York hotel with hints of his backers. Someday Josh would thank him for that because it gave him the impetus to do what he needed to.

  A quick stop in Chicago on his way back from New York, a cab ride downtown, an unannounced visit to the Endicott-Meyers offices, and a slight distraction to the receptionist—that’s all it took. When he sent the receptionist off on a meaningless errand, it was easy to plant a prototype of Big Stick into the assistant’s computer. A firm trying to manipulate data capture should have given more thought to constructing its own firewalls.

  Thanks to the installation of Big Stick, Josh could sit back and wait for the relevant facts to trickle in. Unable to trust anyone else with this mission, Josh didn’t always know how to synthesize the data he snared. That didn’t matter. One thing clearly emerged: Colby Endicott was a dupe with no idea who his partners really were or what they were up to. It was too bad Josh couldn’t involve Orleans in a review of his purloined information. She would have made quick work of the bank transfers and what Josh suspected was an extended case of money laundering and why they seemed to be paying for kids in pilot school. But in the end it did not matter. He could decipher the disbursements enough to recognize immediately the name Ahmed Ressam. That discovery was like being dealt a royal flush.

  Ressam was the Millennium Bomber. The FBI arrested him on December 14, 1999 when he entered the United States with components for building a bomb. Reportedly, he planned to bomb the Los Angeles International Airport on New Year’s Eve, but the plot was foiled when a border guard found the explosives in Ressam’s car. Ressam was currently in federal custody awaiting trial.

  In the Endicott-Meyers financial books, the accounting trail was carefully hidden but that was the beauty of Big Stick. It let you detect the patterns no one else could see. It was clear to Josh that the funding for Ressam’s plot flowed through Endicott-Meyers. When he first suspected the investment firm was a cover for something more nefarious, he thought of mob or drug money. Now he realized his provincial worldview gave him blinders. In reality Oliver was linked to Arab terrorists—a detail he thought Federal authorities would find quite interesting.

  But at the moment there was no need to involve the Feds. His information was too valuable for that and anyway it might be hard to explain how he obtained it. Rather, he considered his new knowledge a “Get Out Of Jail” card and he intended to play it at the right point to destroy Oliver and release Premios.

  Unfortunately Josh also needed to deal with so many other loose ends. There were the bankers and investment houses growing more and more antsy over the prospects for Premios’ public offering. While Josh didn’t care what happened with the wobbly market, he needed to keep the bankers calm until he could get rid of Meyers. His long-term plan called for a private sale or merger with an existing firm seeking a high tech media investment. He just had to find the right buyer. That’s why he connived to get Barbara Linsky named to the Board.

  But Linsky was proving to be a challenge with the way she kept asking the same penetrating questions that Chip did, but at least Josh had learned how to deflect such inquiries. All it took to distract Barbara was to toss around the potential of one of his special projects. That kept her from finding out about Big Stick and it avoided his needing to take more drastic actions.

  But Big Stick had its own problems. His guy in Poland was slowing down. The programmer kept hitting the same roadblocks that prevented everything from merging together. If Josh proved successful at ousting Oliver and his people, then that would only be a minor concern because Josh would have all the time in the world to finish Big Stick . . .

  . . . as long as he successfully sold the company . . . and soon. He needed cash. He had grown too cocky with his personal real estate investments. His portfolio was over-leveraged with mortgage atop mortgage. One strong gust of wind and everything would tumble down. He couldn’t let Danny know that they were living in a financial house of straw.

  And then there was Danny. No wonder he needed to hole up in this secret office. Any lesser person would go insane from everything he needed to juggle—but he just had to remind himself that it was all for Danny. Since Chip’s death, Danny was always moping and the house burglary didn’t help. He was obsessed with Chip’s murder, and he tried to talk him out of flying to Cynthia’s side. Now he seemed to be pushing Josh away, and he didn’t understand that. It was almost as though Danny didn’t trust him.

  That would all have to wait. His first priority was excising Endicott-Meyers. He had the instrument to force them out. Barbara Linsky would help him find a buyer. A private sale would make the current market turmoil meaningless and provide the cash needed to right his financial empire. And Danny need never know.

  It was doable. He could make it happen.

  He glanced over at the shelves on the opposite side of the wall, and he shuddered at what he saw. That damn hat. Why the hell was he holding on to that damn fisherman’s hat?

  Cynthia looked at her father in surprise. How could he be aware of Oliver Meyers and what prompted his extreme reaction? Quite pale, Danny seemed equally taken aback.

  Danny was the first to react. “How do you know Oliver?” he asked.

  “God, who would ever have thought I’d have to look at that mug again? Why the hell do you have a picture of him, Cynthia? Did he have something to do with Chip?”

  “”He may have been one of the last people to see Chip alive,” she responded. “At least, he’s the last person we know about. But how do you know him?”

  “What did he want with Chip?”

  Danny jumped in, “He’s a partner in the investment company behind Josh’s and my company. Chip asked to meet him.” Cynthia could see Danny fidgeting, as though he wanted to turn the photo over. She sensed Danny knew more about Meyers than he had ever said.

  “Daddy, what do you know about this man?”

  Red didn’t answer immediately. Instead he gazed at Danny as though trying to decipher some puzzle. When he finally spoke, his words were directed at Danny. “I can’t believe you would have anything to do with an asshole like Oliver. Pete Peterson treated you like his own son. What would he think?”

  Danny reddened, but said nothing. Clearly her father’s comment hurt Danny but it did little to explain the situation.

  “Daddy, you still haven’t told us anything.”

  Red pulled out a chair and slumped in it. “I never liked bullies,” he said, “Can’t abide them, and won’t put up with them. Never would.”

  “Okay, Daddy, but what’s that got to do with Oliver Meyers?”

  “Baby, I can’t believe you don’t remember him
. His family rented Grandpa’s place on Big Sapphire Lake that one summer. Well, maybe you were only twelve or thirteen. I don’t recall exactly when it was, but this kid was already sixteen or seventeen, so I guess you wouldn’t have hung out together. Funny how someone gets older and still looks the same. Recognized him right away.”

  “What did he do?” Cynthia found it frustrating that her father wouldn’t get to the point.

  Red looked over at Danny as though seeking permission to tell the story, but Danny was pointedly looking off into the distance. “Okay, the kid ran with a bunch of punk summer kids, all from Chicago, with nothing better to do than to cause trouble. Somehow I guess they found out about Pete.”

  “Found out what?” Cynthia demanded.

  “You know, that he was that way, gay, you know. But Thread isn’t the kind of town that cared much about what people did or thought in their private lives. Remember some of those crazy coots that used to hang around that café you worked in? Everyone got along. Or at least they looked the other way.”

  Cynthia noticed her father wasn’t looking any longer in the direction of Danny, in fact, just the opposite and she wondered what he meant earlier about how Danny should care about Pete Peterson. All she could really remember about the guy was the way he showed movies every night on his garage door.

  “Did they do something to Pete?”

  “Harassed him. Taunted him. Sent him threatening notes. Who knows what all? I just know they made his life a living hell. No good reason for it. He never did anything to anyone. Not that I know of anyway. But then one night they actually beat Pete up and I had to intervene. Took the town cop with me and told the kid’s parents that their lease was up and that I didn’t want their family in Grandpa’s house anymore. There was no fight; the summer was nearly over. They packed up and headed down to Chicago. Didn’t want to take the risk that their kid would face assault and battery charges.”

  “Daddy, you never told me this.”

  “You were just a kid. You didn’t need to know about how low people can act.”

  “Pete never mentioned anything to me,” Danny said. His voice was shaky and Cynthia thought she saw a tear on his cheek. Why did this upset him so? She loved the guy, but he had his secrets.

  “Don’t suppose he ever wanted you to know. Never told him what I did.”

  “Daddy, Chip talked about Pete the last time we were together.”

  “I know, baby, but like I told you then, he couldn’t have seen him. Pete’s dead.”

  “Do you know that for sure, Mr. Trueheart?”

  Cynthia wondered why Danny sounded both hopeful and demanding when he asked. Somehow, Danny seemed different since his arrival in Phoenix. In a way he was unlike the friend she had known so long. He had become harder. She thought that was a good thing.

  “Pretty sure,” Red replied. “After you left for L.A., that right wing, Moral Majority district attorney up in Lantern County took it in her mind to go after Pete. She always wanted to find something on him. Not sure what happened exactly, but whatever the deal, he pled guilty to something and got labeled a sex offender. That’s when he left town. He ended up here in Phoenix, living on the streets. Ran into him a few times after we bought the winter place. But he always looked away. Never acknowledged knowing me.

  “Then I didn’t see him for a while and when I asked the guy at the minimart he hung around, I was told he got killed. A couple of years ago by now. Don’t think the case was ever solved.”

  Danny fidgeted. He had insisted they find Pete’s grave before driving west and interviewing the chief at the Tringush casino in California. But Red Trueheart had no idea where the homeless man was buried, and there seemed no one to ask.

  Cynthia suggested asking her detective Samuel Denkey to make a few calls into the Phoenix Police Department. Her man was diligent. A few hours later he called back with the name of a detective who was willing to meet with them; he had been the person handling Pete’s murder.

  They drove downtown, found the block-size headquarters of the department—a concrete bunker that looked straight out of the seventies, its few narrow windows facing a street sparse with trees. Sitting inside an unadorned conference room with plastic chairs and a beat-up Formica-topped table, they waited for Detective Hernandez. He was running a few minutes late.

  “Why is Pete so important to you?” Cynthia wanted to know.

  Danny wasn’t certain of the answer, but he knew that he never properly ended things with Pete. Being in the city where the man died, Danny thought the least he could do was locate the appropriate cemetery, stand silently for a few moments over the grave, and reflect on what he should have said years earlier. Somehow, Danny was certain Cynthia would understand that impulse. Hadn’t she insisted on tramping through Griffith Park just to see the spot where Chip’s body was found? Nevertheless, he resisted answering her question. It would take too much to explain.

  Hernandez entered the room. He carried a thin folder. After giving the two of them a cursory nod, he sat down.

  “Used to work with Denkey when I was in L.A. County. Good guy,” he said, “but there’s not much to tell you about this Pete Peterson case. Why you interested?”

  By the way he opened the folder, fanned the few sheets and looked ready to talk, the guy didn’t look like he cared about the answer. Danny answered anyway.

  “We grew up where Pete used to live, and we wanted to find out where he was buried.”

  “’Fraid I can’t help you with that. It would have saved us all some time if Denkey had mentioned that was your goal.”

  Cynthia took offense at the man’s somewhat cavalier attitude. “Why can’t you tell us? It seems a simple request.”

  “Because Pete Peterson ain’t buried, at least no place that we know about. We never recovered a body.”

  Danny was confused. “I thought he was murdered. How can there not be a body?”

  Hernandez grudgingly acknowledged that the question was sensible. “Here’s the thing. Your guy was a registered sex offender. Kinda surprised anyone is interested in him, especially after all this time. But we always knew where he was. He was good at following the rules.

  “He tended to hang out past the airport toward Tempe, slept somewhere near the Salt River Wash, panhandled up Scottsdale Road sometimes. Hung around with the same group of homeless people.

  “Two years ago, one of those homeless people reported that this Pete Peterson had been murdered during one of our monsoonal rains, and we were told Peterson was arguing with someone under the bridge. The witness said a knife fight broke out, and that Peterson was stabbed multiple times. According to this guy, the assailant kicked Peterson’s body down into the river. In heavy rains, flash floods deluge these dry gulches.

  “The thing is there was blood under the bridge, a lot of it, and it matched Peterson’s DNA, but no body ever turned up. Who knows how far downstream his body got carried. Probably got covered with debris, buried in the flood plain. Someday a new rain maybe will wash him out.

  “But believe me, your friend’s dead. Eyewitness, the blood, and no one’s seen him since.”

  “But did you look for his body?”

  “For a pervert drifter? Get real. We have better things to do.”

  With that, the detective pushed the papers back into the folder, stood up and said, “Sorry you came down here for nothing.”

  He walked out of the room. Cynthia reached over to console Danny. Perhaps she wanted to show her concern that now he could never make his final good-byes. But Danny was thinking not at all about lost opportunities.

  No, what he was thinking was far simpler. Pete wasn’t dead. He was alive and still trying to take care of him.

  The freeway was strangely monotonous. Danny estimated it would take less than seven hours to arrive at the Tringush casino east of Palm Springs. The time driving would offer Cynthia and him a chance to make sense of all that they had learned.

  “It’s weird,” Danny started, “the way that
Oliver Meyers seems to be at the center of it all. Chip meets him for breakfast and he disappears. Chip asks about Pete Peterson that same day, and your dad tells us that Oliver used to torment him. This guy’s my business partner, and I didn’t even know it.”

  Cynthia was driving, and she kept her eyes on the road, even though the divided freeway had little traffic. Danny thought maybe she didn’t want to look at him, but he couldn’t imagine why. Did she blame him in some way? Did she think that Josh and his business connection to Oliver is what brought the guy into her life? Did she somehow know that he had a deeper connection with Oliver?

  Finally she spoke, “It doesn’t make any sense. It’s as though everything tells us that this Oliver had something to do with Chip’s killing. But why?”

  “Chip was trying to better understand our business. Maybe he found out something.”

  “Something worth killing over? Come on, Danny, what could that possibly be?”

  Danny wasn’t about to dismiss the possibility. “I don’t know. But look at everything that’s happened? Someone was behind a cyber attack on our business. Someone tried to break into my house. Someone stole money from Lattigo Industries. It must all be connected. Somehow.”

  “But why Oliver?”

  Because Danny knew Oliver in a way that Cynthia didn’t, he was willing to believe the man was capable of any act. Once Oliver had been his god, but no more. For a few weeks on that summer job at the resort when Danny thought himself in heaven, he had simply fallen into the mix of infatuation swirled with a teenage discovery of sex. But in those long summer days it seemed so much more. Nobody ever waited more fervently than Danny to take kitchen refuse to the dump. Each afternoon provided another chance to relax with a shirtless Oliver in the sunny clearing of the resort’s dumping ground.