Restitution

by Lee Vance

  “Jesus,” I say again, the raw description of Jenna’s murder bringing tears to my eyes. I drop my face into my hands, hoping to God no one else has killed Lyman yet. “Do you know who Lyman was working for?”

  “Rommy said Franco didn’t know. Franco dealt only with Lyman, and Lyman didn’t tell him much.”

  Andrei’s still the key: He must know who was looking for the package.

  “What?” Tilling asks, looking at me closely.

  “Sorry?”

  “You were thinking about something. What?”

  “You still haven’t explained how Rommy cleared me of Franco’s murder.”

  “Rommy cleared you by confessing that he killed Franco. He realized that Franco’s story was more likely to get you off the hook than to implicate you, so he shot Franco in the back of the head and wrote your name and office number in his address book.”

  “He hated me that much?” I ask disbelievingly.

  “You got him fired. And he was expecting big money from the book about you that he’s been working on with that scumbag writer. Rommy was deep underwater—gambling debts, child support, a marker to a loan shark for twenty grand. If you were proved innocent, he was going down.” Tilling shakes her head. “The poor sap even thought he might get to play himself in the movie.”

  “But what about the bullets? Last night, you said my fingerprints were on the shell casings.”

  “They are. Rommy broke into your house a few weeks back. He found your gun, pocketed the bullets, and replaced them with bullets from his own gun. They were the same caliber.”

  “Why on earth would he have done that? And how could he have known he’d want bullets with my fingerprints?”

  “Evidently, Rommy was quite the throw-down artist as a cop,” Tilling says contemptuously. “He saw an opportunity to grab some plantable evidence from your house and he took it. He said on the tape that he scattered a bunch of hair and fiber from your place at Franco’s, but the lab hasn’t had a chance to work on that yet. He also said he did something similar about five years ago to put some other sorry bastard in jail. The DA’s completely freaking out. Every guy Rommy helped convict over his eighteen-year career has got a shot at getting out on appeal.”

  “So I’m cleared of everything?” I ask hopefully.

  “Officially?” Tilling says. “No fucking way. You’ve gone from being the number-one suspect in two murders to being the number-one suspect in three. Rommy’s entire confession was extracted by some guy in a ski mask working him over like a side of beef, and most of what he said is to your benefit.”

  “Unofficially?”

  “No one seeing the tape would think he was lying. It rolls start to finish without a break, and Rommy spontaneously mentions a dozen or more verifiable details about Franco’s murder. There’s no way anybody could have prepped him for a performance like that, much less made him stick to his lines while being beaten bloody. Also, we grabbed your gun from your house in Westchester—which, by the way, you don’t have a permit for. You’ve got a fifty-round box of Remington ammunition that’s light seven rounds, but your gun’s loaded with Winchesters. The gun that killed Franco? Rommy said he swiped it from the police property room, and we’ve already been able to track it back. There are way too many things pointing at Rommy for you ever to be indicted on Franco. And Franco’s statements to Rommy provide a credible alternative motive for someone else to have murdered your wife. Hearsay maybe, but the DA’s feeling pretty shy right now. Not to mention the fact that Rommy was the lead investigator on your wife’s case, and everything he turned up is now suspect. So the only case you potentially look good for at this point is murdering Rommy, and, having been wrong twice, the DA’s not in a big hurry to move against you on that one. Although it would be a good idea to get your alibi on the record.”

  “Just to be clear, I’m not under arrest?” I ask, scarcely able to believe it.

  “No,” Tilling says. “You’re not.”

  I fall back on the bed, dizzy with relief.

  “Peter,” Tilling says. “Why do you think I’m telling you all this?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, turning my head to look at her. She’s hunched forward intently, elbows on her knees. Her hair’s matted on one side, her eyes red and swollen, and she looks as tired as I felt this morning.

  “Two reasons,” she says. “One, it’ll all be in the press within forty-eight hours. A lot of people watched that tape. There’s no way to keep a lid on that kind of news. Two, I’d like you to know that I believe you’re innocent. I want you to trust me.”

  “Why?” I ask, surprised by my lack of sarcasm.

  “Because I need you to open up to me. I think you may know more than you realize.”

  “All I’ve got are questions, Grace.”

  “Tell me who beat you up,” she coaxes. “That’s got to be a good starting point.”

  I stare up at the ceiling, trying to sort through what I should reveal.

  “I was at Turndale and Company’s offices last night from around six to six-thirty,” I say slowly. “That’s part of my alibi. I signed in at the lobby desk and showed a guard my ID. I met with William Turndale and his bodyguard, a big ex-FBI guy named Earl, in Turndale’s boardroom.”

  “Met to talk about what?”

  “William fired Andrei. I wanted to know how come,” I say, still figuring it’s better not to mention Katya’s name before I have to.

  “What did Turndale say?”

  “Not much. He told me to keep my nose out of his business and had Earl work me over with a blackjack.”

  “Shit,” Tilling says, scribbling in her notebook. “Did anyone else see it?”

  “No. But when William was done, he had Earl take me down the service elevator and heave me into the alley out back. It might’ve been caught on a security camera.”

  “Find out where William Turndale lives,” Tilling says to Ellis.

  “Don’t bother,” I say. “I can tell you where he is, or at least where he was this morning. He and Earl are at his place in Southampton, on Gin Lane. They’re planning to leave the country.”

  “Why?”

  “Some kind of securities fraud,” I say, unwilling to tell her anything that points to Andrei before I’ve had a chance to speak with him. “I don’t know all the details.”

  “Shit,” she says again. “This is all going too fast. Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Maybe I would’ve,” I say. “Last night at the Harvard Club. But then I found out you were waiting with a gang of cops to arrest me for a murder I hadn’t committed.”

  “Get on the phone,” she says to Ellis. “Call Jackson at the Seventeenth Precinct. Ask him to get somebody over to Turndale to review last night’s security tapes. Maybe we can pick this Earl character up on assault, see where it goes.” Getting to her feet, she looks down at me. “You’re coming with us.”

  “I’m not,” I say, determined not to go anywhere until I’ve seen Andrei.

  “You are,” she insists. “You had an unlicensed firearm in your home. That’s a felony. You come with me voluntarily or I’ll arrest you.”

  “You arrest me and I’ll refuse to press charges against Earl,” I say, standing up. “You won’t have any cause to hold him.”

  “What kind of bullshit is this?” she demands, stepping forward so we’re nose-to-nose. She’s as tall as I am in her boots, breath smelling of stale coffee. “William Turndale must have had a reason for firing Andrei and beating the crap out of you. Maybe he’s the guy who sent Lyman to your house. He might be responsible for Jennifer’s murder.”

  It’s possible, but Lyman doesn’t seem to fit into William’s schemes. My gut still tells me that there’s something else going on, something that only Andrei can explain.

  “There are a lot of levels to this thing,” I say, willing her to believe me. “I need time to ask some questions I don’t think you could get answered. So if you want me to trust you, you’ve got to trus
t me.”

  Tilling’s hand burrows beneath her coat and emerges with a pair of handcuffs. She holds them up between us.

  “You do what you think is right, Grace,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on hers. “But if you think I’m innocent, you’ve got to know we’re on the same side.”

  She turns her head, looking at Ellis.

  “I’m at a fucking loss here,” she says. “What do you think?”

  “You might as well trust him,” Ellis says. “You’ve believed him all along.”

  42

  I THROW OPEN THE BEDROOM WINDOW after Tilling and Ellis leave and lean out into the cold salt air, relieved beyond measure. The ocean’s calm, with ankle-high waves rolling rhythmically onshore, and a flickering path of silver light coming from the moon. A dog howls in the distance; I take a deep breath and howl back, carrying the note until my lungs burn and my throat feels ragged. The cop in the SUV below me rolls down his window and looks up.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I give him a friendly wave and pull my head back in. The bedside clock says it’s almost six. Emily should be back soon. Hunting through the nightstand, I find my wallet, keys, and phone. I turn the phone on, startled when it immediately rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Peter. Where are you?” It’s Katya.

  “Long Island,” I say. “Montauk.”

  “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice hushed.

  “I’m fine,” I say, glad she called. I need to tell her I’ve found Andrei, and that William’s fled after trading away his stock in Turndale.

  “I’ve been calling all day,” she says in an urgent undertone. “The police are looking for you.”

  “They aren’t,” I say, whispering back. “So we can talk as loud as we want.”

  “What do you mean?” she demands, speaking louder. “The story’s been all over the news.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m still feeling kind of giddy. The police were just here. I’m off the hook.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  I relay my entire conversation with Tilling, omitting only the fact that I’ve set the cops on William and Earl.

  “That’s unbelievable,” she says. “You’re totally free and clear?”

  “Pretty much. I’m still a suspect in Rommy’s death, but I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”

  “They were wrong about the first two murders so now they’re investigating you for a third?” she demands hotly.

  “It’s not like they don’t have a point. The videotape was an incredibly lucky break for me.”

  “Thank God. I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been.”

  “No more than I’ve been about you,” I say, moved by her concern. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything last night, but I wanted you to stay focused on taking care of yourself. Did you talk to a lawyer?”

  A car door slams outside and I hear the sound of the police SUV pulling away. Katya clears her throat.

  “We’ll get to me in a minute,” she says. “Who did kill Rommy?”

  “No clue. Maybe the same person who sent Franco and Lyman to my house. They might have thought Rommy was getting too close to the truth.”

  “That doesn’t explain the videotape.”

  “You’re right, but I don’t have time to think about it. I’ve found Andrei.”

  “Where?” she asks eagerly.

  “Nearby. I’m going to see him later.”

  “Andrei’s in Montauk?” She sounds surprised. “When we spoke this morning, I thought he was in Europe.”

  “You spoke?” I ask, surprised in turn. “He called you?”

  “No. The head of our London office called as I was getting out of bed. He said Andrei was up on our internal textmessaging system and wanted to talk to me. I logged in on my laptop and we chatted.”

  “I don’t get it. Why didn’t he phone you? And how’d he get into your system?”

  “He said he couldn’t phone. I don’t know why. And the system’s open-platform, designed for client access. I asked him where he was and he made a joke, saying he didn’t have enough consonants on his keyboard. That and the fact that it was so early made me think he was in Eastern Europe.”

  “That’s kind of odd,” I reply. Something’s not right. “Are you sure it was him?”

  “We used to sing a Russian nursery song together in the tub when we were little: ‘Hush You Mice.’ I asked him the name and he knew. It was Andrei.”

  “What did he have to say for himself?” I ask, still feeling uneasy.

  “That he’d been traveling, that he was looking forward to seeing me soon, and,” she says, slowing for emphasis, “that he’d found a buyer for Turndale’s entire portfolio of Russian securities.”

  “There’s nothing to sell,” I say, angry at Andrei for deceiving Katya further. “The securities are bogus.”

  “Stop right there,” she says heatedly. “First off, nobody’s ever told me the securities are bogus.”

  She pauses, perhaps expecting an objection, but she’s only employing the deniability I gave her last night by couching Andrei’s theft as a hypothetical.

  “True.”

  “And second, I had London check them out this morning. The entire portfolio was signed off recently by our external auditor as part of the year-end process. There’s absolutely no reason for me to suspect that those securities aren’t good.”

  “Who’s the auditor?” I ask skeptically.

  “A small Russian firm,” she says too casually. “They’re new. William hired them right after Andrei left.”

  “Jesus, Katya. Don’t delude yourself. You know why William switched auditors. Andrei’s just trying to stall you, so you won’t expose him. He didn’t phone because he knew you’d hear the lie in his voice. There’s no buyer.”

  “Wrong. We dealt. Andrei wired a billion dollars of same-day sterling to our correspondent bank in London and I released the securities. The whole transaction took about thirty minutes.”

  “How could you have done that?” I ask, amazed by her recklessness.

  “How could I not?” she replies combatively. “Andrei’s the one who assembled the portfolio. He knew it better than anyone else. If he had a cash purchaser, why shouldn’t I have sold it?”

  I feel sick, certain she’s made a terrible mistake.

  “Who was the buyer?”

  “A Luxembourg foundation Andrei brought in as a client about a year and a half ago. He did business with them regularly when he was still with Turndale, and he was listed as an authorized signatory for them in our records.”

  “He was a signatory for a client while he was working for you?”

  “I’m looking into it,” she says, sounding annoyed. “The important fact is that he had the authority.”

  This keeps getting worse: Andrei must have conned the Luxembourg foundation somehow, just as he conned Turndale. Katya’s only deferred Turndale’s inevitable collapse, at the same time putting herself in the middle of a suspicious transaction.

  “And what are you going to do when the foundation calls next week, or next month, or next year, and says the securities are no good?”

  “I asked Andrei if there was going to be a problem and he said no.”

  “You believed him?”

  “He’s my brother,” she says simply.

  I don’t know what to say: There was a time I would have believed Andrei, too.

  “The whole thing feels wrong.”

  “It’s not like I don’t have questions, Peter,” she says. “How long will it take me to drive out there?”

  “Figure three and a half hours. If you start now, you can get here before ten.”

  “I can’t leave yet. The governor of the St. Louis Fed is in town, and we’re having dinner. If I beg off early, I should be there by midnight. You’ll keep your phone on?”

  “Yes.”

  Emily’s in the hall. I can hear her speaking to someone.

 
“There’s something else I have to tell you,” I say reluctantly. “I spoke to William this morning. He sold all his shares in Turndale last night.”

  “He what?” she asks, her voice rising sharply. “To whom?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Don’t hold out on me, Peter,” she says imploringly. “Please.”

  “Russians. Probably dirty.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Christ.” She sounds stunned. “How the hell did that happen? The minority shareholders will go berserk. There’s bound to be a lawsuit.”

  “I think William’s beyond caring about lawsuits,” I say, watching Emily open the door. She has her pink-and-orange bag over her shoulder and looks worried. “He’s planning to leave the country.”

  “Tell me everything you know,” she implores.

  “I can’t right now. I’ve got to go see Andrei.”

  “Hang on a second. William told you he sold his stock to Russians. You think Andrei’s involved in this somehow?”

  “He might be.”

  “To hell with dinner,” she says. “I’m getting in a car now.”

  43

  “THERE WAS A POLICEMAN IN THE HALL,” Emily says. “He wanted to see my ID. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I say, not surprised that Tilling left someone behind to check up on Emily’s identity. Ellis’s vote of confidence notwithstanding, I don’t think of Tilling as the trusting kind.

  “I thought the police wanted to arrest you for murder.”

  “I got lucky.”

  She gazes at me doubtfully for a second, her expression gradually giving way to one of concern.

  “You look pale again,” she says. “Sit on the bed. You can tell me what’s happened while I check you over.”

  Emily examines me while I recount my conversation with Tilling. She seems distracted, not asking too many questions, which is just as well. There’s a topic I need to cover with her before I see Andrei.

  “One more thing,” I say as she unwraps her pressure cuff from my arm. “I was stopped coming into the United States the other day. A federal agent named Davis made some bizarre allegations about Andrei and your clinic.”