“At least come tell me why I’m here,” he yelled again looking at the mirror on the wall.
“Time for a little chat,” Anderson said, “before he wets himself.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Walter Pascal stood at the urinal and felt a single drop of sweat slide down his nose. He hoped the FBI agent waiting in the men’s room for him didn’t notice it or how shaky his knees were. What had him the most worried was Rob Judd. What did they know? No one said a word and all he could think about was, If this isn’t about Rob, then what? Again, what did they know? One thought brought him some comfort. Murder is a state crime and these guys are all feds.
Walter finished wiping the water from his hands and tossed the paper towels in the trash. Now that he felt better, he decided to try something.
“If I’m not under arrest, I’m leaving. If I am under arrest, I want a lawyer,” he told Mike Anderson.
Anderson gave him a little smile and said, “Wally, you don’t mind if I call you Wally…”
“I prefer Walter,” Pascal said trying to sound tough.
“Wally,” Anderson said again still wearing the same smirk, “you’re not going anywhere. What you need to do is get back in that room across the hall, sit down, shut up and listen. I’m gonna do you a favor. So just cut out the tough guy act and listen to what we have to say.”
The two men went back to the interrogation room and Anderson held the door open for Walter. He reentered the room and found three other people waiting for them. One he recognized as the female FBI agent who brought him here. The other two, one dressed in a business suit the other in jeans and a nice golf shirt with a badge of some sort clipped to his belt, were two men Walter did not recognize. The female agent and the casually dressed man were leaning on the wall by the mirror. The man in the suit was seated at the table. Walter sat back down in the same chair he was in before.
Anderson sat at the table across from him and silently stared at him for almost a full minute. None of the others said a word while they waited.
“Who are you?” Walter nervously asked the man in the suit.
“I’m Assistant U.S. Attorney Joel Dylan,” the man answered.
Before Walter could respond, Anderson said, “Wally, do you think it’s a coincidence that we picked you up?”
“I have no idea…” Walter started to say.
“That we just plucked your name out of the phone book to bring you in for a little chat?”
At first, Pascal said nothing, hoping his nervousness was not too obvious.
“Does the name Robert Judd ring a bell?” Anderson asked.
“Of course,” Walter responded. “He worked for me.” He said this while thinking, I had nothing to do with his murder.
Anderson continued to stare at him, obviously trying to intimidate the man. Dylan reached down into the briefcase he had on the floor to his left, removed a manila folder and handed it to Anderson.
Anderson removed a two-inch stack of paper and set it on the table in front of Walter and asked, “Does this look familiar?”
Walter silently stared at it, knowing exactly what had been placed on the table. It was a copy of the computer printouts Rob Judd had given him showing the defaults of the CAR Securities’ mortgage-backed bonds. Walter said nothing but a bead of sweat broke out along his hairline.
“We have you for securities fraud right now, Walter,” Joel Dylan interjected. “Our forensic accountants went through this.”
“And we know Rob Judd told you about this and you know what’s in here. He came to us on the Friday before the Fourth of July,” Anderson said, “a few days before he was murdered. In fact,” Anderson continued, placing his hand on the documents in front of Wally, “some people might think this could be a motive for murder.”
“That’s crazy!” Walter said. “They made an arrest. It was the girlfriend.”
“The Minneapolis cops don’t know about this,” Anderson said.
Dylan reached down again and removed another folder from his briefcase. He handed this one to Anderson also.
Before he opened the new folder to show Walter the contents, Anderson folded his hands and placed them on top of it.
“You and Victor Espinosa took a one day vacation to visit with some friends in Panama a few weeks ago,” Anderson said, a statement not a question. “Must have been a long day with all of those different flights you had to take. Are you wondering how we know?”
Walter didn’t answer the question. He sat silently shifting his eyes about the room looking for a friendly face. All he found were stone-faced looks staring back at him.
Anderson opened the folder, removed an 8 x 10 color print, reversed it and slid it front of Walter.
“This gentleman here,” Anderson said poking his finger on a man in the photo, “the one shaking hands with your pal Victor Espinosa, is a Latino gent we know by the name of Carlos Rodriguez. And that’s you standing next to Victor isn’t it, Wally?”
Again, Walter sat silently while Anderson continued.
“Mr. Rodriguez is a known associate of a fellow by the name of Javier Torres, also known as El Callado, the Quiet One. A mean, nasty bastard if there ever was one.
“This next picture,” Anderson continued showing Walter the next photo, “was taken earlier that same day. You can see the date and time stamp on it. Anyway, it’s a shot of that same Mr. Torres taken at a villa outside Panama City. He’s conversing with a man whose name is Pablo Quinones. Quinones is the number two guy in this particular drug cartel the U.S. Government is interested in.
“This next photo is you and Victor and your friend Carlos later that day walking toward that very same villa. And here is a shot of you and Victor at the door shaking hands with Pablo Quinones, at the front door of the villa. Have a nice chat with the fellas in Panama? Don’t tell me, let me guess. You were discussing financial transactions, transactions we like to call money laundering, for a drug cartel, weren’t you Wally?”
“You can’t prove…”
“Don’t even try that,” Dylan jumped in to say.
“I want a lawyer,” Pascal weakly said.
“No, you don’t, Wally,” Anderson said. “Because if you do, we’ll lock your ass up right now, no deals and you do twenty years in a bend-over-in-the-shower federal prison. No country club for you, Wally. You and your pals get the real deal.”
“Have you ever heard of the acronym RICO?” Dylan asked. “It stands for Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations. It’s a federal law that allows us to go after you and your pals the same way we go after the Mafia. And you do life in sunny, pleasant vacation spas like Leavenworth, Kansas. Or…”
“Or?” Walter asked after a long pause.
“Or guess what?” Anderson replied.
“I go to work for you against my friends and partners,” Walter weakly said.
“You got it,” Anderson answered him.
Walter sat silently thinking it over. He again looked around the room searching for a friendly face while he did so.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I think I should talk it over with a lawyer.”
“Told you so,” Holly Byrnes said as she sprang from the wall. She walked behind Walter who nervously watched her remove a pair of handcuffs from her belt.
“Get up, sleazebag,” she said. She grabbed Wally’s right arm and started pulling him out of the chair.
“Sorry, Wally,” Anderson said.
“You’re under arrest and I just won fifty bucks. I knew you were too weak and stupid.”
“Wait, wait,” Walter whined, struggling to remain seated. “Okay, I’ll do it. But,” he continued looking at Dylan. “I want a complete walk. No jail time. And I want it in writing.”
Holly stood behind him dangling the handcuffs alongside his face. Walter looked back and forth at the serious expressions coming from Anderson and Dylan.
“I don’t think so, Walter,” Dylan said. “We got you by the balls right now. Why should we deal?”
“Because you don’t know the half of it,” Walter said with a lot more confidence than he felt.
“Okay,” Dylan agreed. “I’ll put it in writing for you. But you screw up one time, hold anything back or lie to us, and all bets are off. You got it?”
“And we are going to want everything and I mean everything,” Anderson added.
“You know,” Walter said. “I feel relieved. I feel like a five-ton weight has been lifted off of me. But it will take some time. They don’t tell me everything. I think I can find out what all they’re up to, but I’ll need some time,”
“What all who is up to?” Dylan asked. “Who’s running the show?”
“Corbin Reed and Ethan Rask,” Walter answered.
Anderson looked at Dylan who nodded his head then Anderson looked at Holly.
“Are you sure about this?” Anderson asked Holly.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” Holly said.
“Here’s the deal, Wally. The lady standing next to you with the handcuffs, she’s your new girlfriend.”
“Without the fringe benefits,” Holly added,
It was almost midnight by the time Anderson and Holly dropped Walter Pascal back at his townhouse. Dylan had found a computer to type up the grant of immunity. They had spent another two hours going over the ground rules and what was expected of him. Walter also told them everything he knew about the illegal activities of CAR Securities. At least that’s what he claimed. All he really did was more or less confirm what they already knew.
When they were about finished, Dylan startled him with a question.
“What can you tell me about the deaths of Patrick McGarry and his girlfriend, Lynn Mason?”
“What?” Walter asked looking genuinely surprised. “It was an accident. They were hiking somewhere up North and slipped on a trail and fell.”
“We don’t think so,” Anderson said. “Rob Judd told us McGarry came to him with concerns about CAR, the same concerns Judd talked to you about.”
“Then Judd gets killed too,” Dylan added.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Walter insisted. “McGarry was an accident and Rob’s girlfriend went nuts. I don’t know…”
“Find out,” Dylan said.
Walter paused, looked around the room and then said, “Okay. I’ll see if I can find out anything. But I don’t think these guys would do something like that. I mean, murder? I don’t think so.”
When Walter got home he mixed himself a stiff scotch and soda. He stood in front of the bay window in the living room in the dark sipping his drink. This could work out better than I planned, he thought to himself.
TWENTY-FIVE
Tony Carvelli sat by himself at end of the bar where it made a left-hand turn to complete its L shape. He was in the Rendez Vous Piano Bar of the Leamington Hotel in downtown Minneapolis. The Leamington was the last of the city’s old-style Grand Hotels from a bygone era of class and elegance, rarely found in today’s mass marketed, chain hotels.
Tony loved this old place, its understated style and grace. It was a comfortable and warm place where women unashamedly wore dresses and heels and men were still expected to be in a suit, tie and polished shoes.
The man at the piano was playing a tune Tony didn’t recognize but knew, somehow, it was from the forties. It was quiet and serene like the Grand Old Dame that was the Leamington herself.
While he watched Rask and waited for the bartender, Tony thought about his other problem. Vivian Donahue was trying to use her contacts to find out who catered the Fourth of July party for CAR Securities. Tony was certain it was one of their employees, the waiter Maddy described, who spiked her wine with the drugs. So far, Vivian was not having any luck finding them.
A good crowd for a Wednesday evening, Tony had been tailing his quarry, Ethan Rask, for three straight days now. The first two days, Rask went right home after work and did not leave. Being a veteran cop, Tony was used to the need for patience. When he saw Rask park in the lot across the street then scurry across Nicollet to the hotel, he started to believe tonight was the night he would get lucky.
Rask was seated at a table by himself, his back to the bar and Tony, sipping a cocktail. Tony’s eyes were focused on the glass Rask held trying to decide how best to steal it. The best way would be to bribe the waitress but he didn’t know which one had served him. Before long, one of the four waitresses working the bar stopped at Rask’s table, smiled while he reordered then hurried off to get the man his drink.
Tony started to get up to go to the waitress’ service area of the bar when Rask stood up to greet a very attractive, younger woman. Rask took the woman’s hand, kissed her on the cheek then held her chair for her.
When Tony saw this he dropped back onto his barstool, his mouth half-open and thought, I’ll be damned, Gretchen Stenson. I wonder what name she’s using these days?
Ethan Rask would never be mistaken for a George Clooney. Pushing fifty, thirty to forty pounds overweight and a hairline that was rapidly receding, Rask’s chances of attracting a woman of Gretchen’s caliber was somewhat less than zero. Except Gretchen was a high-end prostitute that Tony had known for almost twenty years. He first busted her as a seventeen-year-old high school girl turning tricks and running three of her high school friends.
As Tony watched, he was impressed that even though she had to be pushing forty, she looked twenty-five and was still gorgeous and likely a thousand-dollar a night entrepreneur.
Tony caught the bartender’s eye, a young man in a white shirt, black bowtie and black vest, and motioned to him. The bartender came over to him, both hands on the bar and leaned toward him.
“Yes, sir?” the young man asked.
“Who’s the woman that just sat down with that older guy?” Tony asked turning his head toward Rask and Gretchen.
The bartender stood up straight and stuttered, “I’m, ah, not sure, ah…”
“I’m not a cop and I know what she is,” Tony said. “I want to know what name she’s using these days. I used to be a cop and I know her from back when, but how do I get in touch with her now?”
The young man looked around, held up his right index finger to indicate to Tony ‘wait a minute’, then walked off. He served a couple customers, made another vodka tonic for Tony and walked back to him.
He set the drink down and discreetly slid a business card to Tony who took it and slipped it into his pocket. With the index finger on his left hand, Tony slid a fifty-dollar bill to the young man then casually waved that hand to indicate he could keep it.
The waitress returned with Rask’s second drink, leaned down and placed it on the table while listening to Gretchen order something. Rask drained the glass he was holding and set it on the waitress’ tray. When Tony saw that, he knew he had his chance. He stood up and headed down the bar to intercept her.
“Excuse me,” he said to the young woman just before she got back to the bar. “This may sound a little crazy but I’ll give you fifty dollars for that glass.”
The waitress did a quick look around to see if anyone was watching then said, “You got it, sir,” and she reached for the glass to hand it to Tony.
“No, no, don’t touch it,” Tony frantically whispered. He took her arm and gently led her away and when they were by the door, Tony pulled two large, Ziploc bags from his pocket.
“I need it untouched,” he explained.
“You a cop?” she asked him.
Using a napkin to hold the glass, Tony poured the ice and what was left of Rask’s drink in one bag and sealed it. He then placed the glass in the other bag and sealed that also.
“Private,” he whispered. He peeled off two twenties and a ten, placed them in her hand and said, “This is between you and me, okay?
“No problem,” she smiled. “Anytime you need to buy any dishes just let me know.”
Tony laughed then said, “At these prices, I can’t afford it.”
While Tony was leaving he turned and read the nam
e by the bar’s entrance. Rendez Vous bar is exactly right, he thought with a smile while thinking about Gretchen and Rask.
As Tony walked back across Nicollet to where his car was parked, the muggy July weather made him take off his light tan, silk jacket. Once in his car, he removed the business card from his pocket. On it was the name Audrianna, a phone number and website address. That was it. No information of any kind.
Tony started the car to get the A/C going then retrieved his phone from the jacket he had tossed on the Camaro’s passenger seat. He held it in his hand for a couple of minutes while he stared through the windshield.
“That’s it,” he quietly said to himself when he remembered the number he had searched for in his memory. He quickly punched in the number and listened while it rang. After the third ring, a familiar voice answered.
“Garrett,” the man said.
“Hey, Alfonso,” Carvelli said. “It’s Tony…”
“Carvelli, you reprobate,” the man finished for him. “How the hell you been?”
“I’m good, Al. And you? How are you, Jodie and the boys?” Tony asked referring to the man’s family.
“Everybody’s good, Tony. Doing fine. You should come to dinner. We’d love to see you again. What’s up?”
“I’m looking for some information on a hooker,” Tony said. “And of course, I thought of you, immediately, because of your intimate knowledge of them.”
“Very funny, smartass.” Al laughed.
Al was Sergeant Alfonso Garrett with MPD Vice and a long-time friend of Carvelli’s. “What’s her name?”
“I got a card here,” Tony said. “First name only. Audrianna.”
“Our girl, Gretchen Stenson,” Al said. “Sure, I know her. She’s been around a while.”
“I know. I knew her years ago,” Tony said. “I want to know where she’s living now. Is she working for someone or…”
[Marc Kadella 06.0] Delayed Justice Page 17
