The Killdeer Connection

by Tom Swyers

  Amber looked puzzled. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “She was a litigation associate at Baxter and Chadwick in the late eighties. Top-notch. Billed more than twenty-one hundred hours per year. Did she make partner?”

  “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “How about Christina Bickle? Did she make it? She was still trying in the mid-1990s, as far as I can recall.”

  “The name doesn’t sound familiar, either.”

  “Andrea Klute? How about her? She was trying to make partner about ten years ago.” David knew full well that Andrea was working for the State of New Jersey after failing to make partner.

  “How do you know all these people? Did you Google search them or something?”

  “No, but I worked at Baxter and Chadwick in an earlier lifetime—in your New York City office—when I was going through law school.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know. Do you know any partners there?”

  “If I look at the names, I’m sure I’ll recognize a few, but they won’t remember me. I was invisible back then.” If Amber was shopping for some help in making partner, David let her know that she was looking in the wrong place. “What’s Pottenger doing here in the Albany office?”

  “Visiting.”

  “Has he achieved porch-partner status yet?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Well, it’s the legal equivalent of being a Walmart greeter. That’s what you call it when a senior partner just doesn’t give a rat’s ass anymore and comes to work to collect his check. He just sits in his office and rocks back and forth on his reclining office chair, like he’s enjoying a summer evening on the porch. Maybe he’ll invite some other senior partners over, and they’ll rock together and relive their legal triumphs, talk about the memoirs they’ll never finish, or call in some associate to pick up some pro-bono case that they’ll never personally touch, just so they can take credit for it in their obituary.”

  “Sounds like you know him, then.”

  “Knew him thirty years ago. I worked for him on a case. He wasn’t a porch sitter then, but that’s the natural order of things, part of the firm culture. I’ll bet you he’s visiting under the pretext of drumming up some new business.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Some things never change. Do they still call him ‘Dick Pot’ behind his back?”

  Amber broke out laughing and immediately tried to suppress it. When she couldn’t, she cupped her hand over her mouth and ducked behind David’s outline so nobody on the partner floor could see her. She was like a giggling middle schooler at the lunch table, and David was struck by this side of her.

  She regained her composure. “You know, Paula Smith made partner in the New York office.”

  David heard her change of tone. The edge was off; she was at ease. “You’re right. But she was a lateral hire, brought her own book of business. That’s why they took her on as partner. Money overcomes everything for these guys. Are you a rainmaker, Amber? Do you have any clients of your own?”

  She didn’t have to answer; David already knew the deal. He knew from his research that there weren’t any women partners in the Albany office, and that Paula Smith was the only one in New York City. He pictured Amber’s life for the past seven years in his mind. She didn’t have time to do anything but bill hours over her seven-year tenure. Typical elite-firm-associate career path. Amber kissed as much partner ass as she could, did anything they told her, sacrificed her twenties, and had nothing to show for it, personally or professionally. Now her gig was almost up. It was up-or-out for her. But they wouldn’t tell her that she was out until the last minute, until they sucked the last ounce out of her soul with vague, hopeful allusions, only to throw her out onto the pile of discarded senior associates.

  Amber stood up and went to the window, spun around slowly, and leaned against it, clasping the sill with both hands. She tapped her index fingers against the molding. Her face was pink and glowing from the laughter. “I resent,” she said softly, “your introduction of my personal situation into our settlement discussions.”

  David softened his tone. “Well, what goes around, comes around, Amber. You had no problem talking about my issues a few minutes ago.”

  Amber’s face turned a shade of red, though David wasn’t sure if it was due to anger or embarrassment. She gave a forlorn sigh. David didn’t know whether to feel sorry for her or not. He wanted to, but at the same time he was waiting for her to bite his head off because that’s what the Black Widow did. She’d lower the defenses of the opponent by any means necessary before moving in for the kill. She’d use her body if that helped the cause. That was her rep. Maybe she was doing it now as she leaned against the window, arms to her sides, legs straight, butt bouncing ever so slightly against the sill, looking vulnerable and gorgeous. He wasn’t going to take the chance that she was human, though. After all, he was on her turf, sitting in her web, while she probed for his weaknesses, performing some kind of ridiculous ritual.

  “Amber, you could have just made this offer over the phone and saved me the trip.”

  Her tongue wet her upper lip in one swipe. “I thought it was a good idea that we talked face-to-face. You know, they say body language is more than half of communication.”

  Amber’s body was talking to David; that much was for sure. But he knew that this was only part of her plan. Thirty years ago, David had witnessed this same maneuver by male associates in the New York office. Amber had placed David on display in this fishbowl of a conference room, but she was the main attraction. She had brought him up to the partner floor, to the partner conference room, so all the partners would see her acting as a partner, like it was her destiny. Directly under the recessed ceiling light in a position where the good ol’ boys could see her as they moved about, Amber stood so that every one of them would notice her and accept her future as an equal in the firm. She was hell-bent on breaking through the glass ceiling of Baxter & Chadwick. It was center stage for Amber, and David had a front-row seat.

  “I have to admire your moxie, Amber,” David said, standing up. He loosened his collar in anticipation of escape.

  “What are you talking about?”

  David moved toward her. “You are determined to be a partner here. This firm isn’t the Albany where you grew up and went to law school. You may think you’re in Albany, but you’re in New York City, and it’s ruthless.”

  She looked away, disgusted. “What’s it to you?”

  He leaned against the windowsill right beside her, legs and arms crossed, surveying the partners, the audience. He wanted to see what Amber was seeing; he wanted to see the partners’ faces, really see them squirm. He looked over his shoulder at her. “You know, you’re too good for these guys.”

  “Stop it, Thompson.”

  Amber wasn’t going to be seen standing side by side with the enemy under the same spotlight. It wasn’t part of the show she had planned, and the show must go on. There was no turning back. They had hooked her. She had already invested so much time in the partnership chase that she had no choice but to convince herself that she was different from all those other women who had failed before her. So she left David behind and sought to reestablish her authority over the meeting by sitting down at the head of the conference table. It was the one power move left open, and she leaped at it. Like a moth drawn to a flame, Amber Remington needed to feel the burn before she could accept her fate.

  David resisted the urge to toy with her, to sit at the table’s other end some ten yards away. Against his better judgment, he felt some sympathy for her, enough at least to let the show play out according to her script. He sat down on one side of her, but this time, he faced the partner floor. If he was going to play along, he wanted some entertainment value in return. Watching the partners’ reaction to the show would be worth a few minutes more of his time.

  Amber shuffled some papers and glanced at him with her big eyes. David melted. They were unique a
nd striking. Amber had amber eyes. The Black Widow had the same eyes as the killdeers hanging on Harold Salar’s walls.

  David let Amber have her way with him for another few minutes as he played the role of punching bag for the benefit of the lawyers watching on the floor. David obliged, hoping that if he bonded with her that it might benefit him later. If not, no harm.

  When David thought that the scene had run its course, he told Amber that he would stagger out of the conference room punch-drunk and find his own way to the lobby. Amber objected to David’s departure. David suggested that she could add to the drama by yelling at him as he left. She raised her voice as he opened the conference-room door. Partners looked up, and a few stuck their heads out of office doors to see what the commotion was. The partners’ interest was piqued, but David thought it was a perfect time to end his performance. He knew an actor was best served to leave the stage while the audience was looking for more.

  So David marched down the hall to the elevator. He locked eyes with Pottenger for a second as he walked by his office before Pottenger looked away. There was something about Dick Pot’s presence that was suspicious, but that’s the way David had always felt around him. He didn’t want to give it any more thought. Being back at Baxter & Chadwick had made him feel nauseated. He wanted out.

  NINE

  As David left the building, he caught his reflection in the side of a shiny truck parked by the curb. With a fire-truck cab and a long RV mounted on the rear part of the chassis, it was about the size of a large charter bus. The lower half was blue, and the upper half was white, no identifying markings anywhere. It had an air deflector on top of the cab and antenna masts on the rear, with one extended. There were two small windows on either end of the RV section and a closed entrance door in the middle with a retractable metal stairway dropping down to the sidewalk.

  David turned to his right and started walking toward his Mustang around the corner of the building. The entrance door to the truck popped open. A man climbed down the steps and quickly strode toward David, approaching him from behind. Before David turned the corner, the man reached him.

  “David Thompson, I’d like to talk to you.”

  David stopped and turned around to face the man whose flat tire he had helped change. Reaching into his inside breast pocket, the man flipped open his wallet to flash a badge and ID. “My name is Julius Moore. I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

  David glanced at it for a second. The picture looked like Julius Moore, only five years younger. “How’s your tire doing?”

  “It’s doing well. By the way, thank you for your help.”

  “Sure thing.” David noticed a change in demeanor with Moore since their last meeting. He must want something.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Moore?”

  “I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”

  David found himself in a catch-22. He didn’t have to talk to Moore. He could have said he wanted an attorney—a criminal lawyer—present during any questioning. But then he would look like he had something to hide, and Moore might zero in on him as a suspect. He needed to stay out of jail because he wasn’t certain that he could make bail. Finances were that tight. On top of that, he didn’t want to put his family through the ordeal of an arrest if he could avoid it.

  “Sure, let me just check my phone.” David pulled out his phone from his side pocket and tapped a few icons and put it back into his pocket. “I’ll save you the time. I’m guilty.”

  Moore’s eyes popped open, and his head recoiled. He took a half step back.

  “I’m sorry I did it, really I am.”

  “Mr. Thompson, you do realize I’m investigating the slaying of Harold Salar as part of a larger investigation?”

  “Yeah, I figured it had something to do with Salar. But I’m not admitting to that crime. I did take your lug wrench, though. It was an accident.”

  “Lug wrench?”

  “Yeah, when I changed your tire. You drove off, and then I realized it was still in my hand. I didn’t return it because I did not know who you were, didn’t know where to find you. So, I can get you the lug wrench—”

  “Mr. Thompson, I’m here on serious business. Forget about the lug wrench.”

  “Okay, it’s a nice lug wrench, though, better than what the car manufacturers give you. I can’t stand those short-armed wrenches. How are you supposed to get leverage with those? You sure you don’t want it back?”

  “I’m sure. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your relationship with Mr. Salar?”

  “No, go ahead. Are you working with Chief McNeal on this case?”

  “He has his own investigation, and we have ours, but we do talk.”

  “Why is the FBI involved?”

  “We have our reasons.”

  David did not appreciate the evasive answers, but he didn’t want to push the matter too hard. Hostility would only generate more suspicion and a warrant of some kind. That’s the last thing he needed. “How did you know I was here?” he asked.

  “I was in the neighborhood and saw you.”

  David wasn’t buying it. He looked over Moore’s shoulder and saw that the entrance door to the truck was open and another suited man stood near it, leaning against a Chevy Suburban, looking toward them both.

  “Is that your truck?”

  “Yes.”

  “By the size of it, looks like you brought an entire neighborhood with you.” David figured they’d spotted him with a camera of some sort mounted on the truck, or maybe they’d used some sort of tracking device.

  “Yeah, it’s a big unit.”

  “Well, I can’t change the tire on that one.”

  “The tires are fine, Mr. Thompson.”

  “What do you use that truck for, anyway?”

  “It’s a mobile command center.”

  “If you wanted to speak with me, all you had to do was call. No need to bring everyone in the office with you.”

  “Like I said, we are involved in a larger investigation, one that goes beyond the slaying of Harold Salar.”

  “Are you from the Albany field office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you live in the area?”

  “South End of Albany. I grew up there.”

  “What can you tell me about this larger investigation?”

  “Nothing at this time. We’re investigating a number of angles, no confirmed direction. Mr. Thompson, can I ask some questions now?”

  “It’s a two-way street. I can ask questions, too. But feel free to jump in at any point. Is this larger investigation the reason you were parked outside my home?”

  “Yes, you were connected to our investigation with the homicide of Harold Salar. We didn’t know your relationship to him or the case then. We were doing some surveillance and background research on you to get us up to speed. That’s when you found me parked down the street, flat tire and all.”

  “So, do you think I killed Harold Salar for the insurance money, too?”

  “We’re not focused on that aspect. Do you think I can ask some questions now?”

  “It’s a free country, Mr. Moore. You go right ahead.”

  “Now Mr. Thompson, I’m just looking for the truth about what happened.”

  “That makes two of us. Throw in Chief McNeal, and that makes at least three.”

  “If you don’t know the answer to a question I ask, just say you don’t know.”

  “Fair enough, Mr. Moore.”

  “Mr. Thompson, do you know it’s a federal crime to lie to a federal agent during a federal investigation?”

  “No, I’m not a criminal lawyer.”

  “You really don’t know that if you lie to me, it could be a crime?”

  “Now I’m confused. In your questions, you said that it is a crime. Now you’re saying it could be a crime. Which is it?”

  “It is a crime, Mr. Thompson. You didn’t know?”

  “You said to say, ‘I didn’t know’ if I didn’t know, a
nd that’s what I did because I didn’t know for sure. I’ve never been part of a federal agent’s federal investigation of a federal crime. If you say it’s a crime, Mr. Moore, I’ll take your word for it. But I really feel guilty now about keeping your lug wrench. I suppose that might be a federal crime as well. Won’t you please take it back?”

  Moore rolled his eyes. “I’ll take it back if it helps us keep on track.”

  “Okay, I’ll make it a point to get it back to you, then. It’s on my workbench.”

  “How long have you known Harold Salar?”

  “A few years.”

  “What do you know about his family?”

  “I know his wife died a few years ago. His parents died before her. He was an only child and didn’t have any children.”

  “Mr. Salar’s surname was really Salah,” Moore said. “His father, Ibrahim Salah, Americanized his name to Joseph A. Salar when he immigrated to North Dakota in the 1930s. His parents were afraid that the immigration officers wouldn’t let him in the country if they knew he was a Muslim. They misrepresented themselves, Mr. Thompson. What do you think of that?”

  “I think . . . I think there was probably a lot of that going on back then. There was discrimination and a legitimate fear of it.”

  “Did your family change its surname to enter this country?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it. Thompson doesn’t end in a vowel and never did.”

  “Do you know where Salar’s father was born?”

  “No.”

  “He was from the Ottoman province of Syria. He was a Muslim from Syria. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Thompson? That’s in the area where ISIS comes from today. It’s where terrorists live. There were a number of Muslims, Mr. Thompson, who immigrated to North Dakota from there and raised families there, starting in the early 1900s.”

  “I don’t get your point. Do you think there’s some kind of radical Islamic sleeper cell based in North Dakota?”

  “I know it sounds far-fetched, but if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that anything is possible, Mr. Thompson. What if the North Dakota Muslims still maintained relations with family back in Syria?”