Authors: Peter Spiegelman
“I’m alright. A little shaky, but alright. I haven’t really seen anything like that before, much less been a part of it,” she said. I nodded. She didn’t seem shaky to me, not even a little.
“Calling 911 was the right thing to do. Wading in there to break things up with your cell phone wasn’t. You were lucky—those guys are feds and more or less play by the rules—some rules anyway—but it wasn’t smart. You yell, you scream, you shout ‘Fire,’ but you stay far away.” She nodded and drank some tea. “But thanks—a lot. You saved me from what was shaping up to be a very bad evening.” She looked at me and shook her head.
“Is this an everyday event with you—getting into fights, getting beat up?”
“Would you believe you caught me in a slow week?” She just looked at me. “Actually, I’m running my holiday special on beatings—goes on till Christmas.” She looked some more. I looked back. “No, it’s not an everyday thing. It happens sometimes, but not often,” I said. “And I’m usually not the one who gets beat up,” I added.
“That’s good to hear,” Jane said, smiling. “Are your relationships with the authorities all so friendly?”
“Some of them are good, and some are not so good. Pell is a special case,” I said. Jane swirled tea around in her mug and said nothing.
“He didn’t pique your curiosity?” I asked after a while.
She was quiet for a few moments and shook her head. “Lauren told me about what happened upstate. It . . . it must have been awful. I can’t imagine.” She shook her head a little more. I watched my tea darken in the mug.
“What else did Lauren have to say?” I asked.
Jane looked at me for a long minute. “She told me you went through a bad time afterward. Very bad.” She sipped her tea. “She worries about you.” She looked away, out the windows.
“Why does that man have it in for you?” Jane asked after a while.
“He thinks I ruined his shot at being the next FBI director.” Jane gave me a quizzical look. “He thought the case was going to be a career maker for him. It was very high profile, a lot of media interest. The trial would’ve gotten a lot of coverage. And Pell was the special agent in charge. He would’ve been the star of the show, at least in his mind. But when the guy was killed . . . that was it. There was no big arrest, no perp to parade in front of the cameras, no trial, no CNN. There was barely a press conference. He blames me for that.”
“Why? Because you . . . shot that man?” I nodded and finished my tea.
“What does Lauren worry about?” I asked. Jane thought about it before she answered.
“She worries that you’re still going through a bad time, only now you keep it to yourself,” she said. Her gaze shifted. “You’re bleeding again.” She tore open another gauze pad and came around the kitchen counter. She stood in front of me and pressed the pad on the cut, the palm of her hand resting on the side of my face. “You’re going to ruin all your shirts if you keep on like this,” she said softly. She was very close. Close enough, I was sure, to hear my heart hammering in my chest, and to feel its pounding through my skin. Her dark eyes were huge, and her scent seemed to fill my lungs. Her pulse was beating quickly at the side of her neck, and her face and neck were flushed.
We both jumped when the phone rang.
I took the call in my bedroom. It was Mike Metz. He was silent while I ran down what had happened with Pell, and he was silent for a while after.
“Fuck,” he said finally.
“Well put,” I said.
“This is bad, John. DiPaolo’s a real piece of work, from what I hear.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
“She can make life very unpleasant for us if she’s so inclined. We’ll claim your case notes are attorney work-product, but she can push on that pretty hard if she wants to. Fuck.” Mike sighed heavily. “Well, we knew this was a possibility. Nothing to do now but deal with it.” I heard Mike pour something and swallow some of it. “But this came out of the blue. Pell knew about Trautmann and Neary, both, and he knew you were interested in Nassouli. How?”
“Hell if I know.”
“You figure Trautmann called them?”
“I guess it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem like him. And I’m not sure why he’d do it.”
“To get you off his back, I assume.”
“Maybe. But it’s a chancy thing for him to do. He risks drawing federal attention to himself, which is not something I’d think he’d be interested in. And he’s also got to know that if I find out he’s the one who called Pell, it’s going to make me look at him all the harder. Trautmann’s smart enough to figure that out.”
“How would Pell find out, if not from him?”
“Could be the feds have Trautmann covered. I didn’t see anybody, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
“I thought Neary said they’d looked at Trautmann and decided to take a pass.”
“That’s what he said. But they could still have him staked out, maybe to get a line on Nassouli.”
“If that’s the case, it would make it hard for him to be our guy, no?”
“Harder, but not impossible.”
“How do you figure they knew about Neary?”
“That’s another puzzle. Neary has a source in the investigation that he was going to talk to. Maybe that source isn’t so trustworthy. Maybe he went to Pell. Or maybe Pell connected the dots by himself once he heard I’d been talking to Trautmann. He knows Neary and I are friends.”
“You talk to Neary yet?”
“I’ve got a call in to him.”
“He won’t be happy with this. He could be pretty exposed here, with his client and his management.”
“I know, Mike, believe me, I know.” Mike was quiet at the other end of the line.
“Does Neary know our client’s name, John?”
“No. If he was inclined to, he could figure it out. But he didn’t hear it from me.”
“Well, that’s something.” I heard ice shifting in a glass at Mike’s end. “Alright, I’ve got some calls to make. Meanwhile, prepare yourself for Monday—practice not talking.”
“I know the drill, Mike.”
“I don’t care. I’m your lawyer, and I’ve got to say it. You say nothing unless you’re asked a direct question, and even then you wait for me to give you the nod. If you have to talk, you answer only what was asked, and you do it briefly and politely. And, above all, you don’t lose your temper and you don’t act like a wiseass. Mostly, don’t talk.”
Jane Lu had gotten into my CDs, and Cassandra Wilson was playing when I came out. Jane was sitting on the sofa with her legs curled beneath her, reading the
Times.
Her loafers were on the floor. She’d made herself another cup of tea.
“Done?” she asked, looking up.
“One left. If you’ve got somewhere else you need to be, you don’t need to wait. I’m fine, really.” Jane smiled and shook her head.
“I don’t mind. Besides, if I don’t take you to the emergency room, I’m not sure you’ll go.” She held up her cell phone. “And I’ve already canceled.”
“Nothing special, I hope.” She smiled enigmatically and gave a little shrug.
“You should sit down, rest a little,” she said. I nodded and settled at the other end of the sofa and about a half second later I was asleep. The next thing I knew, Jane was gently shaking my leg. It was nearly seven o’clock. “Telephone,” she said. I dragged myself back to consciousness, off the sofa, and to my bedroom. It was Neary. I told him all.
“Fuck,” he said, when I had finished.
“That seems to be the consensus.”
“I’m glad you can be glib about this, March. But it’s not that funny from where I sit. You don’t know Shelly. She’ll eat you alive, and have me for dessert. And in case you haven’t noticed, my ass is hanging out here.”
“I know that, Tom, and I’m sorry about it,” I said.
“
Sorry?
A shitload of good
sorry
does me.
Sorry
doesn’t pay my mortgage, or my kid’s orthodontist, you know? It may not cost you much to dick around with these guys, March, but I’m in a different boat. There’s no mattress full of family money just lying around my house.”
“Tom, I got you jammed up here, I know. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I’m sorry that it did. But I—”
He cut me off. “Save your rationalizations—it’s my own goddamn fault for not telling you to go to hell in the first place. You’d think I’d learn. I’ll see you Monday,” he said, and hung up. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Neary was pissed, and he had a right to be. Even if—best case—all DiPaolo did was rough us up, Tom could still have a big problem. His management and his clients were very sensitive about confidentiality. If they came to believe he’d breached theirs, his reputation would be fucked and he’d be out on his ass. Maybe even hauled into civil court.
“All set?” Jane asked. She had turned off the music and put her shoes and sweater back on. I nodded and grabbed a jacket. Jane looked at me. “Bad news?” she asked. I nodded again. I was reaching for the doorknob when the phone rang.
“I should take this,” I said. It was Mike.
“I spoke to Pierro,” he said.
“Let me guess—he wasn’t happy. Well, he couldn’t have been any worse than Neary.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I bet Tom didn’t just get a fax demanding payment of five million dollars.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Christ,” Rick Pierro said hoarsely, “this just gets worse and worse.” He rubbed his face with his big hands.
It was after ten on Saturday night, and Mike Metz and I were in Pierro’s living room. Mike had been there for a while; I was fresh from St. Vincent’s. It was a large room, done in earth tones. The deep sofas and chairs were upholstered in rust and ochre and sand-colored fabrics. The sage walls were hung with abstracts that went well with the carpet.
Pierro sat hunched on a large ottoman, his elbows resting on his knees. He was dressed in olive gabardine trousers, a yellow shirt, and a blue V-neck sweater. His shirttail had come out in back, and there was a smear of something, maybe mustard, on one of his sleeves. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and shut his eyes tightly. But when he opened them again, the fatigue and worry and anger were still there. His meaty shoulders drooped and his heavy features sagged. His hair was glossy and neat, and somehow out of place above his wrecked face.
Helene sat beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and kneaded it gently. She wore a black sweater and loose camel pants, and her chestnut hair was brushed straight back from her forehead and tied in a black ribbon. She was holding up better than her husband, but her face was pale and tense. Her gaze wandered around the room, occasionally resting on me, but if there was anything to read in it, it escaped me. Maybe I was just too tired.
Mike sat on a rust-colored sofa, reading the fax, looking placid. He was dressed as I’d seen him last, in khakis and a gray sweater. It was hard to believe that was only a few hours ago. He got up and walked to the doorway, where I was leaning. I was better at leaning now than at sitting, since the body blow from Pell had displaced my already fractured rib, and my pals at St. Vincent’s had wrapped my midsection in a long elastic bandage. Mike handed me the fax. It was short and to the point:
$5 MILLION READY FOR WIRE TRANSFER BY 8AM EST THURSDAY.
YOU WILL RECEIVE TRANSFER INSTRUCTIONS THEN. FUNDS MUST
BE TRANSFERRED WITHIN 4 HOURS.
All in caps, all in bold type. The fax had come in on Pierro’s home machine. It was like the message Bregman had received, though he’d been given a week to get his money together. Pierro had just four days. Like the first fax, this one had a phone number at the top of the page, a 718 area code this time.
“I’ll check out this number tonight, and if I find an address for it, I’ll go there tomorrow. But I’m not expecting much.” Mike nodded and Helene looked at me. Pierro didn’t stir.
“It’s a lot of money, Rick,” Mike observed.
Pierro shrugged. “Yeah, about thirty percent of my bonus last year,” he said. “A lot” is a relative thing.
“It’s a lot to pay for silence,” I said, “especially for an innocent man.”
Pierro lifted his big head and looked at me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he said in a slow rumble.
Mike glanced at me and answered. His voice was low and even. “Only that making a payment may not be the wisest course, Rick. There’s no way of knowing that this won’t be just the first installment.”
Pierro grimaced and pushed his fingertips into his temples. “Jesus . . . how many times have we been through this, Mike? I told you—guilty, innocent—in this climate, it doesn’t matter a damn to my pals at French—or to anybody on the Street. I get a stink like this on me, and that’s it—I’m done. All this—it’s done.” He held his hands out, gesturing at the room around us. “Well, that’s not an option, okay? That’s not an option for my family.” He leaned forward again and let out a long breath. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Besides, with what you tell me about this frigging prosecutor, it could be I’m hosed anyway. She can haul me in front of some frigging grand jury, drag my name through the papers . . .” He clenched his thick hands into fists. “How does she even know we exist, anyway? And why does she care? What the hell does she want from me?” He bounced the heel of his palm on his forehead. “How did things get so screwed up?” His voice was a harsh rasp. Mike sighed.