JM01 - Black Maps (34 page)

“We’ve discussed the possibility that someone on the liquidation team or in the investigation might have kept those documents out of the system altogether,” he said.

“And your theory is based on . . . what?” she asked him.

Mike looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, but—”

Shelly cut him off. “Cut the crap, counselor. You’re screwing with my witnesses, spouting this irresponsible shit that can fuck my investigation big time, then you and Bruce Wayne here,” she gestured at me, “you hide behind attorney-client protections. Except you won’t name your fucking client! You can’t be this stupid, Metz. You must know the shit storm that’s going to come down on you.”

Mike was quiet for a while. “We have no desire to share our theories or discuss this case at all, with anyone, Ms. DiPaolo,” he said evenly. “Frankly, we wouldn’t be discussing it with you, if you hadn’t invited us in. We’re not talking to any defense counsel, we’re not making statements or giving depositions, and if anyone asked us to, we’d claim attorney-client confidentiality. As I said, we have no wish to be involved in an active investigation.”

“Then why are you messing with Trautmann?” Katz asked.

“Mr. Trautmann came to our attention as a close associate of Gerard Nassouli,” Mike answered.

“Why did you assault Trautmann?” Katz asked me. I glanced at Mike. “Don’t look at him, goddamn it, look at me. Answer my fucking question,” Katz snarled. Mike nodded.

“Trautmann assaulted me. I defended myself.”

“That’s your story. Could be he’ll want to press charges,” Katz said.

“Could be I’ll do the same—against him, and Slim there, too.” I flicked a thumb at Pell. Pell’s face clenched, and for a second he was going to come across the table, but DiPaolo put a hand on his arm. Mike gave me a warning look.

“Counselor,” Shelly DiPaolo said, “we’re reaching the end of useful conversation here. Paulie pointed out a few minutes ago that your client’s name is not protected information. And since you didn’t give him one of your slick, friendly answers, I assume you know it too. So, what’s it going to be? You going to answer questions here, or in front of a grand jury?” Mike smiled at her.

“Mr. Conaway’s point is well taken. But I’m sure you know that if you want to bring me before a grand jury, you’ll need probable cause. From where I sit, I don’t see that you have it.”

Shelly DiPaolo was perfectly still, staring at Mike. Katz and Conaway shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Only Pell looked pleased—excited, in fact. When DiPaolo spoke, her voice was menacing.

“ ‘From where you sit,’ huh? Then you must be sitting with your head up your ass, Metz. How about that your client has knowledge of criminal conduct material to this investigation? How about that you and March have knowledge of documents sought as evidence by this investigation? How about that you and March have conspired to tamper with evidence and witnesses? How about that the two of you are interfering with the conduct of a federal investigation? How’s that for probable cause? How about I subpoena every fucking piece of paper you have on this case, and you spend the next six months Xeroxing and testifying? How does that look from where you sit, asshole?” Mike and DiPaolo looked at each other, without expression, for a long moment. Then Mike sighed.

“Frankly, I’m disappointed, Ms. DiPaolo. And I think, perhaps, I should be speaking to someone else.”

The room was still and full of brittle silence. Everyone was looking at Shelly. She was pale, and her jaw was rigid. She stared at Mike, who seemed distant in the way that Pluto is distant. Then slowly and without rhythm, she began to drum her red nails on the tabletop. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper.

“I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Metz, but it’s a dangerous fucking game,” she said.

“I’m not playing at anything,” Mike said, his voice steady, but with an edge to it now. “And if I was, I wouldn’t be playing with you. As you said, I’m not that stupid. I don’t want much here, and mostly what I want is to keep my client out of your way. His dealings with Nassouli ended nearly two decades ago, and to the best of my knowledge he’s done nothing that would warrant your attention.

“Our only interest in Nassouli—in the whole investigation—relates to Nassouli’s personal files. And I’d think you’d be curious too. If Nassouli has the files, and you have Nassouli, then I’d think you’d want to know if he had a side business going. If he doesn’t have the files, then I’d think you’d want to know if someone—maybe on your team, or on Neary’s—had them and was up to no good. I’d like to work something out with you, Ms. DiPaolo, in a way that benefits us both, and protects my client. If you don’t want to do that . . . well, that’s unfortunate. But if that’s the case, then maybe your colleague in San Diego, Mr. Perez, would be interested.

“So, if you think you can make probable cause out of all that smoke—fine, take your shot. But if you do, I think you’ll be missing an opportunity. I think we both will. ”

The rain was loud on the window. Conaway and Katz looked at Mike with disbelief, and maybe a little admiration. Pell looked impatient and a little confused, wondering when the blood was going to flow. Shelly looked down at her fingers, still drumming on the table. She shook her head in wonder and finally spoke, in low tones.

“I don’t believe this. You son of a bitch, you’re trying to strong-arm me. You’ve got nothing to trade with, and you’re trying to strong-arm me. If nothing else, you’ve got balls, Metz.” She laughed harshly. Then she leaned forward and pointed at Mike. “Well, enjoy them while you can, asshole, ’cause by the end of the day, they’re going to be in my pocket. And you two,” she pointed at Neary and me, “I’m going to see if I can’t have your licenses tacked up on my wall by the end of the week— just for giggles.” We didn’t say anything. No one said anything, except Pell, who couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Now get out of here,” DiPaolo said, “I’ve got work to do.”

Chapter Twenty-one

“Very dramatic, that business with Perez,” I said to Mike. He, Neary, and I were in the lobby of One St. Andrews. Mike shrugged.

“Clutching at straws,” he said. We looked out at the rain and at the people crossing the plaza, leaning into the wind.

“I guess it could’ve been worse,” I said, though I wasn’t sure how. Neary helped me out.

“Yeah, there could’ve been gunfire.”

“We won’t know how bad it was until we see what DiPaolo does. It’s her play to call,” Mike said, buttoning his raincoat.

“She made her intentions pretty clear,” Neary said.

Mike shrugged again. “Maybe. I’ve got a meeting uptown. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.” Then he turned up his collar, opened his umbrella, and walked out into the rain. Neary and I looked at each other.

“You talk to your management?” I asked

“Yesterday,” he said.

“How’d they take it?”

“The possibility that someone in our shop could be involved in a blackmail scheme scared the shit out of them. Enough so they actually stopped to think, and sort of understood why I’d let you in the door. But the jury’s still out, and a lot will depend on how things go with DiPaolo.”

“They tell Parsons about it?” I asked.

“Not yet. They want to see what happens here first.” We were quiet.

“I’m sorry about all this, Tom,” I said after a while.

He held up his hand and shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I got to get to the office,” he said, and he belted his raincoat and walked out. I had no office, and at the moment I had no work, so I went home.

It was not quite eleven when I got back to my place. The shades were up on the tall windows, and as I stood before them the chill outside seemed to seep in through the glass, with the gray light and the boiling sound of the rain. My side ached terrifically under the elastic bandage.

The tension of the meeting had receded, and only weariness and an inchoate anger remained. I felt like someone had picked my pockets or slashed my tires. The case had been yanked out from under me, and I didn’t know by whom. But maybe I was too tired to do anything with my anger, even if it had a direction. Right now, all I wanted was to wrap myself in my coat and sit down and close my eyes and listen to the rain. And if it never stopped pouring, that was okay with me.

I shook my head. I’d been spending altogether too much time sitting in the dark lately. I got rid of my suit and tie and put on jeans, a turtleneck, a warm sweater, and waterproof boots. I clipped the Glock behind my back, found a waterproof shell, a long-billed hat, and my photos of Trautmann. Sometimes futile activity beats no activity at all.

Central Park wasn’t empty, but the people were few and far between, and most of them were walking unhappy-looking dogs. The trees were black and shiny, and the low spots had begun to flood. On the assumption that, if she were in the park, Faith Herman would’ve found some shelter on a day like today, I focused my search on places where a person could get in out of the rain. After two hours of squishing around, I found her.

The Delacorte Theatre is just south of the Great Lawn, right near the Turtle Pond—around where 81st Street would be if it kept on going through the park. The Delacorte is an outdoor venue, open only in summer, when the Public Theatre stages Shakespeare in the Park. I found Faith Herman, and her shopping cart, beneath the deep awning that shelters the Delacorte’s ticket windows. She was sorting cans. Her hair was just as wild, her face just as wrinkled, her blue sneakers just as dirty as when I’d seen her last. She ignored my approach, but looked up apprehensively when I stopped under the awning. The rain was loud, and I was nearly shouting when I spoke.

“Faith, it’s me—John March. Do you remember, we spoke in the park, a couple of weeks ago?” Her eyes darted around, and she looked scared and confused for a moment. Then recognition came.

“You’re that guy who kicked the shit out of those prick kids,” she said. She studied the side of my face. “Looks like somebody’s been kicking the shit out of you.”

“They’ve been trying, Faith,” I said. “I need you to look at something for me.” I took out three photos of Trautmann, two profiles and a full-face. “Have you seen this man before?” She was tentative, but she took them. She peered down at them for some time, then looked up and handed the photos back to me.

“That’s him,” she said.

“That’s who?”

“The fax guy. The guy who paid me to send it.”

“You’re sure?”

“That’s him, I tell you.” I let out a deep breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. She looked at me, expectantly.

“You need some cash?” I asked. She smiled. I gave her a hundred bucks. “Where can I reach you if I need to talk to you again? Where do you sleep?” She gave me the name of a shelter in the West 70s. She paused, and a shy look came across her face.

“ ’Course, that’s just where I leave my body at night,” she said. I didn’t speak, but I must have looked confused. She went on. “You know, when the nighttime comes, and I have to put my body someplace?” I must have looked stupid to her. “Jesus’ car—I can’t bring my body in Jesus’ car. So every night when Jesus comes for me, I need to leave it someplace. Then I get in and we can drive all over the city, and over to Rome and Winnipeg, Boise too. All over. It’s a real nice car—a big Lincoln, dark blue. Rides smooth. But you can’t bring your body in. And no newspapers, either.” She started sorting cans again. I stood there for a while, watching her, listening to water hit the awning, like a rain of stones.

It was nearly three when I got back home. I was cold and damp, despite my rain gear. I peeled off my clothes and unwound my bandage and stood under a hot shower for a long while. I thought about Faith Herman. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away—sometimes all at once. Faith was nuts, at least some of the time, but enough to make her ID of Trautmann pretty much worthless to anyone but me. But what the hell—more than likely, it was all beside the point. I let the hot water beat down on my neck and shoulders.

I was just winding the elastic bandage around my ribs when the phone rang. Metz, I thought, and I pulled on a T-shirt and picked up. But it wasn’t Mike. It was a call from upstate. It was Donald Stennis.

“Get you in the middle of something?” he asked in his gravelly voice.

“No,” I said.

We talked for a long time, as we always did—at first about Burr County, and the news and latest rumors. Donald shared them with me in his rough, rumbling bass. He told me about the three genius brothers who had torched their boss’s car and blown up his gas grill—and video-taped themselves doing it; and the two kitchen chemists, just back from eighteen months of state hospitality, who were cooking up methamphetamine again—Donald hadn’t figured out where yet; and the battling welder who had laid her husband out in the Tidy Shack parking lot last Friday, busting his nose for the fourth time that I could recall. He went on and on; I knew most of the players, even after three years. There were a few new actors—the ones driving around the county at night, dumping hospital waste from Buffalo by the roadsides, the guy poisoning coyotes, and cutting off their paws and ears and tails—but not too many. And some things were immutable—like the announcement from the local Republicans, a year before the next election, that again they would have no candidate to run against Donald.

He told me how the fall had been for him. He talked about hunting in the bright woods and fishing in the icy streams and lakes, about the deer he had taken and the fish he hadn’t, about the bear that was coming too close to the Green Gorge Trailer Court and the one that had nearly killed Van Adder’s brown mutt, about the eagle found dead by the interstate, and the first snowfall, four weeks ago.