Authors: Steven Gore
Power Blind (20 page)
T
he comb-over was missing.
“What happened?” Gage asked, as the deputy removed John Porzolkiewski's handcuffs at the doorway to the visiting room on the seventh floor of the Hall of Justice. Porzolkiewski's hair was clipped short all around and the saddle-shaped patch of skin on the top of his head was pale and bald.
Porzolkiewski settled into a chair across from Gage as the windowed metal door slammed shut.
“I got a look at myself in a mirror in the psych ward. It seemed kind of ridiculous all of a sudden.”
“Staring at the death penalty can suck the vanity out of anyone.”
Porzolkiewski drew back. “The what?”
“You haven't heard?”
“No one talks to me. They think I'm crazy.”
“That's not their fault.”
Porzolkiewski shrugged. “Maybe it wasn't such a good strategy on my part.”
“I heard from Spike Pacheco the DA's death penalty committee is reviewing at your case, deciding whether to charge you with special circumstances. They're probably going to do it.”
Porzolkiewski smirked. “You here to celebrate?”
“I'm here to finish the conversation you marched out of the other day.”
“Why the renewed interest in my welfare?”
“I have no interest in your welfare, at least not directly.”
“That's a start.”
Gage flipped open a manila folder lying on the table. “Let's begin with the things you've lied to me about.”
Porzolkiewski threw up his hands. “Not this again.”
“This again.” Gage fixed his gaze on Porzolkiewski. “Why did you lie to me about not having Brandon Meyer's wallet?”
“Because it was like having that asshole by the balls, that's why.”
“How? It's just a wallet. Everything in it is replaceable. It's more like you were standing there gripping the crotch of an empty pair of pants.”
Porzolkiewski smiled. “You should be a writer.”
His smile faded and he seemed to disappear into a memory.
“My wife used to write,” Porzolkiewski finally said. “Mostly travel articles after we went on vacations. A lot of times for the AAA magazine. I was reading through some of them a couple of weeks ago. I'd forgotten how much more she saw in the world than I did, and we were looking at the same damn things.” Porzolkiewski peered at Gage. “You ever take a picture of something the same time as somebody else and your picture is shit and theirs is magic?”
“I don't even bother trying anymore. I just hand the camera to my wife.”
Porzolkiewski folded his hands behind his head, and then stared down.
“What a sweetheart. What she ever saw in me . . . There is an expression I remember from when I was a boy in Poland.
Milo´s´c spada znienacka.
Love comes unexpected, and that's how she came to me.”
He dropped his hands to the table and looked up again. “I don't get it. Why are you here?”
“I went by your shop and talked to your night clerk.”
“Suzanne.”
“Suzanne. She said she filled in for you for an afternoon three days before Charlie Palmer died.”
“Why'd you believe her, when you wouldn't believe me?”
“She showed me the delivery receipts she signed. Some of them were time-stamped by the food service companies.”
“I told you I didn't do it.”
Gage held his palms up at Porzolkiewski.
“I'm not ready to go that far,” Gage said. “Once you knew the layout of Charlie's house, it would've been easy to sneak back in.”
“But I didn't sneak back in. I didn't. There was no need to. The guy was a wreck. He fell apart the moment he saw me.”
“You mean he was terrified, thinking you were going to finish him off.”
“That's not whatâ” Porzolkiewski caught himself. “I'm not talking about that. It has nothing to do with why I'm in here.”
“So what happened when you went into Charlie's bedroom?”
“He acted like he knew I'd be coming. Maybe he heard the physical therapist talking to me. It was weird. The therapist looked at me like he knew who I was.”
Porzolkiewski paused, then shook away the thought.
“Who knows? Anyway, Charlie tries to say something, but gets all choked up, sort of gagging. I thought he was going to suffocate himself. The therapist came running in and propped him up to get him through it. He said I should leave, so I did.”
Porzolkiewski patted his thigh. “I even had Meyer's wallet in my pocket. I was going to give it to him or trade it to him. But then I forgot about it until I got home that night.”
“What about the ten thousand dollars you told me you got for the wallet?”
“It wasn't for the wallet. It was for not telling the media about what I found inside. Do the math. Meyer plus condom plus Tenderloin equals some really bad press, for him and his brother both.”
“Who gave you the money?”
“I don't know his name. He had a Texas accent. Looked like that country singer, the one who always wears the pastel shirts and pressed Levi's. The guy who sang âI Hate Everything.' I love that song. It's practically my anthem.”
“George Strait?”
“Yeah, except younger and darker hair. And doesn't smile.”
“What did you tell him about the wallet?”
“I said I threw it in the bay.”
“Where's the money he gave you?”
“In the bank. I divided it up into six thousand dollars and four thousand dollars and deposited it. I didn't want the bank reporting a suspicious transaction to the feds. Ten grand in cash all at once.”
“It
was
a suspicious transaction.”
Porzolkiewski smiled. “But I didn't want them to know it.”
Gage took a September calendar out of the folder. “Here's the test question. Did you go back to Charlie's house?”
“You going to walk out?”
“That's up to you.”
“Yeah, I went back. The night before he died.”
“You passed the test. The police neighborhood canvass turned up a neighbor who described your Corona right down to the missing hubcaps. A wreck like that in a neighborhood like Russian Hill is practically probable cause.”
“But I didn't go inside the house.” Porzolkiewski raised his right hand. “I swear. I didn't go in.”
“I know that, too. The neighbor was watching you the whole time, cell phone already with 911 punched in, thumb poised to press send, just waiting for you to get out of the car. Until I talked to Jeffrey Starkâ”
Gage felt the conflict between Stark's story and Porzolkiewski's, but wasn't ready to challenge him and maybe provoke him into marching out again. There were things Gage needed to find out, even before he confronted Stark again.
“Who's Jeffrey Stark?”
“The physical therapist. I thought you'd driven over to see if Charlie was still alive.”
“No. I wanted to go yell at him, make him confess. Looking pathetic isn't a confession, but . . .”
Porzolkiewski's voice faded and he pursed his lips.
“But what?”
“But then I saw his wife through the living room window. Is she Mexican or something?”
“Half.”
“Anyway, I saw her sitting by herself, just staring. Made me think of my wife. It kind of took the wind out of me.” Porzolkiewski shook his head. “I regretted it later, after he was dead. I figured I missed my chance to force him to tell the truth. I was still pissed off when you came by the house the first time.”
Gage removed photocopies of a list of names, some in English and some in Arabic, and numbers on a scrap of paper and of both sides of a credit card, then slid them across the table.
“Why didn't you give me copies of these?” Gage asked. “They were found in Meyer's wallet when the police searched your house.
Porzolkiewski glanced at the pages.
“I figured I'd keep something for leverage if I needed it,” Porzolkiewski said. “All these names and numbers must mean something. And the credit card didn't seem right.”
“What didn't look right?” Gage already knew the answer, but was more interested in how far Porzolkiewski had gotten.
“The expiration date. It was like the way my parents wrote them in Poland. Instead of writing the month, then the day. They did it the other way around. I think they still do it like that in Europe.” Porzolkiewski tapped date on the card. “See? Instead of March 30, it's 30 March.”
Gage pointed at the list of Arabic names. “You figure out what all these mean?”
“Other than it looking like he was involved with some kind of terrorists?” Porzolkiewski cocked his head toward Gage. “They make any sense to you?”
“No. But I'll find out.” Gage changed the subject. “What are you going to do in court tomorrow?”
“It depends on whether you're getting me out of here.”
“I'm a long way from that. You've lied to me too many times. You still could've done it or hired someone else. And you were in the Delta at the right time to poison Karopian.”
Porzolkiewski's face flushed and he pushed himself to his feet.
“Not that again.” Gage shook his head and pointed at the chair. “Sit.”
Porzolkiewski glared at Gage, then dropped back down.
“It's going to take some time,” Gage said.
“How much time?”
“I don't know.”
“Maybe my next phone call should be to the
San Francisco Chronicle
.”
“What are you going to say? TIMCO, the San Francisco Police Department, a respected lawyer, and a federal judge conspired to frame you for murdering two people who you hated for covering up the unproven cause of an explosion that killed your son fourteen years ago? And combine that with your recent trip to the psych wardâ”
“What do you want me to do? Just sit on my hands?”
“Exactly.”
“What do I say in court?”
“Tell the judge you need a couple of weeks to hire a lawyer. He'll be so thrilled you're finally talking, he'll give it to you.”
“Should I get one?”
“You guilty?”
“No. I'm not guilty.”
“Then don't waste the money.”
“It won't cost me anything.”
“How do you figure?”
Porzolkiewski smirked. “A bunch of those media-hungry cable TV lawyers contacted Suzanne at the store. Any of them will represent me for free just to keep their faces on television. They're excited as hell. They all think I'm a serial murderer.”
“Instead of what?”
Porzolkiewski paused for a moment, then shrugged and sighed.
“I guess that's up to you.”
I
t's the White House calling,” Landon Meyer's secretary announced over the intercom.
“I'll take it.” He punched the flashing button. “This is Landon Meyer.”
A female voice spoke, “Please stand by for the president.”
Landon pulled up his sleeve, then watched the second hand on the 1958 Elgin Durabalance his father had left him. He could gauge the importance of the call by how long the president kept him waiting.
“Good afternoon, Landon.”
Five seconds. The president was desperate.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President.”
“Three weeks.”
“I know, Mr. President.”
“And New Hampshire is three and a half months away. You know what I'm saying?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I know what you're saying.”
“Let's get out there and kick those last two butts in line.”
B
randon picked up on the first ring. Landon heard a crash in the background.
“What's that?”
“A waiter dropped a tray. I'm at Tadich Grill with Anston.”
“Where do we stand with my colleagues from Ohio and Massachusetts?”
“Hold on. Let me step outside.”
Landon heard shuffling as Brandon rose, then footsteps, then street traffic.
“They each wanted a million,” Brandon said, standing next to a parking meter in front of the restaurant. “Part for them, and part for PACs and 527s.”
“Can we cover it?”
“Sure. We've got more than that from the Silicon Valley group. But the problem is how to explain a huge influx of money so far in advance of their primaries. They're afraid it'll seem like a payoff coming this close to the vote.”
“It's not a damn payoff.” Landon's voice rose. “They want to vote our way, they just don't want to pay the political cost.”
“And what if Starsky and Hutch don't get confirmed? Then every dime will get reported.”
“There's no turning back now. Get it done.”
T
he big man sitting in the Yukon a block away punched off the recorder as Brandon slipped back inside the restaurant.
Half a conversation was better than none.
Shakir Mohammed studied the photocopy as he lay propped on the rented hospital bed in his room in the Oakland loft. His laptop was resting on an over-bed table.
“Did you explain to your parents why you wanted to stay here?” Gage asked.
“I just said that since you were continuing to pay my salary, I should try to do something for it.”
Gage glanced down at the chart. “What do you think?”
“They're Arabic words all right.
Naamah
is âostrich.'
Matar
is ârain.' ” Shakir smiled. “But I don't think that's the important thing.” He turned his laptop toward Gage. Centered on the screen was a picture of the night sky.
“They're stars?” Gage asked.
“Exactly.”
Gage inspected the photo. “I'm not much into astronomy . . .”
“Pegasus. They're the stars that make up the Pegasus constellation.”
Gage shook his head. “I should have guessed. It was Charlie's only hobby.” He pointed at the list. “And the numbers?”
“It's probably money. Seven point one million. Nine point six million.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because the first number below the column is the routing number for Citibank branches in New York City. And below that is the number for the Cayman Exchange Bank. It's on their Web site. It uses that account at Citibank to accept dollar deposits from U.S.-based customers.”
Gage paused as the acronym floated around in his mind.
“CEB . . . CEB . . . hold on a second.”
He walked over to where Alex Z was working in the next room.
“You have Charlie's spreadsheet handy?” Gage asked.
Alex Z reached for a stack of papers.
“No, on your computer.”
Alex Z leaned over and bounced his mouse around the screen.
“Show me the author information.”
A few mouse clicks.
“CEB, boss.”
“Cayman Exchange Bank.”
Gage was annoyed at himself for not catching on to it earlier, but then recalled that the bank was generally known in the trade as CXB and used that acronym as its logo.
Alex Z straightened up. “Why would a bank send a spreadsheet? Why didn't they just mail out statements at the end of the month?”
“Because that's what you get when you have a banker in your pocket.”
T
en minutes later they had their first breakthrough in cracking the codes on Charlie Palmer's spreadsheet.
“The second column isn't money,” Alex Z said, pointing Shakir's laptop screen. “They're dates: July 1st, September 6th, October 12th, November 4th, like that. And they match what appear to be money transfers on the spreadsheet.”
Gage looked back and forth between the spreadsheet and the list of names.
“Maybe that means Meyer was tracking when the money arrived, or was supposed to arrive, and Charlie was doing the accounting. And the stars' names are codes for whoever sent it.”
Alex Z scanned down the columns of figures. “But that only accounts for the money coming in, and we still don't know where it's from.”
“This is what I want you to do,” Gage said. “Go back as far as you can. Try to match all these names and dates to the cases Meyer handled as a lawyer and as a judge. And call Socorro and get whatever telephone bills she has. Maybe we can recreate what Charlie was doing from his call records.”
Gage paused and shook his head, thinking of the constellation and of Charlie and of how he'd spent his life.
“I think ultimately we'll be turning from Greek mythology to Shakespeare,” Gage said.
“What do you mean?” Alex Z asked.
“The fault wasn't in Charlie's stars, it was in himself.” Gage looked over at the wall calendar. “And whatever that was, we've got to figure it out fast. A week before Charlie died he had an argument with Brandon about something that was going to happen soon.”
“You think the nine million dollars he took for himself figures in somehow?”
“One way or the other.”
“Then why aren't they coming after it?”
“Probably because it might expose their scheme. But it's only a matter of time. Then they'll be coming after it, real hard.”
Gage headed toward the door. His final words told him he had a call to make. He reached for his cell phone as he started down the stairs to the street level.
“Is anything wrong?” Socorro asked.
“No,” Gage said. “But I was thinking maybe you and the kids need some time away.”
“Your timing is perfect. They have a break from school coming up, and we were talking about a trip together.”
“Would you like to stay at my father's old ranch outside of Nogales?”
“That would be wonderful, but I thought you'd rented it out.”
“Just the land for grazing. The house has too many memories to let anyone live there.”