Authors: Steven Gore
“What happened?”
“One of their husbands smuggled out the design and sold it to OptiCom, which used it as the backbone for their bid to wire Western Europe, and they won. I chased him around Europe for a couple of weeks, then cornered him in Zurich. I brought him back and delivered him to the FBI.”
“Why'd he do it?”
“Jealousy. He thought his wife was cheating on him.”
“Was she?”
“I don't think so, but it still wouldn't justify what he did.”
Spike looked over at an abandoned newspaper on the next table, an unopened business section lying on top. “How much was the European contract worth?”
“Billions and billions and billions. OptiCom's stock went through the roof. The world's biggest fiber-optic company doubled in value overnight.”
“I'll bet their stock is going to tank when this hits the news. I mean really plummet.” Spike smiled, then rubbed his hands together. “Maybe it's time for a little insider trading. I've been doing a little reading. Seems there's a way to make a lot of money if you know a stock is going to crash.”
Gage smiled back. “Too bad you don't know of one.”
“Yeah.” Spike sighed. “Way too bad. I guess I'll have to keep making money the old-fashioned way. Slurping at the public trough.”
Gage pointed at the envelope. “What's next?”
“Retrace my steps, see if I missed anything. But I'll lay off for a while if you're going to do something. You're probably in a better position anyway, what with the attorney-client privilege issues.”
“That's fine. I'll make it quick. I need to make sure whatever Charlie was up to doesn't snap back at Socorro again.”
Spike and Gage both alerted to the Jaliscos leaning back against the window next to them. The newcomer's hand was under his sweatshirt.
“Something's going sour,” Gage said. “Maybe it's a rip-off.”
The newcomer angled his chair away from the Jaliscos, giving himself a view of the rest of the restaurant. He glanced around, his eyes hesitating when they fell on the cook and the waiter behind the counter to Gage's left, then on Gage and Spike, as if counting the number of witnesses who'd have to be eliminated.
Gage caught the waiter's eye, then tilted his head toward the kitchen. The waiter nodded his understanding: If two witnesses escaped there would be no reason kill the remaining ones.
The newcomer caught the motion and pushed himself to his feet. Seconds later all three dealers were waving guns at one another, then at the waiter, the cook, Spike, and Gage.
Spike slipped his right hand under the table and rested it on his gun while Gage rose with his hands up and eased toward the counter. Three barrels tracked his movement. The newcomer yelled, “Freeze, asshole.” But Gage took a final step, coming to a stop in front of the cook and waiter.
The waiter pulled the cook to the floor with him and used Gage and the counter for cover as they crawled into the kitchen and toward the back door.
Gage lowered his hands and pointed at the weapons.
“Why don't you guys take your business outside?”
The Jaliscos swung their guns toward the newcomer.
Spike repeated Gage's question as an order. “
Tomen sus negocios afuera
.”
He was now aiming his semiautomatic at the Jaliscos, his elbows propped on the table and using a double-handed grip.
“Just walk away,” Spike said. “Nobody's gonna stop you.”
The newcomer looked back and forth between Spike and Gage, but spoke to the Jaliscos: “
Estamos chidos
.” We're cool.
The three looked at one another, then one of the Jaliscos reached down for the briefcase of cash, while the newcomer picked up his bag. They backed toward the entrance, then slipped their guns into their pockets as they turned and stepped outside into the glare of the afternoon sunâand into the sights of racking police shotguns.
F
ollowing six cars behind Gage as he drove up Mission Street toward his office, the Texan spoke into his cell phone.
“He met with a Mexican cop for lunch. Then a little fun and games with some narco-wetbacks.”
“Could you tell what Gage was up to?”
The Texan snapped back: “You think I can read his mind?”
“Why didn't you get a table next to them?”
“And get caught in a crossfire?”
“What do you mean, crossfire?”
“It's not important. Anyway, it would've been stupid to go inside. Gage is like a bloodhound. His nose snapped toward those beaners the second they walked in the place. He would've sniffed me out in a heartbeat.”
W
here do we stand?” Gage asked Alex Z the next morning.
Alex Z was hunched over his keyboard, his face inches from one of the monitors standing on his desk.
“I decrypted a spreadsheet using the name of Charlie's boat, but everything in it is coded except the numbers.”
Alex Z pressed a couple of keys. A file opened. Gage saw subtotaled and totaled columns with dates at the top, and to the far left, a column of gibberish, a mixture of letters and numbers.
“What's your guess?” Gage asked.
“There are no negative numbers, so it's probably not money going in and then coming out again. So if it's really money, it's either all in or all out.”
“How much?”
Alex Z scrolled to the bottom of the spreadsheet. “About ten million on this one.”
“Maybe he was tracking financial transactions in a case. Have you tried decoding the label column?”
Alex Z scratched his head. “I was hoping you wouldn't ask that, boss.”
“Stymied?”
“Yeah.”
Gage smiled. “You'll figure it out. Anything else in there?”
“Lots and lots. I'm still trying to decode them.”
Gage glanced down at a stack of billing records. Alex Z's eyes followed.
“I sorted those by case and by date,” Alex Z said. “But there's not much there. About thirteen thousand outstanding, spread among three cases.”
“I guess he really was closing down. Viz said Charlie used to clear about three hundred thousand a year.”
Alex Z pointed at the printouts. “All he had going was the yacht tax fraud, an earth-moving accident that killed an oil executive's kid, and a dispute between Paramount and Universal over film rights.”
“What about Brandon Meyer's mugging? Did he put time in for that?”
“No. But he kept all the receipts. Cab fare. Posters. Restaurant receipts.”
“Restaurant receipts? From where?”
“Ground Up Coffee Shop on Geary. One from a week before he got shot and one just the day before.”
Gage recognized the name. He'd remembered driving past it on his way from downtown out to the Presidio. It was a few blocks away from where Charlie had been shot and from where Spike suspected a Checker cab had dropped him off.
“Look and see whether he saved any Ground Up receipts from other visits,” Gage said. “Maybe it was his regular place to meet people in that part of town.”
“Already did. It doesn't show up at all in his accounting records, but neither do these two.”
“Maybe was waiting to enter them until the case was over,” Gage said.
“It would be the first time. I checked the tax fraud and the other cases. He entered the costs the same day he spent the money.”
“Could be that he was getting a little lax since he was near the end of the career, then got shot and trapped inside his body.”
Gage scanned the spreadsheet displayed on the monitor.
“Why would Charlie encrypt this and code it too?” Gage asked. “One or the other should've been enough.” He reached for the mouse, clicked twice, opening the hidden document properties, including the author and the company that created it.
“He didn't put this spreadsheet together,” Alex Z said, taping the author field on the screen. “Who is CEB?”
“Or what is CEB? It's also listed as the company.”
“I wonder whether CEB sent it over coded, then Charlie encrypted it for extra security.”
“Maybe,” Gage said. “How many encrypted files are left?”
“About thirty. Plus two encrypted folders. I have no idea how many files are in those. I haven't been able to decrypt his password file yet.”
“Print out whatever you can and have Tansy put them in my safe.” Gage settled back in his chair and stared at the screen. “This is all very interesting, butâ”
“But it may have nothing to do with why Charlie was shot.”
“Exactly. Charlie had a lot to hide. We could uncover a dozen different schemes, but still never find out which was the one that ended with the bullet that cut him in half.”
Y
ou Toby?” Gage asked the twenty-five-year-old steaming milk behind the granite counter at Ground Up Coffee Shop.
“That's me,” Toby answered, looking up at Gage. “Is this about the car accident? I talked to the adjuster yesterday.”
Gage shook his head. “A customer.” He pointed toward the front window. “And about something that happened down the street.”
“Sure. I got a break in ten. You want something to drink?”
“Decaf.”
“Cappuccino? Espresso? Mocha Macchiato?”
“Just a decaf coffee.”
Toby grinned. “You must be from out of town.”
“Thirty years ago.”
Toby waved off Gage's money and said he'd bring the coffee to his table.
Gage grabbed a
New York Times
strung on a three-foot wooden dowel from a wall mount, then took the rear table in the narrow café. A few minutes later, Toby delivered the coffee and sat down.
“So what's up, Decaf?”
Gage pulled a photo of Charlie Palmer from his suit pocket.
“You remember a cop coming in here a few months ago asking about this guy?”
Toby took the photo. “Sure. Different picture, but I think it's the same guy. Got shot or something, right?”
“Yeah.”
Toby set it down. “He doing okay?”
“He didn't make it.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Toby paused and shook his head, then pointed at Gage's coffee. “You want sugar or something?”
“No thanks.”
Gage took a confirmatory sip.
“What's your part in this?” Toby asked.
“I'm a private investigator.”
Gage handed him a business card.
“Graham Gage,” Toby said, reading it line by line. “I heard of you. This guy's family must have big, big bucks.”
“Not so big.”
“I didn't mean that. I'm happy to help out. No charge.”
Toby inspected Gage's face. “How come you don't look like a PI?”
“How is one supposed to look?”
“You know, grizzled. And not so tall. You look like a guy who thinks for a living, not somebody who mixes it up in back alleys.”
“Mixes it up with whom?”
Toby shrugged. “The bad guys, I guess.”
Gage smiled. “I'll go look for some after we're done and let you know how it turns out.”
Toby picked up the photo again. “I think this is the same guy who was in here, but I'm not sure.” He rocked his head side to side. “Maybe I'm just remembering the other photo.”
“Assuming it was him, was he alone?”
“Assuming it was him, no. I was thinking about it a while back. I have a really vague recollection Mr. Comb-Over was with him. A white guy, early sixties, gray hairâwhat there was of it.”
“Has he been here more than once?”
“Yeah. You don't forget a hair felony like that.” Toby rested his palm on top of his head, then waved his fingers. “The kind that flaps in the wind.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last week. That's what got me thinking. I'm off Tuesday and Wednesday, so it must've been Thursday or Friday . . . I think Friday.”
“Driving or walking?”
Toby turned and squinted toward the front window. “Driving. He needed change for the meter. An early eighties Toyota Corona.”
“You know your Toyotas. They haven't imported that model for over two decades.”
“My dad owned one for like twenty years. I'll never forget it.” Toby grinned. “It was the first place I got laid. Except Dad's was white. Comb-Over's was brown.”
“Anything distinctive?”
“Just what you'd expect with a car that old. Faded.” Toby closed his eyes. “No hubcaps.” He opened them again. “At least on the passenger side.”
“What about the plate? Regular or personalized?”
“Don't know.” Toby pointed at a parking space directly in front of the store window. “He had that spot. All I could see was the side of the car.”
“Can you get it for me if he comes by?”
“I'll call you right when he walks in the door. But . . .” Apprehension clouded Toby's face. “But he's not the shooter is he? I don't wantâ”
“No, he's just the beginning of the trail.”
Toby held up Gage's business card. “You want me to tell him to call you if he comes in?”
Gage shook his head. “I think I'd rather he doesn't know I'm working on this. It'll give me a chance to deal with him fresh.”
L
andon Meyer found himself pacing as he read over the updated FBI background reports on his nominees, Starsky and Hutch. They both had told the truth when he'd grilled them in August. They'd remained as clean as they were at the time of their appeals court confirmation hearings less than a year earlier. And both had done as they were instructed. Neither had made any public statements except from the bench. Each had avoided sarcasm and hyperbole in their usually dissenting opinions. Landon had read each one himself before they were filed to make sure. No verb stronger than “disagree,” no adverb more rabid than “respectfully,” no adjective more extreme than “learned,” and no noun more pejorative than “colleague.”
Landon recalled fuming all through the Ardino confirmation. Not only had Ardino left fifty typhoonlike speeches in his wake, but his fifteen years of opinions had blown the door open to the Democrats' exploration of nearly every major constitutional issue facing the Court: presidential power, the death penalty, torture, the role of international law, and the legacy of
Brown v. Board of Education
. It also hurt that Ardino's forced and ominous smile engendered queasiness even among his supporters. The good news was he knew how to play the political game that was at the heart of confirmation hearings. The bad news was he appeared to be playing. His weeping wife fleeing the hearing room even seemed to Landon to be a stunt.
Not this time. Not with Landon as Judiciary Committee chairman.
Starsky and Hutch were going to play it straight and their wives were going sit behind them as poised and gracious as Laura Bush. If they didn't, they'd be doing a whole lot of crying for real, in private, in his office.
Landon walked to his desk and picked up the telephone. Committee staff lawyer Norvil Whithers answered on the first ring and arrived a few minutes later. He brought with him the list of lawyers appointed by the White House to Starsky and Hutch's murder boards. These teams of experts would question and requestion the nominees on every subject of potential interest to the senators on the committee until they had perfected sufficiently vague and mind-numbing answers that would cause the opposition to surrender, wearied of combat and defeated by obfuscation.
Landon directed Whithers to a seat in front of his desk, but kept pacing as he read the thirty-name roster: current deputies in the Justice Department, others who'd gone back to their national law firms, members of the White House staff, attorneys for the Republican National Committee, a general counsel to an oil company, two staffers from conservative think tanks.
“This is good,” Landon said, coming to a stop behind his desk, “but I think we need a broader focus. Having smooth answers to hard questions won't be enough.”
Whithers pointed at the list. “It seems pretty comprehensive to me.”
Landon dropped into his chair, then drummed his pen on the edge of his desk.
“Let me ask you something,” Landon said. “What are the first polls going to say when the president announces the names?”
Whithers shrugged.
“I'll tell you. The president gets the benefit of the doubt. Fifty-five percent in favor. Thirty against. And fifteen undecided”âLandon smiledâ“because they don't have a clue what the Supreme Court really does.”
“Sounds about right.”
“But after the Democrats scare the hell out of the public and the media beats up the nominees a little?”
“It'll probably flop the other way.” It was Whithers's turn to smile. “With fewer undecided because more people will realize how these nine little dictators control their lives.”
Landon glanced at a photo on his bookshelf showing him standing before a group of reporters, digital recorders and microphones extended toward him.
“Liberals make fun of FOX News,” Landon said, “but there isn't one of their regular viewers who can't name at least five members of the Court and six members of the Cabinet and who don't know what an oil depletion allowance isâand none of them will be among the undecided.”
He looked back at Whithers.
“There's no question the Democrats will want to filibuster the nominations,” Landon said. “Starsky and Hutch will have to use the hearings to reach out to the public through the television screen like they were George Clooney and Brad Pitt, and flip the numbers back by the time they reach the full Senate. Make a filibuster seem like treason.”
“But these guys are judges,” Whithers said, “not actors.”
Landon smiled again. “They will be when I'm done with them.”
L
andon picked up his telephone as the door closed behind Whithers.
“Brandon? . . . We need to go Hollywood with Starsky and Hutch . . . I don't know how much altogether . . . Let's start with fifty thousand for acting coaches and a million for media to go after the opposition and see how far that gets us.”