Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  “Some mess.”

  “Yeah. Now the mayor’s on the PC’s ass about no more high-speed chases. Says it endangers the civilian population.”

  Ben took the subway back into Manhattan. The car he rode in was relatively clean, a new one built in Japan by Kawasaki of metals that shed spray paint. Must drive the graffiti artists crazy, he thought. Takes away their opportunity for free expression.

  As he sat on a bench in the swaying car, he went over what had happened and what he’d do next. For one thing, he resolved to keep his mouth shut about nearly getting killed in his garage last night. Department regs called for him to file a report on the incident, but the hell with it. Maybe he was becoming paranoid, but if he was, it was for good reasons. The number of people he felt he could trust with information on what he was doing was dwindling rapidly.

  He came up out of the subway at City Hall and walked to the Criminal Justice Building. When he got to his office, Jack Mulloy jumped up and followed him inside.

  “Hey, Ben. Got some good stuff for you.”

  “Great, I could use something good for a change. What is it?”

  The detective was carrying a manila file jacket. He opened it and pulled out several sheets of paper, laying them on Ben’s desk. “Remember you asked me to go through Cunningham’s deals, see if there was any kind of a pattern with the clients?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So the first time I looked at them, I couldn’t find anything. Aside from the institutionals, I mean. Somebody might be in one or two, but that was all. And there wasn’t any consistency. But then I got to thinking. Suppose they made a real effort to conceal what they were doing. Suppose they were buying through some kind of a screen. You see what I’m getting at?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “Then I remembered hearing one of Shackley’s ADAs say he’d seen something like that, but it didn’t lead anywhere. So I went back through the records, and look at this.” He pointed to one of the sheets. “On this list are some of the people who were in the Biotech deal. Here’s a guy, Howard Kincaid. He was in for a big block, two hundred fifty thousand shares. Only time his name appears in any of it.”

  Tolliver glanced down the list. “Go on.”

  Mulloy pointed to another sheet. “Over here, we got the Freemont-Grove acquisition. One of the biggest investors in that was a man named Michael Frost. Six hundred thousand shares. Made a bundle, as you can see.”

  “Where’s all this going?” Ben asked.

  Mulloy’s face was flushed with excitement. “There are four deals here. None of these people I’m showing you was in more than one of them.” He paused. “But the four guys all know each other.”

  “So what? Even if they swap stock tips, there’s nothing illegal about that.”

  “There is if they were on the boards of these companies.”

  Tolliver looked at him. “You sure?”

  “Positive. Kincaid was on the board of Freemont-Grove, but he wasn’t in the deal. He had some shares, but only a few thousand that he bought years ago. But guess who was in it?”

  Ben glanced again at the list of names. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Right. Michael Frost.”

  “Who was on the board of Biotech.”

  “You got it. Pretty slick, huh? Works out for every one of them.” He pointed again. “This guy, Roger Thurmond, was in big on Microware-Allison. And this one—”

  “You say an ADA first came across this?”

  “I don’t know how much he learned, except there was an investment group, all heavy hitters. But, like I said, he didn’t do anything with it. I just ran down the names and started checking them out.”

  “That’s good work, Jack.”

  “I’m not finished, though. I got a feeling this is the tip of the iceberg, you know?”

  “Could be. Keep digging.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “The ADA aware of what you’ve been doing?”

  “No. And he won’t be … until I get all of it.”

  “That’s good, too. Keep me posted.”

  “You bet.” Mulloy put the papers back into the jacket and left the office, striding back to his desk. Even his limp had a spring in it.

  Ben got out his notes and jotted down what he’d just been told, including the names of the investors and the companies whose boards they served on. After that, he wrote down several theories as to what might be a master scheme that would tie all this together. Then he began testing each of the theories.

  He’d been working on it only a short time when the first of the phone calls came in. It was from a reporter at the Post who’d seen Shelley Drake’s so-called newsbreak the night before. The reporter tried to pressure him into giving out more information, but Tolliver cut him off, saying curtly that he had no comment.

  After that, he received several more calls, and as the morning wore on, they became a flood. Not all of them were from the media, either. Some were from civilians who’d also seen the program, apparently nutballs who got their rocks off by talking to a detective about a notorious case.

  One was a lady psychic who said she’d been contacted on the suicide of the journalist. She claimed she’d been informed as to what really happened and was willing to share it with him.

  Who was it she’d heard from? he wanted to know. Jessica Silk, the psychic said, so it had to be the truth. Ben said he’d be in touch and hung up.

  There were also calls he didn’t get, although he was half-expecting them. He thought one would be from Captain Brennan, and another from Shackley, or even the DA himself, demanding to know what was behind the newscast. But he didn’t hear from any of them. Maybe they’d simply put the report down to typical stirring of the pot by the media and ignored it. He certainly hoped so.

  Shortly before noon, another call came in, and this was the one he’d been waiting for. The caller was Lt. Carlos Morales.

  “I spoke to Fuentes,” Morales said, “the captain in Panama. He says if we’ll spring his brother, he can get what you want.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Yeah, I think so. After that, I talked to the ADA who’s got the case. The brother’s at Rikers on a drug rap, but the prosecutor’s willing to knock it down. He says it wouldn’t be any big deal—they don’t have a strong case anyhow. Which Fuentes doesn’t know, of course.”

  “That’s great,” Ben said.

  “Yeah. But there’s a hitch.”

  “What hitch?”

  “The captain won’t say anything more over the phone. If you want what he can give you, he said you’ll have to go to Panama.”

  56

  Jan’s hand was thin, clawlike. It grasped Peggy’s wrist in a fierce grip, nails digging into the flesh.

  Peggy was astonished. This had to be one of the few times Jan had moved of her own accord since she’d been admitted to the facility.

  The expression in her eyes was also different. There was an intensity that said she not only was focusing on Peggy’s face but that she was also rapidly forming conscious thoughts.

  For a moment, Peggy was afraid to breathe for fear of breaking Jan’s concentration or upsetting her. The last thing she wanted was to cause her sister to retreat into that secret chamber somewhere deep in her mind. That was what Jan had done previously; she’d been like a small animal that emerges from its den and then, recoiling at the sight of a predator, scrambles back into its hiding place.

  As gently as possible, Peggy said, “Jan, take it easy, will you? It’s only me. And there’s nobody here but the two of us. You can relax, honest.”

  The green eyes narrowed.

  “Really, Jan,” Peggy went on. “I’m just here to visit. You can talk to me if you want. But if you don’t, that’ll be fine, too. I can be quiet, or I can babble on the way I do, give you all the latest dumb gossip on what’s going on in our office. Or maybe you’d rather have the two of us just sit here.”

  Jan’s tongue darted over her lips, moistening them
. She spoke then, in a tone so low as to be barely audible. “Not safe.”

  Peggy felt a jolt. She leaned forward. “What’s not safe?”

  “Here. Where we are.”

  Peggy exhaled. This had to be another surfacing of the blind, unreasoning fear that had haunted Jan for so long. “That’s simply not true. You’re in Brentwood. Are you aware of that?”

  There was no reply.

  “Brentwood is a—” She’d been about to say mental hospital. Instead, she said, “Nice place. Where you can be warm and comfortable while you get well. Everyone here is your friend. They all want to help you.”

  “He might … find me.”

  “Who might find you?”

  “If he does, he’ll hurt me.”

  “Jan, what are you—”

  “He tried to kill me. He only stopped ’cause he thought I was dead.”

  That brought another jolt, but one that made a much greater impact, because it fit what the police had told Peggy about Jan’s brush with death.

  She tried again. “Who was it, Jan? Who tried to kill you?”

  The younger woman shook her head slightly. The movement was quick and jerky, like that of a bird. “Can’t tell you. He’d find out and come after me.”

  “Nobody can come after you. There are people here all the time. The attendants and the nurses—there’s even a guard. And Dr. Chenoweth himself is here.”

  Jan’s mouth quivered. “I’m afraid.”

  Peggy felt a wave of compassion sweep over her. She put her arm around the thin shoulders. “There’s no reason to be afraid. You’re completely safe, I swear to you.”

  Instead of reassuring her, the words seemed to inspire greater anxiety. Jan’s entire body was trembling now, breasts rising and falling as the pace of her breathing increased. The jagged red scar on her face had become more vivid, twitching with each heartbeat. “Don’t let him hurt me. Please don’t let him.”

  “Jan, you’ve got to believe me. No one’s going to hurt you. No one.”

  The grip on Peggy’s wrist tightened and then suddenly relaxed. The thin hand fell away. Jan slumped back in her chair and her head lolled. The intense expression faded from her eyes, as if a cloud had passed over them, obscuring the light.

  “Jan? Can you hear me, Jan?”

  There was no response.

  Peggy felt wrung out. She sat there for several minutes, not moving. Jan seemed so helpless, so vulnerable.

  Finally, she reached over and drew the robe close around her sister’s frail body. She stood and, pulling a tissue from the pocket of her coat, wiped her eyes, then blew her nose.

  “Good-bye, Jan. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She bit her lip, refusing to let herself cry again. Then she patted Jan’s shoulder and left the room.

  57

  In the afternoon, Tolliver took a taxi to La Guardia. At the American counter, he bought a ticket for Flight 948 to Miami and produced his ID, then filled out the form allowing him to carry a firearm aboard the aircraft. He used his credit card to pay for the ticket. Regulations called for him to get clearance for such a trip, a formality that mainly had to do with cost control. But that would also entail explaining his plans, which was the last thing he wanted to do.

  In Miami, he connected with AA 999 to Panama City, and that leg seemed to take forever. The aircraft was jammed, many of the passengers carrying kids who screamed incessantly. Harassed flight attendants served a meal that appeared to be inedible, so he passed it up, settling for coffee. There was also a movie, which looked worse than the meal.

  Despite the cacaphony, he managed to do some thinking about the case. Getting out his notes, he studied the list of investors Jack Mulloy had come up with. If Mulloy had it right, the scheme these guys were involved in had been immensely profitable, and illegal as hell. The problem was to determine how it tied in to the other activities of Cunningham Securities.

  Ben also thought about Shelley. He regretted having blown up at her; she was the best thing that had happened to him in a long while. He’d try to call her and mend some fences, tonight if possible.

  At least the flight was on time, touching down at 8:27 P.M. Getting through passport control was another pain in the ass, with long lines of people at the mercy of pompous officials who moved very slowly. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait for his luggage, having brought only carryon, a nylon bag containing a few essentials.

  When he left the terminal, it was like walking into a furnace. The air was moist and heavy, the temperature well into the nineties. It had been years since he’d first come here, courtesy of the U.S. Marine Corps, but the heat and the odor of dank vegetation instantly brought back memories.

  He walked to a line of waiting taxis, the drivers all standing beside their vehicles and yelling and waving at him, and climbed into the first one he came to. The cabbie slammed the passenger door and hopped in behind the wheel.

  “La ciudad, por favor,” Ben said. “Llevame para el hotel esta bien, pero no muy caro.”

  The driver said he would recommend La Paloma, which was in the new section. Ben told him to go there.

  Tocumen Airport was seventeen miles from the city, which gave the driver plenty of time to talk. He claimed he had cousins in New York and for that reason was more friendly toward Americans. He said most of his countrymen hated them.

  But who could blame them? he wanted to know. The yanquís had always treated Panamanians with contempt. When they moved on Noriega, they shot people in the streets and bombed the city and all the region around it. Then they captured the general and destroyed the government and afterward they forced Panama to set up what they called a democracy, but in fact all that did was put another band of thieves in power. The difference was that under the new ones there was more unemployment, more crime, and runaway inflation. Things had been better under Noriega, he said.

  And by the way, would the señor like to have a girl—only sixteen years old and beautiful? Or maybe some very fine cocaine? Or both?

  No thanks, Ben said. He had enough problems.

  When they reached the city, they went through the old section, Casco Viejo, many of its buildings vine-covered ruins. Among them was the arch of Santo Domingo, which Tolliver remembered was famous because it had proved to engineers that Panama was not earthquake-prone and therefore was a suitable site for the canal.

  From there, they crossed King’s Bridge into the new part, where the architecture was a mixture of colonial and modern. A lot of it had been built since he’d last been here, but he recognized the National Theatre and the ancient cathedral with its mother-of-pearl tower. And the Presidential Palace and the French Plaza. The shop windows were filled with duty-free bargains from Europe and the Orient, as well as from the United States.

  He also spotted a few members of the U.S. military, who were probably stationed at the two remaining U.S. air force bases. After the big shoot-out in 1989, Panama no longer had an army; instead, they now had thousands of police officers. The cops wore tan uniforms that were similar to those of the old Guardia Civil, and they were everywhere.

  La Paloma looked out on the center of the bay. The hotel was a glitzy pile of pink stucco with bougainvillea climbing on it and a fountain out front. Palm trees and red-blossomed hibiscus bushes bordered the circular drive. The doorman saluted as Tolliver climbed out of the taxi.

  Ben paid the fare in U.S. dollars and went into the lobby. The area was thronged with what appeared to be businessmen, many of them accompanied by women. From what he could see, there were few Norteamericanos besides himself, and even fewer Europeans.

  Lack of a reservation was not an obstacle. He registered and was assigned a single on the third floor that was indistinguishable from ones he’d occupied in Stateside motels, except for a huge basket of tropical flowers that sat atop the dresser.

  Once he’d tipped the bellboy and was alone, he stripped off his clothing and took a long shower in the lukewarm water that came out of the cold tap, then toweled down and sat on t
he bed. He telephoned the number he’d been given by Morales. The man who answered said he would be picked up at the hotel at midnight.

  Next he tried reaching Shelley. It took twenty minutes to get through to New York, and when he reached the WPIC TV newsroom, he was told she wasn’t in. That was strange, he thought; normally she would have been working tonight.

  He then called her home number, which took another twenty minutes, and this time got the answering machine. At least that enabled him to hear her voice, if only on a recording. He left a message, saying he was out of town and would try again.

  It had been hours since he’d eaten anything. He got dressed, putting on his blazer but not bothering with the tie, and went down to the dining room. When he was shown to a table, he drank a Carta Blanca and studied the menu, then looked around the room.

  None of the men in here seemed younger than forty and none of the women older than thirty. In fact, the spread among most of them was much wider than that. That was another custom in Latin countries; you took your girlfriend to dinner, your wife to church.

  He ordered patacones y carimanola con puerco—fried green plantains and yucca with pork—an old favorite you flat out could not get in New York—and it was wonderful. Later, he had coffee that was so rich it would dissolve a spoon, and by the time he finished it was midnight. He went out to the front entrance of the hotel.

  Two cops were waiting for him. They put him in the rear seat of a patrol car that had a gold star on the side and black letters that said PANAMA CIUDAD POLICÍA. As they drove through the darkened streets, Ben tried to get them into a conversation, but they responded with little more than grunts.

  Their destination was the Palace of Justice. Built of stone and profusely decorated, the structure was obviously a holdover from colonial times. The cops escorted him up the wide stone steps to the entrance, which had elaborately carved doors under a marble arch. Two officers armed with submachine guns stood at attention as the group went past them into the building.

  Inside, more police with automatic weapons were posted at various places in the halls, although at this hour the place seemed relatively quiet. Apparently, the courtrooms did little business at night, which was in sharp contrast to the tumultuous activity that went on around the clock at 100 Centre Street in New York.