“Nothing specifically. I’ll ask a bunch of questions, and see if he has any useful information for me. Chances are he won’t, but you never know.”
“Call his office tomorrow morning after ten. He’ll see you. He owes me one.”
The waiter brings over the check and hands it to me. “My turn,” Robby says. He takes the check out of my hand and looks at it. “Nine beers? We had two each.”
I point to Vince and Pete at their table; Vince is waving to me. “That’s because it’s not our check; it’s theirs. Unlike you, they think I’m rich.”
“Good,” Robby says. “I didn’t want our check yet. I think I’ll have another burger.”
I’ve got a feeling that I’m on to something. I don’t get these feelings a lot, mainly because I spend very little time trying to be on to anything. But when I get one, I pay attention to it, because it’s usually right.
Except for the times when it’s wrong.
I’ve come to realize that these feelings are based on three factors. One is experience; I’ve been doing this long enough to understand what’s happening, and to be able to accurately assess the evidence, even if some of that assessment is instinctual.
A second factor is more aspirational. If I’m chasing something down, then I want it to be real and substantial, or I wouldn’t be chasing it. So I have to fight off a natural desire to think that what I want to be real actually is real.
The third factor is arrogance. While I am investigating something because I think it’s important, my ego tells me that it must be important, or I wouldn’t be spending so much time on it. I’m looking for validation of my project, but psychologically giving it validation simply because it’s my project.
Substantially complicating matters in the Joey Desimone case is that old maxim that it doesn’t matter what the lawyer believes, only what he can prove. And right now, not only is there nothing I can prove, but there’s nothing I can credibly allege.
Based on what Nicky Fats said about Solarno, and Luther Karlsson’s having seen a boatload of guns, I believe that Richard Solarno was into some illegal activities, most notably arms trafficking. Unfortunately, not only do I not have enough evidence to present to a court, even having that evidence wouldn’t make me successful.
It’s one thing to demonstrate that Solarno was a bad guy, doing bad things. But even if I were able to do that, and right now I’m not close to doing so, it’s a huge legal jump to then show that he was the target of the killer.
The list of things I don’t know goes on forever, starting with who Solarno was dealing with, how he got the arms, who were the customers, why they might have turned against him, and why they would have gone on to kill Karen, with about a hundred etceteras thrown in.
So I need to keep digging, and to try and avoid frustration. I impose my own time frame on these things, and I feel an urgency that might not be real. Joey has been in prison for six years, and is scheduled to spend the rest of his life there. If this takes me six months, or a year, as bad as that might be for Joey, it’s more than worth doing.
One of the problems is that what I’m looking into happened a long time ago, and there is little reason for the real bad guys to feel threatened. I have to change that; if I can get them to react to pressure, there’s a much greater chance they’ll make a mistake.
To that end, I stop in to see Vince Sanders. While Vince is the single most disagreeable and obnoxious human being on the planet, he’s as good a friend as one can have. He’s come through for me a number of times in the past, as I have for him. And that is how we define friendship.
Vince is editor of the Bergen News, one of New Jersey’s larger newspapers. He has held that job for approximately four hundred years, and is a legend in both his field and his mind. But even in an age where newspapers have taken a huge step back in terms of media power, Vince is a force that pretty much no one wants to reckon with.
Much as I know Vince can be counted on, I cement the deal by bringing a bag of doughnuts with me. He comes out when the receptionist calls to tell him that I’m there, takes one look at the bag, and says, “Jelly?”
“Half jelly, half cream-filled.”
He nods as if I gave the right answer, which I did. “You may enter,” he says.
I walk through the door toward the back, where his office is, and he grabs the bag from my hand as I do so. He holds it up, as if weighing it, without opening it. “Dozen,” he says. “You did good.”
We go back to his office, which makes mine look neat. He sits at his desk and says, “What’s up?” though it’s a little hard to understand him, since his mouth is filled with a cream-filled doughnut.
“I’ve got a story for you,” I say, and proceed to lay out the situation I’m in on Joey’s case, starting with Nicky’s hopefully lucid revelation. I had referred to it the other night at Charlie’s, so Vince is not totally surprised.
When I finish, Vince doesn’t say anything. Just sits there.
“Well?” I ask.
“That’s it? You’re finished?”
“I’m just starting, but that’s where I am now.”
“So what’s the story?”
“Come on, Vince, a shrewd newspaper guy like yourself has to see the potential here. A dying mob boss inadvertently drops a bombshell that has reopened a huge, notorious murder case,” I say. “And a courageous, dedicated lawyer is exposing a deadly conspiracy and finding the real killers.”
“Here’s what I see, as a shrewd newspaper guy,” he says. “I see a desperate hack, feeling guilty that his client is stuck in prison, floundering around trying to use something a dying, senile fat guy said to get his client off the hook.”
I nod. “That’s an interesting angle.”
He continues. “And I see that hack trying to take advantage of an innocent yet brilliant newspaperman, who has done nothing but be a good friend. He’s trying to get that legendary newspaperman to run a bullshit story, probably on the front page, so that things in the case can get shaken up, possibly resulting in that lawyer being able to finally take his legal thumb out of his ass.”
I nod again. “That sums it up pretty well, except you forgot about the doughnuts, and the beer that you haven’t paid for in two years.”
“Nicely played,” he says. “Let me think about this, run it by a couple of our reporters.”
“I’m telling you, Vince, the story is going to be solid.”
“We’ve got a fairly high bar on what we need to go with a story. Trust me, Kobe Bryant couldn’t jump and hit that bar from where you are.”
“If you don’t go with it, I’m going to take it elsewhere.” It’s an empty threat, if ever there was one.
He laughs. “I would suggest Sixty Minutes.” Then he takes another doughnut out of the bag and bites into it. “You know how you keep from getting jelly all over you when you eat a jelly doughnut?”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“You bite into where the hole is.”
“Thanks for sharing that, Vince. Let me know what you decide.”
“You’ll be the first call I make.”
“Wait until you hear about Larry Callahan.” Sam is standing at my front door, just having arrived as I was about to take Tara for a walk. He must think it’s important, because for Sam almost all communication is electronic, in one form or another. For him to have driven here this early in the morning from his house in Englewood means he thinks whatever he’s learned about Larry Callahan is a big deal.
“You found out how he died?” I ask.
“I did.”
“Tell me about it on the way.”
“On the way where?”
“Eastside Park. It’s time for Tara’s walk.” Tara is wagging her tail and generally acting excited, most likely annoyed at the unusual delay here at the door.
“Can that wait?” He holds up his briefcase. “I’ve got some things to show you. And it’s thirty degrees out.”
“You want Tara to wait for her w
alk once she has the leash on? Are you nuts?”
I tell Sam to leave the briefcase at the house, that he can show me whatever documents he has when we get back. We start on our walk, pausing only as Tara does to take in the aromas.
“What’s she sniffing?” Sam asks.
“The world. Tell me how Larry Callahan died.”
“Hit-and-run accident. About a block from his house,” he says, then adds pointedly. “He was walking his dog.”
“Was the dog killed as well?”
Sam frowns in frustration. “Who cares?”
“I do, and I’m sure the dog did.”
“According to the newspaper article, the dog was fine.”
The news is interesting but not earth-shaking. A hit-and-run death is obviously potentially sinister, though not necessarily intentional. “Night or day?” I ask, only because if it was night it would seem more likely that someone had not seen him, and that it was an accident. Sherlock Holmes, eat your heart out.
“Night.”
“Did you see the police report?”
He looks at me as if insulted. “Of course. No witnesses, no leads, nothing.”
I’m a little surprised that Sam felt it necessary to give me this news in person, but I guess he felt he was thereby putting his “boots on the ground.” “OK, thanks,” I say.
“There’s more.”
“Good.”
“I also got a list of all the people who worked for Solarno in the six months before he died. There were a hundred and fourteen of them.”
“Is that what the papers are in your briefcase?”
“Yes.”
“Good … thanks.”
“There’s more,” he says.
“Are you going to dribble it out, or come out with it?”
“Callahan was the captain, they called it the lead officer, of one of the shrimping boats. He had a crew of five with him, which was standard. I included all their names, but not their information … addresses, contacts, etcetera. I’ve given you that stuff for all the other employees, but not those five.”
“Why?”
“Because the information about them is all bullshit. Those people do not exist, at least not as they are listed. Names, addresses, phone numbers, next of kin … all fake.”
“And that’s not true of all the other company employees?”
“All the others are legit. Only Callahan’s crew was bogus.”
I have no idea what all this means, but I know enough to think it’s very significant.
“Where did you get the information?”
“You really want to know?”
Sam is protecting me because the hacking he does is for the most part illegal. Since he’s doing it for me, I decline the protection. “I really want to know.”
“The computers at a company called Capital Equity; they bought Solarno’s company about a year before he died.”
I nod. “It’s owned by Edward Young.”
“Right,” Sam says. “It was company policy to have the employee information, but I don’t think they’ve accessed it since. They might not even know they have it. It’s an investment firm; it’s not like they have a big HR department, or schedule alumni reunions.”
“By the way, did you find out who Alex Solarno called after I left his house?”
He nods. “I’ve got the name and number, but I’m still checking it out. Won’t be long now.”
“Great work, Sam. You can take me through the information when we get back. I want Laurie to see it as well.”
“Are we going to be getting back soon? My face is frozen.”
“Afraid not, we haven’t even stopped for our bagels yet.” Tara and I always loop around to a bagel place on Broadway. We sit outside, in all but the absolute worst weather, and Tara graciously accepts petting from passersby as we munch.
“Any chance of getting the bagels to go?” Sam asks.
“Zero. But I’m buying.”
He nods. “Then I’ll have an onion bagel, with cream cheese. And a hot chocolate. A very hot chocolate.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Robby Divine really came through. Within three hours of my calling Edward Young, I’m in his office at Capital Equity, on Fifty-first and Sixth. The offices themselves are so modern I think they must be updated every couple of weeks, and I have a hunch cost does not come up in discussions about furnishing and decorating the place. There are paintings on the wall that could feed Third World countries.
I’m brought into Young’s office within five minutes of my arrival. Robby Divine’s mode of dress apparently isn’t standard issue among billionaires, because Young is wearing a suit and tie, though his jacket is draped over his chair.
His office is as modern as the rest of the place. The art on the wall is no doubt nouveau-something, except for the signed Bob Gibson Cardinals jersey, which is framed and proudly hung behind his desk.
I’ve done some research into Young, so I basically know where he’s from, where he went to school, what companies he runs, and where they’re located. Since the companies are privately owned, they don’t have to file financial reports, so the actual amount of his holdings is unknown. But suffice it to say that his career has been a very impressive one, and has obviously paid off.
He’s at least fifteen years Robby’s senior, which probably puts him in his early fifties, and he has a relaxed air about him, smiling as he comes over to greet me. “Andy, Edward Young, nice to meet you.”
“Thanks for seeing me.”
He laughs. “I didn’t have any choice. I lost to Robby last week at golf. We play for favors, and he called this one in.”
That makes sense to me. Betting money wouldn’t make it interesting, not for guys this wealthy. “But it snowed last week.”
He smiles. “Not in Cabo.”
“He says you cheat.”
“He’s right about that. But this time I lost by so much that cheating wouldn’t have done any good. What can I do for you?”
“I’m investigating a case involving Solarno Shrimp Corporation.”
“The murder? Didn’t they put someone away for that years ago?”
I nod. “My client. But he’s innocent.”
“Aren’t they all.” It wasn’t a question, but rather a cynical comment.
“Some aren’t, but this one is. What made you buy the company?”
He frowns. “Temporary insanity. There’s a fairly short list of bad business decisions I’ve made. That one would be near the top of the list had it been a more expensive purchase.”
“How much did you pay?”
“Seventeen point five million.”
“Your memory is precise,” I say.
“Mistakes stay with me longer than successes. My advisers studied the company and said it was undervalued at the price, because the owner of the company was in need of cash.”
“Did they say why?”
He shakes his head. “Not that I can recall.”
“You only ran the company for eighteen months.”
He smiles. “Is that a question?”
“Sorry, let me rephrase. How come you only ran the company for eighteen months?”
“A combination of factors. Once Solarno died, I had no one to run it. I could have found someone, but the company was not what I thought it was.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it started bleeding cash.”
“Was there anything about Solarno that concerned you?”
He frowns. “That’s a broad question, Andy. When I take on a company, I hire good people to run it, I pay them very well, they give me their best advice, and I make the major decisions. If those decisions are consistently wrong, and they cost me money, I get rid of them.”
“You make the decisions but get rid of them?” I ask.
He nods, and smiles. “It was their advice. Besides, who am I going to fire? Me? Anyway, buying the company was a mistake, and keeping Solarno on compounded it. I didn’t realize the depth
of the problem until he was gone, and by then it was fiscally responsible to shut down the operation.”
“Do you keep records of all the employees?”
He shrugs. “Probably somewhere. Maybe in a warehouse, or on some computer.”
“Do these names mean anything to you?” I take out the list of five names that Sam had given me, and read them aloud.
He shakes his head. “Afraid not. Who are they?”
“They all worked on one of Solarno’s boats. Run out of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”
“So?”
“So the guy they worked for was the victim of a hit-and-run about a month after you closed the company.”
He frowns. “Sorry to hear that. What about the other five?”
“They all had fake identities, and can’t be traced.”
“Whoa,” he says, obviously surprised. “I don’t like the sound of that. Are you saying there were some kind of criminal activities going on? Maybe including a hit-and-run murder?”
I nod. “It’s definitely a possibility. Maybe more than one murder.”
He thinks about this for a few moments, shaking his head. “I said that buying that company was near the top of the list of bad decisions I’ve made. It is now the permanent champion.”
I smile. “And we’re just getting started.”
He sighs, apparently resigned to his inadvertent involvement in this.
“So where is it going?”
“I think Solarno was smuggling arms into the country, and he was doing it through that ship. And he was doing it with handpicked people, who didn’t want to be identified, and melted away when they were done.”
“So who killed Solarno, and maybe the hit-and-run guy? Those five people?”
“I don’t know yet. But you can bet I’ll find out.”
“You ready for bed?” Laurie asks. It is a question I simply never get tired of hearing, and on the list of questions I root for every day, it ranks just above “What will you do with your lottery winnings?”
“I’ll race you to the bedroom,” I say.
“You think you’re going to get lucky?”
“Hey, babe, there’s no luck involved.”
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