Edwin's Reflection: A Novel

by Ray Deeg

  “Oh aren’t you just an angel?” Conrad asked. “Isn’t she just an angel, Tom?”

  Gwen and Conrad hugged, turning grinning faces toward Tom.

  “Grazie Dio,” Tom beamed, raising his hands to heaven. “At least something still makes sense around here.”

  All three stared at the patent file and then at one another. “Doesn’t the church have a satellite office in Venice?” Tom asked.

  “Are you really OK?” Gwen said, placing her arm on his shoulder. Although no one had voiced it, their discovery had only led to more and tougher questions.

  “Yes, it’s OK,” he replied, concealing the weight of the disappointment bearing down on him.

  Conrad checked his watch. “OK, team, it’s four in the morning. Let’s get home and get some sleep.”

  Tom closed the drawer, keeping the file. On the way out of the archive, he noticed a security camera high on the far wall. He stared for a moment and then pulled the heavy metal door shut.

  CHAPTER 35

  IT WAS A breezy, gray autumn morning, and the street was still wet from earlier rain. Police Chief Ian Heckie stood on the corner of Park Avenue and Forty-Sixth Street, appearing more like a tourist than a cop investigating a murder. He had awakened at the crack of dawn, eager to find answers. He couldn’t help but turn his head up and stare at the scale of the city’s architectural wonders. The Helmsley building in particular held his gaze; he recognized it from photos he’d seen. It was easy to admire the structure’s height, its gold inlay lettering and ornate facade. An enormous golden clock rested on the upper deck, set between sculptures of Mercury and Ceres, representing transportation and agriculture. Heckie stood patiently at the corner while the morning masses crossed against the light. He was relieved to be away from New Hope. Abstract thoughts circled his head. Those golden envelopes, the schematic of the machine, Tesla.

  As he strolled up Park Avenue, his destination came into view. It was a glass-and-stainless-steel building, the headquarters for J. P. Morgan Chase. He found the Trust and Fiduciary Department quickly and entered that office. “My name is Ian Heckie; I’m here to see Mr. Douglas Sawney.”

  A receptionist pushed some buttons and spoke softly into the phone. “Mr. Heckie, please follow me,” she said.

  She led him through a few doors and down a hall, arriving at an enormous marble lobby. It appeared to have been a bank lobby, converted and lined with cubicles filled with bankers or traders staring at screens. At the side of the room, five large rectangular screens displayed ticker symbols with corresponding prices and little green and red arrows pointing up and down. There was a buzz in the room as the workers whispered furiously to one another. At the end of the corridor, a lone desk and two chairs waited. The receptionist moved her hand toward the two chairs. “He’ll be with you momentarily.”

  Heckie turned to take a seat but quickly turned back. “Thank you.”

  The whispering in the room turned to chatter, and the voices merged into a low roar. While he waited, the roar grew louder. He saw a lot of red arrows and knew something was going on. He wasn’t sure exactly what these people did other than stare at screens all day, but he had a suspicion it was immoral. When making an incredible living and morality don’t jibe, a person is left with uncomfortable choices: either find new work or tell your conscience to piss off.

  He sat and waited patiently for five, and then ten, and then twenty minutes. Just as he was pondering walking back to the receptionist, a well-groomed black man wearing a gray suit walked over. He wore tortoiseshell glasses, and his skin looked as if it had just been polished. “Douglas Sawney, vice president of Trust Services. Pleased to meet you.”

  Heckie stood up and reached for the man’s hand, but he held them out of reach. “I have a cold; no offense.”

  Heckie sat down again. “Of course. None taken.”

  As the banker sat down, one of the cubicle dwellers approached but was turned away. “Give me a few minutes,” he whispered. The man looked frustrated but walked away.

  “It seems there’s a bit of excitement this morning,” Heckie said.

  “The Dow is down a hundred and seventy basis points,” the banker said. “The deeper the valley, the higher we have to jump. Our division not only administers those trusts under our management; we manage the assets in them too. You’re with the police. Is that right?”

  “Yes, I am. Chief of police for the village of New Hope, Pennsylvania. We’re investigating two deaths. One of the deceased, a man named Everett Lemily, was receiving checks from this institution and had been for many decades.” Heckie slid an open yellow envelope and a loose check across the desk. “Mr. Lemily received this several months ago, and I’d like to understand the origin and nature of this payment. It’s for two hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”

  The banker looked at the check and then began typing on his keyboard. As he stared at the flat-panel monitor and pecked at the keyboard, his lips moved and his head bobbed slowly, as if he were learning some dark secret. Heckie could see the white-blue light reflected in the banker’s glasses.

  “What is it?” Heckie asked, anticipation gnawing at him.

  “Oh, nothing, really. This is a fairly standard testamentary trust. It’s been in service for thirty-two years. This man, Everett Lemily, was designated a beneficiary and had been receiving regular monthly distributions until they stopped in August. That was the last check we sent.”

  “So someone informed you of his passing?” Heckie asked.

  “No, we have no knowledge of anyone’s death. We only execute instructions.”

  “You just said payments stopped in August,” Heckie replied. “That’s when Everett Lemily died, so someone must have informed you to stop sending payments.”

  The banker looked at his screen. “No, there are no notes about anyone passing. August of this year has always been the date for termination of payments to this beneficiary—ever since the trust’s inception thirty-two years ago.”

  Heckie’s eyes narrowed. “So he was getting that amount every month?”

  “Some months more, some months less. The distributions are based on the principal. But yes, he’d been receiving monthly distributions for the last thirty-two years.”

  “Can you tell me the source of this money? Whose trust is this? Who created it, and what purpose does it serve?”

  “Mr. Heckie, the trust’s settlor and trust deed are confidential. We cannot provide that information without a court order.”

  “Mr. Sawney, I’m investigating a suicide and a murder. Surely you can tell me something more than the average Joe walking in off the street. I’d appreciate a little courtesy.”

  The banker cocked his head, and his eyebrows moved lower. “Excuse me, sir, but when it comes to administering trusts, courtesy has no place. Instead, there are rules, procedures, and laws. These laws and rules protect the rights of our trust’s settlor, its beneficiaries, and the trust deed itself.”

  Heckie gave the banker the same look you’d give a bartender who dared use that little silver measuring funnel to stiff you on the good stuff.

  “You have no special rights here; this is my job,” the banker said. “And I don’t appreciate the idea that I’m not being courteous simply because I’m following the rules.”

  Heckie’s hands were getting agitated, and the banker’s tone was carving his ego like a pumpkin. The banker’s silly little bowtie spawned a deep desire in Heckie. He wanted to shake this little man by his neck like a rag doll.

  The banker calmed himself, taking in a deep breath. “I’ve told you the details on Everett Lemily, and that is standard procedure. When an enquiring party already knows a beneficiary’s name, providing the details about distributions is within the law. It’s allowable by the trust deed and within our policies. This is usually so lenders and beneficiaries can do business. Short of that, I’m not authorized to tell you anything else. If there’s a court order, we will of course comply.”

  “I appreciate and
respect the law, Mr. Sawney. I’ve made a career of it,” Heckie said, slowly calming himself too.

  But the banker smiled and pointed to the envelope on the desk. “I can see your appreciation for the law by the torn-open envelope, Mr. Heckie. Am I to understand that you are not only the chief of police investigating a death, but that you are also the executor of Everett Lemily’s estate? Because if you appreciate and respect the law—”

  “I’m not just the chief of police. I’m also a recipient of correspondence from this institution.” Heckie pulled out the letter he’d received and slid it across the desk.

  The banker read the note and began typing on his keyboard again. After a moment, he spoke. “Mr. Heckie, a trust is nothing more than a set of instructions. This trust contains a rather extensive list of tasks that are to be executed as described. This letter was to be mailed to you, and it was. Since I can see your name here and see you have the letter, I’ll tell you: this letter was to be mailed four days ago, on the third, to the name and address listed in the trust. Our computer printed the letter and mailed it. I see you received it.”

  “Can you tell me who asked you to send me this letter? I mean, who wrote it?” Heckie asked.

  “I told you, Mr. Heckie, the trust’s settlor and trust deed are confidential. This trust was set into motion thirty years ago and has not changed.”

  Heckie frowned and shook his head. “No, no, no. Are you telling me that the instructions to mail me this letter to this address were given thirty-two years ago?”

  “Yes, Mr. Heckie—”

  “Mr. Sawney, I didn’t live at this address thirty-two years ago. I’ve only lived at this address for four years. Four years! I wasn’t even investigating the death of Everett Lemily until just a few months ago. So please explain to me how that is possible.”

  What few green arrows had been on the big board when the bell rang were gone now, and the banker was getting annoyed. “Mr. Heckie, we do not get involved in these types of matters. We simply administer and execute instructions. This is business, and we have rules and laws we must abide by. To access any other information, we would need permission from the head of Trust Services. Or a court order.”

  “Could I speak to the head of Trust Services?” Heckie asked with a glimmer of hope in his eye.

  “I’m sorry; he’s on vacation. He’ll be back next month on the seventh.” The banker smiled, clearly trying to end the meeting.

  Tesla, the blueprint, the machine, Monty. Heckie nodded his head. His smile disappeared, and what remained was far less courteous. He noticed the crease marks in the banker’s shirt and those perfectly pressed trousers. He imagined him laughing at fancy lunches with white linen tablecloths and napkins. He saw the banker smiling smugly, sipping martinis over dinner and sailing on weekends. He saw a life of privilege and an ingrained drive for one thing only—getting his way, by hook or by crook. He had everything on his side: the money, the lawyers, and all of it under the camouflage of respectability. Heckie thought he saw a grin form on the banker’s mouth. Heckie had a long fuse, but at the end of the day, it was attached to a big bomb. He stood up quickly, and in one violent surge, moved toward the banker’s desk. The banker gasped, recoiling instinctively, pushing off the desk and propelling himself backward in his rolling chair. Heckie placed his hand on the monitor and spun it around so the screen faced him. As the heavy monitor turned, it left gouges in the wooden desk.

  Heckie’s smile returned as the screen came into view. “So much better,” he said, offering a bright smile.

  “You can’t do that,” the banker said.

  “Now, don’t tell me I’ll be arrested for looking at a computer screen. What a police state we live in,” Heckie replied playfully as he combed the contents of the screen. He saw a list of names, addresses, dates, and instructions. There must have been hundreds of names on the list. As he scrolled through the pages, he saw his name and others he recognized: Everett Lemily, Randall Evans, Tom Hartger…

  ”Security!” the banker yelled.

  The swarm of voices in the opulent lobby went silent, and curious eyes peered over cubicle walls. A lone security guard jogged down the hall and murmured something halfheartedly as he approached. Heckie turned to the guard, moving his jacket aside like a gunslinger to reveal the badge on his belt and the snub-nosed revolver holstered on his shoulder. The guard stopped in his tracks and stood motionless. He shrugged at the banker with a look that said, Not for this paycheck.

  The lobby was silent now, and heads were popping up randomly to see what all the commotion was about. Heckie returned to the screen and began taking down the directions for mailing letters. He was scrolling toward the top of the page when the screen went black. He looked up and saw the banker smiling at him, holding an electrical cord in his hand. “Now don’t tell me I’ll be arrested for unplugging a computer,” the banker said.

  Another security guard entered the lobby, and then a third. Heckie acknowledged the situation; it was time to go. “Thank you for your courtesy, Mr. Sawney,” Heckie said politely.

  “Thank you, Mr. Heckie, for showing us city slickers how things are done in New Hope, Pennsylvania.”

  As Heckie stepped out onto Park Avenue, questions circled his mind like ghosts taunting him with a truth he was on the verge of knowing. But the closer he got to the truth, the closer he came to an edge—and he sensed it was a long way down. The yellow envelopes, and the impossible instructions they were sending to God knows who. Randall Evans and Tom Hartger were listed as receiving letters, too, but what could they be instructing them to do? What did these two have in common? What the hell is going on here? He needed help and decided to share what he’d learned with someone who had access to far more resources: the FBI. And it couldn’t be Randall Evans, either: he didn’t trust the man. It would have to be his boss, or his boss’s boss. He hailed a cab and stepped in. “Downtown, Federal Plaza,” he said. “And step on it.” He’d always wanted to say that.

  CHAPTER 36

  A PROCESSION OF black SUVs barreled down Lexington Avenue with all the wanton disregard for public safety one might expect at the running of the bulls. Certain death awaited anyone attempting to merge, but perhaps the occasional injury or fatality was acceptable—national security, and all. They stormed through blocks of cordoned-off intersections with the assistance of dozens of NYPD motorcycles that stopped traffic ahead of the procession. Flashing red and blue lights under dark-tinted windows conveyed a sense of national importance on to the convoy’s mission.

  The caravan finally stopped in Federal Plaza, and Secretary of Homeland Security Jeh Johnson stepped out alongside his military advisor, Rear Admiral Joanna Nunan. Johnson gazed up at the FBI building with a stare that was somewhere between irritation and disdain. After chugging the remnants of his chai latte, he turned to Nunan. “Listen. This thing today—it’s an old bureau case, probably mishandled. Someone was supposed to be watching, and it sounds to me like they want to pull in as many agencies as possible now in order to spread the blame around. Look, someone’s going to be the fall guy. So whatever you do, don’t be the first to piss on the table; don’t offer any specific ideas that can be linked back to you or me.”

  Nunan checked her watch and then started toward the building’s main steps.

  Johnson checked his watch too. “This doesn’t start for another twenty-five minutes; what’s the rush?”

  The inside of the FBI’s twenty-third-floor conference room was brimming with caffeinated chatter and government bigwigs, including the bureau’s director, James Comey, whose mere presence demanded all hands on deck. Deputy Director Blake Savich was in attendance, as was the associate director for the bureau’s National Security Division, Andrew McCabe. Johnson and Nunan found two low-profile seats in the corner.

  After settling in, the room listened to Andrew McCabe explain why they were there. He spoke of scientists and a secret laboratory, of a great technology that had been discovered, lost, and intentionally covered up. Mc
Cabe became particularly excited when he turned on the large monitor and scrolled to an illustration of what looked like radio signals bouncing off planets within our solar system. He babbled something about energy waves inside plasma. “We don’t understand all of this yet, but we will,” McCabe said. “Many of you know that in 2006, we established the Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate, or WMDD. The directorate works under the radar to mitigate current and emerging WMD threats. These guys keep a close watch on people and technology. They’re the ones who identified these plasma waves. Many of you know John Perren. He leads the WMDD team. John, come on up and save me from making a fool of myself.”

  A bald man with a silver beard and goatee stepped up to the platform. “Thank you, Andrew,” Perren replied. “It was known as far back as the 1920s that a group of prominent physicists were performing research into the very nature of the universe.” He scrolled through illustrations of formulas, pictures of the universe, and black-and-white photos of prominent scientists. “Half a dozen agents from the Bureau of Investigation were assigned to track this research. The investigation began in 1926 and officially stopped in 1943. Much of the intelligence gathered over that period of time has, of course, been misplaced, but there’s enough data today to warrant concern—especially given a recent discovery in connection with this case. Three East Indian men, suspects in a homicide case in Pennsylvania, acquired the remnants of a machine created at the laboratory of a man named Alfred Lee Loomis, in Tuxedo Park, New York. The machine’s function is unknown, but based on the case file, it is thought to possess the ability to destabilize the structure of matter in order to open a nonlinear portal or alternative dimension.” Perren used a red laser pointer to highlight objects and photos on the screen. The expressions on the faces in the room took on a look somewhere between concern and confusion, but Perren never flinched.