by Offit, Mike
Once the plans were made, he called up Frank’s house, to ask Karen if Frank was home. She sounded surprised that he wasn’t in the office. Warren shuffled some papers, then apologized. “I forgot. I thought he was going out to LA this afternoon, and I wanted to fly out with him. He actually canceled the trip, and I plum forgot.”
“You’re going to LA?” She sounded interested. “You and Sam going to ask for her father’s blessing?” Frank had told Karen about the engagement.
“No. Actually she’s staying here.” His voice sounded strained.
“Is everything all right?” Karen’s interest perked up.
“Yeah. She just didn’t feel like going. Why aren’t you working? Playing hooky?”
“No. I’m only working three days a week now. Frank wants me to quit after the wedding. He says he wants to ‘keep’ me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why you’re not his first wife. You keep the job or you’ll just wind up fighting to keep him. Idle minds are the devil’s something or other. You know.”
“Oh, you don’t see me as the Suzy Homemaker type?” Karen said sarcastically.
“I don’t think that’s in the Mueller genes. You ladies need to apply those minds of yours. Making cookies in a lightbulb oven isn’t a life’s work, you know.” Warren laughed. “Larisa always said you wanted to be the next Albert Schweitzer.”
“Says you. How long you going to be gone? Want me and Frank to entertain your betrothed while you’re away?”
“Till Friday. Sure, if you feel like it.… Oops, I’ve gotta jump, duty calls.” He knew Karen understood how conversations on a trading floor were subject to instant cancellation if a customer called. He figured that Karen would tell Larisa that she’d spoken to Warren, and that he was going to California without Sam.
Before leaving, Warren briefed Kerry about everything he had going on and gave each of his accounts a call to let them know he’d be out for a few days. He wasn’t ready to leave until four thirty, and most of the business for the day was finished anyway. He got his coat and two-suiter from the closet and waved good-bye to Kerry. A car was waiting for him downstairs, and he tossed his bag on the seat.
“Newark, right?” The driver shot a quick look over his shoulder and pulled away from the curb.
Warren grunted and settled back in his seat. “You mind if I change my clothes back here?” The driver shrugged, and Warren quickly pulled a pair of black jeans and a gray, long-sleeve T-shirt out of his bag. He wrestled himself around for a while, waiting to change his pants until they were in the Lincoln Tunnel. By the time they arrived at the airport, he was casually dressed, with a baseball cap and sunglasses, and his suit was carefully stowed in the garment bag. He signed the voucher and hopped out of the car, rushing through the doors like all the other travelers trying to make their flights.
fifty-five
Sam had settled in with a couple of videos and a book on Renaissance art. Warren marveled at the thick, impenetrable volumes she read and teased that they were her equivalents of sleeping pills. He grabbed one from her once and quizzed her, amazed when she remembered almost every date, name, and detail.
“I could fill my mind with useless garbage, like you, or I can fill it with useless knowledge, like this,” she’d said, and gone back to reading.
From the window, in the evening light, the trees were just beginning to break their buds. It had been a warm day, and the chilly winter weekend in East Hampton seemed separated from the coming season by months, not days. She pushed the first cassette into the VCR and settled back in the bed. It was Year of the Dragon, with Mickey Rourke. Warren had recommended it, though he warned her it was pretty violent. She remembered that it had been panned by the critics, who all thought Michael Cimino, the director, was some kind of irredeemable war criminal for making Heaven’s Gate. She had actually liked Heaven’s Gate.
She enjoyed the film, and the gore didn’t bother her much. It was just the movies, and she’d seen how they faked it when she was working. Rourke had been good, and the action taut. She wandered into the kitchen for a beer and turned out the lights.
It was almost eleven o’clock, and Sam changed into a pair of Warren’s flannel pajamas before settling back in bed and reading for an hour. Before turning in, she picked up the phone and called her parents’ house, but the housekeeper told her they were out to dinner, so she brushed her teeth and buried herself under the covers in the dark room, the lights of the skyline throwing a pale shade across the wall, the clock on the MONY Building read 12:05.
* * *
The key turning in the lock of the service door barely made any sound at all. Certainly not enough to disturb anyone inside. It was almost three in the morning, and the city was sound asleep. The carpeting in the hall muffled the footsteps as a shadowy figure carefully made its way toward the half-closed bedroom door. In its right hand, a steel blade reflected the weak light that filtered in through the window as the intruder turned and quietly entered the bedroom. At the door, the figure stopped, scanning the room. Out of a pocket came a small plastic bag, which was silently opened and a finely shorn combination of hair and fiber cuttings shaken out on the carpet. This done, the figure slowly stepped toward the bed where Sam lay, her body under the comforter, and her head mostly covered by pillows, a habit to keep out any noise or disruption. The knife hand swung around, poised.
“Why don’t you put that thing down?” Warren’s voice came from behind, and the figure jerked in shock. He was standing in the open closet door, holding his steel tennis racquet in front of him like a shield.
Behind the ski mask, the killer’s eyes flashed around the room.
“I mean it. I’m pretty good with this thing.” He took a few short swings.
“Fuck you, Warren. Fuck you.” It was a woman’s voice and the tension went out of her body as she turned to face him.
“Come on, Larisa, don’t do anything stupid.” He took a half step back as she stood on the floor, the knife still in her hand.
“Don’t do anything stupid? Don’t do anything stupid? It’s too late for that.” She took a step toward him and spat out, “I am stupid. I did stupid things. For you. I did everything for you. You should be in fucking LA right now. You should let me take care of all this. I always have.”
“You didn’t do anything for me, Larisa. You did it all for yourself. Even Anna’s ski accident.” He held her off by brandishing the racquet again, and she pulled off the mask, her blond hair exploding over her shoulders in the half-light.
“Fuck Anna. She had everything handed to her. She shouldn’t have been skiing out of bounds anyway. All I did was point her the wrong way. You’re an asshole, Warren. You’re just like the rest of them. No better. Don’t kid yourself.” She still held the knife. “What are you going to do? You and your fucking tennis.”
“No. You’re going to put down the knife, and we’re going to get you a good doctor. Maybe in another country. We can both afford it. So you killed Billy and Anson. Who cares? They were useless sacks of shit anyway.” He backed up a little, and Larisa moved away from the bed toward him. “Come on. I’m on your side. I still love you. We’ll figure a way out of this.”
“I killed them for you. You have to know that. They were in the way. That pompous idiot Dougherty, he was already dead, he just didn’t know it. Inbred moron. You are so much smarter than him. And Anson? I only fucked him once to find out what he was going to do. He was trying to get you fired, you know. He would’ve too. But he liked me. He told me everything. In Dallas, that time. I stopped him. For you.” Her eyes were wild. “I didn’t even kill that bitch he was screwing when I smashed his fucking skull. But I should have. Fucking slut.” Larisa reached down with the knife and, the blade turned backward, slit the turtleneck shirt from the bottom to her throat. It hung open, showing her chest.
“Larisa, stop now. It’s enough. How was Anna for me? To open up a recruiting spot for you?” Warren couldn’t back up any farther. He was against the closet door
frame.
“It just worked out. She was drunk and tired, and all I did was point her the wrong way. And Serena too. She went down those stairs like a sack of potatoes. But I cracked her head on the stair after, just to be sure. She would have gotten your spot, you idiot. Anna would never have beat me out for the spot at Weldon, but the chance came and I took it. I didn’t even have to push her, she just skied right past me and over the edge.” Larisa laughed. “You shoulda heard her wail. But, besides, I had you working for me, right? I was in no matter what, Mr. Superstar. That was a long time ago. Come on, Warren, finish it. Everything is always my fault anyway, right? Take this knife away from me. Put it right here.” She ran her hand between her breasts, then cupped one, rolling its nipple between her fingers. “You love my tits, don’t you? All you fucking assholes love these things. Dutch Goering used to tell me how he wanted to fuck me there. He had such a nice cock too. I loved to suck on it.” The knife was coming up slowly.
“Jesus Christ, Larisa, come on.”
“What? You can’t take it?” She had the knife up now, slowly moving toward him. “Come on, Warren, you walked out on me. I knew you would come back to me once this useless cunt was dead. Now let’s see if you’ve got any guts.”
“Larisa, cut it out. Put the knife down. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” She laughed and kept coming, backing him up to the wall, still held off by the steel racquet. She paused for a moment, looking for an opening, and he took the opportunity.
“It’s time for you to meet someone.” Warren pronounced the words loudly, a preset trigger to action.
“That’s about enough, Miss Mueller.” The light came on by the bed, behind her. Detective Wittlin, who looked a little silly with Warren’s pajamas over his clothes and a bulletproof vest, held a 9 mm pistol in his right hand. “We don’t need anybody else getting hurt.” He had climbed out of the bed behind her while she was confronting Warren. He stepped around it while she was still stunned, and twisted the knife out of her hand with a smooth motion, then stepped away. “Mr. Hament, do me a favor and put that thing away before someone makes a stupid joke.”
Dick McDermott and a uniformed officer came into the room, with Sam trailing them. The patrolman couldn’t help but notice Larisa’s chest, and he took off his jacket, handing it to her with a look of remorse. She put it on as if in a trance, then Wittlin handcuffed her.
A compact, wiry man came out from under the bed. “I think it came out perfectly.” He had a bulky recording deck with him, which trailed a thin wire to a tiny camera on top of the armoire. “The new night-vision camera worked pretty well.”
“You’re pathetic, Warren,” Larisa spat at him. “Pathetic.” The impact of what was happening had finally hit her. “Without me, you’re going nowhere. You fucking idiot.” She spat the words at him, enraged.
“I’m sorry, Miss Mueller. You are under arrest for the murders of Anson Combes and William Dougherty, and Anna Meladandri. And Serena, whoever she is. I am Detective Lieutenant McDermott of the New York City Police Department Homicide Squad. I want to advise you of your rights. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything…’”
As McDermott read Larisa her rights, she looked at Warren with disgust. “You pansy. You fucking wimp. You owe everything to me. You’d still be some little trainee in diapers.” McDermott paused while she spat out the words, then kept going. The tech collected the machinery, and Wittlin sat on the bed.
Warren looked at her, his shoulders sagging. “Larisa, I had everything anyway. Not everyone is in the rush you were. It was enough for me.” She was a striking sight, her arms pinned behind her, the long red-gold hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes ablaze, her mouth curled in contempt. She struggled a bit when the policemen took her away, but didn’t say anything.
“I don’t believe it.” Wittlin shook his head from side to side. “We only had to follow her for two nights, and she showed up like clockwork. How did you figure it out?”
“It was the photo from Bonnie’s building. I thought I might recognize the scarf.” Warren smiled and sat down next to Wittlin.
“So why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I didn’t even realize it until much later. Also, I figured she’d have gotten rid of it, and then if you’d asked about it, she’d have known you were on her case.”
“That’s complicated reasoning. Okay. How’d you know she was going to try for your girlfriend here?”
“Fiancée, Detective.” Sam smiled at him. “Well, I guess I tried to provoke her. Make sure her sister told her how awesome Sam is, let her know I wasn’t without options. Then she sent a spousal life insurance application to Sam. I asked HR. They didn’t send it. It was a dumb mistake, but her temper got the best of her.” Warren gestured in bewilderment. “I guess she wanted to punish me.”
Sam walked over and shoved him down on the bed. “Options? I’ve always wanted to be live bait. Big step up from car-rental jockey.”
Warren let out a little laugh.
“Insurance application? Why didn’t you tell me about it?” Wittlin seemed annoyed.
“No insult intended, but having the police department suddenly sniffing around HR could only have tipped her off. You told me yourself you had no evidence, that the DA would only indict with a confession. So I made their job easy.” Warren got up. “I got them their confession.”
“Yeah. The DA is kind of a joke with investigations, that’s true. But, I’ve gotta be honest with you…” Wittlin looked a little sheepish.
“I know. You guys figured I had something to do with it all.”
“Yup. Or your dad. He was in town for all the murders. I guess there is such a thing as coincidence. McDermott owes me a hundred bucks, though. That’s why he was so testy.”
“Well, I’m glad you had faith in me. I’m flattered.” Warren touched his fingers to his brow in a mock salute.
“Don’t be. I laid off fifty of it with our captain.” Wittlin stood up. “Anyway, I’m glad to see this case closed. If we lost any more investment bankers, the whole city’d shut down.” He walked to the door.
“Yup, that’s why we get the big money. Solving these big cases. Are you going to need us for anything?” Warren had his arm around Sam.
“Tomorrow we’ll need to take statements at police headquarters. You two get some sleep tonight. If you can.”
“Detective, tonight I’m going to sleep like a baby.” Sam smiled.
“I’ll see myself out. Take care now.” As Wittlin walked out of the bedroom, his voice trailed off down the hall, “I’d change those locks if I were you, especially if you’ve got any other ex-girlfriends I don’t know about.”
Sam gave Warren a hug, and they stood still for a moment.
“If you do—” she started.
“Yeah, I know.”
“—I’ll kill you.”
fifty-six
“Jesus, Dutch, that whole story is kind of hard to swallow.”
“I’m tellin’ you, it’s true. Jojo’s too fuckin’ dumb to make something like that up.”
“But Mats’s dad is the chairman of Jones Fyfe, for crissakes. Jason Leeson’s been on top there for ten years already. They may be a second-tier broker, but he must have put fifty or sixty million bucks in the bank by now. There’s no way his kid’s gonna do something so stupid. I mean, I’ve met some of the people over there. There are some dummies, for sure, but that whole thing’s too far gone even for them.”
“Listen, Jojo heard it from this babe he’s poking on Jones’s repo desk. That fuckin’ dope Mats was hiding bad trade tickets and blaming the mismatches on the back office! I heard he dropped about seventy-five mil before they shut him down. That slimeball Grant Bradley’s his boss. This broad tells Jojo that Bradley’s been on the take from all the guys in Jones’s finance side for years—pieces of their deals through Bahamian shell companies—that kind of stuff. Anyhow, even that sack of shit had to cut Mats loose. Of course all those
dumb Irish guys over there couldn’t figure their way out of a paper bag with a machete and a chain saw, so no one ever noticed the books didn’t balance.”
“Man, what is wrong with that company? They can’t do anything right. God, the parent company must just be pissing blood about it!”
“I guess. But, hey, they hired the fuckin’ guy. Remember when he was down at Bache, and they booted him for that bank deal?”
“Dutchie, that was a little before my time … you’re showing your age.”
“Come on, you remember the fuckin’ story. He and Anson were big buddies back then too. He was trying to get us to hire that fucking goofball Bradley Savings and Loan. They were doing all those S-and-L deals with Scholdice. Said Bradley’ was one sharp fuckin’ cookie.”
“Oh, yeah? Anson and Bradley were pals?” Warren knew that Grant Bradley was well-known around the Street for being a second-rate talent who had a big job at a third-rate firm. Just like Jason, the chairman of Jones Fyfe Securities, they both were big players in the world of retail stock brokerage, but regarded as lightweight sleaze in the higher-powered milieu of institutional investment banking and trading. Something was falling into place. If everyone thought Bradley was on the take from the S&L and bank deals his firm did, and Anson and he were friends, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to think that Anson had cooked up his own scheme to salt away a real fortune. That the chairman’s kid had tried to hide losses and then blown up was interesting, but not material to Warren’s situation. It wouldn’t be too hard to hide the missing money by creating losses on the trading desk and blaming the kid. A perfect crime with the boss’s son as the fall guy. He’d lost his job, but mismarking positions wasn’t technically a crime unless you worked for a commercial bank. And if he split $75 million or so with his dad, well worth it.