by Jill Blake
“I’d be happy to talk with you, but can we do it some other time?” She glanced at her watch. “My first patient is in half an hour, and I don’t like being late.”
“Certainly, ma’am.” The second agent was a shade shorter and darker, but no less intimidating. “Here’s my card. You give us a call and let us know when.”
She watched them drive off. Across the street, the man she’d noticed earlier was staring straight at her. In place of a phone, he now held a bulky camera.
“Hey, Grace,” he yelled, as she headed back to her car. “Say cheese!”
###
“I might need your sister’s help after all,” Grace said. She had just finished with her morning patients, and this was the first opportunity she’d had to call Logan.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” She crossed the street toward the hospital, sidestepping several slower pedestrians. “I’d just feel better having a lawyer along when I talk to the FBI.”
There was beat of silence. “Where are you?”
“Heading to an ethics lecture at Ronald Reagan.”
“You’re not in any trouble?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so.” She tried to imagine what Special Agent Wallace thought she knew that was important enough for him to fly to L.A. “It’s probably something to do with Harry. I wouldn’t have bothered you, except my lawyer is back in New York. And you did offer...”
“Of course. It’s no bother. Just give me a few minutes to call Angie. When is a good time to reach you?”
“I’m in clinic this afternoon. Should be done by five, five-thirty.” She hesitated. “Thanks, Logan.”
###
Two days later, Grace entered the Federal Building on the corner of Wilshire and Veteran, one of Angie’s senior partners at her side.
“I’d go with you myself,” Angie said over the phone. “But if this is about the Blackwell investigation, you’re better off with Quinn. He’s way more experienced when it comes to securities litigation. Plus he knows how to deal with the feds. You’ll be in good hands.”
A series of phone calls, and it was arranged. Quinn Kirkpatrick turned out to be younger than Grace expected, probably no more than thirty-eight or forty. He ran through the basics.
“Think of this as a deposition,” he told her. “Answer truthfully, but don’t volunteer information. Limit your responses to the specific question asked. If you don’t understand the question, ask for clarification.”
As they proceeded through security screening and waited for Special Agent Rodriguez to escort them upstairs, Grace mentally reviewed the attorney’s additional pointers.
If you don’t know the answer, or can’t remember, do not guess. Just say, “I don’t know” or “I can’t remember.”
They may try to intimidate you, or trick you into saying something that isn’t true. Don’t let them.
We’re going to insist that the interview be recorded. This is for your protection. Since everything you say is admissible in court, we want the record to be as accurate as possible.
Once they dispensed with introductions, declined the offer of coffee or water, and settled down to the interview, things progressed quickly.
Special Agent Wallace walked her through a series of questions regarding her knowledge about Blackwell Securities LLC and the firm’s financial transactions. This was followed by a list of questions she recalled answering back in New York, about her ex-husband’s finances and the terms of their divorce settlement. This time, at least, she wasn’t forced to wade through reams of financial and legal documents that had been seized in the FBI raids following William Blackwell’s arrest.
“After your divorce, did you have any contact with Harry Blackwell?”
She maintained her bland expression. “Yes.”
“What was the nature of that contact?”
“Harry would call, or drop by my work or apartment.”
“What reasons did he give for calling or dropping by?”
“It varied. Sometimes he said he wanted us to get back together. Sometimes he talked about how his treatment was going.”
“You mean his psychiatric treatment?”
“Yes.”
“On these occasions, did he ever discuss Blackwell Securities with you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last year, on December 10th.”
“Any other time?”
“No.”
“What happened on December 10th?”
Grace took a deep breath. So far, Wallace had not asked a single new question. Surely he hadn’t flown all the way from New York to revisit the same territory they had already covered multiple times? “Harry showed up—”
“Where?”
“At my apartment, in the West Village.” She paused, to see if Wallace wanted more detail. When he remained silent, she continued. “He showed up and said that his father had just confessed to running a Ponzi scheme.”
“Did Harry say anything else?”
“Yes. He said he called you guys about it.”
“Meaning the FBI.”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
She folded her hands on the table. “That’s it.”
“He didn’t give any more details?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Did he show you any evidence of this Ponzi scheme?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you he was involved in the scheme?”
“No.”
Wallace leaned forward. “No, he didn’t tell you? Or no, he said he wasn’t involved?”
“He said this was the first he knew of it.”
“Did he contact you at any point after the night of December 10th?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Several times.”
“Can you be more specific?”
She frowned. “No.”
“Try. Was it every day? Twice a week? Twice a month?”
She felt Quinn’s hand on her arm. “Is there a point to this, Agent Wallace?”
Wallace backed off. “When Harry contacted you, did he give you anything?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Did he give you money or jewelry?”
“No.”
“What about any documents?”
“No.”
“Any information about where he may have hidden assets?”
“No.”
“When did you last see Harry Blackwell?”
“A couple months ago.”
“In March.”
“Yes.”
“Do you recall the date?”
As if she could ever forget. “March 22nd.”
“What happened?”
She pressed her fingertips against the table, focusing on the texture of the wood against her skin. “He came to my apartment. He was crying.”
She stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance. “You’re off your meds again?”
“No,” Harry said. “I swear.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Harry.”
“Please, Grace.” He pressed the door open with his palm. “I need you. The feds won’t leave us alone. It’s not enough that Dad’s on trial. ”
“Harry...”
“They’ve frozen everything. Fucking SIPA trustee runs the show. He wants a written request for anything over a hundred bucks.” His foot crossed the threshold, forcing her back. “Mom refuses to see to me. Says it’s my fault for turning Dad in.”
“I’m sorry. But I’m not your therapist, Harry. You can’t keep coming here.”
“I know, Grace. I’m sorry. Please. I can’t be alone tonight. Just this once, Grace, I swear. I never stopped loving you.”
“You need to leave, Harry.” She glanced toward the phone on the coffee table. “I’ll call you a cab.”
“No.” He grabbed her arm, buried his face in her neck.
She could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Harry...”
“Please, Grace.” The apartment was small. Barely two steps from the door to the couch. “For old time’s sake.”
“Grace?”
Air rushed into her lungs.
Quinn’s hand squeezed hers. She blinked up at his frowning face.
“For God’s sake, get her some water,” he barked.
There was a flurry of movement across the room and then a plastic cup was shoved in front of her. She stared at it. Her hand wasn’t steady enough to keep the water from spilling.
A box of tissues appeared, as if by magic.
“We’re taking a break,” Quinn announced, rising.
“No.” Grace cleared her throat. “It’s okay. Let’s just get this over with.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He glared at the two agents before resuming his seat.
Wallace nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. You were telling us about Harry Blackwell’s visit on March 22nd.”
“Yes.”
“What was the reason for his visit?”
“He was upset. His depression was getting worse.”
“Did he mention anything about Blackwell Securities?”
“No.”
“What about where the money went? Did he discuss that with you?”
“No.”
“Did you have any further contact with Harry after March 22nd?”
“He called me last Friday, on my cell.”
“What did he say?”
“He left a message that I should call.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She took a deep breath in and released it slowly. “I have a restraining order against him. The court issued a no-contact order.”
“Why?”
Grace turned to Quinn. “Do I have to answer that?”
He shook his head. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you have access to copies of the court documents. Let’s get back on topic, shall we?”
“All right, then.” Wallace glanced at his partner, who shrugged. “You didn’t call Harry back. But you called his mother.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because someone needed to check up on him, make sure he was okay.”
“What made you think he wasn’t okay?”
She raised a brow. Was this guy for real? “Harry was bipolar. Manic-depressive. He had a history of multiple suicide attempts. He wasn’t particularly compliant with medication or follow-up. It was just a matter of time before he decompensated again.”
“Decompensated how?”
“Became depressed or manic to the point where he couldn’t function. Do you need me to draw you a picture?”
Quinn covered her hand with his, and she managed to swallow her anger.
“So you thought he might hurt himself.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if he had discovered something new? Or maybe he was hiding something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us about your ex-husband’s activities that day?”
“No.”
“Tell us about the call you placed to Barbara Blackwell. What did you discuss?”
“I left her a voice-mail, asking that she check on Harry.”
“You didn’t actually speak with her.”
“I did not.”
“Did you say anything else?”
“I asked her to remind Harry that he shouldn’t be contacting me.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Have you had any other contact with Barbara Blackwell following your divorce from her son?”
“Yes.”
“What was the nature of your contact?”
“I called her several times, requesting her help with Harry.”
“What do you mean, requesting her help?”
She’d already answered this question. Was the man hoping to catch her in a contradiction? If so, he was bound to be disappointed.
“Harry’s depression was worsening,” she repeated. “He wasn’t consistent with his medications and doctors’ appointments. He needed help. I asked his mother to intervene.”
“Did you discuss anything else with her, besides her son’s health?”
“Not that I recall.”
“You didn’t discuss her husband’s trial?”
“No.”
“What about the business? Or money?”
“No.”
“Did you have any other contact with her, besides these calls requesting her assistance?”
“Just that call last Friday.”
“Very well.” Wallace paused, allowing the silence to stretch. At length he tapped his hand against the table and rose. “Thank you for coming in today. If we have any other questions, we’ll be in touch. If you should recall anything else that you think might be relevant, anything at all, you have my card.”
Grace stood. “Yes.”
Quinn touched her elbow. “Are we through here, gentlemen?”
“Yes. We appreciate your cooperation.” Wallace opened the door. “My partner will escort you out.”
###
“That went well,” Quinn said.
Grace managed a small smile. “I appreciate your help.”
“Any friend of Angie’s, and all that.”
She and Angie weren’t exactly friends, had in fact last seen each other at Angie’s high school graduation a decade ago. But Grace didn’t bother to correct him. Whatever Logan had told his sister, it had worked, and she was grateful for Angie’s arrangements on her behalf.
They exited the Federal Building, pausing for a moment in the glare of late afternoon sun. If not for that pause, Grace might have missed seeing the man loitering near one of the stone benches just outside. Jeans, rear-facing baseball cap, shoulder bag large enough to hide professional recording equipment.
She slipped on a pair of sunglasses and smoothed out her expression. “Don’t look now,” she murmured. “But we’re about to have company.”
Sure enough, the man sprang into action as they turned toward the parking lot.
“Hey, Grace! Who’s the suit? New boyfriend? Personal bodyguard? Yo, buddy, how about a smile for the camera?”
Quinn didn’t falter. One hand on Grace’s elbow, he guided them past a row of cars emblazoned with the Homeland Security logo, and toward the far end of the lot.
“Do you mind dropping me back at the office?” he said. They’d met at the law firm offices earlier and driven in together, to allow for a quick briefing before her interview.
“No problem.” She unlocked the Jag.
“Grace, come on, give a guy a break! What did the FBI want? Was Harry in trouble with them, is that why he killed himself? Did he tell you where the money was before he died?”
She started the engine. The man stopped in front of the car, aiming his camera through the windshield. She tapped the horn.
Quinn secured his seatbelt. “You know this joker?”
“Not personally.” Another tap on the horn. “But he’s been following me the last few days. Persistent bugger.”
“You want a restraining order?”
She eased the car into drive. Just as she’d hoped, the man scrambled to the side. She pulled out slowly, ignoring his shouts and the impact of his hand against the car frame as she drove past.
“I’m sure he’ll lose interest soon enough,” she said. “Besides, I hear First Amendment arguments are pretty hard to beat.”
“True. But there’s a fine line between persistence and harassment. The guy was banging on your car. Pretty ballsy, if you ask me, considering we’re in the parking lot of an FBI field office with security cameras all around.”
Grace glanced in the rear-view mirror. There was a van several car lengths back that looked an awful lot like the one she’d noticed near her grandmother’s house. “You may have a point.”
Quinn cracked a smile. “Let me
know if you decide you want to do something about it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
While Logan waited for Grace to return from the restroom, he scrolled through his emails. A message from Angie caught his eye.
Check it out, L: your girl’s in the news again.
He clicked on the accompanying link. As he skimmed the article, his jaw got tighter and tighter.
From Riches to Rags and Back: The Life of a Blackwell Widow Raises Questions
May 22 | 8:00 a.m.
Los Angeles — After months of enduring a cramped studio sublet in a seedy section of New York, Grace King, ex-daughter-in-law of convicted fraudster William Blackwell, is suddenly living on easy street. King’s new digs are located on La Mesa Drive, in one of the most desirable (read: expensive) neighborhoods in Los Angeles.
How can King, who claims to have walked away empty-handed from her marriage to Harry Blackwell, afford to live a few houses down from the 11,000-square-foot $22 Million mansion that belonged to late Hollywood legend Kathryn Grayson?
Something doesn’t compute.
Why not fess up, Grace? Did you have a little something-something squirreled away for a rainy day? Was Harry passing you some cash under the table? Maybe his family was buying your silence, paying you to keep from mouthing off about his bad-boy antics? Remember those champagne & caviar parties, with the ten-grand-a-pop prostitutes for entertainment?
And what was it that finally pushed Harry over the edge? Who holds the keys to that mystery?
Turns out we’re not the only ones with questions. Grace King was recently seen exiting the Federal Building, home to the Los Angeles FBI Field Office.
With William Blackwell awaiting sentencing, his wife Barbara holed up in the Manhattan penthouse she’s trying to save from repossession, and their son Harry dead by his own hand, looks like the Feds are running out of people to question.
Time to come clean, Grace. Unless you’ve got something to hide?
“Logan?”
He started at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Clicking off the phone, he glanced up.