“Wait a minute. Are you a computer?”
“Ha ha. Do I sound that bad? Sorry. Please state the nature of your business.”
“Stop screwing around! Just have him get back to me. ASAP. I can’t believe I’m still talking to a computer. Let me ask you something. Do you dream in color? Do you keep file folders of favorite poems? Do you listen to music when you’re not answering the phone? Define the nature of the human soul.”
“Jason? Are you okay?”
“Nice touch. You sound almost capable of empathy. Almost.”
“Listen, let me call you back. This is no longer a good line.”
“You don’t sound like a computer anymore.”
“I’m not. It’s a screening program I use.”
“Next you’ll be promising me a ‘free Bahamas vacation’ or trying to get me to switch auto insurance. Guess what? I don’t own a car.”
“Jason. Jason.” He tried to interrupt my continuing rant. “I’ll call you right back.”
The line went dead.
Before I had time to think about what my next move should be, my iPad dinged. I looked around for it. The sound seemed to have come from the other room. I scouted the living room. The couch. My broken-springed armchair. The bookshelf nearest the door. I circled the room again. This time I stopped at the Kid’s bedroom door. It was closed. It was usually closed when he was not at home. That way, no one could go in and rearrange his cars on the shelf. Carolina, who provided our once-a-week cleaning service, had a special dispensation, thanks to the Kid’s fear of germs, dust, and any other indoor dirt.
I opened the door. My iPad was lying on top of his half-made bed. Another mystery. Life with my son provided so many.
There was a new email message from a Salvatore Albert Lombino, a name that meant nothing to me. I thought about hitting the delete icon, but held off. The timing was too coincidental. I Googled the name. Wikipedia informed me that this was the birth name of Evan Hunter, aka Ed McBain, the man who wrote the screenplay for Hitchcock’s The Birds. It was Hannay. I opened the message and found a series of numbers, the first beginning with a 1 followed by ten digits. A phone number.
I ran my eyes down the other numbers while I dialed. None made any impression.
“Hey, Jason.”
“Do I call you Sal now?”
“No. I’m still using the Hannay persona. Did you look at those numbers I sent?”
“I’m looking now. What am I supposed to see here?”
“I don’t know. Anything, I guess.” He sounded both tired and defeated.
I looked again.
19 7 23 47
89 31 37 103
223 83 89 311
5 19 41 71
1 3 13 31
“Is this a code? What am I supposed to be looking at? I’m lost.”
“Ah. These are all seemingly random names of companies that have recently purchased shares of Becker Financial.”
I found my cup of tea and took a sip. It had cooled off just enough.
“Okay,” I said. I shifted into my mathematical analytical mode. “Each line is comprised of four numbers. Every number is a prime. No number has more than three digits. Is this true of all of them?”
“Yes to your first and last comments. But I didn’t catch that they’re all prime numbers.”
“Prime numbers sometimes group themselves into little clusters, but that doesn’t apply here,” I said. “How do you know they’re companies?”
“Incorporation documents. We’ve been able to get into digital files and read a few. Each of these series of numbers is followed by either a ‘Co.’ or an ‘Inc.’ or an ‘Ltd.’ The docs are all filed in island countries in the Caribbean.”
“Are there more like this?”
“Maybe, but you’d have to break into the offices and find the physical files. It’s not a job for me and my people. But you were right. All the trades were done through law firms and private banks. To get this much, we had to hack into each firm’s digital files. These all came from banks. Most of the law firms don’t trust electronic files. Those that do have multiple security systems.”
“If this is the best we can get, I’m not sure it’s worth it.”
“Hold up. I have to keep changing phones so I don’t set up a pattern. Call me back on this number.” He rattled off another number and the phone cut off.
I dialed the new number and he picked up immediately.
“I’m so sorry. Can you repeat your last question?”
“You sound like a computer again.”
There followed a shrill beep and an electronic crackle. Then he was back. “Shit! Sorry. I wrote the app for this and I’m afraid it still needs work.”
“That’s okay, you sound like a normal paranoid again,” I said.
“Really. I know I’m acting paranoid, but I also know it’s the only thing keeping me safe. It often results in a bad case of cognitive dissonance.”
“And a migraine. I was saying that I’m not going to recommend that Virgil sink much more into this until we are confident we can show him results.”
“Great things happen when men and mountains meet. Would it help if I sent you more info? Names of some of these law firms or banks?”
I considered for a moment. “I don’t think so. It’s great that you found some kind of pattern. It shows Virgil that he is right. There is a conspiracy out there to buy up shares of the firm. No doubt about it. But even if I can identify one or two of the names you run by me, it’s not going to get us any closer to who is behind it all. I’m going to have to find another angle. And flying to the Turks and Caicos to break into a string of law offices isn’t going to do it.”
“In the meantime?”
“Can you run these numbers through code-breaking programs? I know that prime numbers have been used in codes often enough.”
“I’ll need more data points.”
“Then spend a few more days on it. See how many more of these you can come up with. We’ll talk again early next week.”
We made arrangements for me to get another envelope full of cash to him. I was to leave it with the night-shift bartender at the Dublin House up on Seventy-ninth Street. I checked my watch. The Kid and Heather wouldn’t be home for another hour—more, if he persuaded her to swing by the dog run in Riverside Park.
“I’ll take a walk up there now. Stay safe.”
My tea was cold.
19
The night was cool for April, but spring in New York is always unreliable. There have been blizzards, heat waves, floods, and cold snaps during the month. There have also been coyote sightings, a crocodile in Central Park, a tiger in Queens and another in the Bronx, a six-foot boa constrictor that had gotten itself stuck between some rocks, a wild turkey downtown, and reports of a bear up in Riverdale that turned out to be a big black hairy dog. And forget about the rats. Not all of this happened in April, but it was ongoing evidence of the constant incursion of nature upon the city. Most New Yorkers live there—rather than in some more bucolic environ—because they don’t want to confront nature on a daily basis. Having to put on a heavy jacket for a five-block walk up Broadway on a spring evening can feel like a major concession to a world that the city fights to keep at bay.
The light was about to change as I reached Seventy-sixth Street and I dashed across to the east side of the street just before the tide of taxis and Town Cars swept past. A horn sounded behind me and I looked back. A slight figure in a dark coat and a long-brimmed hat had tried to make it across behind me, holding back only when the driver of a yellow cab hit the horn rather than the brake and blew by the pedestrian at ten miles over the limit.
I tucked my chin into my coat and walked faster in an attempt to generate the body heat that I was losing through my ears and fingertips. The light at the next intersection was two steps ahead
of me, and despite the cold, I decided not to risk making a last-second dash. I stopped and waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the small dark figure across Broadway making an abrupt turn, upsetting for a moment the flow of pedestrian traffic approaching the corner. I didn’t stare; I barely looked. But I was on a clandestine mission with three thousand dollars in cash in my pocket. It was not a time for complacence.
Making a feint, I stepped off the curb as though in preparation for a head start the moment the light changed. The figure turned again and began to move to stay slightly ahead of me on the opposite side of Broadway. “Tailing in advance,” the hacker would have called it. I stepped back onto the sidewalk and turned to the right, down the side street toward Amsterdam. I moved quickly.
The traffic thinned as I headed up the block, and after passing the back of the comedy club on the corner, I darted across and continued on the north side of the street. I risked a quick look back. My follower had raced across Broadway and was coming up the block behind me. I thought of Hannay’s comment on being paranoid and felt a momentary flash of kinship. I sped up.
At the end of the block, there was a bank ATM kiosk and I ducked in and waited for my pursuer to approach. It didn’t take long. I had my back against the inner wall, just out of the direct light.
The figure reached the corner and looked around, trying to be casual about it, but failing. Even wrapped in the dark coat, the shape was definitely feminine. And nicely proportioned, I couldn’t help but notice. Her hands were jammed in her pockets and her shoulders were high and hunched. She was cold.
She was also unsure of herself and, with her quarry having disappeared, possibly frightened. She looked up and down Amsterdam and her shoulders began to slump. Then the next wave of traffic began to come up the avenue and headlights framed her for an instant and formed an aura around her head. A distinctly red aura. She turned away from the blinding light and I saw her profile. I knew that redhead. It was Aimee Devane.
My first thought was to walk out and immediately confront her with questions and accusations. I quashed the impulse and instead turned my back to her and pretended to use the ATM. I could still see her—though dark and clouded—reflected in the black plastic border above the screen. She finally turned and saw my back in the kiosk. I turned quickly and charged out the door.
“Aimee? What a surprise. I didn’t know you lived in my neighborhood.” I may have overplayed the moment. She was startled and embarrassed, but she covered well.
“I’m meeting a girlfriend,” she said.
“Oh? Where? I’ll walk you there. I’m just out for a stroll myself.”
We both knew that she had been following me, and we both knew that we both knew. But we stood in the cold, making polite noises at each other and ignoring the obvious. If I had been truly frightened I might have been angry, but what I felt most strongly was curiosity. Why was Aimee Devane following me?
“No, that’s okay. It’s just a block over.”
“Scaletta’s? Love that place. Let me walk you. It’s a dark block.”
“Really, I’ll be fine. See you later.”
She practically ran across Amsterdam and continued down the side street toward the park—and Scaletta’s. I watched until she was out of sight and I was sure she wouldn’t be able to circle back and follow me again.
Mike, the bartender at the Dublin House, took the envelope for Richard Hannay and shoved it down behind the cash register. He acted as though receiving secret messages and wads of cash for men with fictitious names and no fixed address was business as usual. Maybe it was. The place had a long history, having first opened in the midst of Prohibition. I debated having a pint before heading home, but decided that my pact with Skeli was more important. And I wasn’t going to order a club soda in a dive bar.
A light mist had begun and I turned up my collar and hustled back down Broadway. No one followed me.
20
United States Attorney Wallace Ashton Blackmore was a self-promoting politician with no more respect for the law than any of the miscreants who had ever stood before him. He first made himself famous shortly after the crash by arresting a junior MBS salesman and taking him off the Nomura Securities trading floor in handcuffs. He brought with him four U.S. Marshals and a parade of television news teams. The publicity made Blackmore an instant national celebrity, though six months later the grand jury failed to grant an indictment and all charges against the young man were dropped. The press didn’t care. Blackmore was already a hero and a regular talking head on cable.
It cost the guy’s family over a million dollars in legal fees and ended his Wall Street career. Collateral damage.
The meeting took place in a conference room that was about ten degrees warmer than necessary. Blackmore’s people, led by his top AUSA, John Martin, arrived in shirtsleeves. Larry and I were in suits. No one offered coffee, soft drinks, or water. We were all in place—hot and uncomfortable—for close to fifteen minutes before the great man made his entrance.
What he lacked in charisma and good looks, he made up for with a street fighter’s posture and attitude, ready to challenge anyone in the room on any subject. He was shorter than he appeared on television and his comb-over was much more obvious. What came off on the tube as the broad, unwrinkled brow of a great thinker was, in person, a bulging protrusion over a pair of small sunken eyes. If he’d been a parking valet, you would hesitate to hand him your keys.
There were no preliminaries.
“Here’s how it’s going to work, Mr. Stafford. I’m going to tell you what it is I want from you, and after a bit of pro forma hesitation, you’re going to give it to me.”
Larry answered. “My client is here voluntarily, Wally. There’s no reason for him not to give his complete cooperation.”
That wasn’t exactly so, but the double negatives were a handy way of obscuring my extreme reluctance to tell Blackmore anything at all.
Blackmore barely acknowledged Larry. “Please tell us why you were interested in a tiny firm called McFee Plumbing.”
Larry had prepped me for this one. It was the obvious opening question.
“I do financial investigations for Virgil Becker. The firm pays me, but I answer only to him. When he doesn’t have something pressing for me to work on, I look for potential troubles. It keeps me busy.”
“And you were ‘troubled’ by a handful of trades in a stock that’s priced somewhere between twenty-three and eighty-seven cents a share?”
“I routinely make requests for documents to various regulatory bodies on a range of issues. McFee was one of many I made that day.”
“We’ll get to that. Did you discuss McFee Plumbing with Virgil Becker?”
Blackmore didn’t waste any time.
“I may have. I don’t know whether I mentioned the firm by name. It was one of many.”
Blackmore had four men and two women sitting at his end of the table. All six made notes every time I opened my mouth. When they weren’t writing, they were staring at me.
“When did you first discuss McFee Plumbing with Virgil Becker?”
Larry held up a hand in the universal Slow down gesture. “Mr. Stafford has not said that he remembers speaking with his employer about that specific stock.”
“Look, Larry. We’re doing this here in my offices as a favor to you, but don’t push it, okay? Either your client opens up and tells me what I want to hear, or I will see that he’s indicted, and we know where that leads, don’t we?”
An indictment would mean my parole would be revoked and I would be back in prison for the remaining sixteen months of my original sentence. There would be a feces-flying court battle over whether my son would live with his grandmother—my ex-wife’s mother—in Louisiana or with my father out in Queens. Pop and I would, no doubt, lose that battle, and it was quite likely that I would never see the Kid again.
&nb
sp; “Give us a minute, Wally.” Larry turned and whispered in my ear, shielding his lips with a raised hand. “He can do that. It’s bullshit, I admit, and from what you’ve told me, I can beat anything they throw at you. In court. Once it’s in front of a judge, you’re fine, but this pezzente doesn’t want you to ever get your day in court. He can delay for a year or more and let you sweat it back in Ray Brook the whole time.”
Ray Brook was where I had served most of my sentence. It was a medium-security facility in upstate New York. It was cold ten months of the year and hot for the other two and the clientele included both the scared and the scary. I knew where I fit in. I did not want to go back. “What do I do? I’m not lying just to stay out of jail. I’ve got nothing he wants. I really don’t think I know anything.”
“Follow my lead.”
What choice did I have? “If you save me, you’re saving the Kid. Don’t forget it.”
Larry turned back to face the group at the end of the table. “Full immunity. In writing. Signed by a federal judge.”
Blackmore threw up his hands. “You can’t expect me to go along with that. Blanket immunity? In return for what? I haven’t heard what he’s got. How do you expect me to make a deal?”
“Full cooperation. Before we leave this room today, you will know everything that he knows. Guaranteed. But he gets full immunity for anything he tells you here.”
“I can’t do that, Larry,” Blackmore said, shaking his head violently so that the comb-over slipped sideways and threatened to begin flapping.
“And he will repeat it all for a grand jury.”
Blackmore should have left the negotiations to one of his crew. He was too greedy, too ambitious, and too in love with himself to see the trap. U.S. Attorneys are appointed by the president. They are administrators. Some, like Blackmore, are also politicians. Rarely are they experienced prosecuting attorneys and they should know enough to delegate negotiations to their staff. But the six men and women with him were all too cowed by his arrogance to speak up. I could see the united front develop cracks and start to crumble.
Saving Jason Page 10