But parts of it, certainly, left little room for doubt. There was no question that Mohammed Mizda and the jailed Jamaican worked for this man. Parker, along with some fifty other men, most of them illegal aliens, none of them Boy Scouts, almost all from third world countries. In addition to this small army of thugs, according to Mizda, Parker is said to have retained a number of Americans who were specialists in the black-bag arts of wiretapping and burglary. The Pakistani, however, rarely came in contact with the latter and had no real knowledge of their mission.
What seemed indisputable, however, was that Parker had sent Mizda and the Jamaican, among others, after Michael. He had done so either at the behest of Lehman-Stone, which meant Bart Hobbs, or on instructions from someone at AdChem.
It had also been established that Mizda, before being brought here from Pakistan, had been in the pay of that AdChem subsidiary, first as a guard with those camel caravans and then as a disciplinarian of sorts. His people were warned that if they stole from the camels that were
bringing back the gold, Mizda would stake them out in the Pakistan sun, place a large copper bowl on their bellies, put two thirsty rats under it, and let them dig their way out.
This gem was related by Mohammed Yahya. He told it as he spooned chocolate ice cream into his mouth.
It was not so much that Doyle doubted the story. Parker had not recruited Mizda for his love of humanity. But it just didn't seem the sort of detail one volunteers when one is hoping not to be tortured any further. Given his admission that he tried to murder Michael, the Giordano brothers were feeling less than lenient toward him as it was.
Mohammed Yahya, more likely, had simply thrown it in. Perhaps he's seen it done. Perhaps he's done it himself. God knows what else he had invented, but claimed that Mizda had said, in his zeal to impress Fat Julie Giordano.
On the other hand, he said that Mizda knew nothing of Jake Fallon's murder. Was it therefore unrelated? He said, further, that Mizda had no knowledge of any involvement by anyone at Lehman-Stone or AdChem. That it was strictly this Parker character. Which is, of course, impossible.
Unless . . .
Unless Parker had reasons of his own. Could it be, Doyle wondered, that Parker is running an outlaw security firm that has been robbing AdChem blind, diverting its products to the black market. If so, however, he would surely need someone on the inside. Someone who could doctor their production and inventory figures so that the shrinkage wouldn't show. That would explain the need for black-baggers. But how would Lehman-Stone fit in? What is Bart Hobbs's role in this? Mohammed Mizda had no idea.
No use asking him again. No good asking to take a deposition from him either because, if Fat Julie's past behavior is any guide, he's probably in the hold of some cargo ship by now. Sealed in a fuel drum. Ready to be deep-sixed far out at sea lest we discomfort Marty Hennessy by having him bob to the surface at the foot of Wall Street.
Fat Julie had smelled big money.
All those counterfeit drugs.
But Doyle found Yahya's claim so extravagant that it rendered his overall credibility moot.
Half?
Half of all prescription drugs are counterfeit? Half of two hundred billion dollars?
“Okay,” Johnny G. had said afterward on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. “Say it isn't fifty percent. Say it's five percent. That's still ten billion dollars which is, to give you an example, about twice the size of the whole movie industry. And with counterfeits, your costs are real low so maybe ninety percent of that is pure profit. There's also not that much risk. You get caught . . .”
Fat Julie tapped a finger against the table, then cupped both hands in the manner of a poker player breasting his cards. Doyle recognized the gesture. It said, “Never tell everything. Always keep something in your pocket.”
It was the second time he'd done that. The first was when Johnny G. wondered aloud why Bart Hobbs needs so many homes. The question came as he was flipping through his notebook to see if he had forgotten anything. It had no apparent relevance to the subject at hand. But it clearly had significance because Fat Julie waved that finger at his brother again.
Whatever.
In the end, at least, he agreed to wait a few days before saying anything to Moon. No use getting Moon's blood up. There were too many things that needed to be sorted out first.
That Sunday, Doyle had taken a taxi home.
On arriving, the first thing he did, other than checking the labels of Sheila's prescription bottles, and flushing the contents of two of them, was to place a call to Arnie Aaronson.
Arnie was his investment counselor. He handled Michael's portfolio as well. Before going into business for himself, however, Arnie had spent twenty years at Merrill-Lynch, was still well connected, and knew his way around the pharmaceutical industry. Upjohn and Pfizer, in fact, were part of Doyle's portfolio, and Arnie had urged him to hold them.
As for AdChem, come to think of it, Doyle didn't remember them even being listed. He asked Aaronson, whom he had awakened from a nap.
“They're not,” Aaronson told him. “Not on the big board. They're listed on the Frankfurt exchange.”
“Why not here?”
“This sounds more slippery than it is,” he explained with a yawn, “but any company wishing to trade on the American exchanges must abide by what are known as the Generally Accepted Accounting Principles.”
“And AdChem, I take it, does not.”
“Not just AdChem. German accounting permits companies to have silent reserves. Those are cash accounts with undisclosed balances. So, except for big banks with clout, German investors can't find out the earnings, net worths, assets or liabilities of the companies in which they have invested. This is unequal access to information and that's a no-no with the SEC.”
“Fertile ground, I would think, for insider trading.”
“Exactly. Germany has no rules against it. That's not a market for the small investor.”
“And ours is?”
“No. But we pretend it is. The Germans don't bother.”
Doyle grunted. “What do you know about counterfeit Pharmaceuticals?’'
“German products or anyone's?”
“Anyone's.”
“It happens. I remember Searle had a problem a few years back with some counterfeit birth control pills. What brings that up?”
“Just something I heard. Made me curious. How widespread is the problem?”
“Drop in the bucket, probably.”
“Why do you say so?”
“That industry is big bucks but it's very well policed.”
“Okay ... if someone told you that fully half of all prescription medications sold in this country are counterfeit, what would you say?”
Aaronson snorted. “That's total bullshit, Brendan.”
“Do me a favor? Ask around a little.”
“Brendan ... it's a waste of time.”
“Bill me.”
The investment counselor stifled another yawn. “You in a hurry? I could see what the FDA has on the subject.”
“Sure, but ask around the industry in the meantime. Arnie?”
“Yeah?”
“Ask around about AdChem, too.”
Doyle had that conversation on Sunday evening. On Thursday morning of the week that followed, three things happened.
First, Fat Julie Giordano made a decision. The promised “few days” had passed. He would talk this over with Johnny G. first, but he thought it was time he asked Moon a few questions. In trade for the answers, he would now tell Moon what he had chosen not to tell Doyle.
All Fat Julie knew was what the camel man had told Yahya.
The soon-to-be-late Mohammed Mizda said the man in the subway, the one who pushed Michael, was a Mexican named Hector who also runs pills from Tampico to Brownsville in speedboats. He swore, however, that he knew nothing about Jake. Or about who killed him or why. But, scared and hurting, he said maybe it was Walter.
Walter was another Pak
istani. His real name was Ayub but his father was a Belgian mercenary, killed in the war against India. Ayub could pass for a European so he took his father's name. Mohammed Mizda said that back in November, the time they were talking about, Walter had suddenly been sent away. But before he went, he could not resist a little bragging. Walter flashed a big roll of bills that he said was a special bonus. He said that while the rest of them freeze their tushes in New York all winter he will be in Palm Beach with the rich people.
But someone else, a Punjabi Hindu who had no use for Walter, said don't listen to all the big talk. He said that all this pig will be doing is guarding the house of Mr. Hobbs and living in a little apartment that is over the garage and keeping to himself. Getting drunk or high, even having a woman, all these are forbidden to him.
Walter became indignant. After smashing the Punjabi's face against a locker, he said that shows how little a stupid Hindu knows. He said that he is free to use the pool and the white BMW that Mr. Hobbs keeps there and he can bring a woman to his room as often as he wishes as long as he can get rid of her quickly if there is work to be done. No drinking and no drugs is only for a little while because Mr. Parker said that he might have another job for him soon and it would be in Florida.
None of this, not even the phrase “another job,” proved that it was Walter who had taken the baseball bat to Jake. But, thought Fat Julie at the time, if it was this guy who killed Jake, the other job must have been to get Moon.
Johnny G. thought otherwise.
He reminded his brother that Moon was still in Mount Sinai when this Walter was sent to Florida and that it was a few weeks after that before anyone but Doyle knew where Moon had gone.
However, Johnny G. also remembered that back after Jake's memorial service, Bart Hobbs had told Michael and the English girl to go stay at his house in Palm Beach. Maybe the other job was Michael. Maybe it was both of them. Maybe, because Michael wouldn't go, they decided to hit them in New York and make it look like a stickup that went bad.
“And I'll tell you something else,” Johnny G. told his brother. “The cab that Jake took home that night? Yellow Cab? Hennessy told Doyle that no Yellow Cab logged a fare that night from West 82nd in Manhattan to Pierrepont Street in Brooklyn. But he said such a cab had been stolen the day before and it was found a few days later at JFK. Same cab? Who knows? All Hennessy could say for sure was that it was probably used in a crime because the cab was washed clean of prints. A cab should have hundreds of different prints all over it but this one had none.”
“The cab was out waiting for Jake? With this Walter driving?”
Johnny G. shrugged. “Why don't we go ask Walter?”
“Where is he? He's still down at Hobbs's place?”
“Camel guy says he thinks so.”
”I want Moon to go ask him.”
Johnny G. frowned. “You think he's up to it?”
“It might get his juices flowing. But let's still don't say anything to Doyle.”
“How come?”
“Because he's a fucking lawyer, that's how come. You think he'd go for this? Lawyers are for talking to after. Talk to them before and you never get anything done.”
Johnny G. had looked at him doubtfully.
“Come on, Julie. How come?”
His brother grunted. “It's five months since Jake got killed. I think he knew, all that time, who might have done it and he hasn't done shit.”
“Give him a break. It's only three weeks since he had a name and it's only three days since we picked up Mizda.”
“It was you who got hit, you think I'd sit on my ass five months?”
“Doyle isn't you.”
Julie took out the phone number Doyle had given him.
He had recognized it immediately. Jake's condo down in Naples. That was another thing that bothered him. If Doyle was stashing Moon there to protect him, it seemed a very obvious place for someone to look.
The smart one might have been Michael. He stashed himself and he took his sweet time telling Doyle where. You don't do that with family unless you have a real good reason. Maybe he's got the same bad feeling about Doyle. But now that he did tell Doyle, nothing better all of a sudden happen to him or it'll be Doyle who gets, hung up by his balls.
Julie punched out the number.
On that same Thursday morning, in the Taylor House on Martha's Vineyard, Fallon fought to clear his head of a lingering dream and of the pills he'd taken to help him sleep. The bleat of a ship's horn jarred him awake. He sat upright. His eyes darted, stared stupidly, then darted again.
He began to realize, slowly, that it had been no dream. She had been there last night. He could smell her on the sheets.
The anger washed back over him. He bolted to his feet, nearly losing his balance from the lingering effect of the drugs. He staggered to the bathroom and there, on the floor, was the towel he had used to wipe himself. He snatched it up, held it for a moment, then hurled it in the direction of his bedroom fireplace.
He thought of the sheets. He crossed to his bed and tore them free. He would boil them. Boil her out of them. Or burn them in that fireplace. But he did neither. He knew that he was being hysterical. He indulged himself all the same.
He stood, for several long moments, with the bedding gathered against his chest. What he wanted to do was strangle her. Or paddle her tight little ass so raw that she'll never come within a time zone of this island again.
What he did not want to do was what he knew he was doing. Standing here with her. Still feeling her.
Missing her.
The third thing that happened on that Thursday morning was that an agitated Arnie Aaronson appeared unannounced in Doyle's office. He was dressed in jeans, loafers, and a white golf jacket. Arnie had not worn a suit since Wall Street. This was less a question of lifestyle than the consequence of having gained fifty pounds. “Sit, Arnie. Want coffee?”
The bigger man sat but ignored the offer. He set a briefcase across his lap, toyed briefly with the latch, but did not open it. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his shirt and drew out a slip of lined paper, small and folded, that looked as if it had been torn from a notebook. He stared at it for a long moment. He spoke without looking up.
“Brendan . . . you want to tell me what's going on?”
First Fat Julie, now Arnie. “Why do you ask?”
”Why?’' He waved the slip of paper. “Because everyone I spoke to said those same four words. ‘Why do you ask, Arnie?' Brendan? Why did I ask?”
“I'll tell you when I'm sure. They wouldn't discuss it?”
“What, that half of all drugs are counterfeit? Sure they would. They said it's impossible.”
“Tell me why.”
Doyle listened as Arnie Aaronson took him through a litany of industry practices and safeguards, FDA spot checks, even appeals to common sense.
“The question you have to ask yourself,” he said, “is who would knowingly buy this stuff? A drug chain wouldn't. A hospital of any size wouldn't. Even if they were tempted by the prospect of windfall profits it wouldn't begin to be worth the risk. They get caught, they'd get sued up the ass. A doctor wouldn't because, unlike in Japan, for example, doctors don't get a cut on the prescriptions they write.”
“You said knowingly. What if the hospital doesn't know it's counterfeit?”
“Theoretically, that's possible. Hospitals buy from distributors or from pooled buying groups. The distributors, and now the HMOs, buy direct from the manufacturers. In the case of counterfeits, however, the distributor would have to buy from some third party. To do that, he would have to be getting a very good price. But the second he sees that price—well below what it's been costing him to buy direct—he would know right away that this stuff is bogus.”
“So? He's greedy. He buys it anyway.”
“But again, if he gets caught, he's out of business and there's a chance he'll go to jail. And he could very well get caught because, aside from the FDA doing spot checks, the major ma
nufacturers have thousands of salespeople out there keeping tabs on how their products are selling. If a distributor, say, has more of a given product than that salesperson's computer says they ever bought, the red flag goes up like a rocket.”
Doyle had to look away. The image of those salespeople, some of them, trading samples for nose candy left him less than convinced of their proprietary zeal.
“Um . . . back up a second.”
The subject of drug dealing reminded him of something that Johnny G. had started to say. That there's very little risk in this. And his uncompleted “even if you get caught . . .” He asked Aaronson about that.
“Compared to what? Pushing hard drugs?”
“For instance. Yes.”
“Well . . .” Arnie began counting on his fingers. “You don't have three thousand DEA agents kicking doors in all over the world. Add two thousand FBI agents who work full time on illegal drugs. You don't have the coast guard stopping boats at sea or the air force tracking planes. You don't have dogs sniffing luggage at airports. You don't have all those local narcs that you see on ‘Cops' . . . the ones who bring film crews on busts . . . and you don't have undercover cops either. You don't even have the regular local cops because this is strictly the FDA's jurisdiction. The FDA can call in the FBI but unless it's high-profile, the FBI won't get excited.”
The Shadow Box Page 11