by A. C. Fuller
Alex muted the TV and looked at Camila, who was smiling.
“What was it before?” she asked. “John 12:25?”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
THEY JOINED SONIA around a small black table in an informal dining room off the kitchen. Photos of Hollinger’s children hung on the wall next to a large, framed black and white photo of a boy standing in front of a dugout. Lou Gehrig’s arm was draped around his shoulder.
“Is that Mac?” Camila asked, pointing at the picture.
“Yes, it’s from 1927, when Mac was ten. He loved the Yankees, and Gehrig especially. Thought he embodied America. Excellent mind, excellent body, and a work ethic that wouldn’t allow him to waste it.”
Alex looked up at the photo, recalling Gehrig’s streak of 2,130 games played. Fourteen years without missing a day of work. “I wanted to ask you, Sonia, if you hate the papers so much, why do you invest in them?”
Sonia looked toward Juan, who was carrying in a steaming platter of shredded pork with handmade corn tortillas, guacamole, pineapple relish, roasted corn and peppers, and a half dozen stone bowls filled with garnishes. When he put the platter down, Sonia turned to Alex. “As I said before, Juan is a brilliant chef, among his many talents. Now, how long have you two been together?”
“We’re, um, not together,” Alex said. “About the newspapers.”
“Oh, I have nothing to do with the investments,” Sonia said. “Mac handled all that. We had our arrangement and I had plenty to live on, but I never got involved in the finances.”
Alex felt irritated and impatient. He didn’t know if it was the sugar in the drinks, his conversation with Camila in the pool, or the thought of Sharp using him to sabotage his own case, but he had an urge to get to the point.
“But you are involved now, Mrs. Hollinger. Sorry to be blunt, but you are still the single biggest investor in Standard Media. You own ten percent of the biggest media company in the world, which is about to merge with the biggest cable and Internet provider in the world. Surely you must know that.”
“Yes, I own a lot of things now.”
Camila layered a tortilla with pork, guacamole, diced cucumbers, and charred chilies, then squeezed some lime juice on top and took a bite. She looked over at Juan, who stood in the corner. “I would marry you,” she said to him with her mouth full. “Te amo.”
“I told you he was amazing,” Sonia said.
Alex continued, “Earlier today you mentioned being pestered by Sadie Green. Would you be comfortable telling us what she wanted?” Alex tried to sound casual, but noticed that his hands were shaking as he reached for the hot sauce and shook it onto his pork.
Sonia poured herself a tall glass of red sangria. “I knew of her before Mac’s death. She was one of many people my husband supported. She had some thing helping Africans. Personally, I never saw why we didn’t just donate our money to the Church, or at least to veterans. But Mac liked to support all kinds of things. She started calling me right after 9/11. Can you believe that? While we were still searching for Mac?” She looked down at her glass, then emptied it and refilled it. “She said that my husband had planned to donate five hundred million to her little do-gooder media thing. Five hundred million! She claimed that my husband had agreed to it a few weeks before 9/11.”
“What?” Alex said, almost standing up. He glanced at Camila, who was wiping tortillas in a pool of sauce on her plate. “Did she have any evidence of that?” he asked.
“No. I figured she was just trying to get me to feel sorry for her, trying to get me to give her some of Mac’s money. A lot of folks did that, you know. Half of being rich is turning people down when they ask you for money. But the way she did it! A few days after America had been attacked? While I was still searching for my husband? She was off-putting, to put it kindly.”
“Did you give her any money?” Alex asked.
“My husband’s will had her little group in there for a quarter million out of his cash reserves. So I had to give her that when his will was settled. But I wasn’t about to add anything to it.”
Camila said, “Sonia, when she approached you about the money, did she seem desperate or demanding? Did it feel like a con?”
Sonia picked up a long metal fork and stabbed at a grape floating at the bottom of the sangria pitcher. “You know how in Argentina you have big cookouts?”
“Well, I was raised in Iowa, but I know the tradition,” Camila said.
“What a pity, darling. In Brazil, we had churrasco the last Sunday of the month after church. The whole family came over and my father cooked. We talked some politics but mostly football—you know, soccer—and ate all day and drank beer and then whisky. Sometimes my father let my big brother tend the meat, which had to be done very carefully. Spray the fire, keep it just right, rotate the meat. It was the most important position in the family on churrasco day.
“My little brother always wanted to tend the meat, but my father never allowed it. My big brother would spray him with the water bottle if he even got close to the fire. He could drink sangria when he was twelve but could never get near the coals. He used to demand it, then beg, cry, and pout. He was not good at taking no for an answer.” She nibbled on a cucumber slice. “Sadie Green was like that. Anyway, even if Mac had been considering what she said, he didn’t actually do it. And I wasn’t going to help her. Not with the way she treated me.”
* * *
After the meal, they accepted Sonia’s offer to have Juan drive them to their hotel. Minutes later, they were speeding toward town in the back of a silver Mercedes convertible. Latin dance music blasted through speakers in the seats and they rode without speaking. Alex’s head spun.
When they got into town, Juan turned down the music. “You believe her story?” he asked.
Alex and Camila looked at each other. Alex said, “We, uh. I’m not sure what to think. What story?”
Juan made a sharp right turn into the hotel parking lot. “Green. The girl. You believe her story about the money?”
“We’re really not sure,” Alex said.
“Yes, I believe her story,” Camila said. “I think John Martin was murdered because he knew about Mr. Hollinger’s intention to sell stock and give the money to Sadie Green.”
Alex glared at her. She shrugged.
“But who knows what really happened?” Alex said loudly.
Juan stopped the car in front of their hotel, then turned in his seat and smiled. “I have to get back to Sonia now,” he said, “but there is something I need to tell you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Friday, September 13, 2002
ALEX ROSE EARLY and went to the business center. First, he researched Sadie Green and the Media Protection Organization. He found their tax records for the last ten years, along with dozens of press releases most of the newspapers had ignored. He learned that Sadie Green had been hired in early 2000 and that donations had risen by fifty percent in her first year. Donors were not listed by name, but Alex assumed the increase was due to her relationship with Hollinger. After reading for an hour, Alex thought he understood the mission of MPO and the particular slant that Sadie Green brought to this mission. Their four biggest priorities were slowing media conglomeration, reversing the deregulation that had occurred during the 1980s, increasing funding for public media, and protecting net neutrality. He printed out a typical MPO press release to take back to the room for Camila.
Next, Alex looked up Daniel Sharp, landing on his official bio on the New York City Web site. Sharp was born and raised in the Bronx and attended Princeton and Harvard Law before serving as a Law Clerk from 1988-1990. After seven years in private practice, Sharp became assistant DA in Manhattan. Alex couldn’t find anything on his religious affiliation, but he did learn that Sharp had attended the top-ranked Catholic high school in the city. Alex still could not believe that Sharp would sabotage his own case, but he could see how, if played right, a mistrial in the Santiago case might raise his profile more than a conviction
would.
* * *
When he returned to the room, Camila was sitting on her bed wearing a bright orange cloth wrapped like a sari.
“Visit the gift shop?” Alex asked.
“I was sick of wearing those clothes from the airport. I got you a present.” She threw him a balled-up t-shirt, which splayed out as it flew through the air. Its pre-faded yellow fabric bore blue lettering that read: “It’s hard work looking this good.” The two sets of o’s looked like pairs of sunglasses.
“Uh, thanks,” he said. “This will go great with those Hawaiian shorts you’re so fond of.” He was distracted by the gift and felt short of breath. He hadn’t been prepared for her to do something nice. “I need to run. The sugar in those drinks is messing with me.”
He changed into his shorts in the bathroom. “Come for a run with me,” he said when he came out.
In response, Camila fell forward onto the bed.
“C’mon,” Alex said, pulling her up and pushing her toward the bathroom. “I’ll read you something as you change.”
Camila sighed and Alex read loudly in his “evening news” voice as she changed in the bathroom, the door slightly ajar.
“Thousands Sign Petition Urging FCC and Congress to Act on Net Neutrality. June 20, 2000. For immediate release.
“The Media Protection Organization (MPO) submitted a petition to Congress and the FCC today that was signed by over 20,000 citizens. It urged Washington to protect Internet neutrality and block corporate mergers.”
“Do others find that voice as annoying as I do?” Camila called from behind the door.
“Yes, they do,” Alex said. He continued in his normal voice. “The petition is part of MPO’s effort to slow the rapid conglomeration of media resources that has taken place since the unprecedented deregulation of the 1980s. In particular, it is aimed at stopping efforts by Standard Media and others to consolidate control of information by abandoning the decades-old custom of treating all data on the Internet equally.”
He paced in front of the bathroom door and continued loudly. “According to MPO Executive Director Sadie Green, ‘These companies want to be the gatekeepers of the Internet. It’s just a matter of time before rich people can get their data through, or get their sites to load, and poor people can’t. This would kill competition, kill freedom of information, and kill the Internet as we’ve come to know and love it. Though the companies argue that they funded the broadband networks, MPO and the petitioners recognize the fact that the basic infrastructure was publicly funded, with private companies providing only the ‘last mile’ of wiring. Essentially, these companies want to take a public resource—the pipes and wires that make the Internet work—and privatize them for profit.’”
Alex looked up as Camila emerged wearing a white swimsuit top and the new orange cloth tied into a skirt just below her navel. “You look amazing.”
She looked at him and smiled. “You know how I said I’m not very political? If I was gonna be, it would be about net neutrality.”
“Why?”
“She’s right about the Internet. Most of it was designed and built with Pentagon money. Now a handful of companies want to privatize the profit. If I were teaching this week, I’d be laying out how the press plays a huge role in shaping our identities—how we see ourselves and know ourselves—and how the net is the first time in a long time that there’s been a chance for a real diversification of voices. Not that information alone will save anyone, but it’s a decent start. And the fact that Standard Media and others want to control the Internet can’t be anything but bad for actual people.”
* * *
They jogged down the beach toward town, the sun peeking over the hills to their right and casting long shadows on the beach. “MPO is one of the most savvy and well-organized media groups,” Alex said. “They’re not very big, but they’re growing, probably because of the influx of cash from Hollinger. So, let’s say it’s true that he was going to take five hundred million out of Standard Media and give it to MPO. That would hammer the stock, right? But Standard Media is finalizing the deal to merge with Nation Corp. and—”
“Gotta . . . walk . . . for . . . a . . . minute,” Camila stammered between breaths. “I . . . know about . . . the deal.”
They slowed to a walk.
“It’s not the time you want a world-famous financial guru divesting,” Alex said. “And it’s also not the time you want him giving five hundred million to a company that’s going to do everything in its power to keep the deal from happening. Can you imagine the negative PR they could have thrown on the deal with that money?” Alex gave her a nudge and they started jogging again.
“I don’t think they could have stopped it,” Camila said, still trying to catch her breath. “Even with all that money.”
“Maybe not. But if Sonia is right about Sadie’s persistence, she could have caused a lot of headaches.”
Camila looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, she’s ’Sonia’ now? What happened to ‘Mrs. Hollinger’?”
“Jealous?”
She ran ahead of him a few steps. She was sweating and her skin had reddened.
“Try to land on your mid-foot, not your heel,” Alex said. “So anyway, Hollinger tells Green and Martin that he’s planning to make this move with his money. Let’s say that’s during the summer before 9/11.”
“Okay.”
“And then he dies on 9/11 before he could actually do any of it. At some point in October, maybe November, Sadie Green meets with Sonia and starts spreading rumors that Hollinger was going to make this move.”
“Yeah.”
“And then Martin says something to Bice at the funeral in December, showing that he knew Hollinger’s plans.”
“And then . . . Bice . . . has Martin killed.” Camila was out of breath and slowed to a walk again.
Alex took her hand and they turned back toward the hotel. “If all that’s true,” he said, “then I have four questions. First, how and when did Hollinger tell Martin about his plans? Second, who else might Hollinger have mentioned his plans to? I can understand not telling Sonia, given their relationship, but maybe he mentioned it to one of his lawyers or financial advisors. Even if he didn’t start making the move yet, he must have consulted someone. Third, if Hollinger told Martin, did Martin tell anyone else before he was killed?”
“He wouldn’t have. He was constantly lost in his writing and barely thought about that kind of thing. If he didn’t tell me, he wouldn’t have told anyone else.” She pulled her hand gently out of his. “What’s your fourth question?”
“What kind of man is Denver Bice? What I mean is, if you learn about Hollinger’s plans in October or November, then learn that Martin knew about them in December, why resort to murder? The law doesn’t care if Hollinger contemplated changing his will. Bice must have known about the rumors for weeks before the interaction with Martin at the funeral. And Martin wasn’t the only one who knew. Nothing was going to change, so why have Martin killed?”
“So you’re saying he must have had another reason to want Martin dead? I don’t know, maybe he was just being super-cautious. When I met him, he seemed like someone who was very practiced at concealing explosive rage. He came off as polite, even affable. But I could tell that he was the kind of guy who could get angry quickly if something didn’t go as planned.”
“I guess you don’t get to where he is without being a bit megalomaniacal.” They were approaching the hotel and Alex stopped and looked at her. “It comes down to what I said: what kind of man is Denver Bice?”
Alex’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Juan. He flipped it open. “Are you ready to tell us what you wanted to tell us?”
“Yes, meet me at the pier by your hotel at three o’clock today.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
WHEN THEY CAME BACK from their run, Camila toweled off and changed clothes, then went straight to the buffet. Alex took a quick shower, then called the courthouse.
Bearon
picked up on the first ring. “You shouldn’t be calling me here,” he said.
“I need some help,” Alex said, walking out to the balcony. “I’ll be quick.”
“You better.”
First, Alex quizzed him on the Santiago trial, but Bearon knew nothing more than Alex had learned from the online reports and TV. “Sharp really seems to be enjoying himself,” Bearon said. “Making sure to enter and exit with witnesses, leaking stuff to journalists. He’s gonna be the most well-known Democrat in the city off this case.”
“That’s what I called to ask you about. I mean, if Santiago is innocent, couldn’t that bring even more profile to the case?”
“What do you mean?” Bearon asked.
Alex closed one eye and focused the other on a wave moving toward the beach. “Sharp already has a good prosecution record. No one can call him soft on crime. To be mayor in a couple years, he needs money and exposure, right? And maybe some of the far-left voters?”
“He’s already getting the exposure.”
“But what if the case had some huge twist that wasn’t his fault? Wouldn’t that raise his profile even more?”
“I guess, but what are you getting at?” Bearon asked.
Alex paced the balcony. “Think about it. What if he’s the guy who’s been calling me? Maybe he wants the case to explode. If Santiago is innocent, Sharp would get national exposure. Meanwhile, he appears magnanimous by dropping the case, blaming the police department. That would play well with some of the left-leaning voters.”
“No way.”
“I’m not saying I’m sure, but keep an eye out for me, will you? What are you hearing about the Demarcus Downton investigation?”
“Well, folks from The Post are telling everyone that the police used the sketch from their story to ID a Ukrainian assassin named Dimitri Rak.”
“Sounds like The Post,” Alex said. “Rak? Like R-A-K?”
“Yeah, Dimitri Rak. Once the police matched the sketch to the name, it leaked within five minutes. Apparently, he’s already suspected in the killing of a member of the Polish legislature and a theater bombing in Belarus. Everyone is talking about it, but no one knows why a professional like him would kill a small-time pot dealer in Brooklyn. All sorts of theories flying around.”