121
KIRSTNER AND STRAWN, PUBLISHERS
232 HUDSON STREET
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 8:30 A.M.
Rosserman was reaching for his phone when Briscoe and Green stepped into his doorway. His hand hung suspended. “How did you get in?” said Rosserman. “What now? My lawyer told you—”
“We walked in,” said Briscoe. “This isn’t the Pentagon.”
Rosserman took a deep breath and weakly smiled.
“I’m sorry. You startled me.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “This whole thing with Barbara is upsetting. I’ve got a call in to Los Angeles. Rough day.”
“About to get rougher,” said Green. “You got a blank piece of paper?”
“A blank? What for?”
“Got one?”
Rosserman blinked, raised both hands as if be-wildered, and opened his desk. He lifted out a sheet of letterhead.
“Not that,” said Briscoe. “Just plain white paper.
Like you’d print out a memo or something.”
He shuffled a few things around in the drawer. “I’m out. Jenna keeps all that down by the printer.”
“I’ll go say hello,” said Briscoe.
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Rosserman watched Briscoe until the detective was out of sight. “Has this got something to do with Barbara’s note?”
“I’d say so,” said Green. Rosserman continued to look confused. Green stared at him until Briscoe returned.
“Bingo,” said Briscoe. He held up a sheet of plain white paper. “They got tons of this.”
“It’s ordinary laser printer paper,” said Rosserman.
“The same kind of paper that so-called suicide note was printed on,” said Green.
Rosserman raised his eyebrows. “‘So-called’? It’s not like there’s anything special about that paper. It’s fifteen dollars a crate. There are tons of that in every office supply store.”
“But not in Barbara Chesko’s apartment,” said Green.
“Huh? So?”
“Funny thing about Mrs. Chesko,” said Briscoe,
“she was soaking her ex.”
“Or maybe she was just high-styling it,” said Green.
“Whichever it was, with this writing thing of hers, she had to do it all first class. Brand-new Sony computer.
Expensive printer.”
Rosserman’s eyes went back and forth between Green and Briscoe. “She took it very seriously.”
“And all her manuscripts and letters were on one hundred percent, watermarked, acid-free paper.”
“Like her manuscripts required preserving,”
muttered Rosserman.
“The point is,” said Green, “she didn’t have any of this cheap paper in her apartment.”
Rosserman closed his eyes trying to grasp what 123
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they were saying. “That kind of paper’s everywhere.
What are you saying?”
“We’re saying Barbara Chesko didn’t own any,”
said Green.
“We’re saying you lied to us again, Mr. Rosserman,”
said Briscoe. “That suicide note didn’t come from her.”
Rosserman spread his hands. “What are you saying? Of course it came from her. Who else?” The recognition dawned ugly. “That paper didn’t come from here. Why would I write her suicide note?”
“Hmm, let me think,” said Briscoe. “Could it be that her death wasn’t a suicide? Could it be you pushed her?”
“Are you crazy? This is a nightmare!”
“You lied to us, man. We don’t like that,” said Green.
“It implies guilt, wouldn’t you say?” added Briscoe.
“She could have gotten that paper anywhere,” said Rosserman. “This is nuts!”
“Well, maybe we should talk about how nuts it is down at the precinct,” said Briscoe.
“You’re arresting me?”
“Not yet,” said Green. “But it’ll go easier if you help us straighten this out.”
“Maybe we could arrange an arrest,” said Briscoe.
“How does ‘suspicion of murder’ sound?”
“That’s crazy! She was unstable. She killed herself!
You can’t prove her note was written by me. I didn’t do it. It could have been printed anywhere. How do you know she didn’t have any of that paper? How do you know she didn’t get it printed at Kinko’s or somewhere? This is nuts.”
Briscoe leaned close. “If we have to prove this, 124
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you’re going to make it a lot harder on yourself. I’m already in a pretty bad mood.”
“I found the note in my mailbox!” He pointed back toward Jenna’s office.
Briscoe grinned. “You know, when I first started out we could identify which typewriter had been used for which document. There were little distinguishing nicks on this or that letter. You can see detectives using this fact in old movies.”
Rosserman glanced at Green then locked back into Briscoe’s stare. Briscoe continued. “Now people feel safe because they have laser printers, but guess what?
Each laser printer is slightly different as well. It’s like little dots and they come out a little different. Like a fingerprint.”
“I didn’t write the note!”
“I’m not a technical sort of guy,” said Briscoe. “But I know some, and I’ll bet they can prove the printer in the work area was where the note was printed. Or do you have one of your own?”
“We all use the joint printer. I didn’t do it! For God’s sake!”
“You didn’t push her?” asked Green.
“No! And I didn’t fake a note either!” He twisted his head from side to side, trying to find something to say. “I want my lawyer. This is nuts! I’m not saying another word.”
He reached for his phone. Green slapped his hand over the receiver before Rosserman could lift it. “I hope he tells you to come clean with us,” he snarled.
“When we come back,” said Briscoe, “you’re going to have a very bad day.”
“I didn’t do it,” said Rosserman, nearly choking on the words.
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“We’ll leave a receipt for the office printer,” said Green.
“What do you think, Mr. Rosserman?” said Briscoe.
“You think her note was printed on it?”
126
SUPREME COURT CRIMINAL BRANCH
100 CENTRE STREET
THURSDAY, AUGUST 29, 10:18 A.M.
Assistant District Attorney Serena Southerlyn was ten minutes from an arraignment, and only the one elevator was running. She charged up the stairs clutching a thick case file against her chest, shaking her head against what Briscoe and Green were asking.
“Come on, guys,” she said. “You know it’s weak. Why are you even asking me?”
Briscoe and Green chased after her. Green spoke first. “Look, we know we haven’t got enough, but there’s probably DNA on the blanket and maybe the condom wrapper.”
“Probably? Maybe?”
“The M.E. thinks there is.”
Southerlyn looked at her watch. “So ask him for a blood sample.”
“His attorney seems like he’d go along, but Rosserman refuses.”
“We gave him the old ‘you can prove yourself innocent right away’ routine,” huffed Briscoe, “but he wouldn’t go for it.”
“Which means he was in the room,” said Southerlyn.
“The guy faked a suicide note in his office,” said 127
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Green. “Maybe fifteen people had access to the printer, but he is the only one we know of that had any connection to Barbara Chesko.”
“And he’s got a motive,” panted Briscoe. “When we explained why we were taking the printer, his bosses found out he was directing suckers to the McDonalds. They canned him on the spot.”
“Are there fingerprints on the suic
ide note?”
“Not Barbara Chesko’s,” said Green. “Rosserman’s attorney. Rosserman’s. Mine.”
Southerlyn stopped. “Yours?”
Green shrugged. “Van Buren’s.”
“Good work.”
“We handled it before we knew what it was,” he protested.
“His attorney claims that Barbara Chesko or somebody else printed the note and put it in his mailbox,” said Briscoe. “But there’s nobody else’s fingerprints on it.”
“Other than half of the twenty-seventh precinct?”
“The tech tells us that Chesko’s laptop doesn’t have the suicide note on it. Not the computer in Rosserman’s office, either. And it’s not on the secretary’s machine.”
“Does he have a home one? A laptop? Even if he erased it, it doesn’t really go away, you know,” said Southerlyn.
“We’ll check if he has another machine,” said Green.
“Is it possible,” asked Southerlyn, “that somebody else wrote the note and stuck it in Rosserman’s mailbox?”
“That’s a stretch,” said Green.
“Juries like a nice stretch,” said Southerlyn. “They 128
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vote ‘not guilty’ if the stretch reminds them of Perry Mason.” Southerlyn stopped at the landing. Her cheeks were flushed. Briscoe looked grateful.
“And she wasn’t having a relationship with anyone else?” Southerlyn asked.
“No one else knows of anyone else,” said Green.
“No one saw her pick up anyone. We didn’t see her with anyone in the hotel lobby tapes. She checks in alone and goes upstairs.”
“Does Rosserman have an alibi?”
“He says he worked late and went home to a TV
dinner.”
Southerlyn thought for a moment. “The circumstantial evidence is good, I think. Tell him to get ready to roll up his sleeve. I’ll get an order by tomorrow, before the judges begin leaving for Labor Day.”
Briscoe hung on the stair rail, catching his breath and watching Southerlyn’s hips swinging up the staircase.
“If I give my body to medical research,” gasped Briscoe, “will they come carry me down these stairs?”
129
DISTRICT ATTORNEY ARTHUR BRANCH’S
OFFICE
ONE HOGAN PLACE
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2:10 P.M.
Executive A.D.A. Jack McCoy was the last to arrive at D.A. Arthur Branch’s office, and, to his surprise, the secretary directed him to the conference room.
Had he forgotten a meeting?
The morning had gone too easy, he was thinking.
A knee-breaker had made a surprise change to a guilty plea and word had come that the Court of Appeals had refused to listen to arguments on behalf of Martin Brunley, a child molester who both he and Branch thought might get a hearing. The percentage of sons of bitches on the streets of Manhattan had therefore decreased very slightly, maybe infinitesimally, but it was an improvement—two wads of dirty gum that could no longer stick to innocent people’s shoes.
“Jack,” said Branch as he stepped through the half-open door. “You all know each other, I assume?”
McCoy nodded to Lieutenant Van Buren, Detectives Briscoe and Green, and A.D.A. Southerlyn. The fifth person was a jowly man whose suit said “cop.” He offered a hand. “Jack McCoy.”
“Dennis Gross,” said the man. “Fraud.”
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“Well,” said McCoy, adjusting his shoulders as he sat, “What’s all this about?”
“Thanks for coming in. I chatted with Lieutenant Van Buren earlier,” said Branch, “and thought it would be easier if we all got our heads together on this.
There is some rumbling at City Hall, and I need to make sure I’m on the right page.”
McCoy clasped his hands and rested his forearms on the table. He tried to think what case they all had in common, but drew a blank. “What do you mean by rumbling?”
“Let’s just say there’s interest in influential places.”
“The Daily News is hinting conspiracy in the death of Barbara Chesko,” said Southerlyn, offering him a folded tabloid.
“Barbara Chesko?” McCoy skimmed the article.
“Oh. She was married to that growth fund guy.
Wasn’t this a suicide? That isn’t our business. Ralph Chesko looks dirty on her death?”
“He’s clear as near as we can tell,” said Briscoe.
“The paper is just raising suspicion,” said Branch.
“The ‘merely a coincidence? slash could it be a conspiracy?’ teaser.”
“They’re not accusing him,” said Southerlyn, “but there’s that paragraph in the financial column there…”
She pointed.
“‘Yet, Wall Street gossips frequently speculate on what Barbara Chesko, an apparent suicide, might have known about her husband’s business dealings over the past decade.’”
“Ralph Chesko takes that as tantamount to an accusation of murder,” said Branch. “He’s not amused and thinks the investigation is being dragged out. It’s 131
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been what? Almost two weeks since the body was discovered.”
“So?” said McCoy. “The Daily News has its conspiracy theories, he can have his. Let him write a letter to the editor. What’s that got to do with us? Two weeks isn’t long.”
Branch tugged his ear. “See the blisters? I didn’t discuss the case with him. I just listened.”
“Arthur,” said McCoy, “why didn’t you just hang up?”
“There’s nothing wrong with hearing him out,” said Branch.
McCoy knew that there was more to it than that, or Branch wouldn’t have listened. He looked at the cops. “Has someone been leaking hints Chesko might be involved in his wife’s death?”
“No,” said Van Buren. “In fact, we don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
“The papers know something we don’t?”
“As near as we can tell,” said Green, “Mrs. Chesko didn’t know much about his business dealings and the AG and the SEC is sure he didn’t do anything chargeable when his fund went down.”
“In the article, a spokesman for the Wire and Spring Workers Union mentions a trip to the Isle of Jersey,”
said Branch.
“He took a trip there,” said Briscoe, “But it was months ago, and the SEC says that it’s all legitimate.”
“I don’t get it,” said McCoy.
“Jack,” said Branch, “there are alternative explana-tions and, if I understand what the detectives are saying, little evidence either way. The woman had a reason to commit suicide however weak it may seem.”
“I disagree,” said Southerlyn. “Barbara Chesko 132
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didn’t have a ‘weak’ reason for suicide. She spends all that time writing the novel, then editing it, then getting her hopes up about her novel. Then, these creeps Robert Rosserman and Redux shatter her dreams. She’s been scammed. She feels humiliated and foolish.”
“Aging, ditched by her husband, ripped off, and wondering how she could have been so stupid,” said Branch.
“Exactly,” said Southerlyn. “And if it’s a suicide, who drove her to it? I think we’ve got to do something about Redux. If this isn’t a scam, what is?”
McCoy raised his eyebrows helplessly and turned to Gross. “So there’s fraud, then?”
Branch asked the detectives to summarize what they knew about Redux. He needed to hear it all spelled out himself, anyway, he said, “to fend off the jackals.”
As Briscoe finished, McCoy turned to Gross. “I’m not sure I heard anything specifically illegal.”
“Well, it’s borderline, isn’t it? There are scams and then there are scams. Legal-wise,” said Gross. “That’s what the A.D.A.s tell us.”
“But if that editor is even close about the amount they take in,” said Southerlyn, “they take advantage of a lot of people.”
“Income taxes on half a million last year,” said Gross.
“You can’t protect people from being stupid,” said McCoy.
Branch set down his notes. “It stinks, though. Take some time to look into the fraud aspect, Serena, if you think you can build a winnable case.”
“I’d like to,” she said.
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“You think maybe this editor Rosserman shoved her out the window?” asked McCoy.
Green answered. “If Kirstner and Strawn knew he was picking up fifteen percent for referring clients to Redux…”
“He would have been fired,” said Briscoe.
“So to protect his job he killed her,” added Green.
McCoy smiled. “I never knew book editors had jobs worth killing for. I heard it was a low-paying job with long hours.”
“It’s not funny a man should be killed,” said Branch,
“but it’s often funny he should be killed for so little.”
McCoy smiled. “Chandler.”
“Right,“ said Branch.
McCoy dropped his smile. “Can you place him in the hotel?”
“Everything is circumstantial,” said Briscoe, “unless the DNA helps. That’s not back yet. But he doesn’t have a good alibi. He lied to us and cooked up the suicide note.”
“Sounds like consciousness of guilt,” said McCoy.
“So maybe her feelings turned to anger,” said McCoy, “and she threatened Rosserman with fraud charges.” He turned to Gross. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”
“I’m here because of Redux,” said Gross. “We’ve had complaints against this Redux—twenty in the last three years.”
“Isn’t that a lot?”
“Not necessarily. A lot of service occupations draw complaints. Remodelers. Decorators. Most of the complaints were dropped. Some of the officers recognize the McDonalds when the complaints come in and merely file the report.”
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“They don’t investigate?”
“It’s a judgment call,” said Gross. “A few days’ wait may save a lot of work that goes nowhere. One investigator called and got some of the complainant’s money back, but mostly we don’t waste our time. We suggest they talk to a civil attorney. What Redux does, well, it’s hard to call illegal.” He explained the Redux contract and how it specified there was no guarantee, after the editing, that the manuscript would become a book.
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