by Sydney Bauer
“All right, Lieutenant,” said Nagoshi, “I accept your deal. But you must also promise me a full report on this boy before the week is out.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Nagoshi,” interrupted Katz, “I will make sure Lieutenant Mannix provides you with . . .”
“It’s a deal,” said Mannix, ignoring the ADA yet again, his eyes never leaving the Japanese businessman who now stood to walk across the room and shake Joe’s outstretched hand.
21
Sawyer Jones was in his Deane University dorm room, sitting on the edge of his single metal-framed bed and facing toward the large, open bay window that gave uninterrupted passage to the cool, biting southeasterly breeze. It was late. The lights were off but the moon cast a single beam through the window and Sawyer had squeezed his lithe frame into the path of said beam in an almost primitive urge for natural illumination. He looked at his bedside digital for the tenth time in the past hour. A quarter after midnight and he was already counting the hours until the sun crept over the horizon like a welcome visitor promising warmth and activity and banishing the shadows of the endless night that brought nothing but loneliness and regret.
It was his birthday. As of fifteen minutes ago, Sawyer was seventeen years of age.
Seventeen, he said to himself. At the very least it sounded older than sixteen, but then Sawyer’s age had been playing tricks on him since he was a child, since he was tested and assessed and labeled as “exceptionally gifted” by a never-ending succession of fascinated educational experts who viewed him as the intellectual specimen from heaven.
“He read Dickens at five,” his New Hampshire blue-chip tax attorney father would tell the experts—paying more attention to their attention than he did to his actual son. “He conquered calculus by seven, Pythagoras by eight, the theory of relativity by nine and the molecular breakdown of DNA by the age of eleven.”
His fellow Deane students had no idea and he had no intention of telling them. The university administrators knew, of course, but he had asked that his age and gifted status remain confidential and they saw no need to protest as long as his grades were satisfactory, which of course they were.
He looked sixteen, but given his high grades and ingrained ability to “mix it with the big kids,” his boyish features were taken as just that. In fact, his angelic appearance fit perfectly on the face of one who spent all of his spare time trying to right the wrongs of this burgeoning bourgeois world. It was almost as if he were born to it. He was passionate about helping those less fortunate, that was fair to say, but Sawyer was passionate about everything he took on, and that was part of the problem. His role as Solidarity Global Youth Director had given him a worthy outlet for his overactive social conscience, and selfishly, a means of making friends.
Friends, he said to himself. From the Greek “philos,” meaning fondness. Even now he found his brain was in overdrive, a coping mechanism no doubt, given the depth of his despair, the burden of his loss, the intensity of his guilt. Jessica was his friend. Dear, sweet, beautiful Jess who saw him for what he was and accepted him with all his quirks and hidden eccentricities. He even had his own secret name for her—J No—which was extremely teen of him, and therefore, perhaps, not so inappropriate after all. His motives for “conscripting” her were selfish—and she knew it. But she assumed such selfishness sprung from his desire to parade her, the daughter of one of the biggest multinational chief executives on the planet, as an advocate for international workers’ rights. The stories of injustice troubled her, but her knowledge that her father’s policy of optimal working conditions for all Nagoshi Inc. employees made her proud and determined to see other global corporations follow suit.
True, her status as a corporate princess was a drawcard, but if he was truly honest with himself, Sawyer would have to admit that, in the end, it was not about her father. It was, at least eventually, and probably from the outset, all about her. For Sawyer loved her the minute he set eyes on her a little over a year ago. That long, smooth hair, perfect porcelain skin, bright almond eyes and sparkling smile. And he loved her even more as he got to know her spiritually and intellectually—their analytical sparring elevated him to a new level of cerebral and emotional bliss. And that was why he felt so sick, rotten to his very core. He was nauseous, dizzy, hot, cold, dry, thirsty, hyped, exhausted and, as was so typical of the “bona fide intellectual genius” that was Sawyer Hudson Jones, fully operational all at the very same time. But despite appearances, sitting here in the murky gloom of obscurity, the guilt was all consuming. It sat like a parasite eating away at his insides. Feeding on his shame, his remorse, his inconsolable sorrow. It lay low in his belly throughout the day and consumed his entire body in the long, black, solitary hours of darkness.
Sawyer glanced at his bedside clock. 12:35 a.m. He had to prepare an agenda for the SG fundraising meeting scheduled before classes at 7:30 and had not yet put pen to paper. He was an intelligent person. And while he knew there was no way to rewrite history, he reasoned there must be a way to, in the very least, atone for what he had done.
That’s it! he said to himself now, feeling warm reassurance from the familiar format of “problem and solution.” There was no puzzle beyond Sawyer’s grasp, he had never, ever experienced the frustration of being unable to answer a question, unravel a riddle, demystify an enigma.
Peto reperio verum-i—seek a solution and you will find the truth.
And so Sawyer decided he would start with a shower. He summoned all of his strength and rose from his bed—his legs finding their balance, his lungs consuming the fresh night air, his eyes refocusing on the twinkling fairy lights that graced the Deane University gazebos like fireflies sitting in circles. But it was his stomach that would not follow suit. For just as Sawyer was about to announce himself ready for another day, his gut wrenched like a garbage compactor, forcing its meager contents upward so that he barely had time to race to his tiny bathroom before purging himself of the sickness that bled like a river inside.
22
“Nagoshi Incorporated Chief Executive Officer John Nagoshi is on the verge of offering a record seven-figure reward for information leading to the arrest of his teenage daughter’s killer, according to a reliable source involved with the case,” David read aloud from Marc Rigotti’s piece on the front page of this morning’s Tribune. David had just arrived at Myrtle’s, Joe having called late last night to ask if he would meet him for an early morning coffee, and had barely taken off his coat before an obviously furious Joe pushed the paper in front of him, and said, “Get a load of this.”
“The reward, according to the source,” David went on, “will be offered as early as Friday in an attempt to draw new information on the brutal murder of nineteen-year-old Deane University student, Jessica Nagoshi, who was strangled to death in the greenhouse of her father’s expansive Wellesley estate almost two months ago.
“It is believed this unusual move was suggested by Mr. Nagoshi—and supported by Suffolk County Assistant District Attorney Roger Katz, who according to the source, has had grave concerns with the lack of progress made by Boston homicide detectives since Miss Nagoshi’s death.”
David looked up at Joe, a new flush of rage now coloring his detective friend’s unshaven face.
“ ‘John Nagoshi is a successful executive with unparalleled business acumen,’ ” David continued quoting after a nod from Joe. “ ‘And he knows that money talks,’ said the source who did not wish to be named. ADA Katz, who has promised to prosecute the case personally if and when it gets to trial, has been patient with the police but knows that time is of the essence.
“When asked if ADA Katz would be seeking the highest penalty available in the State of Massachusetts for first degree murder in the Nagoshi case, which is life without parole, the source answered a definitive, ‘Absolutely.’
“Blah, blah, blah,” said David in disgust as he looked up from the paper, which had allotted a further three pages to this new revelation in the up until now s
tagnant Nagoshi case. “Jesus, Joe. You and I both know there is no source. This is Katz talking. He would have given Rigotti the quotes on the condition he wasn’t to be attributed.”
Joe said nothing, just gave David a shrug that said Tell me something I don’t know.
“Is it true though?” David went on. “A reward of millions?”
“Afraid so,” said Joe, his now white-knuckled hand wrapped tightly around what remained of his bottomless cup of Mick’s strong Brazilian coffee. “Nagoshi proposed the reward in the meeting last night, but I managed to stall him, at least until the weekend, giving Frank and me the time to make a few more inquiries about the Matheson kid.
“There were only seven of us in the room, David, including Leo and a Feeb friend, me and Frank and the Nagoshi father and son. The Nagoshis gave me their word they would hold off announcing the reward until Saturday, and I trust them, but Katz was still reeling from my winning a few points with the famous businessman so his bruised ego, and disregard for the law, has blown this case wide open for every fucking lunatic in the city to put up their hand for a playing role.”
“Shit,” said David. “What an asshole.”
Joe said nothing, just gave him the same indignant shrug. At that point Mick came over to their table, placing a second mug of hot black coffee in front of David before slapping Joe on the back and heading back toward the counter. Mick had known the two men for years, and was intuitive enough to sense when they needed to be left alone.
“So what are you going to do?” asked David at last.
“Kick Katz’s ass to hell and back,” said Joe. “I have been trying his cell for the past hour, even got his secretary to try to raise him at home. But the prick is not picking up.”
“No, I meant about the reward.”
“The only thing I can do. Pull everyone I can off normal duty to man the Crime Stoppers line.”
David nodded before going on. “I know you want to burn the Kat, Joe, but your going off the rails is exactly what he wants you to do. Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s not worth it.”
Joe looked up at his friend then, perhaps realizing he was right. “Since when did you become the voice of reason?” Mannix asked at last.
“Since I dedicated my career to making the Kat sweat,” said David with a half smile.
David picked up his coffee and took a long slow drink, allowing the dark, bitter fluid to warm the chill left by the early morning’s single figure temperatures. He wanted to ask Joe about the investigation—or more specifically his progress regarding his inquiries into James Matheson—but he didn’t want to overstep his . . .
“What’s this shit about China?” asked Joe, interrupting his thoughts.
David put down his mug.
“I don’t want to put you—or any source you may have—on the spot, David,” Joe went on. “But I’m behind the eight ball here.”
David considered him then, wondering how much of Tony Bishop’s conversation he should relay. “I heard there may be some trouble regarding Nagoshi Inc.’s bottom line,” he said. “But not in a negative sense—more like the opposite. According to a friend, the Nagoshi’s Chinese operation is booming, but the numbers don’t add up.”
“And this relates to Jessica’s death . . . how?” asked a frustrated Joe.
“I have no idea. But my friend also says Jessica was being primed as a dual company leader along with her older brother. And the brother is apparently kind of driven.”
Joe looked at him then, obviously wondering if David was insinuating what he thought he was insinuating, before shaking his head to say: “It doesn’t fit.”
“How so?” asked David.
“Jessica was nineteen. Her brother is a little highly strung but I checked him out weeks ago and by all accounts he is a loyal family member—personally and professionally. And according to the father, who was up late making business calls on the night of Jessica’s death, Peter did not leave the main house for the entire evening. I saw him last night, David. The guy may look like an emotional zombie, but he reacted with passion when we told him about the evidence we had been withholding. Besides, this wasn’t about ambition. It was a crime of passion.”
“But there was no evidence of sexual abuse and the girl had no boyfriend and . . .”
“She was pregnant,” said Mannix.
“Oh,” said David, looking Mannix in the eye, nodding his head in understanding.
“So is James Matheson the . . .”
“No idea,” pre-empted Joe. “And even if he is, it doesn’t mean he killed the girl.”
“No,” said David. “It doesn’t. In fact, it could mean the opposite. You said the kid came across as nervous during your interview. Maybe he’s just shook up, from the loss of it all.”
“Or maybe the girl pressured him and he decided to get rid of Jessica and her little bundle of baggage before they could interrupt his all too perfect life.”
They sat quietly for a while, choosing not to speak while a group of young workers hovered over the table next to them before deciding on a bigger booth at the far end of the increasingly busy café.
“Matheson says he has an alibi. Says he was banging some girl.”
And David shook his head. “And does the alibi check out?”
“I’m about to find out.”
Joe finished his coffee and the two men sat silently for a moment before Joe looked up again. “You asked Sara’s brother about Matheson, right?”
“Yeah. He said he was straight up.”
“And from what you know of him . . . ?”
“He seems like a good kid—enthusiastic, interested, grateful.”
“He ever talk about his friends?”
“No, but Jake mentioned them. Apparently they are a band of three—all rich, smart and connected.”
“I need the friends to help me corroborate Matheson’s alibi. I want to get to them before I speak to Matheson again—catch them off guard, do it low-key.”
“Don’t know how low-key you are gonna get after this morning, Joe,” said David, pointing toward the newspaper. “My guess is the Tribune is already doing the rounds of Deane’s hallowed dorms and cafeterias.”
“Then I’d better make tracks,” said Joe, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair and throwing a ten dollar bill on the table.
“Joe?” said David as his friend put on his coat. “Let me ask you something. And you don’t even have to answer if you don’t want to. But my gut tells me you’re worried the Matheson kid is in danger of being played—because the Nagoshis need someone to blame and Katz needs his much celebrated day in court.”
Joe said nothing.
“You think he’s innocent?”
“I have no idea,” said Joe. “But everyone deserves a fair trial, David, and I am afraid whoever we arrest is gonna be branded guilty before we even have a chance to clip on the cuffs.
“Let’s face it,” Joe continued, shaking his head, “Matheson is the sexy option. We arrest him and Katz has his perfect nemesis. He’ll go to town trying to prove the District Attorney’s Office—under his leadership—does not discriminate between rich and poor. Matheson will become the poster boy upon which he will launch his coup to take over Scaturro’s job permanently. I don’t trust him on this one, David. He’s got something up his sleeve, and that scares the hell out of me.”
David nodded. There was no doubt in his mind that Joe was right, and it scared the hell out of him too. He knew his friend was worried about the nature of this case—and the fact that it could well turn into one of those terrifying public phenomena that take on a life of their own, leaving the accused high and dry and making a mockery of “innocent until proven guilty” and the so-called impartial system of justice.
“It’s too early to worry yet, Joe,” said David, trying to alleviate his friend’s fears as much as anything else. “Matheson’s alibi will probably stick.”
“Yeah, well, the kid’s got something to hide.”
&nb
sp; 23
Heath Westinghouse was repulsed. There was really no other way to put it. Here he was, one of the nation’s elite, sitting in this overcrowded lecture hall, inspired by the water-struck redbrick walls, walnut-grain desks, classic amphitheater structure and impressive stained glass windows that turned the white morning light into a rainbow of colors as if by magic—and he was forced to look at him!
Professor Karl D. Heffer was undoubtedly the most unattractive human being Heath had ever laid eyes on. His physical repulsiveness was made all the worse by his poor sense of dress in a university where even the scholarship students were self-aware enough to spend a decent proportion of their meager earnings on clothing. It really was deplorable—so much so that he was considering sending an e-mail to the dean suggesting the man’s current personal appearance was at such a level that it detracted from his ability to . . .
“Mr. Westinghouse,” boomed Heffer, Heath refocusing just in time to see the shower of spit fly from his yellow-toothed mouth like the gush from a sperm whale’s blowhole. “Perhaps you could offer a comment on my previous hypothesis? I have no doubt your designer ears have teamed up with that brilliant brain of yours to trigger the necessary synapses required to reason, evaluate and respond to my layman’s supposition.”
“Ah,” began Heath, obviously having no idea what Heffer had been talking about. “I agree, sir,” he said, not being able to think of any other valid response. But then he sensed the mood around him—the disappointment! The loss of opportunity! He had let the masses down with his pathetic response and so promptly made up for it with a quick: “I agree I have damn fine ears, Professor, and my synapses are firing just fine this morning. Thank you so much for asking.”
Heath knew it was childish but he did take delight in the familiar shade of purple now blossoming on Heffer’s spotty cheeks. He could tell H. Edgar, who was shaking his head ever so slightly in the seat beside him, was wavering between stifling one of his conceited little laughs and kicking Heath for aggravating the professor to the point where repercussions would be unavoidable. But Heath was beyond caring. The man was disgusting, faculty fuck of the month or not.