by Jason Pinter
Today, Magursky Construction was worth upward of $50 million. It was his only child. He’d done things to both build and maintain his business and his fortune that he wasn’t necessarily proud of, but he had long ago learned to live without regret. And when you looked all around the island of Manhattan, enough buildings bore Magursky exoskeletons that he could legitimately say his fingerprints were visible all over one of the greatest cities in the world. Over the last few years he’d spread those fingers into the Midwest. The Albertson Bridge in Ashby and now contracts for three commercial buildings in Chicago. That $50 million value would double in the next five years.
So when Louis Magursky walked into his office, adorned with plaques and honors and photos of him with mayors and governors, and saw a man in a suit—a suit!—sitting behind his desk in his chair, he had to refrain from ripping the man’s spine out through his back. To add insult, the man had his elbows—his elbows!—on Louis’s desk. The man looked calm. He was tall, trim, with neatly parted blond hair. And he didn’t appear to understand—or care about—the consequences of sitting in Louis’s chair.
Louis approached the desk with murder in his eyes. But then the man took his elbows off the desk and removed a leather-bound case from his suit jacket pocket. He flipped it open to reveal a gold badge with a bald eagle at the center of a five-pointed star.
It bore three words that Louis could read from across the room.
US Marshal.
“Bet you thought you were a smart guy, using those burner cell phones to talk to Sam Wickersham and Caroline Drummond,” he said. “Unfortunately you weren’t smart enough to buy them at different stores. Thankfully A-Plus Electronics around the corner uses digital surveillance and keeps their files. Just like Mayor Alan Caldwell, in Ashby. You knew him back when he was deputy mayor under Constance Wright. We have your email and phone records, and soon we’ll have Caldwell’s too. No, you’re not a smart guy, Louis. Or should I call you Albatross?”
Louis didn’t need to hear another word.
He turned and bolted out the door. For a short man with short legs carrying a fair amount of both fat and muscle, Louis could move. He rounded the hallway corner and sped into the reception area. He pulled out his cell phone. His lawyer kept Louis a “Go” bag, which he could have delivered anywhere in the five boroughs in twenty minutes. Louis could disappear overnight and start over with half a million in cash and a passport with a new name. He’d been dreading this day for a long time, but he was prepared.
Louis bounded down the stairs, not stopping for a moment to catch his breath, taking three steps at a time. Sweat was pouring down his body. He could smell his own wretched odor.
Then Louis burst through the stairwell door and into the lobby atrium. He could see the sun shining outside. He would be a ghost in seconds.
He didn’t notice the older man with gray hair and a handlebar moustache leaning against the wall, reading a copy of Fortune. As Louis ran past, the man stepped out, grabbed Louis by his stocky arm, and used his own momentum to fling him onto the marble floor. Before Louis could even comprehend what was happening, his thick wrists had been pulled behind him and handcuffs clicked into place. Louis yelped as the metal bit into his skin.
“Louis Magursky,” the man said. He had a deep voice with a southern accent. “You’re under arrest for data fraud, cellular fraud, conspiracy to commit perjury, bribery, and being a general shitheel.”
Magursky’s cheek was pressed against the floor. He managed to spit out, “Do you know who I am? I’m gonna have your badge, you southern-fried asshole.”
Then he heard a ding, and the elevator door opened. Out stepped the blond marshal from his office.
“Tortoise and the hare, my friend,” the marshal said. “It’s time for you to answer for Constance Wright.”
Nicholas Drummond did not try to run. When he saw the brown Crown Victoria pull up outside his home, flanked by three other police cars, he stood up and smoothed out his shirt and regretted not having had more for lunch.
He had always loved the bay windows in the foyer, how he could see the whole neighborhood splayed out in front of him like a private movie theater. Even right now, as the police lights swirled and reflected off the downy snow, there was something poetic about it. Truthfully, he was surprised it had taken this long. But as soon as Serrano and Tally had arrived at their home that day with that odd Marin woman, he’d known it was only a matter of time.
Isabelle came running downstairs in a panic. She was wearing a tight white Rag & Bone T-shirt and Moussy distressed jeans, gold bracelets jangling on her wrists. She always wore good jewelry and the best labels at home. That was one thing about Isabelle: she never phoned things in. When they had begun seeing each other—Nicholas couldn’t really call it dating, more like monogamous screwing—Isabelle had worn gorgeous outfits every time they’d met up. Sometimes she hid them under bulky, shapeless coats so as to not turn heads. It was imperative they saw each other in secret. Nicholas had too much to lose—namely close to a million dollars if Constance could prove he had been getting laid on the side before they legally separated.
“Getting laid” was such a crass term, though. To Nicholas, that was what it was at first. Once the marriage went sour, he and Constance stopped having sex. And at his age, simply giving up intimacy was not an option. He needed a release. He’d met Isabelle at one of Constance’s myriad fund-raisers. At first, Nicholas enjoyed the galas. It was a chance to dress up, mingle with Ashby’s elite, be something he never thought he would be: a star.
But he wasn’t really a star. He was the arm candy to a star. A garnish. Sprinkles on ice cream. It might add a little flavor, but nobody would really notice if it wasn’t there.
Isabelle was young. Gorgeous. Wealthy. She had no political aspirations. Her only baggage was her idiot brother, Chris. Chrissy, she called him. Nicholas felt that once you could buy alcohol legally, you had to stop answering to the name Chrissy.
They ran into each other again at a cheese shop. And Nicholas knew his cheeses. He helped her pick out a sumptuous imported Camembert and recommended a tasty Napa red to pair with it. She thanked him for saving her dinner party and invited him to a future soiree. He declined, said it was hard for Constance to get out these days with reelection coming up.
“Who invited Constance?” she replied with a mischievous smile. They slept together three days later on her luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets.
He knew he would marry her after a month.
Getting free from Constance was another matter. He told Caroline about it; they shared everything. Caroline hated Constance, felt she was always upstaging Nicholas. So when Caroline told Nicholas that there might just be a way to get him out of the marriage with hefty spousal support, Nicholas was all ears. Isabelle had money, but this would be his money. All he had to do was be willing to let Constance burn.
It didn’t sit particularly well with him. Caroline knew a guy who knew a construction guy in New York who would spearhead the effort. Some guy named Louis with an eastern European last name who’d lost millions when the Wright family business had gone belly up.
Nicholas Drummond knew Constance would fall. He didn’t anticipate how hard.
He had a hard time stomaching the Sam Wickersham testimony, hearing this young man lie about screwing his wife when the truth was Nicholas was the one screwing around. But Isabelle watched it with glee. She bought half a dozen copies of the Ashby Bulletin with the forty-eight-point-font headline “Mayor Cradle Robber.”
Caroline told him to stop seeing Isabelle while the trial was ongoing. Nothing made a man look more unsympathetic than screwing a gorgeous woman fifteen years younger than his ex while simultaneously trying to empty her bank account. Caroline didn’t know how long he and Isabelle had been sleeping together. That was for the best. She might not have gone along with it if she’d known.
When the divorce was finalized, Nicholas Drummond breathed a sigh of relief. Not because he was finally a free m
an. Well, not only that. But he’d grown weary of seeing Constance dragged through the mud every day. He’d wanted to be rid of her, yes. But the marriage hadn’t been all bad.
When she pulled a J. D. Salinger and became a semirecluse, Nicholas felt it was for the best. Not for her necessarily, but for him. She could live however she wanted, and he could start his life fresh with Isabelle. If only he’d known about her fertility issues. She was in her twenties with the ovaries of a woman in her forties. Raisins, she’d called them. They’re shriveled like raisins.
Not that he would have changed his mind about marrying her. Well, probably wouldn’t have changed his mind.
And then life went on. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Nicholas knew there would be a reckoning. Somebody would find out. Maybe Constance. She called him right before her death. He ignored her calls but always had a feeling Christopher was listening to his voice mails before he could delete them.
He shared some of the blame for Constance’s death. No, he didn’t throw her from the bridge and hadn’t even seen Constance in months. But he helped destroy her career and kill her spirit. And if those hadn’t died, she would still be alive today. He knew it.
So when Detectives Serrano and Tally marched up to the front door, boots crunching on the snow-covered gravel, he didn’t plan to run or fight or resist. He would tell them everything.
Except who murdered his ex-wife. That one small detail he did not know.
“Nicholas!” Isabelle yelled. “Baby? What’s going on?”
Her eyes were wide, panicky. He was calm, which probably upset her even more. She could enter a room as graceful as a swan, then turn into a wolf in a moment’s notice. In the bedroom, it was the biggest turn-on ever. She could go from caressing his back with fingernails like feathers to digging furrows in his flesh in a heartbeat.
“I’m going to prison,” he said. Like he was going to the store for milk.
“Like hell you are,” Isabelle replied.
He took her hand in his, caressed her thumb. “You knew this day would come eventually,” he said.
“Like hell I did,” she said, angrily ripping her hand away from his. “I’m calling Chester Barnes. He’ll meet you at the police station. Don’t say a goddamn word until he gets there.”
Nicholas nodded, though he wasn’t sure he’d follow through. Barnes was the Robles family’s longtime lawyer. He’d stuck around even after Isabelle’s parents died because, well, they still had gobs of money, and he had a hefty retainer. If not for Barnes, Chris Robles might still be in prison. Of course if that were the case, ironically he might also still be alive.
The doorbell rang.
“Don’t answer it,” Isabelle pleaded. The anger had vanished, replaced by fear. “I can’t lose my brother and you.”
Nicholas took her face in his palms and kissed her passionately. Her fingers burrowed into the small of his back. They reminded him of the bolts of a prison cell door locking into place. It made him shiver.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. He tried to pull away, but her nails were dug in. Deep. Gently, he reached around and removed her hands. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”
Then he walked toward the door. Toward the inevitable.
“No I’m not,” he heard Isabelle say. Nicholas opened the front door. The detectives stood there placidly, wearing long overcoats and thick gloves. Chilly air blew in from the outside, but Drummond didn’t shiver.
“You know why we’re here,” Tally said.
“Nicholas K. Drummond,” Serrano said. “You are under arrest for criminal conspiracy to commit fraud, perjury, accomplice to data and cell phone fraud, and giving false statements to the police.”
Tally held up a piece of paper. “We have a warrant to search your property. Any and all items removed will be cataloged and returned to you upon completion of our investigation. Mrs. Drummond, if you’ll come with me, please.”
Serrano read Drummond his Miranda rights, and then they handcuffed him and led him to the car as half a dozen officers marched into their house. Halfway to the car, Nicholas realized he’d forgotten his jacket. Too late now.
As Tally held his head and slid him into the back seat of the Crown Victoria, one more realization dawned on Nicholas Drummond.
They hadn’t charged him with anything related to Constance’s murder.
Maybe they caught the guy, he thought as the door slammed shut.
CHAPTER 34
After Nicholas Drummond had been booked and processed, Serrano and Tally prepped for their briefing with Lieutenant George. It had been a good day.
Drummond was in custody. US Marshals had picked up Louis Magursky in Manhattan, where he would be arraigned. Andy Burke from the Marshals service told Serrano that Magursky had tried to run, bounding out of his office and into the lobby looking like Willem Dafoe running from the Vietcong in Platoon. They were more than happy to tack on resisting arrest to Magursky’s litany of charges.
Sam Wickersham was still hospitalized. He had been read his rights as an IV bag dripped antibiotics into his veins. The officer said Wickersham had cried and, still unable to speak due to his neck wound, written on a pad of paper, Is Caroline OK?
Italian authorities and Interpol had been alerted to a warrant out for the arrest of Caroline Drummond. Phone records from Magursky Construction showed dozens of calls to and from Ashby Mayor Alan Caldwell, all prior to Constance Wright’s resignation. When the Wright family had gone under, Magursky had been left millions in the hole. Emails showed Wright had rebuffed Magursky’s bid to restore the Albertson Bridge, a contract worth millions that would also firmly establish Magursky Construction in the Midwest. So Magursky killed two birds with one stone. He ruined Constance and got Deputy Mayor Alan Caldwell to approve the Albertson contract. Magursky made millions and got revenge on the Wright family in one fell swoop. Thankfully he had eager participants in the Drummond siblings and a lovesick puppy in Sam Wickersham—all willing to pick Constance apart with him.
It was a massive multistate conspiracy whose outcome ruined Constance Wright’s life. And it had worked, nearly to perfection. But as Serrano and Tally entered Lieutenant George’s office, Serrano couldn’t shake the one piece of the puzzle still unresolved.
Constance Wright’s murder itself.
They had enough on Drummond, Wickersham, and Magursky to relocate them all to cozy eight-by-ten concrete studios in Pickneyville. But they didn’t have enough to link any of them to her actual murder. Which was why, despite the day’s victories, Serrano felt apprehensive entering Daryl George’s office.
The lieutenant’s office was immaculate: shiny mahogany desk, papers and pens all arranged in their proper holders. The walls were covered with commendations and citations, the frames and glass sparkling clean. A photo of George’s pretty wife, Tabitha, and their daughter, Mia, faced outward, ensuring visitors would see that Lieutenant George was a dedicated family man. There were rumors in the department that Lieutenant George was thinking about making a run for city council. If he did decide to run, Daryl George would be a shoo-in. Hell, given that Mayor Caldwell would likely be forced to resign for awarding Louis Magursky the construction contracts Constance Wright had denied him, Lieutenant George could be in line for mayor.
Daryl George sat behind his desk sipping a cup of organic black coffee. Next to it was a thermos containing something green that smelled like seaweed and sadness. It made Serrano crave a cheeseburger.
Serrano and Tally sat down. George downed the rest of the coffee and folded his hands. He didn’t touch the green gunk. Serrano was thankful for that. Some of Lieutenant George’s health concoctions reeked like Satan’s armpits.
The lieutenant was in a good mood.
“Congrats, Detectives,” he said. “This was really fine work.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tally said.
“Sir,” Serrano said. “Wickersham refused a lawyer. Said he wants to plead guilty to all charges. Now, we’ve already he
ard from Chester Barnes. He’ll be representing Nicholas Drummond. My guess is Barnes will dig his claws into Wickersham, too, because if the kid sings, he incriminates both Nicholas and Caroline.”
“And Isabelle won’t have that,” Tally said. “She’ll spend every dime she has to poke holes in this case.”
“I’ve dealt with Barnes,” George said. “He’s a television hound. He’ll be on the news every night trashing our case. But he’s a mediocre trial attorney. Once this case gets past the court of public opinion, it’s all about how airtight the evidence is. So tell me, Detectives, how airtight is it?”
“Pretty airtight, sir,” Tally said. “We have Wickersham’s uncoerced confession. We have phone records for Wickersham and both Drummonds, the burner cell data and GPS coordinates from the phones Magursky used, plus surveillance footage from the electronics store where they were purchased. We have a subpoena for Magursky’s bank records, personal and business, and we expect to find $480,000 in transfers to Albatross LLC, which then paid off Wickersham. Plus we have the Albatross leasing documents from J&J Accounting, signed by Caroline Drummond.”
“And where is Ms. Drummond at this time?”
“We don’t know for certain,” Tally said. “J&J says she’s somewhere in Italy, but they can’t confirm. She’s not responding to calls, emails, or texts. She took a, quote, unquote, ‘sabbatical’ right before this exploded. We’ve contacted Interpol, but it’s possible she was able to procure fake identification before she came onto their radar.”
“You don’t think her sabbatical timing is a coincidence, am I right?” George said.
“Not a chance,” Serrano replied. “But the timing is strange. According to J&J, she left for the sabbatical a month before this investigation even started.”
“Is it possible it was a legitimate sabbatical, and she just decided to stay once everything blew up?” George said.
“Unlikely,” Tally replied. “Three weeks before Constance Wright’s death, Caroline called both Sam Wickersham and Louis Magursky. Phone records confirm she hadn’t had any contact with either Wickersham or Magursky in two years. Caroline Drummond’s ‘vacation’ came right on the heels of those calls.”