Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  “Jesus H. Christ!” he proclaimed. Then he dropped his trash bag and ran out of the train.

  “We got a dead one on car three,” he cried to the nearest Amtrak security officer.

  The word quickly went up the line and within five minutes the commuter was off-limits to anyone but Transit Authority Police and the NYPD.

  The first ranking investigator on the scene from homicide was Detective Harry Coates, a 52-year-old career officer. He’d seen a hundred or more heart attacks before. But a murder on a train? Now this was different.

  Examining the body, coates noted, “Close range. A foot. Maybe less.”

  Very carefully, Coates reached in the victim’s inner jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet. A Connecticut license gave him the man’s name and address. A business card identified where he worked. A few other phone numbers were on torn pieces of paper. The man carried $155 in cash and American Express, Visa, and Diner’s Club cards. A picture he also carried suggested he had an attractive wife or girl friend.

  “Why’s a guy who works in publishing taken out on a train?” he asked the Transit Authority Police officer at his side. “Not robbery.” He answered the question himself.

  The White House

  Morgan Taylor stared at the picture of the frightened teenager he clipped out of Monday’s paper. For two days, he felt a personal connection with her. He tried to place it, then it came to him.

  Though he wasn’t in Dallas in 1963, the news of President Kennedy’s assassination was devastating to the impressionable young boy.

  A teacher told Taylor and his classmates that this was a time to look for the goodness in the American character; to find people who could explain what America really meant.

  Morgan took it to heart. While walking home one evening, he was drawn to a gathering at his local VFW. Maybe he’d find some answers from these men. Inside, the World War II veterans warmly welcomed the boy, inviting him to listen to their experiences. Taylor heard B-17 crews talk about their attacks against the Nazis, how the Marines took Iwo Jima and the long carrier-based missions in the Pacific by the Navy pilots. The youngster felt at home. As he grew up, he returned many times over the years, developing a budding kinship with the vets; ultimately finding his own course in life.

  In March of his senior year, he confidently marched into the Navy recruiting office. He was 18 and legally able to sign the papers. The day after graduation he belonged to the military. The recruiter called his parents to be certain. After all, the United States was engaged in a war in Vietnam and volunteers were needed. Morgan’s mother cried. She explained that her husband, a house painter by trade, had served in Korea. Morgan was an infant when his father died. Cynthia Taylor saw greatness in Morgan and recognized she couldn’t keep her son home. So she stood with him as he swore to defend America that day, and again years later on the steps of the Capitol when he vowed to uphold the Constitution as President of the United States.

  As he looked at the picture of the young girl, tears streaming down her face, he realized two things: This was her political awakening, too; her life would never be the same; and as president, he might be the last man to hold the office who actually remembered JFK’s presidency.

  Boston, Massachusetts

  10:22 A.M.

  Scott Roarke, dressed in a tie for the first time in weeks, waited in the lobby of Freelander, Collins, Wrather & Marcus. The law office overlooked Boston Harbor with dozens of sailboats bobbing in the water and the summer lunch cruises loading up supplies on Long Wharf. From 21 floors above Congress Street near Fanueil Hall he watched people strolling through the park that replaced the old elevated Central Artery. Fifteen years of The Big Dig finally ended and most of Boston’s north-south traffic now traveled underground.

  The law firm was an amalgam of three distinguished companies. Roarke was only interested in talking with someone familiar with the old Marcus accounts. He explained what he needed to one of the three receptionists working the desk. After thirty-four minutes he was finally cleared. A secretary came down to escort him.

  “You’ll be meeting with Mr. Witherspoon.” She didn’t offer him coffee or engage in any further chit-chat.

  Donald Witherspoon was a junior attorney. Roarke expected to do much better with his Secret Service credentials.

  “There’s not much I can tell you,” said the officious twenty-eight-year-old Harvard grad who never rose from behind his desk. He had asshole written all over him, and paisley suspenders to prove it. Roarke disliked him instantly.

  “You haven’t given me much notice. But I did find some information.”

  The attorney stopped. He wouldn’t reveal anything without a direct question. Roarke recognized it as his cue.

  “Tell me about the relationship between Freelander, Collins, Wrather & Marcus and Mr. Lodge.”

  “There is none.”

  “But I understand the firm represented the Lodge family estate.”

  “No, that’s incorrect. One of the partners did, but before the partnership was formed.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Are you asking me which partner, Mr. Roarke?”

  “Yes, which partner represented the Lodges?”

  “Haywood Marcus.”

  “And is he here?”

  “Yes, but unavailable. That’s why you’re meeting with me.”

  Roarke hated this give and take. He just wanted some basic information.

  “And what about tomorrow? Will he be available then?”

  “Mr. Marcus has asked me to assist you with these matters.”

  “Well,” Roarke said becoming more direct, “why don’t you then.”

  Witherspoon looked at him blankly and waited for another question.

  “Can you tell me about Mr. Marcus’ relationship with the family?”

  “I don’t understand your question,” the lawyer stated.

  “Was he a family friend?”

  “He was their lawyer.”

  “Over how long a period of time?”

  “He managed the estate until the son became trustee at age twenty-five.”

  Roarke was grateful for the little information he just got, but clarified his question. “I meant, how long before their death?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps you can check. I believe you’re the one holding the paperwork.”

  Witherspoon reserved the comment that he wore with his expression. He was pissed. But he did examine the files, going back and forth between a number of pages. “Here it is,” he said. “Mr. Marcus was engaged in the 1970s.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Lodge urged.

  “About what?”

  “The date Mr. Marcus’ services were engaged.”

  Witherspoon consulted the record again. “I really can’t.”

  “Can you tell me what the will provided for?” Roarke asked as a follow up.

  “I don’t believe I can get into that either.” He shuffled through the pages of one file and noted something that made him suddenly close the folder. Roarke caught the change in attitude. “Without Mr. Lodge’s permission. You understand. Legally I’m prohibited.”

  “And this is the only will?”

  “I’m not aware of any other,” he said fumbling a bit.

  Roarke had seen men lie before. He had witnessed it under torture by enemies and at microphones in front of the press. Now he saw it in Witherspoon’s eyes and demeanor. He was lying and he hid it extremely poorly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Witherspoon, I appreciate everything you have been able to tell me.”

  No, Roarke’s instinct told him. This attorney would never become a partner.

  “I’ll help myself out. That way you don’t have to bother to get up. Just point me to the men’s room, first.”

  “Down the hall to the right, the third door on the left.”

  Roarke left and walked slowly, casually checking for motion detectors, surveillance cameras or other security measures. There were no
ne. After leaving the bathroom, he intentionally made a wrong turn down the hall to survey the rest of the floor. He walked passed Witherspoon’s office and saw that he had already put the Lodge file in his “out” basket. The attorney, wearing a wireless telephone headset, was absorbed in a telephone call; his back to the hall.

  Roarke rounded a corner and saw an alluring young woman pushing a rolling cart full of legal files. Just to watch her, he stopped to tie his shoe, which didn’t need tying. She had a sensational figure and appeared to be 5’6.” He pegged her to be 28 or 29 years old. She wore a gray skirt, black heels and a burgandy silk blouse. A necklace made of smoke gray freshwater pearls complemented the outfit perfect. She had her black curly hair up in a bun and walked with an air of self-assuredness. He wasn’t sure if she even noticed him.

  The woman continued down the hall and entered a room located in the interior of the floor. Roarke waited a few moments before following. It was a huge bullpen-sized space; much bigger than the normal office. Roarke noted at least twenty deep rows of filing cabinets stretching fifty or more feet. In less than ten seconds he had scanned for active and passive security measures. He noted that at near ceiling level an infrared beam played across the room from each of the corners. They were more for show than for practical use. Someone had sold the law firm a useless system. Roarke figured that Shaquelle O’Neal could have triggered it, but most people got nowhere near the height of the beam.

  Suddenly a woman’s voice broke his concentration. “Excuse me?” It was the woman. “Excuse me?” she repeated almost accusingly. They were only a few feet apart. After returning a file, she rounded one of the aisles, then saw the stranger. He had an unfamiliar, though pleasing face, but she was definitely on alert.

  Roarke’s instincts came into play. He studied her motions and her beauty. In a flash he recognized that this young woman already exhibited more verve than Witherspoon did. She would make a good lawyer.

  “I’m sorry, I’m a little turned around,” Roarke explained with an innocent smile. “I’m looking for the lobby.”

  “Well, you missed it by a mile. It’s back out to the left; go to the end of the hall and then through the double doors. It doesn’t have a sign that says Records like this room,” she added slightly sarcastically. “Even you couldn’t miss it.”

  He grinned. Is she flirting? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d caught that kind of inflection; a personal playfulness. He also couldn’t recall the last time he’d let his guard down. First he wasn’t as stealthy as he had hoped. He’d have to work on that. Second, he was definitely being sized up.

  “Thanks,” he stammered trying to recover. “I was meeting with Mr. Witherspoon and then hit the bathroom. And here I am.”

  “Here you are,” she responded.

  They stared at each other and laughed. He decided to get back to work for a second and actually try to learn something. “This place all files?”

  “Years and years worth. Some newer work also comes in on disc, which makes it a lot easier. But you know how we love our yellow pads.” She saw a frown drawing across his face. “Or maybe you don’t,” she realized. “You’re not a lawyer.”

  “No. Just the opposite,” Roarke replied too quickly.

  “So, you’re a criminal.”

  “No. I’m one of the good guys, but I try to stay away from lawyers.”

  “We don’t all bite,” she said with a smile.

  “You make a good case for restoring faith in the profession,” Roarke replied.

  “Quite nicely stated.”

  Roarke was enjoying the banter, but he decided to change the subject.

  “Need any help carrying all those?” This was not so much a question from a Secret Service agent. He really liked this woman. “I’m good at heavy lifting.”

  A seductive smile lit up her face as she focused on the stranger. He was extremely good looking and he did appear strong.

  “I think I’m okay.”

  Roarke grinned, “Well then, the lobby? Out to my right and then…?” he asked.

  “No, to your left,” she said with renewed emphasis. “Left…that way.”

  She pointed and Roarke looked at her hand and then the direction.

  “Got it.” Thanks again. I hope you’re around if I get lost again.”

  The young woman nodded. “I hope I am, too.”

  Roarke left. He’d be back soon and now he knew exactly where he had to go.

  New York City

  11:50 A.M.

  The procedure was fairly straightforward even if the crime wasn’t. Steven Hoag’s body went to the morgue. Detective Coates first called Mrs. Hoag at home to break the news. He told her he’d drive up to Connecticut to talk with her in person. From there he would retrace Hoag’s last hour. Before the trip, however, he had some more phone calls to make.

  Coates sat at his dirt-encrusted desk in his Manhattan precinct office. He removed Hoag’s wallet from a clear plastic bag and examined the contents. Credit cards, Connecticut driver’s license. Business cards. And some random phone numbers written on various pieces of paper.

  He wrote each of the unidentified numbers down and started dialing. Maybe one would lead him to a suspect.

  The first number connected Coates to Park Avenue Wine and Spirits where he learned that Hoag regularly bought burgandy. Nothing to gather there, he thought. The second number rang at Town, an eclectic fusion restaurant at West 56th in the Chambers Hotel. The Maitre d’ knew the name. Hoag ate there fairly regularly. He ordered almost everything off the menu, and was partial to the escargot risotto. More useless information.

  Coates went on to the next number on the list. It had a 201 area code. New Jersey.

  The number rang twice. A man curtly answered, “Yes?” It was a cold, official sounding voice; the kind of impatient “Yes” that a police chief gives a subordinate or a high ranking military officer gives to an enlisted man. Coates automatically sat up straight. The voice repeated, “Yes?”

  Coates began just as authoritatively. “This is Detective Harry Coates, NYPD.”

  Silence on the other end, but the line stayed open.

  “Your number was in a wallet we found today…”

  He stopped, but the voice remained quiet. He completed the sentence. “…on a dead man.”

  The phone line went dead. Then the dial tone returned.

  Coates leaned back in his uncomfortable wooden desk chair. He’d been hung up on. He tapped his pen on the paper and circled the number three times. “Now it’s getting interesting,” he said aloud.

  He redialed the New Jersey number. It rang 15 times, but no one picked up. Then he called a precinct extension.

  “Sarah. I have a number I need you to track down.” He rattled it off. “I’ll call from the road. Get me everything you can.”

  He thought about the voice on the line again. A thousand possibilities raced through his mind; none of them good.

  Hudson, New York

  11:55 A.M.

  Lt. Brenner was feeling way out of his league. The FBI had totally taken charge. Their fingerprint experts were crawling over every square inch; their photographers were creating a multi-image portrait of the scene that could rival a high-priced David Hockney lithograph. “Hell, it looks like they have an analyst for every goddamned towel,” he complained to his chief.

  Chief Marelli wasn’t exactly happy either. First, a murder, seen around the world happened right in front of him. Second, he felt he had been lax. And third, he didn’t prevent the assassin from escaping. The Register Star raised the same questions for two straight days.

  Brenner was in the middle of complaining about the feds when when Marelli asked him to be quiet. An idea was bouncing around in his head and he wanted to clear his mind. The chief looked outside his office window at 327 Warren Street.

  “Talk to me about the parade. It got thrown together pretty quickly?” Marelli asked never taking his eyes from the cars below.

  “Yes,” Brenne
r asserted. “We got the word ten, no eleven days ago. The 13th, I think

  Wednesday the 13th. The State Police called us.”

  “Thursday the 13th. It was Thursday, in the afternoon,” Marelli said correcting him.

  “Right. Thursday. It’ll be on the phone log. But I remember, because I’d just come back from the dentist.”

  Brenner began to outline the events. “The call from Albany. The District Commander. Then I alerted the mayor’s office. He got Randy Quinn at the Chamber of Commerce involved and they began planning the parade. There were all sorts of things going back and forth. Which direction to march.” Up or down Warren? Where the speeches would be? At Promenade Hill or at the Park? Finally, Lodge’s advance man or campaign manager, someone, looked at the Park and thought it was too small. He wanted the platform right in the intersection of Park Place and Warren so more people could see. After that it was all the coordinating.”

  Brenner paused, keenly aware that Marelli was playing with a notion. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the window. “Where are you going with this, Chief?”

  “Thursday the 13th,” he repeated.

  “Thursday. Right. The 13th.”

  “Terrific.”

  “What’s terrific?”

  “Your memory.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll fill you in when I make more sense out of it myself,” the chief said. Marelli left and walked up the three blocks to the St. Charles.

  Marblehead, Massachusetts

  The same time

  Michael O’Connell really enjoyed digging. The writing, which he was great at, still didn’t touch the thrills of the legwork. He loved reaching into the past through the eyes of witnesses, helping them see things they didn’t even realize were there.