“The real reason I came here was to ask for your help,” I blurted out.
What? Why did I say that?
“You want our help?” Dad asked, as Mom’s eyebrows danced again.
I noticed Jane was also confused.
“Yes,” I continued. “From political and psychological points of view, I thought you guys might help me figure this whole thing out.”
“You want help?” my mom wondered.
“From us?” Dad asked.
“Yes. Maybe tonight at dinner. Think about it and we can all put our heads together, okay?”
They didn’t protest. I told them we had someplace we had to go and would call them later. We left before they could recover.
“What just happened?” Jane asked.
“You met Amanda and James. Have fun?”
“Loads. Were you serious about needing their help or were you just trying to escape in one piece?”
“Yes.”
61
Jane went back to work and Skippy and I went back to her place for lunch. I sat at the kitchen table and logged onto the University of Google. Apparently the patriotic billionaires invested millions in Revolutionary and Civil War weapons and coins, beside their more well-known purchases of oil and large companies. Of course, whatever they touched turned to gold, including gold, and its value always went up. Even their hobbies had to be for profit.
I called up Jane’s notes on the autopsy and test results. According to the lab, the silver in the musket balls assayed out at mostly silver, at 89.24 per cent pure with only 10.76 copper. I fed those exact numbers into Google and got an avalanche of rare coin websites. I hadn’t told the search engine to look up coins but several searches earlier, I did ask about the Roehm brothers and coin collecting. Opening the top website, “US Silver Dollars, 1794, a Buying Guide,” there were pictures of coins with a profile of a woman who vaguely resembled the Statue of Liberty. The word “Liberty” and a ring of small stars circled her head. It was a Flowing Hair dollar, whatever that was.
Damn. In the detailed description, the search engine had highlighted a sentence that noted the coin consisted of 89.24 per cent pure silver and 10.76 per cent copper, the exact proportions as the musket balls. It also said each coin weighed 26.96 grams. I checked back to Jane’s notes on the bullets. That was the exact weight. Not only was the killer or killers using expensive silver to dispatch his victims, it looked like each slug was a melted rare coin. I scrolled down to the end of the listing. That particular coin, the first of the American Revolution, was for sale for the low price of $25,000.
Sweet. And apparently these were the bargain-priced ones. Years earlier, one of these coins had sold to an unidentified bidder for a record $10 million. Maybe George Washington kept that one in his loafers? After some searching down-market, the cheapest one I could find online was $6,000 for a worn-down specimen. So my original estimate of under a thousand bucks per bullet would have to be scaled upwards to six grand or more. If the victims knew how much their slug had cost, they might have felt honored to be bumped off. Who the hell would do this? A lunatic? A billionaire? Both, maybe? Sparky was wrong. This wasn’t about silver bullets to kill werewolves, this was a loaded Lone Ranger who was convinced he was shooting for some higher purpose. What was it? Love of country? The perfect crime? History’s most expensive murders?
I searched past auctions but couldn’t find lists of who bought what. I put on my reporter hat and called a few auction houses but they wouldn’t tell me squat. I went back to Jane’s notes but couldn’t find anything else helpful. I kept reading about the silk patches used to wad the shots. The lab said analysis showed the silk was also not new—it was about 300 years old. More antiques. It included descriptions of the weave and weft and how the damask silk was originally bright green but had faded to light yellow over the centuries. I began a new search, feeding all the silk analysis into the white rectangle of the search box. One click later I had lots of sites. Silk manufacturers, antique clothing collections, lots of museums displaying old clothing and flags, including something called the “Gadsden Flag,” which turned out to be a variation on the familiar 1775 “Don’t Tread On Me” flag revived by the new Tea Party in 2009. I learned that Ben Franklin suggested a coiled serpent as a symbol because England sent convicts to the colonies and Ben thought they should ship rattlesnakes to the mother country, in order to return the favor.
The search engine had also brought up something called the “Delaware Militia Colors, 1776.” Pictured was a bright green flag, with red and white in the top left corner, where the stars are in today’s US flag. Apparently the Delaware rebels covered Washington’s retreat at the Battle of Long Island, saving his army and the revolution, at great cost. It was one of the first flags to feature the stripes. There were a few specimens in museums and several in anonymous private hands, and the record price for one was $15 million a few years back. The weave and faded color looked similar to the five one-inch-square wads used by the Tea Party Animals. This latest addition to the murder package bumped up the price tag—if the killer actually cut squares off a valuable historical flag. I called two museums, one in Dover, Delaware and the other in Brooklyn. I couldn’t get a live person in Delaware but someone picked up at the Brooklyn Museum.
“I’m sorry,” the woman in the curator’s office responded. “You’re asking me if anybody has cut strips off our Delaware Militia flag? Of course not. It’s behind glass and pretty high up on the wall. Why?”
I asked if she knew of any private person who might have bought one of the flags. She didn’t.
“What’s your best guess on who might be a buyer?” I asked.
“A rich white person,” she told me.
“Thanks.”
62
I printed out my various revelations from the web, called Amy and Sparky to invite them over for dinner with my parents, and then Izzy. I left Skippy napping on the couch and set up a car service ride to Police Headquarters. Phil came down to the main entrance and escorted me upstairs, without signing me in at the security desk.
“So. We’re friends again,” I asked Phil in the elevator.
“Not officially,” Phil replied. “The feds are leading the case now, so nobody cares about you as long as we don’t rub you in anybody’s faces.”
“There he is, the Private Eye and the Public Mouth,” Izzy intoned, as I entered the Major Case room. He was sitting at his desk; on the wall behind him was a WANTED FOR MURDER poster of a lanky man in a fringed buckskin jacket and coonskin fur cap, holding a flintlock rifle.
“Daniel Boone, right?”
“No,” Izzy snapped, “It’s Fess Parker as Davy Crockett.”
“Oh. Okay. Who’s Fess Parker?” I asked.
Izzy and Phil groaned. I handed Izzy my printouts, knowing he responded to hard copy better than digital. I told him about the rare coins matching the analysis of the musket balls.
“Hmm. Thanks. It’s interesting, I guess,” Izzy said, tossing the printouts onto his cluttered desk. “Normally, that would be great, but we have nothing to compare it to, no coins belonging to a suspect.”
“It’s totally insane,” Phil added. “Who would spend thousands on this?”
“Crazy billionaires. One of the Roehm brothers is a coin collector.”
“And you think it’s them?” Izzy asked, picking up my printouts again and looking at them.
“It’s all over TV,” Phil said. “I like ’em for it, too.”
“Any real evidence yet?” Izzy asked, not looking up. “No? Then I’m not going hard against anybody without any hard fucking proof. Especially against motherfucking billionaires.”
I had been pumped by my discoveries but my cop friends were so negative, I didn’t tell them about the flag, which was even more tenuous.
“Okay, what’ve you guys got?” I asked.
They hesitated but Izzy nodded. Phil said so far the drone I had downed was a dead end because all serial numbers had been removed from t
he whirlybird and the cameras. Working with the FBI, they were looking at drone manufacturers, gunpowder suppliers and gun dealers, trying to trace the explosive from the drone, processing the murder scenes, and waiting for more test results.
“I’ve got more than you do,” I bragged. They didn’t deny it. “So, where are the murder weapons?”
“The killers may have just walked in with them and then just walked,” said Phil. “Trees in a forest. They’re probably in the wind. Gone, maybe destroyed. The feds are trying to track them down but most of the politicos fled the jurisdiction after the shootings. Not that it matters.”
“Why not?”
Izzy handed me some paperwork. “Ballistics report,” he said. “Bottom line, there are no lands and grooves, no markings to match with a weapon if we ever find one.”
“Because muskets have no rifling to spin the bullet?” I asked.
“Correct,” Izzy replied. “Our little silver balls are as smooth as a baby’s nuts.”
Terrific. I asked Izzy if the feds were running down all the threats made to still-living politicians around the country. They were trying. The hotel rooms at the convention center were still crime scenes, because the FBI was slower than post office snail mail. They had not yet found any trace of the three bearded men who had followed me, and who were possibly from the APN militia in Brooklyn—which was still deserted—although the cops were still staking out the building for the feds. Meanwhile, NYPD was also still stuck guarding the crime scenes, while the hotel staff went slowly berserk, threatening to sue NYPD for lost revenue every day.
“The feds haven’t found the shooter of the other congressman in the crapper in Minnesota and half of the Senate is applying to the Witness Relocation program.” Izzy laughed. “The FBI has us babysitting the hotel, doing a few routine checks and door-knocks and not much else. I think they’re just trying to keep the secrets of dead congressmen. I don’t give a damn. If they let us loose, we’d get these motherfuckers.”
“Everything is awesome,” Phil sang in an odd voice. “Everything is cool when you’re part of a team.”
“What the hell was that?”
“The Lego Movie,” Phil answered.
“He’s got young kids,” Izzy explained.
“Speaking of the hotel, do you mind if I go back to the crime scenes and look around one more time this week?” I asked.
“Why?” Izzy asked, suspiciously.
I shrugged. “I must have missed something. And I’ve got nothing else to do. Except a column I’m supposed to write on how dogs can sense the earth’s magnetic field and only poop north to south.”
He said it was okay, as long as I kept it low key, wore gloves and was watched by the cops there at all times.
“No problem, thanks.”
“Sounds like you’re onto something with that magnetic crap idea,” Phil said, with a straight face.
We ran out of things to talk about. I asked casually if they had ever heard of Faith Potsoli Anthony. They laughed.
“What?”
“The last time you asked me about a girl, it was Ginny Mac,” Izzy said. “You didn’t listen to us about her and we all know how well that worked out.”
“I’m not dating Faith. She’s, like, twice my age. I just met her and I have a girlfriend,” I protested.
“And Tiffany has left town,” Phil added.
I ignored him.
“The latest I hear on Faith is that she is running your old newspaper while the boss Trevor Todd hides in New Zealand,” Izzy told me. “La Madrina is a very busy lady.”
“La Madrina?”
“The Godmother. After her dad croaked in jail, she took over the family business but we haven’t been able to prove that yet. Allegedly she now runs two organized crime groups; the Potsoli Family and the New York Mail. Why are you asking about her?”
“She offered me my job back. With a big raise.”
“And you didn’t take it?” Izzy asked.
“Nope.”
“What did I tell you, Phil? This guy is the gift that keeps on giving.”
“Totally awesome,” Phil said.
“Hey, Shepherd, don’t worry,” Izzy told me, lapsing into Spanish. “Hombre prevenido vale por dos.”
“Which means?”
“Threatened men live long.”
63
I wanted to order pizza but Jane insisted on cooking a real meal, some kind of chicken casserole and French potatoes with cheese. She was a bit miffed that I had also invited Amy and Sparky. She thought this would be a quiet dinner with my family but I knew it would only be quiet if there were other people around. I didn’t tell her I also invited Izzy and Phil but they were busy. The meal was terrific. I opened some wine and broke out a bottle of arak. Sparky and I did a few shots with the hors d’oeuvres and more with dinner. If Jane thought she was going to impress my mom, she was wasting her time. I never knew my mother to cook. My dad could do simple barbecue but he was also not a homebody. He never took me fishing or taught me baseball or changed a light bulb. You could say they rejected traditional gender and parental roles. Also, you could say they were completely absorbed in their own careers and spent more time with their students than with their only son. Jane gently drew out my dad, asking about his TV appearance and duel with the Conservative talk show host. He talked about his book and Jane seemed genuinely impressed.
After two glasses of wine, Jane told her story about the woman’s dog at the animal hospital who regurgitated the condom, which led the woman’s husband to conclude his wife was cheating on him. Surprisingly, my parents actually laughed out loud. Amy, who had also sampled the arak, giggled. Sparky roared with laughter, until tears rolled down his cheeks. He asked if we could do the dog/condom story for the newspaper.
“No way,” Jane told Sparky.
“But that’s a front page,” Sparky whined. “Dog fetches divorce! Hubby spies proof that hound found on ground!”
I had to change the subject to prevent him from blurting out other possible obscene headlines. It bugged Amy but I interested everyone with my discoveries about the silver coins. Everybody agreed that the obvious suspects were the Roehm brothers, along with their hired militia guns. Then I shared my frustrating chat with the cops, who had almost zilch.
“But if these brothers are going to finance a secret plan to kill their rivals and rig the election,” I asked, “why also donate huge sums to competing candidates, even some of the ones who were killed?”
“To allay suspicion now, so they can point to that when anyone questions them,” my father pointed out.
“Exactly,” my mother chimed in.
“I’m going to go over the scenes again,” I said. “Maybe we missed something.”
“Have the police and FBI already searched them for all possible evidence?” my father asked.
“Yes.”
“Then what will you achieve by going back there?” His voice was tinged with doubt. “Do you think you can find some vital clue they missed?”
His implication was obvious but I didn’t go for the bait.
“No, of course not,” I lied with a smile. “I just need to go over the ground again to get it all straight in my head.”
“That’s a good idea,” my mother surprised me by saying. With her next breath, she managed to turn it into a condescending statement.
“That’s very mindful. You’re a visual learner. It may help you reconstruct scenarios.”
“Then what?” Amy asked, sipping her wine.
“Then I talk to the Roehm brothers, as a Daily Press reporter,” I said. “And ask them if they’re the Tea Party Animals.”
“Francis, I hope your approach will be a bit more subtle.” My mother smiled.
“Oh yeah, I’ll ask him his favorite color first.”
“They’ll never talk to you,” Jane said.
“Only one way to find out,” I replied.
I was stunned to see my father help Jane clear the table and set up for coff
ee and dessert. My mom and Amy chatted in the living room. I had the odd feeling that they were all talking about me. I took Skippy outside for a walk and Sparky came along. It was a warm, calm night. I looked around—and up—but couldn’t spot any surveillance.
“Doesn’t mean anything,” Sparky pointed out. “Hey, check this out,” he said, opening the back doors of his van. “New toys.”
There were two large horizontal racks to hold two gigantic black octo-copter drones with mounted cameras.
“Wow,” I said.
“I’ve been making mega bucks from the pictures of Senator Hard-on. Thanks to you, amigo. I’m expanding my business, even hired a guy to run the van when I’m asleep. And these drones—they can lift almost a hundred pounds beyond their payloads. State of the fucking art, man.”
He pulled out his phone and showed me an incredible video taken by one of the drones—inside the Fourth of July fireworks over the East River. It was like nothing I had ever seen before and told him so.
“How big a deal is it to run a night mission with one of your drones?” I asked.
“Not a big deal at all, why?”
“Could you send one to 740 Park Avenue? I’d like to take a peek in the Roehm brothers’ penthouse.”
“Seriously?”
“Totally.”
Five minutes later, one of the drones was out of the van, onto the pavement and up, up and away. We got into the back of the van, into two swivel bucket seats. Skippy curled up underfoot. Sparky had multiple screens built in and we watched the sparkling skyline fly by in front of us.
“Don’t you have to keep it in sight?” I asked.
“Not with these beauties. They have three-dimensional GPS databases, ultrasound, night vision, collision avoidance, and lots more and are completely programmable. It knows where we are, where 740 Park Avenue is, the altitude of the building, everything. By the way, there is no other drone nearby. The system already looked. Here’s the building now.”
On the screens, there were views down to the street hundreds of feet below, where car and cab headlights moved, and also video ahead, of wide, stacked terraces of penthouses atop the building. One screen had data readouts of the address, latitude and longitude numbers, and the height of the structure at two hundred and fifty-six feet.
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