Admit The Horse

by P. G. Abeles

  Connor was suddenly serious: “Maybe so, but it’s what makes you a good cop, an honest cop.” He paused, as if slightly embarrassed.

  “Anyway, I just thought if this were my investigation—I’d want the information.” Harrison nodded. He had a good feeling about Murphy. He’d provided answers to all the questions a good investigator would ask, and as far as Harrison could tell, he had been completely straightforward. The murder of Antwone Green, on the other hand, was getting more complicated by the minute. Harrison paused, testing the water.

  “You could have told me all this on the phone. Why come all this way?”

  Murphy nodded, as if he’d expected the question.

  Harrison looked at him thoughtfully, suddenly knew the answer: “You suspected Antwone Green’s murder was linked to Okono, didn’t you?” Harrison said slowly, carefully.

  Connor Murphy’s expression never changed, but his voice dropped an octave.

  “You can put it together as well as I can. Better probably, since you’re a homicide dick. Joey Ali is a shyster, but he’s not a murderer, and Antwone Green was a professional hit. Personally, I like the Guard for it. Ali and The Minister? Maybe they have business dealings… In this town, who knows?” Connor shrugged his shoulders.

  “But you said it yourself.” Murphy looked at Harrison. “The only link between Joey Ali and Kevin DuShane is Congressman Okono. “And frankly…” Murphy looked nervously around the crowded bar “that scares the shit out of me.”

  Connor Murphy took a long sip of his draft, wiping the foam off his mouth with his sleeve.

  Murphy paused. “Although knowing it, and proving it are two different things. I don’t expect the Guard leaves many loose ends.”

  Harrison smiled. “Not usually, no. But we might get lucky.”

  Connor Murphy shook his head and looked at Harrison doubtfully. On a purely theoretical level, Harrison conceded that Murphy was probably right. But another part of Harrison, even in spite of the increasingly long odds, still couldn’t accept it—had to believe there might be justice—someday—for Antwone Green.

  “Agent Murphy, you really don’t think we’re ever going to find Kevin DuShane, do you?”

  Well, I dunno,” said Murphy thoughtfully. He then paused for dramatic effect.

  “Do you fish?”

  Harrison laughed in spite of himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chicago, Illinois

  HARRISON TOLD JAY JOHNSON about his meeting with Murphy the following day. He spread out the copies of the wire transfers and the time stamped photographs of the money. Johnson whistled.

  “They had tracers on Ali’s money?” Johnson asked.

  Harrison replied: “Yeah, I mean it figures. It’s no secret they’ve been watching Joey Ali for months, maybe even years. I mean, the guy’s facing, like, 24 charges of racketeering.”

  Johnson was flipping through the pile of pictures. “So Joey Ali pays off a landlord for a tenant that’s a material witness to a capital crime…after the guy disappears…?” he asked.

  Harrison sighed. “Well, to be honest, the guy disappeared before the murder, so at this point we don’t really know what information he has.”

  Johnson looked up from the pictures. “But he was having an affair with Okono.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Harrison rubbed his forehead: “We don’t know that either. We have a witness that might know something…”

  “Dendra Jones…?” Johnson supplied. Harrison nodded. Johnson continued, “Who has mysteriously disappeared into thin air?”

  “Yup,” agreed Harrison

  “A little old lady who can’t make it to the grocery store by herself,” prompted Johnson.

  “Right,” Harrison concurred.

  Johnson continued, “Is gone. Overnight.”

  “Right,” Harrison replied, adding: “Leaving no one to care for the cat she’s been giving insulin shots to for the last six months.”

  “Right,” said Johnson.

  Johnson flipped the file closed and looked up at his partner expectantly, “So which angle are we working first—the church or Joey Ali’s business?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Harrison responded with a shrug. “Any preference?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Johnson replied, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “The church. I like a little religion now and then.” They made an appointment with The Minister.

  He welcomed them in his effusive way and invited them into a large, comfortable office. But before they’d even had time to sit down, he was all business.

  “Gentlemen: what can I do for you?” he asked, obviously not interested in exchanging pleasantries.

  “Well, sir, as you know, we’re investigating the death of Antwone Green.”

  The Minister nodded without speaking.

  Harrison and Johnson ran through the litany of what had now become the standard questions. The Minister answered “no” to each. When they got to the question about drugs or money problems, The Minister stopped them, obviously irritated. “Why would you ask that?” he challenged them. Johnson was nonplussed.

  “Well, in a situation where it looks like a professional—” They were startled by the fury of The Minister’s response.

  “Who is suggesting such a thing?” his big voice reverberated around the room. Harrison looked at Johnson, plainly not offering to intercede on his behalf. “You go right ahead, big guy,” his look seemed to say.

  Johnson did his best to maintain his composure, but he was clearly intimidated. The Minister’s barrel chest and powerful build bristled with indignation.

  “Well, sir, Mr. Green died of a gunshot wound to the back of the head.” He paused. Johnson was floundering, surprised at the vehemence of The Minister’s denial of something he assumed was obvious.

  The Minister appeared to calm down. He took a deep, windy breath, rattling his diaphragm.

  The Minister regarded the detectives with a supercilious smile. “It was burglary, correct? Things were taken from the apartment?”

  Johnson looked at Harrison for help. Harrison merely smirked. He was clearly enjoying his partner’s discomfiture.

  Johnson responded to The Minister: “Well, yes, sir, a few things were taken, but the consensus of all the officers on the scene was that the burglary was staged as a cover for the murder.”

  “MURDER!?” roared The Minister. Harrison speculated idly on The Minister’s ability to project his voice to the back row. It was an amazing demonstration of vocal gymnastics.

  “Antwone Green wasn’t murdered!”

  Now, Johnson was getting angry. Harrison could see the vein pulsing under the skin of Johnson’s forehead as he kept himself tightly under control.

  “With all due respect, sir, most suicides are not dexterous enough to shoot themselves in the back of the head.”

  The Minister was ready with an explanation: “Antwone surprised them!” The Minister intoned, determined. “He obviously came home unexpectedly while they were robbing his apartment!”

  Johnson swallowed. “Again, with all due respect, sir, if that were the case, the perp would have shot him as he entered…in the front…and it would have been unusual to aim for his head.”

  The Minister was having none of it. “Obviously, the person was hiding and Antwone had his back to them.”

  Johnson was prepared: “Okay, in that scenario—why shoot at all? Why not just run? In that scenario, the victim hadn’t seen the perp yet and wouldn’t be able to I.D. him.”

  “Detective,” said The Minister, his voice dripping with scorn, “these are all very rational, well-considered rebuttals, but they hardly reflect real life, do they? Some person, high on something…” The Minister waved his arms to indicate an entire universe of illegal substances, “decides to rob an apartment. They are not necessarily acting rationally.”

  The Minister had mentioned the one point that was tough to argue. A professional burglar wouldn’t have trashed the apartment and he
wouldn’t have shot Green in the head (particularly not in the back of the head). But a crazed druggie? Both Harrison and Johnson had seen how completely irrational drugs made people, particularly people who became criminals to get more drugs.

  The Minister was already congratulating himself, sure that his argument was a winner. Johnson regarded him steadily, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

  “And, sir, that would be a good point…” The Minister all but bowed, so certain was he of his argument.

  “Except for the fact, that the perp navigated three deadbolts and a security system without a scratch on any of them.” The Minister looked surprised, his eyes narrowing. Johnson continued,

  “And Green’s security code had ten digits, which I’m told, would be statistically almost impossible to crack without knowing the combination…except by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.”

  The Minister, so confident moments before, was now sullen, uncooperative—sulking after Johnson’s smackdown like a bratty kid that’s just been deprived of a sweet. The two cops rose to leave. Harrison spoke: “Uhhh, sorry. One more thing, Minister?” The Minister inclined his head.

  “Sir, do you know Kevin DuShane?”

  The Minister looked surprised at the question.

  “And what relevance would that have to your investigation?” he asked imperiously.

  Harrison’s tone was measured. “Perhaps none. But we’d very much like to speak with Mr. DuShane.”

  The Minister barely looked at him, but raised his hands dramatically in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  “You don’t know where he is?” pressed Johnson.

  “I’m sorry, detective,” replied The Minister.

  Harrison continued: “Do you know Kevin DuShane well, sir?”

  Again, the imperious look. “Not well,” said The Minister.

  Harrison persisted, “But didn’t you plan his vacation?”

  The Minister raised his brows in surprise, but his eyes were steady, unsmiling.

  “I?” he said haughtily. “Plan his… vacation? No, of course not. Why would I plan someone’s vacation?” His air was disdainful, petulant.

  There was a slight pause. The Minister acted as if he was amused by the question, but his eyes were hard and cold.

  “Gentlemen—I don’t even plan my own vacations,” he said with a barely disguised sneer.

  Harrison nodded to Johnson. They both stood up. Time to go.

  “If it’s all right, sir, we’d like to leave a statement for you to sign.”

  The Minister raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s just a formality. Please check it over carefully and make sure we’ve recorded your comments correctly.”

  The Minister nodded his assent. Harrison and Johnson courteously proffered their hands. The Minister ignored them and remained behind his desk. He nodded briefly without speaking, as they made their departure past the two burly Guards of Jehovah posted in The Minister’s outer office.

  As Harrison and Johnson were pulling out of the enormous church parking lot, Johnson turned to Harrison.

  “Hey, thanks for helping me out back there. Jerk.”

  Harrison chuckled. “You were doing fine.”

  “Hmmmm…” Johnson replied, unconvinced.

  Johnson lifted his shirt and looked over his shoulder. Surprised, Harrison asked: “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Checking myself for poison darts,” Johnson replied with a straight face.

  Harrison laughed out loud. Johnson continued: “All I can say is…good thing we didn’t drink the dude’s coffee.”

  “So, do you think he’s as bad as his reputation? Harrison was interested. For all his joking around, Johnson had an amazing intuition about people. Johnson shrugged.

  “C’mon, Jay,” Harrison pressed his partner. “Anything strike you?”

  Johnson was eating an old donut, flicking desiccated confectioners’ sugar onto the upholstery. “You mean aside from the fact that virtually every member of the choir claims as common knowledge that The Minister paid for Kevin DuShane’s vacation?”

  “Yeah, aside from that…” Harrison pressed.

  “Well, I guess…” Johnson considered his answer.

  “Yes?” Harrison prompted.

  Johnson looked at the stale donut dejectedly, then threw it out the window. He turned to his partner, brushing sugar off his hands.

  “For one of the toughest guys in Chicago, he’s a huge baby.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  New York, New York

  TOLERO STAR SECURITIES had always had a scrappy, street-fighting culture that made the patrician nabobs of investment banking a little nervous, a little disapproving. It was the brainiacs at Balthuzar Brothers who had pioneered the securitization of residential mortgages. They were the ones who came up with the idea of grouping a bunch of mortgages together and selling, essentially, the lender’s risk. The less risk on his books, the more loans the lender could make, the more interest he could earn; everybody was happy. But Balthazar Brothers had been too cautious to jump into the mortgage rip tide with both feet, the way Tolero Star Securities had. That was understandable. Balthazar Brothers was already the most formidable investment bank on Wall Street. They had nothing to prove. Tolero Star was different. After all, they reasoned, small securities firms don’t get to be big investment banks by being reticent about risk. And Tolero Star wanted to be big.

  It seemed as if their strategy was paying off. In 2006, Tolero Star reported a banner year with a mind-boggling $9.2 billion in revenue. Investors eager to leverage the benefits of Tolero Star’s acumen in their own returns, had flocked to their doors, making them the seventh largest securities firm in terms of capital—with assets under management of approximately $350 billion. Approximately 15,500 employees worldwide kept everything percolating along.

  But gamblers and stock jobbers know they’re only as good as their last trade. And the company that had never posted a loss since its founding in 1923, had made a bad trade. Tolero Star’s huge returns were accomplished as a result of leverage—and while that is the universal maxim of most of Wall Street’s most successful investing—Tolero Star had made two mistakes that can’t be made together. They’d leveraged too much—accountants now estimated their ratio of leverage to assets at thirty-five to one— and they’d invested in assets that, as a result of the economic downturn and foreclosures, were completely illiquid. They had based their forecasting on the presumption that the underlying asset—the house—wouldn’t lose its cash value. In the event of foreclosure, theoretically, they still owned something they could sell. But in down markets, houses sell slowly and stocks sell fast. Caught somewhere in the middle of the economic cyclone was Tolero Star.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rockville, Maryland

  IT WAS THE BEATING AFRICAN DRUMS, pulsing through her computer speakers as she opened the link to the church website, that made Lacey fairly certain that Okono’s church and his close 20 year relationship with its minister might become a campaign issue. A quick review of the church website—which touted the congregation’s “non-negotiable commitment to Africa” and allegiance to a “Black Value System” (which exhorted its parishoners to only patronize black-owned and run businesses and celebrate only the black experience)—confirmed that this was a church on the loose, untied fringes of the mainstream fabric. The church’s bedrock philosophy was something called “Black Liberation Theology,” a radical Afro-centric doctrine first credited to William H. Cone. Supporters argued it was a means of social and spiritual empowerment. Critics accused it of being a Marxist doctrine of wealth redistribution that incited hatred and violence, and whose aim was to manipulate black anger and white guilt to achieve anarchy. Whatever it was to its critics or supporters, it was pretty obviously controversial. More to the point, however, it put paid to the idea that Okono was a uniter, not a divider. For a biracial candidate who was continually trying to emphasize his “
foot in both camps” impartiality—it was a pretty strong indication that Okono’s feet had voted, and they had voted black.

  The story had been circulating on the internet for months. There was even the seemingly outlandish claim that The Minister had traveled to Libya to meet Muammar Gaddafi (Gaddafi!) in the early 1980s. Usually, when there are allegations that an organization’s funding is tied to a foreign state sponsor of terror, one might expect some sort of journalistic inquiry. All the major networks and news organizations knew of the story. And, most at least, had heard examples of The Minister’s fiery anti-American diatribes—lashing out at Jews, the U.S. government, and white people, generally, for the planned extermination of African Americans. Extermination, The Minister warned, even now being delivered by the various mechanisms of legislation, incarceration, and drug addiction. Nobody ran it.

  Lacey and her bloggers had been posting links to the church website for weeks, encouraging Okono supporters to check it out themselves and come to their own conclusions. Many of the McCracken supporters had written or called media contacts, or simply used the emails provided for popular news programs to ask why the networks weren’t covering the story. Others systematically contacted all the major news media—even the McCracken campaign. Silence. When week after week went by, and nothing about Okono’s church was mentioned, they began to worry. After all, this had happened before with Okono.

  At the beginning of February, the McCracken bloggers had started seeing references in the online comments sections of major news outlets alleging that some of Okono’s most successful taglines had, in fact, been borrowed without attribution from other sources. They started investigating and sent the information, unsolicited, to the McCracken campaign. For a candidate who had made his reputation on his uplifting rhetoric, it seemed like a blockbuster.

  When the McCracken campaign finally raised the issue at the end of February, the press downplayed it, and blunted the edge of the accusation by equating McCracken’s limited use of one or two lines from others, with Okono’s extensive borrowing—as a kind of plagiaristic equivalency. But the evidence of Okono’s plagiarism went far beyond borrowing an elegant speech from a Boston politician and friend.