“If you called security, you wouldn’t have let me in.”
Bolden pushed Schiff in front of him, guiding him into the living room. The condominium was decorated in a bachelor’s style, with sleek, arty furniture that didn’t look particularly inviting, the living room dominated by a sixty-inch plasma screen and a very large Picasso from his Blue Period. A bachelor worth a couple of hundred million dollars, that is.
“Sit,” said Bolden, pointing to the couch.
Reluctantly, Schiff lowered himself onto a cushion.
“You going to the Jefferson dinner?”
“Isn’t everybody?”
Bolden sat down on a matching couch across the coffee table. “First thing you have to realize is that you’re screwed.”
“How’s that?” Schiff asked, brushing dust from his tux.
“Let me lay it out, just so we’re clear, Lieutenant Colonel Schiff. I’ll keep it simple. Your last act as a marine supply officer was to steer a seventy-five-million-dollar contract to Fanning Firearms, a company owned by Defense Associates, an LBO firm James Jacklin set up in 1979, right after he left the Pentagon. In exchange for handing Fanning Firearms the contract, he paid you over a million dollars. Three hundred twenty thousand went for the down payment of the house in Virginia. The rest, he wired to your new account at Harrington Weiss. In addition, you received a cushy job at Defense Associates and a starting salary of five hundred thousand dollars. Even today that’s a lot for a guy with no banking experience. Back then it was a fortune.”
“I did no such thing,” spat Schiff. “That’s a shameless lie.”
“Numbers never lie.” Bolden removed a sheaf of papers he’d stuffed into the rear of his waistband and threw it onto the coffee table. “It was the first thing you taught us in our training class. Anyway, you’ll find all the details there.”
Schiff examined the papers. “Where did you get these . . .” he began, then dropped the papers on the couch. “That was twenty-five years ago. The statute of limitations has run out.”
“Who’s talking about pressing charges? I’m going straight to The Wall Street Journal with this. I can’t think of a reporter that wouldn’t kill for this scoop. Hell, Mickey . . . it’s not an article. It’s a book. Besides,” added Bolden, “integrity’s mandatory for running a Wall Street firm. The statute of limitations never runs out on that.”
“You want to believe that, go ahead.”
“You know something? I do want to believe that.”
Schiff considered the information, his eyes darting from the papers lying on the coffee table to Bolden and back again. He ran a hand across his mouth, alternately frowning and pursing his lips. “Okay, okay,” he said finally. “What do you want?”
“What do you think? Your help.”
“And then?”
“I’ll tear up the papers.”
“Your word?”
“I can’t destroy the records, but I’ll give you my word that I won’t turn you in. But you don’t get HW. I won’t do that to Sol.”
“Sol? Is he the saint now?”
“You weren’t the first person Jacklin bribed to get a contract, and you certainly weren’t the last. It’s his modus operandi. Five’ll get you ten that half of Jefferson’s counselors are on the take. All I’m asking is for you to help me take a look.”
“And for that you’ll forget everything you know about my involvement with Defense Associates?”
“Not quite. You’re going to the police and telling them that I didn’t kill Sol. You’re going to say that as a witness you are willing to swear that I wasn’t holding the gun when it went off. You’re also going to write a memo informing everyone at the firm that I didn’t touch Diana Chambers.”
“Anything else?” asked Schiff.
“One more thing,” said Bolden, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees.
“What’s that?”
“Tell me about ‘the committee’ or ‘the club.’ ”
“What club is that?”
“The club that gives you your marching orders. The people who told you to act dumb when you saw the doctored tape of me shooting Sol Weiss on television. The people who ordered you to beat up Diana Chambers, and to plant those fictitious e-mails on the company server. I know Jacklin’s involved, but I think there are others, too. It’s too big.” Bolden stood and circled the coffee table, eyes locked on Schiff. “Help me out, Mickey. It’s got to have a name.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re out of luck, then.” Abruptly, Bolden scooped up the documents and walked toward the door.
Schiff let him get five steps before shouting, “Sit down, Tom. Come back. You got me by the balls, okay?”
Bolden remained standing.
“Look, you’re a good kid,” Schiff went on. “I’m sorry you’ve gotten mixed up in this, but there are some things you have to know. The world is not always run according to the rules.”
“Is that supposed to surprise me? So do you agree or not?”
“Yeah, sure. Have a look at the accounts. But I’m not saying a thing about Jacklin. You want to expose me? Go ahead. Call the Journal. Call the Times. Do what you got to do. But that’s as far as I go.”
“As far as you go?”
“Yeah.” Schiff tugged at his cuff, and spent a moment adjusting it so that exactly one inch of white cotton was showing.
Bolden crossed the distance between them in four steps. He grabbed a handful of Schiff’s hair and yanked his head back. “They shot my girlfriend. Do you understand that? She’s pregnant. I asked you who are they, Mickey.”
Schiff arched his back, and batted at Bolden’s hand. But beneath the pain, he was looking at him sadly, as if for all his own problems, he didn’t envy Bolden one bit. “All you have to know is that they exist.”
Bolden let go of Schiff’s hair. “Get up,” he said. He was disgusted with Schiff and disgusted with himself for having to make a deal with the devil. “You can drive me down to the office.”
“I need my keys and my wallet.” Schiff gestured haltingly toward his bedroom.
“Help yourself,” said Bolden, keeping a half step behind him.
They’d covered half of the corridor when Bolden heard a noise coming from the door to his right. A muffled cry. He stopped. “What was that?”
Schiff looked at him, then bolted for the door of his bedroom.
Bolden hesitated, then ran after him. Ahead, the door slammed shut. Bolden rammed a shoulder into it, feeling it budge. The lock flew home. Bolden backed up a step and kicked at the door handle. Two blows splintered the doorjamb. The third sent the door buckling on its hinges.
Schiff stood next to his bed, a phone cradled under his ear, pulling an imposing nickel-plated automatic from the drawer of his night table. He was desperately trying to chamber a round. Bolden stalked across the room. Schiff dropped the pistol and picked up a ten-inch jade statue. Lunging, he brought the statue down on Bolden’s shoulder. Bolden ducked, but the blow staggered him. Schiff raised the statue again. Bolden grabbed his wrist and wrenched it. The statue fell to the carpet. Still grasping Schiff’s arm, Bolden freed the phone and slammed it into the carriage.
“Who’s in that room?”
Schiff didn’t answer.
“Who’s in that—”
Schiff’s knee caught him in the stomach. Bolden doubled over. A blow to his back forced him to the ground. Schiff ran from the bedroom. The pistol lay a few feet away. Rising to his knees, Bolden picked it up and followed, stumbling, fighting for his breath.
Schiff paced at the far side of his living room, his back to the window. A lone figure floating on clouds. He had a phone to his ear.
“Put it down,” said Bolden.
Schiff stared defiantly at him. “Hello,” he said. “This is—”
Bolden raised the gun. The trigger had a feather’s weight. The window behind Schiff shattered, but did not break. Schiff fell to a knee, clutching
the phone. “Hello,” he said. “Mr.—”
Bolden clubbed Schiff on the neck with the butt of the pistol. Schiff fell to the carpet. Bolden hung up the phone and returned to the room where he’d heard the muffled voice. The door was unlocked. Diana Chambers lay on the bed. A stack of melted ice packs sat on the night table, alongside several containers of painkillers. Her eye was puffy, the bruise a deep purple. “I heard shouting,” she said, pulling herself up.
“It was just Mickey.”
“Is he all right?” Even drugged up, she sounded like she really cared. “You didn’t shoot him, too?”
“What’s it to you?”
The look she gave him said it all. She was in on it, too. Mickey’s office squeeze looking to do her share for the cause. What was a black eye, after all, compared to the daily bruising she took just trying to break through the glass ceiling?
“What did he promise you?” Bolden asked. “A raise? A promotion? A ring?”
Diana slumped back on the bed, her eyes fixed to the ceiling.
Bolden came closer. “Why is Mickey doing this? Did he tell you?”
Diana Chambers glared at him, then turned her head away. Bolden took her by the jaw and turned her face toward his. “You’re being very rude, Diana. We haven’t finished our conversation. Tell me something. What is ‘Crown’? Did Mickey mention that? Did he ever talk about a woman named Bobby Stillman?”
“No,” said Diana after a moment. “Never.”
“Then why is he trying to destroy me? What did he tell you to make you agree to let him hit you? You’re a smart woman. There had to have been a reason.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know or you won’t tell?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated.
“Bullshit!” Bolden slammed a hand on her pillow, just missing the injured eye. “Tell me!”
“It’s for them. His friends.”
“What friends?” Bolden leaned over her, his face inches from hers. “You will tell me, Diana. I promise you that. You’ll tell me, or I’ll go get that gun and shoot you like I shot Mickey.”
“You didn’t?”
Gently, he pressed the tip of his index finger to the center of her forehead. “Right there,” he whispered. “One shot. You won’t feel a thing. It sure as hell won’t hurt as much as that black eye he gave you. Or did someone else do the honors? A guy named Wolf? Tall, bad attitude, built like a block of cement?”
Diana shook her head, anguish stiffening her body.
“Go take a look,” said Bolden.
She started to get up from the bed, then fell back again. She stared at Bolden, then slapped him across the face. He grabbed her hands and locked them to her sides. “Who are his friends?” he asked, shaking her. “Names! I want names!”
“No!”
“Tell me, dammit.” Bolden fought to keep her on the bed. She was possessed of a fear, a hatred, that he could not comprehend. Finally, she calmed, but her face remained a mask of revulsion.
“The club,” she said. “In Washington. They make things happen. Big things. The power behind the throne . . . you know how it goes.”
“I don’t actually,” said Bolden. “What are their names?”
“Mickey’s Mr. Morris. I don’t know the others, except that he calls them Mr. Washington, and Mr. Hamilton . . .” She looked away. “It’s for the country, that’s all I needed to know. Mickey told me it was my chance to serve. After all, he’d put in his twenty years in uniform. Why shouldn’t I take a couple of bruises for Uncle Sam?”
“And it was fine by you if they knocked me off in the process.”
“You’re dangerous. You’re trying to harm the club. You and Bobby Stillman. She’s been after them for years. She’s crazy, you know, just in case you think you’re really doing something good. You’re both crazy. You’ll never win, you know. They’ll stop you.”
“Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. We’ll see.”
Bolden found duct tape in the pantry and socks in Schiff’s dresser. Returning to the guest room, he taped her ankles together. When she cried out, he stuffed a pair of silk dress socks into her mouth and taped that, too. Finally, he taped her wrists together and dragged her into the bathroom. He locked the door before pulling it closed.
It took him five more minutes to give Schiff the same treatment.
Somewhere in the house a phone rang. Security, he thought. Then he recognized the ring as belonging to a cell phone. He looked around and identified the noise as coming from the kitchen. He found the compact phone, next to Schiff’s wallet and keys. “Yes.”
“Mr. Morris. We’ll be meeting in the Long Room following the dinner this evening. Twelve o’clock. I trust you’re coming despite the weather.”
“Yes,” said Bolden. “I’ll be there.”
56
John Franciscus pulled his police cruiser to the curb in the center of the “No Parking Zone” fronting the Delta Shuttle Terminal at LaGuardia Airport. Grabbing his “Police Business” card off the passenger seat, he slid it onto the dashboard and climbed out of the car. He left the keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked. Let someone else move the car. He had a plane to catch.
The terminal was bedlam. Commuters rushed to gates, many of them hurriedly buying coffee and newspapers on the way. Those just arriving made a beeline to baggage claim. Everyone had someplace to go, and from the look of it, they were all late. New York City, he thought. It was a place you couldn’t wait to get to, and couldn’t wait to leave.
Franciscus showed his badge to the security supervisor, who guided him around the metal detectors. He jogged up the incline to the ticketing area. The line of passengers waiting for a boarding card stretched to fifty feet. He walked directly to the counter.
“Police business,” he said, laying out his badge and identification for inspection. “I need to be on the seven-thirty flight to D.C.”
“Yes, um, let me check.”
“It’s urgent, ma’am.”
“Of course, Detective. That will be two hundred dollars.”
Franciscus paid by credit card. Without further ado, she issued him a boarding pass.
He did not see the fit, dark-haired man who had followed him to the desk and demanded a seat on the same flight to the nation’s capital.
The black BMW 760Li slowed at the corner of Forty-sixth and Broadway. A window rolled down. “Hey . . . get in.”
Bolden opened the door and slid into the backseat. The car accelerated into traffic. A young African American male sat behind the driver. He was dressed in a navy business suit that Bolden knew was the work of Alan Flusser. He wore a high white collar and an oversize pink Italian necktie—or a “cravat,” as Bolden had been told it was called on more than one occasion. His shoes looked like they’d never touched the pavement. Only the sparkling diamond watch gave any indication that he might not work in the same office as Tom Bolden.
Darius Fell kept his eyes straight ahead, his face a mask of indignation. “Mr. T.,” he said after a moment. “Howzit?”
“Not real good.”
“Respect,” he said. “Now you know I’m right. Can’t trust no one. Never.”
“I didn’t come to argue.”
“You lookin’ all business. Saw you on the TV. You look like a Russian or something, one of them guys from Little Odessa, know what I’m sayin’? You one scary motherfucker.”
“The tape’s a fake,” said Bolden.
Darius Fell laughed and for the first time turned to look at Bolden. He extended an open hand. “Ain’t it always?”
The two shook hands. “White Man’s Handshake,” Fell called it. Nothing fancy. No changing grips, snapping of fingers, or pointing at the other guy. In the four years he’d known Darius, Bolden often felt that the only thing he’d taught him was the meaning of a formal handshake and where to buy a decent suit.
“My sister help you out?”
“She did. Tell her thanks again. I owe you.”
&nbs
p; “Nah. You just keep doing what you doing. We even, then.”
Video screens mounted in the back of the headrests played a pornographic movie. Tucked in a custom holster near the driver’s left leg was an Uzi submachine gun. Fell did nothing to camouflage the rise under his left arm.
“Tell your partners, we’re going downtown,” said Bolden.
“Where to?”
“Wall Street.”
The concourse of the executive parking lot beneath the Harrington Weiss building was reserved for senior partners and visiting big shots. Located on the first underground level, it was not so much a parking lot as a very large automobile showroom. At any time, one could expect to find a selection of late-model Porsches, Ferraris, BMWs, and Mercedeses. Tonight, however, the parking lot was deserted. HW’s senior partners had flown the coop by seven-thirty. At least half were en route to Washington, to attend Jacklin’s Ten Billion Dollar Dinner. A lone car remained. Sol Weiss’s ten-year-old Mercedes.
The BMW slowed. Bolden jumped out.
“Chill for three minutes, then get movin’,” said Darius Fell.
Bolden nodded and slammed the door.
His name was Caleb Short and he was the officer in charge of security for 55 Wall Street. Short sat at a console of video monitors, a paper bag on the desk holding his evening’s dinner and snack. His wife had prepared a liverwurst sandwich, peanut butter and celery sticks, carrots, and a tin of organic apple sauce. He had stuck in the Clark bar himself. He couldn’t make a twelve-hour shift without a little candy. A man had his limits.
“You believe what went down here?” Short asked his shift partner, Lemon Wilkie, a scrappy kid from Bensonhurst who liked to wear his side arm low on his hip.
“Some bad shit,” said Wilkie. “Just goes to show, you never really can tell about some people.”
“You know him? Bolden?”
“Seen him around. He’s a suit. You?”
“Yeah. He works late. Real friendly. Wouldn’t figure him to be the type.”
“Yeah,” laughed Wilkie, into his hand. “What do you know?”
Short sat up, wanting to tear into him, then thought the better of it. Short knew plenty . . . certainly more than a twenty-two-year-old army reservist like Lemon Wilkie. Short had put in his twenty as an MP with the army’s 10th Mountain Division and got out a master sergeant. Three chevrons on top. Three rockers on the bottom. In the five years since he’d gotten out, he’d put on a solid fifty pounds. Being a little overweight didn’t mean he wasn’t on top of his game.
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