by D. F. Bailey
Before he began to work, he took a moment to consider what Cecily had told him before she’d climbed into bed. She’d spent some time that afternoon researching Blomquist and his business from her computer in the Berkeley library.
“There’s plenty of info on the internet about Julian Blomquist,” she’d said as she leaned over his shoulder and started a Google search. “Most of it’s about his company. But TruForce Investments started in ninety-nine. Of course, before that there’s nothing. But the odd thing is, there’s no reference to Julian himself before ninety-eight. None. It’s like he didn’t exist a day before June 13, that year. Then on June 14, he appears out of nowhere.”
“Like magic,” Finch said.
She raised her eyebrows with a skeptical weariness. “You figure it out. I’ve got a breakfast meeting at seven-thirty.” She kissed him on the forehead and made her way to bed.
Now Will began a new internet search on his own. He typed “JULIAN BLOMQUIST” into the search pane and watched the results cascade down his screen. The file count showed thirty-eight pages. There were articles, pictures, interviews, magazine profiles and TV videos that went back almost a decade. All of them revealed the phenomenal growth of his financial empire — an enterprise that seemed pre-ordained for success.
Finch considered the options and then clicked on a random link. It showed Blomquist teeing off from the eighteenth tee at the Half Moon Bay Golf Links. With him were the CEOs of Ameritrade, Fox Films, and DiskMagik Technologies. Another link revealed Blomquist addressing the annual meeting of the San Francisco Lions Club. There were hundreds more: Blomquist on a float with the mayor during the Shriners parade. Shaking hands with George W. Bush. Watching the LA Lakers with his wife while Jack Nicholson pulled a long face behind them.
After twenty minutes he realized that Cecily was correct. No references preceded June 13, 1998. The problem had nothing to do with the age of the internet or Google. The pre-’98 Blomquist archive was empty. Or maybe it didn’t exist.
He decided to try a different approach. Instead of typing JULIAN BLOMQUIST into the search box, he entered his surname plus a space. Google then provided ten different next-word options: BLOMQUIST HALE, BLOMQUIST JOAN, and so on. None of these offered helpful prospects. Then he typed: BLOMQUIST A. The results were useless. But when he typed BLOMQUIST B, a set of four distinct names was generated. He followed the four links and clicked through the pages associated with each name. Again nothing. Running through each letter of the alphabet, he employed the same procedure and turned up nothing worthwhile. Until he tried BLOMQUIST P.
This time four names appeared: Paul, Peggy, Peter, Per. He clicked on the links to Paul Blomquist. Up came a page with at least twenty leads. The first of these provided a community news story from the Santa Cruz Sentinel dated May 14, 1974: STAR ATHLETE DIES FOLLOWING GRAD NIGHT FRACAS. Below the headline was the spitting image of a young Julian Blomquist along with two other teenagers. However, the cutline under his photo identified the first youth as Paul Blomquist. Maybe his twin, Finch thought. He brought up some of the recent pictures of Julian Blomquist and placed them side-by-side to those of Paul Blomquist.
“Will you look at that,” he whispered. “Same guy.” He returned to the 1974 news story and read the complete article:
Pacific Preparatory School lost one of its best and brightest last Friday night during a brawl following the senior grad night. Darrell Wiggins, 18, was found dead on the shore below the Santa Cruz Surfing Museum around 11.45 PM.
City police were called to the scene when three students separately called 9-1-1 to report a fight that had erupted on the Museum grounds overlooking the foreshore cliffs.
“It’s a tragedy to see the senior grad night end this way,” said PPS Principal Dwayne Almont. “Our hearts go out to Darrell’s family and the entire school community. On a personal note, I can say that I got to know Darrell Wiggins through coaching his baseball team going back to when he was a boy of ten. I’d never seen a more promising athlete. And from what we all know of his sports achievements over the past two years, I’m sure most people would say the same.”
Several senior students at the Museum were questioned at the scene. On Saturday, two students, Wayne MacAuley and Paul Blomquist, were taken into custody for questioning and released on Sunday. As of yesterday, police said no charges are pending.
A public memorial service for Darrell Wiggins will be held at the school Wednesday, May 21, at 7.30 PM.
Will glanced away and considered the implications. Did Julian Blomquist change his name from Paul to divert attention from his connection to Wiggins’s death? Worth checking. He turned to another article. Then another and another. After twenty minutes he came across this headline: SILENCE BROKEN, SUICIDE PACT UNRAVELS. Below the headline sat a picture of Blomquist sporting a mustache and goatee. The story was a front-page feature from the digital archives of the campus newspaper at Stanford University dated January 14, 1977. In the second paragraph, Paul Blomquist was identified as a critical player in a pact that claimed three student lives.
“They wanted me in, and for a while, I was with them,” Paul Blomquist told the Stanford Daily after the Santa Clara Police questioned him. “But it was crazy. Who would do that? Pledge to kill themselves?”
Police currently withhold the names of the suicide victims, but they have revealed that two of the three were women.
Blomquist, a Stanford sophomore studying business, met members of the group last fall at the campus anarchist fair. He claims that the core membership was small. “Eight to ten people tops. Half men, half women. Some of them dropped out after Christmas break.
“That’s when I realized how crazy it was. When I went home during the holidays. Then I came back to campus, and this happens one week later. Did I see it coming? Yes and no. Yes, because all three of them took this insane pledge. But no, because I didn’t think any of them could go through with it. Face it. It’s not so easy to kill yourself.”
When asked if he took the same pledge, Blomquist said, “No way. Maybe they thought I did. In the end, I couldn’t tell what any of them believed. Sometimes I didn’t know myself.”
Finch read the rest of the story which focused on a rising trend of student suicides across the country. It was a sad testimonial to those who couldn’t find their way on college campuses where competition, loneliness, and depression took a toll.
Will kept digging. An hour later he found a story dated 27 April 1983 from the Los Angeles Times. The headline: COCAINE TRAFFICKING CHARGES TOSSED. This time the article revealed something new: his full name. Paul Julian Blomquist. Finch, now confident that he’d found the link that joined the old Blomquist to the new, leaned in to read the three-paragraph news brief.
Judge Anthony Moritz dismissed all charges against Paul Julian Blomquist and Henry James Nowakowski at the Los Angeles Superior Court on Tuesday. The trial on charges of trafficking over $300,000 worth of cocaine came to an end during its second day.
The defendants’ lawyer, Jason Schneider, argued that the LAPD used false statements to obtain a warrant to enter the premises and seize the cocaine. After his deliberations, Judge Moritz agreed with the defense and dropped the charges against Blomquist and Nowakowski.
Phillip Bryce, the LA District Attorney, said he would consider appealing the judge’s ruling following an investigation into the matter by the LAPD’s Internal Affairs Group.
For the next ten minutes, Finch continued to search for the results of the police IAG report but found nothing. Likely the document was buried or never saw light of day because the DA determined that a new trial against Blomquist would be fruitless.
Nonetheless, Finch had what he needed. Paul Blomquist and Julian Blomquist were the same person. A sort of Jekyll and Hyde. The younger version had scraped through his early life tainted by public fights, suicide, and drug trafficking. In the late 1980s and early 90s, he’d gone to ground and transformed himself. Then, with his new name and a reputation for hard work, inte
lligence, and street smarts, he’d created a financial powerhouse. Astonishing.
But tomorrow it would all unravel, Finch told himself. The golden threads would fall away to expose Blomquist as a corrupt businessman and criminal mastermind.
※
Finch heard the landline phone ringing. He washed a hand over his eyes and rolled on the mattress toward the night table on his side of the bed. His fingers clawed for the handset, and in his groggy blindness he tipped over a cup of water. The plastic container rattled onto the floor and rolled against his shoes.
“Shit,” he moaned and wiped the water from his hand. The phone continued to ring. He grabbed the handset and pressed it to his ear.
“Hello,” he whispered.
“Will, get up.”
He could barely make out John Biscombe’s voice, a brittle tremor on the verge of breaking. Will covered his bare legs and chest with the bedsheets and rubbed his hand across his face.
“Something bad has happened. To Jojo.”
His eyes sprung open. “What?”
“The cops just called me. She’s dead.”
“Dead?” He checked the time. The digital clock read 9:23. Cecily would have left for work two hours earlier.
“She’s been murdered. I’m going down to Central Station now. Detective Staimer said he wants to talk to me. He knows I was there for her release yesterday.”
Finch swung his legs over the bed to the floor. A thin trickle of water ran under his toes.
“Staimer?” He tried to think. The fact that Staimer drew the case meant his lieutenant had linked Jojo’s death to Esposito. Maybe Henman, too. Had the FBI dropped their end of the investigation?
“Bisk, can I call you later? I’ve got to get down to the Post.”
Biscombe seemed reluctant. “Sure.”
“All right, I don’t know what Staimer can tell you, but try to find out how she died.” He waited. “And where, okay?”
No answer. Will scanned the open closet for his button-down shirt and tie. He recalled Wally asking him to wear a tie and jacket. Try to remember to put them on, he told himself. Still no response from Bisk.
“Bisk, you there? Can you do that? Find out what happened to her?”
Biscombe wheezed as though he had to recover control of his voice. “You know,” he said, “underneath it all, she was a good kid.”
“Yeah. She was.” Finch stood up and brushed his free hand over his eyes. “She told me she wanted to be a lawyer.”
“She did?”
“Because you got her out of jail. She was pretty impressed by that.”
“Well.” He hesitated and then said, “Damn it. She could have made it, man.”
“I guess she might have.” He peered through the bedroom window. The rain continued to beat onto the street. “You were there for her, Bisk. You did what you could. Nobody could ask for more.”
※
By the time Finch rolled into the Post, it was coming up to ten-thirty. He dropped his courier bag on his desk and scanned the editorial pool. The bog. A dozen reporters were working quietly at their terminals. No sign of Olivia. Just past Dixie Lindstrom’s desk, Wally opened the door to his office. He set one hand on the door frame and leaned into the room. He spied Finch and waved him over.
“I don’t know if you heard,” Finch said as he approached, “but Jojo’s been murdered.”
Wally tipped his head toward his desk, a gesture to join him. “Olivia’s handling it. She’s gone up to the kid’s group home to see if they’ll tell her anything. After that, she’ll run down to Central Station. Doubtful, but Detective Staimer might toss her a bone.”
Finch scanned the room searching for answers. The story had run ahead of him. How did it happen? Grab a few hours sleep, and suddenly you’re ten steps behind.
“Did you get my story?”
“Sit down.” Wally sat in his swivel chair and pointed to one of the chairs opposite his desk.
Finch settled in the chair nearest the door. He knew something had changed. Olivia had picked up this new thread. Now Wally wanted him in a one-on-one.
“Was it okay? I mean the story. Can you use it?”
Wally chuckled with a world-weary laugh. “We’ll use it. It’ll be on the front page. And this morning I assigned Sumner to dig in on Blomquist and his company. With the girl dead, the story’s pointing to conspiracy and murder-for-hire.”
Finch felt his pulse skip. Everything had jumped into overdrive. Three reporters assigned to the case. And now the editor had kicked everything into high gear.
“So what’s next?”
“I’ve got our appointment lined up with Julian Blomquist. He’s giving us ten minutes at one-thirty. With Olivia covering Jojo’s murder, it’ll be just you and me.”
“Ten minutes? How did you talk him into that?”
“I told him we have a story that’s vital to his company. But he doesn’t know what we’ve got. We’ll take your story, the fax, the list of telephone numbers” — he lifted a manila folder in his hand and tucked it into his briefcase — “then I’ll ask him to go on record. If he agrees, then you never know what door will open next. If he refuses, we print that he declined to comment. I call it death by denial.”
Finch nodded.
“Glad to see you found a tie. Looks good on you.” Wally smiled. “Goes nice with that jacket, too.”
※ — THIRTEEN — ※
JULIAN BLOMQUIST’S LIGHT tan radiated from his face when he smiled. His crisp, white shirt collar and iron-gray hair enhanced the effect of his well-groomed executive style. He wore a navy-blue, pin-striped suit with a fluffed yellow handkerchief in the breast pocket. His tie, a dull gold color, balanced nicely with the handkerchief. His firm handshake suggested a weekly routine with a personal trainer in a private gym. His eyes were a Nordic blue. His gaze, penetrating. Taken together, he embodied a force of nature. A powerhouse.
But beneath the bright complexion, Finch detected a web of veins, fiber-thin filaments that spread from his nose towards his ears. Sign of a drinker, he thought. Likely keeps a few bottles close by. He scanned the office. Sure enough, on the far wall stood a minibar with two oak shelves holding a collection of scotch whiskeys, brandy, and cognac. Enough booze to drown the memories of his past whenever they needed to be suffocated.
He wondered what traces he could find of Blomquist’s previous life. The world of Paul Blomquist. The kid associated with street fights, suicide, drug trafficking. But nothing evident appeared. No high school trophies, pictures or mementos. That wayward child had been eradicated. In his place sat a master of disguise and deception.
Opposite the bar, floor-to-ceiling windows looked onto the city’s financial district. Beyond lay the Golden Gate Bridge and the rolling hills of Marin County. Even in the steady rain, the city appeared magnificent. Amazing how the view from a twenty-first story office could boost your sense of personal well-being. Sure, there might be hundreds of homeless people wandering aimlessly on the streets below. Trying to find a place in this world. Trying to find a way into the building. But from up here, you couldn’t see them. They didn’t exist.
“Wally, weren’t you on the Rotary Club board the year after I stepped down as president?” The expression on Blomquist’s face implied that he and Wally were already good friends. “What? In oh-five?”
“Close. I handled the club’s United Way campaign in oh-six.”
“Last year?” Blomquist’s face tightened with surprise. Then a smile that suggested time was moving far too fast for anyone to keep up.
“Please. Sit.” He waved a hand to the two chairs opposite his desk and sat in a high-back leather chair that exaggerated his height. “As I said on the phone, I can give you ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Julian. So in the past few days, something’s come up. Before we publish anything, I want to give you a chance to go on the record with your side of the story.” Wally brought the briefcase onto his lap. The lock tabs snapped open, and he pulled out a manil
a file folder.
“My side of the story. What story?” A knot tightened in Blomquist’s throat. He tried to laugh, but could only manage a dry cough.
“Yes.” Wally slipped the folder across the desk. He smiled, an expression filled with the sadness that comes with the inevitable disclosure of hard truth. “I’m here to get you on record. For your sake. And TruForce, of course.”
As Blomquist opened the folder, Finch lifted his notepad and pen from his courier bag. He tapped the RECORD button on the digital recorder and placed it on the edge of Blomquist’s desk.
Blomquist gazed at the fax transmission. The picture of Felix Madden. The images showing the telephone numbers on Henman’s telephone display. He put it aside and then picked up the draft of Finch’s article. The bombshell. “What is this?” he muttered as he began to read Finch’s story.
“We also have a recording of an interview with Joanne Joleena. She was present the night Gio Esposito was thrown from the apartment tower.”
“Who?” Blomquist’s face blanched as he continued to read. “Who the hell is Joanne Jolinqa?”
“Joleena,” Wally said. “She identified Esposito, Seamus Henman, and Felix Madden. Unfortunately, she was murdered last night.”
“Murdered? Who the fuck are they?” He shrugged. Turning to Finch, he said, “Did you write this shit?”
“I was there, too, Mr. Blomquist.” Apart from his initial greeting, these were the first words Finch had spoken. His voice was even, steady. “I interviewed Joanne three times. I found the bodies of Gio Esposito and Seamus Henman. One pushed to his death from a eleventh-floor window on Washington Street. The other brutally murdered in his own apartment.”
“What do you imagine these people have to do with me?” Blomquist pushed the file back towards Wally. The Maui tan disappeared beneath a blush that rose from his neck up to his ears.