The Lacey confession l-2

by Richard Greener

  With Dr. Bard Leon’s help, Walter was now familiar with the history of Djemmal-Eddin’s independent Georgia. In 1917, Georgia combined with its nearest neighbors to form the Transcaucasian Federation. By the spring of the following year, it was obvious the arrangement was not viable. In May 1918 Georgia declared its full and complete independence. The Federation of Georgia, Azerbaijan and Dagestan collapsed. Stability was never really established. The region was embroiled in chaos, overwhelmed by war. In early 1920, when both the British and the Americans pulled their expeditionary forces out of Russia-“How many people know they were even there?” Professor Leon had asked Walter-the fate of Georgia was sealed. The infant nation fell to the Russian Army on February 25, 1921. Professor Leon had described Djemmal-Eddin’s retreat through the Klukhori Pass and Lacey’s pivotal role in the operation. Lacey brought three ships to the port of Sukhum-Kale. Djemmal-Eddin used those vessels to evacuate many of his fighters, their families and whatever else they could load on board.

  Here is where it got really interesting, Dr. Leon told Walter. Many historical gossips and more than a few academic historians as well believed Djemmal-Eddin escaped with as much as twelve tons of the Czar’s ten Ruble coins. Only someone as close as Lacey-someone who was family-could have moved such a fortune without thievery. In Europe, those with whom Djemmal-Eddin did business during the time of his exile received gold in return for goods and services. Still, stories had it that the Georgian had hidden away more than eight tons of the coins. Lacey had done it, of course. He was responsible, and all who knew him or knew of him knew the gold was safe. If Djemmal-Eddin was a man of substance, Frederick Lacey was a man who instilled fear in the hearts of bandits, equally among those on horseback and those wearing suits and ties. After hearing this, Walter understood the appeal of Lacey’s confession to those who could care less about John F. Kennedy. If the document contained the location of such an amount of gold, it held the secret to a treasure worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

  There were three balls in the air. Walter was not about to play favorites, pick one over the others. Not yet. No matter what he learned, his information served only to make a case for one or the other, not one against the other. This was the process he followed for decades. The time for judgment would come later, a time when he had all the data, when he could lay everything out and reach a conclusion in which he had confidence. What he learned in Vermont was valuable. The Georgian ball was still in the air, more so now than before. If Solly Joel was right, Lacey may have hidden gold worth five-and-a-half million dollars- then! Today that same gold would bring almost three hundred million, nearly a third of a billion dollars. It made sense that people who thought it was theirs would want it. No doubt people who had no claim to it would too, and Walter was equally sure either or both would kill to get it. The Georgians were a real possibility. He needed to find out. There was something he had to do. It was not personal. It was just professional. He called Isobel Gitlin.

  The first time he called Isobel was about Leonard Martin. At the time she was writing obituaries for The New York Times, taking a terrible beating for her insistence that Leonard’s first three killings were done by a single man. No one-not even her-had identified him then. A local man, in Tennessee, a man with a personal grudge had been arrested for the murder of the third of Leonard Martin’s victims. Isobel thought the Tennessee authorities had the wrong man. Walter, of course, knew she was right. By then he was already on the job, trying to find who Leonard Martin was and then determined to locate the man himself. “I know you’re right,” he told Isobel back then. He also said he was old enough to be her father, so she needn’t worry about him. He was right. How could he have known he needed to worry about her? The first time she agreed to meet, she said she was bringing a gun. She was real cute.

  Five years can be forever. Their conversation now was brief. He felt the tension and knew she did too. Isobel was, of course, polite. Yes, certainly she would see him. Whenever he suggested. They agreed to meet in Atlanta the next day. When she hung up, Isobel sat at her desk remembering New York, her kidnap of sorts by and her interview with Leonard Martin. When that strange ordeal ended, when she was safely home, she called Walter. He listened. He told her to catch the morning flight to St. John. Time passes, yet somewhere not far below the surface, Isobel wished he’d said that now. Take the morning flight to St. John. Ike and Billy would be there too. How would she have answered? Would she have gone? Instead she said she would meet him at a place called Malone’s, a restaurant near the Atlanta airport. He told her to be there at three-thirty, too late for lunch and too soon even for the early-bird dinner crowd. The place was sure to be almost empty. They would have all the privacy they needed. He would be there when she arrived, he said. Look for him in a booth. “Find me.” That was it. A quick goodbye and then a day to wait, for both of them.

  You always deal with what you know, not what you think. Walter didn’t have to, but couldn’t help reminding himself of that simple fact. Speculation was a flame, hot to the touch. Sometimes too hot. But fact was the fuel that fed the fires of discovery. He knew Harry Levine was dead. That was fact. He knew Harry had been found only after the intimidation of Isobel Gitlin. That too was fact. Whoever it was in Atlanta threatening to cut off her husband’s fingers, there was no doubt he was directly involved. Fact? Not yet, but more than likely. Walter was proceeding his way, as he had done for forty years. He could not afford any thoughts about Isobel. Not today, he hoped. No personal commitment-that was the special ingredient in the formula for his success. If he expected to find Harry’s murderer, he could ill afford to screw that up now. His past with Isobel was pushed deep into the dark hole beyond the heavy metal doors guarding his soul, his sanity. He’d opened those doors for her once, doors closed tightly when Gloria left, and he was burned for it.

  Isobel knew about Leonard Martin’s secret all along and kept it from him. She betrayed him, then rejected him. Hard as it was to move those massive plates, once they began to part he lost control. It was years since he closed those doors behind him again. To keep her out. Just as he had done so long ago with Gloria. He was taken by surprise at Il Localino. Still, it was Louis Devereaux who unnerved him more that night. It wouldn’t happen again.

  “Wow,” she said, approaching the table near the back of the restaurant where Walter was sitting. “You l-l-look great.”

  “Nice to see you, Isobel. Please sit.” The formality caught her off guard. Walter looked stronger, younger, far more fit than the last time she saw him briefly at Il Localino and certainly he looked better than how she remembered him from years back. She wanted to say more about it. She wanted to ask what he had been doing to look so good. But clearly he was not about to make this a personal meeting. “Please sit,” he said. That meant business.

  When the waitress came over, Walter looked to Isobel. She stumbled a little and finally ordered a glass of Merlot and a steak sandwich with French fries. Walter already had a Diet Coke in front of him and it was plain to see he’d already ordered whatever it was he intended to eat. She wanted to ask what happened-what happened with Harry Levine. But she was afraid. The look in his eyes said it all. It turned her stomach. She was ashamed, but strangely not regretful. She could never let them hurt Otto.

  “They killed him,” Walter said, without her asking.

  “I’m s-s-sorry.”

  “I didn’t come here for an apology.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  His resolve was jolted, on its way to shaken. Could she do this to him with a simple question like that? Damn! He wanted to say- For you. I came for you! Asshole! he berated himself. “I need to know about the guy who threatened you and your husband. I have to put him somewhere, with someone. He leads me to them and right now I don’t know who they are.”

  “Walter, what is this all about?”

  “You mean, who is Harry Levine? Who was Harry Levine?”

  “That would be a good place to start.”


  He told Isobel about Harry, his position in London in the Foreign Service and the quirky circumstances that brought him to Sir Anthony Wells’ office. He told her about Lacey’s confession. He told her the mystery surrounding the assassination of President Kennedy was solved. He knew she would believe him, and he was right. He said it made sense that some people might kill to get it or to keep it from public view. He said he found Harry in Europe and told Isobel how he took him to New Mexico to keep him safe. That’s all. He never mentioned Conchita Crystal. After all, she hired him and thus deserved the anonymity he so scrupulously protected for all his clients. It made no difference that he sent the money back, even less that she never cashed his check. He related the story of Frederick Lacey and Joseph P. Kennedy. He repeated what Harry told him about the summer of 1940, about the suicide of Audrey Lacey. He left out nothing about Lacey’s wife and the continuing interest from her family. He told her about Devereaux, calling him by name. He said he was the one who took him to Il Localino. Isobel winced when Walter reminded her of that clumsy moment. Walter gave her the full story. Finally, he said, “So, we have the guy who showed up saying he was Christopher Hopman.”

  Isobel’s steak sandwich came during Walter’s talk. So did his seafood salad. She picked at her plate. He didn’t touch his. He recalled how she practically attacked her burger that day in Billy’s when she got in from St. Thomas after her long flight from New York. He saw her again, in his mind’s eye, in that white top with the spaghetti straps. Back then she ate and talked with equal fervor. Not now.

  “Walter, do you remember when we were in New York, at my apartment, going over everything we had, trying to figure out who killed Hopman and the others, trying to identify Leonard Martin?” It was a foolish question, one that came perilously close to offending him. All the more because she was not looking for an answer.

  “There was a point, then,” she continued, “a point where you refused to tell me something-a feeling you had about Leonard’s son-in-law, Carter Lawrence-we called him Kermit -and I was hurt. My feelings were hurt because I trusted you and you held back. I know you remember.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You said to me, you said you told me everything you knew, just not everything you thought. I remember it clearly. That was the way you worked, you said. I think you were sorry-sorry that you hurt my feelings-but you couldn’t help yourself. Right?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “After that, you changed. You did tell me everything. I know you did. It was thrilling to work together like that. But now, you’re not telling me half of what you know. Forget what you think. You’re telling me maybe a tenth of what you know. Basically, you’re telling me squat.”

  “You didn’t tell me…” He could feel those iron doors struggling to break free, to swing wide. He’d have no part of that now. “Tell me about your visitor,” he said, fighting his stronger instincts. “You said he had a trace of an accent.”

  “He did,” Isobel replied. “I’ve thought about him-I’ve thought about little else since… since.”

  “His accent?”

  “Eastern European maybe. Actually, I was thinking even farther, into Asia. There’s a section of Russia-or what used to be Russia-stretching from Central Asia to Europe. The republics at the western edge are very Western. The people are more European than Asian, genetically that is. They’re white people. In fact, they’re Caucasian, which is the name of a mountainous area…”

  “Azerbaijan? Dagestan or Georgia? Which one do you think? The Transcaucasian Federation? Was he from there?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve heard of them. I can even point them out on a map. I’m not as dumb as you think I am, Isobel.”

  “I never th-th-thought…”

  “Yes you did!” Oh shit, it was all coming apart for him. He’d loved her. Christ, he really had. He would have changed so much for her. And worse, he planned to, never thinking she would turn him away. But turn him away she did. She had a life to lead and he was nothing more than an old man, a dumb shit, a way to pass the time. “You want to know more?” he challenged her. “Here’s more. You killed him. That’s right. No fucking around, you gave him up. You traded Harry Levine’s life for Otto’s precious fingers.”

  “No, no,” Isobel sobbed. “I didn’t understand…”

  “Bullshit, Isobel! You knew damn well. The sonofabitch who threatened you wanted Harry and you gave him up.”

  “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Fuck you!” Walter reached in his pocket, took out some bills, threw them on the table, and walked out on her. Oh, Christ! he was thinking. Am I only getting even?

  Tucker Poesy’s life was an open book, to Walter anyway. He knew where she lived. Harry told him. He had her cell phone number he’d taken from her purse. She might ditch the phone, but she wasn’t going to move just because Harry Levine had seen her apartment. She had the nerve to pull a gun on him in his own home, but Walter saw himself as a forgiving man, especially now in the bloom of his reinvigorated good health. If he could get over her transgression, she ought to be able to deal with being stripped naked, tied to a chair, and held as a hostage for almost a week. He smiled thinking about it. He had no regret. She must have gotten over it by now. Had she sought revenge, he would have seen her already. Patience was not one of her strong points. Walter was certain Tucker Poesy had gone home to lick her wounds. He called her in London. Fortunately, she had not changed the phone.

  “Hello Tucker, it’s Walter Sherman,” he said.

  “You cocksucking sonofabitch! Who the fuck do you think you are? You prick! Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on, mutherfucker!”

  “Got that out of your system?”

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  “We need to talk. You need this every bit as much as I do. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Fuck off!”

  “Fine, but if you really meant that you would have hung up by now.” Then the phone went dead. Oh, shit, Walter laughed. Better be careful not to push her too far. He called the number again.

  “Is that you again?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, what the fuck do you want?”

  He told her enough to pique her interest-not all of it, but enough. Then he said they had to get together, meet face to face, talk it out, decide what they should do and how to do it.

  “You want me to meet you?” she said with a purposeful note of incredulity.

  “What am I going to do? Bust your jaw? Tie you up?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, you fucking… old man.”

  “Ouch!”

  “I said, don’t…”

  “Meet me somewhere safe,” he said, “somewhere you feel comfortable. I’ll go anywhere. My intentions are pure, honestly.” Tucker Poesy agreed to meet Walter in two days. She was quite specific in her instructions. When she was done, she said, “No exceptions, no deviations. Do not fuck with me.”

  “See you day after tomorrow,” said Walter.

  It was an easy trip for him, a short hop from St. Thomas. It was not necessary for Walter to stay overnight and he made no reservations. In fact, he booked an evening flight home. He figured to be back by nine, ten at the latest. Maybe a late dinner at Billy’s-that would be nice. She told him to be there at three, sharp. “A minute late, and I’m gone,” she said. She obviously didn’t know him, he thought. If there was one thing she could count on it was his punctuality. Short of a heart attack, he was always on time. He hoped it wouldn’t be too sunny. Her instructions said no hat, no sunglasses. He’d be standing unprotected, at the height of the afternoon sun. That’s what she wanted. Who could blame her, he thought. Standing a few minutes in the sun was nowhere near as bad as being tied up for almost a week.

  All the beaches in Puerto Rico are public. The luxurious, beachfront hotels and resorts cannot reserve the sand to themselves and their paying guests. In the fashionable Isla Verde area of
San Juan, a string of upscale hotels overlooks the ocean. Among them is the El San Juan Hotel. The El San Juan has been a landmark in Puerto Rico for many years. In the old days, tawny oak and deep mahogany set off the elegant atmosphere of the hotel’s lobby area. In those days, in its famed casino, men in dark suits, some wearing tuxedos, played high-stakes craps, accompanied by beautiful women in sequined gowns who stayed close by, hanging on every roll of the dice. Lately, like just about everywhere else, things were different. Renovations at the El San Juan, particularly after its purchase by the Wyndham Group, had replaced many of the older, finer touches with more modern, sleek furnishings. The crowds were also different. These days they wore shorts and golf shirts with the tails hanging loose, not even tucked in. The women looked older and fatter. Where had all the beauties gone? In winter, the hotel was filled with lobster-red New Yorkers, too many of whom brought their noisy kids with them. Walter had a preference for elegant, traditional, older hotels. He felt the same about casinos. Although gambling was not among his favorite pastimes, he enjoyed an occasional visit to a busy casino. He liked looking at the women and he always got a strange buzz around so many desperate people with so much money on the line. Not these days, however. No more big shots and beauties at the tables. The place crawled with children now-thirty-year-olds who made a quarter-mil a year. They wore Nikes and sweat pants from Hugo Boss and tossed money around like it meant nothing. Their mothers played the slots, carefully guarding their plastic pots filled with the bogus coins created for playing the machines. Not even real money anymore. Walter had no use for it. The romance was gone. He remembered when you might actually pay a hundred dollars to stay in a fancy room at a place like the El San Juan. He supposed now it would take five times that and you’d have to share a bathroom with your wife.