by D. F. Bailey
Above them he saw two hawks surfing the aerial drafts in wide, easy circles. Somewhere below he could hear the bear crash through the bush, dashing loose rocks down the ravine into the rushing creek. Jesus, he moaned to himself and set his jaw once more. What kind of mess have we stumbled into this time?
※
TWO
“Well, well, well. Will Finch — welcome back!” Wally Gimbel’s wide face emerged from his office doorway when he saw Finch walk toward his cubicle at the far end of the writers’ pool. Gimbel held his landline phone in one hand, the mouthpiece covered with a thumb.
“Good to see you,” Will replied with a nod. Gimbel’s face looked puffy and more inflamed than Finch remembered, but the voice retained the same edge of authority.
“Take a minute to dust off your keyboard,” Wally whispered with a hint of fondness, an affection that he hoped the other reporters would not hear. “Then get back here in ten minutes.” He winked and for a moment Finch imagined Wally was glad to see him again. “And bring Fiona Page with you,” he added and turned his attention back to his phone call.
Finch continued down the aisle through the narrow labyrinth of walled pods known as “the bog” by the staff writers who complained that despite their urbane surroundings, they worked in a swamp seething with leeches and snakes. Most of them ticked away solemnly at their keyboards, a few others spoke in low tones to the digital images on their screens. The reporters had quickly learned the optimal volume to employ during Skype calls: a narrow spectrum between barely audible, and a murmur which could not be heard in the adjacent pods.
No one made eye contact with Finch until he reached Fiona Page’s station. “Will!” Surprised, she pulled the earbuds from under her hair and leaned back in her chair. “Welcome back,” she said and wheeled her chair to one side and waved Finch toward the guest chair.
“Thanks.” He forced a smile and dropped onto the padded seat. Settled below the five-foot wall baffle, he was now invisible to everyone else in the bog. Hiding in the trenches, he thought. A good place to spend his first few minutes back on the front line.
“I didn’t realize you were coming back this week.” She pulled a length of hair over her shoulder and tipped her head to one side. “Sorry to hear the news.” She frowned and looked away. Then she smiled a genuine good-to-see-you grin that flecked the dimples in her cheeks.
“Back at it,” he said halting a little, unsure how much she knew about his situation. About Bethany and Buddy. And everything that happened after that. He forced himself to focus on the job. “So did you pick up the threads on the Whitelaw trial?”
“You bet.” She opened a file on her screen and tilted it in case he wanted to have a look at her notes. “Not much to report over the last month, but I can send this to you if you want.” Her tone was back-to-business.
He was silently thankful to her for immediately forcing him back into the game. Into the chase where they hunted and pecked out their daily nourishment from the world of politics, fame, sex, money, and crime — and the attempt to make sense of it all.
“Sure. Forward it, but only if Wally wants me back on the story.” Finch nodded toward the managing editor’s office. “By the way, he wants to see us both in five minutes in the boardroom.”
The boardroom doubled as the staff meeting room at the SF eXpress, the internet division of the San Francisco Post. Willie Parson, the Post’s CEO (and with his brother, co-owner of Parson Media) explained that the “e” denoted “electronic” and the “X” meant there would be no press machines cranking out actual papers. And no more press union, machine operators, typesetters, bundlers, truckers or paper carriers.
Like everyone else at the eXpress, Finch had quickly accepted Wally Gimbel’s invitation to help him establish the digital version of the Post. If Finch had rejected Wally’s offer he would have enjoyed a direct exit onto the street with a week’s pay for every year of service in the old newsroom. Six years in his case. Three for Fiona. Dozens of reporters, many with more seniority, weren’t offered any opportunities within the paper — print or internet. And when the cuts hit they came fast and hard. No good-bye parties, no chance to see the old news hounds off to another, better life. As far as management was concerned, the shame of teetering bankruptcy outweighed any loyalty to dismissed veterans.
“He’ll want you back on the story,” she said with certainty. “Did you hear what happened this weekend?”
He nodded no.
Before she could fill him in, her phone buzzed. She picked up her handset, listened a moment and said, “Okay, Wally.”
“That was less than ten minutes,” Finch grumbled as he followed her toward the boardroom. He hadn’t even seen his old pod, let alone dusted off the keyboard.
※
From the look in Gimbel’s eyes, Finch figured a new crisis had hit. Something lower on the Richter scale than presidential assassination or global financial collapse, more likely another horrible mass shooting, or perhaps the long-anticipated closure of the newspaper.
“What’s up?” he asked and leaned against the doorframe as Gimbel eased into a swivel chair at the head of the massive oak table. If needed, the boardroom could accommodate the entire digital-edition staff, stringers and freelancers. Roughly twenty people, ten sitting around the table (snatched by Gimbel from his old editorial office downstairs), with latecomers allotted to standing room only. Fiona stood beside Finch and then sat next to her boss.
“Close the door.” Gimbel rolled his lower lip under his teeth and tapped a finger on his tablet screen. “You read the news feed this morning?”
Fiona shrugged with a sense of resignation. “Yeah … it’s hard to believe.”
Finch raised his hands. “No time, Wally. Haven’t even set eyes on my desk yet.” He shrugged, a plea for a time out, and then realized he wasn’t part of the game. I need to suit up and join the team, he told himself and walked behind Gimbel and sat on his left. They hunched together in the windowless room and stared at the list of links on the tablet screen.
Gimbel looked into Finch’s eyes. He wanted to test the reaction, witness the surprise voltage on his face. “Ray Toeplitz is dead.”
“Ray Toeplitz?” Finch glanced away. “Dead?”
Gimbel tapped his finger on the computer screen. A window popped open revealing the headline: Key Witness Dies Tragically. Below the text stood a picture of Toeplitz’s worried face as he exited the front doors of the Hall of Justice two months earlier.
“It gets weirder than you think,” Fiona said and let this idea sink in before continuing. “Did you hear that crazy story on Sunday? About a black bear dragging some guy from his Mercedes in the backwoods in Oregon — and eating him alive?” She paused to see if this registered, examined Finch with a hint of absolution, knowing that if he’d skipped the news over the past month it was understandable. Everyone understood.
In fact, Finch had purposely ignored all the news — TV, radio, papers, the web. He ignored her questions and set his eyes on Gimbel. “So what’s the connection?”
Wally clicked on another link and the article about the rogue bear flashed onto the screen. “Toeplitz.”
“What?” Finch brushed a hand over his mouth and quickly scanned the story. When he finished, he tipped back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. Toeplitz: the genius with a PhD in Finance Mathematics. In his early twenties he’d made his mark on Wall Street, engineering complex hedge fund strategies that funneled millions into traders’ bank accounts. Ten years ago he’d been hired by Whitelaw, Whitelaw & Joss and then promoted to the position of Chief Financial Officer.
But was Toeplitz a player in the Mt. Gox bitcoin scam in Japan? Maybe. And was he part of the financial manipulations that defrauded investors of over four hundred and fifty million dollars? Possibly. Although he vehemently protested his innocence, as a member of his company’s Board of Directors, Toeplitz was arrested and accused of fraud in a trial which everyone assumed would last at least six months. The
tabloids called it “The Battle for Bitcoin.”
But recently Toeplitz experienced a moral epiphany, or more likely, Finch assumed, he’d negotiated a compelling plea bargain with the District Attorney. Whatever his motivation, Toeplitz said he possessed records pointing to a massive fraud perpetrated by the senator’s step-brother, Dean Whitelaw. And so Toeplitz decided to take the stand as a prosecution witness against Senator Franklin Whitelaw’s investment house.
The senator himself claimed prosecutorial immunity because all his business affairs were held in a blind-trust, which he referred to as a “Chinese Wall.” Another racist gaff from the politician who’d built a populist reputation on similar foot-in-mouth blunders. Republicans loved him. Democrats laughed. Five times he’d been elected and sent to Washington.
And now came this latest episode in the most bizarre corporate saga that Finch had ever covered. Somewhere in a remote coastal forest, Raymond Toeplitz had been devoured by a bear.
Finch turned his attention back to Wally. “So there is a natural justice, after all.”
“Mmm.” Wally pressed his lips together and shrugged doubtfully. “I hope not, especially if we can squeeze new juice from this story. With the executive team in Parson Media threatening to roll the print edition of the Post back to three days a week, it would be helpful if your tale of Toeplitz and the bear could draw in a few more readers. Just to keep their office doors open another week or two.” He pointed toward the floor, to the offices one story below.
They all smiled at this, at the fantasy that the digital division might save the print edition from insolvency. In any case, Finch felt relieved to have the story pitched in his direction. Something substantial to chew on instead of the bitter fruit of Bethany’s guilt and depression. And the tragedy with Buddy.
“All right.” Finch sat up in his chair. A jolt of energy radiated through his chest. In his gut he could feel the story coming back to life. He never expected the fraud trial to reach a satisfying conclusion. Now a new chapter opened before them. Everything had changed. “So. Fly to where? Portland? Interview the local sheriff, the coroner, and whoever bagged the bear. Right?”
“No.” Gimbel smiled with a miser’s grimace. “Drive to Astoria, the county seat of Clatsop County. Check the map. It’s on the rear end of the back of beyond. Take the company car,” he added after he remembered the photo of Finch’s destroyed Toyota. A total write-off. “And so far, no one has found the bear, dead or alive. But don’t let that stop you. Everyone loves to talk about the one that got away. I’m sure if anyone can pick up the story from there, you can.” He turned to Fiona. “Meanwhile, I want you to develop the human angle. For the first time, Toeplitz appears as a victim in this sorry tale. Did he have a wife? Kids?”
“No.” Finch shook his head. “No family at all. He was a childless orphan.” An interesting combination, he thought and then realized it was a circumstance he and Toeplitz now shared: no parents, no siblings, no spouse, no children.
Gimbel paused. “Then get Dean and Franklin Whitelaw’s reaction to Toeplitz’s demise. If he stonewalls you try Senator Whitelaw’s sons. They’re twins. The two boys were brought into the firm in the last few years. They probably knew Toeplitz, too. Or his daughters, there’s two or three of them. Remember, both of you, we don’t work at a newspaper anymore. We’re looking for the human dimension here — opinions, rumors, innuendo — not just the facts.” This was Gimbel’s new mantra based on his theory that print delivered news while the internet delivered opinion. Overall, Finch had to agree.
“You got it.” Fiona pulled her notes together and rose from her seat. “I’ll email you the files I gathered over the last month,” she said to Finch and pursed her lips, a sign that read: buckle up, we’re both in for a long ride.
Finch stood, ready to follow her when Wally raised a hand and said, “Hold up a minute, Will. I’ve got a few questions for you.”
※
Wally seemed nervous. A rare moment of hesitation gripped him. “I didn’t have time to check in with you.” His head wavered from side to side. “I mean about what kind of workload you can handle right now. Do you think you’re ready for this?”
Finch shrugged. Good of you to ask, he thought, but what I need more than anything is to slide into the old groove. More than that, to get back into my life. “I’m ready. Hell, I’m here a week earlier than anyone expected,” he said with a curt nod, and when he realized Gimbel needed more assurance he added, “Look, this new angle on Toeplitz might ease me back into the routine. After a day’s drive through the Redwoods, maybe I can step into the Whitelaw story through the back door.”
“Good.” Gimbel raised his eyes from the oak table and studied Finch’s face, unsure if he could carry the load so soon. “You know, normally we wouldn’t send anyone up to Oregon to dig through this mess with Toeplitz. A few phone calls would reel in the details. But since you’re back a week early and still technically on medical leave, it might prove a good way to bring you in.” Gimbel raised his eyebrows as if to add, so don’t treat it as a vacation.
When Finch sensed that his reliability was the issue he leaned forward and stared into his editor’s eyes. “Wally, look … it’s over. It’s been thirty-three days.” To lighten the mood he faked a smile, checked his watch and said, “Make that thirty-four.”
Gimbel gazed at Finch with an expression that softened his face. Not with pity, but with an air of empathy.
Finch could understand his concern. Gimbel had assembled the eXpress team only ten months ago. And eight months in, just as the Whitelaw trial began to gather a national following, Finch’s calamity hit. Wally had to assign Fiona to cover the trial while Finch checked out of the bog and into Eden Veil Center for Recovery. The bucolic retreat provided the space Will needed to come to terms with the black pit into which he’d stumbled, and then been shattered.
“I’m okay now. The time off did me some good. Really. It’s over, I’ve picked myself up and I know I have to move on,” he said and swept his hand toward the wall. “It’s all about my job now. That’s what I do.” The palm of his hand hit the table. “This is who I am now.”
Gimbel tipped his head to one side. “All right,” he whispered and set his fist against his mouth. He shifted his weight, a signal the meeting might soon be over, but then he settled again and angled his wide face toward his reporter. “And what about Bethany?”
Finch leaned back in his chair, a bit startled. This was getting personal. Six months ago, once they could trust one another, Wally had mentioned Bethany’s drinking. Said he knew where it could lead, that he’d lived through something similar himself. Will realized that his boss needed some assurance that this part of Finch’s world wouldn’t blow up again. “I haven’t seen her in thirty-five days. She’s.…” He looked into his open hands, at the emptiness they held. “Look … she’s completely broken.” He narrowed his eyes. “You want the honest truth?”
Gimbel nodded.
“With luck, I’ll never see her again.”
Gimbel pressed his lips together and drew a long breath. “I know you think this is none of my business, but I need to know if you can stick this thing.”
Stick this thing? What did that mean? Could Finch stick with the job — or stick a knife into the part of his life destroyed by Bethany and surgically remove the diseased tissue? He fixed his eyes on the far wall. “Okay. Here’s the bare essentials, for your ears only: she’s been suspended from her job, with pay, pending the medical examiner’s report and criminal investigation. Likely there’ll be a trial for criminal negligence, maybe manslaughter. I hope so. If that sounds like revenge, then so be it. I’ll take my slice served cold.” His eyes narrowed. “As for me, I’ve moved into a one-bedroom place on South Van Ness while I’m looking for something better.” He felt as though he’d just climbed a steep flight of stairs. If nothing else, at least he still held a grip on the facts of his life.
Will had a sense that his managing editor wanted more, that he
wanted to hear something about Buddy. But he felt that if either of them uttered Buddy’s name, some kind of emotional disaster could follow.
“South Van Ness?” Wally Gimbel shook his head doubtfully, then smiled, happy to divert their attention.
“Do you know how hard it is to find a place in San Francisco for two thousand dollars?” Will tried to fix a grin on his lips but instead looked away.
“All right,” Wally said and exhaled another long breath, a sigh of relief that they’d both survived this conversation — a topic that they had to resolve before they could move forward. “I’m going to give you a week,” he concluded. “Then you tell me if you can stick it.”
BONE MAKER
BOOK ONE IN THE WILL FINCH SERIES
A death in the wilderness.
A woman mourns alone.
A reporter works a single lead.
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Read the Complete Will Finch Series
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Bone Maker—A death in the wilderness. A woman mourns alone. A reporter works a single lead. Can Will Finch break the story of murder and massive financial fraud? Or will he become the Bone Maker’s next victim?
Stone Eater—A reporter on the rebound. An ex-cop with nothing to lose. A murder they can only solve together. Sparks fly when Will Finch agrees to work with Eve Noon to uncover a murder plot. But can they unmask the Stone Eater before he destroys them both?