by John Case
With fewer than a hundred full-time staffers, the INR is at once the smallest and most discreet component of the U.S. intelligence community. As such, it is incapable of the sins for which the larger agencies have become notorious. It does not, for example, mount paramilitary operations, crack codes, or engage in electronic eavesdropping – though it will peruse the take of those who do. It does not put LSD in its employees’ drinks, nor does it send assassins into the bush or to the palace. What it does, and does brilliantly, is analyze HUMINT – intelligence generated by diplomats and attachés in 157 American embassies around the world.
Inevitably, then, when Joe Lassiter needed the impossible – which is to say, information from Italy on a holiday weekend – he called his friend.
‘Woody. Guess who?’
The voice on the other end exploded with delight. ‘Heyyy, Joe! Where –’ And then a change of tone. ‘Ohh, Jeez, I’m so sorry about Kath. I was in Lisbon when it happened. You get the flowers?’
‘Yeah. I got ’em. Thanks.’
‘The papers said they found the guy – the one who did it.’
‘Yeah. In fact, that’s sort of why I’m calling. I need a favor.’
‘Say it.’
‘The guy’s Italian. I was hoping you might be able to ask around. I’m gonna do what I can, using my people, and the police will do their bit. But I thought –’
‘No problem. Fax me what you have, and I’ll get back to you on Monday.’
They talked awhile longer and then hung up, promising to have lunch together, soon. Lassiter put on a pair of gloves and went into the study to copy the pages of Grimaldi’s passport. It was a clumsy business. When he was done, he faxed the front page to Woody’s office at State. Then he tossed the passport into Grimaldi’s bag and took a taxi to Dulles to pick up his car.
On the way back he stopped at Parcels Plus in Tyson’s Corner, bought a large box, put Grimaldi’s bag into it, and addressed the box to Detective James Riordan at Fairfax County Police headquarters. He invented a return address for Juan Gutierrez, paid cash, and kept his gloves on. He considered sending the box to what’s his name – Pisarcik – but decided against it. Pisarcik’s name hadn’t been in the papers; it wasn’t public knowledge that the case had been reassigned.
Riordan would probably guess who’d sent the box, but he wouldn’t say anything – unless he could prove it, and then he’d go ballistic. As it was, Lassiter thought Riordan would pass Grimaldi’s bag on to Pisarcik without much comment.
When he got back to the office, he went to Judy’s door and knocked. It was Saturday, but he guessed that she’d be there. As workaholics went, Judy was even worse than he was.
‘Come in!’ she shouted, and then, on seeing it was him, contorted her face in a look of comic-book surprise and mock chagrin. She was talking on the phone, the receiver clamped between her shoulder and her ear, and typing furiously into her computer.
Lassiter liked her a lot. She had a narrow, fine-featured face, an aquiline nose, and a nimbus of jet-black hair. This last was curly, and given to a certain amount of shedding because she was always tugging at one lock or another, twisting the strands nervously around her forefinger. She was from Brooklyn, and sounded like it.
‘Hey, Joe!’ she said, slamming the phone down. ‘Sorry about that. How ya doin’?’ Then she modified her voice, suddenly remembering. ‘I mean – you doin’ okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m hangin’ in. Listen, I stopped by because there’s a couple of things – I’m going to take a leave of absence for a while –’ Judy started to say something, but he waved her off. ‘We can talk about it on Monday. Bill Bohacker’s coming down and, the bottom line is, he’ll be running Admin while I’m gone. Leo’s going to handle Mergers and Aquisitions – all except one – and I want you to take charge of the rest. All investigations.’
‘Wow. I . . . thanks!’
‘One other thing.’
‘Shoot.’
‘There’s an AmEx acquisition that I want you to handle.’
Judy looked puzzled. ‘American Express? I don’t even know about that one.’
‘No one does. It’s top secret.’
‘Okay,’ she said, taking up a pen and notebook. ‘So, who are they going after?’
‘Lassiter Associates.’
Judy stared, and then she chuckled. Nervously. ‘That’s a joke, right?’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘No. They want to make us their in-house intelligence unit.’
Judy thought about it for a moment. Finally, she asked, ‘And this appeals to you?’
Lassiter shrugged. ‘Not particularly. But then, I’m not part of the deal. They get the company – not me.’
‘So you’re selling out . . .’
‘I wouldn’t put it that way. But, yeah, there’s an offer on the table.’
‘And you want me to take it?’
‘No. I want you to negotiate the best deal we can get. If it’s anything like the raise you wangled in September, we’ll make out like bandits.’
Judy grinned. ‘That was good, wasn’t it?’
Lassiter made a face. ‘It was good for you.’
Judy looked at him. ‘Seriously, Joe, don’t you think a lawyer would be more appropriate?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’
‘Before I take off, I’ll give you a memo on the key points. I don’t want the lawyers involved until we have a deal – and then, only after you and I have talked.’
Judy nodded. And then she frowned. ‘Why are you doing this? Because of Kathy? Maybe you should hold off awhile.’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘No, I want to do it. I guess Kathy’s a part of it, but . . . the truth is, I’m not having all that much fun anymore. It’s like I spend all my time holding clients’ hands, arguing with lawyers, and – you know what it’s like. It’s all due diligence and opposition research. And when you look at it – objectively – most of the time – we’re on the wrong side.’
Judy laughed. ‘So you noticed that, too, huh? Why is that?’
‘Well, it’s not exactly a mystery, is it? It’s because we charge so much – the only people who can pay our rates are the bad guys.’
‘So you’re serious about this?’
‘Yeah. I’m what they call “a motivated seller.”’
‘Okay – I’ll look for your memo . . . and I’ll get on it.’
‘Or I could take you to lunch. Bring you up to speed.’
‘Do I get to pick the restaurant?’
‘Yeah. As long as it’s Ethiopian or Vietnamese. One o’clock okay?’
‘Great.’ She scribbled something on the pad on her desk and then looked up at him. ‘You said there were a couple of things. What else do you have?’
Judy liked to affect a disorganized and harried mien, but the truth was, she was all business. Lassiter took out the copy of Grimaldi’s passport page and slid it toward her. ‘This one’s for me,’ he said. ‘I want you to get in touch with whoever we use in Rome and see what they can find out about this guy.’
‘Oh . . . my . . . God,’ she said dramatically. ‘Is this the guy?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll get it right out, but . . .’ A worried look came over her.
‘I know: it’s the weekend.’
‘Worse – it’s Italy. Our guy works, but the bureaucracy? Not in your lifetime.’
Lassiter shrugged. ‘Well . . . as soon as possible.’ He paused. ‘And tell him – or her – not to kick over too many cans.’
Sunday came and went, and so did Monday. There was an hour-long meeting in the conference room, where the firm’s managing directors accepted their increased responsibilities with the peculiar demeanor that’s reserved for such occasions – a look of ‘grave enthusiasm.’
When the meeting broke up, Lassiter returned to his office, ostensibly to ‘clear the decks,’ in fact to await a telephone call from Nick Woodburn.
But the call didn’t come, and the morning ground slowly into afternoo
n. At two-thirty a geriatric courier in spandex and bicycling shoes delivered an envelope from Riordan. Inside were a handful of eight-by-ten glossies, pictures of the strange little bottle that the police had found in Franco Grimaldi’s pocket. The bottle seemed almost irrelevant now that the killer’s identity was known, but Lassiter touched the intercom and asked his secretary to ‘See if Freddy Dexter’s around.’
There were investigators that worked for the firm who were particularly good at interviewing, and others who excelled in the paper chase, relishing, rather than tolerating, the search for pay dirt amid stacks of pleadings, depositions, and archival material. Freddy, who was very young – just three years out of Boston College – was good at both.
When he came in, Lassiter gave him the photographs and a few suggestions. ‘Get some copies made, and then take whatever time you need. I want to know who made this thing, what it’s for – anything you can find out. There’s probably a glass museum somewhere – Corning, Steuben, Waterford. Someone’ll know.’
‘I’ll hit the Library of Congress,’ Freddy said, ‘and the Smithsonian. If they can’t tell me, they’ll know who can.’
‘Also, you might check one of the auction houses – Sotheby’s – they’ll have a glass specialist, or know where to find one.’
‘What kind of budget do I have?’
‘You can go to New York. You can’t go to Paris.’
At five o’clock Judy leaned in waving a fax. ‘This just in,’ she said. ‘It’s from Rome.’
Lassiter gestured to a chair, and held his hand out for the fax.
‘You aren’t gonna be happy,’ she said, handing him the page and taking a seat.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s billing us a ton, and what he’s found out is –’
‘Fuck all,’ Lassiter said, glancing at the fax.
‘Exactly. According to our guy, Franco Grimaldi has never been arrested. He’s a registered voter. Votes Motore –’
‘What’s that?’
‘They want to raise the speed limit.’
Lassiter gave her a look. ‘That’s it?’ he asked. ‘That’s a political platform?’
‘Bepi says they have a hundred parties over there. Anyway, Grimaldi’s not married – correction! He’s “never been married.” No outstanding loans, no litigation, no nothing.’
‘What about credit?’
‘He’s got a three-hundred-dollar balance at Rinascente.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A department store.’
‘Terrific.’ Lassiter looked at the fax. ‘How about military service?’
‘Never went in.’ So much for Riordan’s guess that Grimaldi was a soldier.
‘Employment?’
‘None.’
‘Un-employment?’
Judy started to say something, but stopped herself. ‘I see what you mean,’ she said.
‘According to this, he doesn’t have a source of income. No welfare – nothing! So how does he live?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I want to find out.’ Lassiter thought for a moment and said, ‘Another thing: it says here, he doesn’t own a car.’
‘Right.’
‘And he votes for these motor guys?’
‘Motore.’
‘Exactly. Which would make him the first pedestrian in history who wants to raise the speed limit.’
Judy laughed and reached for the fax. ‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said, and turned toward the door.
‘Wait a second,’ Lassiter said. ‘I have another question.’
‘And the answer,’ she said, turning back to him, ‘is nine hundred bucks. He says he worked sixteen hours.’
‘You believe that?’
‘Yeah. He’s a good investigator, and he knows it’s for you. He wouldn’t pad it. He got nowhere and he knows you’ll be disappointed. He probably worked longer than he said.’
Lassiter picked up the paper. ‘So what do you think?’
Judy pursed her lips and thought for a moment. ‘Offhand? I think your guy’s spooked-up.’
Lassiter nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s what I think, too.’
Tuesday afternoon, Lassiter sat at his desk feeling like a fool. He’d delegated everything to Leo, Judy, and Bill, so the company was effectively running itself – or, at least, he hoped it was. He’d given the only lead he had to Freddy Dexter, and now he was on hold, with nothing to do.
He went to the window and looked out. He built a fire and watched it die. He read the Wall Street Journal, and thought about going for a run – and then thought of reasons not to. It occurred to him that he ought to call Claire, see if she was free for dinner, something. Then the phone rang, and the voice on the other end was flat and quiet.
‘Joe.’
‘Woody!’
‘I ran your guy,’ he said.
These were just the words Lassiter wanted to hear, but there was something wrong with Woody’s voice.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Don’t thank me yet. I’ll tell you what, Joe.’ A pause. ‘This guy? This guy fucking scares me to death.’
Lassiter was taken aback by the intensity in his friend’s voice. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, he scares me enough that I’m sorry I put my name on the cable.’
Lassiter didn’t know what to say.
‘Let me ask you a question,’ Woody said.
‘What?’
‘You make any other inquiries about him?’
‘Yeah. We have a sub in Rome who handles things for us. Is that a problem?’
‘Not for me. But you might want to send your subcontractor on a trip.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘I’m not kidding.’
Lassiter couldn’t believe it. ‘He got bupkis. He didn’t find out anything.’
‘Of course he didn’t. That’s what I’m telling you: this is a very serious man. You probably got his voting record or something, right?’
Lassiter’s silence answered the question as clearly as anything he might have said. And, together, they sat on the phone as only two good friends can do, thinking to themselves.
Finally, Woody said, ‘Let me ask you something else.’
‘What?’
‘What was your sister into?’
‘Into? She wasn’t “into” anything, Woody! She had a kid. She had a job. She watched “Friends.” She liked ice cream. You knew her!’
Woody thought about it and sighed. ‘Well, maybe he got the wrong lady.’
‘Maybe. But he didn’t just get a lady, did he? From what I saw, he pretty much cut my nephew’s head off.’ They lapsed into silence again, and then Lassiter came back to the point. ‘So what about him? What did you find out?’
‘Franco Grimaldi is what we call a heavy hitter. In fact, he bats cleanup. He kills people – which, come to think of it, you already know. You ever hear of SISMI?’
‘No. What’s a Sismi?’
Woody sighed. ‘I’m going to send you a package.’
‘You want a FedEx number?’
‘No. A foreign service officer will come by tomorrow afternoon with an attaché case handcuffed to his wrist. He’ll take out an envelope with a report inside. He’ll give the envelope to you, and then he’ll leave. Open it. Read it. Shred it. Burn it. And when you’re done? Stir the ashes.’
*
Lassiter was standing at the window, thinking about the edge in Woody’s voice, when his secretary leaned in to say, ‘There’s an Officer Pisarcik on the line.’
‘I’ll take it,’ he said, and then, ‘Hello?’
‘Mr. Lassiter?’
‘Yeah!’
‘This is Officer Pisarcik with the Fairfax Police – how you doing this afternoon?’
‘Fine.’
‘I’m calling because we have some good news.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes, sir! We’ve identified the suspect in your sist
er’s case – John Doe? He’s an Italian citizen: a Mr. Frank Grimaldi. Detective Riordan said you ought to be the first to know.’
‘Great.’
‘The other reason I’m calling – I think you already heard: Detective Riordan is no longer assigned to the case.’
‘So I understand.’
‘I’ll be handling it from here on in, so – well, I thought it might be a good idea for you and me to meet.’
‘Okay. Why don’t you just come by? You know where my office is?’
‘Sure do! But, uh . . . I’m afraid today’s out. Confidentially?’
‘Yeah?’
‘We’re moving the prisoner at four-thirty –’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, sir. We’re taking him to the strong room at Fairfax General. After that there’s a meeting at the precinct. “Gender, Race, and Law.”’
‘Maybe later this week, then.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Lassiter replaced the phone and glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock, and a light snow was starting to fall. Even so, he figured he could just make it.
Normally, he was a relaxed driver, but this time he pushed it. The Acura wove through the traffic, windshield wipers slapping at the sleet as he headed west on 66 toward the hospital.
What he was doing didn’t make sense. He knew that, but didn’t care. He wanted to see his sister’s killer close up – and not just see him. He wanted to confront him. More than that: he wanted to drag the sonofabitch out of his wheelchair and break his face on the floor.
That’s what he wanted to do. But he’d settle for less. He’d settle for some kind of response. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Maybe just, ‘Hey, Franco,’ so he could see the look on the guy’s face when he heard a stranger say his name. ‘Franco Grimaldi.’
While Lassiter fought the traffic, Officer Dwayne Tompkins was preparing to assist in the transfer of the suspect, John Doe, from Fair Oaks Hospital. Officer Tompkins was known simply as ‘Dubbayuh’ on the force, because he always said, when asked his name, ‘That’s Dwayne – with a W.’
He looked at his watch. He was waiting for the orderly to bring up the wheelchair. It wasn’t that the prisoner couldn’t walk. Therapists had been making him walk along the corridors for ten days now, and Dwayne had been with him every step of the way. Even so, the hospital’s regulations required that patients leave in a wheelchair, no matter how well they could walk.