“Both were bogus,” she said.
I looked at her, and she explained.
“Jack was helping him out. Marty started this little company on the side to bring in extra cash. Jack said he wanted to be a media mogul, plus he needed extra money.”
“And these charges?”
“Jack agreed to back a documentary Marty was going to make on some court case in the Bronx or something. Something about a guy who was wrongly convicted,” she said.
“It ever get made?”
“It never got talked about after that first conversation,” she said. “That’s what worried Jack.”
“That MG Productions was becoming a charity for Marty Glover?”
She nodded.
“He also gave Marty a check for eighteen hundred more in late June. Brought the total to ten thousand dollars. That was the agreement, that Jack would fund this project with ten thousand dollars,” she said.
“But Marty came back looking for more?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“And Jack told him the checkbook was closed?”
“He said he was really worried about Marty’s finances. He wanted to help him, but …”
“Didn’t want to enable him?”
“Marty was always trying to get rich,” she said. “He’d waste money on whatever investment fad he heard about. He was always trying to get Jack to go in on things with him.”
“The next investment was always going to be the big winner,” I said.
She gave me a slight nod as all this was sinking in. “Sam,” she said. “Please tell me that Marty couldn’t … couldn’t do something like …” Her eyes filled with tears as she struggled to continue then gave up.
Chapter Sixty-Two
“Going to use the I-left-my-ID-at-home excuse again?” Freddie asked.
We were parked on Sixth Avenue by a fire hydrant, and I was trying to figure out how to get back into Liberty to confront Glover. Then I was going to make him a deal—tell me what happened and I’ll work with Pep to see he gets the best deal possible.
“You again underestimate my ability to charm,” I said to Freddie.
“Means you ain’t getting in,” he said.
“Watch and be amazed, oh ye of little faith.”
“Say you do get in,” he said. “You know, on that slight chance, then what? Just walk up to Marty and say, ‘By the way, did you write Jack’s suicide note for him?’ That’s the plan?”
A fire truck wailed from a block behind us and edged its way through the thick traffic, giving me a moment to think about my plan. It passed, and I was still at a loss.
“No plan, huh?” Freddie asked.
“I prefer not to share it just yet.”
“Like I said, no plan.”
“I have to make sure I have all my ducks in a row,” I said.
“That some kind of hunting expression, or something?” he asked.
“Don’t know, not a hunter.”
“Then why you trotting it out?”
“Never mind,” I said.
I had every reason to believe Marty Glover placed the suicide note in Jack’s folder. He had access to the folder and probably played the percentages, knowing Jack didn’t check the folder. Ever.
“I’m still having a hard time believing Marty could be tied up in this,” I said.
“Man had enough issues,” Freddie said. “Money, for one. Probably got promised a nice big pay day.”
“But enough to make him help set Jack up to be killed?”
“Could be. Maybe he tells Jack that Barnes wants to meet over at Thirty-fourth Street. Jack gets there expecting to see Marty and meet Barnes, but finds a setup instead,” he said.
“I know Marty, or thought I did. It’s hard to believe.”
“Maybe you don’t want to believe,” he said.
“Maybe.”
“But you got to consider it,” Freddie said. “You got to consider at least the possibility that he set Jack up, or maybe even did the pushing into the river, who the hell knows.”
“Maybe he was the guy who got Jack over there, then handed him off to someone else.”
“That’s bad enough,” Freddie said.
“But could be worse,” I said.
“What if we’re wrong?” I asked.
“Ain’t no ‘we’ if you’re wrong. It’s all you. If you’re right, then we got a ‘we.’”
“That’s what I suspected.”
My phone rang, and the incoming number came in as “unknown.” I answered, and Rinaldi cut me off before I could get hello out.
“I’m losing count of the favors you owe me,” he said.
“Would a tour of the Liberty News studios even it out?”
“No. Maybe a date with that blonde newsreader would,” he said.
“Sure, I’ll call and ask Lisa when you’re available,” I said.
“Never mind. The tour will be fine, thanks,” he said. “You got a pen and paper?”
“Yes,” I said, grabbing my pad from the pocket inside my suit jacket.
“Your coworker has quite the checkered history,” he said.
“Criminal?”
“No, academic. Of course criminal. Let’s start with a D and D at Foxwoods two years ago.”
“Drunk and disorderly at a casino, is that even a crime?”
“It is if you’re wandering the grounds screaming at the guests,” Rinaldi said.
“Next.”
“Disturbing the peace way back when. Hell, it was fifteen years ago. That one was in Atlanta.”
“Okay. I knew he worked in Atlanta. Was in radio, I think.”
“Whatever it was, they’re weren’t paying enough. He picked up an arrest for forgery there, too.”
I smacked Freddie on the arm.
“Forgery?” I said.
“Yes, when you sign someone else’s name,” Rinaldi said.
“Thanks for the clarification.”
“In this case it was a deed to the Florida beach house that dear old dad intended go to his stepmom,” he said.
“How’d he get caught?”
“Apparently, by shooting off his mouth. Said something stupid to the stepmom, who had a lawyer look into it. Low and behold, he confesses,” he said.
“Almost pulled it off.”
“Good enough to get away with it but dumb enough to get caught,” Rinaldi said. “Actually became a guest of the state for a while down there.”
I looked at Freddie and knew we were having the same thought: that Glover wrote the note.
“You need to tell me what’s going on,” Rinaldi said.
“I can’t. At least not just yet.”
“You might want to bring in the professionals, Sam,” he said.
“Give me another few hours, maybe a day.”
“That’s quite a wide range,” he said.
“I’m not sure how fast I can pull it all together.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Just don’t let that range be the difference between life and death.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
“You actually think he’s going to tell you anything?” Freddie asked.
“Don’t know.”
“He’s going to deny everything, then call Buck McConnell and figure out how to get rid of you, too,” he said.
“Always so negative.”
“How does a smart guy come up with such dumb plans?” he asked.
“Years of training,” I said as the phone rang on the assignment desk. A second later Blake Jennings answered.
“Blake, it’s Sam.”
He was full of late-afternoon nastiness.
“You back to your senses and ready to work again?” he asked.
“No. Not yet.”
“Didn’t think so,” he said.
It sounded busy, with phones ringing and people talking in the background.
“Marty around?” I asked. “I tried his line, but he did
n’t answer.”
“That’s because he’s not in,” he said.
“Where is he?” I asked, and Freddie turned and looked at me.
“Don’t know, Sam. I generally don’t check in on someone after they call in sick.”
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked.
“I didn’t take the call. Why you so concerned with Marty’s health?”
“Want to make sure he’s not contagious. That’s all,” I said, and got off the phone.
“Let me guess,” Freddie said.
“No need to.”
Freddie started the Jeep.
“West Eighty-first, right?” he asked.
I checked the info from Victor for the exact address. Glover lived on West Eighty-first Street and a few minutes later were out front of a six-story apartment building just off the corner of Amsterdam.
We double-parked in front, and I went up and opened the outer door and stepped into the little vestibule between doors. There was a board on my left with the buzzers for the apartments. I saw “Glover 4D” and pressed the buzzer next to it. I stood and waited to hear Marty’s voice but got nothing.
I looked through the glass door into the lobby and saw a young guy heading across the lobby toward the door. He opened the door to leave and I stepped inside as he passed. I climbed the steps to the fourth floor and walked down the hallway looking for 4D.
The hallway was open and light, with a window at the end that looked out onto Amsterdam. It wasn’t a high-end building, and for a guy making about two hundred thou, I’d expect something a little nicer. Unless, of course, you were under a mountain of debt.
Glover’s apartment was on the right toward the end of the hall. I pressed the little button for the bell and then knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again and waited, then heard a door open at the other end of the hall. A young woman came out of an apartment and spent thirty seconds locking various locks. She was dressed in a short sundress and flip-flops and had a bag slung over her shoulder.
She glanced in my direction and smiled. “Looking for Marty?” she asked.
“He’s a tough guy to pin down,” I said, smiling back.
“He left already,” she said, like I knew where he was going. “Around eleven. I saw him grabbing a cab. Said he was traveling for work.”
“Oh, right, right,” I said. “I guess that trip was today.”
She smiled again and turned to leave, and I pulled out my phone.
“I’ll give him a call,” I said.
I waited for her to go down the stairs, and then out. When she was gone, I gave the door a shot with my shoulder but it didn’t budge. There had to be three locks, probably including a deadbolt. I tried again with the same result.
A minute later I was back in the car.
“He’s running,” I said to Freddie, as I slid inside and closed the door.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Daniels was on the phone inside his office. I was outside the closed door, pacing. It was a little bit after eight. He had agreed to see me after I convinced him that I had it all figured out.
The executive suite was quiet, and Susan’s desk was neat and clean. A small, flat-screen TV monitor sat on the table next to the desk, with the sound down low. I stopped pacing when I heard Tim Casey, one of the anchors, reading the top stories.
“And just moments ago, word that Buck McConnell will make it official tomorrow when he announces his candidacy for president at an event in New York. McConnell has been rumored to be entering the race for the White House for months, and it will all be official tomorrow. Liberty News, of course, will carry the announcement live, beginning at twelve noon.”
I was going to need to get on the air and break this before then. Convincing Daniels I wasn’t nuts was going to be the toughest part.
The door opened and Daniels looked out.
“Let’s go,” he said.
I walked in and he shut the door behind me and went across the office and sat down at his desk. I took my usual spot in one of the chairs facing him.
“I’m done,” I said.
“With?”
“With chasing this Robbie Steele thing,” I said.
“About time. But I’m not sure I have a spot for you at this point. Morning show is doing fine without you,” he said.
“Sure we’ll work something out.”
“You said you had something figured out,” he said.
“I do. I know what happened that night,” I said. “The night Jack died.”
“For Christ sakes, Sam,” he said. He sat back in his chair and rocked a bit. “You realize what you say here is largely going to determine whether or not I think you’re insane and need to be locked up?”
“I do.”
“Then go ahead. Let’s hear it,” he said.
He gave me his full attention. There was no glancing at the monitors, no fiddling with the golf tee paperweight. Just his eyes on me as I spoke.
“There’s two parts to this,” I said.
“Go on.”
“First part, Buck McConnell killed Jack Steele.”
His eyes never moved. His gaze stayed fixed right on me. “Second part?” he asked.
“Marty is involved.”
He was still sitting back, staring at me.
“Start at the top,” he said. “McConnell first.”
I explained how at first I thought McConnell had Jack killed over the bribes story. Then I explained how I found a source who told me about that night at Harvard. Then I explained how I found Mike Barnes, who gave me the details of that night.
When I was done, Daniels nodded. “And you’re going to believe the word of a convicted felon and admitted one-time heroin addict?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re willing to risk your career on the story of this guy Barnes?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ve already risked my life.”
I explained the encounters with the thugs sent to frighten, silence, or kill me.
“And this … this Barnes person,” he said. “He’d be willing to come on and tell his story on TV?” he asked.
“No.”
“I see,” he said. “A little uncomfortable on camera? Or does he prefer not to be quoted as he takes down someone who wants to run for president?”
“Neither,” I said. “He’s dead.”
Daniels squinted and blinked as he tried to follow.
“Keep going,” he said.
“He died in an explosion on one of his boats about an hour after I left him. I saw it.”
Daniels closed his eyes, sighed, and rubbed his temples. When he opened his eyes, I was still there.
“Marty?” he asked.
Now I wanted to close my eyes and try and make it all go away.
“I think he set Jack up.”
“There’s no way—”
I held up a hand. “Hear me out.”
He nodded.
“Marty is in a financial hole the size of the Grand Canyon. Jack had been helping him out. Then recently stopped helping him out,” I said.
“So he gets involved with Buck McConnell to get money or something? I don’t get it,” he said.
“I think he either knowingly or unknowingly set Jack up.”
“How the hell do you unknowingly set someone up?” he asked.
“I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt,” I said. “Maybe McConnell gave him a pile of cash to provide info on Jack. Maybe he set up a meeting with Jack under a false pretense. He may not have known he was setting him up to be pushed into the river.”
“Still doesn’t add up for me,” he said.
“You put Marty in the picture and it explains two things.”
“Such as?”
“Jack owns a gun,” I said.
“I knew that,” he said.
“But he didn’t take it with him that night when he went out.”
“Being that he was going to jump in the East River, mayb
e he felt he didn’t need it,” he said.
“Or maybe he didn’t think he needed it for another reason.”
“Meaning?” he asked.
“He was going to meet someone he knew and trusted.”
“And you think that was Marty?”
“Possibly,” I said.
“You have a lot of possibly and maybe in here. You need something definite,” he said.
“I definitely know Marty lied to me and tried to cover up his involvement,” I said.
“It’s a start,” he said.
“He told me he didn’t speak to Jack that night. Says they never talked.”
“But you don’t buy it?”
“Jason Malloy told me Marty spoke to Jack sometime after eleven that night. Even went into his office for privacy.”
“So, we have the dead heroin addict and now the alcoholic that we’re basing this … this theory on,” he said.
“Recovering alcoholic,” I said of Jason.
He glanced at the monitors and took a break from staring at me.
“I’ve been in this business for almost forty years,” he said, looking back to me.
“A legend.”
“And this may be the stupidest fucking episode I’ve ever encountered.”
I went to speak but he cut me off.
“I got an all-star reporter who has thrown his career away chasing some conspiracy theory,” he said. “You’re hell bent on taking down a man about to run for president and are somehow convinced he killed one of the biggest names in TV. It’s the goddamned craziest shit I’ve ever heard.”
“Not if it’s true.”
Daniels exploded. “It’s not true, Sam” he said. He slammed his fist on the desk. “Shit, would you get real? I mean, what about Jack’s note? How the hell do you explain that?”
“It’s a fake.”
“Right, of course it is. And let me guess, you’re taking Robbie Steele’s word on that?” he said.
“Did you know she’s pregnant?”
It stopped him cold.
“What?”
“Robbie is pregnant.”
He was at a loss. The whole equation had just changed on him.
“Robbie Steele is pregnant?” he asked.
Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery Page 25