by Ken Brigham
They agreed that Petrillo’s friend, the highly respected local business attorney Mitchell Rook, would be an excellent front for the operation. They needed somebody with local credibility, obvious money and connections to play that role. If Rook would play ball, they would risk a million of the federal government’s dollars to go after Bartalak. Given the origin of the request, they were certain that the attorney general would go along. They knew it was a risk. They had nothing concrete to support the suspicion of the professor. But, if it worked, it would be an enormous coup for the Nashville office and for both Petrillo and his superior. Rook was fascinated by the proposal and readily agreed. This was likely to be much more interesting than the boring minutiae of business law that was his usual daily fare.
So far, so good. Rook had managed to get himself identified by Bartalak as one of his three angel investors. Rook seemed to have Bartalak’s confidence, although it was difficult for the lawyer to keep up the façade of camaraderie with the professor whom Rook found less than stimulating company.
“How can a man that ugly, arrogant, and self-absorbed demand such respect from academic colleagues who are supposedly intelligent and perceptive people?” Rook once asked Petrillo.
Petrillo did not have a ready answer.
The elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor and disgorged several of its occupants. The red braces guy got off and Petrillo wondered if he was the Lipchitz of Rook and Lipchitz. If so, he was an interesting contrast to his svelte and quietly stylish partner. Maybe the odd partnership of brains and panache was a deliberate gesture aimed at broadening the appeal of the firm to the spectrum of personalities that made up the Nashville business community. Mitchell Rook was one clever guy.
Petrillo got off the elevator at fifteen and walked directly down the long corridor that terminated at the entrance to the corner office suite. When the secretary announced Petrillo’s arrival, Rook emerged from his office immediately and greeted his old friend.
“Good to see you, Dom,” Rook said, extending his hand. “Do come in and catch me up on the nefarious doings of our federal government’s legal eagles.”
They shook hands and Rook held the door for Petrillo, ushering him into the most unusual habitat for a business attorney that Petrillo had ever seen. Every time he entered his friend’s office, Petrillo had to just stand for a few minutes to take in the scene, get himself oriented. There were none of the usual trappings. No dark cherry bookcases filled with antique leather-bound law books. No deep chocolate Corinthian leather easy chairs. Rook had worked with Sonny Faulk, a local artist and craftsman with a growing national reputation, to design the furniture and populate the walls with original art. Faulk had designed and built the custom metal and wood desk, and several of Faulk’s abstract two- and three-dimensional art pieces complemented the controlled edginess of the place that was so uncannily like the personality of its occupant. The chairs were glistening aluminum, imported from Spain. An antique Criterion Dynamax SCT telescope perched atop a heavy-duty cinema tripod perused the horizon from the southeast facing window.
The view from the floor to ceiling windows was a panorama of the city’s past, present, and future. The venerable Ryman Auditorium, mother church of country music. The Schermerhorn Performing Arts Center, where the symphony that its eponymic maestro had conducted for many years regularly attracted the musically sophisticated crowd into the city center from their mansions south of town. The new convention center that the mayor promised would elevate the city into the top ranks, building on its history and expanding its appeal. A bank building symbolizing the growing financial industry that was bringing in new money most of which was no longer tied to the music business. From this vantage point, Nashville looked like a town perched on the brink of cityhood. Petrillo, as always, was impressed by the site, but he thought that the view from the street level where he usually worked gave a distinctly less generous impression of the place.
“Do sit down, Dom,” Mitchell said, “Can I make you an espresso?”
Rook was addicted to espresso and had installed a very elegant copper machine in his office to feed his addiction. He went to the machine and began his ritual of creating a cup of the brew that always amused Petrillo. He thought that, in addition to his brilliance, Mitchell was perhaps the most organized and purposeful person he had ever known. Mitchell Rook did not do anything by accident. All his moves were carefully planned.
“None for me, thanks,” Petrillo replied.
Rook brought the demitasse of fresh coffee to his desk and sat down. Petrillo sat in one of the shiny metal chairs opposite him.
“So,” Mitchell said. “Tell me where we are with this little ruse. Any news from your guys in Houston?”
The feds in Houston were still trying to find something criminal in Bartalak’s dealings there.
“Nothing solid,” Dom said. “The attorney responsible for the investigation there is absolutely convinced that Bartalak acted illegally, but he can’t prove anything yet. He’s still digging.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell replied, sipping at his coffee. “Securities fraud is a hard rap to nail down alright, especially when dealing with a privately held company. A 10b-5 violation ought to cover that situation, but that’s devilishly hard to prove.”
“Which brings us to the topic at hand. What’s going on with Bartalak’s new venture in which you are so heavily invested?”
They smiled at each other.
Rook said, “Yes, I suppose I am heavily invested in a way, although your investment is substantially greater than mine. More to lose.”
“And maybe more to gain.”
“Maybe, yes. As strange as it may sound, though, I’m not in this to make you look good. It’s that guys like this Bartalak character are what give business a bad name. If he’s a crook, and all my instincts tell me that he is, I want to see him get what he deserves. These guys shouldn’t be allowed to get away with cheating. Business can be an honorable undertaking that makes money the old fashioned way. You don’t have to cheat.” He paused to sip the last of his espresso and continued, “So there’s my little sermon, Dom. Not like you haven’t heard it before.”
“Right, Mitchell,” Dom replied, “May even have preached it myself. But, back to the subject. What makes you think our good doctor is not dealing from the top of the deck?”
“Hubris,” Rook replied. “He’s just too damned slick. Too sure of himself. And the preliminary data he showed us is too good. As we both know, things that seem too good to be true usually are.”
“Tell me more, Mitchell. Is there some follow up information after that presentation of the results from the single subject that had Bartalak so excited?”
“Not yet, Dom. Not yet, but soon. I’m sure he’ll schedule another lunch meeting with the investors to reveal all of the up to date information. Bartalak likes those lunch meetings where he can perform before a captive audience. The final evaluations of that first subject should be available now, and it will be interesting to know what they showed. Bartalak thinks that those data may be all he needs to clinch a deal with one of the big VCs or maybe even Big Pharma. I’m guessing that he’ll tell us that his initial enthusiasm is confirmed. I strongly suspect that crow and humble pie are dishes that Cy Bartalak studiously avoids. No matter what the facts are, he’ll spin them to his advantage. I just don’t trust this guy.”
“But we need something concrete before we spring the trap. Any way to get past Bartalak’s interpretations of the data, get a look at the raw numbers?”
“Yeah, that is a problem. It seems that his wife, the biostatistician, is the keeper of the data. And she is one scary woman. Again, hard to put a finger on it, but something about her is scary. I don’t trust her either, although maybe I just figure that anyone in bed with the good doctor has to be in on whatever game he’s playing. She is a strange one though.”
“How’s that?
“Just something about her. She is virtually nonverbal in these meetings. Sits there delibe
rately exposing her tan and very lovely legs and either staring into space or looking adoringly at her husband. I’ll lay you odds that something is not right with her. She’s not going to do anything to upset her precious husband’s plans, whatever they are. That’s for sure.”
Petrillo pondered the situation for a moment before responding.
“What about other scientists involved in the study of the drug? There must be more than the two of them,” Petrillo mused.
“Well, it’s apparently a small group. He did mention a neurologist, a woman, who is part of the team.”
“Hmm,” Petrillo responded, “any way to get to her? Can you find out who she is, something more about her?”
Rook thought for a few minutes, gazing out at the city skyline.
“Well,” he said, “I have a friend at the university who might be able to help. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”
“Good. That’s somewhere to start looking at least. But do be careful. We don’t want to spook the guy before we have something more solid than we have now. So far I’ve tried to find out what I can, but I’ve kept a lot of distance especially from his operation at the university. Maybe it’s time to close that distance a bit. What do you think?”
Rook responded, “Probably.” He paused for a moment and then said, “This guy is smart, Dom. I’ll give him that. And he carries a lot of clout. This won’t be easy. If he’s hiding something, it will be hidden in a well-fortified place. These university people go to considerable lengths to protect their own. Almost as bad as the church.”
Petrillo was Catholic and Rook knew that, but he occasionally betrayed his contempt for organized religion in spite of himself. Petrillo didn’t respond.
After Petrillo left, Rook placed a phone call to an old undergraduate classmate. Rook was an undergraduate physics major at the university before deciding to change direction and heading off to Yale Law School. His best friend during undergraduate days, Sydney Shelling, had gone on to med school and was now a pathologist on the medical school faculty. Rook thought that Shelling might be able to shed some light on the workings of Cy Bartalak’s operation without raising any undue suspicion. The call went unanswered and rolled over to voice mail.
At the sound of the tone, Rook said, “Syd, this is Mitchell Rook. Hope all goes well in the hallowed halls of academe. Just wanted to ask about one of your colleagues. Nothing important. Could you give me a call when you get a chance?”
Chapter 16
On the eleventh phone call, Shane Hadley thought that he may have hit pay dirt.
It was a Monday afternoon. His physical therapy session that morning had gone especially well. He was gaining more strength in his legs, could even take a few steps with the aid of a walker and a very strong assistant. And the pain was a lot less. He was feeling pretty encouraged as he settled back in his wheelchair, ushered his therapist to the elevator, and bid him goodbye.
Then Shane poured himself a glass of sherry and thought about the Bagley case. He focused on the gun. Perhaps the killer had felt the need to assure herself that the antique gun actually worked before doing the deed. Assuming that she lived in the city, that probably meant that she would have gone to a shooting range for some practice rounds. And, since those places were generally run by gun freaks, it seemed likely that a person with such an unusual gun would be remembered.
He fired up his laptop and hunted for shooting ranges in the area. To his surprise, he found only eleven. One of the sites listed each of them with addresses and telephone numbers. He started at the top of the list and, he thought predictably, struck out—until, on call number eleven, he connected with a character named Clem Horsely, proprietor of the Williamson County Shooters Club, which was near Brentwood, just south of the city.
“Oh yeah,” Horsely responded to Shane’s query, describing the gun. “Yeah, I remember that gun. Must not be another one like it anywhere around here. A beauty. Never actually saw one before but I recognized it from the pictures in a collector’s magazine. And the one she had was gold plated too, special edition of some sort. Really rare.”
Shane said, “She?”
“Yep,” Horsely answered. “A woman showed up a couple of times with that gun. I thought at the time that it didn’t look like a woman’s gun. But, hell, you can’t tell nowadays. And she was a hell of a marksman too. Why are you so interested?”
“Well,” Shane answered, “you may have read in the paper that it was a gun like this that was used to murder Bonz Bagley down in Printers Alley recently.”
“Really?” Horsely sounded surprised. “I didn’t know that. Must have been in the Tennessean. Never read that rag. Gave up TV news a while back too. There just wasn’t ever any news that I was interested in hearing about. Bunch of people killing each other. What’s new about that?”
“Can you tell me more about the woman with the gun?”
“Sure. Nice looking. Average size. Probably around forty. Well-preserved, though. Looked pretty fit, like maybe a runner or maybe did aerobics or Zumba or whatever they call it nowadays. Nice tan. Dressed well. Had money I’d guess since you’d need money to get a gun like that. Didn’t say much, just signed in and went about her business. I tried to get her to tell me about the gun, but she wasn’t a talker. I didn’t press her. None of my business. We get all kinds in here from time to time. None of my business who they are or what they’re up to.”
“Anything else that you can remember about the woman?”
“Not really. I have her name in the log. Want me to look it up? Are you a cop, by the way?”
“Sort of,” Shane stretched the truth a bit. “Interested party, you might say. If you could look up the woman’s name and anything else you have on her, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure, just a minute.”
Shane heard the clunk of the phone being laid down and then some rustling sounds.
“Got it,” Horsely said. “I’ve only got the name. I make everybody sign in the log even when they pay cash like she did. So name is all I’ve got. No address or anything like that.”
Shane was getting impatient.
“So, Mr. Horsely, the name?”
“Got it right here. Says Elizabeth Reid, that’s R-E-I-D, ei instead of ee.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Horsely,” Shane said. “You’ve been a great help.”
As soon as he had hung up the phone, Shane Googled Elizabeth Anne Reid Nashville. There were seven hits, one Elizabeth Ann (no terminal e), one Elizabeth A, and three with no middle name or initial. The other two had the middle initials D and M, respectively. The only two who were under sixty years old were Elizabeth Ann, age 35, and Elizabeth A, age 42. He was unable to find an address or other contact information for either of them, but was sure that Hardy Seltzer would be able to do that. That is, assuming Shane could get Hardy interested enough to go to the trouble.
Of course, Shane would have to tell Hardy about his conversation with Rory Holcomb, but Shane feared that it would focus the detective’s efforts too narrowly on Jody Dakota. Shane thought now that there was another potential suspect that needed the attention and resources of the legitimate police department and hoped that he could convince Hardy of that. But he wasn’t sure if he would be able to do that. From what he could tell, Hardy Seltzer was a pretty linear thinker, and Shane’s experience had taught him that most routes to solving a murder were anything but straight lines.
When the intercom buzzed, Shane confirmed that it was Hardy and released the door. After hearing the elevator door open on the floor below, signaling that the detective was aboard, Shane pressed the call button so that the car would stop at the second floor flat without using the key that freed the elevator to stop there.
“Greetings, detective,” Shane said, as Seltzer entered the living room. “Punctual as always, I see. Do join me here in the living room. Dare I offer you a sherry?”
It was early afternoon, and the meeting had been arranged the previous evening. Although excitem
ent was never an exuberant emotion for Hardy, he was as excited as nearing the solution to a crime was capable of causing him to be. He was anxious to fill Shane in on the Jody Dakota story. He expected that Shane would share his excitement.
“Dare whatever you like, Shane, but I’m not there yet.”
“In time, my friend,” Shane responded. “In time.”
Shane wheeled to the bar and refilled his glass.
“So,” Shane said, maneuvering back to position himself opposite the detective. “What have you been up to? Any news from the hinterlands?”
“I really think, Shane,” Hardy began, “that we are close to cracking this case.”
“Cracking the Bonz case,” Shane mused. “If punnery were not such a base form of humor I would be tempted….but go on.”
Seltzer told Shane the details of his visit to Jody Dakota: Dakota’s old grudge with Bagley; the gun; the fact that Jody had been in town on the Sunday of the murder.
“And I took Dakota’s gun to Pistol Pete to get ballistics testing,” Hardy concluded. “We have motive, opportunity and with a little luck the murder weapon. That seems like a pretty airtight case, doesn’t it? Then there’s the four shots to the head, overkill that reeks of a smoldering vendetta. It all fits. Makes a story.”
“It makes a story, alright. I should add that Rory Holcomb, my neighbor who has been involved in the music business as well as a lot of other things over the years, corroborates your information about Dakota’s grudge against Bagley. Holcomb even says he heard Dakota threaten to kill Bonz forty-odd years ago. But forty years is a long time to hold a grudge, you have to admit. The ballistics on Dakota’s gun will be critical,” he paused for a minute, and then continued. “So the indomitable Mr. Harvey is still around, haunting his netherworld beneath the police station? Interesting. Pistol Pete will handle it alright. He’s a competent chap. Is the DA involved yet?”