by Brian Drake
His company, FairSoft, was probably not going to survive the next twenty-four months. He had a plan for his next move, but that damn woman wasn’t cooperating.
He glanced at the pensive faces around the table.
“No bugs, either,” Fairmont said. “Come on, should be easy.” He clapped his hands together twice. “Get busy. Two weeks!”
He sat down as the staff filed out. They’d cuss and grumble but the product would be ready on time. When the last person exited, McCormick slipped in and joined Fairmont at the table.
“Well?” Fairmont said.
McCormick talked about Mr. Hero for almost ten minutes. Fairmont checked his watch once McCormick stopped talking.
“I got a tee time.” He stood.
“Are you kidding, Max?”
“This is the stuff I pay you for,” Fairmont said. “Besides, I’m playing with Rollins. He’ll want to know what you’ve told me.”
Fairmont exited and left McCormick alone.
Max Fairmont had not come this far to be derailed by anybody.
He needed Ali’s company. The deal with the Iranians depended on it, and he was under no illusion that they’d let him live if a problem developed.
He’d experienced his first entrepreneurial venture as a youngster when he took on a paper route to earn money for a bicycle. After that, he knew he could never not be in charge of his own destiny. And Ali’s company was an important part of that destiny.
Fairmont crossed the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County and soon pulled through the gates of the San Geronimo Golf Course. The rolling greens spread out before him.
He found Peter Rollins, an associate who’d introduced him to the Iranians, in the pro shop. The taller light-haired Rollins stood in a back corner examining a new set of clubs. He replaced a driver on the rack when he saw Fairmont approach.
“I thought you might be late,” Rollins said.
“Been hearing things?”
“Just what the blue jays whisper.”
They bypassed caddies, to the dirty looks of the youngsters standing ready, and decided to skip a golf cart as well. Birds chirped, the chatter of other golfers drifted along with the light wind. It was a great day for golf, no clouds, and even the wind didn’t pose a problem. The links were as lush and green as ever. Fairmont loved the course. No better place to relax. He didn’t even mind talking business, which is why he and Rollins played a few rounds and, indeed, talked business once a week. No matter what was happening, Fairmont stayed cool as long as he was swinging.
Their own small talk ceased as they knocked their first balls onto the fairway. Once on the green, Rollins brought up business.
“I was against killing the father to begin with,” he said.
Rollins putted for the hole but his ball curved at the last moment, stopping just shy of the cup.
“Worse, Ms. Lewis called for help.”
“I have McCormick gathering info on the help.” Fairmont tapped his Statinger 7 and it rolled right into the hole. He retrieved the ball with a grin.
“But, Max--”
“We’re in no danger. Everything is covered with the cops.”
They moved on to the second tee.
“Our friends won’t like it if that changes,” Rollins said. He placed his ball on the tee and prepared his swing. “I talked to Clover about a scapegoat.” He swung and the ball flew upward in a curve, landing midway down the fairway. “Ms. Lewis wants justice. Let’s give her some.”
“A sacrifice?” Fairmont addressed his ball.
“Doesn’t have to be one of ours.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Fairmont said.
“If they stop poking around, that makes our project easier.”
“Problem is, we’re running out of time. We need to get rid of Mr. Hero and not hurt the woman. Take away her options, and she’ll fold.”
Fairmont swung but sliced. His ball went high and angled into the rough.
“Tough luck, Max,” Rollins said.
Chapter Six
The launcher spat a baseball and the batter swung, the solid wood bat smacking the ball back where it came from. The man who held the bat had removed his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, but his attire screamed exec and clashed with the jeans and T-shirts of everyone else on the batting line.
Stiletto watched the man whack another ball into the backstop and then made his approach. Up and down the line he heard the launch of baseballs, striking of balls on bats, and the backstop impact. Chunk, whack, splat. A soundtrack punctuated by excitement or disappointment as balls landed on target or flew foul.
The man took up the ready position with bat over shoulder, firm grip. Chunk, whack, splat. Bull’s-eye again.
“Do you ever miss?”
The man turned, smiled. “Wondered when you’d come around.”
“How did you even know I was in town, Toby?”
The man pressed a button on the wall of his booth that turned off the launcher and used a towel to dry his face.
“You entered the state under your own name, buddy. That set off an alarm.”
Toby O’Brien was a special agent with the F.B.I. and a close friend of Scott’s from their Ranger days. They shook hands and O’Brien said he had another ten minutes on his “work out” so Stiletto stepped back while the G-man finished swinging.
“We’ll beat the D.E.A. for sure this year,” O’Brien said later, his shirt and tie restored, as they walked outside, joining the sidewalk crowd and traffic noise. They passed a bus stop where two homeless men argued about whether or not the earth was flat. They stopped at a coffee shop on the corner. O’Brien held the door for Scott. They sat near the back.
O’Brien didn’t have as many lines on his face as Stiletto but they were the same age, O’Brien a little shorter and fair-skinned. Rumors existed that he dyed his hair to remove its natural red; those rumors were false, but O’Brien thought it was a funny story.
“I didn’t realize your two agencies had a softball rivalry,” Scott said.
“One of the biggest. Worth nothing but bragging rights but we work hard for them.”
A waitress brought their drinks. Coffee with sugar for O’Brien; Stiletto had green tea with lemon.
“So what’s up?” the F.B.I. man said.
Stiletto explained the case so far.
O’Brien let out a sigh. “That’s awful.”
“Does the Fairmont name mean anything to you?”
“Oh, yes,” the Fed said. “I’d like to ask him a few questions. I wouldn’t put what you describe past the man but proving it is the challenge. Fairmont seems like another hi-tech junkie with lots of bling, but behind the scenes he’s as dirty as can be.”
“How?”
“All supposition, of course,” O’Brien said. “The company produces products and hires people and pays taxes and all that, but when I worked OrgCrime, I watched Mr. Fairmont grow chummy with a man named Jimmy Califano. Local syndicate boss. We think Fairmont launders Califano’s money.”
“Really?”
“They met at a big party on North Beach. Met honestly enough, but as time went on they talked more and more but we never had enough to show they were anything more than drinking buddies.
“It was about six months after that party that D.E.A. lost track of Califano’s drug money. That gave us the idea he was using Fairmont instead of regular means. Made it totally invisible.”
“Why would he want Ali’s company?” Stiletto said.
“Word is that Fairmont is losing his grip on the computer world. Their last few software releases haven’t done well and they need to score with the next one or they’re history. Ali, however, is going strong.”
“Could be.”
“Do you have another guess?”
“Not right now.” Stiletto sipped his tea. It warmed him inside. “What you need is a whistle-blower.”
“We had one, once, almost. A woman who worked for Fairmont and also dated him. She came forwar
d but--”
“Died before she could talk.”
“Yup. An inspector named Clover worked the case. Now there’s a tough nut. Wouldn’t help an old lady cross the street. He arrested somebody for the murder but I’ve always figured the guy was a ringer. Died in a prison fight, by the way.”
“So that fellow can’t talk either. How convenient.”
“If Clover nabs somebody and claims it’s the shooter, don’t be surprised.”
“I’m half-expecting it.”
Ali returned home. After lunch with Scott, she’d gone to the office to address the troops. She was taking a few weeks off to bury her father and figure out what to do next. She fully intended to return, hopefully, with renewed vigor, because that’s what her father, and especially her mother, would want. She put her number two, Megan Chambers, in charge, and took her leave.
Now she opened the fridge for some chicken that had thawed overnight. She had promised Scott a home cooked meal, but couldn’t deny the idea made her nervous. It was going to get difficult, for sure. She sprinkled garlic seasoning on the chicken breasts and turned on the stove to warm the pan. While it warmed, she stood by the balcony window with a glass of wine. She was going to have a reaction when Stiletto walked through that door. She wasn’t sure exactly what. Sadness because he wasn’t her father? Or guilt that she broke off with him out of fear he’d be shot dead somewhere? Yet here he was, alive and well, and she had to bury her father.
Nothing made sense anymore.
When Stiletto entered the condo, he found Ali at the stove. She said hello without turning around. He asked if he could help but she had dinner mostly prepared. “There’s beer in the fridge,” she said.
Stiletto grabbed a bottle and sat at the counter. She flipped the chicken over. She’d assembled a salad and two potatoes baked in the oven.
She barely spoke to him nor did she turn to look.
She served dinner at the table and he told her about his meeting with O’Brien. Ali did not know about Fairmont’s mob connection.
“Why would he want my company? Just to launder money?”
“You ship all over the world and earn millions. He can launder money and smuggle stuff.”
They ate quietly for a while. Stiletto complimented the meal. The garlic gave the chicken a kick. His own efforts at cooking were only passable. He cooked a lot of chicken at home, but Ali did it right, keeping it moist while his sometimes resembled toast.
“This isn’t a simple police matter any longer, is it?” she said.
“No. If we can get some proof and get it to O’Brien, we may have a chance at bringing Fairmont down.”
“What about Clover?”
“I’m not sure about him.” He mentioned the dead whistle-blower and Clover’s arrest of the also-dead suspect. Ali made no comment.
They finished dinner and Ali poured coffee for herself but stopped short of pouring a second mug. She made Stiletto a cup of tea, Earl Gray this time, which he gladly accepted. They relocated to the deck. The cool air felt nice and the traffic noise from the bridge seemed oddly soothing.
Stiletto unwrapped and cut a Macanudo corona he had purchased on his way back. The wind carried the smoke away.
“We haven’t had a chance to really catch up,” she said. “Where are you living now?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Same apartment?”
“Just got a house.” He laughed. “Then somebody broke in and shot up my car.”
“What?”
“Related to another case, forget it. I have a neighbor who has three cats. She’s older. Very nice. Another neighbor is a spooky Russian lady who talks on her porch all night, whispering Russian.”
“You should get a date with her.”
“No, I like wondering if she’s ex-KGB or something.”
“Not much of a life, is it?”
He frowned at her. “What does that mean?”
She blinked and he realized he’d spoken with a bit of an edge. He wanted to take the words back.
Too late.
“Don’t get mad. I’m sympathizing. Jesus, I put in so many hours, all I do at home is sleep. I don’t have much of a life either.”
She put her unfinished coffee on the little table between the chairs. “I’m going to bed.”
Stiletto kept his mouth closed as she went back inside. She slid the patio door closed with authority. He finished his tea and smoked the cigar and admired the view some more, the bridge lights competing with the city lights across the bay. Things were going to be raw for them, no matter what. He had to watch the attitude. She didn’t need it and neither did he if he was going to solve the problem. He felt angry about reacting the way he did. Should have known better. Why did he take it the wrong way?
Because he was mad at her for leaving him. He sighed and shook his head.
When he was sure Ali was down for the night, he went inside to her little office nook just off the kitchen and turned on her computer. The monitor glowed brightly; he switched on the desk lamp to reduce the glare.
He clicked on the Chrome browser and looked up Fairmont’s company website.
FairSoft had a very efficient website, with sections for products, press releases, and investor relations. Scott clicked on the company’s Dow listing, but the stock chart meant little to him. The graph seemed to show a downward trend, however. Articles confirmed that. Products had failed or been surpassed on the market, the stock price had been falling steadily for some time, saved by the occasional uptick. FairSoft was no Apple. If Fairmont had a laundering arrangement with the Outfit, the condition of the company had to have strained the relationship. Such a strain might indeed drive a man to organize a murder to take over Ali’s company.
Scott grabbed a beer and went back to the computer. Under “About Us” he found pictures and bios of the company’s top officers.
Martin Kent, CFO. Long resume in the tech industry. Seemed clean enough.
Stiletto wondered what he was even looking for as he clicked the next name. The flare up with Ali wasn’t forgotten. Why was he mad? Sometimes relationships ended. Why wasn’t that enough to quiet his mind?
He’d been in love with her, that’s why.
He kept reading. Vic Williams was FairSoft’s Vice President. Nondescript and another corporate veteran.
Had she hurt him more than he wanted to admit? It was the only thing that made sense. Considering the circumstances, coming out to S.F. had not been a mistake, but obviously it wasn’t the healthiest situation to enter into, and not because of Fairmont’s thug, McCormick.
The next link highlighted Ben Pito, corporate attorney. His bio mentioned past work in criminal defense, and Stiletto’s interest piqued. He typed Pito’s name into Google. Quite a history appeared. Articles of past cases defending syndicate goons in New York City and Chicago; a woman accused of drowning her son; various other baddies who, according to him, “deserved a good defense.” It gave Stiletto an idea. He printed a picture of Pito and folded it into his wallet.
He turned in the chair to examine the quiet living room. No sounds from Ali’s bedroom. The mess in the kitchen, from dinner prep, remained. He spent an hour doing the dishes and cleaning up, finishing with a wipe down of the counter, and stood in the kitchen wondering what to do next. He couldn’t abandon Ali. Being so high up in the tower meant it would not be an easy place to hit. The elevator ride up, and the subsequent escape down, took too long even for a professional to make a clean getaway. He still didn’t like the idea of leaving. He found extra blankets in her father’s bedroom and stretched out on the couch. She’d bought an expensive leather sofa, but the seats dipped like bucket seats in a car, and he shifted several times trying to get comfortable. He finally fell asleep, but not after staring at the ceiling for a long time.
Sunlight blasting through the patio windows woke him around six the next morning. He heard Ali splashing in the shower. Scott covered his eyes with a forearm and dozed off again until he smelled coffee
and then he sat up.
Scott wiped his eyes. The blanket had fallen on the floor.
Ali leaned against the kitchen counter holding a coffee mug. She sipped from it.
“You didn’t have to stay,” she said.
“I don’t think it hurt, just in case.”
“You think--”
“Of course. Now that I’m here. They can’t hurt you, though. If they do, they lose. They’ll try other things.”
“I have to start making funeral arrangements,” she said. “Should I bring my pistol? I have a Glock.”
“Or I can go with you.”
She drank some coffee.
He rose from the couch and approached, but a look from her stopped him halfway. “My apologies for last night,” he said. “I don’t know why--”
“Forget it,” she said. “We’re both as far out of our comfort zone as we can get.”
“You shouldn’t go out alone.”
“And you slept in your clothes.”
“Let’s go to my hotel and I’ll change.” He grabbed his wallet and keys from the coffee table.
“Have some tea first,” she said.
Stiletto watched Ali’s back while she made her deals with the mortuary and cemetery. He kept watch, but there were only rows of headstones, lingering visitors, and crews digging new graves. No sign of McCormick or any goons. With his arrival on scene, they had to research him to see what kind of threat he might be. It did provide a bit of an advantage, but one that had to be taken right away. He unfolded the printed photo of Ben Pito and thought of his idea some more.
While Ali looked over a cemetery plot, Scott stood in the parking lot and called Toby O’Brien at the F.B.I.
“I think we should grab coffee again,” Stiletto said.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I want to know what you have on an associate of Fairmont’s named Ben Pito.”