[2017] It Happened at Two in the Morning

by Alan Hruska

  “And what was that?”

  “That you were in on it,” Jacob says. “Thought the whole thing up. That we were working for you.”

  “Which is untrue.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tom blinks, when he knows he shouldn’t. The case against Donachetti had been hanging by a thread. It just became a cable around the man’s testicles.

  “And the truth is what, Jacob? Who were you working for?”

  “Hey,” Jacob says. “That’s different.”

  “Why? You want to stop? Make half a deal? Give this one to Donachetti? He’ll be all too willing.”

  Jacob says nothing, twists his mouth.

  Tom says, “Look, man. You shot a guy down in the street. Murder for money. Cold-blooded, premeditated. You’re not walking. You want to go up forever with no possibility ever of parole, you clam up now. And you may have noticed. I’m not even asking you to admit this. I don’t need your admission. I can prove murder one without you. I’m only asking who paid you.”

  “A woman. Birdie.”

  “Birdie O’Shane?”

  “Probably. I heard her name once. You said it. In the cellar.”

  “But she wasn’t the boss,” Tom says.

  “No,” Jacob replies.

  “So?”

  “I don’t know his name. You seemed to.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Little guy. Expensive threads. Looks like a frog.”

  “How little?”

  “I dunno. Maybe five-two.”

  “Teddy Stamos?”

  “That’s what you said. He didn’t give me his name.”

  “How much did he pay you? Through Birdie, I’m sure she gave you the money.”

  “For the first job?” Jacob says, then realizes what he’s done.

  Tom laughs. “As I said, Jake. Didn’t need your admission to the murder, but nice to have it from your lips.” Tom gets up. “Sit tight. Someone will pick you up in a minute.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Foster Donachetti, believing Mike and the team to be assembled behind the glass, is trying to reason with its reflection. “For Christ’s sake, Mike! This is insane! You don’t know this kid! You know me! Whatever the hell he’s told you, if you think I’ve done anything wrong or disloyal, have the goddamn decency to come in here and tell me yourself.”

  Tom walks in on the end of this speech. “Decency?” he says. “Nice point. You’re in here, Foster, because you sold out a friend. Then, night before last, you fucked up, big time. Put your life in the hands of a thug, who just sold you out.”

  “You think I’m talking to you?”

  “He is,” Tom says, sitting across from him. “The thug. Jacob Wozniacki.”

  “And what? His word over mine?”

  “So you know who I mean?”

  “You just pushed me into his room.”

  “Right,” Tom says. “He identified you too. And Mike believes him. Or you wouldn’t be here. And guess what? Teddy Stamos? The guy in the next room? He’s my next interview. Jacob Wozniacki has nailed him too. So Teddy needs something to trade with. For his own deal. And the man kisses up. Maybe he’s not giving his clients away so fast. But kicking down? Those who took his money? So what’s it to be, Foster? Is Teddy giving me you, or are you giving me Teddy?”

  Donachetti is speechless and sullen.

  Tom adds, as if offhandedly, “Whatever large sums he paid you—now that we know to look, we’ll find them. Some bank somewhere. Cayman Islands, maybe? Popular resort for dirty money.”

  Donachetti now looks sick.

  “You have a minute,” Tom says, and studies the clock on the wall. “Then I leave and do business with Teddy.”

  They wait, Foster staring straight ahead, Tom still looking up at the clock face. When Foster also turns to the clock, Tom knows that he has him. As the second hand approaches the minute mark, Tom’s eyes shift to Foster.

  “You’re not scaring me,” Foster says.

  “Too bad,” says Tom and gets up.

  “No one’s going to believe that creep.”

  “I’m about to get three creeps,” Tom says and starts walking. “You top of the list.”

  “Stop,” Foster says. Tom does, turns, looks.

  “This is too fucking crazy,” Foster says. “You just got here—what? Two days ago? You’re running a sting now?”

  “Add it up, Foster. Wozniacki is gushing. On you. Can’t stop. Piet’s heading in here. Right here. This room. Can’t wait to sell you, FOB. Like Teddy next door, who will deliver you in seconds. And the money he paid you? You didn’t stick it in a box, Foster. Not a guy like you. It’s earning interest somewhere or invested wisely. You probably never saw it, other than on a bank statement. You think we won’t find it?”

  With an expression of sympathy, Tom heads to the door. “All right,” Foster says.

  Tom stops. “All right, what?”

  “All right, tell me what the fucking deal is.”

  “You know the deal. We won’t push for the maximum sentence, but you’ll serve time. Probably a minimum security facility, five years in, three on parole. You’ll lose your license to practice. For how long? That’s up to you and ultimately, I suspect, the Court of Appeals. With no deal at all, you go to Attica for twelve years minimum, and you’ll never practice again.”

  Foster looks homicidal. “Not much of a deal.”

  “Best we can offer. You should know that. You’re a high-ranking public official whom judges like to smash.”

  “I’d be giving you a very big fish.”

  “Correction. You’d be corroborating the fish that someone else has already put on our plate.”

  Foster reflects. “I’ll need the deal in writing.”

  “Sorry. I don’t have the time. Once I get what I need from Teddy, while you wait for your writing, there goes your leverage, and there’s no deal at all. And you don’t need it in writing. You know we’re recording this.”

  “You’re a real prick.”

  “No doubt. But how else would I nail one?”

  Silence and an exchange of looks. Tom’s says, one last chance. It gets a grimace from Donachetti.

  “Have fun in Attica,” Tom says.

  As Tom opens the door, Foster says, “All right, already.”

  Tom turns and tilts his head inquiringly. Foster, looking miserable, says, “You got it.”

  “It?” Tom says.

  “Sit down, will ya?” Tom stands his ground.

  “I’ve been taking from Teddy Stamos,” Foster says.

  “How much?”

  “Several hundred thousand.”

  “Several?”

  “Five,” he says angrily.

  “Dollars, I presume.”

  “Yes. Dollars.”

  Tom comes back to the table. “Over what period?”

  “About half the year. When the takeover plans started, I suppose—way before they became public.”

  “What did you give Stamos?”

  “Nothing at first. Not for months. Then information on the status of our investigation of the Riles murder.”

  “Leaks? To the press? You do that?”

  Big sigh. “Yeah.”

  “Did Stamos ask you to talk to Jacob Wozniacki night before last?”

  “Yes, yes.” Now he’s impatient to end it.

  Tom sits. “And did you do what Stamos asked? See Wozniacki before he was shipped off to Rikers?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Basically … to blame everything on you.”

  “Which was false.”

  “Yes.”

  Tom stops for a moment. Gives Donachetti a chance to realize how far he’s just gone. That there was no reason now, and no way, to turn back.

  “Piet Dvoon,” Tom says.

  “Same thing,” Foster admits.

  “Stamos asked you to suborn Piet with the same story, which you did?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom says, �
��Victor Contrares, the gun dealer? According to the file, he came in fast, claiming to have sold a gun to Elena Riles. Did Teddy Stamos procure that testimony?”

  “Yes. It was false.”

  “And who was he working for, Stamos?”

  “I assume Jockery or the UAE, or both.”

  “You assume?”

  “I don’t know, is the point. If I did, you think I wouldn’t use that?”

  Tom smiles. “Guy like you? Yeah. I’m sure you would.”

  Interrogation room three.

  Entering, Tom says, “No lawyer, Teddy?”

  “I am a lawyer,” Stamos says. “Besides. I assume I’m here only as a witness.”

  “Target, Teddy.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You have the right to remain silent and to call a lawyer. Anything you say now can be used against you in a court of law.”

  “You’re Mirandizing me?” Teddy says, as if the very thought were preposterous.

  “We’re charging you with two homicides. Murder one in each case. And two kidnappings. We already have two witnesses against you, with more on the way.”

  “You suborning their perjury?” Teddy’s now laughing.

  “No, Teddy. They’ve been quite willing to help out.”

  “Really? No carrot and stick? No train’s leaving the station? You guys still do that, right?”

  “Hardly coercion.”

  “People bullied into confessions they later recant?”

  “And how does that work?” Tom says. “The recanting? Especially when a witness is the third-ranking ADA in the county.”

  “Oh, ho!” Teddy’s lower lip slides up in a parody of being impressed. “You have Foster, you’re saying. That should make a splash. Helping himself at my expense?”

  “You think Foster Donachetti isn’t credible?”

  “If he’s tried to implicate me, he’s lying. Shouldn’t be difficult to prove.”

  “He’s confessed to accepting your bribes. And you mentioned subornation of perjury? Happens to be one of the things you paid him to do, he says. You may deny that, Teddy, but you’re not going to be able to disprove it. And Foster ties you into everything. So does Jacob Wozniacki.”

  “I did not murder or kidnap anyone,” Stamos snaps.

  Tom says, as if losing patience, “It was you who hired Jacob, Piet, and Birdie to murder and kidnap. Wozniacki has sworn to that fact; Donachetti further substantiates it; Birdie has just been flushed from a hotel room in Oklahoma City and will doubtless reconfirm it.”

  “And what? Now we start playing carrot and stick?”

  “In your case, I’m afraid, not much left to that carrot.”

  Stamos looks wary.

  “Here’s your situation,” Tom says. “It’s pretty obvious you wouldn’t have paid anyone to kill Robbie Riles or kidnap Elena, unless someone had paid you a lot more to do it. So your leverage, normally, in making a deal would be to identify that person. Or persons. However, one of those guys, Lowell Jockery, is dead. You’ve no leverage there, since we can’t prosecute a dead man. That brings us to Rashid al-Calif, who obviously paid you to kill Jockery.”

  “You’re dreaming, Weldon. I’ve never met anyone of that name, much less had any dealings with him.”

  “Sorry, Teddy. Won’t work. We know he’s your client. Can prove it ten different ways. And then a funny thing happened this morning. Filmed by our cameras in the reception room. He took one look at you and—would you believe it? As soon as you were taken in here, he flew right the hell out of the building, claiming diplomatic immunity.”

  Tom stops for a moment to gauge Teddy’s visage, which seems a bit quivery. “The thing about diplomatic immunity,” Tom says, “is that it’s political. The country—here the United Arab Emirates—can waive it, if they want, which of course depends on a lot of factors. How important is Rashid to them, now that he’s been discredited? What would they be getting in return? And from the U.S. standpoint: would we even ask for a waiver, if Rashid is willing to cooperate? By, for example, giving us you. Dunno, Teddy, but would seem like a no-brainer for Rashid, adding his testimony to the others against you. Either as a chip to get the immunity to stick, or as part of a plea bargain if it doesn’t.”

  Teddy says nothing, but his concentration is not wavering.

  “Of course,” Tom says, “you do have a few remaining bargaining chips, yourself, don’t you? They’re sitting outside; you’ve seen them. I’m going to call them in next. Because they also have the ability to offer us you. To lighten their own sentences. Question is: do you trust them to keep their mouths shut? They are being represented here by a lawyer. Or do you think they, like Foster, Jacob and no doubt Birdie and Rashid, are ready to help themselves at your expense? Maybe even at that lawyer’s advice. You’ve seen them close-up now. How would you assess their loyalty to you?”

  Stamos’s silence matches his now totally grim face.

  “So, Teddy—you give us them? They give us you? You have the choice. For at least—” Tom looks up at the clock—“another minute.”

  “I want to call my lawyer.”

  Tom brings forth an apologetic look. “Of course you have that right. While you exercise it, I’ll just pop into the next room. And you mentioned a train? What do you know? Looks like, right now, it’s leaving the station.”

  In the observation room, Elena is crammed between Mike Skillan and Joe Cunningham. Sammy Riegert is crouched in front of the glass. She’s been sensing their surprise at the two confessions already exacted. And they’re now all observing a third—Teddy Stamos’s—with evidence pouring out of him. To Elena, it’s like watching Grand Guignol. To the three men, it’s embarrassing taking even furtive glances at Elena witnessing her sisters and their husbands being caught in her lover’s net.

  “Okay,” Tom says, “let’s get it now in sequence. Who first approached you?”

  “Lawton Sergeant,” says Teddy, struggling to get a grip on composure.

  “The husband of Elena Riles’s older sister, Constance Riles?”

  “So I understand.”

  “And was the approach by phone or in person?”

  “He called my office.”

  “Saying what?”

  “He wanted to set up a meeting. At their apartment. I suggested we meet at a midtown hotel.”

  “You already suspected what this was about?”

  “Let’s just say, I suspected they wouldn’t later want evidence—from doormen or anyone—that I was ever in their building.”

  “Did Lawton Sergeant tell you how he’d gotten your name?”

  “I asked, but he didn’t. And it didn’t matter. I knew who he was.”

  “Where did you meet, and when?”

  “Hotel Pennsylvania, about five weeks ago. I took a room. It’s not a place frequented by anyone any of us would know.”

  “And did the two sisters ask you to kill their father?”

  “Ha!” Teddy says. “To begin with, Lawton monopolized the conversation, so no one else had much chance to say anything. The younger sister, Patricia, never opened her mouth. Lawton, however, speaks gobbledygook. Constance cut in and expressed their wish in one sentence. They wanted the deed done so that it would appear it had been perpetrated by Elena.”

  “Which you arranged for.”

  “Yes.”

  “For which they paid you $2.5 million.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who put the money into your hands?”

  “We live in a digital world, Mr. Weldon.”

  “Right. So wire transfer?”

  “That … would be Constance,” Teddy says.

  “From her to you?” Tom asks.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Okay,” Tom says. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “It was a transfer from her charitable foundation to my bank.”

  “Was there an exchange?”

  “Yes,” Teddy says, as if now getting bored with the subject. “The appea
rance of one.”

  “And did you tell Constance you were also being paid $2.5 million by Lowell Jockery?”

  “I saw no reason to divulge the names of other clients.”

  “You used the term ‘deed done.’ You mean—”

  “Riles … terminated, yes. And, of course, done in such a way that evidence would point conclusively to the youngest daughter. You understand, I’m simply a middleman. Had they not found me, they would have found someone else.”

  “One more thing,” Tom says. “How did I figure in their plans or yours?”

  “You didn’t. No one had any idea who the hell you were. But you had a wallet full of identification. And fit beautifully into the frame.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  As Sofi Harding is ushered into the interrogation room, Tom takes a moment to join the observers. Approval marks every face but Elena’s.

  Mike says, “Well done,” which has a ring to it, given Harry Stith’s use, not so long ago, of the same term.

  Tom says to Elena, “I’m sorry about your sisters.”

  “Yeah?” she says. “Really?”

  “Probably a mistake, asking you here.”

  “How the hell did you know?” she says, voice strained.

  “I didn’t … know.”

  “You concocted all this out of suspicion?”

  “Not entirely,” he says. “It was what Sofi told us.”

  “About Stamos?”

  “Yes. And the personalities involved. Connie and her husband.”

  “Whom you’ve met only once,” she says.

  “It was enough.”

  Mike says to Tom, “How the hell did you know about Rashid?”

  “What? That he’d skip? Claim diplomatic immunity?”

  “I just heard two minutes ago,” Mike says.

  “You weren’t surprised, were you?”

  “You just made it up?”

  “Something wrong with that?” Tom says.

  “So that’s what you do?” Elena says, still thinking about Connie. “Just imagine the worst about everyone and make them admit it?”

  “I’ve never done it before, El. And it’s a murder case. Committed by people who were also gunning for us.”

  Awkward silence, until Elena says, “What exactly is Sofi doing here?” She has the look of someone feeling a grievance but still thrashing about for its source.