by Ian Smith
“Where did they find the car?”
“Trapped between some trees in a ravine. The social worker, cute little girl named Amy, said the trees saved my life. If they hadn't been there, I would've kept going.”
“Yuri, I want you to think back to what you saw before the accident.”
“The problem is, I didn't see much.”
“I know, but you said you saw the headlights. Did you by chance see if there was someone in the passenger seat?”
There was a pause on the other end. “I can't say for sure,” Mandryka said. “It all happened so fast.”
“How about the color of the truck?”
“Nope. Too dark. Anyway, the headlights blinded me.”
“Had you seen the truck before it hit you?”
“That's the strange thing. I never saw it. There's not much traffic on those roads that early in the morning. I was the only car in the southbound lane.”
Sterling already knew this wasn't an accident. The truck had purposely hit Mandryka, and when he drove off into the ravine, they had left him for dead.
“Let me ask you this. Before the accident, did any trucks pass you in the northbound lane? Take your time and really think hard about this.”
Mandryka's response was immediate. “Just one.”
“Did you get a good look at who was driving?”
“No, but there were two of them.”
“Did you catch the make of the truck?”
“I'm not sure. I'm not too good with car models and such. But I remember it was an old pickup with flimsy wood railings in the back.”
Sterling remembered what Miles Borwind, the manager at the Grand Union, had said. Wood railings to keep cargo from falling out. There was only one conclusion to make—the killers were still closing the circle on everyone who knew about those dead blackbirds. Sterling wondered if Kanti was still alive.
“What's your prognosis?” Sterling asked.
“Good, according to my doctor. A couple of more days and they'll know if they have to go in and drain the blood off my brain. My left elbow was broken in two places, but they've already set it and put it in a cast.” Mandryka released a hacking cough. “Enough about me,” he said, winded. “I'll survive. What about you? Any progress?”
“I'm inching closer,” Sterling said. “Just trying to tie some things together. I had one question that I thought you might be able to help me with.”
“Shoot.”
“How well do you know President Mortimer?”
“We're not close, if that's what you're asking. He's always been pretty standoffish.”
“I know he inherited a lot of family money, but I was just wondering if you knew of any of his commercial interests.”
Mandryka cleared his throat before speaking. “I think the story has it that his great-grandfather made a bundle in the stock market, then after turning the fortune over several times, he left a lot of his money to charity.”
It wasn't the answer Sterling had hoped for. “Thanks, Yuri,” he said. “Remember what we talked about before. You're still a target. It wouldn't hurt if you could stay in there a couple of extra days while I try to wrap this up.”
“If I don't die from the mush they serve around here.”
They shared their first laugh since they had met at Wilson's memorial service. “Stay well. I'll check on you in a couple of days.”
Sterling dialed the inside line to the pit.
“Officer Hanlon here.”
“Hanlon, it's Bledsoe.” Sterling gave him a moment to register the name before continuing. “Put a couple of men on Yuri Mandryka's door at the hospital.”
“What the hell are you talking about? With all that's happened, you're calling about some old professor?”
“He's not just an old professor, he's the next target of the killers. Don't ask me any questions, 'cause I'm not answering. That was no accident a couple of days ago. Whoever killed Wilson and Vorscht were also trying to kill Mandryka.”
“Why the hell should I believe you?”
“Because I'm recording this conversation. If the old man dies, his blood will be on your hands.”
Sterling hung up before Hanlon could answer.
45
Sterling returned to Cohen Library, this time staking out a table on the fourth floor in the desolate archives section. A couple of students flipped through old volumes, but with no windows, dim lighting, and no computers to check e-mail, people visited this area of the library only when absolutely necessary.
He spread the printouts across the table, arranging them in the same order of relevance as the Factiva search engine had. He read through all the notes he had written on Mortimer, then he picked up the first article.
For three uninterrupted hours, he read every word of every article. Most of the stories were duplicates, announcing Mortimer's initial appointment to the presidency by the board of directors or describing his widely lauded programs that distinguished the school from other top-tier universities. Serena and her work in the Romance languages were mentioned in some of the articles. But other than the academic announcements, little else caught Sterling's eye.
He got up for a stretch and walked near the windows on the opposite end of the floor and looked out over the campus. Night had fallen and the lights illuminating the old buildings made them look like medieval castles minus the moat and charging knights.
Sterling's thoughts shifted to Wilson. He never would have suspected his brother of having an affair, but in a strange way, he was relieved to discover that Wilson hadn't been so perfect after all. He wished again that he and his brother had had the time to really get to know each other.
Sterling felt the sting of impending tears and pulled himself away from the window and back to the table. His sadness flashed to anger. He was angry at himself for letting Wilson down, angry at the cowards who murdered him when he had so much more living to do. Sterling attacked the remaining articles, recharged and committed to finding something, anything that would give him insight into what went wrong that night.
An hour later, he found it.
The article had appeared in Forbes. Unlike most of the other stories, it was a feature, focusing on transgenerational philanthropy. It covered the usual suspects—the Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, and Fords. Then there were the Mortimers, whose name was not as well recognized as those of the others but whose generosity was equally impressive. Sterling read the article because it traced the Mortimers' wealth back to the great-grandfather, Spencer Mortimer, who had had to borrow money to pay for his education and started the family's long tradition at Dartmouth. After graduation, he went on, as Mandryka had said, to make his fortune on Wall Street. He was a great speculator, finally striking it big when he traded heavily in railroad stocks in the 1860s. His philanthropy was also impressive, because, unlike the others, he started with nothing but still willed half his estate to charities upon his death. The senior Mortimer had also been a man of integrity, honoring a promise he had made to himself that if he ever made it big, he'd give back big too. He bequeathed the school half of his estate upon his death, endowing a professorial chair in the name of his wife of sixty years and providing enough money to break ground on a new business school, which he insisted be named after a classmate who had been killed in the Spanish-American War.
The great-grandfather not only understood how to make money but understood that it was a lot easier to lose it. He willed the other half of his estate to a family trust and loaded it with stipulations that guaranteed that no single family member could squander the fortune he had spent a lifetime building. The article was critical of Spencer's son, Wallace A. Mortimer Sr., who was evidently something of a playboy, wasting his riches on fancy cars and beautiful women. He had gone to Dartmouth College, but no one was fooled as to how he had gotten in, especially after his father gave the school's endowment a healthy boost.
The article quickly dispatched of Wallace Jr., but dwelt extensively on the current heir, the III, who
had his great-grandfather's business acumen as well as an academic flair. He had been commonly referred to as the wealthy academic, a title, his friends had said, he secretly enjoyed. In the ten years since he had taken managerial control of the family trust, he not only had doubled their portfolio but had purchased the Sunny Fields Company, which annually beat financial projections to the satisfaction of corporate raiders who offered the family twice what they had paid for the company.
Sterling read the next line and felt his breath catch in his throat. He read it three more times before the air finally escaped his opened mouth.
The Sunny Fields Company has acquired numerous small and large farms in the Dakotas, quietly becoming the largest supplier of sunflower products in the country.
The snag. Right there in black and white. Sterling's hands trembled as he read the rest of the article. The Sunny Fields Company had become one of only a few Fortune 500 companies that was still privately owned. While Wallace A. Mortimer III didn't oversee the day-to-day operations of the company, he kept a close eye from his academic perch at Dartmouth, often calling his managers to Hanover to deliver company updates or review the complicated financials. The last paragraph was a gold mine:
Unexpected damage to some of the crop caused the company's profits to flatten in the past year, but Mortimer is confident that its highly skilled team of agricultural scientists will soon have a solution that will once again send the company profits soaring.
46
Sterling stuffed the articles in his knapsack, then rushed out into the breezy night. He punched in Reverend Briggs's private number and waited.
“Evening,” Reverend Briggs answered. His voice was relaxed, as if he had been reading Scripture.
“Reverend, it's Sterling.”
“Your ears must've been burning. I just mentioned your name.”
“Really?”
“A gentleman called about half an hour ago looking for you.”
“Did he leave his name?”
“No. Just said to tell you that he called and you'd know what he was calling about.”
Sterling knew it was Gilden. He was the only one who had the number. “Everything all right up there?” Sterling asked.
“Other than the hunger pains shooting through my stomach? Another peaceful night, thanks be to God.”
“Is Veronica okay?”
“She's just fine. She and Delthia are back in the kitchen fussing over a pot roast.”
Sterling smiled at the thought of Veronica in the kitchen. They had been dating for almost two years and she hadn't even fixed him a slice of toast. But to her credit, she'd be the first to admit that cooking wasn't one of her strengths. “Tell Veronica I'm okay and thinking about her.”
“She's gonna make an honest man out of you yet, Sterling,” Reverend Briggs chuckled. “Just mark my words.”
Sterling hung up the phone wondering if marriage really was in their future. The telling sign, his father had always said, was when you enjoyed a woman's company beyond her talents under the sheets. And with Veronica, Sterling had found this to be true. What he most appreciated about her was how low-maintenance she was for a woman who was so damn gorgeous. As long as she had her lazy Sunday mornings of cuddling and mindless television surfing, she never uttered a word about how little time they spent together. Sterling figured if that didn't make him an honest man, nothing would.
He dialed Gilden's number. This time Gilden picked up the phone.
“Professor, it's me,” Sterling said. “I just got your message.”
“We need to talk.”
“Good or bad?”
“Interesting. I have some papers here you might want to see. Do you want to come by tomorrow morning?”
It was only eight o'clock. Depending on when the next Metro North train was leaving 125th Street, he could be in Croton Falls in about an hour. “If you don't mind, how about tonight?”
Gilden didn't mind.
“I'll be on the next train,” Sterling said.
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street in Harlem stretches all the way from the East River in Upper Manhattan to the Hudson River on the West Side. Flooded with cars and loud music and vibrant people during the day, 125th Street quickly transforms into a dark, empty passageway at night, a place where people venture only if they truly belong. Sterling moved easier in this part of the city where his color, his clean-shaven head, and his young urban attire made him inconspicuous. He exited the gypsy cab at the corner of Park and 125th and hurried into the newly renovated train station. He joined the line of passengers waiting in front of the only open ticket window, his eyes slowly scanning the room. Suddenly he stiffened. Two uniforms, a Latino and a black, were chatting up two young women whose skin-tight minis and midriff-revealing tank tops left little to the imagination. The men were leaning against the wall, their hats resting in the bend of their arms, one taking down what was probably a phone number.
Sterling quickly turned his head and watched them out of the corner of his eye. He could tell by the patches on their sleeves that they were part of the MTA force, most likely rookies from the look of their shoes and heavily starched uniforms.
Sterling thought about slipping out the door, but he badly needed to see what Gilden had found. He convinced himself that way up in Harlem, in a small train-station lobby, no one would recognize him.
“Sir, you're next.” The woman behind him was pointing to the now vacant window.
Sterling pulled his cap down over his forehead and stepped to the counter. An old man with reading glasses dangling around his neck and a gray Afro that had been perfectly trimmed into an even dome slumped on a stool behind the bulletproof window. Sterling asked for a round-trip ticket to Croton Falls and slipped a twenty through the slot. The old man took the money, but kept his eyes trained on Sterling. He frowned as he punched the buttons of the ticket machine. Sterling looked away nonchalantly, but when his eyes met the bulletin board adjacent to the window, his heart froze in mid-beat. He looked into his own face, sketched in black and white, shaved head and all. The artist had done a commendable job, even getting the wayward patch of hair in the middle of his left eyebrow.
Sterling cut his eyes to the officers. They were still working the girls. One of them looked in his direction, but only momentarily. Sterling turned back to the sketch. The Bureau had listed everything except his mother's maiden name. A loud throat clearing snapped him to attention. The ticket-counter agent slid his ticket under the window. His face had relaxed and his eyes fell. He knew.
Sterling tilted his head to one side and hiked his shoulders in a give-me-a-break gesture.
The old man closed and opened his eyes slowly, then nodded almost imperceptibly. “Have a good night,” he said, before looking at the next customer.
Sterling wanted to plead his innocence and explain how it had all been a mistake. There was an entire story not printed on that bulletin board about an innocent man brutally murdered in the cold mountains of Vermont and how his brother was being set up to take the fall. But he didn't have to. The old man already understood.
“Thank you,” Sterling said, slipping the ticket in his jacket pocket and turning to the staircase at the opposite end of the lobby. He found a bench at the far end of the elevated platform, feet from the tracks, but close to an exit stairwell just in case the old man had a change of heart. As he looked out over 125th Street at the crumbling Harlem tenements and buildings, he knew the old man would remain committed.
Sterling had dozed off, only to be awakened by the loud screech of steel wheels grinding to a stop. The train had been packed with suburban commuters when he boarded it at 125th Street, but now the cars were practically empty. Sterling grabbed his knapsack and followed a small line of carbon-copy suits exiting onto the barren platform. He stopped under a flickering fluorescent light and looked across the parking lot for Gilden. Volvo station wagons and BMW SUVs waited on the receiving side of the platform steps, their occupants—wives and children—waving to
the returning breadwinners, back from another exhausting day in the city.
Sterling finally noticed the flashing headlights in the corner of the lot. They belonged to a black Yukon with tinted windows.
The truck had pulled around by the time Sterling made it across the bridge.
“I barely recognized you,” Gilden said, when Sterling had closed the door and they had pulled into the line of other expensive vehicles exiting the lot. “You look like a student.”
“I wouldn't mind being one right about now,” Sterling said. “A lot of people are after me, and if I don't figure this out . . .” Sterling slid his hand across his neck in a death sign.
The two rode mostly in silence. Sterling caught glimpses of the former agent, his skin sagging underneath his chin, his fingers long and swollen in the knuckles from arthritis. His slicked-back hair was gray now, but his eyes, when he glanced at Sterling, still burned with strength and determination. A few minutes later, Gilden passed through the open gates of a grassy park. He turned off his headlights and flicked on the fog lights. He drove about a mile up a narrow path and pulled the truck next to a pond. A layer of mist crouched over the water. The deep, throaty calls of the bullfrogs and the loud, pulsing sounds of katydids breached the frozen darkness. Gilden turned off the fog lights so that they were in complete darkness. Then he switched off the engine.
“This Heidi Vorscht had some serious baggage,” Gilden opened. “Not your typical graduate student.”
“I've gathered that by now,” Sterling said. “She's got her fingerprints throughout this entire case.”
“She'd also had some rather good fortune lately.”
“Why's that?”
“For a poor graduate student she was sitting on quite a pile of money.”
“If she had so much money, then why was she serving as a live-in for an old woman in the Upper Valley?”