“Fuck off. You know damn well I wasn’t sick.”
“Well, I knew you didn’t have a viral infection. But I didn’t for a moment doubt that you were feeling a bit under the weather.”
Actually, Puck didn’t look too good himself, like he hadn’t slept or bathed in days. The smell of decay permeated the room, and Bruce noticed a feverish—almost yellowing—intensity in Puck’s ice-gray eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t put you under the weather.”
“Now, now, no reason for threats. I’ve been expecting you, and I have my little friend, Walther, here with me.” Puck paused momentarily and patted his breast pocket. “Just in case this little visit is anything other than a social call.” Puck sat at his desk, motioned for Bruce to sit down opposite him. As Bruce sat, Puck reached under his desk and pushed a button—Bruce heard the door lock behind him. He hadn’t planned on that.
Bruce felt his right hand curl into a fist, shoved it under his thigh. “Actually, this is a social call. I just wanted to tell you some good news: I purchased a nice condominium complex today. Got it cheap, too. Everyone else thought it was rent controlled, but I knew better.”
Puck glared at Bruce, the partner’s hands folded in a prayer-like fashion in front of his chest. The bright light of understanding swept across Puck’s face, and Bruce saw Puck’s pupils shrink to the size of ballpoints in response. Puck nodded slowly, bared his teeth in smile. “That would make sense. I had a feeling you might be behind that whole vacancy decontrol debacle.” Bruce was a bit disappointed—Puck seemed almost resigned to the loss of his treasure. “I’m surprised you had the guts to pull it off. Or the brains to figure it out. You were sorely lacking in both when it came time to kill that transvestite.”
Bruce had to admit that Puck was right. It had simply never occurred to him to kill Charese. And he doubted he could have done it anyway. “So you did it for me. You killed Charese Galloway. Strangled her.”
Puck shrugged, then stood up and began pacing behind his desk. He held his chin high, the normally bowed neck now ramrod straight. “I will admit that his—or is it ‘her,’ or even ‘its’—death was fortuitous.” He glared again at Bruce, laughed derisively. “Poor boy. Poor simple boy. You had done all the hard work already. The whole thing about putting Felloff in as a partner when you knew Prefontaine had signed that affidavit was pure brilliance. Even I was impressed by that. And Prefontaine’s joke to you about wanting to kill his tenant; well, it was just too perfect. You set up the sting; all you needed to do was trigger it. But you had absolutely no idea how to separate that fool from his money….”
“Let’s talk about fools for a second, Puck. If you hadn’t been so cheap, I never would have figured out you were the high bidder. But instead of outbidding me at the auction by, say, $25,000, you cut it so close that it couldn’t pass as just a coincidence.” Puck nodded slightly in concession to Bruce’s point. “I knew then that someone must have accessed my computer records and learned what I was bidding. But you’re right. I did have Prefontaine set up. And I was trying to figure out a way to get the RTC to make him forfeit his interest so I could buy it.”
“Of course you were, dear boy.”
“But there were other ways to do it without killing someone.”
“Perhaps there were, but you apparently couldn’t figure out what they were. Besides, none of them would have been nearly as effective as the murder. After all, absent the murder, the authorities wouldn’t have given a damn about the affidavit; they only cared about it because they thought Prefontaine was a killer. Not to mention that, absent the murder, Prefontaine would have fought the forfeiture, and probably won. He only agreed to accept it as a way out of the murder charge.”
Puck was right. Prior to the murder, he had been trying to come up with a way to ensnare Pierre with the false affidavit, but it was such a minor, technical violation of the law that he knew he wouldn’t be able to get the authorities excited about it. He thought a little publicity might force the authorities’ hands, but that had been a dead end as well. Even Bailey, the coffee-drinking reporter, had shown no interest in the story.
Puck continued. “You see, you had put the noose around dear Mr. Prefontaine’s neck. All you needed to do was kick the chair out from underneath him. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on one’s feelings in these matters—the chair that needed to be kicked in this case was that transvestite.”
“So you committed murder for a million bucks. To pay Lloyd’s of London.”
Puck smiled sadly. “I believe, Mr. Arrujo, that the correct figure would have ended up being north of two million. And, touché, I do owe a good chunk of that to Lloyd’s of London—a debt, by the way, which they will now never collect upon.” He bared his yellowing teeth to Bruce. “But come, come, let’s not be so self-righteous. I believe there was a man sitting in jail these past few months—a father of a young child, no less—because you decided to make him a sacrificial lamb in your worship of the Almighty Dollar.”
“That may be, but I didn’t kill anybody.”
Puck leaned his head back and roared in laughter, his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy in a storm. “Ah, Mr. Arrujo, are you still rationalizing your life in that way?” Puck altered his voice, speaking in a mocking squeak. “It’s okay for me to lie and steal, but I firmly draw the line at murder.”
Bruce again balled his hand in a fist, again caught himself. He had won, not Puck. But why did it seem that Puck had gained control of the situation? Why was he acting so carefree? “Something like that.”
“Well, you’re still young. There’s still time for you yet.”
“Time for what?” Bruce didn’t want to ask, but couldn’t help himself.
“Time to slide a little further down that slippery slope. You remember the slippery slope, don’t you Mr. Arrujo? The one they taught you about in law school? You know, if you make one exception to the rule, you will inevitably make others? Of course you do. Do you really think there is an ethical distinction between theft and murder? Can you really justify one and condemn the other? I mean, Mr. Arrujo, let’s be honest. It’s not like you’re Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor.”
Bruce could not think of a response, so he looked away and remained silent. He had no desire to defend his code of morality to Puck, especially with Shelby listening on a speaker in the car on the street below.
“There, there, Mr. Arrujo. Don’t despair. You’re still young; you have time to grow. With a lot of hard work, you could become a killer someday yourself. ‘In for a dime, in for a dollar,’ as they say.”
Bruce wanted to change the subject. He had come to clear himself from suspicion of murder, not engage Puck in some philosophical discussion about degrees of immorality. “So I figure I know the ending—you killed Charese, probably in some rental car that matches Pierre's. And you did it at the time you knew Pierre would be on his way home from Fenway Park.” He paused here—hadn’t Jan mentioned that Puck had an expertise in forensic evidence? “And you purposely left tire tracks and carpet fibers, knowing they would lead the police to Pierre.” He paused here and looked at Puck.
“You don’t expect me to actually confess to that, do you?”
“Whatever.” Bruce shrugged, tried to appear nonchalant. “And you somehow knew that I would take it the rest of the way, somehow complete the frame-up of Pierre and cause the forfeiture.”
“I had much confidence in you, dear boy. I may have dealt you a stacked hand, but you played the cards beautifully. It was a fine line you walked—you had to give the police enough so they believed Pierre was the killer, but not enough so they could get a conviction. To be honest, I didn’t know how you were going to pull it off. And then I saw the attorney-client privilege memo!” Puck paused and clapped once, loudly. “Nicely done, young man. But, then again, that’s why we at Stoak, Puck & Beal hire only the finest young legal minds. The finest.”
“Speaking of which, I don’t know the beginning of the story. How long wer
e you on to me?”
Puck put his forefinger over his lips in a mock pensive stance. Bruce was having a little trouble accepting that the theatrical, garrulous man sitting across from him was the same stooped, crotchety senior partner at Boston’s preeminent law firm. “Let’s see. How long have I been on to you? When was your first interview?”
“My first interview?!” Bruce cursed himself for showing his surprise.
“Poor, poor boy. Do you actually think I didn’t know about you and your sordid past from the beginning? A firm like ours has many friends in the law enforcement community; it’s a simple matter to cross check all applicants through their computers. And since I’m the firm’s computer expert, I get first look—and in your case, the only look—at the data. Your name came up with bells and whistles, quick as you could say ‘Bob’s your uncle’. Why do you think I hired you?”
Bruce again was caught off-guard by Puck’s disclosure. He was not used to playing the fool. He shrugged his shoulders in response to Puck’s question.
“Because I needed a stalking-horse. I am, or I was, a man of not insignificant wealth. Unfortunately, a number of years ago I made what I thought was a safe investment of $250,000 in a Lloyd’s of London insurance syndication. Well, between asbestos litigation and oil spills and natural disasters, I found myself on the hook for close to $3 million. As you may know, as a Lloyd’s name, one’s liability to contribute to damage claims is unlimited.”
Bruce couldn’t resist. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”
Puck grinned, almost as if he were pleased to see Bruce putting up a bit of a fight. “Well, such is life, dear boy. Sometimes our treasure-laden ships run aground. As, I’m sure, you know.” Puck looked expectantly at Bruce for a response, but Bruce remained silent. “And it can be especially disappointing when the ship is so close to shore.”
Bruce allowed himself a barbed response. “Unless the ship’s insured. Then some crusty old bastard has to write you a big check.”
Puck banged his desk with the palm of his hand. “Good retort, dear boy. Fine repartee.” Puck looked across at Bruce expectantly, hoping for another thrust. Seeing none was coming, he shrugged and continued. “Well, anyway, I was able to pay off my Lloyd’s debt, but only by borrowing and leveraging. This was a short-term solution, but I couldn't keep it up indefinitely. I was beginning to think that bankruptcy would be my only option, but a declaration of bankruptcy would have been such an unpleasant and dishonorable way to end an otherwise distinguished legal career. When you came along, I took the chance that you might help me solve my little problem. The worst that could have happened was that you had truly reformed yourself and would be a good little worker bee for us. As it turned out, you were my knight on a black horse.”
“How did you know what I would do?”
“No, no, dear boy. I had no idea what you would do. But I figured you were up to something, and if I kept a close watch on you, I might profit from your mischievous little activities. So I gave you a wide berth and a free hand.”
“That’s why you let me handle the Nickel Bank foreclosures.”
“That, and I made sure the other partners didn’t put demands on your time. And I let you score a few minor hits. The cellular phone bidder at the Marlborough Street auction was a fine play, by the way. But a quick check of the firm’s cellular phone records showed that no call had been placed from that phone that day. And that fictitious lead poisoning letter from the tenant, that was also a nice touch. I had a nice laugh the night I accessed it from your computer files. Overall, I was very impressed by your little scams. I hoped they would give you the confidence to try something bigger.”
Puck paused here to see if Bruce had any reaction, but Bruce continued to remain silent, refusing to give the old man the satisfaction of complimenting him on his sleuthing abilities.
“And, of course, you did try something bigger. And I almost missed it! I could tell you were positioning poor Mr. Prefontaine for something—the deal he made on Fenway Place was too good to pass up—but I couldn’t figure out your angle. There was nothing in your computer records or your phone calls that gave me a clue. So I dug a little deeper, and started looking through the fax room files at all of the incoming faxes addressed to you over the previous few months.” He smiled at Bruce. “Did you know that the firm makes a copy of every incoming fax before delivering it to the addressee? On my orders, of course. Well, that’s where I found a copy of that wonderful little affidavit Mr. Prefontaine signed. So nice of that helpful lady at the RTC to fax it to you.”
Bruce shook his head. Who knew that the firm kept copies of all incoming faxes? He knew that the firm logged both incoming and outgoing faxes, but he thought it was just for billing purposes. Paranoid bastards.
Puck continued. “Once I found that, it was clear what you were doing. Again, I tip my hat to you. It was wonderfully subtle the way you convinced all the parties that the best way to structure the deal was to make Felloff a silent partner. That phone call where you told Prefontaine the ‘bad news’—that he couldn’t give Felloff a second mortgage—was a classic. Well done, my boy.”
So, as Bruce suspected, Puck had been listening to his calls as well as accessing his computer. That’s why he had switched to the lobby pay phones. What an idiot he had been to assume his computer was private. But he was still unsure about one thing. “Let me guess. You made up that stuff about the FBI suspecting me in the Gardner theft. The other senior partners had no idea what was going on.”
Puck nodded vigorously, grinning. “Exactly! I was trying to add to your sense of desperation. I thought if you expected you were to be fired, it might spur you into killing that drag queen. But, alas, you disappointed me, so I had to ... make other arrangements. But now you tell me—if you suspected me of the murder, why did you not simply tell the authorities?”
“Well, first of all, I didn't have any evidence. Plus, I knew you were tight with the law enforcement people. But mostly, I figured that if I ratted you, you would know exactly what happened and would tell the cops about my little scams. We were like the U.S. and Russia—we each had nuclear weapons pointed right at the other. If either fired, it would have been mutually assured destruction. We would both go to jail. To continue the analogy, I had to beat you economically, not militarily. So I concentrated on getting the property back. And I had a good ally in the LAP people. Especially when I told them that the true owner of the property was Wesley Krygier.”
Puck clapped his hands together in glee. “So that's why those rent control do-gooders were so tenacious in their attacks on me! I'm aware of Mr. Jeffries’ personal animosity toward Mr. Krygier.” He dropped his voice into a conspiratorial tone. “By the way, dear boy, whatever our differences, I think we can agree that Mr. Jeffries really is a twit.”
Bruce nodded. “No argument from me on that one. I gave him your scent, and like the dumb Lapdog he is, he chased you down.”
“Yes, he did. And he never figured out you had given him a false scent. He refused to negotiate with us. Then we tried every legal maneuver we could think of, but the judges in this state are just so damn liberal! A bunch of Socialists, is what they are. So again, nicely played.” Puck put his hands to his side and bowed to Bruce.
When Puck raised his head, Bruce noticed a film of drool had formed on his chin. It continued to spread as he spoke. “But, to get back to your Cold War analogy, it should be noted that I still have my armaments, Mr. Arrujo.” With a flourish, he withdrew the revolver from his pocket and did a little pirouette, the gun serving as a hat above his head. “I'm a madman with my finger on the button, as it were.”
Bruce tensed, felt the sweat dripping off his armpits. He was seated in a small, locked room alone with a crazy old man who had just suffered a multi-million dollar loss. Bruce had caused that loss, the old man had a gun, and the old man had killed before. Bruce considered a leap across the desk.
Puck sensed his thoughts, reacted immediately. He leveled the gun at Bruce'
s chest. “Don’t even think about it, Mr. Arrujo! Don't even so much as think about getting out of that chair.” Bruce settled back in—he needed some kind of weapon himself. He took inventory of the room. Nothing visible.
He tried to buy some time. Maybe Dom had figured out what was happening and had made a mad dash for the elevator. Or, more likely, Dom had figured it out, decided Bruce would get what was coming to him, and opted to stay in the car to console Shelby. “You’ve got a gun aimed at my head.” Now you have no choice, Dom. Run for the damn elevator. Then kick the door down and save my butt. “I’m not really in a position to argue with you.”
Puck cackled. “No, I suppose you’re not. All our scheming and planning, and it all comes down to who's holding the gun.”
Bruce noticed a dark shadow pass over Puck's face, saw the pupils of his yellowing eyes widen, heard his breathing begin to labor. He sensed that Puck had made a decision, was about to implement it. The gun began to flutter in Puck’s hand.
Bruce spun quickly in his chair, searching for something he could use as a weapon.
He saw an umbrella, an older style with a pointed metal end. He lunged for it, then heard Puck’s cold voice: “Good-bye, dear boy.”
Bruce heard the shot, closed his eyes, slumped down into his chair. He felt the splatter of warm, sticky blood on his cheek and on the back of his neck.
He waited for his body to cry out in pain, waited to feel the sensation of tumbling out of his chair and onto the floor, waited for his world to go black. He commanded himself to hold his bowels—he did not want Shelby to find him that way, on the floor, soiled.
Another second passed, and still he felt nothing. Slowly he reached his quivering hand to his face, opened his eyes and took a tentative breath of gunpowdered air. His lungs filled like a billowing sail.
He straightened himself in the chair and wiped the spray of Puck's blood and brain matter from his cheek. He was alive, and his enemy was dead. But there was no joy in it.
[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds Page 39