After a moment of silence in which each individual seated in Caine’s living room seemed to consider the implications of his statement, Howard Mozelle spoke up. “What about the second coin, the one Gabler has? Has it disappeared as well?”
“We’ll find out soon enough, but I’m certain it has,” Caine said. “And I’m equally certain that I know where it is.”
“And where is that?” Howard Mozelle asked.
“In the hands of Matthew Perch,” said Caine.
36
WHEN ANOTHER DAY AND NIGHT PASSED WITHOUT ANY WORD from Fritzbrauner or any progress in determining the whereabouts of Whitney and Franklyn Walker, Montaro summoned Lawrence Aikens and Curly Bennett to his apartment. Aikens appeared at Montaro’s door punctually as always, but, ten minutes past the appointed time, Curly, who seemed to be neglecting his duties of late, still had not arrived. Even though Montaro said nothing about Curly’s tardiness, Aikens, sitting in a chair opposite Caine, massaged the fingers of his left hand with those of his right, movements that spoke clearly of an unmistakable turmoil within.
Caine took a deep breath. “Let’s get to it,” he said. “We don’t have much time, so hear me well. You’ve been loyal to me. We’ve worked well together. I’ve trusted you. And I still do. I am not altogether sure I can turn Fitzer around, but I’m giving it my best try. If I manage to pull through, I’d like you to stay. If I don’t, and you do stay, I’d like to share with you something I learned from my grandfather. Some people don’t always mean what they want you to think they mean, but if you listen hard enough, your ears will begin to hear new things. One day you will be able to listen to someone and see their real meaning hidden underneath and between their words. And sometimes you will even find those meanings sitting right on top of their words for all to see, though most people will not see them because they don’t know that your eyes can hear the truth and your ears can see it. The other night, I heard truth with my own eyes and I saw it spoken with my own ears. Curly isn’t here yet, but I can hear what he is telling us.”
“What’s that?” Aikens asked.
“Curly’s a great assistant,” said Caine. “You will not find anyone better. But I believe that you’ve been driving him away, and that can cause problems for all of us if it hasn’t done so already. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Aikens stared at Caine with a mixture of discomfort and embarrassment. “I’m here for you, Montaro,” he said.
“Good,” Caine replied with a smile.
When Curly arrived a few minutes later, Caine ushered the men into his office and gestured for them to sit. Then, he took a USB memory stick from a desk drawer and inserted it into one of his computer’s portals.
“I want you guys to listen to something,” he said.
The first sound to come out of the computer’s speaker was a ringing telephone. After the seventh ring, a man was heard to answer the phone.
“Curly Bennett here.”
“Hi, Curly Bennett, Gina Lao here. Remember me?”
“Gina Lao, of course.”
Caine tapped his keyboard and the recording stopped.
Turning to Curly, he asked, “That was your voice, yes?”
“It was.” Curly’s face was flushed.
“How close are you and Gina Lao?”
“Not very.”
“How many times have you spoken with her by phone?”
“Five or six times in the last few weeks.”
“Driven by romantic interest?”
“I think more on my part than hers. She is a girl of remarkably good looks, sir.”
Montaro smothered a smile. So did Aikens.
“So, her interests were not the same as yours?” Caine asked.
“No, not really. Her aim was to open me up.”
“For?”
“Information.”
“About?”
“You and Lawrence.”
“What did she want to know about us?”
“We never got that far. Something happened that made her lose interest. I think somehow she was able to find out what she needed without me.”
“And what do you think that was?”
“Those two people who visited you in the lab, Freich and Beekman, she wanted to know about them. There were some other names she mentioned, too.”
“Did you report any of this to Lawrence?”
“No sir, I didn’t.”
“Tell me why.”
“Because my activities are all assigned to me. And that was not one of my assignments.”
“Then, in your view, Gina Lao was strictly extracurricular?”
“You might say that.”
“All right, last question. You’re a very talented investigator, and you’re a pretty sharp guy. I’m sure you could have figured out the relevance of your findings. So, let me ask you, would a pat on the back, from time to time, help you to smile a little more and report back to us when there is information we might actually need to know?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way, sir,” said Curly, his cheeks flushing again.
“See that it happens anyway,” Caine told Aikens, then looked at each man in turn. “Now, I need both of you to focus all your attention on Whitney and Franklyn Walker. I don’t want you to rest until you’ve found them. Your loyalties cannot be divided on this matter; it is too important. Do you understand?”
“I do,” said Aikens.
“And you, Curly?” asked Caine.
“I do,” said Curly. “You have my word on that.”
Caine shook hands with both men, then stared directly at Curly Bennett. “By the way,” he said. “In case you’re wondering, I’m the one who ordered the tap on your phone. Lawrence knew nothing about this.” He turned to Aikens and tilted his head apologetically. “It was both necessary and a good idea at the time. But I trust you now and I know you will not disappoint me.” He smiled, and added, “Show yourselves out, gentlemen.”
37
THE MODEL OF THE SEVENTH SHIP WOULD NOT OPEN A SECOND time. No matter how often Montaro picked up the object, rubbed its surface, or shook it, Luther John Doe’s carving remained motionless as it had for nearly half a century. Montaro hoped that somehow it might reveal to him the location of Whitney and Franklyn Walker, teach him how to find Matthew Perch, or at least reward him with another magnificent display of colors and shapes. But there was nothing.
And yet, in some way, the model had already done its work, for it had reminded Montaro of the value of patience, something often sorely lacking in men in his position with the pressures he faced. Luther John Doe’s model had taken nearly fifty years to open and reveal its interior; Luther had waited the same amount of time to tell Montaro all he knew that he had kept inside him. How many years had the Seventh Ship traveled? Montaro understood that if he remained focused and determined, if he trusted his instincts as P. L. Caine advised him, he would arrive at a place he wanted to be, even if he didn’t yet know where that place was.
Soon enough, even without any apparent action on his part, events began to move forward, as if plans beyond the scope of his own understanding had already been put into motion. Anna Hilburn finally managed to get hold of one of Whitney’s cousins, who had actually heard from Whitney in a letter and learned that she claimed to be working for an international nonprofit agency developing health-care clinics in Africa, and also that the baby in her belly had begun kicking harder, as if it, like the images Montaro had seen in Luther’s carving, was preparing to emerge and reveal its secrets. Montaro immediately turned this information over to Lawrence Aikens and Curly, advising the investigators to use every means at their disposal to follow up on it.
And one early morning, when Montaro hadn’t even made it in to work yet, Larry Buchanan dropped by The Carlyle unannounced with information that he said couldn’t wait and that he hadn’t wanted to discuss over the phone.
“What is it, Larry?” Montaro asked as he adjusted the knot in his tie in his living room m
irror while Larry helped himself to a tall cup of black coffee.
“It’s about your pal Fritzbrauner,” Larry said.
“What about him?”
“He’s coming into town,” said Larry. “Old man Hargrove’s having him over to dinner at his place in Chappaqua this weekend. Guess who else is coming to dinner?”
“Colette Beekman?” Montaro asked.
Larry leered at his friend. “I know what you’re thinking about, Monty. Same thing I’m always thinking about,” he said. “Yeah, Beekman’ll be there. But you know who else?”
Montaro shrugged.
“Richard Davis, Herman Freich, and Roland Gabler. What does all that tell you?”
Caine didn’t pause. “A fact no longer in question, and one I already anticipated.” He spoke simply, with an almost Zen sense of calm about him, as if what Larry was telling him had already been predestined. “They’re joining forces. It also tells me that one of them will be calling me after they have that dinner.”
“Probably so,” said Larry, then added, “Here’s one more thing for you.” There was a painful edge to his voice now as he opened his briefcase and took out a large brown sealed envelope. He passed the envelope to Caine, who understood that the painful edge in Buchanan’s voice resulted from the fact that Larry’s boss, Julius Hargrove, was using Larry as his messenger boy.
“What is it?” Montaro asked.
“They have a proposal for you.”
“For what?”
“They want you to join them.”
“Really. How’d they figure that all of a sudden?”
“I suppose they think you could cause trouble for them later down the line and it’d be better for them to have you on their side.”
“So, they think they can get me cheap?” Montaro said. And also maybe if I join them, they think their coins will miraculously reappear, Montaro thought, but didn’t say this out loud.
Larry didn’t respond. Caine took a letter opener from his desk, sliced open the envelope, and removed the document, which consisted of two stapled pages on Hargrove, Hastings and Dundas company letterhead. Caine scanned the offer, which detailed ownership stakes in both the coins themselves and in any future coin or coins that might come into being, and also in any profits that might come from exploiting or synthetically reproducing the elements in those coins in the future. The details of the proposal, the percentages, obligations, and everything else that was enumerated in the document’s stiff legal language, were not nearly as important to Caine as what the document signified, which was that Kritzman Fritzbrauner had not fully understood or accepted what Caine had tried to tell him. He was still thinking in terms of ownership, even though by now he should have understood that the coins had wills of their own and could not truly be bought, sold, or owned.
Caine folded the proposal and slipped the pages back into the envelope.
It had taken all of Larry’s pride and will power to keep himself from peeking at the proposal while Caine had been scanning it. Now he looked Caine straight in the eye. “Good news?” he asked.
“Don’t know yet,” Caine said, and Larry understood that was all he would get out of his friend. When Montaro’s cell phone rang, Montaro draped an arm around Larry’s shoulders and walked him to the front door. Montaro stood in his doorway watching Larry until he was finally swallowed by the first available elevator. When Montaro took out his phone to answer, it had already stopped ringing. He called into his voice mail to hear the message, and was met with the sound of Roland Gabler’s voice. Gabler didn’t even begin with a hello.
“Who stole the coin from my safe?” he asked.
38
OVER THE WEEKEND, WHILE KRITZMAN FRITZBRAUNER WAS apparently dining with Julius Hargrove in Chappaqua, along with Colette, Roland Gabler, and the others, Montaro shut off his cell phone and didn’t turn it back on. He didn’t return Gabler’s message and he didn’t respond to the proposal that Larry Buchanan had left with him. He made no contact with the Mozelles, Anna Hilburn, or any members of his investigative team. He left his laptop at his office and went back to Westport, where he didn’t answer the home phone except when his grandfather called. He instructed Priscilla and Cecilia to do the same.
He dined out with his family one night and hauled out the barbecue on another, grilling fresh scallops en brochette—Priscilla’s favorite. Priscilla now seemed to be in excellent spirits. She had been reinstated at Mt. Herman Academy—the Stockbridge police chief had informed Gordon Whitcombe that he would not be pursuing any charges against her—and she would be returning to boarding school at the end of the summer for her senior year. Montaro hoped that she had not tried to make any contact with Nick Corcell, but he knew better than to ask.
During the late nights and the early mornings, Montaro and Cecilia made love with uncharacteristic frequency and fervor, and Cecilia noted that her husband seemed calmer than he had in months, more so even than he had seemed in Carmel, and certainly more than before the whole fiasco with Fitzer and the Utah mining disaster.
“Then everything must be all right and there’s nothing to worry about,” Cecilia said hopefully late Saturday night as she rested in the arms of her husband.
“There never was,” Montaro said, knowing full well that the one thing his wife always sought was reassurance. He was happy to provide her with it, even though he didn’t seek it for himself. He simply knew that neither Gabler nor any of the others would attempt to contact him until their Chappaqua weekend was over, and that even Richard Davis would not make any move until that time. For the weekend, he could wait, be patient, and enjoy his life, knowing that events would unfold at their proper pace in the due course of time.
But when the weekend was over, everything changed as he had understood it would. The moment he arrived back at his office at Fitzer, his email inbox was flooded with messages, and before he even sat down at his desk, the phone began ringing. Montaro assumed that the person calling would be Gabler to ask about his coin or Julius Hargrove demanding a response to the proposal and asking if Montaro would join them, but he was surprised to learn that Kritzman Fritzbrauner was on the phone.
“Montaro, the mountain has finally come to Muhammad,” Fritzbrauner said in his usual lofty tone. “What do you say to that?”
“I am nearly speechless, Mr. Mountain, and welcome is what say I,” responded Caine, who felt a good deal more fondness for Fritzbrauner than for any of the others plotting against him. Though every bit a competitor, Fritzbrauner was an exceedingly cultured and well-mannered one. “I hope you’re here for a while. I owe you a dinner, as I recall,” said Montaro.
“I am on my way to Argentina for a few days, with my daughter, to visit her mother. But our plan has called for us to pass through New York, so I think that a dinner might be in order on our return. All’s well with you?”
“Depends on the day, Kritzman; but so far so good.”
“Glad to hear it. I am looking forward to picking up our last conversation, which was so suddenly interrupted.”
“So ‘rudely’ interrupted would be more to the point,” Caine said by way of an apology. “I hope that you have forgiven me for hanging up on you. I humbly ask that you chalk it up to a holdover from my socially impoverished youth. Now, about that dinner.”
Caine made tentative plans to meet with Fritzbrauner but knew that he would have to postpone them the moment after Lawrence Aikens dropped by the Fitzer offices out of breath and unable to conceal his enthusiasm. By the look on his face, Caine understood that his chief investigator had important news to relate.
“You got something?” Caine asked.
“Think so.” Aikens laid an unsealed envelope on Caine’s desk before taking a seat across from him.
“What’s in it?” Caine asked, gingerly fingering the envelope.
“A letter.”
The letter was addressed to Frederick Carson, Whitney’s uncle, but the return address was what caught Montaro’s eye. It was a postal box in Alcala
de Henarés, Spain. The name above the box number was Whitney C. Walker.
Montaro paused before taking the letter out of the envelope.
“Tampering with the mail is a felony,” Caine told Aikens, who blanched, then smiled slightly.
“You’re gonna turn Curly in?” asked Aikens. “I thought you told me I should be nicer to him.”
Caine smiled slightly, then opened the envelope and took out a letter that Whitney had written to her uncle Fred. The letter, neatly handwritten in black ink, chastised her uncle for failing to respond to her previous letters. Whitney inquired after the health of various friends and family members, and she detailed the weariness she was feeling now that she was in the third trimester of her pregnancy. The letter contained little information of interest to Montaro until the last line: “And please, once again, don’t tell anyone where we are. The work we’re doing here is supposed to be top secret. Love to all, Whitney.”
Caine looked up at Aikens.
“Where the hell is she, man?” Caine barked.
“Alcala de Henarés, Spain,” Aikens said.
“Yeah, I can read envelopes, too,” said Caine. “Where is that?”
“A small town outside Madrid,” said Aikens. “I’m running checks on everything: whether there is or isn’t a telephone or computer connection; who other than Whitney and Franklyn might be living there; also the name of the nearest hospital and whether she’s been seeing any doctors there. And, of course, we’re trying to pinpoint how often Cordiss and Victor fly in from San Remo and how long they stay.”
“Well, you can forget about the computer and telephone,” Caine said. “If Victor and Cordiss are doing their jobs right in keeping Whitney and Franklyn isolated, there won’t be anything like that. They’ve probably been intercepting Whitney’s mail, too; I’ll bet that’s why she thinks Uncle Frederick hasn’t written her back. You’ll have to find a way to get her to a telephone outside the house. If Cordiss Krinkle is with her, tell your contact people to be careful. She’s very smart, as you well know, and we don’t want her to move Whitney anywhere. It is absolutely essential that not even a hint of suspicion surfaces. All right, you better get on it.”
Montaro Caine: A Novel Page 26