Perfectly Good Crime

by Dete Meserve

  If a group calling itself Robin Hood was behind the heists, that would also explain why the leader of the group went by the name of Locksley, the village of Nottingham where Robin Hood was from.

  But linking the heists to Robin Hood and this event was taking a giant leap of logic. At least David Dyal thought so.

  “Yeah, I don’t see it,” he said after I called him on his cell and briefly took him away from his son’s birthday party. “We don’t know that the silver object police hid from Thomas Speyer was a Robin Hood coin. It could’ve been any number of metal objects. And the fact that the leader of the group is named Locksley is a coincidence. You’re grasping at straws here.”

  “There’s something to this theory. There are too many coincidences.”

  “The gut isn’t infallible, Kate. Until you’ve got proof that the coin in the backpack is the same one found at the crime scenes, keep your hunch to yourself.”

  I frowned. I had the feeling he was too distracted by whatever was going on at his son’s party to give any real thought to what I was saying.

  “I’ll find someone to translate the writing on the back of the coin and get back to you,” I said with practiced calmness. “This isn’t the last you’ve heard of the Robin Hood theory.”

  After I hung up with David, I flipped the coin and peered at the small lettering on the back. I tried calling the service Channel Eleven often uses to translate documents from other languages but it went to voice mail. But Google has a pretty spry and free translation service. Using its onscreen Russian keyboard, it took a whole three minutes to type in the letters from the coin. The translation came back: “Take from the rich and give to the poor.”

  The last person I wanted to tell was my father. When my dad gets angry, he glares, froths, seethes, and scowls like many politicians. But strike at the core of something deeply important to him, and his white-hot anger often mutates into an edgy frostiness that can be devastating to be around.

  My dad had planned to have dinner with a power couple who top the list of the biggest political givers in California, donating over $1 million to an array of candidates. When their plane from New York was delayed because of another storm on the East Coast, my dad asked me to join him instead. I seriously considered not telling him about the Robin Hood coin, but I knew I couldn’t keep quiet about it.

  I met him at Cut, an upscale steakhouse in Beverly Hills where the waiters walk around with the raw cuts of meat and explain your choices before you order. Steak is not one of my favorite dinners but it certainly is my dad’s, and the restaurant has a legendary dark chocolate soufflé that even skinny Hollywood actresses who subscribe to the kale and celery diet can’t resist. After seeing all the raw meat cradled like babies in the wait staff’s arms, I lost my appetite for it, so I skipped the steak and ordered the soufflé.

  My stomach was a jittery mess as I weighed how to tell my dad about the coin.

  “Headlines,” my father said, a code word between us that stretched back to when I was seven and would scan the day’s newspapers and give my father a two-minute summary of what I thought were the major stories of the day. Back then I was certain I was doing an important service to my busy father, who didn’t have enough time to read every newspaper.

  My idea of what was important news usually fell into two categories: politics, which I knew he always wanted to hear about, and the sensational, my favorite. While I led with a headline about the magnitude 7.8 earthquake that launched a devastating tsunami on an island off Japan, my father gently sent me on a scavenger hunt to find stories “of substance,” pointing out that the signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement would have a greater impact on the world than an earthquake on a sparsely populated island. Intentionally or not, he was honing my early news instincts, and over time I started developing a somewhat encyclopedic knowledge of local and world events. In fourth grade, when the U.S. attorney general resigned abruptly, I told my dad my theory that she had quit because of her alleged involvement in a controversial wiretapping program. My dad was so proud that I had connected the dots that he let me eat ice cream for breakfast.

  In the years since I became a reporter, “headlines” had grown to mean a list of the stories that were getting the most airtime in LA, even though they were often not “news of substance”: A woman stabbed in a fight over a parking spot. Two bodies found on the exits of two different LA freeways. A violent encounter between three costumed superheroes who pose for photos with tourists on Hollywood Boulevard.

  My father then ran down his headlines: Legislation aimed at increasing the federal minimum wage. The married congressman caught kissing one of his aides. Tax reform aimed at increasing the capital gains tax. The resignation of the president’s national security adviser.

  After my dad’s medium-rare steak arrived, I finally got the nerve to tell him about the Robin Hood coin. When I got to the part about the translation of the Russian words, he stopped chewing and, almost in slow motion, set down his fork and steak knife on the table.

  “You’re certain it’s Russian lettering on the coin?”

  “Positive.”

  The muscle in his jaw twitched. “What I’m about to tell you, I’m telling my daughter, not a reporter. That’s a very important distinction. Do we have an understanding?”

  “We do.”

  “Last month, Russian-speaking cybercriminals hacked into the biggest U.S. bank and compromised information for more than eighty-five million households and businesses. They also infiltrated another seven financial institutions in the U.S. Kind of like a burglar casing a house before breaking in. A friend at Homeland Security says the hacks were meant to send a message that the Russians could cause financial chaos if they wanted to. They have evidence the hackers are connected to the Russian government, which is reeling from economic sanctions we put on them in response to their aggression in Ukraine. This Robin Hood stunt could be yet another way to point a gun at our head to ease the sanctions.”

  The waiter came to check on us, probably to see if we needed anything. But seeing the way my father was leaning over the table and the intense expression on his face, he kept moving.

  “If this is true—that someone is targeting the super rich and giving to the poor—this is a powder keg ready to blow.” In the restaurant’s muted lighting, my dad’s face took on a ghostly appearance. “If people knew there was someone—a Robin Hood—stealing from the super wealthy and giving to the poor, this could ignite all-out class warfare in this country. There would be copycats and plenty of them. People who like this Robin Hood’s idea and join his ‘merry band.’ No telling how out of control this could get.”

  “But if he’s helping the poor—”

  “You can’t steal from the rich simply because the poor are suffering.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “That’s why we have government programs and charities.”

  We were silent for a long moment, both of us pretending to focus on our food.

  “You need to get yourself off this story now,” he said firmly. “If not, you’re going to get caught in the crossfire, and it won’t be pretty.”

  “I’m not going to take myself off one of the biggest stories of the year.”

  His response was strong, almost desperate. “Let me tell you why you will. Because no matter how you report this story, it’s going to be positioned as though you’re making a political statement. If you come out against Robin Hood, people will say that you’re a privileged senator’s daughter who’s out of touch with how the rest of the country lives. And if you support Robin Hood, the wealthy will feel that you—and to some extent, me—are attacking them. That you’re advocating theft. And they’ve already fired a warning shot at you by putting your photo in the tabloids. What will they come up with next?”

  The air in the restaurant suddenly felt stiff and unbearably hot.

  “I don’t have to take a position about Robin Hood.”

  “You already have on this
story, Kate. You may not say it directly but anyone watching your reports can see that you’re pointing out the gap between the haves and the have-nots.” He fidgeted in his chair as though he suddenly wanted to be somewhere else. Then he lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “Have I ever told you not to cover a story before?”

  “No,” I said. Even when I covered the story of a young senator friend of my father’s who had been killed in a small plane crash with a woman who wasn’t his wife, my dad never said a word about how or if I should report it.

  This story was different.

  The rush of blood in my ears made it hard to make out his words. “Trust me on this, Kate. If there is a connection between these heists and some kind of Robin Hood—Russian or otherwise—you’ve got to get yourself off this story and on to something else.”

  “Even if I dropped the story today, it wouldn’t make the rest of the news media stop telling it.”

  “The rest of the media doesn’t have Bradley for a last name.”

  Throughout the rest of the evening, my dad had tried to lighten my mood by sharing some stories of crafty political maneuvering on a bill called the Reliable Home Heating Act. Usually those stories made me laugh, but I found myself distracted, forcing a laugh here and there when I thought my father was expecting one.

  When I returned home, I couldn’t sleep, so after tossing and turning for most of the night, I shuffled into the kitchen at 4:29 a.m. I sat at my counter staring at the silver coin underneath the soft glow of the glass pendant lights. The Santa Ana winds had swept in from the mountains earlier in the night, bringing stifling hot, dry air into the LA basin, but the temperature in my apartment was even hotter than it was outside. I opened the kitchen door for some relief. The only sounds were the whirr of the neighbor’s air-conditioning unit and the distant hum of the freeway as early risers began their morning commutes.

  I rubbed the hollows beneath my eyes, willing away the pounding headache that was forming over my right eye.

  I was steeped in the heists story. It doesn’t happen often, but there are some stories that become so embedded in my head and emotions that it feels like I am physically saturated with them, like a tea bag steeped in hot water. I felt the story in every cell of my body, and even though there was a physical world in front of me—a kitchen table cluttered with unopened mail, a stack of unread magazines, a sink full of dirty dishes—all I saw, all I felt, was the story.

  The first time this feeling had come over me, I’d been afraid of it, certain it was evidence that I had become too obsessed with a story. Proof that my life was out of balance. I’d shared this experience with David and was surprised when he confessed he’d had similar experiences on certain stories. He called it “reporter’s intuition” and urged me not to ignore it.

  Eventually, I came to accept it as a gift. In these immersions, I often had my most useful flashes of insight on a story. But like the light from a firefly, they don’t last long.

  As a gentle breeze swept through the room, I had no doubt that there was a connection between the heists and the generous act of giving away a backpack of food to ten thousand people every week. The Russian words on the coin were the beginnings of proof. What I needed was evidence that the same coin had been left at crime scenes.

  And who was the Russian group who was stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? Were they a known crime ring? Part of the Russian government? Did they have other motives, as my father suggested? Was this why police had hidden the evidence from the estate owners and the media?

  I resolved then that I wasn’t going to drop this story simply because my father demanded it. I knew I was putting him at political risk and causing problems with his wealthy donors. But if there was an organization stealing millions from the rich and giving to the poor, I was going to be the reporter to figure out who it was.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On my way into the newsroom the next morning, my cell phone rang. The number flashed up as “Unknown.” I hoped it was Jake finally surfacing, but instead it was Bonnie’s shrill voice on the other end of the line.

  “Kate, are you on your way?” she asked, not even bothering to say hello or identify herself.

  I glanced at the clock in the car. 7:42 a.m. I wasn’t late. Why was she checking on me?

  “I’m about five minutes away.”

  “LAPD is here. As expected, they want to talk to you about the call you received from the burglar caught on camera.”

  “Am I required to talk with the police?”

  “No, but from what you told me, I can’t see any reason why you wouldn’t. You’ve already shared with viewers everything the thief told you.”

  A sharp pain pierced my chest beneath my ribs. It physically hurt to think about being questioned by the police—not because I had anything to hide but because of what I was planning to ask.

  I had expected a couple of police detectives to be waiting for me in the small conference room on the second floor, but instead there was only one. Detective Julie Haney stood looking out of the glass windows at the newsroom below, her hands tucked in the pockets of navy blue slacks. Around her waist was a thin black belt with a handcuff holder, pepper spray, and, yes, a gun and ammunition clip. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun on the back of her head, and a sweep of bangs across her forehead made her appear younger than she probably was.

  But any hope of getting an inexperienced officer faded when she opened her mouth. “I understand you’ve got a tight schedule, so let’s make this quick. Have a seat.”

  I sat across from where she had neatly arranged a file folder and a police radio on the conference table. She didn’t join me, but instead kept looking out of the window, watching some action unfolding on the newsroom floor.

  She spoke rapidly, with a husky tone. “Have you had any contact with the suspect since the call that’s been detailed in your news reports?”

  “No.”

  “Did the suspect give you any indication of his name or location?” She kept standing, watching the newsroom, which felt odd. If this was a tactic to make me nervous, it was working.

  “No.”

  “Did he have an accent? Anything out of the ordinary about the way he spoke?”

  I have a knack for detecting regional accents, but the voice I remembered didn’t seem to be from anywhere specific. “No accent that I can recall.”

  “Think on it again. Did you hear anything that made you think he was from somewhere outside of the country?”

  “You mean like Canada or Latin America…or Russia or something?” I said innocently. I knew what she was getting at even if she wasn’t going to say it.

  “Yes, anywhere. Perhaps Eastern European…”

  “He sounded like English was his first language. Like he was from here.”

  “What proof did he give you that he was one of the burglars?”

  “None. As I said in the report, he’s an alleged burglar.”

  She turned from the window and fixed a pair of gray eyes on me. “But you think he was one of the thieves.”

  I shrugged. “Does it matter what I think?”

  She registered a half blink, then forced a tired smile. “Your news director, Bonnie Ungar, assured me that you would be helpful.”

  The door swung open then and Channel Eleven’s attorney, Ryan Nord, breezed in, dropping his leather briefcase on the table. “I hope you haven’t started without me.”

  “No,” I said. “Detective Haney was making small talk.”

  Her face was a stoic gray mask. If she was irritated, and I guessed she was, her expression didn’t show it.

  Ryan extended a hand to the detective. “Ryan Nord, Channel Eleven’s general counsel.”

  She shook his hand briskly and then turned to me. “Had you met or talked with the suspect prior to his phone confession?”

  I glanced at Ryan who nodded his approval of the question. “No.”

  “Then
why did he call you and confess?”

  “He saw my interview on another network and thought that I’d be open-minded about not labeling them as ‘bad guys.’”

  She shoved her hands in her pockets. “You don’t think they’re bad guys?”

  “It’s what they think that’s important. And they believe they’re doing this to change the world.”

  She looked skeptical. “You say you don’t know him? Then how did he get your cell number?”

  I shrugged. “He said he found it online. If these guys can bypass high-end security systems, finding my cell phone number wouldn’t be hard.”

  “What is your relationship with Detective Newton?” She slipped the question in casually, as though it was routine.

  Ryan straightened. “What does this have to do with the robbery suspect Kate interviewed? That’s what we agreed to talk about today.”

  It was the first time I saw her blink. “Is there a problem if I ask Ms. Bradley questions of a general nature related to the heists case?”

  “Please confine your questions to the matters at hand,” he said firmly.

  Detective Haney drew a deep breath and scanned through the documents in her folder.

  “May I ask a question?” I asked quietly.

  She hesitated for a moment. I could see she was figuring out how to appear cooperative without becoming a doormat. “Go ahead.”

  “Have you been at the heist crime scenes?”

  She nodded. “All of them.”

  I reached into my purse and pulled out the silver coin. My hand trembled as I placed it on the table and slid it in her direction. “Was a coin like this one found at the crime scenes?”

  She picked up the coin, examining it in her palm. “Where did you get this?”

  “From a source on another story. Is it like the silver coins that were found at the crime scenes?”