Perfectly Good Crime

by Dete Meserve

  I smiled at the irony of that. “You don’t think he’s Russian then?”

  He shrugged. “I think he has mastered a Russian ‘accent’ but he has not studied or spoken the Russian language. I do not hear anything that points to him being a native Russian speaker, no.”

  I frowned. “Which leads to the question of why he would put Russian words on the Robin Hood coin if Russian isn’t his first language.”

  Curtis looked baffled by my nonquestion. That kind of question is the staple of cable television news because most pundits will rush to speculate even when they have little real information to go on.

  Curtis wasn’t a pundit. “I cannot say.”

  Was Robin Hood Russian? Or was the Russian phrase on the coin meant to disguise Robin Hood’s real origin?

  I watched the monitor in the newsroom as my interview with Curtis Seifrid aired on the newscast that evening. If Robin Hood was not Russian, that exploded the possibilities of who he could be. Without that as an identifier, where do you even start?

  And did I want to find him? I knew what kind of ratings would be won by the station who disclosed his identity first. Those kind of exclusive stories win awards too. But if he were caught, all this would end. The food banks, the scholarships, the gifts to build housing for the homeless and working poor. The story.

  Yet what Robin Hood was doing was wrong. At least the LA Times thought so. They posted an editorial from ethicist Randall Wallace that read: “Robin Hood is not the only way to help the poor—political action might work better. Large-scale robbery produces pain for the wealthy, sets a bad example, and may inspire copycats.”

  As proof of their point, the LA Times reported that earlier in the day, a woman was robbed of her Rolex watch and gold bracelet as she left her car and entered a furniture store in Beverly Hills. In a brazen afternoon attack, three men in hoodies jumped out of a BMW, held the woman down, and cut the jewelry off her wrist. The Times trumpeted this as proof that Robin Hood was inspiring violence against the wealthy.

  Yet viewers liked what Robin Hood was doing. The station had launched a poll with the question “Do you admire Robin Hood or think that what he’s doing is wrong?” Already 71 percent said they admired Robin Hood. A Channel Eleven News poll isn’t empirical evidence of anything, but it was, at minimum, a gauge of viewer sentiment.

  “You’re not going to believe this.” A voice startled me from behind.

  I whirled around to see Hannah. Her hand trembled as she handed an iPad to me.

  I stared at the numbers on the screen. “What’s this?”

  She shook her head. “The interns called the food banks, the places that are giving out scholarships, homeless shelters—every organization who received money from Robin Hood.”

  “And? Don’t bury your lead, Hannah. Tell me, what am I looking at here?”

  Her voice shook. “The amount of money Robin Hood has given away is far greater than the amount stolen.”

  “By how much?”

  She pointed to the screen. “Fifteen million dollars.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It had to be a mistake. If Robin Hood had given away $15 million more than he had stolen, someone must have calculated wrong. Or Robin Hood had robbed twice as many estates as we knew about. Had police underreported how much was stolen at each estate?

  I swung by David’s office and shared the $15 million discrepancy with him, and by the time I finished, he was smiling. At first I thought it was a “You don’t understand” smile that would precede a lecture about how I had gone down the rabbit hole. But there was no lecture.

  “Ratings winner,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Now use your advantages to find out if Robin Hood has robbed more estates than police are reporting.”

  “Advantages? My inside source can’t help me, my father hung up on me after demanding that I stop covering the Robin Hood story, and a few days ago PowerTrade dropped their commercials on Channel Eleven because they didn’t like how a senator’s daughter was covering the story.”

  He took off his reading glasses and laid them on his desk. “Most reporters don’t get to rub elbows with America’s wealthiest 100 at political fundraisers. Or get invited to their homes because some other wealthy guy sets up a meeting. They have no way into that exclusive world. That’s your advantage.”

  I hadn’t looked at it that way before. I’d taken for granted the privileges I enjoyed being Hale Bradley’s daughter and had focused primarily on the negatives.

  “Susan says you’re attending a fundraising lunch with an appearance by the First Lady tomorrow afternoon. Go there and find out what the wealthy know about any unreported heists. That’s one thing you can do that no other reporter can.” He slung his messenger bag on his shoulder. “Now, when are you going to tell me your news?”

  Did he know about ANC? I scanned his face for anger or frustration but didn’t see any sign of it.

  “Tell you what?” I know it’s a chicken move to feign ignorance in times like this, but I wanted to make sure we were both talking about the same thing.

  “About ANC. I heard about it from an editor friend of mine there. You know I hate secrets. Why didn’t you tell me they made you an offer?”

  A pang of guilt shot through me. “I’m…not sure I’m going to take it.”

  He looked at me in disbelief. “Why the hell not?”

  “It’s…complicated.”

  “How many more train wrecks or mudslides do you need to report on before you decide you can do something else?”

  “Wait. You’re okay with me leaving at the end of my contract?”

  His face reddened. “No, I’m not okay with you leaving at the end of your contract. We’ve built our reputation around your reports and I’ll be damned if I let Andrew Wright and ANC ride our coattails on this one.” He picked up a can of Dr Pepper from his desk and popped it open. “Honestly? I think they’re going to eat you alive at ANC. You’re fearless, but you’re not ready for the kind of politics and competition a place like that serves up every day.”

  I frowned. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Bonnie’s going to fume, of course,” he continued, unfazed. “And she’ll put up a big fight and make you some insane offer to stay here. But you shouldn’t take a deal from Channel Eleven, no matter how good it is. And you know why?” He took a few gulps of soda. “With your last name, you can bet you’ll be on every high-profile political story out there. From there, you could end up as a White House correspondent or a political commentator for any one of the broadcast networks.”

  I looked down at my hands. It was the first time I realized that it wasn’t only Eric who was keeping me from going to New York. I was frightened, afraid of taking a big leap and failing. And equally afraid of staying exactly where I was.

  A luncheon with the First Lady has specific fashion requirements. There isn’t a written dress code but the unspoken rules are clear: wear a dress or smart suit in conservative colors like black and darker shades of blue, gray, or neutrals. Jewelry should be minimal, hair down, and closed-toed footwear is best. Since this was a luncheon outdoors, I’d opted for a slightly chunkier heel, to avoid the novice move of getting stilettos stuck in the grass. I was digging in the back of my closet to find the right pair when my phone dinged, alerting me to a text. My dad.

  “Please don’t attend fundraising lunch today.”

  I felt a pang of guilt. My father had never disinvited me to anything before.

  “Why?” I typed back.

  Three blue dots danced on the screen, indicating he, or more likely his assistant, was typing an answer. I felt a sudden case of heartburn coming on as I waited for him to respond.

  “Need to distance myself from you and this Robin Hood story.”

  My father had never spanked me as a child. I’d never even had a time-out or been ordered to my room like most of my friends. My father was around so little that he had rarely even rai
sed his voice at me. Seeing the text felt like I’d been punched in the chest. Hard.

  I stared at the perky green bubble on the screen, wondering for a moment if perhaps it had been mistyped or autocorrect had taken over.

  I knew better.

  Tears stung the corners of my eyes and I willed them back. I wasn’t going to let my father order me around like I was one his aides or staff members. I was entitled to my opinions about Robin Hood, and I knew he wasn’t thinking clearly about the positive impact Robin Hood was making.

  I needed to talk with him face-to-face. Not through a text his assistant sent or a phone call. In person.

  I dressed quickly and headed to the luncheon, determined to work this out with him. The event was held at the home of the chairman of Universal Studios, and his $13 million estate was small in comparison to the homes I’d been reporting from recently. Still, the ten-bedroom home sat on 1.2 developed acres of prime real estate in the tony La Mesa section of Santa Monica. Its 14,000 square feet nestled against the ultra-exclusive Riviera Country Club, home of a legendary golf course and breathtaking ocean views—along with a whopping $250,000 initiation fee and one of the highest membership rejection rates in the country.

  The event was billed as a “closed-door roundtable,” which meant that media were not allowed until the First Lady made her speech. Then reporters were ushered out again when the questions and answers session began.

  The biggest hurdle was the check-in table, staffed by five well-dressed political aides and flanked by two security guards wearing highly visible earpieces and walkie-talkies. When I stepped up to the table, a woman in a dotted sheath dress searched through the invitation list for my name. My fingertips tingled with anxiety as she looked through a list in another binder, her mouth twisted in a confused frown.

  “Here it is, Ms. Bradley,” she said, brightening. “On the original invitation list. There’s a notation, however, that says you are unable to attend.”

  I feigned the most sincere smile I could muster. “Oh, I thought I was going to be out of town, but my travel plans changed at the last minute.”

  “It’s not like your father to have forgotten to notify us,” she said with uncertainty. She turned to ask what to do from a harried-looking man working alongside her. They both glanced at the long line behind me.

  “I’ve seen you at these events with your father before,” she said quietly. “So…enjoy the afternoon.” She handed me a yellow ticket and motioned toward the entrance.

  Getting through a security screening for an event with the First Lady added another five minutes to the check-in, as all guests went through metal detectors. Lunch was held outdoors in a grassy backyard the size of a football field. A formal black curtain sectioned off half of the yard, where ten tables were set up in the grass with cheery yellow roses and bowls of lemons at each table.

  I recognized several political figures, including the current and former mayors of Los Angeles, a congresswoman from the Thirty-Second District, and a few people I suspected were high-ranking entertainment executives—recognizable by their more casual attire and the cell phones seemingly glued to their ears.

  This fundraiser wasn’t for a particular candidate but rather an event to raise money for the political party my father belonged to. The more you paid, the more you got. One hundred fifty people paid $10,000 each to attend. A smaller group paid $15,000 to stick around for a private chat and photo with the First Lady.

  I spotted my dad engrossed in a conversation with the head of Christie’s Auction House. I strode toward him as though things were as they’d always been.

  “Dad.” My voice was tentative and small.

  He turned to me and his face crumpled. “Kate.”

  “I know you said I—”

  “Would you excuse me, Sonya,” he said to the head of Christie’s. “I haven’t seen my daughter in ages and would like to have a few moments with her.”

  “Of course,” she said and stepped away.

  “We need to talk,” I breathed.

  “Let’s not create a scene,” he said firmly.

  I inhaled sharply. “I want you to know that I’m not trying to ruin your chances for reelection.”

  He dropped his hands to his sides. “Your association with the Robin Hood story is already doing that. And your presence here is going to distress a lot of people here. But don’t call attention to yourself by making a swift exit. Drop in on a quick conversation, stay a few more minutes, than politely excuse yourself. You need to leave.”

  I touched the sleeve of his suit, wanting to find some way to connect with him. “This Robin Hood story is changing the way people think about the poor. It is a movement for shared prosperity. That’s important.”

  For a moment he seemed lost in thought. “Right then you reminded me of your mother.”

  Before he could say anything more, a congressman with large eyeglasses and a receding hairline whisked him away to meet a group of donors from the health industry. I watched him walk away, wondering what my mother had to do with any of this.

  I stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to do. Should I leave, as he’d demanded? Or could I, as David had suggested, use this opportunity to look into the discrepancy between what Robin Hood stole and what he gave away—to find out if Robin Hood had robbed more estates than the police were reporting? I’d been at enough fundraisers to know that the super wealthy aren’t that different from the rest of us. They gossip and tell stories, and although it’s not true that all wealthy people know each other, they often know a lot about what other wealthy people are doing.

  I scanned the crowd. There were so many “brand names”—famous people—that I couldn’t approach any of them without appearing to be fawning or stalking. Celebrities had a kind of radar for reporters, so even the friendlier ones would find convenient excuses to avoid conversation with me.

  Then I spotted them. Two executive types gathered near the bar. I ordered a drink and briefly eavesdropped on their conversation. The tall bookish man with the oversize tortoiseshell glasses was talking about the private airplane that had crashed in the Mojave Desert earlier in the day. He seemed to know the owner of the plane, who was fortunately not the one flying it that day. The woman he was talking to, a brunette wearing a black tweed dress and Chanel sunglasses, hung on his every word.

  I stood next to them while the man finished his story. At least he was talking about something I knew about instead of something like derivatives or bond prices, which was often the topic of conversation at fundraisers. “I heard that right before the crash, the pilot had accidentally caused the tail to rise and create drag—a process known as feathering,” I added.

  The woman smiled at me and then launched into a brief story about how she had recently been in a private jet that ran into trouble. I was in.

  As soon as she finished her story, she turned to me and said. “You’re Senator Hale Bradley’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m Kate.”

  “Linda Paulson,” the woman said. She had an easy grace about her and I suspected she worked in fashion or art—but I knew better than to ask. The man followed with a first name-only introduction—James.

  “There she is,” I heard a voice behind me say. I turned around to see Thomas Speyer, the owner of the Holmby Hills estate. He was smiling, friendlier than I remembered, so I returned the greeting. “Hello.”

  Only he wasn’t talking to me. Instead, he hugged Linda. “We should grab lunch soon.” He turned to me. “How is the news business these days, Kate?”

  I knew he did it deliberately to alert his friends that a journalist was in the house. It worked. They both turned to look at me. .

  Thomas didn’t keep them guessing. “Kate is a reporter at Channel Eleven. I thought they weren’t letting the media in until later.”

  The two exchanged nervous glances. James started to say something—I think to excuse himself—but Thomas kept going. “Ha
ven’t viewers tired of your Robin Hood story yet?”

  I felt an immediate shift in the mood from the other two. James’s eyes darted around the yard, clearly looking for a reason to leave this conversation.

  “Well, we’ve uncovered something unusual. Robin Hood has only robbed five estates for twenty-one million dollars total, but he’s given away thirty-five million dollars.”

  “Sounds to me like Robin Hood has revenue coming in from other criminal activities,” Thomas said. “We all know that organized crime is rampant in Russia.”

  “He’s not Russian,” I said firmly. “I interviewed a Russian linguistic expert who says Robin Hood has mastered a Russian accent but Russian is not his native language.”

  Thomas waved me off as though I was a child with a foolish idea. “Anyone can claim to be an expert these days. The simple answer is that there are many more estates being robbed than the media know about.”

  “It is possible, Thomas, but I seriously doubt it.” Linda said in clipped tones. She had a graceful way of speaking with her hands that took some of the sting out of her words. “You and I—all of us—would’ve certainly heard rumblings if there were.”

  “I agree, Linda,” James added. “I’ve heard a lot about the five estates that have been robbed. Even know one of the robbery victims. So how would this Robin Hood get ahold of fifteen million more than he’s stolen?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “All of the billionaire victims have secrets,” Hannah was saying later that afternoon in the Fish Bowl. The large monitor displayed a photo of each estate owner. “We looked for shared histories, shared connections—a single person who appeared in all their lives. Many of them are connected to each other in some way or another—perhaps they are part of the same club or attended the same university—but we haven’t yet found any unifying connection. Except they all have scandals in their past.”

  She handed me a treasure trove of information: a racially charged college essay written by Elliot Wagner, the owner of Palazzo de Bella Vista; a copy of a settlement agreement between Thomas Speyer and a bank accusing him of misappropriation of funds; and police records showing that Don Chase, the owner of La Villa de la Paz, had been convicted of two counts of DUI a few years back.