Of course, I remembered. After Farouk had lost interest in Queenie, he had sired a son with his young second wife.
"The boy was only a teenager, so he would need guidance from the British and American delegations, they figured. And he'd be very appealing to the Egyptian masses as a return of the last ruling dynasty. The U.S. could prop him up on the throne and we'd all be back in business."
"So Farouk's death could have been a first step in our Allied plan to regain control of the territory, rather than a gift to Nasser from his own followers?"
"It works either way," Lori said.
"So now, Farouk is killed, in Rome," Mercer said. "And what became of all the treasures he had taken there?"
Lori Alvino didn't answer.
"C'mon, Lori, too late to stop talking to us now," Mike said. "The CIA?"
"Or the British Secret Service. Or even the Italian Secret Service. There were enough slices of Farouk's pie for everyone to get a handful."
"I'm thinking," Mike said, "about how that Double Eagle got to Egypt in the first place."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"In a diplomatic pouch. What could be a more foolproof way to move something valuable around the continent, or between continents? Who would know what's inside the little bag? What if the Double Eagle also left Italy in a government pouch?"
"I hate to remind you two," Mercer said. "But the coin that Mr. Stark sold in 2002 was the only one left like it in the entire world."
"That's the one I'm talking about, too," Mike said. "The one Farouk had since 1944-the one in Stark's auction in 2002. What are our choices? The king left it in Egypt when he was deposed, then someone found it and sold it to the British dealer. Lori here says that's not likely."
He looked to her for a sign of agreement and he got it.
"An American CIA agent sat on the nest in Cairo, after the fat man fled," Mike went on. "Someone who knew where to locate the coin, someone who had access to the palace. Other people forgot about the little piece of gold over time, because of all the turmoil in the region, and eventually our guy brought it out on the black market."
Lori picked up on the possibilities. "Maybe the Italian authorities who cleaned out his apartment in Rome found the coin. Maybe even the British agents, who continued to keep a close watch on him all his life. Lots of people have theories about the whereabouts of the precious little object for the fifty years it was missing, but the fact is that no one knows for sure."
I glanced at my watch, as the sky darkened over the East River. "I'm sorry to break this up. It's been most useful for us. I'm afraid I'm taking a couple of days off, and I've got a flight to catch out of La Guardia. "
"Let me know what you need, Alex," Lori said. "Nobody's going to open those CIA files of Farouk's anytime soon. There was too much backstabbing and betrayal in play. None of the officials looks good, in hindsight."
We thanked her for the time and information, and I called a car service to meet me outside the building and drive me to the airport.
The three of us were talking over each other as we stepped into the elevator. Fortunately for us, no one else was aboard.
"McQueen Ransome, Paige Vallis, Andrew Tripping," I said, listing off some of the cast of characters. "They're all tied up with Farouk or the Middle East."
"You got Paige's father, Robelon's father, some nutcase calling himself Harry Strait," Mike added. " Bam.More Farouk."
I went on. "Graham Hoyt fancies himself a collector, on a smaller scale than Farouk, but with obvious delusions of grandeur. Spike Logan gained the confidence of Queenie-enough to wind up with a few expensive gifts that he knew came from Farouk, and a penchant to go hunting for more after she died."
"Nobody," I said softly, "nobody can really tell us how many Double Eagles were stolen. Ten? That's only the best guess. That's only the ones that were identified and recovered."
"You're dreaming big, blondie. And you're missing the point. Even so, even if you found a dozen of them on the floor of Queenie's closet, they were never monetized. Worthless. They're not legal. You heard Bernard Stark. You can't even get twenty bucks for them. Only the one that was auctioned in 2002 was monetized for Farouk."
"But the killer might not know that," I said.
"Yeah, but-"
"Just suppose, Mike. If I heard that a Double Eagle sold for seven million dollars, and I knew where to find another piece that was identical to it, it would never occur to me that it wasn't a legitimate coin. Maybe I'd still move heaven and earth to get my greedy little hands on one."
The car service driver was outside the building, flashers blinking, with the company name and car number displayed on a plate in the windshield.
"Why'd you call for this? I would have driven you to the airport," Mike said.
"I took you away from Val long enough last night. You don't need to chauffeur me around. Call me if anything breaks, guys, okay? I'll be home by the weekend."
I got in the car, slammed the door, and sat back for the slow trip over the bridge and out the BQE to La Guardia.
"U.S. Airways terminal, please."
"What time's your flight, lady?"
"Six-fifteen."
"You live dangerously. Cutting it mighty close. I'll do my best."
When I reached the check-in counter it was almost six o'clock. I showed my photo ID and e-ticket. "We've had some weather delays, ma'am. Your aircraft is coming in from Pittsburgh a bit late. We won't be boarding for another hour."
"How does it look on the Vineyard end?"
The small airfield on the Vineyard gets socked in regularly, subject to all the weather variables of an island surrounded by both cold ocean waters and warmer bays. You couldn't be a Vineyarder if you were unable to cope with the likelihood of getting stranded at an airport because of summer fog or winter storms.
"They've got a minimum ceiling now," she said. "If the visibility holds, you'll get in fine. Stick around the boarding area. They'll try to turn the plane around pretty quickly."
I went through security and down the concourse to the departure gate. There were only three other passengers waiting for the nineteen-seat Beechcraft. I looked for a quiet place from which to make a call and settled into a corner with my cell phone.
I checked my office for messages, and my home machine as well. Jake had called both places, trying to find out whether I was holding to my plan of flying to the country. Assistants had phoned in updates of the cases on which they were working, and friends had left snippets of social gossip to lighten my spirits. The last voice mail, only fifteen minutes earlier, was from Will Nedim. He had finished his first interview with Tiffany Gatts.
"Will? It's Alex. I'm calling from the airport, on my cell. Can you hear me?"
"So far, so good."
"Everything go as planned with Tiffany? You run into any problems?"
"She's a piece of work, Alex. But I guess you knew that."
"Happy to leave her in your lap. I've got all the aggravation I need right now. Did you get anything from her?"
"I think she's ready to roll over and give up the boyfriend, Kevin Bessemer."
"That's a huge step. How'd you get her there?" I asked.
"Don't give me any of the credit. She hates being in the slammer. She's only sixteen, remember? It doesn't exactly seem fair to her that it was Kevin's idea to go break into Queenie's apartment, and now he's running around free, while she's locked up behind bars."
"Does she know where Kevin is?"
"She's not sure. He hasn't signed up for visiting hours yet, so except for her mama's hand-holding, it's lonely in the jailhouse. There's a piece of Tiffany that wants to Tammy Wynette him," Will said. "Stand by her man and all that. But her resolve is definitely weakening, and it isn't helped any by the fact that two of the other prisoners beat the crap out of her the other day because she wanted to watch Oprah while they were tuned in to Judge Judy."
"How about specifics, Will? Did you try to squeeze her on what she and Kevin
did to Queenie, and why they killed her?"
"I've seen you interrogate teenage girls, Alex, and maybe I'm just not as tough on them as you can be. But I'm leaning toward believing her."
"About what?" I asked.
"Tiffany is absolutely adamant that McQueen Ransome was already dead when they got to the apartment. I couldn't budge her from that story no matter which way I came at her. She describes exactly how the old lady looked when they went in, how the drawers were pulled out of the dressers and cabinets, with her belongings all messed up."
I didn't speak.
"Don't be pissed off at me, Alex. Doesn't what the kid says mean anything?"
"That's certainly the way Queenie's body-and the apartment-looked when Tiffany left it. Whether that's what she walked into, I guess time will tell. Did she admit stealing anything?"
"Well, the fur coat."
Good job, Will. It would be hard to lose that larceny count at a trial. "Anything else?"
"She said Kevin found some things on the floor that were silver and had initials on them. Like cigarette lighters and tie clips. There were a lot of old snapshots-Tiffany said they were 'pictures of naked ladies.' Kevin helped himself to those."
So much for the pornographic photos. "But she didn't pick anything up?"
"Said she scooped up some coins from the closet floor, but they all had foreign writing on them that she couldn't understand, so she just dropped them back on the floor where they had been. Didn't think she could spend them on Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. And one other photograph she said that must have fallen off the night table, right next to Queenie's body."
"What did she do with that?" I asked.
"Tiffany thought she had it in her pocketbook when she got locked up. Thinks the police gave the bag to her mother when she came to the station house after the arrest."
"Does it sound like a photo of anything we need?"
"Nah. She can't even explain why she took it. It's the deceased-McQueen Ransome-and a young boy. Like an adolescent. Tiffany called him 'a little white boy.' She thought he looked real pretty."
"Could be Queenie and her son, Fabian. She had lots of pictures of him in the apartment. Guess we ought to get it if we can, to corroborate her story. And to make sure we didn't miss anything else in the handbag. Give Helena Lisi a call and ask her to have Mrs. Gatts bring it in," I said.
"I forgot to tell you yesterday. You know, when I was talking to you while Mr. Battaglia was in your office? I could tell you were trying to get me off the phone," Will said with a nervous giggle. "Helena Lisi doesn't represent Tiffany anymore."
"Well, lucky you. That should make your life easier. Who's her new lawyer?"
"Josh Braydon."
"Big step up. Maybe you'll get some real cooperation now. Did Lisi put up a fight when the family fired her?" I asked. "Hope she got her money up front. Mrs. Gatts is in for quite a struggle if she thinks Helena Lisi won't kick back and scream for her retainer."
"Helena's not exactly out of it yet, Alex."
"What do you mean?"
"I hope you don't mind what I did. I didn't want to get in a hassle with you while Battaglia was sitting in your office, so I just went ahead and used my judgment."
"To do what, Will?"
"When Tiffany Gatts called and asked to talk to me, I could tell she was really frightened. She thinks her life is in danger. Her mother's, too. She begged me not to tell Helena Lisi."
"So how'd you get to Josh Braydon?" I asked. "How'd he get into the case?"
"I had the court appoint him, Alex. I know you're not going to like this. Josh Braydon? He's shadow counsel."
32
"U.S. Airways announces the departure of flight 3709 to Martha's Vineyard. Boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes, through Gate Five."
I paused while the gate agent repeated the information, trying to control my temper.
"What the hell were you thinking, Will? Shadow counsel? How dare you jeopardize a homicide investigation with that kind of idea?"
"I read the leading case, Alex. People Against Stewart. I'm pretty sure-"
"Don't cite cases to me," I said, trying to keep my voice down as it resonated through the terminal's seating area. " Stewartonly speaks to the dismissal of the indictment. The court never reached the issue of the propriety of shadow counsel. If you had bothered to read the dissent, Will, you would have seen that one of the jurists not only called the concept distasteful, but in violation of all ethical prosecutorial considerations."
Will Nedim was getting defensive. "Well, I'm sorry to disagree with you, Alex, but the appellate courts haven't-"
"This is no time to argue. That kind of ruse is not proper and it's not fair. I'd never think of doing anything like it."
"You weren't exactly available to check with and-"
"I've got to catch my plane now, and you've got to undo this. Where will you be tonight? I'll call you when I settle in at my house in a couple of hours, okay? I want to know who Tiffany Gatts claimed to be afraid of and everything else you told the judge to allow this sham to happen."
I scribbled his home number on the back of my ticket and trudged down the steps, out onto the tarmac, and up the steps of the small plane.
This was one more critical thing that Mike and Mercer would have to attend to. Who was funding Tiffany Gatts's defense? If her mother wasn't paying the bills, and if indeed she was fearful of letting her lawyer know her intentions, then we had to find out who was pulling the strings on this puppet.
I ducked my head to get through the entrance, which was several inches shorter than I was. I waited while the woman in front of me stowed her tennis racket in the overhead compartment, and then I sat in the second row, making notes about what I needed to do in response to Nedim's phone call.
"You writing a brief, Alex?"
I looked up and saw a familiar face. Justin Feldman, a prominent litigator in the city who also had a home on the Vineyard, sat opposite me across the narrow aisle.
"No, only a list," I answered. "I'm just letting off steam. I'm afraid I unloaded on one of the young lawyers in the office. Now I'm trying to repair the damage."
"Nothing terminal, I hope."
I respected Justin and had sought his advice in the past, especially on situations that involved ethical considerations, since he had chaired the bar association's prestigious committee. "Depends on your point of view. You know anything about shadow counsel?" I asked.
"Never heard the term."
"That's because you practice in a better place," I said, referring to the federal courts, where judges rarely tolerated the shenanigans that were commonplace stateside. "I'm only aware of one decision on point."
"What jurisdiction?" Justin asked.
"A Manhattan case a few years back. The perp was incarcerated, pending trial or plea. One day, he calls the prosecutor out of the blue. Claims he's ready to cooperate and give up his codefendants, but his lawyer has refused to let him do it."
"What was the lawyer's beef?"
"Turns out the defendant claims his lawyer was hired and paid for by somebody else-a major drug kingpin. When the defendant decides to accept the prosecutor's deal, he tells the judge that his lawyer actually said that the head of the drug ring would have him killed if he cooperated. That word would go back through the lawyer."
"What did the judge do?" Justin asked again.
"Set up this charade, this complete fiction. He made the defendant create a record in court saying that he feared for his life if he fired his lawyer and played ball with the prosecution. So the case actually went forward with two defense attorneys."
"Two? And the first one never knew the second one existed?"
"Exactly," I said. "There was the original lawyer, who was being paid by the kingpin and who told her own client that his life and the life of his family were in danger. The judge kept her on the case, but completely in the dark about the truth of the transactions. Then he went ahead and assigned someone new to do
the deal with the prosecution."
"The so-called shadow counsel?"
"Yes. The judge used the lawyer he appointed to take the real plea, which was a deal with cooperation, all the while continuing to pretend that what happened in the presence of lawyer number one-a mock plea allocution, a sentence, and a resentence-was true."
"Creating a complete illusion. Violating all your disclosure obligations, derogating your ethical responsibilities, communicating with the court ex parte to set this up, and falsifying the judicial process all along the way." Justin ticked off every repugnant feature of the arrangement.
"I'm not totally crazy, am I, to tell my colleague I won't go along with something like that?" I asked, as the pilot started up the starboard engine.
"You'd be insane to do it," Justin said, shaking his head back and forth. "I wonder where some of these lawyers lose their senses," he said. "You know Marty London, don't you?"
He was referring to another giant of the New York bar. "Sure."
"I had lunch with him today. The very same kind of conversation about a bright young lawyer came up. Marty's representing a guy who's in over his head-runs the corporate department at a white-shoe law firm. Kept telling his partners that to keep high-rolling clients happy, he was making contributions to their favorite charities. Big bucks."
"Some kind of scam?"
"That's putting it mildly. He'd tell the managing partner he'd written a personal check for, say, fifty thousand dollars to some tug-at-your-heartstrings cause. Say it's children of some war-torn part of the world. Or a struggling dance company. Or an inner-city art museum. Had to be a personal check, so he'd get credit with the client for being a mensch. Who'd second-guess him for a good deed like that? Then, he asked the firm to reimburse him-and they did."
"I think I see this one coming," I said. "He never wrote the check to any such charity."
"How about that the charity never existed in the first place?" Justin said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Battaglia's going to make mincemeat out of this guy when he gets his hands on this case. Fifty thousand dollars of the firm's money in his own pocket every couple of months, on top of his draw of a few million a year. I don't understand these people, Alex."
The Kills Page 26