Suspicion

by Joseph Finder

  “Sit down, please.”

  “I’ve cooperated with you more than was reasonable. More than was safe, frankly.”

  “You’re done when we say you’re done,” Yeager said, softly but with steel in his voice. Then, more gently: “You’ve signed a contract. If you renege, our deal is off. The agreement’s dead. You’ll be indicted and charged and you’ll have no leverage whatsoever.”

  “Hold on—”

  “You’ll be in the worst of all possible worlds. Not only will you be indicted, but the cartels—they’re going to realize you cooperated. And we’re not going to be able to help you. Not at all. No witness protection program. No protection at all. If you’re lucky, you spend your life in jail. But far more likely, you get killed. Is this really what you want?”

  “The information I already got you? That doesn’t count?”

  “Read over your copy of the agreement you signed. Until we have enough to justify an arrest warrant for your friend, you’re still on the hook. You don’t get to walk away until we’re finished. You quit now, it’s like you never cooperated in the first place. You agreed in writing to testify.”

  Danny sat back down. “Testify? Do you have any idea what would happen to me if ever I testified in court? If I even make it that long? My daughter would be without a father.”

  “In all my years, I’ve never had an informant killed. Never. Not once.”

  “It’s happened. You know it.”

  “Listen to me, Danny. We’re in the process of building an overwhelming case against Galvin, a case that’s going to be so strong that he’ll have no choice but to plead out. These cartel guys, they never go to trial. Once you get us what we need—once we have probable cause and we get an arrest warrant for that asshole—we’ll have enough to put him away. It’ll be so strong that I doubt we’ll even need you to testify. We’ll do everything we can to minimize your role in this. We’re not going to put you in harm’s way. I mean, look—you do us no good dead.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “On the other hand, you walk away now, you’re committing suicide.”

  “Because you’re going to leak, is that it?”

  “No. You walk away, we’ll have no choice but to indict you, and it’s going to be all over the indictment—which is, by the way, a public document—that you cooperated with us. It’s like painting a target on your chest.”

  “And if I do this? Is that it? The end?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How do I know you’re not going to charge me anyway?”

  “We’re not interested in you. You’re not just a small fish, you’re plankton, for God’s sake.”

  “I want that in writing. I want a letter of immunity.”

  “We can’t get you a letter of immunity if you haven’t been indicted.”

  “But the US Attorney can.”

  “And what makes you so sure of that?”

  Danny waggled his hands. “The magic of the Intertubes.”

  “Well, let me assure you, that never happens. Maybe on TV, but not in reality. You’re going to have to take me at my word. You’re going to have to trust us.”

  Danny stood up again. “Well, I don’t.”

  “This is not going to end well.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Danny said, and he walked out without turning back.

  38

  Dr. Mendoza entered the lobby of the Executive Suites Hotel in Oakland, California. Off the lobby was the bar-lounge, a dismal and subdued place, and sitting at the bar—a long, shallow half-moon topped with fake granite—was a somber collection of people. A couple in their late sixties, both florid-faced, who appeared to be married and bored with each other. Three businessmen in their thirties, probably here for some convention, all staring blankly at the football game on the TV mounted just above them. They all seemed transient and lonely.

  Dr. Mendoza found a seat at the bar next to a pinch-faced, middle-aged businessman type, hunch-shouldered, in a navy blue golf shirt and khakis. The man was alone, drinking a Scotch and soda and staring into space.

  “How’s the game?” Dr. Mendoza said, indicating with a wag of his head the football game on the TV.

  The man turned to him and shrugged. “I have zero interest in football.”

  “Nor I.” Dr. Mendoza was relieved, since he knew almost nothing about American football and had no interest in learning anything about it. “If only my investments gave me time to watch sports.”

  He let that hang for a few seconds until the man next to him replied, as Dr. Mendoza knew he would. “What sort of investments?” he said, trying to sound casual.

  “Oh, mostly for myself and my family,” he said airily, glancing up at the TV set as if he’d suddenly developed an appreciation for football.

  They chatted for a while. Dr. Mendoza remained tantalizingly vague about the nature of his fortune while letting it be known that it was substantial. He was more interested in learning about the real estate market in and around the Bay Area. The businessman had gotten a lot more talkative. Dr. Mendoza had been transformed, in his eyes, from an annoyance to a potential client. Of course, the man didn’t say why he was staying at the hotel, and Dr. Mendoza was careful not to ask.

  When the man got up from his stool and excused himself to use the restroom, Dr. Mendoza said, “Please allow me to buy you a drink.”

  “I think I’ve had all the Scotch I need for the night, but thanks anyway.”

  “Just one more drink? I need to pick your brain a little more about real estate in this area.”

  “Well . . . I suppose just one more drink. After all, I don’t have to drive home.”

  The businessman returned a few minutes later, settled himself on the bar stool, and saw the fresh drink in front of him. “Thank you kindly,” he said. He raised his glass to Dr. Mendoza’s.

  “To a long life,” Dr. Mendoza said.

  They each took a drink. “Your accent,” the businessman said after a while. I can’t place it. . . .”

  “Argentina,” Dr. Mendoza said, beaming. “And after all these years in Portola Valley, I thought I’d lost it.”

  “I knew it was Spanish or Mexican or something.” He made a tiny grimace as he swallowed, and Dr. Mendoza worried that the Scotch wasn’t adequately masking the acrid taste. But then the man took another sip, and Dr. Mendoza was able to relax. “Argentines speak Spanish, huh?”

  “Indeed,” said Dr. Mendoza. “Of course there are differences between the way we speak and the way the Spaniards speak. Just as there are differences between the way they speak in, say, Oaxaca and the way they speak in, say . . .”—he paused to let the name slide into place with a satisfying click—“Sinaloa.”

  The banker stiffened, just as Dr. Mendoza expected. He was an emotionally volatile man. The cartel’s dossier indicated that he took medication for a heart condition. A volatile temperament like his would not long withstand the DEA’s pressure. With trembling hand he set down his tumbler.

  But he had drunk more than enough of the chemical.

  Panicked, he said, “Who the hell are you?”

  “I am the angel of mercy, Mr. Toth.”

  Toth closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, dear God in heaven, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I haven’t said anything to anybody.”

  Dr. Mendoza nodded patiently. “Of course not.”

  “How—how did you find me here?”

  Dr. Mendoza shrugged. The banker had gotten sloppy. The DEA had stashed him under a false name at this hotel, and then he’d used his credit card to order out for Chinese food.

  “I told them there was no point trying to hide me. I told them you people could find me anywhere. But you need to understand something.” He wielded a stern index finger. “I told them nothing. Nothing, do you understand?”

  Dr. Mendoza shrugged
.

  “The ‘angel of mercy,’ you said—”

  “You are a drowning man and I am your life raft.”

  “I never said a word, not—not a goddamned word!”

  “Of course not.”

  “They—they came to me!”

  “Of course they did.”

  Dr. Mendoza’s placid unconcern rattled Toth more than any explicit threat might have done. “Never—I never gave them—didn’t say a goddamned word! They moved me here”—he looked around with distaste—“said I needed protection. I never made—never cooperated—I didn’t—say anything! You have to—believe me!”

  “I’m sure you haven’t.”

  “And I won’t—won’t say anything.” He masked his pleading tone in steely emphasis.

  “I believe you.”

  “You—your employers have made me a lot of money and—I mean, why the hell—I wouldn’t turn myself in to the DEA! Why would I?”

  “Perhaps because you fear them less than you fear us,” Dr. Mendoza suggested gently.

  “I’m not an idiot!” Toth was beginning to gather his wits, to speak in an aggrieved tone. “I know you people can get to me anywhere—I mean, the fact that I’m here doesn’t indicate anything. They threatened me. I don’t know how the hell they knew about me, but I never told them a thing. Why would I? That would be insane.”

  “It would indeed.”

  “Why—why are you here?”

  Dr. Mendoza shrugged again. “Just for a friendly chat.”

  “Well, let me make it absolutely clear to your—” Something suddenly occurred to him. Toth smiled, lifted his head, eyes wide with desperate enthusiasm. “I hope you’ve considered the possibilities here. I hope your . . . your employers realize that we can use this situation to our advantage. To plant disinformation. To mislead the DEA, do you understand? This could be a brilliant strategy. The DEA will think they have a cooperating defendant, but what they won’t know . . .” He closed his eyes. “I need to lie down for a . . . I think I overdid . . . the Scotch. Feeling a little light-headed . . .”

  “This is because your blood pressure is dropping,” Dr. Mendoza explained. “You take a vasodilator for your heart condition, do you not?”

  Toth looked surprised. “What does that have to do with . . . ?”

  “No one who takes a vasodilator should ever take Viagra,” Dr. Mendoza explained. “It is quite dangerous. Your blood pressure will drop to zero.”

  Toth could barely keep his eyes open. “Viagra? I’ve never taken—” The tumbler of Scotch slipped from his grasp and thudded on the bar.

  He looked down at it, and he knew.

  “This will not be painful, not at all,” said Dr. Mendoza. “This will go quite easily.” Dr. Mendoza rose from the stool and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I told you, I am the angel of mercy.”

  There were far, far more painful ways to die than to imbibe thirty milliliters of sildenafil citrate suspension mixed with whiskey. Even if he had drunk no more than half, that was still, for him, a lethal dose. No one would ever suspect foul play. It would look like he’d foolishly got hold of some Viagra and didn’t know how dangerous it was for him to take any of the stuff.

  It was quite clever, actually.

  “Good evening,” Dr. Mendoza said. He left the bar without turning back once. He didn’t need to. He heard the banker slump to the floor as he lost consciousness.

  To die in such a painless manner was indeed a mercy.

  Particularly given the alternatives.

  39

  Tom Galvin’s private plane was a Challenger 300, made by Bombardier. Its exterior was white and shiny and glinted in the sun on the tarmac at Hanscom Field in Bedford, Mass.

  He’d driven Lucy and Abby in the Honda. They’d parked in the lot at eight thirty A.M. and rolled their bags into the general aviation terminal to wait for the Galvins.

  On the dot of nine, the Galvins arrived. Through the plate-glass window in the terminal, Danny watched the Maybach limo pull right up to the plane. Tom, Celina, and Jenna got out of the car while Diego, the chauffeur, unloaded their luggage. A short staircase popped open, and everyone climbed in like they were taking a shuttle bus. Danny noticed the Galvins didn’t bring any skis. Presumably, they left them at their house in Aspen. Danny, Lucy, and Abby all planned to rent skis when they got there.

  Celina turned and waved them over.

  “We don’t have to go through, like, security?” Abby asked.

  “I guess not,” Lucy said.

  No tickets, no security lines, no taking off your shoes or stuffing a Ziploc bag with liquids.

  It was good to be Galvin.

  When they’d boarded the plane, Danny introduced Lucy to the Galvins. Celina greeted him and gave her a kiss. Abby and Jenna went off together so Jenna could give her the tour.

  The cabin was roomy, over six feet tall and around seven feet wide. In the forward part of the cabin were four big beige leather club chairs, two facing two. In the aft was a long couch facing a couple of club chairs. There was no flight attendant.

  “Not bad,” Danny said, trying not to look impressed.

  “It’s better than the Green Line,” Galvin said with a laugh. He turned, saw the two girls sitting in the club chairs up front. “Hey, move it, those are the grown-ups’ seats!”

  “Can this thing go to Aspen without refueling?”

  “It can fly to Europe without refueling.”

  “This is awesome,” Abby said, a big smile on her face. She didn’t bother pretending to appear nonchalant. “Do we have to turn off our cell phones and stuff?”

  “Yeah, right,” Galvin replied. “What a crock, huh?” With a smile, he called to Danny, “The only hitch is, they won’t let me smoke my cigars in here.”

  “Wanna watch a movie?” Jenna asked.

  “Don’t you girls have homework?” Celina said.

  “They’re not allowed to assign homework on a three-day weekend,” Jenna answered.

  “What about your Prejudice paper?”

  “It’s Pride and Prejudice, Mom, and it’s not due till Tuesday.”

  “I want you to work on your paper for at least one hour,” Celina said. She waggled an index finger. “After that, you can watch a movie.” She turned to Lucy. “These girls, they can’t be without a screen in front of them or they go crazy with boredom.”

  “Speaking of screens,” Galvin said, “we’ve got Wi-Fi on board and a coffee machine in the galley kitchen.” He pointed aft.

  “I’m good,” Danny said. “Sorry your sons can’t join us.”

  “Yeah, well, Brendan has exams, and Ryan and his girlfriend are doing . . . whatever they do.”

  “Thomas,” Celina said warningly.

  “They’re probably screwing,” said Jenna.

  “Hey!” Celina said. “I don’t want to hear these word out of your mouth!”

  “Sorry,” Jenna said quickly.

  “All right,” Galvin announced. “Let’s all get seat-belted and get this show on the road.” He and Danny sat in the club chairs next to each other in the front of the cabin, and Celina and Lucy took the other pair. Lucy took a book out of her handbag—a new biography of Cleopatra—and set it in her lap. The pilot gave a safety briefing over the PA system, and a few minutes later the plane took off.

  • • •

  The chairs were white leather and far more comfortable than any airplane seat he’d ever sat in. Hell, maybe more comfortable than any chair he’d ever sat in, period. Galvin was working on a laptop on a pull-down table. Danny had set up his laptop on the table in front of him, too, but he was far too tense even to think about working.

  All he could think about was the DEA. How much of their threats was bluster, and how much was for real? He had no way of knowing. He had no one to talk to about it.


  A low hum of anxiety had taken hold of him. It knotted his stomach. He felt like he’d drunk ten cups of strong coffee.

  He wanted to stop cooperating with the DEA but didn’t know how he possibly could. You walk away now, you’re committing suicide, Yeager had said. He’d be painting a target on his chest. Once the word got out that he’d been working with the DEA against the cartel, he wouldn’t be alive much longer.

  Why? Because if he walked away, they’d move to indict him, and that indictment would detail his cooperation with the DEA against Thomas Galvin. And the cartels would learn the details from the indictment.

  Or so the DEA warned him.

  But maybe that threat was hollow. Maybe.

  Thanks to a few hours on Google late the night before, Danny had his doubts.

  For one thing, a federal indictment could be sealed. The details didn’t have to leak out.

  Anyway, the DEA wasn’t going to move against him until they’d nailed down their case against Galvin. He’d read through all sorts of stories on federal prosecutions until he had a good idea of how the government tended to move in big drug cases.

  They wanted the big kahuna, not the big kahuna’s insignificant little buddy. They weren’t going to screw up their case by tipping off Galvin and the cartel. That would be just plain stupid.

  And then there was the fact that he was here, sitting on Tom Galvin’s private plane. If Galvin was really working for the Sinaloa cartel, and if Galvin had any reason to believe Danny was a DEA informant . . . well, Danny and Galvin’s wife and daughter wouldn’t be here. Simple as that.

  At least, if Danny’s reasoning was correct, anyway.

  He wondered whether he should meet again with Jay Poskanzer, and try to figure a way out. Or some other lawyer. Get a second opinion.

  He looked up and noticed Galvin watching him. He felt a wriggle of fear in his gut.

  “Not bad,” he said, his hands outspread, indicating the airplane they were sitting in. “Mind if I ask, do you own this?”