“I know you’re doing your best.”
“Yes, I am.”
“May the Lord keep you strong, Detective.”
“You too, Mrs. Dorsey. You too.”
She hung up filled with sorrow, ashamed beyond ashamed, and the phone rang again immediately.
It was Susan Calloway, the bland-voiced woman from the state police lab in Grand Rapids. The firearms examiner in charge of the IBIS database. She sounded a little different, and Audrey realized that what she was hearing was excitement, in the woman’s tamped-down, squelched way.
“Well, I do think we have something for you,” the woman said.
“You have a match.”
“I’m sorry this has taken so long—”
“Oh, not at all—”
“But the Grand Rapids PD certainly took their time. I mean, all I was asking them to do was to check the bullets out of Property and drive them all of seventeen blocks over to Fuller. You’d think I’d asked for a human sacrifice or something.”
Audrey chuckled politely. “But you got a match,” she prompted. The technician sounded positively giddy.
“Of course, the real problem was that it wasn’t anyone’s case anymore. I mean, it was from six years ago, and both detectives are gone, they tell me. There’s always an excuse.”
“Tell me about it,” Audrey laughed.
“In any case, the bullets they brought over matched the ones in your case. They’re copper-jacketed Rainiers, so the ammunition is different. But the striation markings are identical.”
“So it’s a positive match.”
“It’s a positive match, yes.”
“The weapon—?”
“I can’t tell you that for absolute certain. But I’d say it’s a safe guess it’s a Smith and Wesson .380. That’s not legally admissible, though.” The woman read off the Grand Rapids PD report number for the bullet.
“So Grand Rapids should have all the information I need,” Audrey said.
“Well, I don’t know how much more they’ll have than I already told you. Both detectives on the case are off the force, as I say.”
“Even so, those names would be a help.”
“Oh, well, if that’s all you want, I have that. The submitting detective, anyway. Right here in the comments box.” The technician went silent, and Audrey was about to prompt her for the name, when the woman spoke again, and Audrey went cold.
“Says here it was submitted by a Detective Edward J. Rinaldi,” the technician said. “But they say he’s retired from the force, so that’s probably not going to be much use to you. Sorry about that.”
Part Five
No Hiding Place
88
Mulligans—never an apostrophe—was a diner on Bainbridge Road in Fenwick famous for its Bolognese sauce, the subject of a yellowed framed article from the Fenwick Free Press on the wall as you entered. The headline was typical of the paper’s dopey, punning style: “A Meaty Subject.” This was the place Nick used to go at three in the morning, after the junior and senior proms. Frank Mulligan was long gone. It was now owned by a guy who’d been a few years ahead of Nick and Eddie in high school, Johnny Frechette, who’d done three years in Ionia for drug trafficking.
Nick hadn’t been here in years, and he noticed that the place had a staleness to it. The Formica tables had a faint cloth pattern, faded to white in the areas where mugs and plates had banged and scraped against it. They were serving breakfast now, and the place smelled of coffee and maple syrup and bacon, all blended into a single aroma: Eau du Diner.
Eddie seemed to know the waitresses here. Probably he came here for breakfast a lot. They were seated in a corner, away from the window. Aside from a few people eating at the counter, the place was empty.
“You look like shit,” Eddie said.
“Thanks,” Nick said irritably. “You too.”
“Well, you’re not going to want to hear this.”
Nick held his breath. “What is it?”
“They ID’d the gun.”
The blood drained from Nick’s face. “You said you tossed it.”
“I did.”
“Then how could that be?”
The two fell silent as an overperfumed waitress arrived with a Silex carafe, and sloshed coffee into their thick white mugs.
“They got all kinds of tricky ballistics shit these days,” Eddie said.
“I don’t get what you’re telling me.” Nick took a hurried sip of his black coffee, scalding his tongue. Maybe he didn’t want to understand what Eddie seemed to be getting at.
“They matched the bullets with the gun.”
“They matched the bullets with what?” Nick was aware that his voice was a bit too loud, and he lowered it at once. “There’s no gun, right? You said it’s gone!”
“Yeah, well, apparently they don’t need a gun anymore.” Eddie popped open a couple of little half-and-half containers and tipped them into his mug, stirring until it turned an unappealing gray. “All’s they need is bullets, ’cause of the big new computer database, I forget what it’s called. They must have matched up the bullets in Stadler’s body with the ones from the scene years ago where I got the piece—how the hell do I know? My source didn’t get into details.”
“Who’s your source?”
Eddie ducked his head to the side. “Forget it.”
“You know this for a fact? You’re one-hundred-percent certain?”
“It’s a fact. Suck it up.”
“Jesus Christ, Eddie, you said everything was cool!” Nick’s voice cracked. “You said the gun wasn’t registered to you. You—you said you picked it up at a crime scene, and there was no record of it anywhere.”
Eddie’s normally confident expression had given way, disconcertingly, to a pallid, sweaty discomfort. “That’s what I thought. Sometimes shit gets out of your control, buddy boy.”
“I don’t believe this,” Nick said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t fucking believe it. What the hell do we do now?”
Eddie set down his coffee mug and gave Nick a stone-cold look. “We do absolutely nothing. We say nothing, admit nothing, we don’t say a fucking word. Are you getting this?”
“But if they—they know the gun I used was one you took—”
“They’re going to try to connect the dots, but they don’t have it nailed down. Maybe they can prove the ammo that killed Stadler came from that gun, but they can’t prove I took it. Everything they got is circumstantial. They got nada when they searched your house—that whole thing was a scare tactic. They got no witnesses, and they got a lot of little forensic shit, and now they got this gun, but in the end it’s all circumstantial. So all they can do now is scare you into talking, see. This is why I’m telling you about it. I want you to be prepared. I don’t want those jokers springing this on you and having you crumble, okay? You got to be a rock.” Eddie took a sip of coffee without moving his eyes from Nick’s.
“They can’t just arrest us? Maybe they don’t need us to talk.”
“No. If neither one of us says a damned thing, they’re not going to arrest.”
“You wouldn’t say anything, would you?” Nick whispered. “You’re not going to say anything, right?”
Eddie smiled a slow smile, and Nick got a shivery feeling. There was something almost sociopathic about Eddie, something dead in his eyes. “Now you’re starting to understand,” he said. “See, at the end of the day, Nick, they don’t give a shit about me. I’m just some small-time corporate security guy, a nobody. You’re the CEO everyone in this town despises. They’re not interested in putting my puny antlers on the wall. You’re the monster buck they’re hunting. You’re the fucking twelve-point rack, okay?”
Nick nodded slowly. The room was turning slowly around him.
“The only way this thing unravels,” Eddie said, “is if you talk. Maybe you decide to play Let’s Make a Deal with the cops. Try to strike your own separate deal—good for you, bad for me. This would be a huge, huge fucking mista
ke, Nick. Because I will hear about it. You have even the most preliminary, exploratory conversation with those jokers, and I will hear about it in a matter of seconds, Nick—count on it. Believe me, I’m wired into that place. And my lawyer will be in the DA’s office so fast it’ll make your head spin, with an offer they will fucking jump at.”
“Your…lawyer?” Nick croaked.
“See, Nick, let’s be clear what they got me for. It’s called ‘obstruction,’ and it’s no big deal. First offenders get maybe six months, if any time at all, but not me. Not when I agree to tell the whole story, testify truthfully in the grand jury and at the trial. They get a murderer, see. And what do I get out of it? A walk. Not even probation. It’s a sure thing, Nick.”
“But you wouldn’t do that, would you?” Nick said. He heard his own voice, and it seemed to be coming from very far away. “You’d never do that, right?”
“Only if you change the rules of the game, bud. Only if you talk. Though I gotta tell you, I shoulda done this on day one. Why I ever came over to help you that night, I don’t know. Goodness of my heart, I guess. Help an old buddy who’s in deep shit. I shoulda said, Sorry, not me, amigo, and just stayed in bed. Look what I get for being a nice guy. Very least, I should have shopped you long ago. Rolled over, made a deal. I don’t know why I didn’t. Anyway, what’s done is done, but let’s be crystal clear, I am not going down for this. You try to make a deal, you talk, and at that point I’m gonna do what’s in my own best interests.”
Nick couldn’t catch his breath. “I’m not going to talk,” he said.
Eddie gave him a sidelong glance, and he smiled as if he were enjoying this. “All you gotta do, Nicky, is hold it together, and we’re going to be just fine, you and me. Keep your fucking mouth shut, don’t panic, and we’ll ride this out.”
The waitress was back, wielding her glass carafe. “Freshen your coffee?” she said.
Neither Eddie nor Nick responded at first, and then Nick said slowly, not looking at her, “I think we’re okay.”
“That’s right,” Eddie said. “We’re okay. We’re just fine.”
89
The Fenwick Racquet Club wasn’t a place where much tennis was played, as far as Nick could tell. But for Henry Hutchens—Hutch, as he was always known—it had evidently become a home away from home. Hutch had been Stratton’s chief financial officer back when the position was called, less grandly, controller. He had served Old Man Devries for a quarter of a century, and when Nick took over, he helped prepare the financial statements for the sale to Fairfield. Did a good job of it too. His manner was unfailingly courtly, maybe a little formal. And when Nick had come to his office—that’s how he did it, in Hutch’s office, not his own—and told him that Fairfield wanted to replace him with one of their own, he didn’t utter a word of protest.
Nick had told him the truth about Fairfield. Still, they both knew that if Nick had seriously objected, Fairfield would have backed down. Nick hadn’t. Hutch was a highly competent old-school controller. But Fairfield was loaded up with high-powered financial engineers, ready to lecture you on the advantages of activity-based costing and economic-value-added accounting systems. They viewed Hutch as a green-eyeshades guy; he didn’t use words like “strategic.” Scott McNally was someone the people at Fairfield were comfortable with, and he was someone who could help Nick take Stratton to the next level. The next level—there was a time when Nick couldn’t get enough of that phrase; now the cliché had the stink of yesterday’s breakfast.
“Long time between drinks, Nick,” Hutch said as Nick joined him at a table inside the clubhouse. He lifted a martini glass, and smiled crookedly, but didn’t stand. “Join me?”
Hutch had the kind of ruddy complexion that looked like good health from a distance. Up close, Nick could see the alcohol-inflamed capillaries. Even his sweat seemed juniper-scented.
“It’s a little early for me,” Nick said. Christ, it wasn’t even noon yet.
“Well, of course,” Hutch said, with his Thurston Howell III purr. “You’re a working man. With an office to go to. And lots of employees who depend on you.” He drained the last drops of his drink, and signaled to the waiter for another.
“For the moment, anyway.”
Hutch clasped his hands together. “You must be riding high, though. Layoffs—everyone talks about the layoffs! They must be ecstatic in Boston. To think that my own humble self was to be the first of so many on the gallows. It’s kind of an honor, really.”
Nick blanched. “The company owes you a lot, Hutch. I’ve always been grateful to you, personally.”
“Oh please. Not everyone has the privilege of selling the rope to one’s own hangman.” Another drink was placed before him. “Thank you, Vinnie,” Hutch murmured. The waiter, a sixtyish man whose neck strained against the club-required red bowtie, nodded pleasantly.
“A tomato juice would be great,” Nick told him.
“You surprised a great many people, you know,” Hutch went on. He popped the cocktail olive into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Have to keep my strength up,” he added with a wink.
“What happened has been hard for everyone. A lot of good people have been hurt. I’m very aware of that.”
“You misunderstand,” Hutch said. “I didn’t mean about the layoffs. I just meant that not everyone took you to be CEO material. A solid company man, absolutely. But not quite cut out for the corner office.”
“Well.” Nick looked around, taking in the fieldstone fireplace, the white tablecloths, the red patterned wall-to-wall carpet. “I guess Old Man Devries—”
“It had nothing to do with Milton,” Hutch said sharply. “If he’d wanted to, Milton could have named you president, or chief operating officer. One of those next-in-line positions. That’s the custom with a corporate heir apparent. He did not choose to do so.”
“Fair enough,” Nick said, trying not to bridle.
“He was fond of you. We all were. But when the issue came up, well…” Hutch peered into the watery depths of his cocktail. “Milton considered you a little callow. Too much of a big-man-on-campus type. Someone too concerned with being popular to be a real leader.” He looked up. “Thought you didn’t have the killer instinct. Now there’s one heck of an irony.”
Nick’s face was hot. “Being that you’re such a connoisseur of irony, you might enjoy this one.” He unzipped his black leather portfolio and presented Hutch with the contract that Eddie had taken from Scott’s e-mail.
“What is this?”
“You tell me.” If you’re not too drunk to make sense of it, Nick thought.
Hutch reached for his reading glasses, convex lenses with wire frames, and started paging through the document. A few times he tapped on the pages and gave a dry chuckle. “My, my,” he finally said. “I take it this isn’t your masterwork.”
“Not mine.”
“Milton! Thou shouldst be living at this hour: Stratton hath need of thee.” Hutch put his reading glasses away, and made tsk-tsking sounds. “Pacific Rim Investors,” he said, and then: “I can’t even pronounce this name—is it Malaysian? Good Lord.” He looked up, bleary-eyed. “So much for the match made in Heaven. Looks like your white knights came riding in from Boston only to sell Stratton down the Yangtze River.”
Nick explained what Stephanie Alstrom had told him about the real owner being the Chinese P.L.A.
“Oh, that’s rich,” Hutch said happily. “That’s really a thing of beauty. Though it’s not exactly sporting to put one over on the Communists like that these days, is it?”
“Put one over?”
“If these balance sheets are authentic, then Stratton’s doing marvelously well. But I have a suspicion they’re as phony as a glass apple.”
Lipstick on a pig, Nick thought.
“If I had access to your most recent P and L statements, and if I weren’t three sheets to the wind, and if I actually cared, I could give you a breakdown of this document that was so clear even you could unde
rstand it.” He took a swallow of his drink. “But even in my current condition, I can tell you that somebody’s been coloring outside the lines. For one thing, you’re taking your reserves against losses from your last profitable year and using it to cover over the new tide of red ink. That’s ‘cookie jar’ accounting, and we both know about that company that got caught doing it not so long ago and had to pay three billion dollars in damages to make it all better. It’s not nice to fool with your accrued liability.”
“What good is that?” Nick said. “Once the new owners find out the truth, they’ll hit Fairfield with a huge lawsuit.”
“Ah, but you see, that’s the beauty part, my boy. They can’t sue.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a clever non-litigation clause here,” Hutch said, tapping the paper. “Once the deal goes through, no lawsuits are permitted over any representations and warranties made herein, ya de ya de ya.”
“Why in the world would the buyers agree to that?”
“I think the answer is manifest,” Hutch said, looking up again. “It’s in the side agreement. Guaranteeing a seven-figure payout to someone, no doubt a Chinese government official with the ability to speed through the acquisition.”
“A bribe.”
“You put it so harshly, son. The Chinese have a wonderful tradition of giving red envelopes of hong bao—good-luck money—to start off the lunar new year right.”
“Ten million dollars is a lot of good-luck money for one man.”
“Indeed. But to grease a deal like this through the Chinese bureaucracy without endless quibbling—well, that’s quite a bargain, isn’t it?”
“It’s early for Chinese New Year, isn’t it?”
“Now you’re catching on. Unless you can think of some other reason why Stratton would be routing him his money to a numbered account in Macau. From where, I’ll wager, it was immediately transferred to another account at the Bank of Commerce of Labuan.”
“Labuan?”
“Labuan is an island off the coast of Malaysia. A speck of sand, and a great big offshore financial services industry. The bankers of Labuan make the Swiss seem gabby. Basically, it’s where Chinese kleptocrats like to sock away their ill-gotten gains.”
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