Outfoxed

by David Rosenfelt

“You can’t lie to your son? Who made that rule?”

  “I did,” she says. “A while back. I’m surprised I didn’t mention it you.”

  Oh.

  Sarah Maurer is shaken up. I can tell because when she greets me at the door her eyes are all red and she’s holding a wet ball of tissue, which she uses to dab at those red eyes.

  When I had called her she was reluctant to meet with me. I persuaded her with a generous dose of my Andy Carpenter charm, and also by mentioning that if she didn’t agree to have a casual chat with me, we’d have to do a deposition with a roomful of lawyers.

  That was a lie; I don’t have the power to force her into a deposition. But I sometimes find that lies and threats help to supplement the aforementioned Andy Carpenter charm. And I’d certainly rather deceive her than head into a trial without having interviewed the main witness against my client.

  Her house is simultaneously the closest to Gerald Wright’s and yet almost a quarter mile away. If you’re going to peek into a neighbor’s window in this area, you’ll need to use the Hubble telescope.

  “Hello, Ms. Maurer, thank you for seeing me,” I say when she opens the door.

  She just nods and says, “Come in.”

  Her house is much more traditional and less modern than Wright’s, though the layout isn’t all that different. I can see a swimming pool and tennis court through the glass doors to the back; I hadn’t seen that at the murder scene, but I would assume that there was at least a pool somewhere on the grounds.

  She leads me into the den, where a man is waiting. He’s a big guy, dressed in an Oklahoma sweatshirt, sweatpants, and open-toed sandals, which look ridiculous on his very large feet. He is not smiling; it’s more like sneering.

  “This is my friend Jack,” she says. I don’t know if “friend” means “boyfriend,” but at least it’s not “husband.”

  He doesn’t offer his hand, just says, “Don’t you think she’s been through enough?” The guy is instantly annoying, so I don’t answer him. Instead, I turn to Ms. Maurer and say, “I’ll try not to take too much of your time.”

  “You got that right,” Oklahoma Jack says.

  “Is it okay if Jack stays while we talk?” she asks.

  I smile and say, “No.”

  “That’s a lot of crap,” Jack says.

  She seems taken aback, while Jack seems positively flabbergasted. “Oh,” she says. “I thought it would be all right.”

  I smile again. “It isn’t; Jack needs to leave. Or, we can do this at my office, and Jack won’t even be allowed in the building.” I’m just being obnoxious; the success of this interview does not hinge on Jack’s leaving. I want him gone simply because he wants to stay.

  Jack doesn’t seem intent on leaving, so Ms. Maurer says, “Jack, please. I want to get this over with.”

  He seems about to argue, then changes his mind and walks out. He does so slowly, as if he has a choice and can stop at any time.

  Once he’s gone, and probably has his ear on the door, I say, “Thank you. I just find these conversations are better one on one.”

  She nods her understanding, so I continue.

  “Can you describe what happened the day of the murders?”

  “Well, I was just going for a walk. I do that every day; I prefer being outside to being on the treadmill.”

  “You were alone?”

  She nods. “Yes, always. Jack doesn’t like to take walks.”

  “How far do you walk?” I ask.

  “Three miles exactly. A mile and a half out, and then back.”

  “How can you be so precise?”

  She holds up her wrist and shows me a black band or watch; it might be an Apple watch. I assume it measures distance.

  “How long does it take you?”

  “Forty-five minutes,” she says. “I’m a fast walker. It’s the only exercise I get.”

  I ask her to continue, and she says, “I was on the way back when a car passed me. I didn’t recognize the car, and that’s a little unusual, because this road is so private.”

  “Were you coming back when you saw the car, or leaving?”

  “Coming back; I was at the first corner. The car turned left onto our road. When I got near Gerry’s house, I saw that the car was parked in his driveway, and the front door was open.”

  “Did this worry you?”

  “I wouldn’t say worry; it just struck me as unusual.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then I saw Brian Atkins come out the front door. He looked a little strange.”

  “Strange? How?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Excited? A little crazy? Scared? It’s really hard to tell.”

  Unfortunately, Sarah Maurer is going to make a good witness; she’s believable and appears intelligent and in control. “You recognized him?” I ask.

  “Yes. I knew Brian well from back in the day, before he had his problems. I was surprised to see him; I thought he was still in prison. So I called out to him.”

  “Did he answer you?”

  “No, at least not at first. He looked at me, but it was like he looked through me. All he did was run to his car and drive off.”

  “You said he didn’t answer you ‘at first’?”

  “Right. He went down the street and turned around so he could leave the way he came. But he stopped when he passed me, and spoke through the open window. He said, ‘Call the police.’ Then he drove off.”

  Finally, a piece of good news. “Did you call them?”

  “I didn’t have my cell phone with me. I should have gone home and called, but I saw Gerry’s open door so I went to it. I called his name a few times, but nobody answered. I stepped in, just a couple of feet because I was scared, and then I saw what I thought was blood, at the door to the den. So I ran home and called.”

  She again starts to dab her eyes with her tissues, an act that will endear her to juries. Even I am feeling bad for her.

  “You never saw the bodies?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Thank God.”

  I ask her a few more questions, but basically I’ve gotten all the information I can from her. Her role in this has been limited. She will testify to it truthfully, and the jury will believe her.

  I thank her for her time and open the door to leave. There is Jack, standing a few feet away and not looking pleased.

  “You can go in now,” I say.

  Joseph Russo saw the towering Vegas hotels through the plane window. Then the plane turned slightly, so that those hotels could only be visible from the opposite side of the plane. That would not represent much of a problem; Russo was on a private plane with two other passengers, both of whom worked for him. So he could have any seat he wanted.

  But Russo had no particular interest in seeing Vegas. He didn’t like the place, even though the last time he had been there was twenty years earlier. Actually, were Russo to suddenly develop some introspection, he would realize that he didn’t much like anywhere other than where he had always lived. He was a Jersey boy, through and through.

  A white limousine that seemed to Russo to be the length of a basketball court was waiting on the tarmac as the plane slowed to a halt. Russo’s two men walked down the steps first, both as a way of protecting their boss, and possibly to also make sure the steps were sturdy enough. Russo was three hundred and forty pounds, down from a high of three forty-two, before he began dieting. So his two men, weighing five hundred and twenty between them, were a satisfactory test.

  The steps held, and the arriving trio was taken in the limousine to the Mandalay Bay Hotel, where their meeting would be held in an enormous suite on the top floor. Russo viewed that fact as a less-than-amusing conceit on the part of Charles Capuano, the man with whom he would be meeting.

  Russo knew that Capuano did not have an ownership interest in the hotel, nor did he make it his home. He was using the suite to show off in front of Russo, which meant his money would have been better spent at the blackjack tables. Russo
was not easily impressed.

  Even if Russo cared about the suite and the trappings, that would not have benefited Capuano. Russo was there as a representative of Dominic Petrone, so regardless of what Capuano said or did, it was Petrone’s instructions that were going to be followed.

  Even though they had never met, Capuano greeted Russo with a big hug, as if they were reunited old friends. This was the fourth such meeting that Russo had attended, and in each case the greeting had been the same. It was a sign to Russo that he held the power, and he would use it.

  Within minutes, Russo’s and Capuano’s men melted away, leaving the two to talk in private. “So what brings you here?” Capuano asked.

  Russo had no doubt that Capuano knew exactly what had prompted the meeting, but he knew he had to play the game. “I’m afraid that things have not been going well here,” Russo said, and then followed up that truism with a lie. “It’s the only city that is not performing up to expectations.”

  “That’s not what I hear,” Capuano said.

  “Then you are not listening carefully.”

  Capuano was taken aback by Russo’s disrespectful attitude, but he held his anger in check. “You are asking us to change the way we have done business for fifty years. Such a thing is not accomplished overnight.”

  Russo smiled, got up, and looked out the window at the lit-up Strip. “You know, I haven’t been here in a very long time. The last time I was here, women walked around the casino with coin dispensers attached to their belts, changing bills into nickels, dimes, and quarters.”

  “So?” Capuano asked.

  “So this time when I walked through the casino, nobody was using coins. It was all electronic; I never once heard the sound of money coming from the machines.”

  “So?” Capuano repeated.

  “So times have changed. Technology has caused the people who make and own the slot machines to move on. Technology is making all of us move on. It’s the way of the world.”

  “Petrone and technology are reducing my take by sixty percent.”

  “The remaining forty percent is for doing very little—just some minor enforcement where necessary.”

  “Without my people for that enforcement, you would soon have nothing.”

  “Your people are businessmen. If we pay them enough, they will become our people. And then you will be without people, and without forty percent.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Capuano asked. He was not used to being talked to this way, but he was also not used to being in this position.

  “I would never do that,” Russo said. “I am patiently explaining the situation, because you seem not to understand it very well. The fact is that we want to be in partnership with you, but we don’t need to be in partnership with you. It is a decision that you will have to make for yourself.”

  Capuano didn’t cave in the moment; that was not the way these things were done. But Russo knew that he would toe the line; he had no choice. Petrone held all the cards, and would play them as necessary.

  What Capuano didn’t know, what nobody knew, was that Russo would be playing the cards differently if he could. That he believed the cards were unnecessary, and only temporarily constituted a winning hand.

  But there was a chance that no one would ever know what Russo was thinking; he knew that and was fine with it.

  For now, he had the limousine take him directly back to the airport.

  He wanted to get home.

  If Ted Yates is at the center of the storm, it hasn’t so much as mussed his hair. He’s the CFO of Starlight, a company that currently has one founder in jail and the other just recently stabbed to death. Yet when I called to ask to meet with him, he agreed immediately. Just now, when I showed up at his office for our meeting, he smiled and seemed so casual and at ease that I felt like we were about to have piña coladas by the pool.

  We’re in the company’s headquarters in Paramus, and Yates’s office is on the tenth floor of the twelve-story building. It is spacious and modern, exactly what you would expect at a successful, cutting-edge technology company.

  After we exchange pleasantries, I ask him about the large taped-up boxes lining the walls of his office. “Are you leaving?” I ask.

  “Only this office. I’m heading upstairs.”

  “This one seems pretty nice,” I say.

  He nods. “It is. But the board of directors just made me interim CEO, and they think it more appropriate that I be upstairs. I disagreed, but the board overruled me.” He smiles. “I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”

  “You’re moving to Gerry Wright’s office?”

  He shakes his head. “No way; far too soon for that. I’m moving into Brian’s old office; it’s been empty since he left.” Then he adds, “This has been a rather difficult time for the company.”

  If he’s having trouble coping with the difficult time, he’s hiding it well. Having chitchatted long enough, I ask Yates if he has any theory as to who might have killed Gerry Wright.

  He shakes his head. “No idea. But I do have a theory about who didn’t do it. And that would be Brian Atkins.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I know Brian, and I simply don’t think him capable of that.”

  “But you thought him capable of embezzlement?” I ask.

  “Where did you get that idea?”

  “You testified against him at trial.”

  He reacts and leans forward; I seem to have struck a nerve. “Did you read the transcript?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you should know that all I did was recite the evidence, the unauthorized transfer of money out of the company and into private accounts maintained by Brian.”

  “You don’t view that as testifying against him?” I ask.

  “No. They used me to insert the evidence. I simply stated what happened. They never asked my opinion as to who was responsible, and I never gave it.”

  “What was your opinion?”

  “That someone defrauded the company. Either Brian, which I doubt, or someone intent on making it look like Brian was guilty. I have no idea who, and at this point it doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “Did you think it could have been Gerry Wright?”

  “Mr. Carpenter, what I do is come to work and do my job. Every day. One day at a time.”

  Brian had told me that Yates was the money guy, and that the head of the technology division, Jason Mathers, was the guy to talk to about the core product of the company.

  “I’d like to speak to Jason Mathers. Is he in today?”

  “He was,” Yates said. “But he isn’t now.”

  “Will he be here tomorrow?”

  Yates shakes his head. “It would be surprising if he was. He resigned this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “He said it was to pursue other opportunities. And he will certainly have those. He is a technology genius.”

  “Why do you think he left?”

  “I think he was disappointed that the board chose me to be the interim CEO. I think he felt it meant he would not ultimately get the job.”

  Brian had predicted this would happen; he said Yates was far better at internal politics than Mathers. “Are you going to get it?” I ask.

  He smiles. “I certainly hope so.”

  Joseph Westman didn’t have to tell anyone he was leaving early. It wasn’t a coincidence that he worked for a hedge fund called the Westman Group. He had founded it and built it from infancy into a thriving operation, managing over six billion dollars in assets.

  At sixty-two, Westman did not work the kind of hours he used to put in. He no longer got in at five thirty in the morning, not leaving until eight o’clock. There was no need for that anymore; he had an experienced, highly competent management team under him. The truth is the place could run quite well without him, though it was Westman’s prestige that was vital for bringing in new investments.

  It’s not that Joseph was not busy; there never seemed to be en
ough hours in the day. He was on three boards of directors and was one of Manhattan’s leading philanthropists. In fact, he had just announced a hospital donation that would result in a building to be named after his wife, Linda. Linda had survived a battle with cancer three years earlier and rightfully credited the doctors and hospital with saving her life.

  So there was no need to tell anyone he was leaving early, either in the office or at home. His two kids were grown and successful in their own right, though they had obviously benefited from family wealth and prominence.

  But they were good kids, worked hard, and succeeded in their chosen professions, medicine and the law. Certainly no one had ever said of them what Ann Richards had famously said of George W. Bush. Joseph Westman’s kids were not born on third base, thinking they had hit a triple.

  Westman always drove to work. It was certainly not out of necessity; in addition to public transportation, he obviously could have afforded a driver. He just liked the feel of being behind the wheel of his Porsche.

  On this afternoon, Westman got into his car, pulled out of his private parking space, and headed north. But instead of going to his apartment on Central Park West, he drove farther west and got onto the Westside Highway. Then he continued north until he entered the Saw Mill River Parkway, taking it well out of the city.

  His destination was Elmsford, a particular spot along the road that he had scouted out before, around the time the idea had first occurred to him. For a while, he thought he would never go through with it, but it became more real as time went on.

  And, finally, it became necessary.

  The area along the road was tree lined, a peaceful and serene setting that Joseph considered among the most beautiful he had been to. Some of those trees were majestic, and were in place long before anyone had ever imagined such a thing as cars driving by them. Westman sometimes wondered how many had been erased to make room for the road; he was glad he was not around to see it happen.

  There was almost no traffic at that time, as Joseph knew there would not be. He was able to go at whatever speed he wanted, and he gunned the Porsche up to almost ninety miles per hour. He didn’t see any police around, but it was the last thing he would have worried about if he did.