by Glenn Trust
“Did he get back to you?”
“No, not yet,” Bettis said, his breathing more regular now, feeling he had handled the detective’s questions well, all things considered.
“Who?” Travis asked, not letting up.
“Who?” Bettis shook his head. “I don’t know what …”
“Who was Ortega going to speak to … the others in his organization?”
“I don’t know, Detective. He said he would take it under advisement. I did my job.”
“For the senator.” Travis nodded and looked up from the notebook.
“That’s right,” Bettis said, recovering some of his earlier bluster. “For Senator James Sillman.”
“You met with Bautista Ortega as part of your job for Senator Sillman, as his senior aide.” Travis made a note on his pad. “He knew of the meeting then?”
“Well, I didn’t say …”
“You met without his knowledge?”
“I didn’t say that either. I just …”
“You and Sillman are close?” Travis was unrelenting. “You speak often?”
“Of course. We speak daily.”
“Okay.” Travis closed the notebook and stood. “I’ll check with the Senator. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“What do you mean … fine?” Bettis jumped to his feet. “Who the hell do you think you are coming in here under false pretenses, asking me questions like that … no, not asking … making insinuations. Who the hell …”
“Goodbye, Mr. Bettis. I’ll be in touch.”
Travis walked from the office and smiled at the receptionist and office staff as he passed. Bettis sagged back down into his chair like a boxer leaning against the ropes after having his ass whipped.
In the hall waiting for the elevator, Travis checked his phone and sent a text to John Sole, then descended in the elevator to the building’s below ground parking garage. Fourteen stories above him, Wilson Bettis frantically punched the Senator’s speed dial number on his phone. No one answered.
*****
It was unusual for anyone to knock at his door unannounced. In fact, it had never happened before.
Senator Sillman pulled the penthouse door open just as Wilson Bettis escorted Detective Travis into his office. A smiling John Sole greeted him, holding up his badge.
For a moment, Sillman recoiled, unsure about the twisted grimace on the detective’s face. From his reaction, Sole figured he should have taken Travis’ advice and given the smile a few practice runs first.
“Senator Sillman,” Sole said mildly. “I’m Investigator Sole with the Atlanta Police Department … Major Crimes Unit.”
“Is there a problem?”
Sillman fought to control the quiver in his voice and sudden fluttering in his left eyelid. Neither was lost on Investigator Sole.
“No. No problem.” Sole shook his. “Saw your press conference today and thought I would drop by to talk to you about your efforts, since we’re both fighting the same battle.”
“Yes, but they’re supposed to let me know when someone is here … coming up to my door.”
“Oh, don’t be upset about that.” Sole held the badge a little higher. “I sort of pulled rank on building security and told them I was here on official police business.”
“Yes, but …”
“May I come in for a few minutes, Senator,” Sole interrupted. “Just to talk about your new anti-drug initiative.”
Sillman hesitated. If he didn’t invite the detective in, it could signal that something was wrong. Bettis was meeting with another detective at that very moment. They were committed.
Fuck Sun Tzu, Sillman thought, and his bullshit ideas about deception, but he opened the door wider and stepped back. “I suppose so. I was just going out, but always happy to meet with our law enforcement friends.”
He escorted Sole into the penthouse living room and pointed to a chair in front of the bank of windows. “Have a seat Investigator … what did you say your name was?”
“Sole … John Sole.”
“Investigator Sole, please sit.” Sillman sat in a chair by the window.
“Nice spot,” Sole said, sitting in a chair that faced Sillman at an angle and gave him a view of the city.
“Thanks.” Annoyance replaced Sillman’s initial surprise at the intrusion. “Perhaps you could get to the point of your visit, Investigator Sole.”
“Sorry,” Sole nodded, the grimace-smile back on his face. “Like I said, saw your press conference and we are very interested in your anti-drug initiative. We are on the same team, fighting the same battle so to speak.”
“Yes, we are. In fact, one of your fellow officers is meeting with my assistant as we speak. No disrespect, but I would prefer to coordinate all interaction between the police department and our initiative through him.”
Sole nodded. “I completely understand. Your assistant … that would be Wilson Bettis, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Bettis coordinates all public relations matters for me, while I work to push the legislation through,” Sillman said, impatient and imperious.
“You work closely with him.”
“Very closely. He is my chief aide.”
“All right then. Sorry to bother you.” Sole put his hands on his knees, leaning forward ready to stand. “Oh, just one more thing before I go.”
“Please,” Sillman nodded, polite but curt, annoyed and sending the message for the investigator to ask his question and get the fuck out of his penthouse.
“Why did Wilson Bettis meet with Bautista Ortega at Eruptions?” Sole leaned back, not ready to leave, the grimace-smile gone now.
The eyelid began fluttering again, and Sillman’s eyes widened like a deer staring into the bright beams of an oncoming truck.
“I … I’m not sure who that is.” Sillman shook his head. “No, I’m certain I’ve never heard the name before.”
“Really?” Sole’s brow furrowed as he pulled his notepad from his pocket and scanned a page.
There was nothing on the page about Bettis or Ortega, but James Sillman didn’t know that. Too flustered to question the contents of the notepad and hold his ground, his face paled. The empty pit in his gut grew into a chasm. His breaths came in shallow pants that he tried to control. He was panicked.
The furrows on Sole’s brow grew deeper as he scanned over the page containing the grocery list Shaye had given him that morning. He shook his head and looked up from the note pad.
“Are you sure about that, Senator? That you’ve never heard of Bautista Ortega?” He said the drug lord’s name deliberately, pronouncing each syllable as if Sillman may not have understood it the first time.
“Well … let’s see.” Sillman looked up as if trying to recall the name, resisting the urge to loosen the tie that seemed to tighten around his neck like a noose. “I … uh … I might have misspoken. I think I do recall that name …” He nodded, his head moving up and down fast to acknowledge his innocent error. “Yes, that’s it. Wilson … Mr. Bettis … told me he had arranged a meeting with this Ortega person.”
“About what?”
“Pardon?”
“The meeting with Ortega, what was it about?”
“Oh … that. I couldn’t say.”
Sillman realized his rigid posture and body tension must make him look guilty about something to the investigator. He tried to recover, waving a dismissive hand. “I have no idea why Mr. Bettis met with this … what was his name?”
“Ortega.”
“Yes. This Mr. Ortega.” Sillman shook his head.
He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs with an air of indifference. It was not a convincing performance.
“You have no idea why Wilson Bettis met with Bautista Ortega?”
“No, I don’t.”
“And Bettis works for you … very closely, I believe you said.”
“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean that …”
“That you would know why he met with a suspected drug deal
er?” The first bead of sweat appeared above Sillman’s left eye. Sole smiled. “After he told you he was meeting with him, you never thought to ask why?”
“As I said …” Sillman’s hand lifted and started to tug at his collar to loosen it. He forced it back down to his lap. “There are many things happening in my office … much to coordinate. Perhaps you should ask Mr. Bettis why he met with this Ortega fellow because I don’t remember the details.”
“I will. Thanks for your time, Senator.”
Sole stood, turned away and walked down the hall to the front door. Sillman remained seated, staring through the windows, his face blank, oblivious to the bustling activity below. His gut and balls tightened suddenly, like a man stepping from a tall building onto a ladder only to find the ladder gone, and he was in free fall.
*****
Sole pushed the button for the elevator. A text message from Travis beeped in on his phone. It contained a single word.
Dirty
Sole typed a message back before entering the elevator
Ditto
31.
Fixing Things
The red in his cheeks had faded to a dull, mottled pink by the time Wilson Bettis arrived at the penthouse. He punched the doorbell. It swung open almost before the ringing chime faded away.
There was no red in Sillman’s cheeks. They were gray tinged with yellow around the eyelids and corners of his mouth. He looked like a man taking a walk to the gallows while the mob shouted, ‘Hang the bastard!’
Sillman stepped aside to let Bettis in, then glanced down the hall to assure himself that it was empty before closing the door. Bettis was speaking fast, even before they reached the living room. Sillman did not invite him to sit.
“Okay, let’s not overreact. Everything is under control,” Bettis chattered, sounding more than anything else like a man trying to convince himself that all was well. “There isn’t anything to worry about. All things considered, I think we handled it well. They don’t have any…”
“Stop!” Incredulity spread across Sillman’s face. Could his senior aide really be this stupid?
Bettis took a deep breath and nodded. “Right. I only wanted to …”
“You met Ortega in a public place … at a club … at Eruptions? What the fuck were you thinking?”
“He said it would be okay, no cameras anywhere. It only took a few minutes. I came in through the alley.” Bettis threw the words out like a machine gunner spraying bullets, trying to keep the enemy away, hoping one would hit a target. “It was just a preliminary meeting. He invited me out on his boat where we could finalize the details in private. Then I left.” He shook his head. “No … I don’t see how anyone could have …”
“No cameras?”
“Right.” Bettis forced himself to slow down and breathe.
“Then why did you admit to the cop you were there when he said they had you on video?”
“I … I was …”
“You were had,” Sillman said, eyes blazing. “They set you up to get a reaction, pretended they had something … you fucking walked right into it.”
The senator tried to calm himself. The truth was his performance had been just as inept. He should have known better, done a better job of answering the trick questions from that asshole detective.
Cops see through lies. That’s what they do. They planned their visits to find any holes in the stories Sillman and Bettis concocted, and there were plenty. He knew their bucket of lies leaked like a sieve. Worse, the cops knew it.
“But I …”
“Shut up!”
Sillman slumped into a chair by the windows. Bettis remained standing, trying to retain a grasp on his vision of riches before they were blown away by the wind.
A minute passed, and he tried once more. “When you think about it, I don’t think we have a problem.”
“Are you insane?” Sillman’s eyes widened. “Two cops question us … separately … making sure we don’t speak to each other first, using a pretext to get a sit-down and you think it was just random chance?”
“No, no. Not that.” Bettis shook his head rapidly. “All I’m saying is we can get through this. We stick to our stories.” He raised his hands, palms up to show how simple the answer was. “I was just looking for support for your initiative from a community leader. You didn’t know what I was doing. You’re busy … lots of things on your plate … what your aide does, who he meets with is not something you keep close tabs on.”
Bettis’ head moved up and down in rapid nods, trying to convince himself as much as Sillman.
“You think this will pass?” Sillman sighed and shook his head. “No, they caught us in a lie … set us up so we would have to lie or admit a connection to Ortega. They won’t give up.”
“Still,” Bettis’ voice was almost a whisper, working to reign in his emotions. “We can hold to our stories. They can’t prove anything because we recall events differently. No crime in having a bad memory.”
“And when they question Ortega?”
“They won’t do that, will they? Why would …”
“Of course they would!” Sillman interrupted, irritated. “They probably already are!”
“Then we have to let Ortega know, right? I mean …”
“Stop talking. I have to think.”
Sillman stared out at the darkening sky. Bettis stood to the side, meek and silent staring at the floor.
A minute passed, then two. A man’s face floated before him, reflected in the glass. It was his face. It turned red, then purple, gagging, teeth biting through his tongue, blood flowing from his mouth over his starched shirt.
Sillman shook his head until only his reflection remained in the glass, gray and frightened. Unlike Bettis, he knew there was a reason to be frightened. There was only one thing to do.
He turned away from the glass. “I’ll take care of it.”
“How?” Bettis’ brow rose, concerned and relieved at the same time.
“Don’t worry.” Sillman rose from the chair to pat his assistant’s shoulder and led him down the hall to the front door. “I’ll take care of things. Like you said we’ll get through it.”
Sillman gave a reassuring smile. The door closed behind Bettis, and the smile faded. It was time to fix things.
32.
They Had a Plan
It was thin. Seen from one way, it seemed clear there was something there. From another, it was just behavioral nuance, not much at all.
That Sillman and Bettis were nervous was an understatement. They had responded to questioning like long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs.
But a case of nerves proved nothing. Any defense attorney would point out to a jury that their client’s nervous behavior was understandable. Lots of people were nervous talking to the cops. That wasn’t a crime.
What they had was a glaring lack of evidence of any crime. There was not one shred of probable cause that would allow them to go to a judge and obtain a search warrant to find more corroborating evidence. Even if they convinced a judge to sign a warrant affidavit, they had no idea where to search or what to search for.
This wasn’t television. Warrants aren’t magic wands. They don’t mysteriously produce evidence, and they do not give the police carte blanche to go on fishing expeditions in pursuit of criminals.
They focus on evidence relevant to a particular crime. There must be sufficient probable cause—evidence—that reasonably points to a particular person or location being associated with criminal activity.
Reasonable was a moving target with some judges, but Sole and Travis had no illusions. They were a long way from meeting the minimum probable cause standards for any judge, reasonable or not, to issue a warrant, especially one to be served on a sitting senator.
“What do you think,” Travis asked, turning the Ford at a random corner. They were in the city car, alone, the place they retreated to away from distraction when they needed to hash things out in private.
So
le looked up and noticed they were on West Paces Ferry Road, passing the governor’s mansion. He flipped through the notes he made during his interview with Sillman. Beyond the undeniable nervousness, he had said nothing that could incriminate him in any crime.
“Honestly,” He sighed. “Part of me says this is just a big nothing burger.”
“Yeah, Travis agreed. “Hard to believe a senator … wealthy one at that … is doing business, legitimate or otherwise with an organized crime boss … even a suspected one. So where do we start?”
Sole looked out the window. The stately homes of Atlanta’s rich and famous lined the road. There was old wealth here, family fortunes passed on through generations. Sole wondered how far back the Sillman family could trace its roots and wealth.
“Let’s start with what you said.” Sole looked at Travis. “Is he really wealthy?”
“Sillman Shrimp Company has been around a long time,” Travis mused, thinking things through. “Still, it’s worth a shot. I’ll do some research on his financials. Could be the good senator is not as well off as his penthouse lifestyle makes us think. Might give us a motive for … something.” He shrugged. “Still not evidence of any crime though.”
“No,” Sole agreed. “Not evidence. Just another piece of the puzzle.”
“Right. Any other ideas?”
“One.” Sole nodded. “There’s a third party here that we haven’t talked to.”
“Ortega.”
“Yeah. I think it’s time to have a conversation with El Toro … see how his memory lines up with Bettis and Sillman.” Sole nodded. “You see what you can do to find flaws in their stories. I’ll go chat with Ortega. If nothing turns up, we cut it loose and move on.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Travis said, spinning the wheel to turn back towards downtown and their office.
It wasn’t much of one, Sole thought. Look for flaws in the line of shit Bettis and Sillman had fed them, come up with a motive. The face-to-face with Ortega might open a few cracks in their stories. If they could widen the cracks, drive a wedge in with some cold, hard facts, the whole bucket of lies might crack open and spill out into the light of day.