“Isn’t that enough trouble?”
“Are you still employed?”
“Yes, with an import-export trading firm.”
“Which one?”
“Ottoman Trading Company. We import mostly Turkish textiles, but also carpets, dates, sunflower seeds, shoes … whatever into the United States.”
“And you export?”
“Whatever there is a market for—electronics, pharmaceuticals, you name it.”
“Where are they based?”
“In Istanbul, with offices in New York and elsewhere around the world.”
Dave pondered in silence. He did not want to risk an irrevocable breach with his kid brother. “Okay, Bob. I’ll do it. We’re family. I will call my banker this afternoon. I may have to offer my own investments as collateral, but I should have the money before we leave on our cruise, toward the end of next week.”
“Thanks, Dave. I knew you’d come through.” Bob’s face relaxed in a grin, his forehead glistening with perspiration.
Good old reliable Dave got that loan for Bob. But the difficulties which it was intended to solve were quickly overtaken by a chain of events leading to this rendezvous with death in Mexico City. It was strange how his former differences with his brother now seemed trivial.
Chapter Eighteen
Bob Bigelow rang the doorbell of the brownstone at 400 West Eighty-Fourth Street; he was juggling two bags of takeout food that he had picked up at a nearby Italian restaurant. The setting sun was already casting long shadows, offering relief from what had been a warm and humid day. He squinted in the fading sunlight, searching for signs of the two men in a car who had been following him for several days. They had parked on the curb by the restaurant earlier today, when he had lunch with his brother, and he was certain that he had seen them outside the offices of the Ottoman Trading Company yesterday.
Hearing the light tread of a woman’s heels on the carpeting inside the brownstone, he turned, his heart beating faster, to greet Andrea Williams as she opened the door. She looked stunning framed against the doorway, her light dress hugging her trim figure and accentuating her shoulder-length dark hair. Normally, she would have kissed his lips and clung to him; but tonight, she gave him only a small peck on the cheek. She seemed tense, a small frown furrowing her forehead.
“Dinner is served, my love,” he joked, holding up the two bags of takeout food. “Sautéed calamari, beet salad with goat cheese, and trout filet—”
She motioned him inside and shut the door. “I am not in the mood to eat tonight.” She sighed. “I’ve had an absolutely awful day. I’m sorry, sweetie.”
He was puzzled, but before he could ask what had happened, she turned on the television, clicking through several channels before she came to one offering the evening news.
“Look!”
The news anchor finished a report on the latest bloody fighting in the Syrian civil war. Then, gazing somberly into the cameras, he continued gravely, “The entertainment world and Fred Sanford’s many admirers were shocked to learn today of the untimely death of the actor, an Emmy Award winner whose comic talents catapulted the television show West Side Follies to the top of the Nielsen ratings in prime time three years in a row. He was discovered dead in the bedroom of his Manhattan apartment. An investigation is being carried out, but it would appear that he died from an overdose of heroin. He was known to have been suffering from severe back pain due to a skiing injury last year. He is survived by his wife and two children.”
Andrea shivered as she muted the television set. “I don’t know what I will do. He was the star of my show, and I don’t have an obvious replacement. It could take months to find someone, and I can do reruns of old shows for only so long. Our Nielsen ratings could plummet!”
Bob hastened to reassure her, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll find someone soon. There are plenty of actors looking for jobs now, and your show would be a plum assignment.” He had never before seen Andrea—a thoroughly professional, self-possessed woman—as distraught as she was tonight. His words seemed to calm her. She even attempted a smile and squeezed his hand.
“Let’s have dinner,” she said. “We will overcome together.”
Bob was less confident than Andrea. He took a deep breath to steady himself. The news shocked him, but for reasons unknown to her. He was relieved that his hands were not trembling as he spread the plates, utensils, and food on the dining table and poured the wine.
Andrea bravely sipped her wine and nibbled at her food but then slumped in her chair and wailed, “How could he be that stupid! I talked to him last Friday. He seemed in good spirits. What could have happened over the weekend? If he needed a fix, I could have provided him with some stuff. So could you for that matter. There is so much good coke out there right now. Instead, he picked up some weird heroin capable of killing him.”
Bob shook his head, not looking at her. “You maybe, but not me. You are forgetting. My supplies are drying up. Two weeks ago, the police raided Tony Santelli’s apartment, where I had most of my stuff stashed. You’ve met Tony, right? He’s been on the run ever since the police raided his place. He wasn’t home at the time. He still hasn’t paid me for his share. Maybe he never will. He left a voice-mail message at my office today when I was out for lunch with Dave. He sounded like he was at the end of his rope, ready to turn himself in to the police.”
“Did you talk to him later?”
“No. He didn’t leave a number, and he didn’t call back.”
“So where does that leave you?”
“If I don’t pay Murat for the last deal, he won’t give me any more, for starters. He said so at a meeting this afternoon when I got back from lunch with my brother.”
“You told him that you were getting the money?”
“Yes. At first, he was a real bastard, almost threatening me physically. He said that if I knew what was good for me, I would pay my bills. I was only a small-time peddler, and there were dozens eager to take my place. He had only cut me into a deal because you and he are friends.”
Andrea sighed. “I regret introducing the two of you at that New Year’s party. But you needed a job. He did me a favor. Do you want me to talk to him again? I already called him yesterday.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. He seemed to chill out when I told him that my brother would be providing me with the money. We then got to talking about the latest venture that he is working on. He implied that there could be a big payoff for me if I played by the rules.”
Andrea raised her eyebrows. “What could that be?”
“A lot of heroin, cocaine, and amphetamines from Colombia and Mexico are flowing into the United States. He wants to get a bigger slice of the business. Murat is talking with Istanbul about a bilateral deal—exchanging US machinery for Mexican cement—that could open up some interesting possibilities. After the free trade agreement is signed between Turkey and Mexico later this year, he can also foresee getting some of that Colombian cocaine and heroin into the European market as well.”
Andrea pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Do me a favor. Be very careful. Murat is a clever man, but he scares me. There is safety in being a small fish. If you get too big, you will be busted. I love you and don’t want you to get in trouble, okay?”
They cleared the table of dishes, rinsed them, and put them into the dishwasher. It was a very domestic scene, almost as if the death of Fred Sanford had never occurred, as they chattered about the other events of the day.
“Dave mentioned a couple of times he would very much like to meet you.”
“I would love to meet him and his wife, Melanie, too. But not this week. Okay?”
He caressed her cheek. “Would you like me to stay the night?”
She smiled weakly. “That’s sweet of you, but not tonight. I am feeling tired. I still need to talk to Fred’s wife. I tried to call her
this afternoon, but she was not taking calls. I will try again now. It will be tough.” Her eyes glistened with tears.
“Okay.” He tried to look disappointed but felt relieved. He had a call to make.
Walking along the darkened streets in the direction of Columbus Avenue, he relived the sickening details of Saturday evening. The call he received while he was sitting in his brother’s library in Greenwich had been from Fred Sanford. They had met at one of Andrea’s dinner parties, where guests had openly smoked pot. In this permissive setting, Bob had revealed to Fred that he could provide him with recreational drugs whenever he wanted.
Fred seemed in genuine pain. “Look, Bob, my back is killing me, but my doctor won’t renew my prescription for a painkiller. He fears that I am becoming addicted. Can you help me out?”
Bob made his fateful promise to help. Most of his supplies had been seized by the police, but he had one last pouch available. They agreed to meet at a bar near Lincoln Center, where the transfer was made. Fred was grateful. He trusted Bob.
Now Bob had a man’s death on his conscience. To make matters worse, if the police traced the last telephone call Fred made to him, he would be brought in for questioning. If Andrea found out, would she ever forgive him?
Bob struggled to contain his anger, which had been building all evening. Stopping when there were no pedestrians nearby to overhear, he phoned an unlisted number. A man with a foreign accent answered, and his voice chilled when he recognized Bob.
“I have told you never to disturb me at home.”
“You gave me bad stuff!” Bob shouted into the receiver.
“If you had paid your bills in a timely manner, I would have given you better stuff.”
“Murat, you killed Fred Sanford!”
“Watch what you say, my friend. Your words could come back to haunt you. I have had enough for tonight.” The menace in the man’s voice was unmistakable before he hung up.
Chapter Nineteen
Later that week, on Friday night, the FBI pounced, although they had the good taste to wait until Bob and Andrea had eaten dinner at Per Se, the highly acclaimed French restaurant on Columbus Circle, to put the final touches on plans for their wedding and honeymoon. They were waiting for their dessert and coffee when Andrea shifted the conversation away from their nuptial plans. It was the first ominous storm cloud on the horizon.
“I had a visitor today. An investigator from the City police department. He was accompanied by someone from the FBI.”
“No kidding.”
“They wanted information about Fred Sanford—how long I had known him, whether he had any professional or personal problems that would have driven him to suicide. I told them what I knew. We were friends for a long time. We met and dated at college. Our lives thereafter went in different directions, but eventually, he became the star of my television show. By that time, he had married and lived with his wife and two small children in Westport, Connecticut. After he started working for me, he got a small apartment in New York, where he could stay on nights when he had to work late.”
“I didn’t know there was a personal side to your relationship.”
She smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. That part of our relationship died a long time ago. More important is that they asked about you—what connection you had to Fred Sanford.”
“Why me?”
“They said telephone records showed that Fred called you on the night of his death.”
Bob shrugged nonchalantly. “So he called me. I can’t even remember what he called me about. Oh yeah. It was about our wedding date. He had travel plans in October and wanted to make sure that he was here for the wedding.”
“Well, if that was what he wanted to know, why didn’t he call me? He’s known me for a long time. He only met you at one of my dinner parties.”
“Look, the police are on a wild fishing expedition for leads as to the cause of Fred’s death. It was probably an accidental overdose, not a suicide. It doesn’t surprise me that they asked you. They called my office today when I was out for lunch. The call was referred by the secretary to Murat.”
“What did Murat say?”
“He only confirmed that I am an employee of Ottoman Trading Company. For further information, they would need to talk to me.”
“Murat and you are still on speaking terms?”
“Oh yes. I told him that my brother would have the money to me by Monday or Tuesday of next week.”
“You really seem to burn through money. You have a salary and you make extra by selling … you know what.” She looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice as she said it, to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “Now here you are, borrowing money from your brother.”
“I have some debt hanging over from my marriage and divorce, some bad investments, an expensive lifestyle …” His voice trailed off.
His words made him sound like a loser, which was definitely not the impression he wanted to give to Andrea. He was a little afraid of her. She was a very successful professional, dedicated to her career twenty-hours of the day, forever checking her emails, even when they were having dinner. How could he have been so lucky as to win this beautiful woman? What had she seen in him? A handsome man down on his luck, someone she felt sorry for? He knew that the affair she had been having with the president of her company, a married man, had broken up shortly before they met. Was he merely the most eligible available male that she could find on the rebound?
She looked hard at him then smiled. “Bob, I hope you are not hiding anything from me about Fred. When we marry, I have to have complete confidence that you will never withhold the truth from me. Is that understood?”
“Of course. I will expect the same of you.” He returned her gaze and grasped her hand, which he raised to his lips. The coffee and dessert arrived conveniently at this point, and the conversation reverted to their wedding plans.
It was a pleasant evening in late August, still warm but with a hint of fall in the air. They considered walking to Andrea’s brownstone but decided to take a taxi instead.
When they were inside, Andrea embraced him and apologized. “I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t mean to sound as if I doubted you.”
They whispered mutual forgiveness and then made love passionately. For a few moments, it was possible to believe that nothing was changing, that their relationship still had a solid foundation. Around midnight, he left her brownstone, not expecting two figures to emerge from the shadows.
Chapter Twenty
“Mr. Bigelow? We are police officers.” They flashed their badges. “We would like to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“I think you know. Did Ms. Williams tell you that we visited her earlier today? We also called your office, but you were apparently unavailable.”
The taller of the two, a black officer who identified himself as Leroy Brown, motioned him toward a waiting police car, its engine idling.
“Look, Officer, this is very unusual, interrogating me at midnight.”
“We will only take a few minutes of your time. Get in the car.”
The two officers, one on either side, grabbed his arms and pushed him into the back seat of the car. Then they were beside him, one on either side. The doors slammed, and the car pulled away from the curb. It happened so quickly that only an observer standing nearby would have noticed anything unusual.
Bob was both frightened and furious. “Where are you taking me? If you are going to arrest me, I want to see my lawyer.”
“We are only taking you to the Eighty-Second Street West precinct for questioning. Then you will be free to go.”
Soon they were sitting in a small conference room—bare gray walls, a flickering fluorescent light, a shabby table, and hard wooden chairs.
“Coffee?” Brown asked.
Bob declined. The smell of stale cigar
ette smoke and coffee turned his stomach.
Brown began the questioning. “Mr. Bigelow, telephone records indicate that Fred Sanford, the television actor, called you the night of his death. You are aware that he died on Saturday night and that his body was discovered on Monday morning?”
Bob nodded.
“Why did he call you?”
“We were acquaintances. I met him at a dinner party given by my fiancée, Andrea Williams. He wanted to know our wedding date. He had travel plans in October and wanted to make sure that he would be here for the wedding.”
“I think you are lying.”
Bob did not respond. Keep your cool, he told himself.
“We have talked to the doorman of Sanford’s apartment building on Riverside Boulevard. He went out the night of his death and was gone for an hour. Your apartment building is near Lincoln Center, a few blocks away. Did you meet?”
“I am not answering any more questions unless my lawyer is present.”
“Look, the police are asking the public for information about Sanford’s whereabouts on the night he died. A doorman, a bartender, a pedestrian on the street might have noticed. His face was known to millions of television viewers. Sooner or later, the information will come out.”
Bob remained silent, looking past Brown at the wall.
“At least, you can give us some basic facts. You are employed by Ottoman Trading Company?”
“You know that already, so why bother asking?”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I keep the financial records for the New York office of Ottoman Trading Company.”
“And you report to whom?”
“Recep Murat, the chief operating officer.”
“That’s all?”
“I also send regular reports to the head office in Istanbul.”
“How long have you worked there?”
“Since January.”
Bob recognized the second officer, white and dressed in a business suit, who now intervened. He had been his brother’s dinner guest less than a week before on Saturday. He said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am John Shafer of the FBI. I have been asked to assist in this case.”
Accidental Encounters Page 7