Mad Dog Justice (29 page)

“Greed’s a cardinal sin,” Dan says. “But we committed murder. The worst of the mortal sins.”

“This is no time for religion, Dan. And you gotta forget about our being Peggy Burns’s
best boys
.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dan sighs. “Jesus, this hand aches like hell.”

“When’s the cast coming off?”

“A few weeks. Then I wear a soft cast.”

About a mile from the exit, Roddy says, “I still can’t believe what’s on that computer.”

“It tells the story.”

“A sad and ugly story,” Roddy says.

“Sad and ugly, that’s the world.”

R
oddy exits Route 684 and crosses South Bedford Road. At Bedford Corners, he turns onto Baldwin Road, a dark, tree-lined road with grand mansions spaced acres apart. The trees arch over the road, forming a dense canopy. There are no streetlights. A few houselights glow in the surrounding darkness; the homes are set far back from the road. Many are hidden behind high hedges and elaborate stone walls.

“You sure there’re no cameras?” Roddy asks.

“As sure as I can be.”

“And there’s no electric gate? You don’t have to announce yourself over an intercom?”

“No. It’s a very long driveway and it’s isolated.”

“No guards or dogs?”

“None.”

“What does he do when he travels? He doesn’t just lock up and leave, does he?”

“No. The staff lives there when he and his wife are away. Otherwise, he’s home alone during the winter.”

“Whaddaya think the minimum zoning is here?” Roddy asks.

“Four, maybe five acres for each property … pretty substantial. These are country estates. You know, Martha Stewart lives around here.”

“You mean there are no attached houses?” Roddy says with a
soft laugh.

“No. It ain’t Brooklyn,” Dan says with a snort.

“We must be getting close.”

“Slow down. It’s coming up on the left.”

They turn into a driveway between two massive stone pillars at the driveway’s Belgian-block apron. Rows of high hedges nearly obscure the entrance. A huge iron gate rests in an open position. Roddy drives at least six hundred feet on a slight upgrade toward the house. The Toyota’s headlights sweep along hedgerows and elaborate plantings lining both sides of the driveway. They ascend between two rows of ancient sycamore trees. The trees end about one hundred feet from the home, where the driveway forms a circle in front of a Normandy-style mansion. A stone tower topped by a conical roof projects upward at one side of the house.

The main entrance is set in the middle of the structure. Stone steps lead to the front door. A protruding Juliette-style balcony sits above the entrance. The balcony—fronted by an ornate wrought-iron railing—extends a few feet from French doors on the second floor. The balcony’s underside forms a canopy over the main entrance and the steps leading up to it. Two decorative lanterns bathe the area in a soft orange light.

“You sure he’s alone?” Roddy asks.

“No cars parked out front. His Benz must be in the garage.”

“He does most of his work from here?”

“We live in a virtual world, Roddy. If you’re in the financial industry, you can do most of it from home. You can trade all over the world.”

They get out of the car. It’s a balmy night—quite warm for March. Roddy thinks he smells something reminiscent of spring; maybe it’s a fragrance similar to the one he detects in Tracy’s gardens back in Bronxville. Roddy wears his ski jacket; the pistol is tucked into a side pocket, which is zipped closed. Dan wears
a Windbreaker. Roddy walks along the front of the house and peers upward.

“What’re you doing?”

“Checking for cameras.”

“See anything?”

“No. But you never know.”

The balmy night air feels refreshing on Roddy’s face. It’s a relief from the dry, frigid air of the last few weeks. Dan inhales deeply, looks at Roddy, and they climb the steps. Dan rings the doorbell.

Roddy has that taut, wired feeling that’s become too familiar lately. It’s the harbinger of menace, of confrontation. But he’s certain he can maintain a veneer of calm.

Dan rings the doorbell again.

Roddy feels his heart pumping at a quickened pace. Sounds come from inside the house.

The door opens.

John Harris stands there, looking as aristocratic as when Roddy saw him back at St. Joseph’s. He wears dark gray slacks, pleated in front, and a blue shirt open at the collar. A powder-blue cardigan covers the shirt. His silvery hair is stylishly barbered and brushed back. He has a deep Florida tan, pale, ice-blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a strong nose. His teeth are toothpaste-ad perfect, gleamingly white, and contrast with his deeply tanned face. Roddy detects a fragrance—some high-end cologne—wafting through the air. The overall look is upper-crust patrician.

“
Danny
,” Harris says, nearly drawing back from the doorway. “What are
you
doing here?” Harris’s eyes flit to Roddy, back to Dan, and then to Roddy once again. His gaze shifts to Roddy’s bald scalp. Harris’s mouth drops open as he stands with one hand on the door handle.

“Well, John,” says Dan. “As I said the other day, I’m interested
in putting money into the Costa Rica deal, so since I was passing by, I figured I’d drop off a check. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion at this hour.”

“No … no, not at all,” Harris says, nearly sputtering. “But this is
unprecedented
, to say the least.”

“It’s one hundred thousand dollars. How’s that for a surprise?”

Harris’s mouth opens again. His eyebrows arch and his head bobs up and down.

“John, you’ve met Dr. Roddy Dolan. He’d also like to invest, and I thought we could kill two birds with one stone.”

Harris’s face brightens. “Oh yes, Dr. Dolan. We met at the hospital, but I didn’t recognize you with your hair gone. Of course.”

They shake hands. Harris’s hand is soft and feels delicate in Roddy’s grasp.

“Come in. Come in,” Harris says with a forced smile—really more a wince than a genuine smile. “Good to see you, both of you. And what a lovely surprise. So you’re
both
interested in the Costa Rica property?”

“You got it,” says Danny.

“It’s the new playground of the Western world,” Harris says as they enter the foyer. “It’s so nice to have the pleasure of meeting another investor. You know, it never gets old, this feeling of accomplishment and gratitude when I realize someone has confidence in me. Why don’t we go upstairs to the office?”

Harris leads them past a medieval suit of armor. The living room is furnished with ornate French-style furniture. Each piece is intricately carved and adorned with ivory insets. Baroque cupboards and consoles are set against rough stucco walls. Oil paintings of French country scenes hang on the walls. Thick chestnut beams cross the ceiling. Heavy drapery covers the ground-floor windows. The place reminds Roddy of a castle.

At the far end of the living room, they ascend a wide carpeted stairway to the second floor. Roddy estimates the ceilings are
fifteen feet high. The stairwell walls are filled with oil paintings depicting eighteenth-century French aristocrats.

“You live here alone?” Roddy asks.

“Just for the time being,” Harris says. “I’ll be joining the wife in Palm Beach next week. From there, it’ll be some time in the Caribbean and then Europe—the Greek islands, in particular. There are some very interesting properties in the Aegean and on Corfu also.”

They turn right at the top of the stairway and walk along a hallway with walls displaying impressionist oil paintings. Roddy recognizes them from Tracy’s art history books: Pissarro and Sisley, all in gilt frames and lit by angled ceiling spotlights.

They enter a spacious room. Roddy can tell it’s at the center of the mansion, above the main entrance. It’s Harris’s home office. The room feels overheated on this balmy night. To the right of Harris’s desk are those high French doors leading to the Juliette balcony directly over the main entrance. The doors are opened outward, and a soft breeze sweeps into the room.

Harris’s rococo desk looks like it’s been taken from a period piece movie—maybe from some French baron’s estate. The desk legs are slender, carved, and curved. The desktop and sides have inlaid mother-of-pearl, ivory, and ebony markings. The chairs are upholstered with bronze-colored fleur-de-lis patterns against a background of red chenille. The rest of the furniture is upholstered in richly colored brocades and damasks. In contrast to the antique furniture, two sleek computer monitors sit on the desk. The computer tower stands beneath the desk; the wireless router and modem are off to the side.

“Sit, gentlemen. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” Harris says, waving at two chairs facing his desk. “Do either of you care for a drink?”

“None for me,” says Roddy.

“Thanks, John, but I won’t have any either,” Dan says.

“At the risk of seeming self-congratulatory, I always enjoy a bit of cognac when new investors come along,” Harris says. “This is such a pleasant surprise.” He opens a cabinet behind the desk, removes a brandy snifter, and sets it on the desk. He rummages through the cabinet and comes up with a bottle of Martell cognac. “The finest cognac in the world.” He nods at the bottle and pours two-fingers of it into the glass and then returns the bottle to the cabinet. He sips the cognac, sets the snifter on the desk, and settles into the high-backed chair behind the desk.

“Let me boot up the computer and we’ll talk about the Costa Rica property. You know that Costa Rica means ‘rich coast’ in Spanish,” he says with a quick chortle. A half smirk forms on Harris’s lips, one signaling self-satisfaction and, in Roddy’s mind, a sense of entitlement.

Roddy stifles the rage he feels simmering inside him.

They wait as the computer comes to life. Harris keeps his eyes on the screen and steeples his fingers. The beginnings of a smile form on his lips. Roddy notices Harris’s nails are buffed and sport a coat of clear polish.

When the computer is booted, Harris leans forward and types briefly on the keyboard. Roddy is certain he’s keying in his user name and password to decrypt the computer. Roddy feels a sense of voyeuristic pleasure knowing what he does about Harris. It’s like understanding a foreign language when others, not realizing it, talk about you in that tongue as you stand there in presumed ignorance, absorbing every word.

“What was it, Dan? You want to invest a hundred thousand?”

Dan remains silent. He stares at Harris, who’s engrossed in the monitor’s display.

The silence seems to expand. Roddy feels his blood humming.

“And how about you, Roddy? You guys are very good friends; you grew up together. Am I correct in assuming you’d like to invest a hundred thousand also?”

Roddy hears a breeze rustle through the evergreens outside.

Harris looks up from the monitor. His eyes meet Roddy’s and then flit away.

“How do you know that?” Roddy asks, feeling his chest muscles tense.

“How do I know what?” Harris asks, turning back to Roddy. His eyebrows arch. A smile is pasted on his face.

“How do you know Dan and I grew up together?”

“Oh, I recall Dan telling me about you two back at the restaurant … when we were there for lunch one time.”

“That’s right, Roddy. I told John we’re friends from way back,” says Danny.

“You grew up together, what was it, Brooklyn? And you’ve stayed good friends your entire lives.”

There’s silence.

“Well, whatever,” Harris says and waves his hand. “Am I right, Roddy? You’d like to put in a hundred?”

“I don’t think so.”

Harris looks up from the screen. He leans back in his chair and peers across the desk at Roddy. His eyes shift to Roddy’s bald scalp. His eyebrows arch again, and the half smile fades. “I don’t understand, Dan. What’s going on?” Harris looks in Danny’s direction. “I know you want to get in on the Costa Rica deal, so what’s happening?”

“Actually, John, we’re not here to invest. We’re here for another reason entirely,” Dan says, crossing one leg over the other. He stares steadily at Harris.

Roddy glances over at Danny. In all their years together, he’s never seen Dan look as intense as he does now. There’s something hard in Danny’s look—something brittle. Roddy’s reminded of the night at Snapper Pond.

Harris shakes his head. His face twists into a look of bewilderment. His lips thin in a grimace as his eyes narrow. “What
are
you
talking about?” His voice drops an octave.

“I’m talking about your offshore accounts, John,” says Danny.

“My
what
?”

“The offshore accounts and the shell corporations you’ve created.”

“Yes, I have shell corporations in a number of locations. You know that, Dan. You’re one of my accountants. What’s the problem?”

“Why don’t you tell
me
, John?”

Roddy detects menace in Danny’s voice. It reminds him of when Kenny was down in the hole with Grange’s body.

Shoot him, Roddy
.

“Frankly, Dan, I don’t like the tone of your voice,” Harris says as his posture stiffens. He leans forward with his elbows on the desk. “You’re an accountant. You know shell corporations are perfectly legal.”

“Yes, John. They’re legal in principle. But when they’re used to launder money, well, then they’re not legal.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Harris’s eyes widen into a quizzical stare.

“I’m talking about the multiple companies you’ve formed and the intricate money transfers you’ve made over the last few years while the companies have no assets or operations. Your corporations are dummy setups for money laundering. We both know shell corporations can be used to conceal the origin or distribution of money.”

Harris’s eyes dart back and forth from Danny to Roddy and then back to Dan. His face turns chalky white as the blood drains from it. His mouth droops slightly.

Roddy feels a twitching sensation in his chest. Something triggers itself inside him: it’s a neural overload—an electric spasm of energy so intense, he feels a sudden jolt.

“I don’t have to be a forensic accountant to know your game,”
Danny says, leaning forward in his chair. “You’ve been taking money from investors and spreading the funds through transfers and financial transactions to make it nearly impossible to follow. There’ve been bank-to-bank transfers between and among shell corporations. There’ve been wire transfers between different accounts in different names, and they’ve been in various countries and currencies in offshore accounts.”