Suspicion (17 page)

D
r. Mendoza entered the lobby of the Executive Suites Hotel in Oakland, California. Off the lobby was the bar-lounge, a dismal and subdued place, and sitting at the bar—a long, shallow half-moon topped with fake granite—was a somber collection of people. A couple in their late sixties, both florid-faced, who appeared to be married and bored with each other. Three businessmen in their thirties, probably here for some convention, all staring blankly at the football game on the TV mounted just above them. They all seemed transient and lonely.

Dr. Mendoza found a seat at the bar next to a pinch-faced, middle-aged businessman type, hunch-shouldered, in a navy blue golf shirt and khakis. The man was alone, drinking a Scotch and soda and staring into space.

“How’s the game?” Dr. Mendoza said, indicating with a wag of his head the football game on the TV.

The man turned to him and shrugged. “I have zero interest in football.”

“Nor I.” Dr. Mendoza was relieved, since he knew almost nothing about American football and had no interest in learning anything about it. “If only my investments gave me time to watch sports.”

He let that hang for a few seconds until the man next to him replied, as Dr. Mendoza knew he would. “What sort of investments?” he said, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, mostly for myself and my family,” he said airily, glancing up at the TV set as if he’d suddenly developed an appreciation for football.

They chatted for a while. Dr. Mendoza remained tantalizingly vague about the nature of his fortune while letting it be known that it was substantial. He was more interested in learning about the real estate market in and around the Bay Area. The businessman had gotten a lot more talkative. Dr. Mendoza had been transformed, in his eyes, from an annoyance to a potential client. Of course, the man didn’t say why he was staying at the hotel, and Dr. Mendoza was careful not to ask.

When the man got up from his stool and excused himself to use the restroom, Dr. Mendoza said, “Please allow me to buy you a drink.”

“I think I’ve had all the Scotch I need for the night, but thanks anyway.”

“Just one more drink? I need to pick your brain a little more about real estate in this area.”

“Well . . . I suppose just one more drink. After all, I don’t have to drive home.”

The businessman returned a few minutes later, settled himself on the bar stool, and saw the fresh drink in front of him. “Thank you kindly,” he said. He raised his glass to Dr. Mendoza’s.

“To a long life,” Dr. Mendoza said.

They each took a drink. “Your accent,” the businessman said after a while. I can’t place it. . . .”

“Argentina,” Dr. Mendoza said, beaming. “And after all these years in Portola Valley, I thought I’d lost it.”

“I knew it was Spanish or Mexican or something.” He made a tiny grimace as he swallowed, and Dr. Mendoza worried that the Scotch wasn’t adequately masking the acrid taste. But then the man took another sip, and Dr. Mendoza was able to relax. “Argentines speak Spanish, huh?”

“Indeed,” said Dr. Mendoza. “Of course there are differences between the way we speak and the way the Spaniards speak. Just as there are differences between the way they speak in, say, Oaxaca and the way they speak in, say . . .”—he paused to let the name slide into place with a satisfying click—“Sinaloa.”

The banker stiffened, just as Dr. Mendoza expected. He was an emotionally volatile man. The cartel’s dossier indicated that he took medication for a heart condition. A volatile temperament like his would not long withstand the DEA’s pressure. With trembling hand he set down his tumbler.

But he had drunk more than enough of the chemical.

Panicked, he said, “Who the hell are you?”

“I am the angel of mercy, Mr. Toth.”

Toth closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, dear God in heaven, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I haven’t said anything to anybody.”

Dr. Mendoza nodded patiently. “Of course not.”

“How—how did you find me here?”

Dr. Mendoza shrugged. The banker had gotten sloppy. The DEA had stashed him under a false name at this hotel, and then he’d used his credit card to order out for Chinese food.

“I told them there was no point trying to hide me. I told them you people could find me anywhere. But you need to understand something.” He wielded a stern index finger. “I told them nothing.
Nothing
, do you understand?”

Dr. Mendoza shrugged.

“The ‘angel of mercy,’ you said—”

“You are a drowning man and I am your life raft.”

“I never said a word, not—not a goddamned word!”

“Of course not.”

“They—they came to me!”

“Of course they did.”

Dr. Mendoza’s placid unconcern rattled Toth more than any explicit threat might have done. “Never—I never gave them—didn’t say a goddamned word! They moved me here”—he looked around with distaste—“said I needed protection. I never made—never cooperated—I didn’t—say anything! You have to—believe me!”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

“And I won’t—won’t say
anything
.” He masked his pleading tone in steely emphasis.

“I believe you.”

“You—your employers have made me a lot of money and—I mean, why the hell—I wouldn’t turn myself in to the DEA! Why would I?”

“Perhaps because you fear them less than you fear us,” Dr. Mendoza suggested gently.

“I’m not an
idiot
!” Toth was beginning to gather his wits, to speak in an aggrieved tone. “I know you people can get to me anywhere—I mean, the fact that I’m here doesn’t indicate
anything
. They threatened me. I don’t know how the hell they knew about me, but I never told them a
thing
. Why would I? That would be
insane
.”

“It would indeed.”

“Why—why are you here?”

Dr. Mendoza shrugged again. “Just for a friendly chat.”

“Well, let me make it absolutely clear to your—” Something suddenly occurred to him. Toth smiled, lifted his head, eyes wide with desperate enthusiasm. “I hope you’ve considered the possibilities here. I hope your . . . your employers realize that we can use this situation to our advantage. To plant disinformation. To
mislead
the DEA, do you understand? This could be a brilliant strategy. The DEA will think they have a cooperating defendant, but what they won’t know . . .” He closed his eyes. “I need to lie down for a . . . I think I overdid . . . the Scotch. Feeling a little light-headed . . .”

“This is because your blood pressure is dropping,” Dr. Mendoza explained. “You take a vasodilator for your heart condition, do you not?”

Toth looked surprised. “What does that have to do with . . . ?”

“No one who takes a vasodilator should ever take Viagra,” Dr. Mendoza explained. “It is quite dangerous. Your blood pressure will drop to zero.”

Toth could barely keep his eyes open. “Viagra? I’ve never taken—” The tumbler of Scotch slipped from his grasp and thudded on the bar.

He looked down at it, and he knew.

“This will not be painful, not at all,” said Dr. Mendoza. “This will go quite easily.” Dr. Mendoza rose from the stool and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I told you, I am the angel of mercy.”

There were far, far more painful ways to die than to imbibe thirty milliliters of sildenafil citrate suspension mixed with whiskey. Even if he had drunk no more than half, that was still, for him, a lethal dose. No one would ever suspect foul play. It would look like he’d foolishly got hold of some Viagra and didn’t know how dangerous it was for him to take any of the stuff.

It was quite clever, actually.

“Good evening,” Dr. Mendoza said. He left the bar without turning back once. He didn’t need to. He heard the banker slump to the floor as he lost consciousness.

To die in such a painless manner was indeed a mercy.

Particularly given the alternatives.

T
om Galvin’s private plane was a Challenger 300, made by Bombardier. Its exterior was white and shiny and glinted in the sun on the tarmac at Hanscom Field in Bedford, Mass.

He’d driven Lucy and Abby in the Honda. They’d parked in the lot at eight thirty
A.M.
and rolled their bags into the general aviation terminal to wait for the Galvins.

On the dot of nine, the Galvins arrived. Through the plate-glass window in the terminal, Danny watched the Maybach limo pull right up to the plane. Tom, Celina, and Jenna got out of the car while Diego, the chauffeur, unloaded their luggage. A short staircase popped open, and everyone climbed in like they were taking a shuttle bus. Danny noticed the Galvins didn’t bring any skis. Presumably, they left them at their house in Aspen. Danny, Lucy, and Abby all planned to rent skis when they got there.

Celina turned and waved them over.

“We don’t have to go through, like, security?” Abby asked.

“I guess not,” Lucy said.

No tickets, no security lines, no taking off your shoes or stuffing a Ziploc bag with liquids.

It was good to be Galvin.

When they’d boarded the plane, Danny introduced Lucy to the Galvins. Celina greeted him and gave her a kiss. Abby and Jenna went off together so Jenna could give her the tour.

The cabin was roomy, over six feet tall and around seven feet wide. In the forward part of the cabin were four big beige leather club chairs, two facing two. In the aft was a long couch facing a couple of club chairs. There was no flight attendant.

“Not bad,” Danny said, trying not to look impressed.

“It’s better than the Green Line,” Galvin said with a laugh. He turned, saw the two girls sitting in the club chairs up front. “Hey, move it, those are the grown-ups’ seats!”

“Can this thing go to Aspen without refueling?”

“It can fly to Europe without refueling.”

“This is awesome,” Abby said, a big smile on her face. She didn’t bother pretending to appear nonchalant. “Do we have to turn off our cell phones and stuff?”

“Yeah, right,” Galvin replied. “What a crock, huh?” With a smile, he called to Danny, “The only hitch is, they won’t let me smoke my cigars in here.”

“Wanna watch a movie?” Jenna asked.

“Don’t you girls have homework?” Celina said.

“They’re not allowed to assign homework on a three-day weekend,” Jenna answered.

“What about your
Prejudice
paper?”

“It’s
Pride and Prejudice
, Mom, and it’s not due till Tuesday.”

“I want you to work on your paper for at least one hour,” Celina said. She waggled an index finger. “After that, you can watch a movie.” She turned to Lucy. “These girls, they can’t be without a screen in front of them or they go crazy with boredom.”

“Speaking of screens,” Galvin said, “we’ve got Wi-Fi on board and a coffee machine in the galley kitchen.” He pointed aft.

“I’m good,” Danny said. “Sorry your sons can’t join us.”

“Yeah, well, Brendan has exams, and Ryan and his girlfriend are doing . . . whatever they do.”

“Thomas,” Celina said warningly.

“They’re probably screwing,” said Jenna.

“Hey!” Celina said. “I don’t want to hear these word out of your mouth!”

“Sorry,” Jenna said quickly.

“All right,” Galvin announced. “Let’s all get seat-belted and get this show on the road.” He and Danny sat in the club chairs next to each other in the front of the cabin, and Celina and Lucy took the other pair. Lucy took a book out of her handbag—a new biography of Cleopatra—and set it in her lap. The pilot gave a safety briefing over the PA system, and a few minutes later the plane took off.

 • • • 

The chairs were white leather and far more comfortable than any airplane seat he’d ever sat in. Hell, maybe more comfortable than any chair he’d ever sat in, period. Galvin was working on a laptop on a pull-down table. Danny had set up his laptop on the table in front of him, too, but he was far too tense even to think about working.

All he could think about was the DEA. How much of their threats was bluster, and how much was for real? He had no way of knowing. He had no one to talk to about it.

A low hum of anxiety had taken hold of him. It knotted his stomach. He felt like he’d drunk ten cups of strong coffee.

He wanted to stop cooperating with the DEA but didn’t know how he possibly could.
You walk away now, you’re committing suicide
, Yeager had said. He’d be painting a target on his chest. Once the word got out that he’d been working with the DEA against the cartel, he wouldn’t be alive much longer.

Why? Because if he walked away, they’d move to indict him, and that indictment would detail his cooperation with the DEA against Thomas Galvin. And the cartels would learn the details from the indictment.

Or so the DEA warned him.

But maybe that threat was hollow. Maybe.

Thanks to a few hours on Google late the night before, Danny had his doubts.

For one thing, a federal indictment could be sealed. The details didn’t have to leak out.

Anyway, the DEA wasn’t going to move against him until they’d nailed down their case against Galvin. He’d read through all sorts of stories on federal prosecutions until he had a good idea of how the government tended to move in big drug cases.

They wanted the big kahuna, not the big kahuna’s insignificant little buddy. They weren’t going to screw up their case by tipping off Galvin and the cartel. That would be just plain stupid.

And then there was the fact that he was here, sitting on Tom Galvin’s private plane. If Galvin was really working for the Sinaloa cartel, and if Galvin had any reason to believe Danny was a DEA informant . . . well, Danny and Galvin’s wife and daughter wouldn’t be here. Simple as that.

At least, if Danny’s reasoning was correct, anyway.

He wondered whether he should meet again with Jay Poskanzer, and try to figure a way out. Or some other lawyer. Get a second opinion.

He looked up and noticed Galvin watching him. He felt a wriggle of fear in his gut.

“Not bad,” he said, his hands outspread, indicating the airplane they were sitting in. “Mind if I ask, do you own this?”

“Nah, charter. Told you, they won’t let me smoke my stogies in here. Owning is a huge pain in the butt. You gotta have full-time pilots on payroll, lease a hangar, all that crap. I don’t really fly often enough to justify it.”

Danny nodded. Lucy and Celina were talking animatedly. They seemed to have bonded right away.

“Plus, whenever we fly to Aspen, I always insist on the most experienced pilot they have,” Galvin said.

“Why’s that?”

“Aspen’s a scary place to fly in and out of. It’s in the middle of a mountain range, the runway’s only five thousand feet long, there’s just not much room for error. If you miscalculate, you could slam into a mountain.”

“I see,” Danny said. Air disasters were not his favorite topic while flying.

“When the ceiling’s less than a thousand feet, the pilot can’t see the runway. You’re flying four hundred miles an hour, and—”

“Got it,” he said curtly.

In a lower voice, Galvin said, “Your girlfriend’s great. Really cool.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“They look like they’re getting along.” An hour into the flight and Lucy and Celina hadn’t stopped talking. “How does she do with Abby? That’s got to be a tough gig.”

“Well, actually. Better than me.” Danny was surprised at Galvin’s question. Most guys wouldn’t notice something like that, let alone remark on it.

“Your wife—she passed, right?”

“Last year. She was my ex-wife by then.”

“Breast cancer?”

Danny was certain he hadn’t given any details of Sarah’s death. Maybe Galvin had heard from Abby. Danny rarely talked about Sarah’s cancer or the terrible days before and after her death. He’d never have expected Galvin to ask about something so personal.

Danny nodded.

“Poor Abby, huh?”

“It’s been a rough couple of years,” he said sadly.

“Rough for you, too, I bet.”

Danny looked at him. “Yeah.”

There was a long pause, and then the moment seemed to have passed. Galvin looked at his laptop screen. Danny wasn’t sure whether Galvin had gone back to whatever he was working on, or had just fallen silent, not wanting to dig further.

Then Galvin said crisply, “Could I ask you something?”

Danny looked at him, glimpsed the grave expression, felt his stomach tighten. “Okay . . .”

Galvin looked over at the women, who were still deep in conversation. Then back at Danny.

“My security people found something on my BlackBerry.” His gray eyes locked into Danny’s.

“
Security
people?” Danny felt his face grow hot. He wondered whether his face was flushing visibly. He hoped not.

Abby and Jenna laughed again, and Celina got up from her seat and went to where the girls were watching a movie.

“My clients—I told you, they’re an extremely wealthy family, right? Well, they’re really private. I mean, almost paranoid. Part of my deal with them is, I agree to regular security audits and intrusion detection systems and communications security, all that. I mean, real crazy, over-the-top stuff.”

“Okay . . . ?” Danny shrugged, palms up, with a mystified what-does-this-have-to-do-with-me?
look.

“They found an attempt to access my BlackBerry.”

Galvin paused. Danny wasn’t sure if Galvin was waiting for a response. So he said, “Huh.” His throat had dried up. He swallowed a few times. “Weird.”

“So I need to ask you something.”

Danny cleared his throat, swallowed. “Sure.”

“I never put the thing down. Celina calls it my electronic pacifier. I always have it with me. In bed, in the crapper, everywhere. And I’m trying to remember when the last time was it wasn’t in my hands. And it comes to me.” He paused. “It was when we played squash a couple of days ago.”

“At the Plympton Club?”

Galvin nodded.

“I don’t remember,” Danny said smoothly. “You sure you didn’t take it with you onto the court?”

He shook his head slowly, deliberately. “They don’t allow you to bring cell phones into the squash courts.”

Danny shrugged. He felt a rising tide of panic. His mouth was so dry now, he could barely swallow. His heart was pounding. He tried to look unfazed, or maybe even bored, but he knew it wasn’t working.

“And then—I know this’ll sound nutty to you—but when I got back to my locker after the game? The phone was in the wrong pocket.”

Danny laughed, once, a dry, brittle laugh.

“I know, I know—like, how OCD is that, right? But it’s just a habit. I’m right-handed, so I keep my BlackBerry in my left inside pocket.” He touched the left side of his chest, right over the left breast pocket of his suit jacket. “You know, like how Buffalo Bill always kept his gun holster on his left side or whatever. So I can draw fast.”

Galvin smiled casually but watched Danny’s eyes.

Damn it to hell
, Danny thought.
Just come out with it. Stop toying with me. Accuse me; get it out there so I can bat it away with a casual denial.

Don’t act defensive. Don’t act angry. Act, if anything, bored.

An innocent person won’t take a wild accusation like that seriously
.

Danny broke the silence. “You think maybe one of the snotty club members is engaged in corporate espionage? Like maybe the Exeter T-shirt guy?”

Galvin was no longer smiling. “The security people say the time when someone tried to access my BlackBerry—well, it was when you and I were playing squash.”

“Bizarre.” Danny was starting to feel queasy.

“So help me out here,” Galvin said. He was no longer looking directly at Danny. He was staring past Danny’s right shoulder at the window.

“Okay.”

“You went to the locker room when I was on the court.”

“I did?”

“You went to get some water. Some bottles of water.”

“I vaguely remember.”

I pretended to take his locker key “accidentally.” He barely seemed to notice at the time.

“Remember that kid, the Hispanic kid, José? In the locker room?”

“The one you were speaking Spanish to?”

“Yep. Him. You didn’t see him near my locker, did you?”

Danny blinked a few times. He couldn’t decide whether to continue acting bored or look like he was trying hard to remember something so minor, so obscure, that no one could possibly be expected to recall.

He opted for the eye squint, the furrowed brow. The trying-as-hard-as-I-can-to-remember look.

Trying not to show the relief that washed over him.

And now what? Accuse the locker room attendant of loitering near Galvin’s locker, of breaking into Galvin’s locker? That innocent kid? So he’d end up like Esteban, the chauffeur, sliced and diced in a Dumpster somewhere? Anyway, what would a locker room attendant want with Tom Galvin’s BlackBerry? That made no sense.

Or did it? What if José made a regular habit of ransacking members’ lockers, stealing pocket change here and there, and for some reason—not beyond belief, not at all—he picked up Galvin’s BlackBerry to make a call, or just to look at it? Out of good old-fashioned curiosity?

That was a plausible explanation. But Danny knew that if he pushed that lie, and the cartel believed that some kid from the Plympton Club locker room had tried to get into Tom Galvin’s BlackBerry . . .

Would the kid really end up carved into a dozen pieces?

Galvin fidgeted. He drew a long breath.

Then something occurred to Danny. “The locker room attendants have access to all the locker keys, I bet.”

“Huh.” Galvin looked dubious.

“Then again . . . I don’t know, he seemed like a real nice kid.”

“You never know. You think you know someone . . .”

“Well, who else would have access to your locker?”

“I don’t know what to believe. You wanna know the truth, I don’t care. But my clients—man, do they ever care.”

He looked like he was about to go on when Celina appeared behind him. “Tom, do you know the girls were watching
Knocked Up
? I told Jenna that’s not for kids. I told her, no more movies or TV for her for the rest of the day.”