The Adored (49 page)

“Tell us about Parker Barnes. He has an account at Brunswick Fund. And he traded in Rocket Solar in that time frame?” Sgorous asked.

Crane thought, protect Parker. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what, Leonard,” Sgorous said, puzzled by Crane’s response.

“I don’t know if a Parker Barnes bought shares in Rocket Solar,” Crane replied.

“Mr. Crane!” Conroy shouted.

Crane jumped back in his chair, he was so startled by Conroy’s shout.

“Mr. Crane,” Conroy shouted again. “We know you made a phone call to Parker Barnes one day before he bought over one million shares.”

“I don’t know,” Crane said stiffening. Sgorous noticed this, saw Crane’s jaw tighten and waited with Conroy for Crane to speak. The silence grew.

“Leonard,” Sgorous began, “We’re trying to give you room to help us. Now tell us about Parker Barnes. Who is he, and how did he become involved in Rocket Solar?”

“I really don’t know,” Crane said dumbfounded. He did not know how to get out of this.

Conroy rose, “That’s it. The deal is off, Lenny.”

“Why? Wait, why?” Crane pleaded.

“We know you contacted him. Shortly after this contact he buys a million shares. Last chance, Crane. If we don’t hear right now what you were up to with him, we’re arresting you and walking out of this room,” Conroy concluded, with his palms on the table, leaning across it into Crane’s space once again.

Crane’s body language was beautiful, Conroy thought, as Crane slumped, now defeated.

“Parker Barnes was my college roommate,” Crane began softly.

“Speak up, Lenny,” Conroy said loudly.

“We were roommates at college,” Crane said in a raised voice. “I called Parker, and then met with Wheelwright’s partner and Parker.”

“Who is Wheelwright’s partner?” Sgorous said, wanting confirmation.

“Kish Moira. We all went to school together as kids. I met with Kish and Parker in Kish’s office. I told them about Rocket Solar. Earlier, as I mentioned I told Wheelwright about Rocket. I know Parker bought a lot in his account. And I’m certain Wheelwright and Moira bought millions for Brunswick Fund.”

“Now what else can you tell us about other trades with Rocket Solar?” Sgorous said.

“That is it, that’s everything,” Crane said realizing now he had betrayed Barnes.

“Lenny, we’re going to verify everything you have said here. If there’s anything that’s not true, any leniency we would recommend would come off the table,” Conroy said, looking for one last tidbit Crane might be holding back on.

“No, that’s everything,” a dejected Crane told Conroy.

“Alright, you’re free to go,” Angela Sgorous told Leonard Crane. “We’ll be in touch in a couple of days. Please do not leave the city without contacting either Detective Conroy or me.”

Chapter 66

For a late spring morning, it was unusually cool, but refreshing, he thought as he began his run at Tod’s point. He had parked by the main concession stand and stretched his legs on the back of a bench. He looked out at the waters of the Sound; they were bright, shimmering from the early morning sun.

Out behind the concession stand, the woods began, first up through a glade of small hills with picnic tables. The sun came through waves of shade from the tall thin trees. He struggled with the hills at the very start of his run. A hawk flew in front of him and landed on a tree, head high and to his left. It surprised him that the bird came so close to him. As he passed not more than five feet from it, he turned twice to make sure he was not in the bird’s brain as a breakfast bite. He laughed at the thought and continued up the hill.

A giant boulder sat at the top of the hill, which was a confluence of two paths coming up from the glade and two paths descending, one into woods towards the holly grove and one rolling down through a broad green meadow to the sea that was framed by woods on either side. He took the meadow path, easing his jog down through the thick green grass. Three quarters of the way down he turned right into an opening and a path to the woods. The path wound its way towards the reeds by the sea then turned up to a small clearing. A lone picnic table sat in the middle of this serene setting framed by brush, pines and hollies. There were six paths leading out, and he continued on a route he had known well but travelled less frequently, into woods, out into another clearing with more tables. The waters of the Sound were forty feet away before a new path appeared, broader, more worn into deeper, darker woods.

Chipmunks dodged him as he picked up his pace, and his lungs filled with the crisp morning air. The path wound its way through the wood for about a quarter mile before opening to the clam bake area. It was like opening a theater door into the bright sun—a two-acre field lay before him glistening in the bright sun. He crossed the field diagonally running past a small house for bathrooms and past the long cupola covering picnic tables. Across this field, along this run is where he took his four-year-old son on his first run. Once across the field, he entered a path of head-high reed grasses on his left and woods to his right. It was training day, and just ahead of him a baby dove was practicing. As he approached the parents took off, leaving junior to figure a way off the path. Junior flapped and flapped, moving down the path ahead of him and finally was overtaken but left only panting from this first encounter as the man passed by to the left of the bird.

Another memory rushed forward—the time he and his son took their first weekend away together, just the two of them. The son was twelve, and he took him to Cooperstown to the Baseball Hall of Fame. The Hall was a wonder for the boy who was into baseball, but what flooded his memory was the intimacy of their time together. They stayed at the venerable Otesaga Hotel on the lake of the same name. In those three days, he let the boy pick from a list of activities—the twelve-year-old played his first round of golf, they fished for the first time in two years, they took their first canoe ride, they ate dinner quietly on the patio of the Otesaga, and they had breakfast on the veranda. On the second day, they found Cooperstown Fun Park and played miniature golf, hit baseballs from a batting cage and drove balls on a range. That night they drove to Unadilla to a drive-in movie, another first for the boy.

At the end of the reed trail, he came to a divergent path: onto a road or back through a small jog to the outer trail that went by the waters of the sound. He chose the latter, not thinking of Robert Frost as much as the echo of what lay ahead. Turning left he glimpsed the city to his right. Thirty-five miles away Manhattan Island stretched out from north on the right to the left and south, missing its two tall towers at the end. He remembered that day. He was off and at home. He got a call to turn on the TV. And for an agonizing half hour, he watched the horror. When he could stand it no longer, he came to the point and ran, fast and furious to get away from it. But when he got to this very point, there it was. A stream of black smoke rising up from where they stood. And then nothing, the smoke changed to white. He did not know why the color of the smoke changed until he returned home and saw they were gone. Just up ahead along the path a bench looked out toward the city. It had the name of a son lost that day. And he thought about his own son, who called him crying. Sobbing about what had happened in the city he would live in after college, about all the people lost in the storm of fire and collapse. He told his son to pray for the souls lost that day; he told him to thank God for his life.

He came off the shore trail, down through a short winding path to a broader road under a canopy of tall elms, back across an earlier glade, across the meadow to the sea and into another short path back to the shore road.

It was 7 a.m. As he reached the concession stand, his t-shirt was soaked. He had run faster than he expected. He was exhausted, and even though he hadn’t run lately, he knew he would be alright. Optimism was pulsing inside of him. Mark Wheelwright was looking forward to seeing his grandson, again, this day. He was looking forward to spending time with the little boy. More memories of his own son Edward kept rushing forward. He wanted time, time to repeat some of these memories with his grandson.

Chapter 67

Against the split horizon of a charcoal sky and unseen water, the running lights of the “Construction” appeared. The boat snaked its way into the channel from Long Island Sound, narrowly past a few wrecks lying dead, half sunk; past a decrepit house boat that had a dim light from inside; past three barges that lay in a row partly filled with scrap metal from an adjoining junk yard; and past a speed boat tied up on the front end of the pier that was one of three making up the “marina.” If this canal were an alleyway, you wouldn’t walk down it at night.

Chunk DeLuna and three of his men pulled the white van out of the black shadows as Parker Barnes docked his yacht at the End of the World Marina in Norwalk. It was dark, dirty, and isolated. Barnes picked the spot because it got little use; only a couple of large sail boats docked here. The landing area was in an industrial setting with little nighttime traffic. Visiting boats such as his were left to themselves.

Barnes drove DeLuna to this site three weeks earlier to familiarize DeLuna with the location and to talk through how they would unload, which they now began as soon Barnes had secured the boat with the mooring ropes. DeLuna spoke only once to his men, in Portuguese, and then his men worked in silence. Quickly they had the panels off the inside of the cabin. In little over forty-five minutes, all packages of drugs were off the boat, and the panels were back in place.

Barnes took a deep breath as he stood ready to unhook the ropes and sail out. DeLuna gave him a hearty hug, and in less than one hour, DeLuna and his men were in the van heading for his drug distribution center in Stamford. In two days the drugs would be cut, diluted and repackaged creating a street value of some thirty million dollars.

Now in the seam, between the clouds of the night and the fog of morning, Parker Barnes guided his boat down Long Island Sound to Stamford.

It was 5 a.m. when he docked and tied the boat up at the Stamford Yacht Club.

Barnes and DeLuna had executed the plan they drew up weeks earlier when Parker realized how overextended he was, and while talking to DeLuna about his plight, the little cement maker told him more about his other lines of work. Barnes would be paid three million for the transaction, which involved meeting one of DeLuna’s cement freighters ten miles south of Montauk Point, off-loading the drugs into his yacht’s panels and meeting DeLuna at the marina in Norwalk.

Barnes took a deep breath of the early morning air; he was exhausted. The world was asleep, and he returned below to the cabin. He laid down on the bed and slept.

Chapter 68

Parker Barnes woke up at four in the afternoon on his boat docked at the Stamford Yacht Club. Somewhat dazed from the long night and an uncomfortable sleep aboard the boat, he washed up, shaved, and changed his clothes.

He got off the boat, walked along the ramp to the parking lot without seeing any of the clubs members, and drove off in his Mercedes SL. Two minutes later he was home.

At 6 p.m. he joined his mother and father for dinner.

“I tried to reach you today, twice,” Jonathan Barnes began in a tone that sounded accusatory, as usual. “Your assistant said you were out—both times I called.”

“Yes, I was with Mr. DeLuna all day discussing the cement requirements and the framing that his company is going to need to do for us,” Parker said.

His father smiled, “Good. I like the little guy, and I like his prices.”

The three made small talk over dinner: the responses from friends to Jonathan’s run for the senate, the times of Winston’s wedding and reception and who was Parker bringing, and that Mrs. Strong’s son may be innocent and about to receive a new hearing.

“CJ got screwed on that,” Parker sneered, almost like he forgot why.

“Parker, shut up,” his father said, mindful that Mrs. Strong, their housekeeper was still in the house. The three exchanged the uncomfortable glances that come from seven years of covering up a crime in which they knew who did it and who did not do it.

After dinner Parker left the dining room and went out toward the carriage house where he had personal quarters, separate from the main house. It was his refuge while under the roof of his father. He would go to watch TV or use his computer, read, or simply spend the night there.

This night he would start to plan how to use his new riches.

As he exited the main house through the side door, Mrs. Strong was coming back inside.

“Parker,” she exclaimed, “have you heard? Curtis is about to be freed.”

Barnes looked at her; this was different than what his mother said, “Yes, Mom mentioned he was going to get a new hearing.”

“They say they know my boy didn’t kill that drug dealer. Now after all these years, he’s almost free.”

“That’s wonderful, Mrs. Strong. I’m sure you are very happy,” he said with mild enthusiasm.

“Yes, you don’t know how happy.”

Barnes put his arm around the woman then continued on his way.