The Anonymous Source (21 page)

THEY WALKED
A MILE
down the beach and out onto a pier. The sun was right overhead and the day was unusually hot and dry. Alex turned toward the beach and saw Juan walking down the pier. “Let me ask the questions, okay?”

“Fine, I think he was into you anyway.”

Alex looked at her, squinting into the sun. “I think he’s into Sonia.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

As Juan strolled down the pier, he pulled off his shirt, revealing an evenly tanned physique. “
Qué bolá
?” he asked, leaning up against the railing and looking at Alex.

“So, what do you know?” Alex asked.

“Let’s walk,” Juan said, stepping between them and walking down the pier toward the beach. They walked in silence until they reached the sand.

Juan glanced at Alex. “What the Green girl says is true.”

“How do you know?” Alex asked.

“A few weeks before the attacks, I overhear Mr. Hollinger have a call.” They turned up the beach.

“With who?”

Juan laughed and patted Alex on the back. “I can only hear one side of the call, Mr. Alex.”

“What happened on the call?”

“I hear Mr. Hollinger talking about selling stock. He was talking about selling it slow, kept saying he wanted to ‘do it right.’”

“Did you listen to his calls often?” Camila asked.

“Sometimes. When you work for a family like I do, and they trust you, sometimes it’s okay.”

“Then why aren’t you telling this to Mrs. Hollinger?” Alex asked.

“She has been so upset since Mac died. This would just upset her more.”

“On the call, did he mention Sadie Green?” Alex asked. “Or what he planned to do with the money?”

“No, but he said five hundred million. So when that girl came around, I knew she was telling the truth.”

They stopped when they came to a cabana on the beach that rented snorkel gear and boogie boards. Alex picked up a red snorkel mask and turned it over and over in his hands. “Why do you think he would want to give away all his money?”

“Five hundred million is not
all
his money. He have lots of money. But I don’t know why.”

“Juan, this is important.” Alex set down the mask and put his hand on Juan’s shoulder. “Can you remember the day that call took place? The date and time?”

“No.”

Alex let go of Juan’s shoulder and picked up the snorkel mask again. “What month was it?” he asked.

“One or two weeks before he died. Maybe late August.”

“What else? Was it morning or night?”

“It was at night, after dinner, so six or seven.”

“Can you remember anything else? What was he doing that day?”

“I don’t remember,” Juan said. He thought for a moment. “Wait, Mr. Hollinger was watching the Yankees after dinner. He always do that.”

“Who were they playing?”

“I don’t follow baseball.”

“What color were the uniforms?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you remember anything else? Was the game in Yankee stadium?”

Juan thought. “I think so. I remember he always wore his old-time Yankees hat when they played there.”

The man at the cabana came up and put his hand on the snorkel mask that Alex was still passing from hand to hand. “Can I help you?” he asked.

Alex put the mask down, shaking his head, and the three of them walked toward the parking lot near the pier.

“How long have you worked for the Hollingers?” Camila asked.

“Six years. I started as a cook for Sonia. I also do personal training, so I work her out, too. After a year, I start traveling with them between New York City, New Jersey, and here.”

Alex said, “Can you tell us what he was like? I’m trying to get a sense of why he might decide to give away a half billion dollars.”

“He was a good man. Not like most rich men. He did not do evil with his money. He was—what do you call it? A believer. He believed in doing right.”

Alex smiled. “And somehow Sadie Green convinced him that giving her five hundred million was right. This is going to sound totally out of left field, but—”

“Left field?” Juan asked.

“It’s an expression,” Camila said. “It means random.
Loco
.”

Juan smiled. “Okay, out of left field.”

“Mr. Hollinger was found in the rubble of the Marriott, right?” Alex asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you hear anything from him on the morning of 9/11? He was in the tower that was hit second, so maybe he called Sonia after the first plane hit.”

“No, we were at home that morning, working out. Mr. Hollinger called at noon every day. He would go out to lunch at eleven and call her from the pay phone on the way back.”

“Why a pay phone?” Camila asked.

“He didn’t have a cell phone. Still carried change in his pocket like in the old days. Plus, I think he don’t want his staff to hear him talking to his wife. He was—how should I say? Needful of her.”

“Whipped?” Alex asked.

“He was an old man, happy to have a beautiful and younger wife.”

When they reached the silver Mercedes, Juan sat on the trunk. The top was down and the scent of hot leather wafted up from the seats. “Speaking of phones,” Alex said, “can you write down the numbers of his Hawaii house, his estate in New Jersey, and his office?”

“Why?”

“We want to see if he called John Martin in the weeks before he died.”

Juan took Alex’s notebook and wrote down the numbers. “I need to go. Sonia thinks I am at the store.”

“Why are you helping us?” Camila asked.

Juan got in the car. “That Santiago kid. I read all the stuff they say about him and I don’t think he did it from the beginning. My cousin is a boy like him. Played baseball in Cuba and now plays in college in Arizona. Something goes wrong on the team, they blame him. So, when you say you don’t think he did it, I want to help.”

* * *

At the business center Alex found an online baseball almanac. In August 2001, the Yankees had played five series at Yankee stadium. Juan had said the call happened toward the end of the month, so Alex eliminated the series with the Rangers, Angels, and A’s, all of which occurred before August fifteenth.

The Yankees played three games against the Mariners from August seventeenth through nineteenth, then took a nine-day road trip before starting a three-game series with the Blue Jays on August twenty-eighth.

The only night game in the Mariners series was on August seventeenth. In the Blue Jays series, all three games were at night. He made a mental note: The call Juan was talking about took place on either August seventeenth, twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth, or thirtieth, between 6 and 10 p.m., eastern. Now he needed Hollinger’s phone records.

Next, Alex called Sadie Green at the MPO office. A secretary told him she was in meetings, but promised to tell her he’d called.

SADIE GREEN
CALLED
the next morning as Alex pulled on the Hawaiian shorts he’d borrowed. Camila was still asleep so he grabbed his phone and walked to the balcony. The sun was coming up and the ocean sparkled, but the lawn in front of him remained shadowed. “Hello?”

“Is this Alex Vane? Your paper is an abomination—an excretion—and anyone who works there is the scum of the earth.” Her voice was high and she spoke fast.

“What if this hadn’t been Alex Vane?” he asked.

“Aren’t you embarrassed to be working for that rag? We’ve issued forty press releases on critical national issues in the last year and you haven’t picked up one of them. Your coverage of the buildup to this preplanned war is shameful. If we don’t find any weapons of mass destruction over there, you guys will be on the hook for printing the bullshit quotes of ‘unnamed official’ after ‘unnamed official.’ Your paper is nothing more than a troupe of cheerleaders for this administration. And your absentee coverage of an unprecedented accumulation of power by a handful of media companies is criminally negligent, if not deliberately criminal.” She paused. “So, how can I help you?”

“Feel good to get that off your chest?” Alex asked. “I know you’ve got a lot of reasons to hate journalists, but—“

“Hate journalists? How would
you
know?
You’re
not a journalist, Alex. You’re a typist. A stenographer for the devil. I love journalists—
real
journalists. I hate the media, and the mind-fucked, sycophantic reporters it creates. Like you, for example.”

“Wow,” Alex said, chuckling. “As much as I love being yelled at by you, those are complaints for another department. I’m calling to talk to you about Macintosh Hollinger.”

The line was silent for a few seconds.

“What about him?” Her voice had softened.

“Well, I may as well come right out with it. Is it true that Mr. Hollinger told you he was going to donate five hundred million to MPO before he died?”

“It’s about
fucking
time. I was expecting someone from the business section to call about this. Aren’t you a court reporter?”

“Yes, why were you expecting—”

“I spread it around enough. You’re about ten months late, but yeah, it’s true.”

“Ever heard the expression ‘you catch more flies with honey’?” Alex asked.

“Go to hell. Are we on the record? Why are you calling me about this now?”

“Yes, we’re on the record,” Alex said. “I’m doing research for a piece on Mr. Hollinger and I’ve been in touch with his widow. She mentioned you.”

“That bitch. I could barely get her on the phone. Then she ignored me.”

“When did Mr. Hollinger make the pledge to you?”

“Mid-August of 2001.”

“And it was a firm pledge, not just an idea he was tossing around?”

“Absolutely firm. I worked him for a year to get that donation. I earned it.”

“Do you have notes on the meeting? Was anyone else there?”

“No one else was there. If I had anything solid, don’t you think I would have challenged the will in court?”

“Yes, I assumed so. Did he tell anyone else about the donation?” Alex asked.

“Not that I know of. He said he was going to talk to his financial advisors and would make it official sometime in September.”

“And who did you tell?”

“I told a couple members of my board of directors in strict confidence. I was gonna wait to get a letter from Mac and present it to the full board at our fall meeting.”

“Did you tell anyone else before Mr. Hollinger died?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters because . . . it just matters. Did you mention it to anyone else?” Alex watched a small group of birds run in and out of the shadows on the lawn below his balcony.

“No,” she said at last.

“You didn’t tell anyone else about the money before Mr. Hollinger died?”

“No.”

“Do you know Denver Bice?”

“Of course I know him. He’s the super-villain who masterminded this latest clusterfuck of a merger. He’s like if Lex Luther and Doctor Doom had a love child. You know he’s aiming to take over control of the Internet, right? That’s his endgame.”

“When do you think he would have heard the rumors about the five hundred million?”

“I don’t know. The rumors were around all fall. Once I knew Mac had died in the attacks, though, I told anyone who would listen. I talked to lawyers, but they all said the same thing. Without a change in his will, or any real proof, I had nothing. When I realized I wasn’t getting the money, I drank for a few days, and then I told everyone I could think of. I figured maybe I could screw Bice and you guys at
The Standard
a little just by spreading the rumors.”

“Thanks for that,” Alex said. “I guess they didn’t spread far. I didn’t hear about them until the last few days.”

“Look, I’ve gotta—”

“Just one more question. When exactly did you start talking to people?”

“I don’t know, they found Mac in October and it took a few weeks for me to figure out we weren’t getting the money. I started pestering reporters in November.”

“There’s no way Bice could have heard about the five hundred million sooner?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

* * *

When he hung up, Alex went inside and found Camila sitting up in bed.

“The boxes of Martin’s stuff should get here today,” she said. “What do you think you’re going to find?”

Alex sat on the foot of her bed, aware of her feet a few inches from his thigh. He wanted to hold them, but he didn’t. He looked at her. “First, we might find out when Martin learned about Hollinger’s financial plans. There ought to be a call between them sometime between August fifteenth and September eleventh. A phone record would at least give us a hint. And there may be something better. Maybe a journal entry, or a note scratched on a napkin. Something. And second, if we’re lucky, there could be something about Bice. Something Martin wrote after the funeral and before he was murdered.”

Camila smiled and poked him with her toes. “Or maybe something from
after
he was murdered,” she said in a spooky voice.

“I’m serious,” Alex said. “You know what I mean—something that hints at the interaction with Bice at the funeral. If we can figure that out, and if we can figure out who Hollinger spoke with on the phone the night Juan was talking about, we may have enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“To publish.”

“What good is that going to do? You can publish a story, but that doesn’t mean we can go back home. Plus, who do you think is going to publish this?”

Alex stood up. “Once we publish, Rak will leave the country, if he hasn’t already. The police are already after him for Downton. If Bice hired him to kill Martin, an article that even hints at that will be enough to keep them away from us. Any public scrutiny of Bice will force him to back off.”

“For a while maybe, but he could still send someone else after us.”

“Maybe. But what other choice do we have?” He paused and began pacing. “As far as where to publish, that’s a good point. I’m not on the best terms with my boss right now.”

The hotel room phone rang and Camila gave a start. “You didn’t tell anyone we were at this hotel, did you?” she asked.

“No. Did you?”

“No.”

They both stared at the phone for a moment.

Alex walked over to it. “Hello? Yes . . . yes, okay. Thank you.” He hung up and looked at Camila, who was holding her breath. “The boxes are here,” he said.