The Garden of Betrayal (18 page)

“It was all lies. Carlos never hit a woman in his life. He was a devoted husband.” He smiled grimly. “Your next question is why a devoted husband kept a girlfriend.”

“Yes.”

“Americans are unreasonable about sexual matters,” he said, flapping a hand dismissively. “Carlos cared for his family, but he had normal desires.”

“You knew he was seeing another woman?”

“Of course. He told me when he first asked to borrow the car. The woman lived east of the city, on Long Island. They’d been seeing each other only for a few weeks, and he was planning to end it. It was nothing important.”

“How often did he borrow the car?” I asked, reverting to Reggie’s list of questions.

“Once or twice a week. He had a key.”

“And always to drive out to Long Island?”

“As far as I know.”

“Carlos was with a prostitute when he died. Did that surprise you?”

He grimaced.

“Men are men. But yes, it surprised me. Carlos was a romantic. He always had an infatuation for some girl. There’s nothing romantic about a prostitute.”

My cell phone chimed softly, indicating an urgent text message.

“Excuse me a second,” I said, taking it from my pocket and checking the display. The message was from Amy:
Walter wants to see you in his office as soon as possible
. I swore softly, wondering what the hell he was doing at work the day after his son’s death.
Twenty minutes
, I texted back.

“You have a problem?” Gallegos asked.

“It’s nothing,” I said, berating myself for having broken his flow. I needed to get as much as I could from him while he was still inclined to talk. “The bribe you mentioned. Did Carlos tell you anything more about it?”

“A little. He and his colleagues had been offered an opportunity to buy shares in an oil company. The oil company owned drilling rights that were worth more than the market realized. The idea was that everyone could buy the shares inexpensively and then make a big profit when the news came out.”

“In return for what?”

“Carlos didn’t say.”

“You know the name of the company?”

“No. Nothing more than I’ve told you.”

There couldn’t have been that many oil companies whose stock prices had popped seven years ago because of hidden reserves. It was a lead, although I wasn’t sure to what. I was about to thank him and say good-bye when I recalled Reggie’s final question.

“Tell me,” I said. “What exactly do you think happened that night at the motel?”

Gallegos lowered his head. When he looked up again, the tears I thought I’d spotted earlier were flowing.

“I think a brave man died for being honest.”

We said our good-byes, and Gallegos disappeared into the men’s room to pull himself together. I was paying the cashier when I glanced into
the mirror behind the lunch counter and caught the eye of a man at the counter who was sitting with his back to me. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low, but I could see a wide, shiny scar stretching from his mouth to his ear, as if he’d been badly burned at some point. I turned away quickly, feeling bad about having stared.

Activity on the trading floor was muted, everyone hunched over their screens or whispering on telephones. I rehearsed awkward condolences in my head as I walked toward Walter’s office. His curtains were drawn—I’d never noticed that he had curtains, much less seen them closed. I could feel eyes watching me as I knocked on the door.

“Come,” Walter called.

I entered, the words I’d prepared stopping on my tongue. There were two men in the room with Walter—one fortyish, sitting in front of his desk, and the other twenty years older, off to the left, with his back to the curtained glass wall. They could have been before and after models for a temperance brochure—the younger fit and fresh-faced, and the older beefy and with a broken-veined nose. Identical flat stares and a rumpled sameness to their suits made me suspect that they were members of Reggie’s fraternity.

“Lieutenant Wayland and Deputy Chief Ellison of the NYPD,” Walter intoned quietly, confirming my guess. The chief was the dissolute-looking one. “They have a few questions for you.” He pointed to a vacant chair between the policemen. “Sit, please.”

Neither cop extended a hand. I sat, my attention shifting back to Walter. He was as carefully dressed and groomed as ever, but the near-tangible intensity he always radiated had evaporated, his gaze directed into the mid-distance over my shoulder. For the first time, I noticed that he was getting old.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” I said. “Alex was a good friend. Claire sends her condolences also.”

Walter nodded stiffly, still not looking at me. The lieutenant cleared his throat and removed a memo pad from his inside jacket pocket, but it was the chief who spoke.

“Mr. Wallace,” he rumbled. I swung my head one hundred eighty degrees, faked out. “Mr. Coleman and his family are in a difficult position here. They’d naturally like to grieve in peace, but, unfortunately, people tend to gossip when there’s any ambiguity surrounding a death.” He massaged a jowl, looking mournful about the base tendencies he’d described. “Our job today is to eliminate that ambiguity, to make things easier for the family. You understand?”

“I think so,” I said, glancing toward Walter again. His eyes were fixed on his hands. Presumably, this was about nudging the coroner toward an accidental-death verdict instead of suicide.

“Let’s find out,” the chief said. “Lieutenant?”

The lieutenant flipped a few pages on his pad.

“You and Alex Coleman had a drink together Monday afternoon at a bar named Pagliacci,” he said, pausing for confirmation.

“Right.”

“The bartender said that Alex seemed upset. Can you tell us why?”

“He’d had a bad day at work.”

The lieutenant pursed his lips and made a note.

“I see. And to the best of your ability to discern, did Alex express any feelings of depression or futility while you were together?”

It was a ludicrously pointed question, the answer he wanted obvious, but I hesitated, recalling Alex’s drunken plea to know how I staved off despair and his flat dismissal of my suggestion that he consider any job other than trading.

“Mr. Wallace,” the chief growled behind me. I turned my head again. “In a situation like this, the medical examiner requires that we ask very specific questions to shed light on the decedent’s state of mind. It’s tough, though, because he’s really looking for a psychological evaluation, and most people aren’t qualified to make those kinds of observations.” He reached forward, laying a nicotine-stained finger on my arm. “You, for example. You’re not a psychologist, are you, Mr. Wallace?”

“No.”

“Then it’s probably best not to speculate too much.” He tipped his chin toward the lieutenant. “Ask the question again.”

“To the best of your ability to discern,” the lieutenant repeated, “did Alex Coleman express any feelings of depression or futility when you had drinks with him at Pagliacci on Monday afternoon?”

“No,” I lied. If Walter and Alex’s mother wanted an accidental-death verdict, I didn’t see that it was my place to oppose them. “He didn’t.”

“You sat beside him the next day at lunch. Did he express any feelings of depression or futility at that time?”

“No.”

“Did he talk about suicide on either occasion, or mention wanting to harm himself?”

“No.”

“Are you aware of any incident that might have triggered suicidal thoughts between the time you last saw Alex Coleman and the time he died?”

I chanced another look at Walter, wishing I’d had time to discuss Alex’s potential involvement with Senator Simpson before talking to the police—although on reflection, I doubted a relationship with the senator had been the precipitant the lieutenant was asking about. Alex died early Wednesday morning, just a few hours before Walter liquidated his positions. I was willing to bet their last conversation had been the night before, and that Walter had told Alex what he’d decided to do. Maybe Walter was just trying to mitigate his own feelings of guilt. He hadn’t set out in life to intimidate Alex, but I wondered how he felt about all his accomplishments now that he’d lost his son.

“No,” I answered softly. “I’m not.”

“Good,” the chief said. “I think we’re about done here—”

“One more thing,” the lieutenant interrupted, flipping another page. “Alex sent you an e-mail earlier this week, suggesting you meet with a woman named Theresa Roxas. Did you?”

“Yes,” I said uncomfortably. It wasn’t a surprise that they’d been able to recover his e-mail—copies of everything were kept on the server.

“We’d like to talk to Ms. Roxas. Do you have a contact number for her?”

“No.”

He raised his face from his pad, frowning.

“Alex’s e-mail said she had important information for you. Did she?”

“She had information,” I admitted. “I don’t know if it’s important. I’m still checking it out.”

I caught a flicker of movement from Walter out of my peripheral vision. He’d glanced up from his hands and was looking at me.

“So, how were you supposed to get back in touch with her if you had any follow-up questions?”

“Through Alex.”

The lieutenant tapped his pencil on the pad, evidently uncomfortable with the turn my answers had taken. The chief kept quiet, not giving him any help.

“Did she say how they knew each other?”

“They were friends.”

“Her name wasn’t in his address book.”

“Maybe it was on his computer.”

“‘Was,’” the chief interjected quickly. “You just said ‘Maybe it
was
on his computer.’ Why not ‘is’?”

Shit
. I was an idiot. The last thing I wanted was to get Reggie in trouble for blabbing about the police investigation.

“Meaning that I’m in the information business, and that I talk to a lot of people. I heard that the hard drive was missing from Alex’s computer. Maybe Theresa’s contact information was on the hard drive.”

“What’s the name of this person who talked to you?” the chief demanded.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit
.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what you think you are or aren’t at liberty to say,” he snarled.

I shrugged, furious at myself for screwing up. The chief turned to Walter with an apoplectic expression.

“Mr. Wallace is an employee of yours. Perhaps you could persuade him that it’s in his best interest to answer our questions as completely as possible.”

Not true. I was a consultant. I turned my head to Walter, wondering how he was going to handle it. He stared at me for a long moment and then spoke up.

“I want a private word with the officers. Mark, I’d appreciate your waiting outside.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t think—” the chief began, but Walter silenced him with a gesture.

I stepped out, grateful for the break. Ignoring the inquisitive eyes still directed at me, I dialed Reggie on his cell phone. He answered on the first ring.

“Hey. What happened with Gallegos?”

“Later,” I whispered, cupping the phone in my hands. “Listen. I screwed up. A couple of senior guys from your department named Wayland and Ellison were asking me questions about Alex, and I let slip that I knew his hard drive was missing.”

“Shit.”

“The chief wanted to know who told me, and I refused to say. He wasn’t happy.”

Reggie sighed.

“Chief’s a little cranky before lunch with his buddy Jack Daniel’s. Afterward, he gets mean.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I got a good balance in the favor bank. It’s not the end of the world if you have to give me up.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I gotta hop. I’m waiting outside Walter’s office. I only got bounced so they could figure out how to lean on me.”

“Understood. Where you going to be later?”

“Here, then Sloan-Kettering. Why?”

“I might have some news for you.”

“You got a lead on the car?” I asked, my heart in my throat.

“Could be. Keep your phone on. And I want to hear about Gallegos.”

“It’s another weird story.”

“My fucking epitaph. Stay in touch.”

The door opened again thirty seconds later. Wayland and Ellison filed out, neither acknowledging me. Walter called my name.

“Let me explain—” I said, as I reentered the office.

“Don’t bother,” he interrupted. “I couldn’t care less who you talk to in the police department. You got the Saudi information from this woman Theresa Roxas, didn’t you?”

“Right,” I said, not surprised he’d put the pieces together.

“And Alex was the friend who introduced you to her.”

“Yes.”

“And when we spoke yesterday and agreed that the friend who introduced you to the expert was probably working on behalf of Senator Simpson, you didn’t see fit to tell me that your friend was actually my son.”

His tone was withering. Any other time, I would have told him that my sources were none of his goddamn business. Today, it was understandable that he was upset.

“I wanted to give Alex a chance to explain things first. And then yesterday, after I heard what happened, I knew that I had to come tell you, but I didn’t get the opportunity.”

He glared at me as if I’d said something ridiculous, but I wasn’t about to fall into the trap of defending myself when I hadn’t done anything wrong. I let ten long seconds tick past and then tried to move beyond his accusation.

“So, what do you think Alex’s relationship with Theresa Roxas means?”

He shot his cuffs and began straightening the tiny golden pigs he wore as cuff links. The pigs were a signature item, a reminder of the old Wall Street aphorism that bulls and bears make money but pigs get slaughtered. The fussing was a familiar signal that his mind was at work, and I took advantage of the break to resume my previous seat.

“I think it means that Senator Simpson—or more probably Clifford White, on the senator’s behalf—reached an arrangement with Alex behind my back,” he said calmly, when the links were perfectly aligned.

“What kind of arrangement?”