The Job (46 page)

“Well, it’s kind of a busy morning,” I lied.

“I just need fifteen minutes of your time, no more,” he said, then hung up before I could say no.

Detective Tom Flynn was in his late forties. Short and wiry, he had the build of a bantamweight boxer and a street kid’s face-an aging Jimmy Cagney, now marooned in the Connecticut suburbs.

“Appreciate the time,” he said, sitting down in the chair opposite my desk.

“No problem,” I said, doing my best to avoid sounding nervous.

“Let me explain something from the outset, Mr. Allen. This isn’t a formal interrogation. Nor are you officially under suspicion. And you’re under no obligation to answer any of my questions. All this is, is a chat.”

“Thank you for the clarification.”

“You work for yourself?” he asked, looking around my tiny office.

“Sort of. I’m the North American representative of an international private equity fund.”

“Private equity what?” he said, already taking notes in a little black book.

I gave him a thumbnail sketch of how private equity funds worked, and how I traveled the country, trying to interest clients in investment prospects. He seemed to buy this lie.

“You used to be in the computer business, didn’t you?”

“Computer magazines. I was the Northeast regional sales director for CompuWorld.”

“And that job ended when… ?”

“In early January. Our title was closed down.”

He consulted his notebook.

“Which is when you assaulted your boss, a Mr. Klaus Kreplin?”

I felt a stab of fear. Detective Flynn had been investigating my background carefully.

“Yes, there was an … uh … altercation with Mr. Kreplin after the company was sold.”

His eyes shifted back to the notebook.

“And he was hospitalized, and you were arrested?”

“The charges were dropped.”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Allen. I am also aware of the fact that you did not get along with the late Mr. Ted Peterson.”

“He was not my favorite person on the face of the earth.”

“Isn’t that something of an understatement? According to his secretary…”

Oh, God, that charmer.

“.. . you had a major business dispute with him just before Christmas. And a Detective Debra Kaster of the Hartford P.D. informed us that you blamed Peterson for the suicide of a business colleague. Is that right?”

Stop avoiding his eyes.

I stared straight at Detective Flynn and said, “Yes, that’s right.”

“And then, of course, there was your very public confrontation with Mr. Peterson at a trade reception here in Manhattan on the night before he died.”

“Yes-that was the first time I had made contact with him since Christmas.”

“And despite the fact that quite a few months had passed, you still had this major blowup.”

“He had done a tremendous amount of professional damage-both to me and to a deceased colleague of mine named Ivan Dolinsky.”

Eyes back to the notebook.

“The gentleman who committed suicide in Hartford in March of this year?”

I nodded.

“So you hated Peterson?”

Tread carefully here.

“Like I said, I didn’t exactly love the guy …”

“Then you were happy to see him dead?”

The question was asked in such a casual, throwaway style. But I still cringed.

“No one deserved to go the way he did,” I finally said.

“And I suppose you can vouch for your whereabouts on the night of the murder?”

“Yes. I was in Miami. On business.”

“Like I said at the outset, this is not a formal police conversation. And there is no onus on you to supply me with evidence of your whereabouts. But if you did have proof of your Miami trip, it would be useful in eliminating you from-” “Happy to help,” I said, interrupting him. Pulling open a desk drawer, I rooted through a couple of files, then pulled out the one marked Miami and handed over the plane ticket and rental car receipt. Detective Flynn studied the documents, copied down the necessary details in his notebook, then gave them back to me.

“So you’re on the road a lot?” he asked.

“A couple of times a week, but I’m never away for more than a night.”

“So if I needed to contact you again …”

“I’m here.”

He stood up.

“Thanks for your time.”

“My pleasure.”

He turned to leave, then spun back toward me.

“One final thing,” he said, reaching into his briefcase.

“Any idea who this guy might be?”

He held up the police artist’s sketch of Peterson’s last supper companion.

“Never seen him before,” I said.

“You’re sure you can’t place his face?”

“I must know a couple of dozen guys like that. They’re a type.”

He studied me closely.

“Yeah-they are,” he said, and left.

That afternoon, before boarding the 3:00 P.M. flight to L.A.” I called Lizzie. It was her first day back at work in the Manhattan office, and she sounded hassled.

“I really don’t have much time to talk, Ned,” she said.

“You know, I only arrived back in town last night.”

“How’s the apartment?”

“Sterile.”

“When can I come up and see it?”

“You never really hear what I say, do you?”

“I heard exactly what you said. But don’t expect me to let you go without a fight.”

“Ned, you don’t have to let me go. I’ve gone. Face it.”

I changed the subject. Quickly.

“Did you see the New York Times yesterday?” I asked.

“I couldn’t believe it. Breaking into Peterson’s house during his funeral.”

“Just as you predicted. Jerry was worried that Peterson was hoarding something damaging. And now whatever evidence was there is gone.”

“I’d still go see his wife.”

“On what pretext?”

“She might be able to tell you something…”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’ve temporarily run out of brainstorms.”

“That makes two of us. And, just to really complicate matters, the cops were around to see me this morning.”

She sounded concerned again.

“How did that go?”

“I got through it. And I did show him the false evidence of my alleged trip to Miami on the night in question.”

“Did he buy it?”

“Seemed to.”

A loudspeaker near me announced that American Airlines flight eleven to Los Angeles was now closing.

“Listen, that’s my boarding call.”

“You on courier duty today?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How the hell did you get yourself into this?”

“The way you always stumble into something-by not looking.”

“Be careful,” she said quietly.

I got off the plane at Los Angeles International. In the arrivals hall, I handed my computer case to the representative of a Mr. Tariq Issac. He disappeared for several minutes, then came back and sat down on the bench next to me. He placed the case between us on the floor.

“Six hundred and twelve thousand,” he whispered in my ear.

After he left, I killed almost four hours in the departure lounge before boarding the red-eye for Miami. I fell asleep with my arms wrapped around the case. We reached Miami by six the next morning. I got on the 7:00 A.M. puddle-jumper to Nassau. The money was deposited in the bank by nine-thirty ($122,400 deposited to the account of Jerome D. Schubert, the remaining $489,600 to the Excalibur Fund), and I was back in New York by four that afternoon. I grabbed a taxi to Wooster Street and retrieved the case I was storing in the broom closet in the downstairs lobby. Upstairs in the loft, I pulled out the assorted bank paraphernalia, wrote out a deposit receipt for $612,000, labeled it EXCALIBUR FUND, dated it, inked up the bank stamp, and slammed it down on the receipt. Then I tore it out of the book and left it on the kitchen table for Jerry.

Reaching back into the case, I added the two actual bank deposit receipts to the envelope in which I was accumulating all the previous slips. Then I repacked all the bank stuff, and decided against storing the computer case back in the downstairs broom cupboard. It wasn’t a secure hiding place-and if the janitor ever found it and started knocking on doors in search of its owner, my days on this earth might be numbered.

So I took a cab uptown to a stationery shop on Forty-fifth and Lexington where you could also rent a mailbox. I paid a $20 deposit and $20 for the first month’s rent on the box-and after being given a key to box number 242, I locked away the contents of the computer case, then dumped the now empty case in a trash can on the street.

As I entered my office building, Jack Ballantine came walking out, with two heavies in attendance. I recognized one of them immediately. It was “I’m From Upstairs.”

“Hey, it’s my tennis partner,” Ballantine said, proffering his hand.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Ballantine,” I said quietly.

“We should set up a game again soon.”

“Whenever you like.”

Inclining his head toward me, he said, “Jerry’s been telling me about all the great work you’ve been doing for the fund.”

I glanced briefly at I’m From Upstairs. He looked away.

“I’m pleased he’s pleased.”

“I know it’s not exactly what you had in mind….”

Another glance at I’m From Upstairs.

“Certain aspects of the work have … uh … taken me by surprise.”

“Well, believe me, I know the effort you’re putting into the job-and once this book tour of mine is finished, you and I are going to go out for a long lunch and talk about your future with us. How’s that sound?”

“I look forward to it, Mr. Ballantine.”

“Oh, a little piece of advice: If I were you, I’d move heaven and earth to get that wife of yours back. She is quite impressive. And…” He leaned forward, whispering into my ear.

“… I know for certain there is someone actively on the chase, if you take my meaning.”

I nodded.

“By the way, Ned-you never mentioned anything to Lizzie about your, uh, connection with us?”

“Of course not.”

“Glad to hear it. Keep up the good work.”

He gave me a coach’s punch on the shoulder and headed out to his waiting car. I’m From Upstairs looked through me as he went by.

“I know for certain there’s someone actively on the chase.” And since that someone happened to be my all-controlling boss, he could also convenientlv send me out of town for nearly two weeks as he actively pursued my wife. Which is exactly what he did. The morning after I bumped into Ballantine, Jerry handed me a stack of plane tickets and an extensive verbal itinerary, which he asked me to copy down (so, of course, no paper trail led back to him). It was an exhausting schedule. Memphis, Dallas, L.A.” Miami, Detroit, Miami, Denver, L.A.” Houston, New Orleans, Miami-with a stop-off at Nassau after each city.

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to get FedEx to handle all this?” I asked facetiously.

“Do you really expect our investors to entrust so much cash to a courier company? Anyway, having you collect it personally is good customer relations. What’s more, you ensure that it reaches the Bahamian Bank of Commerce without a hitch. So our investors know they’re in good hands with us.”

Our investors. You had to hand it to Jerry-the guy acted as if he believed his own bullshit. I really felt like telling him, Just between ourselves, why don’t we come clean about all this and admit that you’re playing banker for a bunch of deeply unsavory characters. Because, courtesy of Phil and his friends, I was beginning to assemble quite a dossier on our “investors.”

“Okay, here’s the lowdown on Tariq Issac,” Phil said when I called him from Miami Airport between flights.

“Lebanese-born, L.A. based, and a big noise in the clandestine weapons game….”

A week later, when I phoned him from Denver, he had a report on our Houston investor:

“Manny Rugoff-independent oil trader, with extensive business interests in Guatemala, Ecuador, and Venezuela. And rumored to be on very tight terms with assorted wise guys south of the border.”

“Terrific,” I said.

While on the road, I also stayed in regular contact with Lizzie. Jerry really had been “pursuing her actively.”

“My office is starting to look like a Mafia funeral,” she said one afternoon when I phoned from Miami Airport.

“How do you mean?”

“The daily bouquet of flowers from Mr. Schubert.”

“Jesus…”

“Well, you’ve got to admire his persistence.”

“Has he asked you out yet?”

“Only about two dozen times.”

“And?”

“I finally gave in and agreed to have dinner with him tomorrow night.”

“Wonderful.”

“Ingrate.”

The next evening, when I was overnighting at the Dallas Airport hotel, I called Lizzie at her new apartment.

“What are you, my father?” she said angrily.

“I was just concerned….”

“It’s one in the morning, Ned.”

“And you’re alone?”

“I really should hang up on you.”

“I simply wanted to make certain …”

“What? That I didn’t sleep with the guy?”

“Well…”

“You are a total jerk.”

“A total concerned jerk.”

I heard her stifle a laugh.

“Sleeping with Jerry Schubert would be a total taste crime.”

“But he’s a hunk.”

“And a murderer-which, believe it or not, doesn’t really make him my type.”

“Really? I’m surprised. Did he make a move?”

“He took me to a very nice restaurant….”

“Which one?”

“Jo-Jo’s on East Sixty-fourth Street.”

“We ate there once, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did. For our second anniversary.”

“That was a very romantic night.”

“I’m not getting into this.”

“You know, there are two basic types of seduction technique. The first is where the guy makes the woman laugh all night, and essentially jokes his way right into her bed. The second is where the guy comes across all sincere and touchy-feely, then moves in for the kill. Now I’d bet anything that Jerry’s an exponent of the second technique….”

She stifled another laugh.

“Good night, Ned,” she said.

Three days later, while changing planes (per usual) in Miami, I managed to catch her at work.

“I was hoping you’d call,” she said.