The Wrong Man (36 page)

“Because he
couldn’t
,” she cried. “He can’t. He’s so sick, Jason.”

“I know that, I know that.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “The judge made a bad ruling. He screwed us. But it won’t do us any good crying about it now. So we focus on the deficiencies in the prosecution’s case. They have plenty. And I do whatever I can do between now and Monday morning to tie up everything I’m chasing down with Global Harvest.”

She searched my face for any semblance of hope. “You think the judge will let you use it? You said he’s considering it.”

“I do think he’s considering it. I do. But the stronger the case I give him, the better our chances. So I’m going to run now and see what my lawyers and investigators have come up with.”

She nodded silently. She needed more but the best thing I could do for her and her nephew was to get back to my office.

I called Shauna’s cell phone while driving. She didn’t answer but called me within thirty seconds.

“Sorry, didn’t pick up in time,” she said.

“How’s it going?”

“So far, not well.” Shauna was over at Bruce McCabe’s law firm with Kathy Rubinkowksi’s immediate supervisor, Tom Rangle, the man to
whom Kathy had sent that long e-mail that somehow got intercepted and deleted before Tom could ever read it. She and Tom were trying to re-create what happened the day that e-mail was sent—where Bruce McCabe was that day, who opened and read that e-mail and where, in office or remotely.

“Keep at it, Shauna, and get us something good. Somebody kept that e-mail from making it to Tom Rangle. It must have been McCabe.”

When I got back to my law firm at noon on Saturday, we were thirty-six hours from the opening of the defense case. And I was now pinning Tom Stoller’s fate entirely on what we could find between now and then.

“Bruce McCabe,” I repeated into the phone. “M-c, capital C, a-b-e. He was one of the name partners.”

On the other end of the phone, Wendy Kotowski let out a sigh. “I’m not saying yes.”

But she wasn’t saying no. Unless she wasn’t the person I once knew, Wendy Kotowski was one of those prosecutors who preferred a just outcome over a victory. She had to have some seeds of doubt in her mind after today. She knew I was prone to stunts in court, which made her initially skeptical, but I’d gone beyond mere theatrics and she knew it. I didn’t know if she believed what I was saying, but I think she believed that
I
believed it.

“They won’t talk to Joel Lightner,” I told Wendy. “They’re stiff-arming my investigator. So please—just check yourself, even if you don’t tell me. Ten to one says the cops are suspicious of McCabe hanging himself. A dinner at Marley’s, Wendy, if they don’t suspect it was a murder staged to look like a suicide.”

“Kolarich, whatever else, don’t play me for stupid, all right? You and I both know if I ask the question, and I get that answer, I’m duty-bound to tell you.”

She was right, of course. “And you and I both know that what I’m asking you to do is the right thing to do. This is the guy that Kathy Rubinkowski went to see about Summerset Farms. This is the guy who brushed her off. And I’ll probably never be able to prove it, but he’s the guy
who erased Kathy’s e-mail from Tom Rangle’s computer before he could read it. And now that I’m sniffing around, the guy suddenly offs himself? I mean, how many coincidences do we need before you stop calling this smoke and mirrors?”

“I don’t need preaching from you, Jason.”

“No, you don’t. You know what the right thing to do is. So do it.”

I punched out the phone.

“That was harsh,” said Tori, sitting next to me in my SUV.

It was. But I had faith in Wendy. And if she didn’t talk to the detectives investigating Bruce McCabe’s suicide, I would subpoena them and ask them myself. She knew that, too, which made our entire conversation somewhat contrived. Contrived, but necessary. It was better if Wendy felt like she was doing this voluntarily. It would invest her in the result.

I made a right turn and headed west. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into bringing you,” I said.

“Because you love spending time with me.” Tori put a hand over mine, resting in my lap. “Because you aren’t as conflicted as I am.”

“This could be dangerous, Tori. This isn’t a joke.”

“I’m not laughing.”

No, she wasn’t, but she was in a good mood. Playing cops and robbers always seemed to elevate her spirits, from the first time we visited a crime scene together to checking out Summerset Farms to now. It took the focus off of our relationship. Maybe that should tell me something.

I watched the street addresses and slowed my vehicle as we got closer. When it appeared we were about a half-block away, I pulled the car over to the side of the road.

My cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was my scrappy associate, Bradley John. Or John Bradley. Sometimes I forget.

“Hey, Pretty Boy,” I said.

“I found it. It’s the state police, believe it or not. The state police tracks sales of a number of chemical explosives. Nitromethane among them. SK Tool and Supplies sold nitromethane to Summerset Farms.”

“Boy, that’s a great system we got. The department of agriculture tracks the sale of fertilizer and the state police track sales of nitromethane?”

“Our government at work,” he agreed. “One hand
not
talking to the
other. And Kathy’s e-mail was right—SK didn’t sell that product to anyone but Summerset Farms.”

If there was any doubt, that confirmed it. Randall Manning bought two companies at the same time, Summerset Farms and SK Tool and Supply. SK would sell the nitromethane, Manning’s company would sell the ammonium nitrate fertilizer, and Summerset would be the recipient of both, the front company.

I was still missing the “why.” Why would a multimillionaire like Randall Manning want to build a bomb?

“It’ll be interesting to hear how Stanley Keane explains this,” said Bradley.

“Yeah. I’ll let you know what he says.”

I hung up the phone and nodded to Tori. We got out of the car and walked toward Stanley Keane’s house.

Stanley Keane lived in a small town called Weston, more than a hundred miles southwest of the city. He lived on a corner lot in a two-story Victorian brick house. The houses were well spaced, and Stanley had an impressive backyard filled with trees that were naked this time of year. We walked to the street corner and looked at the front of the house. There was a light on upstairs. The front porch had an awning and a sconce that produced orange light.

As far as I knew, Stanley Keane lived alone. He was fifty-five years old and he was the only registered voter at this address, so that probably ruled out a wife or adult children. His age probably ruled out younger children, but I couldn’t be sure. We were doing everything on the fly, and this was the best we could do.

I’d figured out a few things about Stanley Keane, but I didn’t know enough. I didn’t know, for example, if he knew me, if he’d recognize my face. I didn’t even know if he was a part of this thing, but the odds were decent and I was out of time to dance around subjects.

It was eight-thirty, cold, and dark, so the streets were otherwise deserted, which helped. It was Saturday night, but this was a residential street. We’d passed a few busy taverns on our way here. They were a mile away easily.

Tori and I did a lap around the block. There was a back door into Keane’s house and the front door, of course. I thought about how this should play out.

We went back to the car. I drove it around the corner and parked in front of his house. I had considered a back-door entry, maybe using Tori at the front door to distract him. But I decided, in the end, to play it straight.

Well, kind of straight, anyway. I clipped my badge to my coat so it showed outward. It was my prosecutor’s badge. I’d lost it back when I was on the job, which was an extreme no-no, because in the wrong hands it could create all kinds of havoc. The job gave me a replacement badge, of course, and docked me pay as a penalty, which I had no problem with. When I later found the original in my overcoat at the dry cleaner’s, I figured I’d paid for it, so I’d keep it.

“You should stay in the car,” I told Tori. “I know you wanted to come and I thought I might use you, but I think this is better one-on-one. If I’m law enforcement, who are you? You look like a runway model, Tori.”

“I’m too short.”

“Okay, a short runway model.”

“You look less threatening with me at your side,” she argued. “Otherwise, you’re this big bruiser guy all alone. I’d be less worried about you if a woman were standing next to you.”

She had a point. Okay, fine.

We got out of the SUV and walked to the front door. I rang the bell and stepped back off the porch, beyond the awning, and held up my badge to the lit window on the second floor. A silhouette appeared, and then the window slid open.

I held the badge at an angle to obscure my face. He probably didn’t have a terrific look at me, anyway, but it didn’t hurt to make it more difficult.

“Mr. Keane?” I called out. “County sheriff’s investigator.”

He stuck his head out through the window. “It’s late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“If it could wait,” I said, “I would have waited.”

He nodded and closed his window. If Stanley Keane were an innocent guy in all of this, he’d come to the door. If Stanley Keane were a guilty accomplice in all of this, he’d come to the door. Right? If he was part of a plan for a terrorist act which obviously hadn’t happened yet, why would he risk himself and his plan by starting some controversy on his front
doorstep with a law enforcement officer? What was he going to do, shoot me?

I would soon find out. I followed a trail of lights turning on in the house as he made his way downstairs. A light near the front door came on and I braced myself. He might know my face, after all.

He opened the door slowly. I held out my credentials for him to see clearly, which was pretty standard protocol for a nighttime visit from law enforcement. He poked his head out and his eyes went first to the badge. If he had good eyesight, he was probably wondering what a guy with a county investigator’s badge from the city was doing down here in Fordham County.

But he wasn’t wondering that. I saw it immediately in his eyes when they locked with mine. He knew who I was.

I lunged for the door and threw my shoulder against it just as he was closing it. A second later and it would have been shut. I could feel the dual impact of my thrust against the door and then the counter-push against his body when it collided with him. Turns out, I’d knocked him to the floor.

“Here, Stanley,” I said, throwing an envelope like a Frisbee onto his chest. “You’ve been served with a subpoena.” That threw him off temporarily, as his mind raced, mentally bracing for danger and then hearing me say something nonthreatening, the subpoena. I stood over him and grabbed him by the sweatshirt and lifted him to his feet. He still wasn’t sure what had hit him.

Stanley Keane was in his mid-fifties, maybe six feet tall, on the thin side, with a military crew cut. He was decked out in sweats, head to toe.

I held him there, almost lifting him off his feet, face-to-face with me. He was on the tips of his toes. Fear ran through his beady eyes—yes, now he realized the danger impulse had been the correct one.

“What… do you want?” he managed.

“I want to know who tried to kill me. Twice,” I added. “And I’m going to break bones until you answer me.”

His fear turned quickly into defiance. He scowled, which was somewhat of a chore for him, given that he was off balance and having some difficulty breathing.

“You’ll have to do… more than that,” he snarled.

“Interesting, Stanley. I would have expected, ‘What do you mean, someone tried to kill you? I have no idea what you mean. I have no idea who you are.’ So I appreciate that, Stan. The honesty. That’s a good start.”

I threw him against the nearest wall but kept my grip on him.

“See, Patrick Cahill and Ernie Dwyer—you remember them, the Aryan brothers who got picked up in the city after they tried to kill me? They say it was you, Stan. They’re putting this all on you and Bruce McCabe.”

“Like… hell,” he said through his teeth.

“Personally, I think it was Ronald McDonald or… what was his name? Oh, yeah, Randall Manning.” I hurled my right knee into his groin. He doubled over, but I was there to catch him. His body was collapsing, but I hadn’t had any exercise since I hurt my left knee—which, by the way, was holding up nicely, thanks to the adrenaline pump—and I could prop him up with help from the wall. Some kind of physics thing. I’d ask Tori later.

“Jason, what are you doing?” Tori asked.

“I’m obtaining information. Why don’t you go upstairs and see what you can find? That okay with you, Stan, if my associate pokes around?”

“Fuck… you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I nodded to Tori, careful not to use her name. “Poke around. Look for a computer, a cell phone, any papers, that kind of thing.”

I waited until Tori had run up the stairs.

“I’ll kill… both of you,” said Stanley.

I used my left hand to brace him. With my right, I hit him with a shiver into the shoulder. The linemen at State used to practice that move all day long, and I would join in after practice. I always liked the shiver, the quick thrust that came almost out of nowhere, no windup.

The pop to Stanley’s shoulder was either sickening or enjoyable, depending on your perspective. Stanley cried out in pain and gnashed his teeth. Angry guy.

“That’s a separated shoulder, Stan. So I said I was going to break bones, and here I’ve just kneed you in the balls and taken out a shoulder—”

His right hand rose up in a vain attempt at a punch. I grabbed his
hand with both of mine. I bent his fingers back, putting all my weight forward. I figured I broke at least three fingers, based on the number of snaps I heard. It was hard to tell because they all came at once.

Keane fell to the floor, his left hand clutching his right. He was screaming, and this was a quiet neighborhood, so I came down on him and pressed my hand over his mouth.