Trophy Widow (31 page)

When Sebastian finally nodded okay, Nate tried to embrace Sebastian around the knees, but Sebastian pushed him away and stood up. Nate quickly dumped the contents of his briefcase onto the bedroom rug. Leaning forward, I could make out a whip, a large tube of something, two lengths of rope, two pairs of handcuffs, and a pair of high heels.
Oh, brother
.

Nate slid off his warm-ups. I gave a startled giggle. He was wearing nothing but a frilly pink camisole and matching panties. Judging from the swelling in the front of those panties, Nate was ready for Act Two. He slipped on the high heels and sashayed in front of Sebastian, and as he did I recalled the story Angela Green told me from her babysitting days about slapping Nate after she caught him with her underwear and heels.

Nate snapped one handcuff from each pair around each wrist and—still wearing the heels—stretched out facedown on Sebastian's bed, spread-eagled. He looked back impatiently. Sebastian came around and fastened the other end of each pair of handcuffs to the bedposts. The ropes from the briefcase already had loops at each end. Sebastian used them to secure Nate's ankles to the frame posts at the foot of the bed. By this time, Nate was wiggling and grinding his hips in anticipation. Sebastian undressed and picked up the whip. He stood naked at the foot of the bed, his backside to the window, whip in hand.

The rest of the scene took about ten minutes. Sebastian began whipping Nate, halfheartedly at first, but eventually with some fervor. You could see the welts on Nate's back and buttocks. Eventually, Sebastian ripped open Nate's panties from behind, applied a big squeeze from the tube of lubricant, and mounted him.

Starting slowly at first, he began thrusting faster and faster to the accompaniment of Blitz's gagging noises and mumbled profanities. Eventually, Sebastian stiffened, his back arching, face toward the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut, arms rigid. Gradually, his body relaxed and he collapsed on top of Nate. A few moments later he rolled off, his eyes still closed.

He must have passed out, because he didn't stir until Nate started yelling and bouncing on the bed. Groggily, Sebastian unlocked the handcuffs, loosened the ropes, and collapsed on the bed, facedown. The scene ended with Nate slavishly kissing and snuggling against his sleeping companion.

Chapter Thirty-four

Sunday afternoon.

Inside a conference room at the offices of the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Missouri.

There were four of us seated at the rectangular table. I was at the far end, facing the court reporter at the other end. Her name was Midge and she was a petite woman in her fifties with close-trimmed gray hair and a pair of half-moon reading glasses perched at the end of her ski-slope nose. Her chair was pushed back from the table to make room for the shorthand machine on the low metal stand between her knees. She was frowning as she checked the settings on the laptop computer and the small tape recorder resting near the edge of the table.

Seated to my right—Midge's left—was Marsha McKenzie, the United States attorney. She was dressed in a severe blue suit, white silk blouse, double-loop pearl necklace with matching earrings, and a hint of rouge and pale lipstick. Her straight brown hair was pageboy short and parted on the left, the bangs brushed to the right and falling across her high forehead. In her late forties, Marsha projected the aura of a stern elementary school teacher. She was slowly paging through the notes on a yellow legal pad, her narrow lips pressed together in concentration.

Seated alongside Marsha to her left was Ben Harper, the assistant U.S. attorney who'd met with me two nights ago after that awful threatening phone call. His complexion was even more florid today. Like his boss, he was studying a yellow legal pad filled with notes, many taken during the two hours that he and Marsha had interviewed me earlier that day.

The chair next to Ben—the one closest to me—was empty, as were the three chairs across the table. The door to the conference room was along the wall behind the three empty chairs.

There was a rap on the door.

Ben straightened and clicked the ballpoint pen in his right hand as if he were cocking a gun. He glanced at Marsha, who was studying her notes, and then he smoothed down the front of his blue suit jacket with his left hand.

“Come in,” she said without looking up.

Special Agent Steven Whitley opened the door. He was in full FBI uniform this afternoon: black suit, white shirt, thin tie, shiny black shoes, grim expression. He nodded at Marsha and then glanced back.

“In here,” he said, gesturing with his head.

Herman Borghoff lumbered through the door, his hands clasped over his stomach. He looked as if he'd been hauled out of bed—a white shirt flecked with food stains, wrinkled black trousers, scuffed shoes, mussed hair. He glanced around and took the seat directly across from Marsha McKenzie, his head down.

Following him into the conference room was a short, stocky man in his sixties who walked with a slight limp. This was Joe O'Brien, Borghoff's attorney. He wore a navy blazer, gray slacks, a blue dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and no tie. O'Brien took the seat next to his client, the smell of drugstore aftershave wafting in after him.

Special Agent Whitley stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the door with his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the group around the table.

O'Brien squinted at me, his eyes magnified behind the thick lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. He had a ruddy complexion, a completely bald head, an enormous flesh-colored mole on the right side of his upper lip, and lumpy protruding ears.

“What's
she
doing here?” he said. His squint tugged at the corner of his mouth, giving him an uncanny resemblance to an elderly version of Popeye the Sailor Man.

Marsha looked down the table at me and turned toward O'Brien. “I invited Ms. Gold.”

He snorted. “Oh, yeah? What for?”

Marsha turned toward the court reporter. “Are you ready?”

The court reporter nodded.

“Hey,” O'Brien snarled, “you going to answer my question?”

Marsha turned toward him. “No.”

He grunted. “That's bull crap.”

Marsha gazed at him for a moment. “Let me remind you of your client's predicament, Mr. O'Brien.” She spoke calmly. “Within the next few days, I expect a grand jury to indict one or more persons for the first-degree murder of Michael Green and the first-degree murder of Sebastian Curry, along with enough felony counts of bribery, fraud, corruption, and malfeasance to guarantee permanent residence in a federal penitentiary for all those convicted, and a possible seat on death row for at least one, and maybe more, of the accused.”

She glanced at Borghoff, whose head was down. The way he towered over his attorney made him resemble a glum circus bear seated next to a feisty trainer.

She turned back to O'Brien. “There are four conference rooms in this office, Mr. O'Brien. You and your client are in this one. Commissioner Turner and his attorney are in a second room. Donald Goddard and his attorney are in a third. Percy Trotter is alone in the fourth. You are all here today because I am looking for a cooperative witness. I am assuming that I can have a productive conversation on a variety of relevant topics with one or more of the other three gentlemen. In fact, I have already been assured that one of them is eager to cooperate. I am also assuming that each of the other three gentlemen has significant things to tell me about your client and his involvement in various criminal activities. And I am also assuming that your client has significant things to tell me about the other three gentlemen and their criminal activities. This room happens to be my first stop of the afternoon. I will stay in here as long as our conversation is productive. If our conversation proves to be extremely productive, Mr. O'Brien, I may have no reason to visit any of the other three rooms. If our conversation proves unproductive, however, I will terminate it, and then Midge and I will move on to one of the other three rooms to see if we have any better luck there.”

She paused, her expression growing cold. “There is only one rule here today, Mr. O'Brien. If I leave this conference room, I will not return.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” O'Brien shook his head, amused. “I'm shaking in my boots. So what are you offering?”

“An opportunity for your client to talk to me.”

“What kind of offer is that?”

“The kind that I am prepared to make.”

“We want immunity.”

“I understand that, Mr. O'Brien. But as a wise man from England once said, you can't always get what you want.”

“Maybe so, but today we get immunity.”

“Actually, today you don't.”

O'Brien squinted at her. “Then why should my client talk to you?”

She gazed at him calmly. “Because it's the smart thing to do. Because someone today is going to talk to me. That someone is going to tell me about the real estate scam and the fraudulent loans to Michael Green's clients and the fraudulent loans to Percy Trotter's clients. That someone is going to tell me why Michael Green died. That someone is going to tell me about Sebastian Curry's role and why, after all these years, he had to die.” She paused for a moment. “And that someone will be in a far better position to bargain for immunity than the other three. However, at the moment, Mr. O'Brien, your client is not that someone. At the moment, your client has no bargaining power.”

“What makes you think my client knows anything about these matters?”

Marsha turned toward me. “Ms. Gold has found evidence that your client has material knowledge of each of the crimes I've just mentioned. Unfortunately for your client, much of that evidence incriminates him as well.”

“Oh, yeah. Like what?”

Marsha said, “I am here today to
ask
questions, Mr. O'Brien. I am not here today to answer them.”

“Maybe so,” O'Brien said, glancing over at Borghoff, who sat motionless, staring down, “but maybe my client doesn't want to answer them.” O'Brien looked at Marsha, his lower jaw thrust forward. “And maybe I don't want my client answering any of your questions without first knowing the deal you're offering.”

Marsha checked her watch and sighed. “I am afraid this conversation is not productive.”

O'Brien chuckled. “That's because you're not giving it a chance.”

Marsha stood and turned to the court reporter. “Let's go see Commissioner Turner, Midge. Maybe he has some information he'd like to share with us about Mr. Borghoff.”

The court reporter nodded and began gathering up her stuff. Marsha moved around the conference table toward the door and I stood to follow her.

“Wait,” Herman Borghoff said in a gruff voice.

She paused at the door, which Special Agent Whitley had opened for her. Turning back, she said, “Pardon?”

“I have things to tell you.”

“Hey, Herm,” O'Brien said, “you're not talking until I tell you to talk.”

Borghoff stared down at O'Brien. “Shut up.”

“Whoa, son,” O'Brien said with an edgy laugh.

“I said shut up.”

“Hey, I'm the lawyer.”

“And I am the client.” He spoke methodically. “You can sit here quietly and you can listen carefully and you can think about what I am saying, and when I am through you can work out a deal for me—or you can get up and leave right now.”

O'Brien stared at Borghoff and tugged on an earlobe. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “You're the client, kiddo. You're calling the shots.”

Borghoff turned to Marsha. She was still in the doorway, staring down at him.

“Please,” he said, nodding toward her empty seat.

She returned to her chair and glanced at the court reporter, who had her fingers poised over the keys of the shorthand machine.

“Hold it,” O'Brien said. “Let's start this off the record.”

“Nothing is off the record,” Marsha said. “Go ahead, Mr. Borghoff.”

He had his hands on the table in front of him. Studying his thumbnails, he said, “I had nothing to do with the murders.”

“Who did?” Marsha asked.

“The commissioner.”

“You are referring to the killings of Michael Green and Sebastian Curry?”

Borghoff nodded. “He arranged them both. He had Michael Green killed by a whacko that Sebastian Curry found for him. But he had Curry killed by a pro.”

“How do you know this?”

“I didn't know about the Green hit in advance, but I suspected the commissioner was behind it the moment I heard.”

“Why?”

“Because he and Green had a major falling-out a few months earlier.”

“Over what?”

“Money.” Borghoff ran his fingers through his mussed hair. “The commissioner was angry when he found out how much more Green was making on each of those real estate deals—something like twenty-five grand, compared to six grand for the commissioner. He wanted the numbers reversed. Green refused. They had a big argument.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was there. It was in the commissioner's office. He threatened to cut Green out completely. He said that crooked lawyers were a dime a dozen. He said he was going to find a new one to deal with. About two weeks later, Green approached us with another client wanting to do one of the deals. The commissioner had me tell Green we were no longer in business with him. Had me tell him it was all over.”

“What happened?” Marsha asked.

Borghoff frowned. “That's the part I don't know. Something happened. A month or so later, the commissioner changed his mind about Green. He told me to arrange the paperwork for another deal. I did, but I knew something was wrong. The commissioner seemed rattled. The loan deal went through and all, but that was the last one. Green died two months later.”

“What made you think the commissioner was involved in the murder?”

“Just suspicions back then—nothing specific, I guess. It seemed awfully convenient, of course, that they have this falling-out and then Green gets himself killed and all the evidence points toward the ex-wife. The ex-wife part was a good thing for the commissioner, because I knew if the cops started poking around in Green's affairs they might have found the connection to the commissioner.” Borghoff gestured toward me, almost contemptuously. “Even she was able to do that. Anyway, the commissioner made some odd comments at the time. One night we were talking about the killing and he said that he thought blackmail was a worse crime than murder. I asked him what he meant—since the statement came out of the blue. All he said was that Green deserved what he got. Later, when that whacko killed himself in front of Green's girlfriend's place, the commissioner went nuts—had me use all kinds of pull to get a copy of the suicide note and keep him up to speed on the police investigation.” He shook his head. “I should have figured it out then.”

“Figured what out?” Marsha asked.

“Why he was so worried. There never was any question it was a suicide—I mean, talk about cut-and-dried. But when the cops officially ruled it a suicide and closed the file, you'd have thought the commissioner won the lottery. He told me the lesson with Woodward was that you never hire a boy to do a man's job. When he started doing the deals with Percy Trotter, he told me he'd never let Trotter get the drop on him. He told me we didn't need another dead lawyer on our hands.” Borghoff paused, his eyes distant. “The commissioner kept Trotter on a real short leash, and when Trotter started hinting about getting a bigger slice, the commissioner cut him off cold.”

“Why was Sebastian Curry killed?” Marsha asked.

“That was his own fault.” He turned to glare at me. “Or yours.”

I kept my face blank.

“Tell me what happened,” Marsha said to him.

“Curry came to see me.”

“When?”

“Few days before he died.”

“You knew him?”

“Sure. They laundered the money through his paintings.”

“What did Mr. Curry want?”

“He was freaking out. Tried to see the commissioner, but the commissioner wanted nothing to do with him, so he came down the hall to see me.”